Whiteness and Trauma: Victoria Burrows

Whiteness and Trauma
The Mother–Daughter Knot in the Fiction of

Jean Rhys, Jamaica Kincaid and Toni Morrison
Victoria Burrows
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The Mother–Daughter Knot in the
Fiction of Jean Rhys, Jamaica Kincaid
and Toni Morrison
Victoria Burrows
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© Victoria Burrows, 2004

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work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published 2004 by
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Burrows, Victoria, 1951–
Whiteness and trauma : the mother–daughter knot in the fiction of
Jean Rhys, Jamaica Kincaid, and Toni Morrison / Victoria Burrows.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
ISBN 1-4039-2198-9
1. Caribbean fiction (English) – Women authors – History and
criticism. 2. Women and literature – Caribbean Area – History – 20th
century. 3. Women and literature – United States – History – 20th
century. 4. Mothers and daughters in literature. 5. Rhys, Jean. Wide
Sargasso Sea. 6. Human skin color in literature. 7. Psychic trauma in
literature. 8. Kincaid, Jamaica, Lucy. 9. Morrison, Toni. Sula. 10.
Whites in literature. 11. Race in literature. I. Title.
PR9205.4.B87 2004
813¢.540935252 – dc22 2003060958
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
13 12 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham and Eastbourne
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For my mother, Fan;

for my children, Lucia, Tansy and Joshua;
and for Gail, who made this possible
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Contents
Acknowledgements viii
Introduction: Unravelling the Knot 1
1 ‘The White Hush Between Two Sentences’:

The Traumatic Ambivalence of Whiteness in Wide
Sargasso Sea 25
2 Keeping History Safe 41
3 ‘Caught between Ghosts of Whiteness’: The Other Side

of the Story 60
4 Lucy: Jamaica Kincaid’s Postcolonial Echo 72
5 The Search for a Voice 86
6 ‘The Sea Is History’ 105
7 ‘Knots of Death’: Toni Morrison’s Sula 114
8 Ambivalent Maternal Inheritances 129
9 The ‘Gift for Metaphor’ 142
Conclusion: A Meditation on Silence 160
Notes 173
Bibliography 205
Index 220
vii
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Acknowledgements
I wish to thank my colleagues in the Department of English, Commu-

nication and Cultural Studies at the University of Western Australia for
their great support during the long gestation of this book, which grew
out of my doctoral thesis undertaken in the department. In particular,
I want to acknowledge with deep-felt gratitude the inestimable intel-
lectual mentoring and personal affirmation that Gail Jones provided
during this time, and also the wonderful help that Judy Skene so will-
ingly gifted with her eagle-eyed proofreading.
I would also like to express appreciation to Professor Cheryl Wall, Pro-
fessor Linda Anderson and Dr Sara Ahmed who marked my thesis.
Despite their heavy commitments, each provided detailed close read-
ings of my work and these were very important to the reshaping of the
text for publication. In relation to the book’s publication, I thank Emily
Rosser and Paula Kennedy of Palgrave Macmillan who have both been
exceptionally helpful, friendly and supportive, and Sally Daniell for her
immaculate copy-editing.
I am lucky enough to have a group of wonderful friends who have
kept me going with their love and emotional nurturance over the years
and I would now like to acknowledge and thank them for all they have
done for me: Delys Bird, Diane Burrows, Melanie Cariss, Trish Crawford,
Tanya Dalziell, Harriet Einsiedel, Hilary Fraser, Gail Jones, Prue Kerr,
Judy Johnston, Tin Yi Loh, Sue Midalia, Heather Mutch, Sue Ramsay,
Joan Shellien and Judy Skene. I would not have made it without you
all.
Finally, I thank my family, especially my mother and my three chil-
dren, but also my brothers and their families, my aunt and my cousin,
Emily, all of whom I love very much. Each of them, in different ways,
gave me the strength to continue.
viii
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Introduction: Unravelling the Knot
I Laying out the strands
teach me to survive my
momma
teach me how to hold a new life
momma
help me
turn the face of history
to your face.
June Jordan1
I open by asking my readers to imagine a densely threaded knot, one

loosely entangled so that three-dimensional spaces are visible between
the looped strands. This visual image has a double purpose. On one
hand, the knot suggests both the dense complexity and relational
circuitry of the mother–daughter relationship which comprises separate
subjectivities that are loosely tied together, bodily and psychically.
These subjectivities are interwoven and intertangled with one another,
joined but separate, the same and other, ambivalently fused by a sense
of difference and commonality. On the other hand, the metaphor
implies that there are untapped imaginative and theoretical spaces that
can be brought into being when constitutive threads are unwound and
re-configured. Thus the visual power of the metaphor evokes the
passionate, ambivalent strength and changing dimensions of the
mother–daughter bond, as well as being suggestive of the relational pol-
itics, both theoretical and personal, that are made possible by applying
a metaphorical perspective. I employ feminist readings of three
texts, Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea, Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy and Toni
1
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2 Whiteness and Trauma
Morrison’s Sula. These novels provide the literary grounding for my

argument, which proposes to interweave trauma and whiteness theo-
ries through the already existing strands of race, gender and, to a lesser
extent, issues of class. The historical contexts that together both bind
and separate the mother–daughter relationships in these novels are also
crucial to my discussion.
I shall argue that the application of the metaphorical logic of the knot
contributes substantially to the disruption of a range of prescriptive
binaries, particularly those connected to gendered and raced power
differentials. As is becoming increasingly clear, dismantling a binary is
much more complicated than moving hierarchies up or down, which
is why the interwoven complexity of the knot structure with its over-
lapping, entwining strands is particularly useful. A knot can be disen-
tangled and re-knotted in different figurations while the central thread
holds firm. Clifford Ashley describes the possibilities evocatively:
The simple act of tying a knot is an adventure in unlimited space. A

bit of string affords a dimensional latitude that is unique among the
entities. For an uncomplicated strand is a palpable object, that for all
practical purposes, possesses one dimension only. If we move a single
strand in a plane, interlacing it at will, actual objects of beauty and
utility can result in what is practically two dimensions; and if we
choose to direct our strand out of this one plane, another dimension
is added which provides opportunity for an excursion that is limited
only by the scope of our imagery and the length of the ropemaker’s
coil.2
As knots can be untied and re-tied, they are not only processural and
dynamic but their structuring is also relational and ambivalent. They
can be knots of strength that hold things together, or snarls and obstruc-
tions that impede or hinder, or even both at once. Knots bind one to
one’s own history – individual and collective – but the unravelling
process provides a means of analysing historical, socio-cultural and
maternal genealogies that shape female subjectivity, a positionality
always multiply mediated through the axes of race and class as well as
gender.
However, in order to theorise the mother–daughter relationship, fem-
inist scholars have to remain very aware of two potentially disabling
problems. Firstly, we risk the danger of valorising mutual bonding, nur-
turing, reciprocity and intersubjective empathy, while omitting the fact
that this relationship is often infused not just with love, joy and sharing
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Introduction 3
of identities, but also aggression, ambivalence and even hate. As Sara

Ruddick states in her essay, ‘Maternal Thinking’: ‘What we are pleased
to call “mother-love” is intermixed with hate, sorrow, impatience,
resentment and despair; thought-provoking ambivalence is a hall-mark
of mothering.’3 Indeed, it can be argued that the mother–daughter
dynamic is the most ambivalent of all woman-to-woman relationships.
I am therefore going to interconnect the idea of the trope of ambiva-
lence as a reading strategy to that of the mother–daughter relation as
an essentially ambivalent alliance.
The second, and more worrying, dilemma concerning theorising the
mother–daughter relationship is that while Western feminists have
enriched ways of thinking about sexual difference and subjectivity in
the context of the mother–daughter dynamic – to the extent that Rosi
Braidotti sees ‘the mother–daughter image . . . [as] a new paradigm in
feminist thought’ – exclusionary mechanisms exist when such theories
are universalised by taking white women’s experiences and ideas as nor-
mative.4 The mother–daughter relationship is always already embedded
in a socio-cultural and racialised context, and yet in general, white fem-
inists have failed sufficiently to recognise race and class as differentials
in mothering experiences. For instance, Nancy Chodorow’s pathbreak-
ing book, The Reproduction of Mothering, remains one of the most influ-
ential and most-quoted texts that has framed, and continues to frame,
the predominant theories in feminist discourse on mothering.5 Yet,
Patricia Hill Collins stresses that Chodorow’s text also ‘exemplifies how
decontextualisation of race and/or class can weaken what is otherwise
strong feminist theorising’.6 In her important essay, ‘Shifting the Center:
Race, Class, and Feminist Theorizing About Motherhood’, Hill Collins
argues that non-white mothers frequently experience different forms of
relationship with their daughters as a result of factors that range from
poverty and racism to the structural injustices of workplace practices,
and therefore apply different theoretical insights and new angles of
vision to their mother–daughter experiences and practices.7 However,
these are excluded from feminist theorising that relies solely on white
middle-class women’s experiences and analyses of gender differences
that are falsely separated from issues of race. As long as white feminist
theorising of motherhood continues to emphasise the themes of gender
and sexual difference, it can only reaffirm white domination of theory,
and obscure the racial domination that often accompanies white-skin
privilege in material life.
My title is in a sense borrowed from a combination of Jane Lazarre’s
early feminist text about her relationship to her son, entitled The Mother
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Knot8 and Marianne Hirsch’s The Mother/Daughter Plot.9 However, while

my theoretical background began with white feminist texts on the
mother–daughter relationship, I aim to start where Hirsch ended by
stressing the need to concentrate on the contradictions and ambiva-
lences of the mother–daughter relationship to which she gestures in the
conclusion of her work.10 Even more importantly, I shall address the
problematics of racial exclusion in feminist theory by applying a white-
ness reading both to the theory I utilise and the three novels under
examination. Indeed, I hope that by introducing a critical focus and
strong critique of whiteness – the position from which I write – that I
will earn the right to participate in an inter-racial dialogue, the aim of
which is to disassemble historical, social and racial injustices with the
hope that laying issues bare can help bring about transformation and
change.
The knot metaphor has been used previously by other feminists. For
instance, Gayatri Spivak employs the image to suggest the multiplicity
of contradictions that occur when the subject-in-process is bound
within the complex entanglement of race, class and gender in her
description of the subaltern subject effect.11 Diana Fuss uses a knot in
her edited anthology of lesbian and gay scholarship – both as a figura-
tive representation on the cover and as a theoretical metaphor12 – and
Susan Rubin Suleiman evokes it to signal the entanglements that sur-
round the multiple forms and representations of love.13 Both Fuss and
Suleiman acknowledge their debt to Lacan, as does Elizabeth Grosz, who
refashions his associated symbolisation of the Möbius strip.14 However,
while similar in methodological implications, the knot is significantly
different from the Möbius strip because, as already stated, it is open-
ended and therefore available both to re-knotting and the amalgama-
tion of different re-threadings. The knot metaphor avoids the fixity of
closure for the ends are not necessarily tied inextricably to anything
else.
Grosz evokes the image of the Möbius strip – an inverted three-
dimensional figure eight – in order to theorise an embodied feminist
subjectivity that is constituted by ‘the inflection of mind into body and
body into mind, and the ways in which, through a kind of twisting or
inversion, one side becomes another’.15 Interestingly, Grosz’s subject is
corporeal feminism, and yet in her theory of differentiated bodies,
despite her statement that ‘[e]very body is marked by the history and
specificity of its existence’,16 the body as marker of race becomes merely
a rhetorical disclaimer. This is the only moment in Grosz’s book which
refers to the racialisation of corporeal experience, and represents one
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Introduction 5
example of the sort of white feminist exclusion that I aim to disavow.

In a chapter entitled, ‘The Body as Inscriptive Surface’ Grosz states:
The more or less permanent etching of even the civilized body by

discursive systems is perhaps easier to read if the civilized body is
decontextualised, stripped of clothing and adornment, behaviorally
displayed in its nakedness. The naked European/American/African/
Asian/Australian body (and clearly even within these categories there
is enormous cultural variation) is still marked by its disciplinary
history, by its habitual patterns of movement, by the corporeal com-
mitments it has undertaken in its day-to-day life. It is in no sense a
natural body, for it is culturally, racially, sexually, possibly even as
class distinctive, as it would be if it were clothed.17
Sara Ahmed, commenting on this paragraph, contends that Grosz intro-

duces race as a signifier of difference merely as an illustrative point to
authenticate her argument that there is no natural body as such, that
it is always ‘clothed’ by cultural prescriptions.18 As Ahmed continues,
‘[t]his metaphoric reliance on race to signify the differentiated body has
quite clear theoretical and political implications’.19 Naked or not, it is
the colour of a person’s skin which to a large extent positions every
body in the social system of constitutive meaning.20 Aside from the
problematics of referring to the ‘civilized’ body without explication in
a passage that includes the image of the naked African body – when the
inhumanity of slavery grew out of the binarised logic of free white
bodies held in radical contra-distinction to the enslaved African black
body – the exchange of clothing for skin colour as cultural signifier con-
tinues to eradicate the ever-pervasive power structure and domination
of unacknowledged whiteness. As Ahmed states: ‘Race becomes a means
by which Grosz illustrates a philosophical shift in thinking about
bodies. It appears (and also disappears) as a figure for the differentiated
body’.21 What is missing – what disappears under the figurative dis-
placement – is the whole history that underwrites the dichotomising of
racial bodies in the socio-political order of what became known as the
New World.22
I carefully chose the novels Wide Sargasso Sea, Lucy and Sula because
each, in completely different ways, illustrates mother–daughter rela-
tionships that are imbricated in either the historical specificity of the
New World and its politics of slavery, or its traumatising legacies. All
three texts incorporate the powerful dynamics of figurative language
and the logic of metaphor that on one hand politicises gender, yet on
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the other veers between distanciation from the social injustices of racial
meaning (Wide Sargasso Sea), to an ambivalent complicity yet gradual
resistance to imperialist ideologies (Lucy), and finally, to a rewriting of
black history through what Toni Morrison calls the ‘gift for metaphor’
(Sula). The painful mother–daughter dyad in Kincaid’s novel is knotted
around the ambivalent effects of colonial education, as represented by
the enchanted space of Western literature, while the mother–daughter
relationships in Rhys’s novel, and to a much greater extent in
Morrison’s Sula, circulate around the metaphor of veiling and unveiling
in relation to the iconography of clothing as a means of exposing what
Ahmed describes as the ‘encounter’ with the racial body.23 Indeed,
metaphors of clothing and needlework are very much one of Morrison’s
lyrical trademarks, as evidenced by her Nobel Prize acceptance speech
in which she pronounced: ‘Don’t tell us what to believe, what to fear.
Show us belief’s wide skirt and the stitch that unravels fear’s caul’.24
However, while there is a trope in Western philosophy of the ‘uncon-
cealing of being’ (termed aletheia), that suggests the exposure inherent
in an unveiling or unmasking which lays bare a hidden inner core,25
my reading of the trope of unveiling is indebted to the work of femi-
nist theoreticians and literary critics such as Ann duCille, Sara Ahmed,
Karla Holloway and Toni Morrison and the whole tropological symbol-
isation of masking and unmasking, veiling and unveiling in Black
English that grew out of and in resistance to the dehumanisation of
racialised slavery in the plantations of the New World.
In her monograph, Strange Encounters, Sara Ahmed explores the
interlinked notions of strangers, embodiment and the concept of
community in the contemporary Western world from a feminist
and postcolonial perspective. Central to her argument is the term
‘encounter’, which ‘suggests a meeting, but a meeting which involves
surprise or conflict’.26 Ahmed’s chapter entitled ‘Embodying strangers’,
from which I took her discussion of Elizabeth Grosz’s passage on
corporeal feminism, begins with an example of a distressing racial
encounter that happened to Audre Lorde as a child on the New York
subway.27 As a result of this incident, in which her small black body was
pinned down by the traumatic impact of the white gaze reading her
body as repulsive, Lorde began to query both the construction and the
meaning of racial hatred. Karla Holloway, also tells of similar encoun-
ters experienced by herself and her friends, and in her Codes of Conduct:
Race, Ethics, and the Color of Our Character she argues that black women
have to be aware of the stereotypes that code their bodies because the
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Introduction 7
trauma imposed by racism and sexism often materialises as a ‘disfigur-

ing assault’ in the form of a gaze of prejudice.28 She continues:
As varied as our stories are, it seems that at some point African

American women are forced into a confrontation with the con-
founding physical reality our bodies represent. This moment of facing
is so critical to our psyches, and so frequently rehearsed in our every-
day lives, that unless we have a response (like ‘turning it out’) ritu-
alized into the patterns of our daily lives, we are likely to find
ourselves [crucially] underprepared.29
As I understand it, ‘turning it out’ means speaking out or answering

back in defiance of an authority figure who has demeaned a black
woman in racist and/or sexist terms. Holloway quotes Lorene Cary’s
depiction of turning it out as ‘not a matter of style; cold indignation
worked as well as hot fury. Turning it out had to do with will.’30 In the
examples I have read, turning it out is a communal experience, in the
sense that the women who describe it have always been in the company
of another woman, often a mother and her daughter.31 However, resis-
tance is not always possible, as Morrison demonstrates in a very painful
scene in Sula, when a black woman accompanied by her ten-year-old
daughter is faced with a moment of racial exposure that forces her into
a position of abject humiliation. Because she has so distanced herself
from her maternal heritage, Helene Wright can no longer turn it out.
However, many years later, the daughter, now in her fifties, begins the
process of what is both an individual and communal reclaiming of her
lost history.
I mention the trauma of the embodied racial encounter in associa-
tion with the concept of voicing resistance because my aim is to bring
these two notions together in my last chapter on Morrison’s novel Sula.
But I have also focused on reading the black (female) body at length for
two reasons: to set up my future argument and to place my credentials
on the table, as it were, for writing as I do from the position of a white
feminist, I feel hesitant that I may be appropriating black feminist work
as a means, however unconsciously invoked, of gaining access to some
kind of higher moral position to which I have no right, and to which
I am in no way seeking access. Valerie Smith draws attention to the fact
that white feminists’ continual association of black women with embod-
iment and ‘ “the material” seems conceptually problematic’ because of
its earlier connections to white women’s complicity in constructions of
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black womanhood,32 and there is ample evidence of white feminists

‘using’ the black female body as example and then moving on, or back,
to universalistic theories of woman.33 In the section on whiteness later
on in the introduction I shall delve more deeply into the power poli-
tics of positioning, but for the moment I want to say that I am both
mindful of the problem of appropriation while simultaneously believ-
ing that retreating into either white disavowal or intellectual paralysis
is not helpful to the problems that surround the politics of difference
in feminist theory.
Part of my unravelling process is to examine the role of metaphor as
an aesthetic mode of figuration that can both oppress and liberate, and
in particular its scope in what Holloway describes as ‘[t]he colonizing
habit of linguistic dominance’ which affects, she contends, both the
psyche and the spirit.34 In a witty analogy, Patricia Williams exposes the
impact of conscious and unconscious ideological whitewashing that
contributes to the erasure of black subjectivity in the conclusion to one
of her 1997 Reith Lectures, ‘The War Between the Worlds’:
I sit at my desk, I am writing this lecture. I reach for a little bottle of

a correctional fluid called White-out, I start brushing it over the last
few sentences. My fingers start to dissolve. In seconds, my index
finger and the little finger of my right hand are almost completely
melted away, to the knuckle, and the others are down to the first
joint. There is no pain; I just watch them disappear quietly, quickly,
as though they were no longer part of me. It is the subtlest of
sensations.35
Williams gave five lectures on the topic of racism, concentrating on

the ‘small aggressions of unconscious racism, rather than the big-booted
oppressions of bigotry’.36 She asks: ‘How precisely does the issue of
colour remain so powerfully determinative of everything from life
circumstance to manner of death, in a world that is, by and large,
officially “colour-blind”?’37 Further, ‘[w]hat metaphors mask the hierar-
chies that make racial domination frequently seem so “natural”, so
invisible, indeed so attractive?’38 These are some of the questions I seek
to answer.
II The mother–daughter dyad, ambivalence and whiteness
[T]he racially fractured mother–child relationship is the site at

which we glimpse the wounds of history39
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Introduction 9
Each of the three novels delineates a mother–daughter relationship or

relationships damaged by both racial and gender positioning at a par-
ticular moment in history. The mother–daughter knot, always entan-
gled by its relationship to patriarchal oppression, racial and class
domination and the exploitation inherent in white capitalist society,
can never be separated from its own historicity. Rhys’s text, with which
I begin, has a strangely doubled history. It is an imaginative recon-
struction of the unknown life of Bertha Mason – the madwoman in
the attic of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre – and as such would seem to
exemplify a revisionary postcolonial de-scribing of empire. Like Judith
Raiskin, I want to underscore Rhys’s theoretical and imaginative con-
tribution to contemporary postcolonial theory and culture in her novel
Wide Sargasso Sea, as she depicts the social and psychological fracturing
that accompanied the mid-nineteenth-century dismantling of the
British Empire on the Caribbean island of Jamaica.40 However, while
Rhys’s focus on the tortured relationship between a white creole mother
and daughter provides a poignant analysis of the ambivalent complexi-
ties of white-on-white racism, her mobilisation of a trauma narrative to
explain the construction of Bertha’s madness conceals the far greater
traumatic historical conditions of enslaved African-Caribbeans. Indeed,
Rhys’s novel subtly ensures that the wounds of black history are covered
over by her appropriation of the historical concept of marronage, or
marooning, which signifies the revolutionary activity central to the
Caribbean in which runaway slaves fled their enslavement to the inhos-
pitable mountains, from whence they fought back against the white
plantocracy, often with great success.41 In Wide Sargasso Sea marronage
becomes a metaphor ideologically appropriated to represent both the
intersubjective politics of a fraught mother–daughter relationship and
the abandonment of white creole colonials by the ‘mother-country’.
My second section, on Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy, radiates out from the
first, interweaving, echoing and extending what has gone before. I have
based my argument around the metaphor of ‘creative marronage’, a
term that grows out of historical marronage, as I shall explain. In
Édouard Glissant’s Poetics of Relation, his translator, Betsy Wing, argues
that Glissant ‘sees imagination as the force that can change mentalities;
relation as the process of this change; and poetics as a transformative
mode of history’.42 In his poetic theoretical paradigm, the physical rebel-
lion of the maroon fugitives (historical marronage) ‘intensified over time
to exert a creative marronage whose numerous forms of expression began
to form the basis for a [resisting imaginative] continuity’.43 The
Caribbean, as far as Glissant is concerned, ‘may be held up as one of
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the places in the world where Relation presents itself most visibly, one
of the explosive regions where it seems to be gathering strength’.44 It is
through regaining the empowerment of a heritage of both historical and
creative or imaginative marronage that Kincaid’s protagonist, Lucy, is
finally able to turn the face of imperial history around and reconnect
with her maternal history, reflected, as it were, in her mother’s face.
In the context of postcolonial theory, fictionalised mother–daughter
relationships also provide an important space for a critical re-reading of
the familiar colonial trope of the family and its tensions allegorised as
the nation, and imperial powers as mothers of their colonised chil-
dren.45 This is the case in both Wide Sargasso Sea and Lucy, but with the
tropes reversed. By analogy, the white creole mother–daughter rela-
tionship in Rhys’s novel is represented as colonial daughter/island
deserted by the ‘mother’ England. In Kincaid’s novel, the young black
protagonist leaves her Caribbean island when she is 17 partly to escape
her mother’s Anglophilic tendencies. Interestingly, the daughter in both
these novels has a surrogate, or other-mother, from another race, to
whom each of them becomes inordinately but ambivalently attached.
Both texts take place largely in a white world. The third novel, Morri-
son’s Sula, almost entirely excludes any white presence, and delineates
the results of mother–daughter relationships irreversibly damaged by
the racism and poverty crucial to the implementation of slavery in the
United States. Audre Lorde speaks openly and with pain of the impact
of America’s racist white society on her relationship with her mother in
a passage that has great resonance for the mother–daughter relation-
ships in Sula:
My mother taught me to survive from a very early age by her own

example. Her silences also taught me isolation, fury, mistrust, self-
rejection, and sadness. My survival lay in learning how to use the
weapons she gave me, also, to fight against those things within
myself, unnamed.
And survival is the greatest gift of love. Sometimes, for Black mothers,
it is the only gift possible, and tenderness gets lost. My mother bore
me into life as if etching an angry message into marble. Yet I sur-
vived the hatred around me because my mother made me know, by
oblique reference, that no matter what went on at home, outside
shouldn’t oughta be the way it was.46
I have brought these three texts together, one by a white author

and two by women-of-color, all of which register traumatised
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Introduction 11
mother–daughter relationships, in order to explicate the way history

can wound and incapacitate, and will continue to do so if we do not
critique ‘the way it was’. This history must include not just a critique
of the socio-historical context of the fiction about which literary critics
write, but also of the continuing domination of whiteness in feminist
theory and the ways in which marginalised feminist ‘others’ continue
to be excluded despite the much lauded tactics of inclusivity that were
thought to accompany the politics of difference. As Michele Wallace
argues, ‘[b]lack women writers and critics are routinely kept from having
an impact on how the fields of literature and literary criticism are
defined and applied’.47 This results in the edging out of women-of-color
from the production and shaping of feminist knowledges.
While needing to be wary of the dangers of a politics of coalition as
an excuse to slide back into the exclusionary practices that accompa-
nied the familial metaphor of universal sisterhood, I want to explore a
new approach to the possibilities of reforming a feminist solidarity
not predicated on an implicit reliance on the binaries of differences. I
believe that a deliberate (and therefore open) use of a trope or figure of
thought which involves turns or conversions in thinking can help
disrupt the logic of dichotomies which has played its part in the
divisive practices inherent in the notion of universal sisterhood and the
collectivity of woman. I offer the possibility that ambivalence is a great
unrecognised dynamic in feminist theory. While it may not be imme-
diately apparent why anything as tendentious as ambivalence could
have any form of heuristic power, it is necessary to look at its source.
The negative implications of ambivalence in fact stem from its use in
positivist psychology and psychiatry where it is conceptualised as a
situation in which a person overwhelmingly experiences a simultane-
ity of both negative and positive emotions towards a person, persons,
object or action, and is unable to choose between these opposed atti-
tudes, feelings or sets of values, thereby creating a source of undesirable
stress, anxiety, irresolution or inertia. In its extreme form unresolved
ambivalence is regarded as one of the four cardinal symptoms of schiz-
ophrenia.48 However, just because ambivalence has been pathologised
it does not necessarily entail that a choice has to be made. The term
merely signifies that a person can experience intense oppositional emo-
tions that co-exist and can remain in fluctuating opposition to each
other. Perhaps ambivalence itself is not the problem. Maybe the diffi-
culty lies more in the position of positivist science in the binary frame-
work of Western thought, which disavows the existence of intrinsically
contradictory ideas, emotions or wishes because they transgress and
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disrupt apparently mutually exclusive polar opposites that idealise fixity

and closure. This inheritance has been transposed into common lin-
guistic use, and it is this legacy that deems ambivalence a negative
emotion. However, needless to say, such a position also encourages a
subversive feminist (re)reading of ambivalence as a creative model of
circuitry that breaks down prescriptive polarities.
One way of re-signifying a term that is made up of both negative and
positive elements is to deconstruct and reconfigure its creative poten-
tial. Its synonyms include equivocalness, ambiguity and contrariety
which, together with ambivalence, all suggest doubleness and an ability
to think and negotiate between two voices, and thus an openness to
interpretation and constant re-evaluation; and the potential of tolerat-
ing contradictions and uncertainties in diacritical opposition. Thus,
ambivalence is not a static state, but a dynamic process that holds within
it an ability to entertain dual perspectives. Indeed, to be capable of
ambivalence is to be able to sustain the paradox without falling
permanently to one pole or the other.49 Ambivalence, then, is radically
anti-polar and disruptive of binary oppositions because it transgresses
and blurs the very boundaries these oppositions create by suspending
the choices they imply or dictate. Read in this way as a positive force,
the trope of ambivalence provides a way of seeing contradictions, ten-
sions and differences as creative strengths. Above all, it is a relational
state, that if analysed and thought through, can energise a linguistic
and mental shift towards intersubjective and overlapping thinking. In
other words, the use of ambivalence as a strategic trope within feminist
theory could perhaps provide one small intermediary rhetorical space
in which to meet across difference.
Thus the mother–daughter knot of my subtitle is bound up with both
literary representations of the emotional depth and ambivalent inten-
sity of the mother–daughter dyad and an attempt to re-theorise what
have come to be seen as impossible contradictions in feminist episte-
mologies of race. In response to an article by Deborah McDowell that
addresses, among other issues, the liberating possibilities of ambivalence
in Morrison’s novel Sula, Hortense Spillers speaks of the need ‘to articu-
late the spaces of contradiction’ in order to move beyond being ‘arrested
in a stage of ambivalence’.50 I would therefore like to acknowledge that
it was from reading this short article by Spillers that I was able to extend
my attempts to rethink the positive dynamics inherent in the concept
of ambivalence. In any case it seems that ambivalence has always been
a part of African-American life and its politics of resistance: it is in evi-
dence in W.E.B. Du Bois’s theory of double-consciousness as a form of
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Introduction 13
socialised ambivalence to which I shall refer later, as it is in Geneva

Smitherman’s more contemporary reading of this experience as the
‘push–pull syndrome . . . that is pushing toward White American culture
while simultaneously pulling away from it’.51 Ambivalence is also one of
the most important tropes in postcolonial theory, adapted from psy-
choanalytic theory by Homi Bhabha to suggest the simultaneous com-
plicity and resistance that exists in the fluctuating relation between the
coloniser and the colonised subject.52 Anne McClintock admonishes
Bhabha for his reinscription of both ambivalence and mimicry as male
strategies, and importantly, also problematises what she sees as his insis-
tence on the ‘transhistorical ubiquity of ambivalence’.53 I shall there-
fore expand and diversify the concept in a range of ways, attending to
historical and cultural specificity. Firstly, by reading the trope through
mother–daughter narratives, the issue of gender will be of paramount
importance; secondly, by historicising and contextualising the concept
and using a materialist feminist approach, I hope to lessen the gap
between discursive ambivalence and its lived experiences; thirdly, by
underwriting my methodology by constantly interrogating issues con-
cerning the unwritten ambivalence of whiteness, I hope to offer a new
way of beginning to map the diversity and energy of feminism as we
move through the first decade of the twenty-first century.
Ambivalence does not mean lack of direction or apolitical abstraction.
I believe that there is something very politically enabling about the
revelation of contradiction and ambivalence. Both can be politicised,
located, gendered and given a history. As a heuristic reading strategy
that belongs to the heritage of deconstruction, ambivalence is particu-
larly easily transferred to the wider frame of a race-cognisant feminist
politics. Indeed, Wahneema Lubiano talks about reading (as a first year
graduate student at Howard University) C.L.R. James, Frantz Fanon and
Aimé Césaire and the theories of language in which Black Aesthetic
critics engaged, and then discovering poststructuralist theories, princi-
pally in the work of Jacques Derrida and Roland Barthes: ‘Deconstruc-
tion . . . seemed to me to be an extension (within the dominant
discourse) of the project of those already engaged in Afro-American or
Black Studies – the project of theorizing about difference, absences, pres-
ences, and oppositionality. My response to the cultural studies discourse
has been much the same.’54 Acknowledging the reality of the possibili-
ties of holding contradictory views without constantly striving for their
eradication offers the potential for a shift in terms and a relational
politics that holds within it explicit – rather than implicit – tensions
that can then become productive. This is important in a context in
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which Cheryl Wall argues that for black women to make their ‘posi-
tionality explicit is not to claim a “privileged” status for our positions
. . . Making our positionality explicit is, rather, a response to the false
universalism that long defined critical practice and rendered black
women and their writing mute.’55 It is in relation to this white-enforced
‘muteness’ that I hesitantly offer my interpretation.
Avtar Brah maintains that ‘categories such as “black feminism” and
“white feminism” are best seen as non-essentialist, historically contin-
gent, relational discursive practices, rather than fixed sets of position-
alities’.56 To move into a new discursive realm that remains aware of the
long-standing existence of paralysing ethnocentrism in feminist theo-
ries and politics also necessitates a study of the enactment of power and
ideologies that are also relational but often concealed under a cloak of
whiteness.57 As Toni Morrison attests in Playing in the Dark: ‘The world
does not become raceless or will not become unracialized by assertion.
The act of enforcing racelessness in literary discourse is itself a racial
act.’58 Morrison’s literary heritage emanates, as she frequently stresses,
from the Black English oral tradition, in which, as Yvonne Atkinson
makes clear, ‘the surface meaning of words is rarely the complete
meaning. Definitions of words and word usage are derived from the
Black English oral tradition of linguistic reversal, using negative terms
with positive meanings as well as contextual meaning, a practice of
exchanging or masking one linguistic process with another language.’59
Indeed, it is Morrison’s writing – both fictional and critical – that drew
my attention to the political and theoretical implications of the use of
metaphor, as well as its ambivalence and the importance of both its con-
cealed and overt imaginative gestures:
Race has become metaphorical – a way of referring to and disguising

forces, events, classes, and expressions of social decay and economic
division far more threatening to the body politic than biological
‘race’ ever was . . . racism is as healthy today as it was during the
Enlightenment. It . . . has assumed a metaphorical life so completely
embedded in daily discourse that it is perhaps more necessary and
more on display than ever before . . . I remain convinced that the
metaphorical and metaphysical uses of race occupy definite places in
American literature . . . and ought to be a major concern of the liter-
ary scholarship that tries to know it.60
Morrison is also a central figure in the instigation of whiteness studies

and I use both her critical writing and her fiction as central to my cri-
tique.61 In many senses, she is the moral centre of this book.
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Introduction 15
Ruth Frankenberg was one of the first white feminists to insist on the
intrinsic importance of dismantling the ubiquitous, unmarked power
contained within the ‘ “racialness” of white experience’.62 Since then it
has become a subject that is often mentioned, but it is still rare to find
the theory substantially put into practice in any kind of complex
reading of fiction. However, there is an ambivalence at the heart of
whiteness studies itself that must be addressed at the outset. Maulana
Karenga has this to say on the subject:
The new focus on the study of Whiteness by Whites and other schol-
ars engenders ambivalence on several levels. It immediately raises
questions about its intent, methodology and effect. As a Black studies
scholar, my tendency is to be ambivalent about new calls for
the study of White people when the majority of the curriculum is
about them and usually in the most Eurocentric and vulgarly self-
congratulatory forms.63
The point of whiteness studies should be to fight racial prejudice and

racism across the board – in the world, in the academy, in ideological
representations in all its forms, and so on. It is not just a theoretical fad,
but an important epistemological enterprise, the aims of which are to
expose racial injustices that emanate from the invisible normativity of
white privilege that structures all forms of institutionalised power in
Western societies, and this certainly includes academic enterprises, fem-
inist or otherwise. However, while it is true that dismantling whiteness
keeps the focus where it always has been, as Karenga states, it perhaps
even more problematically offers white people who feel disparaged by
affirmative action, reverse discrimination policies or what is incorrectly
thought of as reverse racism, an opportunity falsely to claim the posi-
tion of the victim. For these reasons, my selection of novels is both fun-
damentally political and aims to demonstrate that there can never be a
simplified reading of whiteness. Whiteness is a concept deeply riven and
interwoven with racial prejudice, gender and class privileges, and as
such needs to be exposed to critical unveiling. This applies also to many
theoretical paradigms, of which trauma theory is just one, as I shall go
on to discuss.
I am not going to spend much time outlining the complexities of
whiteness theory here in the introduction, as part of my methodology
is to expose its invisibility as I provide close readings of the novels. What
I do want to stress is that no part of the ideology of whiteness is benign.
It always concerns domination to a greater or lesser degree. Whiteness
cannot be separated from hegemony, and this is why whiteness-as-
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privilege has to be addressed.64 Barbara Flagg maintains that, ‘[a]ny

serious effort to dismantle white supremacy must include measures to
dilute the effect of whites’ dominant status, which carries with it the
power to define as well as to decide’.65 The ‘power to define’ carries a
devastating political saliency that has resulted in acts of unspeakable
suffering, such as the regime of racial slavery and continuing acts of
racism and sexism. Moreover, as whiteness is a socio-historical construct
with immeasurable powers it constantly shifts its power bases, both
ideological and material, as it adapts to changing historical circum-
stances such as the abolition of slavery and the rise of independent post-
colonial nations. This is why critical, historically specific readings of
traumas inflicted by the many variants of the ideology of whiteness are
vital to refashioning the ‘burden[s] of a negated history’.66
III Trauma and the power of the literary text
Analogous to the rise of whiteness studies is an almost unprecedented

rise in trauma theory, not only in the humanities and especially in lit-
erary criticism, but as a genre that is widespread throughout the Western
societies. As a recently published academic journal outlines in its
opening paragraph: ‘The desire to testify now pervades contemporary
culture. The imperative to speak out and tell one’s story operates across
the traditional boundaries of public and private spaces, and is mobilised
by disenfranchised subjects and celebrities alike.’67 However, it is my
contention that trauma theory continues the disciplining of knowledge
within the constrictive paradigm of normative whiteness. The twen-
tieth century is frequently invoked as the century of trauma: it also
became, as Du Bois mournfully predicted in 1903, a period in which the
‘problem of the color-line’ would hold devastating sway in the divisive
social policies of Western nations because of the white hegemony’s
refusal to come to terms and work through the entangled legacies of
imperialism and industrial capitalism.68 Thus, when Ruth Leys prefaced
her recently published Foucauldian-based exposition, Trauma: A Geneal-
ogy with two examples of contemporary trauma that were positioned
within the racial paradigm, it seemed (at least initially) as if the much-
needed critical amalgamation of issues of trauma and race had finally
begun to have an impact on this academic discipline.69 Leys’s first
example refers to an article in the New Yorker which describes in extra-
ordinarily harrowing and brutal detail a tendentious example of black
on black violence in Uganda.70 Her second example concerns the sexual
harassment case Paula Jones brought against President Clinton, in
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Introduction 17
which her lawyers claim that as a result of Clinton’s actions, ‘Jones now
suffers from post-traumatic stress with long term symptoms of anxiety,
intrusive thoughts and memories, and sexual aversion’71. Leys uses these
examples, both of which were reported in the American media in 1998,
to illustrate the extreme diversification of issues raised by the concept
of psychic trauma. At one extreme lies the indispensability of trauma
theory and its practices to deal with genocidal horrors of the twentieth
century, the other suggests how such theory and its praxis can become
a superficial and ‘debased currency’.72
Leys’s monograph is, as the title suggests, a genealogical reading of
trauma theory that begins with Freud and ends with Cathy Caruth, of
whose work she is rather dismissive. My project does not involve a cri-
tique of this work, except to emphasise the limited focus of Leys’s new
book, a text that is premised entirely upon a Eurocentric reading solely
indentured to a middle-class whiteness built on concepts of Western
individualism. The notion of a genealogy sets up a claim for a breadth
of vision and a comprehensive analysis of trauma history in which it
would be expected that there should be a substantial exploration of
racism, one of the major traumas of the twentieth century. However,
the interrelation of race and trauma – the subject of the opening para-
graph – is never again referred to except in a gestural nod to Freud’s
own naming of his ‘race’.73 Surely – and especially now we have entered
the twenty-first century which is shaping up to be one of almost
unimaginable racial tension and acts of repeated trauma – we need a
comprehensive remapping of trauma theory that is not white-centric
and gender blind.
In any event, almost every black text, fiction or theory, testifies to the
‘trauma of racism’ to which Toni Morrison refers, as the continuing and
ever present factor in the lives of people of colour.74 In an article delin-
eating a feminist perspective on psychic trauma, Laura Brown observes
how narrow definitions of trauma have been constructed from the ex-
periences of dominant groups in Western culture, which means ‘white,
young, able-bodied, educated, middle-class, Christian, men’75. Brown
admits to being protected by her white skin, her upper-middle class
status, her education and her access to language and resources, but as a
Jew and a lesbian she also deals with the small violences of the spirit
that can so often accompany these subject positions in her everyday
life.76 In this essay she builds on Maria Root’s concept of ‘insidious
trauma’ that refers to the ‘traumatogenic effects of oppression that are
not necessarily overtly violent or threatening to bodily well-being at any
given moment, but which do violence to the soul and the spirit’.77 Such
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a reading applies to the experiences of any non-dominant group of

society, such as racial others (anyone non-white in America), lesbians
or gays, people with disability, and so on. Their psychic traumata, often
outside the definitions of what is deemed traumatic to mainstream
(white) society, are therefore ignored. Brown also discusses intergenera-
tional trauma that can ‘spread laterally throughout an oppressed social
group as well when membership in that group means a constant life-
time risk of exposure to certain traumata’,78 a concept which is very
applicable to my reading of Sula.
If one side of the problem within trauma studies is the erasure of
race, the other is what Dominick LaCapra terms ‘vicarious victimhood’,
whereby the oppressors take over the position of the oppressed by shift-
ing the focus of empathetic identification back onto themselves.79
Empathy in the arena of trauma theory means being responsive to the
traumatic experiences of others and, crucially, it involves affectivity as
a central aspect of attempting to understand the others’ pain. However,
empathetic understanding must not become conflated, as LaCapra
emphatically stresses, ‘with unchecked identification, vicarious experi-
ence, and surrogate victimage’.80 Such an action not only constitutes an
appropriation of the distress of others who are often in the victim posi-
tion, but also obscures vital historical distinctions between aggressors
and victims which more often than not are related to the power differ-
entials that structure racial hierarchies. This is certainly the case in Wide
Sargasso Sea. Interestingly, however, LaCapra problematises the blurring
of the crucial aggressor/victim distinction by raising the issue of what
he sees as the necessary differentiation between structural and histo-
rical trauma. Structural trauma concerns transhistorical absence and
appears in different ways in all societies and in all lives. On the other
hand, historical trauma is specific in that it relates to an event or events
that are locatable in historical time.81 This may include a ‘founding
trauma – the trauma that paradoxically becomes the basis for collective
and/or personal identity’.82 One such trauma LaCapra names as the his-
torical experience of slavery. My understanding of LaCapra’s concept of
structural trauma is that its problematic transhistoricism on one hand
arises out of readings that apply no sense of importance to the histori-
cal specificity of the traumatic experiences that are being interpreted.
This is certainly often the case. However, he frequently refers to this
‘transhistorical notion of trauma which is structural or in some sense
originary’.83 In what sense can trauma ever be originary? Does this mean
that historical and structural trauma can be divided – like the char-
acterisation of clinical depression which is so often associated with
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Introduction 19
post-traumatic experiences – into ‘reactive’ trauma which occurs in

response to a specific environmental and therefore historically specific
loss, or, ‘endogenous’ trauma which occurs in the absence of such envi-
ronmental/historical stress and is reputed to be the result of purely inter-
nal causes?84
Two problems lead on from such a reading. In the first place it is
impossible to differentiate between structural and historical trauma –
they are inevitably knotted together to a greater or lesser degree. Again,
this is something that becomes very clear in my reading of Wide
Sargasso Sea. The second problem is that there is no factoring in of race
in LaCapra’s trauma theory beyond his reference to slavery as a foun-
dational trauma. If structural trauma contains aspects of the originary,
would this not result in a reading that could not escape from a dis-
criminatory (race-biased) essentialism? For instance, if Morrison’s
theory of the trauma of racism is to be taken into account, then struc-
tural trauma as it stands in LaCapra’s schema would rely on a reading
of essentialised black – or any non-white bodies – as the originating,
innate, and therefore immutable, factor of their (necessarily embodied)
trauma. Moreover, if structural trauma is to be separated out from his-
torical trauma, all causal factors that are the result of institutionalised
racism would be excised. I do not mean here to discredit LaCapra’s
important and extensive work on the relations between trauma and
history which is fundamental in reminding us that trauma theory has
a tendency to blur the categories of who are the aggressors and victims
of history. Yet, until the daily occurence of racial trauma becomes an
important part of trauma theory, it will be addressing neither the struc-
tural nor the historical traumas of the twentieth century, nor will it
provide a viable theoretical paradigm for the twenty-first. It seems to
me that his abstract working through of existential dilemmas relating
to historicist readings of trauma become difficult to translate into a
particularised socio-historical context.
Nevertheless, LaCapra’s evocation of the Freudian theories of acting
out and working through are particularly useful, provided, as he himself
insists, that psychoanalytic concepts such as these are linked to eco-
nomic, social and political analyses and do not become a substitute for
them.85 Acting out is a form of melancholia, characterised by stasis and
an affective state of arrested process, in which the traumatised person
or collection of people are ‘caught up in the compulsive repetition of
traumatic scenes – scenes in which the past returns and the future is
blocked or fatalistically caught up in a melancholic feedback loop’.86 In
Wide Sargasso Sea, the protagonist, Antoinette Cosway, is entrapped in
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a melancholic state of impossible mourning. While the text suggested

that the mother–daughter relationship in this novel is predicated upon
structural trauma, such a reading silences the historical causes and reac-
tive traumas that are bound up with the axiomatics of imperialism. In
Kincaid’s novel, Lucy, the protagonist is suspended in the lingering and
difficult space between colonialism and postcolonialism, between acting
out and working through and between melancholia and mourning.
Both these novels read trauma as individualistic. In Morrison’s Sula
there are three central characters. Only one, Nel Wright, moves into a
state of mourning on the final page of the novel, and importantly her
catharsis evolves out of a sense of community, and here I would like to
relate Morrison’s evocation of a coming to terms with historical trauma
with LaCapra’s understanding of mourning as ‘not simply . . . isolated
grieving or endless bereavement but as a social process’.87
With the idea of process in mind, I turn now to the work of Cathy
Caruth who is one of the most influential and exciting of contempo-
rary trauma theorists, and as a literary critic her work is, in any case,
most relevant to readings of fiction. Caruth suggests that in this age of
violence and natural and technological catastrophe, trauma itself may
‘provide the very link between cultures: not as a simple understanding
of the pasts of others but rather, within the traumas of contempo-
rary history, as our ability to listen through the departures we have all
taken from ourselves’.88 Most trauma theory is based on the psycho-
analytic/psychological model, and while I use these theories as a base,
my methodology concerns a materialistic cultural reading of the effects
of trauma on those who live within a specific socio-historical and racial
context. Thus my project comprises reading history and trauma as
threaded one through the other, which is why LaCapra’s adaptations of
psychoanalytic concepts such as melancholia and mourning are par-
ticularly useful. I want to suggest that if merged with LaCapra’s work
Caruth’s theory of belatedness helps to unravel some of the more com-
plicated paradoxes of trauma theory. From Caruth’s perspective: ‘[T]he
attempt to understand trauma brings one repeatedly to this peculiar
paradox: that in trauma the greatest confrontation with reality may
also occur as an absolute numbing to it, that immediacy, paradoxically
enough, may take the form of belatedness.’89 Again, this is something
that I shall progressively unravel in my literary explications, but here
would like to draw attention to the main issues that arise from Caruth’s
belatedness theory. While the concept primarily invokes a psychic
rupture in the form of a withholding of traumatic memory from con-
sciousness, it has consequences for the structuring of form and style in
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Introduction 21
literary texts that leads both to innovative writing and new possibilities
for working through trauma – as will become apparent in my readings.
Caruth maintains that we begin ‘to hear each other anew in the study
of trauma . . . because they [here she refers to the main disciplinary
fields that utilise trauma theory] are listening through the radical dis-
ruption and gaps of traumatic experience’.90 While this is certainly the
case, I would like to extend the idea of the ‘radical disruption’ of belated-
ness into a different way of addressing the notion of postcolonialism.
Together with the psychic implications and repercussions, belatedness
also entails the idea of disjuncture in historical time which raises impor-
tant questions about both the periodisation of colonialism and post-
colonialism and the long-term psychic effects of this imagined closure
suggested by the prefix ‘post’. In terms of the colonial/postcolonial
binary, the question of who gets to be fortunate enough to effect closure
on historical traumas is bound up with the imagined dismantling of
colonialism. There are ongoing traumas for many millions of peoples
whose lives are still disproportionately circumscribed by the often
intense suffering created by the changing face of power structures that
have transmogrified into neo-colonialism, cultural imperialism and now
the injustices (racial, gendered and classed) inherent in the universalis-
tic notion of global capitalism. Only those who can ignore ‘the belated
scar[s]’ – both metaphorical and literal – inscribed on the lives of mil-
lions who live the consequences of colonialism can retreat, in the words
of Robert Young, into the ‘safety of its politics of the past’.91 Belated-
ness then, also concerns the politics of relation, as Ruth Frankenberg
and Lata Mani suggest in a provocative article from which I now quote:
‘Post’ means ‘after in time’. But what happened during that time
– presumably in this instance a time between ‘colonialism’, or
‘coloniality’, and now? In what senses are we now situated ‘after’
‘coloniality’ in the sense of ‘coloniality’ being ‘over and done with’?
What, about ‘the colonial’, is over and for whom?92
The politics of location involve both the territorial (the physical loca-
tion of the body mapped by ownership of land or nation) and the
abstract (the psychic mapping of interpellation(s)). Moreover, the whole
idea of who will listen is not only intrinsic to trauma theory and the out-
comes of the possibilities of resolution through testimony, but also to
the politics of the postcolonial arena. In postcolonial theory the ques-
tion was raised by Gayatri Spivak, most notably in the words of the title
to her now famous essay, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’93 Two years and
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much controversy later, she answered her own rhetorical question: ‘For
me, the question “Who should speak?” is less crucial than “Who will
listen?” ’94 Amalgamating trauma theory and postcolonialism is not,
therefore, just about traumatic experiences not being assimilated at the
time of the occurrence: it is complicated by the cultural imbalances
bound by issues of psychic and material domination inherent in the
invisible whiteness of power structures – the differences between rulers
and ruled (both psychic and material) – and the length of the time frame
that is itself involved in historical disjuncture. Although on the posi-
tive side, the radical disruption of time unsettles the notion of histori-
cal progress, it must be remembered that for there to be any form of
listening, there has to be a voicing of unresolved historical loss and pain.
Hence the importance of fiction as a means of bearing witness and of
the figurative language of metaphor as a way to confront the unspeak-
able. Through its ambivalent structuring, metaphor provides both
the safety of a distancing mechanism and simultaneously, a linguistic
strategy to speak about something unspeakable, as if by analogy.
Caruth strongly advocates ‘the language of literature’ as the exem-
plary genre that encourages a shift into forms of narrative that enables
movement beyond the belatedness effect of trauma. This is because
literary fiction gestures beyond itself, the figurative language offering
an imaginative leap that moves beyond the denotative meaning.95
However, the possibilities of how to envisage the actual psychic move-
ment between traumatic memory that has previously been withheld
from narrative coherence and its processing as a belatedly assimilated
narrative, evaporates into vague gestures towards healing once a narra-
tive is attainable. My argument will be that it is primarily through
metaphor – both in its structure and its content – that trauma can be
worked through, provided the metaphors that are utilised are both his-
torically grounded and contextually orientated. Importantly though, it
is the heritage of the double-voice of black oral traditions – Black English
and in particular African-American literature – that most clearly sup-
ports such an interpretation. I would suggest, then, that it is in black
literature that the emotional and psychic effects of racism and sexism
on embodied subjectivity are most passionately and clearly articulated.
The multiple levels of fictional narrative differs from the writing of
theory or history because while all three combine images of social
groups and relations and their interactions with each other and the
outer world within which they live, fiction adds in much greater com-
plexity the inner depth of emotional and psychic responses that cannot
easily be encompassed within the other two genres. It is in the pages of
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Introduction 23
fiction or poetry that we are imaginatively empowered and sometimes

healed by understanding how it feels to be somebody else. It is in lit-
erature that the effects of racism on subjectivity can be most clearly dis-
cerned and renegotiated. As Sherley Anne Williams attests that although
‘[b]lack women as readers and writers have been kept out of [the]
literary endeavor . . . literature . . . is about community and dialogue;
theories or ways of reading ought to actively promote the enlargement
of both’.96
It is my belief that the most effective way for white feminists such as
myself to assist in the work of disassembling racism is to deconstruct
inwards – to keep exposing whiteness in its many protean forms in order
to dismantle it. Valerie Smith maintains that ‘critical work, no less than
the artistic, bears the imprint of the conditions under which it was pro-
duced and articulates the writer’s relation to culture’.97 Taking criticism
seriously, and especially when engaged in interpretations that hinge on
the emotive issue of race, means moving beyond confessing that I am
a white middle-class feminist which acts, as Leslie Roman suggests, as
‘little more than disclaimers of privilege’.98 It concerns ethical and polit-
ical responsibility. I hope that through lack of knowledge or some form
of cultural or personal insensitivity that I have not caused offence or
harm in any form but, if I have, I take full responsibility for my work.
I close this introduction with reference to Anne duCille’s wonderful
essay, ‘The Occult of True Black Womanhood’, which has been instru-
mental in my thinking about writing about feminism and race, and in
which she begins by describing how it feels to be ‘a kind of sacred text.
Not me personally, of course, but me black woman object, Other. Within
and around the modern academy, racial and gender alterity has become
a hot commodity that has claimed black women as its principal sig-
nifier.’99 duCille goes on to describe the ‘critical stampede’ that has
been attached to black women writers, and the frequent blindness of
white feminists over matters of race.100 She ends, however, on a note of
hope about the possibilities of what one of her colleagues terms, ‘com-
plementary theorizing’, a collaborative feminist scholarship in which
‘women of color [are] talked with rather than about’.101 It is on this
note of the possibilities of such relational theorising that I begin my
chapters.
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1403_921989_03_cha01.qxd 12/3/2003 2:19 PM Page 25
1
‘The White Hush between Two
Sentences’: The Traumatic
Ambivalence of Whiteness in
Wide Sargasso Sea
In their faint photographs

mottled with chemicals . . .
they have drifted to the edge
of verandahs . . .
bone-collared gentlemen
with spiked moustaches
and their wives embayed in the wickerwork
armchairs, all looking coloured
from the distance of a century . . .
And the sigh of that child

is white as an orchid on a crusted log
in the bush of Dominica
a V of Chinese white
meant for the beat of a seagull
over a sepia souvenir of Cornwall,
as the white hush between two sentences . . .
Derek Walcott, ‘Jean Rhys’1
‘Jean Rhys’ by West Indian poet, Derek Walcott, invokes the lost world
of the white creole plantocracy through a reading of some old colonial
photographs. It is a vivid and imagistic description of the decaying
grandeur of early nineteenth-century white creole society in which the
people pictured have ‘drifted to the edge’, as if marginalised and dis-
possessed in both time and space. The white creoles appear transfixed
– ‘embayed’ is Walcott’s word – in their wickerwork furniture, suspended
between the world of their lost prestige and power and the beckoning
anxiety of never again belonging. For they are neither imperially white
25
1403_921989_03_cha01.qxd 12/3/2003 2:19 PM Page 26
nor Dominican black, and they are entering a time of radical historical
change. The poem is suffused with a mild irony. Both the men and the
women (or it could be the mottled photographs at which the poet gazes,
or even the aging furniture, for the wording is purposefully ambiguous)
are ‘all looking coloured/from the distance of a century’, and the drift-
ing of these creoles from the seat of the power of their located white-
ness is merely a slow movement to the edge of verandahs. It is a
depiction of cultural stasis, stagnation, and slow physical and mental
disintegration. The only life affirming gesture, ‘the white hush between
two sentences’, is a sigh emitted by the child, Jean Rhys.2 This timeless
sigh floats, bird-like, between the cultural divide of the vividly
present(ed) landscape of Dominica and the far distant English county
of Cornwall, which is represented by a sepia image of a souvenir photo-
graph as somewhere always absent, perhaps longed for, but only ever
visited in the imagination. The poem, with its fleeting but intense
glimpses of the young Jean Rhys, forsees the literary impact she will
have with ‘her right hand married to Jane Eyre’, thereby interweaving
the focus between individual and historical narrative. The child who
stares at ‘the windless candle flame’ in the poem will become the adult
who rewrites this white creole historical trauma in her brilliant novel,
Wide Sargasso Sea. In the process Rhys will relate ‘the traumatic ambiva-
lences of a personal, psychic history to the wider disjunctions of polit-
ical existence’.3 The white hush then, moves beyond a simple sigh.
Walcott’s poem adumbrates many of the themes I shall address in the
three chapters on Wide Sargasso Sea, though most notably a sense of cul-
tural entrapment. It locates the unbelongingness of the white creole
position caught between two racially divergent cultures. In Rhys’s novel
this position becomes a position of anxiety which makes manifest not
a direct confrontation, but the ephemeral qualities of a melancholic sigh
that strives to make connection across the rhetorical hush that divides
the two sentences, or two rapidly dividing cultures. I shall argue that
what the poem hints at is the thematic focus of Rhys’s novel. The
psychohistorical dislocation that accompanied the dismantling in the
mid-1800s of the British Empire in the Caribbean resulted in a form of
collective stasis among the white creole population who believed they
had been deserted by the imperial motherland. The sense of entrapment
induced a form of damaging melancholia that is represented, if some-
what ironically, in Walcott’s verses. The poem also affirms the haunt-
ing qualities of metaphor and figurative language which will come to
play such an important role in the poetics and politics of Rhys’s novel.
For this is a text in which what lies beneath in the subterranean
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‘The White Hush between Two Sentences’ 27
economy of the unconscious or the figurative images, inference, allu-

sions and unseen logic of the metaphorical unsaid is as significant, or
perhaps even more significant, than what is explicitly enunciated.4 A
hush is an ambivalent concept, and indeed, there is always an ambiva-
lence in metaphor and a politics to its usages. For instance, while the
word ‘hush’ evocatively represents the suppression of sound, it can be
a momentary stilling that is chosen or enforced. It is also a temporary
space of silence in which some kind of vocal movement has been and
will continue to be. The hush in Walcott’s poem begins with a sense of
movement, suggesting as it does that the child’s sigh can carry across
the seas between England and Dominica, but by the end of the verse
the ‘white hush is caught between two sentences’. The adjectival marker
of colour is very strong in this stanza – it is repeated three times – the
white sigh, the white painted V (the standard painterly symbol for a
flying bird) and the white hush. It is a prelude to the underlying focus
of whiteness of Wide Sargasso Sea which is, I shall argue, a trauma nar-
rative of white-on-white victimhood that occludes and renders invisi-
ble the othered history of black Caribbeans on which it is predicated.
Historical trauma and its echoes: the whitewashing

of history
[H]istory, like trauma, is never simply one’s own . . . history is

precisely the way we are implicated in each other’s traumas
Cathy Caruth5
Wide Sargasso Sea is a mother–daughter trauma narrative encrypted

within the outer framework of the white creole historical trauma to
which Walcott alludes in his poem. It is a mother–daughter story of per-
sonal and historical fragmentation and dispossession, a narrative
infused with loss, abandonment, racial hatred and a lingering melan-
cholia. The textual ambivalence of whiteness begins with Rhys’s own
positioning as a fourth generation white creole, brought up on the West
Indian island of Dominica in a period when classic colonialism was
being dismantled. Rhys is, as Helen Carr states, ‘a colonial in terms of
her history, even though she could be considered a postcolonialist in
her attitude to the Empire and in her employment of many postcolo-
nialist strategies’.6 She is in the ambiguous position of being part of colo-
nialism and of the resistance to it. Indeed, her representation of the
problematic and fluctuating positionalities of Wide Sargasso Sea’s pro-
tagonist, Antoinette Cosway Mason Rochester, as ambivalently caught
1403_921989_03_cha01.qxd 12/3/2003 2:19 PM Page 28
between the ideologies of coloniser and colonised, oppressor and

oppressed, and the menacing anxiety of being neither white nor black,
bears some similarities to elements of Rhys’s own upbringing. While
many critics point out the ambivalences of the historical and personal
positioning of both Rhys and her character Antoinette, they do not go
on to provide an in-depth critique of what this positioning implies in
the construction of the text. This will be the aim of these chapters.
My understanding is that ambivalence plays a crucial and multifac-
eted role in Rhys’s novel, much of it arising from the confusions and
paradoxes of situatedness. However, I also wish to argue that Wide
Sargasso Sea is a trauma narrative of lost whiteness. In an early inter-
pretation of the novel, Kenneth Ramchand, adapting a phrase from
Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, indicates that ‘we might use
the phrase “terrified consciousness” to suggest the White minority’s
sensations of shock and disorientation as a massive and smouldering
Black population is released into an awareness of its power’.7 Using
Ramchand’s statement as a point of departure, I will explore the notion
that Rhys’s novel primarily revolves around the profound cultural
ambivalence of being fixed in a historically inflected moribund white-
ness that is itself, as Sanford Sternlicht states, ‘trapped between two
disdainful cultures’8 at a crucial moment of imperial dismantling. It
is this historical background that exacerbates, or perhaps even creates,
the deep intersubjective ambivalence of the particularised mother–
daughter relationship of Annette Cosway Mason and her daughter,
Antoinette.
The setting of Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea is Jamaica, the time-frame
approximately 1834 to 1845.9 This was a period of great political and
social instability, and in particular a time in which the local meaning
of white was in great flux as power relations shifted in England’s colo-
nial domains as a result of the passing of the British Emancipation
Act of 1833 and its ratification in 1834. With the abolition of slavery,
West Indian plantations fell into a temporary state of ruin. It was a point
in imperial history when colonial whites discovered to their dismay
that there were different levels within the power structure of whiteness,
and that their place within this system was largely dependent on their
position within the capitalist/imperialist enterprise. One of the text’s
central ironies is that it is only in her enclosed space of ‘madness’ at the
end of the novel that Antoinette suddenly realises that for imperialists
such as her husband, ‘Gold is the idol they worship’.10 Without it, as
she has now learnt to her cost, the credibility of white creole position-
ing is lost.
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The looming ruin of the plantocracy meant erosion of their white-

based power. Racial tension and bitterness were especially pervasive in
the four years (1834–38) of the so-called apprenticeship system, estab-
lished as a transitory measure between the abolition of slavery and the
implementation of a waged-labour structure.11 Disowned by England,
the white creoles were now openly hated by the newly freed slaves. For
the white creole slaveowners, slaves were property that with the passing
of the Act became worthless, and without a workforce the slide into
bankruptcy was inevitable. Adding to their financial woes, English
promises of financial restitution did not materialise for a number of
years. The suicide of Annette’s only friend and white neighbour in Wide
Sargasso Sea is symbolic of the results of white creole post-Emancipation
desertion by the English. Those that remain of the once powerful and
rich plantation owners, such as the widowed Annette Cosway and her
children, around whom the narrative revolves, are overcome by poverty,
and now black hatred mingles with utter contempt: ‘Old time white
people nothing but white nigger now, and black nigger better than
white nigger’ (10). The whites are derided, openly jeered at and despised.
However, it is the act of abandonment by their own race that adds the
extra edge of bitterness and despair.
Rhys constructs this white-on-white desertion as a historical trauma
enacted upon a group of whites who are literally left stranded when
they no longer fulfil the function allocated to them by the imperial
centre. The ambivalent ideological underpinning of their abandonment
is infused with resentment of the English and their wealth that the
white creole Jamaicans no longer share, as well as the English attitudes
of superiority towards them, yet these feelings of acrimony exist along-
side a simultaneous longing to be English. It is to imperial whiteness
that white creole ideological loyalty lies: but they are white but not
quite.12 They are disappointed, bitter, and in part repulsed by the
English. Even as a child, watching the interrelation between her white
creole mother and Mason, her new English stepfather, Antoinette knows
her heritage is negatively defined as lacking and thus different from the
English: ‘Mr Mason, so sure of himself, so without a doubt English. And
my mother, so without a doubt not English, but no white nigger either.
Not my mother. Never had been. Never could be’ (18). Yet as an adult,
English is what Antoinette desperately desires to be, believing that the
shift from periphery to metropolis will radically alter both her and the
ideological burdens of white outsidership: ‘I will be a different person
when I live in England and different things will happen to me’ (70), she
tells her black nurse, Christophine. This, then, is the single-strand
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reading of a complexly knotted history from the victimised white creole

perspective. This is the narrative that unfolds in the first two or three
densely packed pages of the novel.
However, as Cathy Caruth contends, ‘history is precisely the way we
are implicated in each other’s traumas’, both personally and collectively.
Because of the novel’s concentration on the lost history of post-
Emancipation white creoles, what is perhaps implicit – but still largely
elided in the novel – is that white creoles, white imperialists and
black Caribbeans all have complexly interwoven histories. And despite,
or because of, the power differentials, these histories cannot be read sep-
arately. It seems to me that in her attempt to construct Antoinette
Cosway as driven mad by trauma – as opposed to inheriting the presup-
posed white female creole traits of sexual depravity and manic drunk-
enness of the Brontë narrative – Rhys gets caught up in the thematics
that such a reading implies. Her narrative of historical trauma recon-
figured as individualised trauma actually participates in side-stepping
the history of the more traumatised other, or examining the ways in
which white and black histories of the West Indies overlap and
interconnect.
Such reciprocal influences in modes of representation and historical
and cultural practices come together in differing theories of transcul-
turation and colonial/postcolonial contact zones, concepts which may
be used to address the particularised world out of which Jean Rhys
wrote. With specific reference to the Caribbean, Jamaican poet and his-
torian, Edward Brathwaite outlines two distinct cultural processes of
colonisation: ‘ac/culturation, which is the yoking (by force and example,
deriving from power/prestige) of one culture to another (in this case the
slave/African to the European); and inter/culturation, which is an
unplanned, unstructured but osmotic relationship proceeding from this
yoke.’13 Inter/culturation is a more reciprocal process of ‘intermixture
and enrichment, each to each’.14 I intentionally quote Brathwaite here
because of his close relationship with Caribbean politics, both theoret-
ical and literary, and because his wide-ranging exposition of cultural
diversity focuses, as his title Contradictory Omens suggests, on heuristic
possibilities of creative ambivalence in the Caribbean context.15 Brath-
waite accords Wide Sargasso Sea quite a substantial textual space in this
essay, in part to outline the intriguing polarisation of opinion that has
a particular (and well-known) history in relation to the reception of
Rhys’s Caribbean novel.16 However, he ends his section on the novel by
stating quite emphatically: ‘White creoles in the English and French
West Indies have separated themselves by too wide a gulf and have con-
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tributed too little culturally, as a group, to give credence to the notion

that they can . . . meaningfully identify or be identified, with the spiri-
tual world on this side of the Sargasso Sea’.17
For these reasons, I think Edward Said’s notion of contrapuntal reading,
which takes account of both the processes of imperialism and of resis-
tances to it, is paramount in a reading of a text such as Wide Sargasso
Sea.18 To read colonial history contrapuntally means exposing the
intertwined and overlapping histories in their plurality, and from a
constantly interwoven and relational point of view. Among other
things, a contrapuntal reading, Said reminds us, includes being aware
that Western writers until the middle of the twentieth century wrote
with ‘an exclusively Western audience in mind’, and that, for instance,
references to India in Jane Eyre ‘are made because they can be, because
British power (and not just the novelist’s fancy) made passing references
to these massive appropriations possible’.19 Indeed, a contrapuntal
reading exposes a structural irony that is very much part of the literary
history of the intertextual (mother–daughter) relationship between Jane
Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea. Over a century after Brontë’s depiction of
Bertha Mason as a mute, grovelling, creature, ‘the clothed hyena . . .
[with] a pigmy intellect’,20 Rhys gives ‘Bertha’ a speaking voice and a
history in Wide Sargasso Sea, thus effectively describing a text of
empire.21 However, as I shall go on to explain, out of one appropriation
came another (albeit of a different kind) which is one of the reasons
why Gayatri Spivak reads ‘Wide Sargasso Sea as Jane Eyre’s reinscription’.22
From my reading of Wide Sargasso Sea there are two extremely trou-
bling forms of cultural appropriation which silently structure Rhys’s
novel. The first involves a direct appropriation of a form of slave resis-
tance known as marronage and the African-Caribbean notion of the
zombi or zombification; the second is the installation of a central black
voice in the novel to espouse the white creole point of view with a
strong sense of empathy. By arrogating African-Caribbean tropes of
resistance and reassigning them meaning from a white Jamaican per-
spective centring around individual trauma, and by positioning the ex-
slave Christophine as the white creole spokeswoman, Rhys creates an
aura of sympathy for the much-maligned creoles in her textual world,
who effectively become the victims of history, rather than the slaves
and ex-slaves on whom their fortunes had ridden.23 However, before
exploring the ambivalent characterisation of Christophine, I shall begin
disentangling the metaphorical appropriations by demonstrating how
two seemingly insignificant metaphors, if removed from their socio-
historical context and used in a generalised and ahistorical vacuum, can
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effectively erase the existence of another history. The first, and most sig-
nificant inappropriate borrowing is the notion of marooning, for it is the
metaphor that sustains the pathos around which the novel turns. It is
a concept-metaphor that has a situated Caribbean etymology which
Rhys chose to disregard. It is this textual cover-up – or metaphorical
hushing – of black Caribbean historical agency around which my argu-
ment revolves. Rhys’s second metaphorical appropriation concerns the
obeah practice of zombification. Although inextricably interwoven with
the historical ethos of marooning, zombification is not quite as impor-
tant to a postcolonial reading of this novel because the metaphor is
made explicit in the text – it is not concealed in the same way as
marooning.24
The earliest definition of the word maroon, in use by the early seven-
teenth century, refers to fugitive or runaway slaves and their descen-
dants in the West Indies, and all other islands of the New World in
which slavery was practised.25 A hundred years later, the term had come
to refer to the act of putting a person ashore, leaving him or her on an
island or coast as punishment for an infraction on a voyage, abandoned
without resources or hope to almost certain death. It is this second usage
that Rhys employs as a metaphor for the white creole historical trauma
of post-Emancipation. The word, however, is neither politically neutral
nor static, and in the West Indies has a valency that has become
depoliticised in today’s language use. Indeed, the etymology of this
word represents the normative processes inherent in the power of the
white hegemony’s assumption of the universalising normativity of
whiteness in language that in turn renders invisible other grammars and
other histories.26 This is particularly regressive in the Caribbean context,
where, according to Antonio Benítez-Rojo:
We must conclude that the historiography of the Caribbean, in

general, reads like a long and inconsonant story favouring the legit-
imation of the white planter . . . I think [however] that the
Caribbean’s ‘other’ history ha[s] begun to be written starting from
the palenque [the settlements of runaways] and the maroon, and that
little by little these pages will build an enormous branching narra-
tion that will serve as an alternative to the ‘planters’ histories’ that
we know.27
Of course Jean Rhys writes not history but fiction, but the power of
metaphor resonates through both disciplines, and in any case each is
imbricated in the other. Rhys implies the outward event of historical
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trauma has in internal impact, a psychic wounding. But the outside

events of Wide Sargasso Sea are not the trauma of slavery, or even the
trauma of white on black racism, but the forced abandonment of white
creole luxury with the collapse of the plantation system, a system of
oppression which had inaugurated maroon flight in the first place. I
shall argue then, that in Rhys’s novel the flight of the runaway maroons
is reformulated as the inward flight of trauma of her white characters.
Rhys’s elision of maroon history is especially significant because she
grew up in the West Indies. Her grandfather and great-grandfather
owned large numbers of slaves, so she was aware of both the history of
slavery and its accompanying cruelties and the wealth and prestige that
accompanied white creole plantocracy status. This made for a kind of
tormented ambivalence:
I would feel sick with shame at some of the stories I heard of the
slave days told casually even jocularly. The ferocious punishments
the salt kept ready to rub into the wounds etc. etc. [sic]. I became an
ardent socialist and champion of the down trodden, argued, insisted
of giving my opinion, was generally insufferable. Yet all the time
knowing that there was another side to it. Sometimes being proud
of my great grandfather, the estate, the good old days etc. . . . Perhaps
he wasn’t entirely ignoble. Having absolute power over a people
needn’t make a man a brute. Might make him noble in a way. No –
no use . . . the end of my thought was always revolt, a sick revolt and
I longed to be identified once and for all with the others’ side which
of course was impossible. I couldn’t change the colour of my skin.28
Yet, in Wide Sargasso Sea, the most obvious of all her novels in which
she could have focused on the black down-trodden, Rhys instead aligns
her story with white traumatisation. Moreover, slave resistance had
strongly impacted on her own family, as their house on the family estate
had been burned in 1844 by ex-slaves who feared a return to slavery.
This scene ‘returns’ in the novel as the trauma that spiralled Antoinette’s
mother into madness. White individualised family trauma thereby
replaces the collective subaltern history, and the many ways in which
slaves fought back against the white ruling class.
In her historical monograph on the maroons of Jamaica, Mavis Camp-
bell maintains that ‘[r]esistance was an integral part of Caribbean slave
society’.29 The most pervasive and disruptive oppositional practice in
which the slaves participated in massive numbers was the act of running
away to establish their own communities in the inhospitable country
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of the mountainous regions of the island, from where they conducted

a highly successful campaign of guerilla warfare. In Jamaica and indeed
throughout the New World, this act of escaping was known as mar-
ronage, and those that participated in it were called maroons. So great
was this maroon defiance that it was considered ‘the chronic plague’ of
New World plantation societies.30 However, marronage was not just
about a flight to freedom from lives of enslavement only to live a life
of mere subsistence in the inhospitable mountain regions chosen for
safety. Escaped maroons built elaborate settlements called palenques –
which later became maroon towns.31 These maroon societies then, as
Richard Price describes them, were ‘communities [that] stood out as an
heroic challenge to white authority, and as the living proof of the exis-
tence of a slave consciousness that refused to be limited by the whites’
conception or manipulation of it’.32 Few slave societies had a more
impressive record of revolt than Jamaica.33 This was the ‘dark’ side of
the history with which Rhys grew up while protected by her white creole
status and its own version of events.
Colonial discourse ‘takes over as it takes cover, revealing and con-
cealing the appropriating impulse in the same rhetorical gesture’, writes
David Spurr.34 As I see it, Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea is implicated in the
machinations of the colonial ‘coverup’, in the sense that the text’s moral
abstraction through the use of metaphor and metaphorical logic
becomes an intricate part of the rhetorical act of the colonial appropri-
ation to which Spurr alludes. Spurr argues that colonial discourse claims
the other’s territory as its own, covering this act of appropriation by
converting the proprietary strategy into ‘the response to a putative
appeal on the part of the colonized land and people’.35 This is what Rhys
does with her appropriative use of the concept of marooning. In Wide
Sargasso Sea it is the binding metaphor of the text that implies the his-
torical dispossession and abandonment of white creoles: it is also a
metaphor for the painful repression of the trauma that results from the
actions of the racial other. The important difference is that Rhys reverses
the power differentials, thus creating a vicarious victimisation not only
of white creoles by their imperial superiors, but also by the island blacks.
Indeed, the novel’s first sentences draw us into a participatory reading
of white creole persecution and an acceptance of Christophine’s impor-
tant role as protector of her white mistress: ‘They say when trouble
comes close ranks, and so the white people did. But we were not in their
ranks. The Jamaican ladies had never approved of my mother, “because
she pretty like pretty self” Christophine said’ (5). Thus, by the end of
the opening paragraph, the politics, thematics and tone are laid out,
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along with acceptance of the presence of Christophine’s explanatory,

empathetic voice.
This a text narrativised by associative connection: one memory imme-
diately leads into another through parataxis not contiguity, and it is
almost as if we are ourselves plunged into the tragedy which is presented
with the vivid immediacy of traumatic vignettes. We proceed from the
stated outsidership of white creoles in Jamaica, to Antoinette’s father’s
death, to Mr Luttrell’s despairing suicide and finally into the first inci-
dent of the white-washed version of marooning all within the first page.
Antoinette, who is about eight at the time, unexpectedly comes across
her mother’s horse dead under a frangipani tree: ‘I went up to him but
he was not sick, he was dead and his eyes were black with flies. I ran
away and did not speak of it for I thought if I told no one it might not
be true’ (6). She represses her horror in silent inward flight. Godfrey, the
old groom who has stayed working for Annette because he is now too
old to move on and make a new life post-slavery, also discovers the dead
horse, and passes on the news to his mistress. The horse, which has
been poisoned, was the last visible sign of her lost privilege, and
Annette’s response is one of hopelessness: ‘Now we are marooned . . .
what will become of us’ (6, emphasis added). Godfrey replies: ‘When
the old time go, let it go. No use to grab at it. The Lord make no dis-
tinction between black and white, black and white the same for Him’
(6). However, black and white are certainly not the same to Annette as
her petulant use of ‘us’ amply demonstrates. Moreover, the appropria-
tion of the African-Caribbean metaphor of marooning means that under
the circumstances of Emancipation the white creoles take over the posi-
tion of victim, implicitly merging black and white by implying that both
are being victimised in the same way by the imperialists. The metaphor
is pointedly repeated a few pages later, as I shall discuss later in greater
detail, but at this stage I just want to draw attention to the emphasis
on white marooning which pervades the exposition of the novel.
Much the same kind of argument applies to Rhys’s metaphorisation
of the obeah practice of zombification. Maroon societies and the practices
of obeah were intimately interwoven, and both were strongly African-
based. Maroon communities were based on African socio-political and
military formations, and perhaps because slaves in the New World were
captured from all over the coastal regions of West Africa,36 Campbell
maintains that:
[t]here appears to have existed a kind of ‘Africanness’ that tran-

scended regionalism, ethnic or linguistic affinities, on which these
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maroons based their existence . . . commonalities for the most part,

are reflected in sex roles, attitude to warfare, familial arrangements,
attitude to hierarchy, but above all in religion, which was pivotal to all
resistance in the area. More than any other single factor, African reli-
gious beliefs gave the unifying force, the conspiratorial locus, the ral-
lying point to mobilize, to motivate, to inspire, and to design
strategies: it gave the ideology, the mystique, and the pertinacious
courage and leadership to Maroon societies to confront the mercan-
tilist society with its awesome power.37
Obeah fulfilled a practical and an ideological function of solidarity

within both escaped and unfree slave communities. Legends built up
around the great maroon leaders who were invested with almost
magical powers.38 One such was Tacky who led the 1760 Jamaican rebel-
lion, one of the most notorious of Antillean uprisings.39 This revolt
created such widespread fear of obeah in the white plantocracy that a
law was enacted which made its practice a capital offence.40 However,
this law neither prevented the custom nor the rebellions, both of which,
bound in unison, helped to bring about the abolition of slavery.
Jamaican maroon resistances are extremely important in the history of
the unequal contact between Africa and the New World from the fif-
teenth century on, because the maroon rebels were the heroic freedom
fighters who literally and symbolically earned the title of the ‘Slaves
Who Abolished Slavery’.41
The vital cultural role played by obeah and the politicisation of
African religious beliefs as resistance practices has as its centrepiece the
phenomenon of possession known as zombification. As with Rhys’s use
of the metaphor of marooning, in Wide Sargasso Sea, references to zomb-
ification are circumscribed and controlled by a Eurocentric interpreta-
tion. In its own cultural context, the figure of the zombi represents the
African view of death.42 However, once the symbol of the zombi was
transferred into the enslaved condition of the African in the Caribbean,
it became the symbol of the slave, ‘the alienated man [sic] robbed of his
will, reduced to slavery, forced to work for a master’.43 Zombis can be
recognised, Maximilien Laroche informs us, by their ‘vague look, their
dull almost glazed eyes, and above all by the nasality of their voice’.44
In Wide Sargasso Sea the zombified Antoinette carries all these charac-
teristics. As a result of Rochester’s ‘possession’ of her she becomes a
puppet incapable of independent action, a doll with a smile ‘nailed to
her face’ (111). As with Antoinette’s fixated passivity, the docility of the
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African-Caribbean zombi is absolute. Zombis have no memory of their

previous life and so are completely unaware of their condition as slaves
to their masters. In the Caribbean, the symbolic meaning of the figure
of the zombi, or living-dead, is in a sense reversed in that it was com-
pletely reformulated by African-Caribbeans to represent their economic,
social and political lived embodiment of slavery.45
I have digressed at length to describe and contextualise what must be
understood as strongly Africanist tropes of marooning and zombifica-
tion, which in Rhys’s novel become metaphors of white alienation and
psychic numbing. These metaphors evoke the results of the enforced
trauma that bring about Antoinette’s fall into a state of derangement.
Rhys’s motivation in creating the character of Antoinette was, as I have
stated, to provide Bertha Mason with a history before her incarceration
in the attic at Thornfield Hall. Thus, from an intertextual point of view,
Bertha’s madness now has a causal narrative, but this is based on the
misappropriation of black tropes of resistance. In Rhys’s text, these
tropes of subversive rebellion which have a history of their own become
anglicised, whitened and reformulated and African-Caribbean resistance
politics are effectively disarticulated, even erased. Black suffering and
the trauma of slavery is rewritten as white suffering, and that is where
the textual empathy lies. Moreover, and very importantly, while there
is substantial material available on maroon resistance history and its
religious underpinnings, or at least enough to make some connecting
suppositions, on the whole this material continues to be glossed over
in literary-critical expositions of Wide Sargasso Sea.
Considering the nearly 40-year gap since the novel was published and
the rise of postcolonial feminist theory this is particularly worrying, and
perhaps has more to do with the history of white middle-class feminist
politics which has a tendency to culturally displace what cannot be
worked through, as Rhys does in her novel. In a wide-ranging and fine
essay on the marginalisation of the work of black women intellectuals
in the white Eurocentric academy, Ann duCille raises the issue of how
white feminists have often explored their own pain through an explicit
identification with a range of oppressions depicted in black women’s
texts, especially those of Toni Morrison, Alice Walker and Gayl Jones.46
Citing a specific example which stated: ‘We, as white feminists, are
drawn to black women’s visions because they concretize and make vivid
a system of oppression’,47 duCille concludes that one of the effects of
such a practice is that white feminists connect to their own pain at the
expense of black women’s own suffering, which then becomes periph-
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eral. One method, conscious or otherwise, of marginalising black

women’s texts, whether theoretical or literary, duCille suggests, is
through the use of ‘white metaphor’. She puts it this way:
[B]lack culture is more easily intellectualized (and canonized) when

transferred from the danger of lived black experience to the safety of
white metaphor, when you can have that ‘signifying black difference’
without the difference of significant blackness.48
The ‘safety of white metaphor’ plays a prominent, and doubled, role in

Rhys’s text, for while safety of self, literally and figuratively is the goal
of the trauma cure,49 it is also a very important, if not obsessive, dis-
placement trope in Rhys’s trauma narrative. In the first instance,
Antoinette’s actions, vocabulary and traumatic memories are all bound
up with a yearning for lost safety and this longing is, for the most part,
always connected to her mother whose continual acts of rejection create
a profound sense of vulnerability and aching to be loved in the child,
a heritage that she carries into adulthood. However, at the same time,
this trauma narrative is immensely complicated because Antoinette has
another mother-figure who is both the only signifier of black difference
in the novel and simultaneously the preserver of white safety, a textual
positioning that results in occlusion of the traumatic lived experiences
of slavery, and thus a de-signifying of the politics of significant black-
ness.50 This then, is Rhys’s second crucial textual appropriation in Wide
Sargasso Sea.
Christophine, the powerful black obeah character, the only woman in
the text with ‘spunks’ (63), is chosen as the enunciator, even the
defender, of the white trauma. It is left to Christophine to critique impe-
rialist white masculinity, but not from the point of view of her own
people. Her critique, a defence of Antoinette, her much-loved surrogate
daughter, is from a white creole perspective. Moreover, while
Christophine’s presence and voice resound with an indignant strength,
her speech is always filtered through the consciousness of the white
characters. Newly freed, Christophine has spent most of her life as a
commodified gift, given from white to white, the ‘gift’ of an enslaved
woman’s life of servitude.51 The narrative focus of her loyalty to her
white mistresses gives little credence to the fact that Christophine was
taken from her own family as a child, or that this forced dislocation
may well mean that now, newly freed from slavery, she has literally
nowhere else to go.
However, the intriguing point about Rhys’s ambivalent narrative is
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that instances of appropriative borrowing occasionally become self-

reflexive and interrogating of her own thematics. At times her narrative
participates in imperial ideology and a belief that its history can be sep-
arable and therefore ethically distanced from black history: at other
times, the black and white histories are acknowledged to be insepara-
ble. For instance, in answer to Antoinette’s anxious questioning about
Christophine’s history before she came to work with the family – the
child is worrying Christophine may leave after the passing of the Eman-
cipation Act – her mother replies: ‘ “Does it matter? Why do you pester
and bother me about all the things that happened long ago?” ’ (8). The
child thus learns from an early age that this history of racial disposses-
sion is unimportant, and indeed it is a lesson of ideological avoidance
that Antoinette carries into her adult life. When her new husband
inquires into the strange naming of a village called Massacre: ‘ “And who
was massacred here? Slaves?” ’ Antoinette replies: ‘ “Oh no . . . Not
slaves. Something must have happened a long time ago. Nobody
remembers that now” ’ (39). The massacre that Antoinette ‘forgets’ refers
to the murder in 1674 of 60–70 Carib men, women and children,
including Thomas ‘Indian’ Warner, the half-Carib son of Sir Thomas
Warner, the Governor of St Kitts.52 However, a little further on, in
trying to tell her mother’s story, Antoinette seems aware of the racial
entanglement of post-Emancipation Jamaica and the universality of
death that crosses between races with little discrimination: ‘It was
Christophine,’ she tells Rochester, ‘who brought our food from the
village and persuaded some girls to help her sweep and wash clothes.
We would have died, my mother always said, if she had not stayed with
us. Many died in those days, both white and black, especially the older
people, but no one speaks of those days now’ (83–4). Yet a sense of the
absolute rightness of Christophine’s role as slave/servant still lingers in
this telling.
However, understanding that Rhys was a product of a certain histor-
ical and racial positioning is only part of the story. The role of an eth-
ically responsible (postcolonial) critic is to expose and then read beyond
the historically inflected authorial complicity, but at the same time
ensuring that the racial othering imbricated in past ideologies is not
replicated in contemporary interpretations. In this vein, Elaine Savory
recently claimed in her monograph on Rhys: ‘it is imperative that critics,
especially white critics, recognise and identify those failings, not gloss-
ing over Antoinette’s ambivalent position nor the power structure
which enables her to lack “spunks” which Christophine, as a poor black
woman and slave, has had to find in herself to survive.’53 Yet Savory
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does not follow her own advice, often writing from a Eurocentric per-
spective that disregards the interwoven ambivalence of the history out
of which Rhys wrote. For instance, in a reference to Rhys’s use of
marooning, Savory assumes the universal definition (as do the major-
ity of critics), but goes further by suggesting that while this metaphor
merely means that Antoinette and her mother are now cut off from
society, Antoinette in her adult ‘defiance against a husband and a
culture that oppresses her . . . becomes a maroon in the Caribbean
sense’.54 This example is just one of many I could have picked from the
race-blind genealogy of much white middle-class feminism.55 How far
then have literary critical readings progressed around issues of other-
ness? Captive in the imperial attic, Bertha Mason’s otherness became
standardised by early white feminist readings of her as ‘Jane’s truest and
darkest double’.56 However, if feminist theoretical thinking continues to
concentrate solely on sexual difference in the reading of literary texts,
then Bertha Mason’s ‘race’ will always be disremembered.57 She will
remain the ‘closet monster of ethnocentrism’ in white feminism,58 and the
figure around whom the oscillations between ideological positions of
race and its historicity are left unwound. In the words of Patricia
Williams: ‘it is imperative to think about [the] phenomenon of closet-
ing race’,59 because otherwise the result is uncritical acceptance of
textual and cultural appropriations and, by extension, the continued
silencing of othered experiences, narratives and histories.
To move into a critically circumspect racial analysis then, it is vital to
keep in mind that while trauma narratives are cultural constructs of per-
sonal and historical memory, hegemonic cultural tropes and social nor-
matives serve to conceal or highlight these memories and construct
which versions of the past become legitimated knowledge.60 As Iain
Chambers states in an essay on the possibilities of postcolonial histo-
ries: ‘History is not merely partial, it is also partisan’.61 The unmitigated
whiteness of trauma studies today still binds the ideological framework
of what is considered traumatic in the historical past or in contempo-
rary acts of traumatic violence. My aim then is to demonstrate that the
invisible whiteness of trauma studies provides the possibility of politi-
cal avoidance by allowing a space for the white victim position.
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2
Keeping History Safe
A ‘special type of forgetting’: trauma’s inward flight1
Thus far I have strategically separated the outward events of historical

trauma from their internal impact on the characters of Annette and
Antoinette Cosway Mason in Wide Sargasso Sea. This was in order to
demonstrate how Rhys’s use of the metaphor of marooning discursively
appropriates and simultaneously conceals the central dynamic of black
resistance and its long history in the Caribbean. My title for this chapter
also has a doubled meaning. At one level, the inward flight of trauma
signifies a defence mechanism such as repression or dissociation which
the mind activates – most often unconsciously – in the face of intoler-
able external physical or mental suffering. It becomes a flight into the
self which is also, paradoxically, a withdrawal from the self. However,
on the second level, in the narrative form of Rhys’s novel, this self-
protective escape into the mind itself becomes a flight from, and de-
politicisation of, historical context. In an article that challenges the
notion that psychological effects of trauma are somehow ahistoric and
universal, Laurence Kirmayer explores the role of the cultural construc-
tion of traumatic memory narratives and their reception. He argues that
the context of retelling is crucial to the nature of collective memory and
that its public reception is always dependent to some degree on ‘an audi-
ence primed by history’.2 There is a crucial distinction, Kirmayer main-
tains, between ‘the social space in which the trauma occurred and the
contemporary space in which it is (or is not) recalled’.3 The ideological
contours of the social space into which a trauma narrative is inserted is
intrinsic then to its reception.
Given the crucial importance of the role of the listener in trauma
studies, I return to Spivak’s famous query. She points out that her
41
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rhetorical question, ‘Can the subaltern speak?’ presupposed her answer,

‘Who will listen?’4 A postcolonial reading of trauma theory exposes the
racialised division of access: firstly, who gets to be the speaker and who
the listener; secondly, if there is no space allocated within whitened
theories to othered speakers, trauma surrounding issues of racism and
racial terror will remain silenced; and finally, the problematic conjunc-
tion of historical trauma with victimhood will remain unaddressed.5 But
there are different ways of listening. Sometimes the stories are not overt,
which means having to read against the grain of history for the unsaid,
for the metaphorically organised, but nonetheless real shape of the acts
of remembering.6
Rhys’s novel is highly tropological, its textual economy constituted
by interconnecting tropes that are themselves deeply laden with con-
notative meaning. Indeed many of the symbols are overdetermined to an
extraordinary degree. In the first place there is the restaging of both con-
cepts and situations of Jane Eyre to the extent that it is the revenant text
that ideologically haunts Rhys’s novel. Secondly, there is an underlying
dialogue with the iconography of white Christianity. Biblical imagery
and allusions pervade the text, from the Edenic imagery of the garden
at Coulibri with its prominent tree of life which returns so vividly in
the third section, to the traditional symbology of betrayal through the
crowing of the cockerel and direct allusion to the infamous deed of
Judas Iscariot. The third, and most diffuse level, is the ambivalent rela-
tionship between colonial and postcolonial ideologies and representa-
tions. However, in a paradoxical fashion, the novel also displays the
fragmented nature of a dissociative narrative, the coherence of which
is ruptured by narrative gaps and lesions. What Antoinette remembers
are fragmentary episodes of dissociation, isolated and unconnected
visual images and feelings that are shrouded in a sense of unreality.
These intrusions are haunting and often frightening because they make
no narrative sense, they have no sequential meaning because the con-
necting links are removed. Dissociation works by compartmentalising
overwhelming emotion thus creating a gap in the continuity of experi-
ence. There is a break in consciousness; with repeated dissociative ex-
periences, consciousness is punctuated by numerous gaps. Memories
may be clouded or occluded completely, and isolated fragments, visual
images, and body sensations may intermittently haunt consciousness
and intrude on everyday awareness.7 Intrusions and amnestic gaps often
co-exist in the same individual.8 Dissociation is a defence against
unbearable anxiety, pain or traumatic experience and one that may
produce an overwhelming need to escape what is, in reality,
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Keeping History Safe 43
unescapable. It is thus a ‘special type of forgetting – unexpected and

precipitous’.9 This is what I call trauma’s inward flight, and in many
ways it is an ambivalent choice and one that will prove fatal for
Antoinette. For while dissociation can radically increase control over
the seemingly uncontrollable and thus provide a sense of safety, at
the same time this same shutting-out of pain can induce dislocation,
isolation from others and in the extreme, complex forms of identity
fragmentation.10
Kirmayer interestingly connects the defence mechanism of dissocia-
tion with narrative conventions:
Dissociation is a rupture in narrative, but it is also maintained by nar-

rative because the shape of the narrative around the dissociation pro-
tects (reveals and conceals) the gap. Dimensions of narrative relevant
to processes of dissociation include coherence, voice, and time: that is,
the extent to which the narrative of self is integrated or fragmented,
univocal or polyvocal, and whether the flow of narrative time is
progressive, regressive, or static.11
Wide Sargasso Sea’s three-part structure reflects both radical distortion of

time and polyvocal points of view. Part I, written from Antoinette’s
point of view, is seemingly chronological in the manner of the
Bildungsroman, and takes the narrative from when Antoinette is eight
or nine until she is almost 17. It covers only 30 pages, and is bound
together by extremely vivid vignettes which are imagistic recollections
of the repetitive traumas that define Antoinette’s young life. However,
in marked contrast to the tradition of the Bildungsroman, in which the
protagonist’s preparation for life is represented as a heroic narrative of
progress, Antoinette’s life is reduced and constricted by her experiences.
Each vignette, always grounded in Antoinette’s reaching for safety in
love of person or place, is an encapsulated whole small episode which
then leaps directly into the next one. It is the dissociation of traumatic
images that enables Antoinette to survive, to keep moving forward. In
contrast, Part II – Rochester’s neurotic control narrative of the fore-
shortened honeymoon which lasts only a few weeks at most – is over
70 pages long. Written from his point of view, the section begins: ‘So it
was all over, the advance and retreat, the doubts and hesitations. Every-
thing finished for better or for worse’ (39). With its military metaphors
connected with a quotation from the Anglican marriage service, this
opening – so different from the hesitant anxiety and outsider status
that begins the novel itself – exudes a sense of mastery, conquering
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masculine imperialism and an assertive statement of rights over the

female body, which in Rochester’s metaphor-making gradually becomes
inseparable from the virgin territory of the honeymoon island.12 Finally,
and again in contrast, in Part III Antoinette’s narrative space from the
attic takes up a mere ten pages and is packed with what initially appear
to be cascading and inchoate images that have no temporal sequen-
tiality or narrative cohesion. What do have meaning, as I shall discuss,
are a dream and a dress, and both images are connected to the mother–
daughter trauma.
Deborah Kelly Kloepfer makes the point that ‘Antoinette seems able
to articulate only those portions of her life which deal with her mother;
she can narrate her childhood (which centres on her mother’s madness)
and the period of time she spends imprisoned (like her mother) prepar-
ing to reenact and retell her tale.’13 Building on Kloepfer’s argument,
with which I agree, I would add that despite the prominence in length
that is accorded to Rochester’s point of view, the second part of the
novel in fact is Antoinette’s failed belated attempt to deal with the
trauma of rejection and loss that grew out of her relationship with her
mother. It, too, is an intrinsic part of the mother–daughter narrative,
although this is not immediately apparent. As Antoinette moves from
the safety of the convent to an unchosen married life, she gradually
allows herself, against all her instinctual hesitations, to love another
person. However, Rochester’s paranoid and callous treatment of this ten-
tative love reactivates her traumatic past. Christophine, the only person
to understand the nature of traumatic experience in the novel, tries to
help Antoinette by encouraging her to unburden herself of this legacy
by speaking its pain. As part of her bargain of providing the obeah
potion for Antoinette, Christophine asks her to tell Rochester what
really happened to her mother. Thus, while her psychic harming at the
hands of Rochester is the catalyst for belatedly reactivating a traumatic
past, it is Antoinette’s attempt to retell her mother’s traumatic history
– always inseparable from her own – that is the subject of this long
second section of the novel. Despite Rochester’s focalisation, I would
emphasise the point that the mother–daughter relationship is still the
traumatic kernel of this middle section of the novel.
Indeed it is my argument that two seemingly insignificant and over-
looked feminine symbols carry the weight of Antoinette’s trauma. The
representations of these two tropes of trauma, which return again and
again throughout the course of the novel, always in relation to mater-
nal loss are those of hair, and a dress. The first time each trope appears
in the text it is in relation to a traumatic scene between mother and
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daughter, but progressively they also become aligned with loss that
accompanies both racial and sexual discord. In Rochester’s section of
the narrative they become more involved in the thematics of sexual and
racial disruptions, but nevertheless these tropes always intrusively
return Antoinette to the abandonment by her mother in early child-
hood. Generally, critics assume the burning of Coulibri to be the central
trauma of the novel. However, I read Wide Sargasso Sea as the narrative
of a daughter’s cumulative trauma, much of it carried over from her
mother’s own traumatic life, and as such never far removed from racial
politics. Antoinette, who is literally scarred by the rock thrown by Tia
at the scene of the burning, is already deeply psychically wounded by
her previous history of trauma and loss.14
While the feeling of lost safety is central to Antoinette’s relationship
with her mother, its early history lies in the death of her father. On the
first page of the novel, one sentence including the full stop is curiously
encircled by the safety of brackets: ‘(My father, visitors, horses, feeling
safe in bed – all belonged to the past.)’ (5). From the very outset, per-
sonal loss and trauma is always implicated in the outer framework of
dispossession and historical trauma. Without the authority of patriar-
chal and neo-imperial endorsement, racial jeering and threats from the
newly freed blacks begin in earnest. Her widowed mother, Annette, is a
figure of profound isolation as she paces on the verandah of Coulibri,
stared and laughed at by those passing. Her body reflects the pain of
her estrangement, as she stands, long after the jeering echoes have
passed, with her eyes shut and her fists clenched. Antoinette, anxiously
watching her mother’s withdrawal, seeks to comfort and be comforted,
but is met by cold indifference:
A frown came between her black eyebrows, deep – it might have been
cut with a knife. I hated this frown and once I touched her forehead
trying to smooth it. But she pushed me away, not roughly but calmly,
coldly without a word, as if she had decided once and for all that I
was useless to her. She wanted to sit with Pierre or walk where she
pleased without being pestered. (7, emphasis added)
This passage carries within in it all the seeds of personal trauma and the
interrelatedness of the traumatic relationship between mother and
daughter, and indeed, the relational structuring of trauma itself.
Antoinette reaches to smooth over the outward marking of her mother’s
psychic wounding, only to be met by double rejection. First, the physi-
cal rebuff, the pushing away, but then, in a gesture that will create more
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significant long-term damage, her mother’s psychic dismissal which is

calmly, chillingly conclusive. In juxtaposition with the child’s repudia-
tion is her mother’s obvious preference for her disabled son, Pierre,
which means that Antoinette is doubly shut out from the safety of her
mother’s love. This scene does not stand alone: it constantly repeats in
different but similar forms. A page later Antoinette describes her only
conversation with her mother in the novel. This has an undertone of
desperation as the child strives to keep the dialogue going by asking
questions that annoy Annette. When she sees beads of perspiration
appear on her mother’s forehead, Antoinette:
started to fan her, but she turned her head away. She might rest if I
left her alone, she said.
Once I would have gone back quietly to watch her asleep on the blue
sofa – once I made excuses to be near her when she brushed her hair,
a soft black cloak to cover me, hide me, keep me safe.
But not any longer. Not any more. (8–9, emphasis added)
Her mother’s repetitive turning-away in its various forms wounds the

child. Antoinette’s yearning to be close to her mother becomes tied in
with the image of her mother’s hair as a shelter to which she no longer
has access. In her pain she learns to define her relationship with her
mother in negatives (‘But not any longer. Not any more’), and the
unconscious placing of the ideal of safety into the past with the repeti-
tion of the adverb ‘once’ in both passages are both defence mechanisms
that help create a protective shield against this hurt.
The distress of Antoinette’s private life is magnified by her social iso-
lation and meetings with other children who continually taunt her: ‘Go
away white cockroach, go away, go away . . . Nobody want you. Go
away’ (9). Christophine, as always, intervenes on Antoinette’s behalf,
finding her a friend, the little black girl, Tia, who is the daughter of
her own friend, Maillotte. A short interlude of happiness ensues for
Antoinette as she and Tia spend their days by the bathing pool, swim-
ming, cooking over an open fire and sleeping side by side. Rhys’s depic-
tion here is Edenic, both in her descriptions of the landscape and in the
suggestion of this utopian space as one in which two small girls of
different races can co-exist in harmony. Yet one sentence provides a
condensed representation of an underlying contradictory reading of
difference: ‘Tia would light a fire (fires always lit for her, sharp stones
did not hurt her bare feet, I never saw her cry)’ (9). It is always Tia who
lights the fire – in the manner of a black servant – and yet the brackets
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contain the exoticisation of the wild and brave savage other who can
transcend pain because of a ‘natural’ fortitude gained by living an
‘uncivilised’ life. At the end of their day together they always part ‘at
the turn of the road’ (9). There can be no overlapping of their shared
time together in the wider framework of the society in which they live,
and indeed their friendship is suddenly and devastatingly ruptured by
their unthinking repetition of the racial hatred and divisions that sur-
round them. They have a childish squabble over a dare and their small
fight quickly degenerates as they fall into predetermined patterns of
racial denigration. Antoinette calls Tia a ‘cheating nigger’ and Tia re-
taliates with the accusation that white creoles most fear: ‘Old time white
people nothing but white nigger now, and black nigger better than
white nigger’ (10). One of the interesting things about this important
scene, is that while their interracial friendship is very short-lived,
Antoinette’s memories of these idyllic days will remain invested with a
preponderant significance for the rest of her life, as will become clear
at the end of the novel.
After their argument, Antoinette turns her back on Tia and so does
not see that Tia departs wearing her ‘starched, ironed, clean’ dress, and
leaving her ragged one in its place. Arriving back at the big house in
Tia’s dress, she is met by visitors, two women in beautiful clothes and
a ‘gentleman’, each of whom laughs at her bedraggled and somewhat
dirty appearance (10). The gentleman is Mr Mason, soon to become her
stepfather, and he laughs loudest and longest. After the visitors leave
her mother stares at her for quite some time (a highly unusual occur-
rence, for part of Antoinette’s deep-seated feelings of rejection result
from never being gazed upon). Annette demands to know why
Antoinette looks like she does, but when told it is Tia’s dress that her
daughter is wearing, reacts with the stereotypical manifestations of colo-
nial racism. ‘Which one of them is Tia?’ (11, emphasis added) implying
the endless similarity of the feared unknown other. This is combined
with an instantaneous revulsion: ‘Throw away that thing. Burn it’
(11), as if wearing the dress of the other is a contaminating act. This
scene has fascinating correlations with Ahmed’s concept of the racial
encounter which I outlined in my introduction, and in particular her
reading of Grosz’s naked (undifferentiated) body that is always ‘clothed’
by cultural prescriptions. In this encounter, Antoinette’s body takes on
the denigratory racial inscriptions of blackness by her skin having
come into contact with Tia’s dress that is described as dirty as against
Antoinette’s own stolen one which is starched, ironed and clean. More-
over, her arrival back at the plantation house that precipitates her
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mother’s reaction throws the encounter into one of ‘surprise and con-
flict’ (thus connecting with Ahmed’s configuration of the term) for two
reasons. They never have visitors, and now when they do Antoinette
stands out as aberrant because she has had to attire herself in the (dirty)
clothing of the other which places her in radical contradistinction to
the visitors: ‘They were very beautiful I thought and they wore such
beautiful clothes that I looked away down at the flagstones’ (10). The
lack of punctuation in this sentence means that the distinction between
beautiful people and beautiful clothes is lost so that their clothing
becomes a signifier both of all that is attractive about the strangers, and
also what plunges the child into a scenario of shame.
This extended scene – the first that involves a dress – signals the begin-
ning of Antoinette’s doubly traumatic childhood. It begins with a racial
encounter (Antoinette and Tia at the bathing pool), moves through a
short engagement with white-on-white politics (the shaming episode
on the steps of the plantation house) but then entangles these trauma-
tising moments with maternal rejection. Significantly, this defining
moment also encompasses both the inappropriate use of the metaphor
of marooning and the child silently witnessing her two ‘mothers’ fight-
ing over her moral degeneration, which inexplicably (at least to a child)
seems as if it can only be re-dressed, as it were, by what covers her body:
‘She must have another dress,’ said my mother. ‘Somewhere.’ But

Christophine told her loudly that it was shameful. She run wild, she
grow up worthless. And nobody care.
My mother walked over to the window. (‘Marooned,’ said her straight
narrow back, her carefully coiled hair. ‘Marooned.’).
‘She has an old muslin dress. Find that’ [Annette commands
Christophine]. (11)
By selling off one of her few remaining possessions, Annette is able to

procure enough muslin to make beautiful new dresses for herself and
her daughter, and out of this reclothing comes the marriage to Mason
and a dramatic change in their lives. Ironically, however, this marriage
brings disaster, for Mason’s inability to read the cultural codings on the
island directly result in the fire that burns Coulibri, kills Pierre and
spirals Annette into grief and madness. However, the point I want to
stress here is that in Rhys’s novel the iconography of clothing is used
both to denote the status of superiority and inferiority, but also, and
more importantly, while implicitly imbricated in issues of gendered dif-
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ference, clothing (and also hair), are the devices by which issues of racial
difference are displaced or evaded.
However, what remains central is the symbolism of clothing which
binds together personal and historical trauma. In Wide Sargasso Sea, this
is prefigured by the scenario that unfolds around Tia’s dress. Antoinette
has become friends with Tia because her mother ignores her: now Tia,
her only friend, has betrayed her. Maternal and racial rejection now
commingle: ‘All that evening my mother didn’t speak to me or look at
me and I thought, “She is ashamed of me, what Tia said is true” ’ (11).
Immediately afterwards the text moves into the first of Antoinette’s
three repeating dreams, which is most often read as a premonition of
her life ahead. Instead, I see it as a traumatic flashback of the events of
the day. In recounting this memory from an adult perspective, the
immediacy and haunting visuality of both the drama of the dress and
the dream are connected by the mother’s presence, in mind and body,
not by conjunctional grammar. The imagistic scenes are simply laid side
by side:
. . . what Tia said was true.’

I went to bed early and slept at once. I dreamed that I was walking
in the forest. Not alone. Someone who hated me was with me, out
of sight. I could hear heavy footsteps coming closer and though I
struggled and screamed I could not move. I woke crying (11).
Antoinette walks in the forest, perhaps somewhere close to the bathing

pool. The ‘someone’ who hates her but remains out of sight is an entan-
gled condensation of the ongoing trauma of her mother’s indifference
– now magnified by the dress scene and her mother’s accompanying
shame – and Tia’s recent derision and rejection. It is not a premonition
but a reliving of the trauma of the day, for in sleep the self is only too
often overwhelmed by traumatic remembering. In accordance with
Freud’s later theory of the traumatic dream, this would appear to be
some kind of re-enactment.15 However, the meaning of the dream sym-
bolism is not available to Antoinette. What haunts her is a waking image
of the presence next to her bed of her mother whom she believes is
there to assuage her fears.16 Annette appears by her bed in response to
her screams, but merely sighs in exasperation saying she has woken
Pierre, and leaves to comfort him instead. Antoinette, in her abandon-
ment, clings to the material surety of place. Lying in bed she recites to
herself: ‘I am safe . . . There is the tree of life in the garden and the wall
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green with moss. The barrier of the cliffs and the high mountains. And
the barrier of the sea. I am safe. I am safe’ (12, emphasis added).
So great does the repressed impact of the traumatic confrontation
with her mother over the dress scene become, that years later, in trying
to speak her trauma to Rochester when urged by Christophine,
Antoinette has introjected the shame. Shifting from an earlier under-
standing that it was after the doctor’s diagnosis of Pierre’s illness that
left mother changed, becoming thin and silent and refusing to leave
the house (6), now as Antoinette retells the story it is as if she is re-
experiencing the dreadful day of double rejection all over again. As in
the earlier scene, racial shame is conflated with her mother, but now
she strongly blames herself, emphasised by the compulsive repetition
of the words of blame:
Then there was that day when she saw I was growing up like a white
nigger and she was ashamed of me, it was after that day that every-
thing changed. Yes, it was my fault, it was my fault that she started to
plan and work in a frenzy, in a fever to change our lives. (84, empha-
sis added)
Any attempt to release trauma from its encapsulated security – and thus
its assimilation into consciousness – is best worked through by nar-
ratavising this event to an empathetic listener or witness in the safe
rhetorical and physical space this provides.17 Rochester is far from this
ideal listener. Antoinette starts trying to unburden herself of some of
her fragmentary stories, only to be met by Rochester’s indifference, the
indifference of a white male imperialist to the traumas of white creole
women. She admonishes him to little effect: ‘You have no right . . . You
have no right to ask questions about my mother and then refuse to
listen to my answer’ (82). Because Antoinette can never find such a self-
protected space in relation to an empathetic other, the newly assimi-
lated knowledge can only (re)turn inward to again psychically wound.
It also accounts for her attachment to the ideal of safety.
Racial ambivalence comes to interact more strongly on personal
trauma when Antoinette’s beloved safe space, the house and garden at
Coulibri, is burnt to the ground. This scene is the turning point of
trauma. Fearing Mason’s intention to import coolie labour, the ex-slaves
are driven to vent their rage with the only option left open to them: ‘A
horrible noise swelled up, like animals howling, but worse . . . They all
looked the same, it was the same face repeated over and over, eyes
gleaming, mouth half open to shout’ (20, 22). While it can be argued
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that this description depicts fear of the terrifying solidarity of the antag-
onistic mob from a child’s point of view, it also verges on racist dis-
course. To dehumanise and animalise is a strategy that legitimates
persecution. The outcome of the rebellion is terrible: Pierre dies and
Annette descends into tortured self-blame and madness. There is,
however, one moment of stillness in these two or three pages of agita-
tion and racial bitterness during which the violence spirals out of
control. Annette suddenly disappears and Aunt Cora puts her arms
around her niece, saying: ‘ “Don’t be afraid, you are quite safe. We are
all quite safe” ’ (20, emphasis added). Antoinette rests her head on her
aunt’s shoulder, inhaling her comforting vanilla scent. Suddenly
another smell intrudes into this sense of safety. It was the smell of
‘burned hair’ and it accompanies her mother’s return into the room car-
rying a prostrate Pierre: ‘It was her loose hair that had burned and was
smelling like that’ (20), Antoinette remembers. It is the image of her
mother’s hair so loose and disordered in total contrast to its normal state
of being ‘carefully coiled’ (11), together with the overwhelming smell
of its burning, that for years will carry the weight of the terrifying chaos
and trauma of that night.
The climax of the scene is one of the most well-known moments of
the novel when Antoinette runs towards Tia who is part of the rioting
crowd: ‘I ran to her, for she was all that was left of my life as it had been
. . . As I ran, I thought, I will live with Tia and I will be like her’ (20).
Tia throws a stone which cuts Antoinette’s forehead, and the scene
abruptly ends.18 There is an elliptical textual space instead of a connec-
tive link and then another imagistic fragment, again intermixed with
maternal imagery of hair and loss. Antoinette, scarred within and
without, has been seriously ill for six weeks. Because of her illness her
hair has been cut off. As she slips in and out of consciousness she repeat-
edly dreams of a coiled snake near her bed, but now discovers it is her
discarded plait. In her almost death-like state she hears her mother’s
screaming, ‘screams so loud and terrible’ that she had to cover her ears
(25). It is as if her cropped hair (which she fears will grow back darker)
severs her connection to the destroyed Coulibri and now her physically
displaced mother.
Antoinette’s dissociation from her mother is exacerbated by a har-
rowing visit she pays her. Annette has been placed under house arrest
by Mason and is minded by a ‘coloured’ couple who abuse her. The fact
of their coloured status, rather than being named black, foreshadows
later depictions of racial abhorrence aimed at mixed-race hybrid char-
acters that surface at various points later in the text.19 In her mind
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Annette is part of Coulibri and now that is gone Antoinette does not
really expect to see her mother again. Partly for this reason she does not
immediately recognise the ‘white woman sitting with her head bent so
low that I couldn’t see her face’ (26). Antoinette knows her only by the
two outward markings that connect her to her internalised symbols of
trauma: ‘I recognised her hair . . . And her dress’ (26). Annette initially
effusively welcomes her daughter, hugging her so hard she can hardly
breathe. But she keeps looking over Antoinette’s shoulder to where
Pierre might have been:
I could not say, ‘He is dead,’ so I shook my head. ‘But I am here, I

am here,’ I said, and she said, ‘No,’ quietly. Then ‘No no no’ very
loudly and flung me from her. I fell against the partition and hurt
myself. (26)
This time the rejection comes with words: the repeated and loudly
enunciated negative and the physically inflicted hurt. However, of many
visits Antoinette pays her mother in her imprisonment, one particular
episode haunts the rest of her days. It is an intensely traumatic moment
in the novel: what she overhears and sees has a devastating impact.
However, it is not until she is trying belatedly to experience this event
in her enforced telling of it to Rochester, that the readers – like
Antoinette – encounter it for the first time. Her belated psychic re-
engagement with the event begins with Rochester accusing her of
forgetting her mother, to which she answers:
I am not a forgetting person . . . But she – she didn’t want me. She
pushed me away and cried when I went to see her. They told me I
made her worse . . . One day I made up my mind to go to her, by
myself. Before I reached her house I heard her crying. I thought I will
kill anyone who is hurting my mother. I remember the dress she was
wearing – an evening dress cut very low, and she was barefooted. There
was a fat black man with a glass of rum in his hand. He said, ‘Drink
it and you will forget.’ She drank it without stopping . . . I saw the
man lift her up out of the chair and kiss her. I saw his mouth fasten
on hers and she went all soft and limp in his arms and he laughed.
(85–6, emphasis added)
In hiding from view and witnessing her mother’s sexual and racial
degradation it is as if Antoinette watches this unimaginable act from
outside herself, a characteristic of extreme dissociation.20 This event also
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has an immediacy that represents the absolute presence of the past

intruding into the present as if it had only just happened as she relates
the fragmentary episode. It is, I believe, the most traumatic moment
in the novel with regard to the mother–daughter relationship, and
one that simultaneously raises the spectre of unconscious racial
ambivalence.
The final re-imaging of Antoinette’s witnessing of her mother’s sexual
and racial abjection reappears in a condensed, almost hysterical form
in her state of rapid mental disintegration in the last section of the
novel. It is now not connected to (and therefore evades) the uneasy
racial undercurrent that pervaded the original scene. Antoinette, at this
stage, is obsessed by something she must do. She believes she has been
brought to England for a reason and is troubled that she has yet to dis-
cover what that might be (116). She is suddenly struck by a vivid flash-
back. In accordance with her maternal inheritance, the condensed
imagery of the returning memory encodes a recognition of her mother
by the particular dress she had been wearing that day long ago. But for
Antoinette this dress unconsciously represents both her mother’s mis-
recognition of her and the frozen image of the repeating moment of
dismissal (117). Only in death will Antoinette escape this traumatic
returning of her mother’s endless abandonment.
However, this same episode has another haunting return, but this
time it projects a more explicit racial ambivalence. It returns us to the
scene in which Antoinette speaks the ‘original’ traumatic vignette to
Rochester as part of her bargain with Christophine before the night of
the aphrodisiac and its disastrous results.21 Afterwards, in a cruel act of
revenge and mastery, Rochester openly seduces the coloured servant,
Amélie. Rochester’s betrayal pushes Antoinette into unconsciously
seeking a sense of safety in her white creoleness, the subject position
from which she now speaks:
‘You like the light brown girls better, don’t you? You abused the
planters and made up stories about them, but you do the same thing.
You send the girl away quicker, and with no money or less money,
and that’s all the difference.’
‘Slavery was not a matter of liking or disliking . . . It was a question
of justice’ [Rochester replies].
‘Justice . . . I’ve heard that word. It’s a cold word. I tried it out . . . I
wrote it down. I wrote it down several times and always it looked
like a damn cold lie to me. There is no justice . . . My mother whom
you all talk about, what justice did she have? My mother sitting in
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a rocking-chair . . . a black devil kissing her sad mouth. Like you

kissed mine’. (94)
This is an extraordinarily pivotal passage. It begins with Antoinette dif-

ferentiating between the ideologies of white imperialists and white
creoles, which then merge in the act of white buying of black women’s
sexual favours. White sexual mastery and domination then becomes not
an ethical question, only a mere differentiation in the amount of money
paid by the men positioned by different hierarchies of whiteness. Then
the passage suddenly reverts to the ideological disjunctures between
metropolitan whites and those of the colonial island.
Rochester’s catachrestical equation of slavery with justice is another
example of metaphoric appropriation in the text. The ‘abuse’ of lan-
guage inherent in the concept of catachresis demonstrates the ‘positional
power inherent in language’, says Paul de Man.22 ‘Something monstrous
lurks in the most innocent of catachreses’, he continues,23 and this is
certainly the case in Rhys’s conceptualisation. This appropriation has a
double logic which represents the divisions of whiteness. As an imperi-
alist, Rochester’s catachrestic claiming of slavery as a judicial act in order
to override his sexual appropriation based on financial exchange also
has its ideological framework invested in colonial capitalism. It is ‘just’
as long as there is financial gain regardless of the dehumanisation of
the other that is a ‘necessary’ component of slavery. However, in con-
trast, but effectively espousing the same point of view, Antoinette con-
nects the idea of injustice, not to slavery – for white creoles the injustice
was slavery’s demise that accompanied the Emancipation Act – but to
her mother. There still exists an implicit assumption that slavery is just.
It is ironic, then, that while the discursive construction of her mother’s
madness is here alluded to, it is Christophine, an ex-slave, who will later
fiercely articulate the injustice of Annette’s position to Rochester.24
Antoinette’s unconscious disquiet is much to do with the racial degra-
dation into which her mother is forced. In much the same way as her
mother interpreted her wearing of Tia’s dress as a contaminating act (the
touching of the other’s skin), now Rochester’s sexual liaison with Amélie
has retrospectively contaminated her. In a strange racial slippage,
Rochester simultaneously becomes the sexually exploitative ‘black devil’
who had kissed her mother, who then kisses her in the same contami-
nating way. However much these two repeating passages are bound up
with her mother’s loss, they also represent a textual maze of racial con-
tradictions and ambivalences.
Perhaps this explains why the only place after Coulibri in which
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Antoinette feels safe is in the convent, a space of apparent asexuality

and racial harmony. Initially, Antoinette luxuriates in the excessive
binaries of the Catholic religion: ‘Everything was brightness or dark
. . . That was how it was, light and dark, sun and shadow, Heaven and
Hell’ (32). LaCapra maintains that as difference operates ideologically
through the structuring of binaries, shoring up identity by opposition
to othered outsiders, ‘binaries may [also] be seen as excessively rigid
defences against the incidence or recurrence of trauma’.25 The radical
dichotomies of Catholicism – based around shades of colour and white
and black ideological associations with purity and evil – gradually
enclose Antoinette in a sense of safe community. However, this is
destroyed when Mason announces she will be leaving soon to marry.
The other girls are curious, the nuns ever cheerful, for they do not
realise, Antoinette believes, the importance of the fact that, ‘[t]hey are
safe. How can they know what it can be like outside?’ (34, emphasis in
original). It is in this state of anxiety that Antoinette re-enters the
outside world.
From this moment on, the rhetoric of safety is overtaken by Rochester.
He allays Antoinette’s fears when she tries to back out of the arranged
marriage by seducing her with promises of ‘peace, happiness, safety’
(48). Throughout the honeymoon Rochester plays a dangerous discur-
sive game of promised safety with Antoinette while indulging in bru-
talising forms of sex, verging on sadism. Death, sex, and both his
discursive manipulation of the rhetoric of safety and its dubious enact-
ment, come together in their physical union:
‘You’re safe,’ I’d say. She’d liked that – to be told ‘you are safe’ . . .
[I] wonder if she ever guessed how near she came to dying . . . It was
not a safe game to play . . . Desire, Hatred, Life, Death came very close
in the darkness. Better not to know how close . . . ‘You are safe,’ I’d
say to her. (58–9, emphasis added)
Robert Young unravels the ambivalences of cross-race desire in his

monograph on colonial desire and hybridity in which be repeats a
number of times the axiom ‘disgust always bears the imprint of desire’.26
Soon after Rochester and Antoinette arrive on the Windward Island,
Rochester observes that despite her beauty Antoinette has, ‘[l]ong, sad,
dark alien eyes. Creole of pure English descent she may be, but they are
not English nor European either’ (40). She is beautiful, but she is other.
The contradictory force of repulsion/attraction at the heart of colonial
desire is also at the heart of colonial racism. However, Young states,
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there is a disjunction, paradoxically also the link, ‘between discursive

desire and the violence of colonial desire in its execution’.27 White males
in positions of colonial dominance and power enact their ambivalent
desire toward exotic black sexuality by indulging in relationships of
sadistic imperative that require a masochistic submission on behalf of
subordinated black or mixed-race females.28 It is this ideological dialec-
tic of dominance and servitude that Rochester seems to participate in,
especially as he unconsciously assumes from the beginning that his new
wife’s white creole status is very far from being within the bounds of
racially-superior Englishness. His sexual aggression also seems to include
doubts about his masculinity. One morning early in the honeymoon,
Rochester returns to the bedroom to find Christophine hovering over
Antoinette. ‘Taste my bull’s blood, master’ (52) Christophine says to
him, the implication being that the two women may have talked about
his sexual prowess, or his lack of it. That the words come from the
mouth of a black woman only add to his sexual and racial paranoia.
After the intervention of Daniel Cosway – an embodied symbol of
hybrid monstrosity in the novel – Rochester’s ambivalent tendencies
accelerate into cold, calculated brutality that accompanies his assumed
outright ownership of Antoinette’s mind and body. Jealousy ensures
that even though he does not want her she will belong to no one else:
‘my lunatic. She’s mad but mine, mine’ (107).
As a result, by the end of Part II, Antoinette retreats into the supposed
psychic safety of the state of zombification.29 Zombification as a stand-
in for trauma becomes a simplified anglicised knowledge that Rhys
relays to her readers through the representation of Rochester’s reading
of sections of The Glittering Coronet of Isles from which a section is
quoted (67). Through Rochester’s recounting it is suggested that zomb-
ification is a problem that is conquerable rather than a concept to be
feared. Represented as an uncivilised act of black magic that has to be
controlled or curtailed, its power is defused by white law which attempts
to disassemble its spiritual power. Rochester takes over the role of the
bokor and possesses Antoinette’s mind and body, or ‘soul-case’ (69),
Christophine’s term for the facticity of the body. Rochester locks her
away in the safety of the attic, where she becomes the living embodi-
ment of ‘a memory to be avoided’ (112).
Escape into the safety of white metaphor signified as trauma has a dif-
ferent and highly ambivalent role yet to be discussed. It concerns the
symbolic logic contained in the image of hair. It is possible that any
latent white guilt or anxiety that could not be made explicit in a text
that relies on a reading of the traumatisation of white creoles will be
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apparently resolved through the denial and disavowal mechanism of

projection. This psychic strategy, when employed as a defence, can serve
to protect the subject from knowledge of its own ambivalence.30 The
traumatic image of hair, as represented so far, has related to Antoinette’s
sense of maternal loss, often in association with ideas of safety. However,
at one particular moment in Wide Sargasso Sea this image becomes
implicated in an almost palpable racial abhorrence. On her way to the
convent for the very first time, Antoinette encounters a young boy and
girl who follow and taunt her about her mother at a particular moment
in her life when she is devastated by the loss of her mother. Initially
it appears as if racial revulsion is reserved for the hybrid body of the
half-caste:
There were two of them, a boy and a girl. The boy was about four-
teen and tall and big for his age, he had white skin, a dull ugly white
covered with freckles, his mouth was a negro’s mouth and he had
. . . the eyes of a dead fish. Worst, most horrible of all, his hair was crin-
kled, a negro’s hair, but bright red . . . The girl was very black and wore
no head handkerchief. Her hair had been plaited and I could smell the
sickening oil she had daubed on it, from where I stood on the steps of
Aunt Cora’s dark, clean, friendly house. (26–7, emphasis added)
It is the boy’s white body with negroid features that is represented as

physically repulsive because he suggests the polluted outcome of mis-
cegenation.31 The ‘horrible’ imperfection of the albino body carries with
it the threat of contagion around which so much imperial ideology
revolves. But the striking visual images of this passage that are most
indicative of an almost nauseous loathing and a simultaneous denial of
their racist underpinnings revolve around their hair. What appears to
be the most affronting of the boy’s features (‘worst, most horrible of all’)
is the fact that he has negro hair and it is red, a hair colour usually asso-
ciated with ultra-white skin colouring. In visible contrast to the albino,
the girl is very black. She is reduced to a mouth that taunts and an image
of hair that exudes a sickening smell from the oil she had daubed on it.
The verb ‘to daub’ signifies an in-built denigration in meanings, which
range from unclean defilement with mud or oil, a smearing, coating
over, to cover (the person or dress) with finery or ornament in a coarse,
tasteless manner, a crude painting over, even a manner of bribery.32 The
girl’s taunting hits at Antoinette’s most vulnerable inner spaces, that she
is crazy like her mother, her aunt is so frightened of her she wants her
shut away, and worst of all, a reference to her mother’s unbridled
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sexuality, that she walks around ‘sans culottes’ (27, emphasis in origi-
nal).33 Antoinette runs away in racial terror, her ‘terrified consciousness’
inscribed on body and text by the stigmata of a ‘mark on the palm of
my hand and a stain on the cover of my book’ (27). However, it is not
the sneering words that follow her up the street. What haunts her is the
lingering smell of the girl’s hair, and a glimpse of ‘my enemy’s red hair’
(28) as he runs from her cousin, Sandi, who steps in to help her.
In Rochester’s section of the text, hair becomes implicitly associated
with both racial degeneracy and disordered sexuality. This begins with
discursive connections between the racial legibility of the body and
ideological assumptions. The servant girl, Hilda, wears a dress that is
spotlessly white, ‘but her uncovered hair . . . gave her a savage appear-
ance’ (44); Antoinette requests Christophine to stop putting so much
perfume on her hair as, ‘He doesn’t like it’, a silent association perhaps
with the notion of the other’s oiled and daubed hair (48); Amélie, ‘a
little half-caste servant’ (39) who comes to play such a pivotal role in
the failed honeymoon, has ‘white girl’s hair’ (75) for which Antoinette
immediately makes a grab when they physically fight over Amélie’s
accusation that as a white cockroach Antoinette has had to buy Rochester
as a husband (63).34 When references to hair are connected with
Antoinette in this section, Rochester’s escalating paranoia as to her
racial heritage still reveals a sexual and racial ambivalence, but also par-
ticipates more strongly in the ongoing intertextual dialogue. The
morning after the night of the obeah potion, ‘I woke in the dark after
dreaming that I was buried alive, and when I was awake the feeling of
suffocation persisted’ (87). This is an oblique reference to his zombifi-
cation, a situation he will later revengefully re-master by using white
law to defeat obeah rebellion. What in fact is suffocating him is
Antoinette’s hair ‘lying across my mouth; hair with a sweet heavy smell’
(87–8). It had been a night of brutal love-making, as Christophine later
discovers when she sees the markings of Rochester’s ‘savagery’ all over
Antoinette’s body. The symbol of suffocating, out-of-control sexuality
lies not with Rochester, however, but with Antoinette and the image of
her hair. Gradually they exchange places of zombification as Rochester
regains control, and Antoinette’s maternal legacy is seen to be taking
hold, in a crystallised, forceful image: ‘Her hair hung uncombed and
dull into her eyes which were inflamed and staring, her face was very
flushed and looked swollen. Her feet were bare’ (93). It is an ambiva-
lent condensation of the image of a zombi caught between the living
and the dead, a re-presentation of her mother’s trauma, accompanied
by her abusive jailer, broken glass and her bare feet, and a gesture toward
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an ephemeral consanguinity to Bertha Mason, whom Jane Eyre

describes thus: ‘a woman . . . with thick and dark hair hanging low
down her back . . . I never saw such a face . . . It was a discoloured face
– it was a savage face.’35 In its final manifestation in this part of the
novel, hair, madness, deviant female sexuality and allusions of race are
fused into one: ‘She’ll loosen her black hair, and laugh and coax and
flatter (a mad girl. She’ll not care who she’s loving). She’ll moan and
cry and give herself as no sane woman would . . .’ (106).
What does it mean then to be possessed by an image? From Caruth’s
perspective: ‘To be traumatized is precisely to be possessed by an image
or an event.’36 In Wide Sargasso Sea, Antoinette Cosway Mason Rochester
is possessed by repeating traumatic images that are both personally and
historically located. One cannot exist without the other, and these
images range between the nineteenth century world of Brontë’s Jane Eyre
and post-Emancipation Jamaica, between Rhys’s own ambivalent posi-
tioning between colonialism and postcolonialism, between white and
black. They are in history and outside history, and in many ways this
is where the problems of reading Rhys’s novel from a postcolonial per-
spective arise. As LaCapra emphasises, ‘[i]t is dubious to identify with
the victim to the point of making oneself a surrogate victim’,37 and this
is what Rhys does with Antoinette. In an article on trauma and the neo-
slave narrative which particularly focuses on Gayl Jones’s Corregidora
and Toni Morrison’s Beloved, Naomi Morgenstern argues that what is at
stake in Caruth’s analysis of trauma and history is ‘not so much the pos-
sibility of history as its preservation. If trauma endangers the subject, it
would seem to keep “history” safe.’38 It is my argument that Jean Rhys
does indeed keep white plantocratic history ‘safe’. Keeping history safe
shuts down subaltern readings of white creole oppression, but it also
denies a deconstructive reconfiguring of levels of whiteness that reveals
differing levels of domination in the pecking order of power. As surro-
gate victims of English whiteness and its policies and ideologies, white
creole history is preserved, while the profound historical trauma of
African-Caribbean slavery remains unarticulated. There is, however,
another side to the story to which Rhys gestures in a very contradictory
fashion.
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3
‘Caught Between Ghosts of
Whiteness’: The Other Side of
the Story1
[E]mpire messes with identity

Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak2
Although Christophine is the pivotal character in the novel around

whom most of the textual contradictions fluctuate and shift, Rhys was
always ambivalent about the other side to the story of white creole vic-
timisation which the black woman represents. In a letter to her editor,
just before publication, Rhys worries about the textual preponderance
she accords Christophine: ‘The most seriously wrong thing with Part II
is that I’ve made the obeah woman, the nurse, too articulate. I thought
of cutting her a bit, I will if you like, but after all no one will notice.
Besides there’s no reason why one particular negro woman shouldn’t be
articulate enough, especially as she’s spent most of her life in a white
household.’3 Rhys’s reluctance to move beyond the white creole stand-
point is reflected in her colonialist reading of the reason that a black
woman could possibly be articulate, and also in the fascinating con-
tradictions and blindspots that actually constitute the character of
Christophine DuBois.4
Christophine’s forceful textual presence coexists in an uneasy simul-
taneity with her social place, which is, as Spivak states, ‘the category
of the good servant’.5 Paradoxically, Christophine is always spoken
through the consciousness of white characters – what she says is always
screened through the point of view of Antoinette or Rochester – but she
is also the only one who voices a critique (and an extremely potent one)
of the appropriating power of imperial whiteness and its model of obdu-
rate masculinity as symbolised by Rochester.6 Indeed, Christophine –
beginning with the opening paragraph – shapes how everyone else feels
or acts throughout most of the novel and, ironically, is the site of affir-
60
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The Other Side of the Story 61
mation for this white trauma novel. Christophine is the text’s strong
black matriarch, but she is endlessly loyal to her white mistresses and
never, except for a couple of asides, does she outrightly resist her own
positioning or that of her fellow ex-slaves. Instead, on a number of occa-
sions she uses her obeah power to frighten servants such as Amélie
into reluctantly obeying their mistress. She even takes the side of
Antoinette’s father – a slave-owner renowned for his sexual prolificacy
– against Daniel Cosway’s slave-mother: ‘His mother was a no-good
woman and she try to fool the old man but the old man isn’t fooled.
“One more or less” he says, and laughs. He was wrong. More he do for
those people, more they hate him’ (101). Thus although she will fight
to the end over Antoinette’s mistreatment at the hands of Rochester,
her textual prominence is always reliant on the legacy of her role as a
good black ‘nigger’ in service to her ‘legitimate’ owners. As a commod-
ified woman she is not only expendable but all too easily dismissible
for her ‘savage’ practices of obeah when her value is no longer employ-
able to shore up white defences. Rochester only has to display a letter
that symbolically represents the power of the white Law and
Christophine abruptly disappears from the text.
This said, Christophine is the only person in the novel who engages
Rochester in a face-to-face duel. There is a long sequence in Part II when
Christophine confronts Rochester on behalf of Antoinette. ‘Don’t think
I frightened of you either’ (96), she announces as she engages him in a
discursive show-down. Benita Parry argues that ‘Christophine’s defiance
. . . constitutes a counter-discourse’ and that she functions in the text
as the ‘free woman’ she professes to be.7 While there can be no doubt
that Christophine’s spirited interaction with Rochester is an outright
discursive rebellion against the imperialist, I do not agree that this
represents a counter-discourse. Christophine’s daring verbal assault is
always probing and protecting on the behalf of her white mistress and is
always the reported speech, the ‘she said,’ of Rochester’s re-statement.
It is, furthermore, also a re-duplication of the white creole trauma nar-
rative that belongs to Antoinette and her mother, not to Christophine
and her people. Although her poignant description to Rochester of how
Annette was driven mad occurs with a depth of understanding and
love that goes far beyond the loyalty of a bought servant (101), it is
also spoken from a white point of view. Despite her textual power,
Christophine is caught between the discursive ghosts of imperial and
white creole whiteness. The potency of her character is always under-
mined by the necessary double-consciousness that she has needed to
internalise in order to survive.
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The necessary mutability of Christophine’s sense of self is complicated

by her positioning as Antoinette’s surrogate, or ‘othermother’.8 This
term applies to women in African-American communities who assist
‘bloodmothers’ by sharing mothering responsibilities. This role, adapted
from West African practices, and an extremely important survival strat-
egy under slavery, is also a vital factor in today’s African-American
communities, giving, as Patricia Hill Collins states, ‘credence to the
importance that people of African descent place on mothering’.9 It may
seem presumptuous to use this term in relation to a former slave who
mothers a surrogate white daughter, and indeed was a slave when this
role first began. However, my aim is to stress the oscillating ambivalence
of Rhys’s representation of this cross-racial mothering relationship, and
at the same time implicitly draw attention to the blindspots in white
feminist theories on theories of the maternal. The ‘mother–daughter’
relationship of Christophine and Antoinette is bound not only by the
trauma of Antoinette’s loss of her biological mother’s love and the trans-
ference of this love to Christophine, but also by Antoinette’s attitude of
white superiority that reasserts itself in her dealings with Christophine
whenever she feels insecure or threatened. It is from Christophine that
Antoinette receives the attention and maternal love she craves, but it
is always an ambivalent love for Antoinette, as contradictory as the
learned racism she has ingested from birth.
How Antoinette treats her ‘servant/mother’ is reliant to a large degree
on the white creole discourse that surrounds them.10 Returning to the
newly restored Coulibri after her mother’s marriage to Mason, the place
has lost some of its childhood lustre for Antoinette. It is not the newness
bought by money, nor the strange faces (new servants have been
employed): ‘It was their talk about Christophine and obeah [that]
changed it’ (14). This menacing power of rumour driven by racial fear
is introjected by the child. Soon after returning home she enters
Christophine’s room next to the kitchen, which for years has been her
sanctuary:
[W]hen I was waiting there I was suddenly very much afraid. The
door was open to the sunlight, someone was whistling near the
stables, but I was afraid. I was certain that hidden in the room . . .
there was a dead man’s dried hand, white chicken feathers, a cock
with its throat cut, dying slowly, slowly. Drop by drop the blood was
falling into a red basin and I imagined I could hear it. No one had
ever spoken to me about obeah – but I knew what I would find if I
dared to look. Then Christophine came in smiling and pleased to see
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me. Nothing alarming ever happened and I forgot, or told myself

that I had forgotten. (14–5)
I think this is a very important, and not often discussed, passage in the
text. Antoinette’s desperate love for Christophine is always tempered
by what she overhears others say of her surrogate mother. In this time
of racial tension and historical rupture – accompanied by the change-
ability of racial positionings – fear and alarmed talk become more exces-
sive than ever. Much later in the novel, when fleeing to Christophine
for help after Rochester’s abrupt sexual and emotional abandonment,
Antoinette again enters Christophine’s space. It is an uncanny repeti-
tion of the earlier scene, except that the adult Antoinette now has the
power to buy her way out of a difficult situation:
Her bedroom was large and dark . . . after I had noticed a heap of
chicken feathers in one corner, I did not look round any more.
‘So already you frightened eh?’ [Christophine says]. And when I saw
her expression I took my purse from my pocket and threw it on the
bed. (74)
Herein lies the problem. Antoinette cannot face the reality of obeah
practices – the real chicken feathers – yet she wants to use obeah ‘magic’
in a desperate attempt to hold safe her place within the upper rankings
of whiteness to which she gained access by her marriage to Rochester.
Christophine has already tried to offer another way out for Antoinette
by suggesting that she leave Rochester and live with her in Martinique,
but Antoinette makes her choice to remain within the privileges of
whiteness. In reply to Christophine’s wonderful critique of the inter-
nalisation of an idealised England and Englishness – a ‘cold thief place’
(70) with its unseen ideological power to steal your soul – Antoinette
reverts to the stereotypical English thinking that Christophine decries:
‘how can she know the best thing for me to do, this ignorant, obstinate
old negro woman, who is not certain if there is such a place as England?’
(70). Christophine is hesitant to use her obeah powers in this situation,
telling Antoinette ‘that is not for béké [white person]. Bad, bad trouble
come when béké meddle with that’ (71), but succumbs out of love for
Antoinette, even though it is at great risk to herself, because of the out-
lawing of obeah on the island. Regardless of this, Antoinette is prepared
to bribe Christophine, if necessary, with her ‘ugly money’ (75). Her
action of throwing her purse on the bed displays her colonialist inter-
nalisation of the belief in the automatic ownership through money of
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any black knowledge. The implicit connection of money and the bed
also foreshadows Rochester’s buying of Amélie’s body as an act of
revenge against the use of the obeah potion against him. The double-
standard in gender and racial coding is interesting here, as Rochester’s
sexual transaction is represented as in part excusable because Amélie
‘offers’ herself to him.
It seems therefore as if Rhys’s openly expressed ambivalence about
her characterisation of Christophine only results yet again in the
recounting of one side of the story. Annette and Antoinette are trau-
matised by history, their personal identities fragmented by their collec-
tive and individual pain and loss: Christophine, the subaltern figure
representing the other side of the story, stands strong and fierce, indeed
she is the ‘judge’s voice’ of the novel (98). Yet there is no interior reading
of her interpellated subjectivity or of the constitution of self as imbri-
cated in the traumatising legacies of slavery. But how much of Rhys’s
displacement and disavowal of the ambivalence of the white creole posi-
tion is projected as a covert longing for blackness? Sometimes in Rhys’s
other fiction this yearning is explicit. In Voyage in the Dark the pro-
tagonist Anna Morgan admits: ‘I wanted to be black. I always wanted
to be black . . . Being black is warm and gay, being white is cold and
sad.’11 Rhys herself consciously acknowledges this long-standing desire
as somehow associated with her own mother’s indifference to her of
which she wrote in one of her vignettes entitled ‘My Mother’ that
appears in her posthumously published memoir, Smile Please. She writes:
‘She [my mother] loved babies. Once I heard her say that black babies
were prettier than white ones. Was this the reason why I prayed so
ardently to be black, and would run to the looking-glass in the morning
to see if the miracle had happened? And though it never had, I tried
again. Dear God, let me be black.’12 However, in Wide Sargasso Sea, her
novel most associated with the constitution of colonial relations, Rhys’s
evocation becomes a hidden, ambivalent desire. As I see it, this has
much to do with appropriation, its ambivalent origins and ambiguous
results.
There is one space where Rhys’s appropriation turns against itself, and
this concerns the concept of mimicry, a term describing the ambivalent
relationship between coloniser and colonised and an important concept
in postcolonial theory because it offers a mode of resistance to the
colonised. In Homi Bhabha’s conceptualisation mimicry is:
the sign of a double articulation; a complex strategy of reform, regu-

lation, and discipline, which ‘appropriates’ the Other as it vizualises
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power. Mimicry is also the sign of the inappropriate, however, a

difference or recalcitrance which coheres the dominant strategic
function of colonial power, intensifies surveillance, and poses an
immanent threat to both ‘normalized’ knowledges and disciplinary
powers.13
Rochester’s power is radically unsettled by Christophine to the extent

that he starts involuntarily repeating what she says: ‘every word she said
was echoed, echoed loudly in my head’ (98). When she speaks, his mim-
icking reaction is not spoken out loud: it is a fragmented interior mono-
logue, bracketed off from direct engagement. Thus, temporarily at least,
the menace of mimicry is spoken by a black female ex-slave who ‘inap-
propriately’ disarticulates his white English patriarchal power. But is
Rhys’s use of Christophine as the spokesperson of white creoleness a
case of reverse mimicry? If the colonised respond to colonial domina-
tion by an ambivalent mimicry – which while aiming to efface differ-
ences, re-inscribes them, but at the same time unsettles the distinction
between the dominators and the dominated – the act of mimicry as
resistance becomes a kind of parody that forces the parodied to examine
their position, status and use of power. However, the irony of this text
is that Rhys’s white creoles are the white but not quite who mimic black
Caribbean culture, wanting in one sense to be like them because of their
supposed freedom, but in the other unconsciously and consciously
despising them for that very culture and colour and the fact that they
are the racially dominated. In this way the ambivalence of mimicry has
produced a double turn.
For instance, there is also an unsettling incident when Antoinette
undermines Rochester by impersonating a black voice. Stung into defi-
ance by Rochester’s refusal to discuss his visit to Daniel Cosway or listen
to her mother’s story, Antoinette retorts: ‘ “You frightened?” . . . imitat-
ing a Negro’s voice, singing and insolent’ (82). Another time she exactly
repeats Rochester’s hectoring words, again using the taunting Negro
voice: ‘she mimicked me . . . in that mincing voice’ (94). In the second
example a white creole woman mimics the white masculine imperial-
ist, but, in doing so, appropriates the black resistant voice which at any
other time has most often been defending the white creole position. So
really, who is mimicking whom in this text? Racial and class lines are
crossed, binaries are unsettled, but only by re-appropriating – and
thereby usurping – the whole idea of mimicry as a weapon of the
colonised.
By the close of Part II, Christophine has been driven from the text
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and Antoinette has been removed to the attic in Thornfield Hall. The
third and last part of the novel returns to the trauma narrative in which
Antoinette is the quintessential victim. The racial tension and bitterness
of the Caribbean context and the historical trauma that has contributed
to both her and her mother’s madness is left behind. Antoinette now
lives entirely in an individualised state of traumatised imprisonment,
both in her mind and within the cardboard covers of Jane Eyre. No such
place as the idealised whiteness of the England she imagines exists, just
as Christophine had warned her. The psychic numbness that had
enshrouded her towards the end of Rochester’s narrative is beginning
to shift and stir. She knows there is something she ‘must do’, but she
does not yet know what this is. However, her mind is still confused and
clouded by ever-present images of her mother and the particular
doubled trauma that had engulfed her young life – her mother’s aban-
donment and the dreadful repeating scene of Annette’s abuse at the
hands of her jailers:
Looking at the tapestry one day I recognized my mother dressed in

an evening gown but with bare feet. She looked away from me, over
my head just as she used to do . . . and I saw Antoinette drifting out
of the window with her scents, her pretty clothes and her looking
glass. (117)
She sees herself drifting out of the only window that is so high up,
Antoinette has just told us, that she cannot see out of it, symbolic of
the traumatised gaze that cannot see herself or others with any sense of
narrative understanding. Her disintegrating subjectivity and her help-
less ‘drifting’ here represent the passivity and helplessness of the pro-
foundly dislocated, traumatised by a history over which she has no
control. She is entrapped in an endless melancholy and impossible
mourning.
Much of this is the result of Antoinette’s inability to mourn her
mother’s abandonment and death, a mourning impaired by having no
one to listen and empathise with her story of profound grief and loss.
Her mother’s funeral, a ritual devised to enhance the chance of com-
pleted mourning, was rushed and incomprehensible. Held early in the
morning – suggestive of the shame of suicide – no one tells her how
Annette died, and she does not ask. Christophine cries bitterly, but
Antoinette has no tears. She tries to pray ‘but the words fell to the
ground meaning nothing’ (35). The Sister Superior had no answer to
her question about the terribleness of her mother’s life and death,
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Rochester refuses to listen to her belated attempt at catharsis through

trying to tell her mother’s story, so the trauma deepens and fixates in
the repetitive image of her mother’s helplessness. The impacted grief of
her traumatised inheritance and the impossibility of escape from its
psychic hold is enacted as a form of abreaction, ironically crystallised as
the moment that they ‘lost their way to England’.14 It takes place on
the white ship. Held captive in her cabin, Antoinette puts her arms
round the neck of the young man who brings her food and begs him
to help her. When he refuses, she smashes ‘glasses and plates against
the porthole’ both in anger and in the forlorn hope that this ‘would
break open and the sea come in’ (117).15 A man and a woman clear up
the broken glass, and a third person gives her a drink to make her forget.
Sexual contact, broken glass, a suicide attempt, oblivion in a mind-
numbing liquid, all are horribly reminiscent of the scene that haunts
her regarding her mother’s physical and mental entrapment.
A visit by Richard Mason radically changes Antoinette’s previous
responses to her prolonged trauma, although she is not immediately
aware of his visit. After the description of the abreactive experience
there is a gap in the narrative. She wakes aching and sore but has no
recollection of the previous night when Richard had visited, until the
scene is repeated to her by her keeper, Grace Poole, the listener who has
now replaced Rochester. The minute Richard mentioned that he ‘cannot
interfere legally between yourself and your husband’ (119–20, emphasis
added), Grace tells Antoinette, she had attacked him with a knife. Ini-
tially it seems as if Antoinette’s re-action is in answer to her powerless
state as her husband’s legal property, but from my reading the trigger is
the sudden return of a previously dissociated trauma that relates back
to her relationship with her mother. What causes Antoinette’s traumatic
regression is that Richard does not recognise her, which spirals her back
into the endlessly repeating scene of her childhood. Importantly,
however, this is the first time in the novel that Antoinette begins to
question herself and her actions or lack of them. As she begins to nar-
rativise and to make sense of her life, the symbol that has carried all
the symbolic weight of Antoinette’s cumulative trauma now returns and
merges into a singular red dress, representative of her past life and her
lost West Indian self.16 ‘If I’d been wearing that [dress Richard] would
have known me’ (120) she tells herself and Grace Poole.
Antoinette demands to see the red dress. As she stares at it she is trans-
ported back in time, suffused with embodied memories of the scent and
colours of Jamaica. The temporal shift is marked by a textual space then
an ellipsis, both suggestive of omission or suppression. She is back with
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Sandi in the immediacy of the past that appears to be the present.17 She
is again the white creole woman who can only read things in binaries
as taught by the imperial/colonial cultural system that has structured
her life. On one hand, she can never see beyond her longing for real
whiteness (‘I shall be different in England’); on the other, there is
her ambivalent love of blackness as symbolised by her feelings for
Christophine. In between is Sandi, who can offer her safety and happi-
ness (the two things Rochester so callously promised) and a place in the
new hybrid world of post-Emancipation Jamaica. However, reared as a
white creole, a group collectively interpellated as being on the periph-
ery of Empire, for Antoinette this hybrid space is the place of insecurity
and fear of what the in-between colour entails. Following her mother’s
legacy, Antoinette emphatically chooses the white path. She will not
stay with Sandi but goes to England with Rochester, ensuring her fate
as the madwoman in the attic:
there was no time left so we kissed each other . . . We often kissed

before but not like that. That was the life and death kiss and you
only know a long time afterwards what it is, the life and death kiss.
(121)
Now comes the belated interpretation of her past act, the switching of
tenses from past into present and the repetition of the desperate
embrace – the ‘life and death kiss’ – signalling the move into conscious
assimilation of this memory. The bitter irony of belated understanding
begins to seep through. ‘The white ship’ (121) that takes her away to
England whistles the levels of her interpellation into imperial whiteness
that meant she would not consider happiness with Sandi. It whistles
‘once gaily’ (the enticement of seduction); ‘once calling’ (the hailing of
‘hey you’); ‘once to say goodbye’ (the loss of subjective agency and
departure into the white system). However, the flash of recognition is
lost as she returns to the present time – again conveyed by a gap in the
text – and the circumscriptions of Brontë’s text.
Antoinette takes the red dress out of the closet, holds it against herself
and asks Grace: ‘ “Does it make me look intemperate and unchaste?”
. . . That man told me so . . . “Infamous daughter of an infamous
mother,” he said to me’ (121). Rhys’s brilliant interweaving of quota-
tions from both ‘mother’ and ‘daughter’ texts draws attention to the
power of discourse to structure and control encompassing both gender
and racial ambivalences.18 However, the return to traumatic memory as
a cathartic healing cannot be efficacious in a text in which the trau-
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matised person is predetermined to die in madness. Antoinette’s inter-

nal monologue now slides into that very madness against which she
has fought all her life: ‘I held the dress in my hand wondering if they
had done the last and worst thing. If they had changed it when I wasn’t
looking. If they had changed it and it wasn’t my dress at all . . .’ (121).
The repetitive ‘they’ not only suggests a rapidly fragmenting objectified
self, but also a connection back to the opening paragraph of the novel
in which the ‘they’ then demarcated the white ranks from which
Annette and Antoinette were already excluded. Antoinette’s last words
before falling into her final dream are again of the dress and misrecog-
nition: ‘If I had been wearing my red dress Richard would have known
me’ (121).
From my perspective, Antoinette’s leap in imagination to rejoin Tia
by the pool at Coulibri is basically a return to an unchanged pre-
Emancipation white creole world. Rhys transposes her Edenic imagery
– and in particular the trope of the tree of life – from the first section
of the novel into the attic of Thornfield Hall, suggesting the lure of nos-
talgic return to the pre-lapsarian plantocratic empire that had existed
before the Fall of Emancipation. Yet, of course, the ending is totally
ambivalent.19 Pre-determined to end in death, Rhys’s rewriting of
Bertha’s life parodies and in a way mimics the white imperial culture
that historically othered white creoles, as represented in Jane Eyre. In
the process Wide Sargasso Sea unsettles the imperial reading of history,
so often replicated in the choice of what is or has been included in the
literary canon. However, despite its resistance to the imperial metanar-
rative, what the text does not do is to provide a space for Christophine’s
own story, the story of enslavement and appropriation of people’s lives
for the greater profit of the white race.
In one sense then, Jean Rhys’s appropriation of Afro-Caribbean resis-
tance practices as metaphors of white trauma silences the history on
which they are predicated: on the other, the unconscious ambivalences
which structure her novel open up possibilities of re-readings, not just
against Jane Eyre, but of the whole ambivalence of the postcolonial era,
and its academic speculations and theories. The mutability of the cate-
gory of whiteness in the time of decolonisation and the power differ-
entials inherent in racial dissonances, come under Rhys’s ambivalent
scrutiny. She disrupts and disarticulates all identity formations of
Empire. Christophine is the character chosen to enunciate the white
creole position and not her own, returning the trauma to the white
mother–daughter narrative in which she played so much part. Yet, in
this very representation, Rhys also anticipates the difficulties inherent
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in the belatedness of postcolonial theory that can never be separable

from colonial history. Wide Sargasso Sea is a particularly interesting text
for a postcolonial reading, as the use of orthodox postcolonial theories
produce perplexing results. Appropriation, catachresis, ambivalence,
mimicry, hybridity and so on, the principles of a resistant postcolo-
niality, are confused and sometimes almost reversed in Rhys’s novel. Yet,
the text’s refusal of ideological closure, its focus on a mother–daughter
relationship and its ambivalent unresolvability, open up the sometimes
narrow confines of postcolonial theory and its gender imbalances.
To return to the poem that opens my reading of Rhys’s novel,
Antoinette Cosway Mason Rochester is literally caught in an untenable
position between two sentences: between Jane Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea,
between black and white, between coloniser and colonised, between
the tenets of Christianity and the power of obeah magic, between
metaphors that appropriate and metaphors that proliferate. Jean Rhys’s
white hush, resonant with a temporary stillness, may be caught between
two sentences, but a hush implies that the sigh will continue on. It is
a transitory and creative stillness. Wide Sargasso Sea is a courageous
novel that struggles with an historical trauma that haunted Jean Rhys
all her life, in both a collective and individual sense. This resulted in a
trauma narrative of extraordinary immediacy, both past and present, a
‘wounded space’20 that crosses the cultural divide(s), and in the sus-
pension of ambivalent space begins a postcolonial renegotiation of the
power structures of colonialism. As the sigh moves forward there is also
a movement forward in time in the practice and theory of writing
fiction. Rhys’s novel lives on in its own mesmerising power, but very
importantly, her work is taken up and reconfigured by black women
Caribbean writers as diverse as Michelle Cliff and Elean Thomas, and
poets, Olive Senior, Lorna Goodison and Jean Binta Breeze.21
Rhys’s novel Wide Sargasso Sea is caught up in the axiomatics of impe-
rialism, but her trauma narrative – riven as it is with ambivalence and
contradictions – also opens up the difficult task of historical listening
which Caruth describes thus:
The attempt to gain access to a traumatic history, then, is also the

project of listening beyond the pathology of individual suffering, to
the reality of a history that in its crises can only be perceived in unas-
similable forms.22
It is in literature that the ‘unassimilable forms’ of history can come alive,

and it is the metaphorical image that in Elspeth Probyn’s words, ‘orga-
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nizes the field of the unthinkable’.23 However, it is of great political

importance that metaphorical abstraction in theoretical criticism does
not evade lived experience with all the racial, gender and class assump-
tions that this entails. Metaphors need to be historicised and contextu-
alised so as to be aware of the possible powers of appropriation
concealed in the normative axioms of whiteness. This, I believe, is made
possible by approaching readings of literature through a contrapuntal
relationship with what John Frow describes as ‘a history that is rigor-
ously committed to ambivalence’.24 Wide Sargasso Sea is a novel that
begins this process.
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4
Lucy: Jamaica Kincaid’s
Postcolonial Echo
[T]here is nothing that ideology fails to touch

Deborah McDowell1
By her own admission, Jamaica Kincaid was an unruly student. At

school in Antigua she was frequently punished for insubordination.
One disciplinary infringement resulted in her having to copy out and
memorise lengthy passages from Milton’s Paradise Lost; another meant
she had to write over and over again the lines, ‘Ignorance is bliss; it’s
folly to be wise’.2 In light of the rebellious postcolonial fiction Kincaid
would come to write, these colonial punishments are profoundly ironic.
Paradise Lost, Kincaid states, taught her the importance and the pos-
sibilities of articulating injustice in the face of overwhelming odds.
Milton’s anti-hero, the defiant and outcast Lucifer with whom she iden-
tified even as a child, inspired her and gave her a sense of worth. ‘My
version [of Paradise Lost] had a painting of Lucifer,’ Kincaid confides in
an interview. ‘His hair was snakes, all striking. Oh it was fabulous! I was
the wrong person to give it to.’3 Lucifer – the Biblical symbol of evil,
who, among other things, illustrates that there is a more complicated
and ambiguous reading of right and wrong – is a figure that returns with
a strange and echoing impact at the end of Kincaid’s second novel, Lucy.
The contradictory interpellations of the British colonial curricula that
indoctrinated children throughout the Empire with a sense of inferior-
ity and alienation – while simultaneously inculcating a love/hate rela-
tionship with Englishness and English literature – is a frequent trope in
the fiction of postcolonial Caribbean writers from Césaire, Naipaul,
Lamming and Walcott to Rhys, Cliff and Kincaid herself. The psychic
displacement that existed between the embodied experiences of the
colonised and the imposed phantasmic economy of the plays, poems
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Lucy: Jamaica Kincaid’s Postcolonial Echo 73
and fiction of such luminaries of the Western literary canon as

Shakespeare, Milton, Keats and Wordsworth has been termed the ‘daf-
fodil gap’ in contemporary postcolonial theory.4 In her second novel,
Lucy, Jamaica Kincaid has much to say about both daffodils and the split
subjectivity – what she calls ‘two-facedness’ – that results from this edu-
cational imperialism.5 Many critics have commented at length on
Kincaid’s focus on the daffodil, both its literal representation in
Wordsworth’s poem that the young colonial child, Lucy, recites on the
school dais, and its psychic repercussions. Indeed, so central is the
concept of the daffodil in readings of Kincaid’s Lucy that there is hardly
an article or book-length discussion of this novel that does not allude
to the daffodil iconography in some shape or form.6 I will align this
emphasis on the daffodil gap with an exploration of the ambivalent
ideological effects of a colonial education and the possibilities of a sub-
versive postcolonial return that is intricately threaded through Kincaid’s
text.
The politics of Kincaid’s adult postcolonial fiction makes the enforced
repetition of lines of canonical poetry – the second of Kincaid’s child-
hood penalties – a doubly ironic choice. For the sentence that she was
forced to write, juxtaposing ignorance and bliss, folly and wisdom, is a
quotation from the last two lines of Thomas Gray’s ‘Ode on a Distant
Prospect of Eton College’.7 Eton College, one of the oldest and most
prestigious schools in Britain, was and still is, a bastion of white upper
and middle-class masculine traditions, privileges and power, and an
ideal space for the dissemination of imperial and neo-colonial ideo-
logies and their disciplinary practices. The poem, in which Gray’s school
days at Eton College, and indeed Eton itself, acquire a ‘prelapsarian
innocence’ shaped by echoes of Milton’s description of Eden from Para-
dise Lost, is a lamentation on the loss of times past.8 What the poem
does not say, but the commentaries disclose, is that Gray was an out-
sider at this school, much despised for his delicate health and his aver-
sion to the compulsory sport deemed so necessary to the creation of
white manhood. His psychic survival depended on the banding together
of himself and three like-minded boys who became known as the
‘Quadruple Alliance’.9 However, Gray’s idealisation of his schooldays
was written at a particular moment of anguished nostalgia. Of the four
boys, the only one with whom he had remained close had recently died,
while the other two refused connection with him. Gray’s melancholic
ode is thus perhaps an attempt to disavow the distress of his estrange-
ment from the ‘imagined community’ that had sustained his sense of
self, and simultaneously a requiem for his lost youth and the very
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particularised sense of naturally assumed white privilege that accompa-

nied his positioning as an old Etonian.10 In this way, ignorance can
become bliss because it offers a comforting amnesia. However, there is
a pivotal word missing from Gray’s quotation with which the school-
girl Kincaid was forcibly engaged, for the lines in fact read, ‘where
ignorance is bliss, /Tis folly to be wise’.11 By omitting this one small
word – a positioning adverb of placement – the meaning of the sen-
tence is radically altered. Yet, as it will turn out, little matters more than
a subject’s positioning, which, as Kincaid’s protagonist in Lucy so aptly
demonstrates, is always entangled with the power differentials that
structure race, gender and class placements.
Yet it is also next to impossible to avoid the ambivalent binding power
of the ideology that surrounds the colonial education system, a struc-
ture intimately related to interwoven and internalised aspects of both
pleasure and power. Ketu Katrak maintains that aggressive physical acts
of conquest and literal appropriation of land and peoples constitute
only one aspect of colonial aspirations: ‘mental colonizations perpetu-
ated in a colonizer’s language, education, and cultural values are often
more devastating and resilient.’12 As Elleke Boehmer avers, ‘empire was
governed as much by symbolism as by real distinctions in the world,
which is to say, because colonial authority expressed its dominance in
part through the medium of representation, a colonialist work of imagi-
nation functioned as an instrument of power’.13 Indeed, the pleasure of
the text was ultimately what held the recipients of a colonial education
in thrall, and Western canonical literature occupied what Gayatri Spivak
calls a ‘kind of enchanted space’.14
Gauri Viswanathan sees both John Milton’s treatises on colonial edu-
cation and his great work of poetry, Paradise Lost, as responsible for the
development of a significant part of imperialist ideology.15 Ironically,
while Milton’s verses were central to the formulation of colonial loyalty
– and in this respect it seems that for Kincaid Milton holds a particular
eminence – Paradise Lost is also a key component of Kincaid’s strategy
of literary backchat and postcolonial reversal, as I hope to demonstrate.16
In interviews, Kincaid freely admits to a deep-seated allegiance to
Milton’s epic poem, yet while her knowledge was the result of a British
colonial education that she much resented, she is also adamant that she
is ‘not going to make myself forget John Milton because it involves a
painful thing. I find John Milton very beautiful . . . I am sorry that the
circumstances of how I got to know it were horrid . . . but since I know
it, I know it and I claim every right to use it’.17 In another interview,
Kincaid goes as far as admitting that she had modelled her ‘entire lit-
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erary life so far on Paradise Lost . . . almost all of my work centres on the
beginning of a paradise from which one falls and to which one can
never return’.18 Interestingly, Sharon Achinstein argues that ‘Milton’s
poetry has proven capable of supporting either an anti-imperial or pro-
imperial stance’, and Kincaid’s reworking of the power of Lucifer clearly
engages with what Achinstein terms ‘the dialectical nature of ideologi-
cal writing’.19 Where Kincaid totally diverges from any other post-
colonial rewriting of Paradise Lost that I have encountered is that the
paradise from which the young female protagonist always falls is
inevitably the very gendered symbolic space of ‘the paradise of
mother’.20 This is true of the majority of stories in her anthology, At the
Bottom of the River, her first two novels, Annie John and Lucy, and also
the oxymoronically titled Autobiography of My Mother.
Lucy, the focus of this chapter, is the story of a Afro-Caribbean young
woman, aged 17, who leaves her home island of Antigua to work as an
au pair in America for a rich middle-class white family that consists of
the mother, Mariah, her husband, Lewis, and four young daughters. We
assume the protagonist is called Lucy, but she is in fact not specifically
named until the last pages of the novel with carefully orchestrated dra-
matic intent. The American family has no patronymic, indicative of its
symbolic status as representative of white American liberal humanism.
The young woman has been reared on a colonial education, and arrives
on American soil with her head full of the books she has read – the
canonical classics of Western ‘civilisation’ – sure that her life now is
really to begin. She has left behind a fractured relationship with her
mother fissured by an almost pathological ambivalence that manifested
itself as an intense ‘feeling of hatred’. In many respects this novel
follows on and echoes the themes of Kincaid’s first novel, Annie John.
There is a continuation of the themes of both the tempting yet enrag-
ing indoctrinations of each protagonist’s colonial education and also a
profound maternal ambivalence. However, Lucy is unique in Kincaid’s
oeuvre in that this is the novel which represents what Edward Said
describes as, ‘Jamaica Kincaid in the white world’.21 Apart from her
recent book on gardening, My Garden (Book), which follows her latest
interest in forms of conquest, both literal and imaginative, that accom-
pany acts of ecological imperialism, Kincaid’s other fictional and non-
fictional work meditates upon the black world of her cultural home, the
Caribbean island of Antigua. It is only in Lucy that she directly inter-
rogates the intoxicating power of contemporary whiteness, and it is a
novel that is less overtly rebellious than the rest of her work, and in
many ways more painful.
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In Annie John the young protagonist literally throws off the shackles
of history when she defaces a picture of Christopher Columbus that
appears in her history book, a text of Empire entitled A History of the
West Indies.22 In Lucy, Kincaid is engaged with the subtle entanglements
of ideology and its internalisation bound up as it is in the living out of
this very history and its traumatic inheritances. Christopher Columbus
again features at the moment of belatedness in this text, but now
Kincaid satirises with a forceful but subtly biting irony the long-lasting
echoic legacies of Columbus’s ‘foul deed’ (135) that resulted in the
transportation of African slaves to the Caribbean. While the end of the
novel circles back to a confrontation with Lucy’s ancestral history,
which until then has been psychically subsumed under confusions of
positionality, the context of the novel is contemporary North America.
In particular, it concerns her relationship with her employer, Mariah,
whom Lucy grows to love as a substitute mother with a love seemingly
devoid of ambivalence, an emotion reserved for her own mother whom
she has gladly left behind in Antigua. Kincaid focuses intensively in all
her work on the mother–daughter relationship, but this is complicated
beyond readings of maternal ambivalence by her symbolic correlation
between the damaging effects engendered by the ‘mother-country’ on
the ‘daughter’ colony. The personal, and often antagonistic, relation-
ship between mother and daughter is problematised by the mother
having internalised the cultural mores of the colonialists. Resembling
in some form the ideological machinations of the colonial education
system, Kincaid’s mothers in both Annie John and Lucy act as agents of
colonial assimilation who try to mould their daughters into properly
disciplined colonial subjects.23 In Lucy, although the protagonist is now
physically separated from her mother by the vast expanse of the Atlantic
ocean, her ambivalent psychic bond remains profoundly connected.
Relocated and rehoused physically and mentally within the cocoon of
white liberal humanism as espoused by Mariah, Lucy works for a year,
has two love affairs with white men, forms a friendship with a young
Irish immigrant named Peggy, and gradually begins to break free from
the ideology of whiteness that has so enthralled her.
Considering the centrality of the mother–daughter relationships in
this text – that is, both real and surrogate – one of the ironies that will
slowly unfold in a close reading of the novel is that the literary texts in
which Lucy is most immersed (specifically named in the novel as Para-
dise Lost and the Bible, especially the Book of Genesis) are explicitly
gendered ‘stories of the fallen’ (152). Both Milton’s opus and the bibli-
cal story of the Fall from grace on which it relies are tales of shame,
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grief and the punishment of women. Eve’s temptation into ‘original sin’
in the Book of Genesis – or into the desire for knowledge, depending
on the perspective of the reader – precipitates not only the fall from
Paradise, but also brings about the creation of shame. In Lucy, the first
chapter is suffused with oblique references to the Bible, and in the last
of the five chapters there are a number of allusions to shame as the pro-
tagonist moves into a newly developing mode of self-consciousness.
It is interesting, then, that in Milton’s rereading of the Fall from grace,
with which Kincaid is avowedly familiar, the primal scene of shame –
when Eve and Adam realise that they are naked in the eyes of God and
reach for fig leaves to cover their nakedness – is textually connected
with the discovery of the New World:
Hide me . . . hide . . .
The Parts of each from other, that seem most
To shame obnoxious, and unseemliest seen,
Some Tree whose broad smooth Leaves together sew’d,
. . . Those leaves
They gather’d, broad as Amazonian Targe,
And with what skill they had, together sew’d,
To gird their waist, vain Covering if to hide
Their guilt and dreaded shame; O how unlike
To that first naked Glory. Such of late
Columbus found th’American so girt
With feather’d Cincture, naked else and wild
Among the Trees on Isles and woody Shores.24
The fall into shame is often blamed on Eve for succumbing to tempta-
tion and eating the forbidden fruit, then seducing Adam to follow her
lead. Yet, ironically, while they then suffer the punishment of banish-
ment from Paradise, they also gain access to knowledge. They can now
tell the difference between good and evil, right and wrong, inside and
outside, naked and clothed, shame and innocence, and so on.25 Perhaps,
if the question is posed from a postcolonial perspective, it becomes more
complicated. Interestingly, in Milton’s rendition (or at least in these few
lines) gender drops out of equation – ‘with what skill they had, together
[they] sew’d’. As Colombus reformulated the notion of discovery in the
New World by the genocide of the Arawak and Carib Indians that led
over time to the importation of slave labour from elsewhere, the
question then becomes: who is falling from Paradise, and who should
engender and suffer from notions of shame?
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However, among the extraordinary wealth of intertextual references

and allusive echoes for which Paradise Lost is famous, there is also a
small scene that interlaces Eve’s story with another of the founding
myths of subject formation, the classical tale of Narcissus and Echo.26
Still innocent, as she has yet to eat the forbidden fruit from the Tree of
Knowledge, Eve is represented by Milton as possessing the narcissistic
vanity for which the hero of the myth is famed, suggesting perhaps the
inevitability of the Fall at the hands of a woman.27 This is particularly
ironic because, as Gayatri Spivak caustically remarks in her essay on
Echo, ‘Narcissus was a boy’.28 This classical myth is almost always read
as Narcissus’s story alone, as if Echo had no part to play in the unfold-
ing drama.29 In much the same manner, it is also ‘naturally’ assumed,
as with the case of the biblical story of creation, that the protagonists
are white.
As I see it, the classical myth of Echo and Narcissus has a particular
resonance in Lucy, and indeed I will argue that Kincaid utilises the story
as a strong sub-textual undercurrent. Yet, while a close reading of this
novel reveals the power of the white text to reduce the othered woman
to an echo of herself, it also delineates Lucy’s resistance. Her subversive
postcolonial echo uproots the haunting impact of white canonical texts
and creates a new self-conscious form of contemporary race and gender
conscious re-troping of both the notion of the echo and its foundations
in the classical Western myth. It is both an acknowledgement of the
past that has been overlaid by echoes emanating from the intoxication
of Western literature, and a refiguring of its ideological pull as a form
of subversive return that ironically utilises the very form and lure of its
‘enchanting’ containment. The question that Kincaid’s novel implicitly
raises then asks is: is it ever possible psychically to disengage from the
binding pleasure of the texts of one’s youth, or do they always remain
diffusely positioned as constantly recurring nostalgic echoes that blind
the recipient to their ideological calling?
Echoic ambivalence
A textual echo (or any echo for that matter) has a precursor. As Wide
Sargasso Sea echoes and rewrites Jane Eyre, Kincaid herself is haunted by
Brontë’s text, which she read over and over again as a child. Books, she
says, provided the greatest happiness in her difficult adolescent years
that were overshadowed by her growing alienation from her mother,
and Jane Eyre was one of her favourites. Reading the novel for the first
time when she was ten, Kincaid notices and then becomes captivated
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by Brontë’s representation of that languorous extended moment of

European dusk when she uses the word ‘gloaming’. There is, of course,
no period of twilight in the Caribbean where light shifts very quickly
from sunset into darkness thus, as Kincaid muses from an adult
perspective:
She’s describing something, English, something I would never see

until I was thirty-odd years old. I got stuck on that word, and even-
tually found a way to use in At the Bottom of the River. Then I was
free of it. It was important to me to have written those stories,
because it freed me of an obsession with a certain kind of language.
I memorized Wordsworth when I was a child, Keats, all sorts of
things. It was an attempt to make me into a certain kind of person,
the kind of person they had no use for anyway. An educated black
person. I got stuck with a lot of things, so I ended up using them.30
Inserting and refashioning the very English word into one of her own
stories diffracts and to some extent lessens the interpellative power of
the white literary echo. However, its distortions, as Kincaid intimates,
had lingered on in her mind for 20 or so years, suggesting that
metaphorical systems bind those educated through the colonial cur-
riculum in incalculable ways. This internalisation of the Western echo
can play a substantial role in suppressing or even denying alternative
readings and the possibilities of developing a self-conscious black sub-
jectivity uncontaminated by such symbolic processes.
Words can wound and heal, enthral and subjugate, and they are
intrinsic to constructions of both the interiority and exteriority of the
self. This is in part the subject of Spillers’ famous essay, ‘Mama’s Baby,
Papa’s Maybe’, which addresses the destructive power of the American
grammar, and in particular the impact that white stereotyping has had
on generations of African-Americans.31 The ongoing pathologising that
first justified the capturing of African bodies through the Atlantic Slave
Trade has metamorphosed into a linguistic strategy that uses the black
body as a ‘resource for metaphor’ Spillers argues, thereby turning the
literal possession of the ‘captive body’ into an abstract ownership
through the power of language. One of her examples is the infamous
Moynihan Report, which ‘freezes in meaning’ an extremely negative
understanding of the composition of the Negro family of the late 1960s,
thus continuing the literal marking and branding that had originally
been inscribed directly on the bodies of slaves.32 This prescriptive
othering and its internalised echoing then transfers down through
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generations, impacting on African-Americans in ways that are seen and

unseen. The effects Spillers critiques by re-troping one of the founding
proverbs of the American grammar: ‘We might concede, at the very least
that sticks and bricks might break our bones, but words will most
certainly kill us.’33
Powerfully negative aspects of symbol-making, which play so great a
role in what Spillers elsewhere calls the ‘Manichean frieze’,34 have their
counterpart in the story of Narcissus and Echo. In allegorical form, it
outlines the power of language in the construction of identity. Indeed,
John Hollander, in his evocative book, The Figure of Echo: A Mode of Allu-
sion in Milton and After, to which I owe much of my interpretation, draws
attention to the fact that the Echo and Narcissus myth is centrally a
story about language.35 Echo, punished by the goddess Juno for dis-
tracting her by keeping her talking while the rest of the nymphs cavort
with her husband, Jupiter, is deprived of the power of normal speech:
she is forever condemned merely to echo the last words of others. More-
over, unable to originate discourse, neither can she forbear from reply.
As Ovid puts it, Echo ‘repeats the last words spoken, and gives back the
sounds she has heard’.36 Echo then falls hopelessly in love with the
beautiful youth Narcissus. Because of her punishment she cannot
approach him with declarations of love, having to wait instead for him
to speak with words that she might re-use to echo her longing. One day,
discovering him alone and calling out to his lost companions, Echo
grasps the opportunity cleverly to participate in the dialogue. Invited
by her own echo of his words, Echo comes out of hiding and embraces
him, but Narcissus violently rejects her with the words: ‘Away with
those embraces! I would die before I would have you touch me!’ Her
poignant echoing reply, ‘I would have you touch me’, omits the words
‘I would die’, a phrase that will have important echoing repercussions
in Kincaid’s novel, as I shall discuss.37 Thus scorned, Echo conceals
herself from all others, hiding her shamed faced in the woods. With the
pain of rejection, her body slowly wastes away and finally turns to stone,
leaving only her voice. From that time on, Echo’s plaintive voice can
be heard compulsively answering the calls of others that she hears
echoing around the mountains. In the meantime, punished by Nemesis
for his self-obsession and disregard for others, Narcissus is condemned
to fall in love with his own watery reflection. He lies beside a beautiful
pool staring at his face in the water until he too gradually pines to death,
mourned forever by the watching Echo. This is the Western myth that
pathologises women into a state of petrification with its allegory of
silencing, abjection and passivity. One small resistance is left to her for
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while Narcissus pines away and metamorphoses into a flower: Echo ‘sur-
vives as a consciousness and a voice’.38 Like Narcissus, she too loses her
body, but her voice lives on in both mourning and mockery. In the place
of his body, and as a visible representation of his absence, grows the
beautiful flower that bears his name. Coincidentally, the narcissus
belongs to the same genus as the daffodil, synecdochic of Empire, as I
have argued, in much postcolonial fiction.
There is then, a tangential but resonant connection that enables a
reading of Narcissus as a symbolic white male coloniser in love with his
own image and seductive power, whose self-fixation ensures an almost
complete disregard for others, and Echo as his gendered subaltern
subject. Moreover, Kincaid’s reconstituted Echo is particularly subver-
sive as it reconfigures a founding Eurocentric myth of identity forma-
tion, a myth that has become a part of Western popular discourse
through its understanding of the concept of narcissism. However,
Kincaid’s remodelling of the negative aspects of the mythic Echo comes
from a completely different ideological and race-positioned perspective.
The echoing voice of the subaltern subject, distorted by both the West’s
original texts’ misrepresentations and the material traumas they have
inflicted, introduces a form of mimicking backchat that in the post-
colonial mode is a conscious act of belated acknowledgement and
accusation concerning past distortions and injustices of the previously
written. The subaltern echo may be able to repeat only a fragment of
the utterance, yet that fragment is also a form of postcolonial mimicry:
the echoing voice ‘knows’ the full utterance but only repeats the last
few words. The female subaltern subject is not merely indulging in the
mockery of mimicry (which is perhaps a lot less resistant than Bhabha’s
theory suggests, and certainly so for a woman) nor a form of passive
echolalia, but the agency of call-and-response theory as proposed by a
number of African-American theorists and writers, many of whom are
women.39 The protagonist in Lucy, as I shall go on to argue, is at first
caught up in the passivity of the Western literary tradition to which
Echo belongs, but gradually moves into participating in African-
American traditions of resistance that signify agency, though often in a
necessarily veiled form.
Importantly then, the echoic subaltern voice is a female voice. Even
more importantly, it connects in with the long tradition of African oral
culture that was carried over in and through the unimaginable trauma
of the Middle Passage, the event that Barbara Christian defines as ‘the
dividing line between being African and being African American’.40
Despite the trauma of disjunction of the Middle Passage, the slaves
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carried with them their African cultural traditions which, in the words
of Cornel West, included a ‘kinetic orality, passionate physicality, impro-
visational intellectuality, and combatative spirituality [that] would
undergo creative transformation when brought into contact with Euro-
pean languages and rituals in the context of the New World’.41 Once in
the New World newly captive slaves lived in a culture of pain in which
they were deprived of all basic dignities and fundamental human rights,
but one that they fought against with a fierce resistant power. In the
American Plantation system they created a veiled African-based culture
that was a forced synthesis of African cultural history, traditions and
memory with an appropriation of the only language now available to
them – the English language, and with it the rhetoric and symbolism
of the Christian Bible. Using the newly acquired white discourse and in
order to survive attempts to dehumanise them, slaves sang work songs
and spirituals while they worked in the fields. These helped to alleviate
suffering and loss but also masked codes of resistance and escape that
were unintelligible to white ears. Placed in the most disempowering
position ever imaginable, they turned the words of their oppressors’
own songs against them with what W.E.B. Du Bois calls ‘veiled and half-
articulate’ messages.42 In the final chapter of his highly significant work,
The Souls of Black Folk, Du Bois eloquently describes the beauty and pain
of the ‘sorrow songs’ of the slaves, arguing that, ‘the Negro folk-song –
the rhythmic cry of the slave’ was the oral voice of exile through which
‘the slave spoke to the world’.43 In Liberating Voices, Gayl Jones demon-
strates how African-American writers gradually came to shape and
modify their oral resistances into a canonical literature that used models
and literary techniques not only from European and European Ameri-
can traditions, but also from their own distinctive oral and aural forms.44
It is a literature that has always retained its roots in African oral/aural
traditions – the mainstay of their cultural heritage – a tradition which
the slaves transformed in the New World into spirituals, work songs,
proverbs, blues and jazz, which then in turn transformed white
American culture in often unacknowledged ways.45
In my reading of Kincaid’s novel, I want to try and participate in
Cheryl Wall’s suggestion that the impulse to define a distinctive sound
which was central to the formulations of a Black Aesthetic remains a
primary trope for Afro-American literary criticism today.46 My aim is to
follow the politics and poetics of Kincaid’s text that as I see it offers a
fascinating interweaving of the Western story of Narcissus and Echo,
and the antiphonal resistance of the African-American technique of
call-and-response, which Jones describes thus:
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Call-and-response is an antiphonal back-and-forth pattern which

exists in many African American oral traditional forms, from sermon
to interjective folktale to blues, jazz and spirituals, and so on . . . In
oral storytelling the listeners may interject their commentary in a
modified call-and-response pattern derived from African musical tra-
dition. In the literary text both dialogue and plot structure may demon-
strate this call-and-response pattern: one scene becomes a commentary on
a previous scene while a later scene becomes a commentary or response to
that one.47
One of the most moving literary representations of what I understand

as call-and-response is Baby Suggs’s calling out to her black audience in
the Clearing in Beloved, demanding of them that they learn to love
themselves, love their bodies and their flesh in all their fractured parts.48
Gradually men, women and children start laughing, crying, singing and
dancing – they verbally and physically respond, building up to a tri-
umphant collective voice – and in so doing, a significant shift in their
sense of themselves takes place. This scene highlights the importance
of the call-and-response pattern, which began with collective work
songs and spirituals, becoming a highly sophisticated affirmation of col-
lective voice as antiphonal phrases repeat and respond to each other,
the participants assenting to membership in a group and affirming that
their experience is shared.
In Kincaid’s novel Lucy the pattern of call-and-response is mostly
implicit, encoded more in the structuring of the text. This is because
the young protagonist is engulfed in the white world, separated totally
from her Caribbean roots and her family and friends she has left behind
in Antigua. Her passage across the Atlantic is a very different one from
the one I have just described. It appears at first as if this is a journey
that Lucy herself has chosen, but her struggle to find her own voice
involves a sense of personal loss and incomplete mourning that is in
part the result of 500 years of cumulative cultural loss and grief, which
has to be healed on both a personal and cultural level. For Lucy’s life
in Antigua has been consumed by two almost overwhelming love/hate
relationships, one with her mother, the other with Western canonical
literature, which in their complex entanglement have together com-
promised her sense of agency. Lucy’s story then, is not just a simple
story of resistance, for it involves a doubled-sided discourse in which
ambivalence is necessarily enfolded, a doubled heritage and pain of
double-consciousness, what Lucy calls her ‘two-facedness: that is,
outside I seemed one way, inside I was another; outside false, inside true’
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(18). Leaving aside for a moment the fact of Du Bois’s gender bias typical
of his era,49 his original definition of double-consciousness speaks in
many ways to Kincaid’s character, Lucy: ‘It is a peculiar sensation, this
double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through
the eyes of others . . . One ever feels his [sic] two-ness, – an American, a
Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring
ideals in one dark body.’50 Since Du Bois, the term has become one of
the most important concepts of African-American criticism, and indeed
for literary criticism in general. For instance, in The Signifying Monkey,
Henry Louis Gates Jr explores the connection between double-
consciousness and the inherently double-voiced and parodic nature of
the African-American text, but Gates remains wedded to the masculin-
ity of Du Bois’s original formulations.51 If, however, the notion of
double-consciousness is used to provide a paradigm for understanding
issues of identity within the framework of the power structures that
dominate cultural and racial conflicts and the differences they espouse,
then I think it can be very useful, provided that the intersections of
gender, and to a lesser extent perhaps class, are always present.
Theorised as a form of imposed socialised ambivalence, and utilising
the positive as well as the negative aspects of the resulting tensions, the
concept of double-consciousness provides a methodological paradigm
through which to explore ways of articulating the many forms of often
painful resistance by and through which African-Americans and others
have voiced a coming to self-definition, self-determination and self-
consciousness. Furthermore, as Jones remarks, not only is double-
consciousness a recurring theme in twentieth-century African-American
literature, particularly in character depiction, motivation, and revela-
tion, ‘[i]t is also a mechanism for elucidating the relationship between
personal experience, history, and society’.52 Importantly too, Du Bois
himself conjoins double-consciousness with the structural pattern of
call-and-response. He ends The Souls of Black Folks, a text suffused with
an Enlightenment world-view and ethos, with a call for a participatory
response: ‘HEAR MY CRY, O God the Reader; vouchsafe that this my
book fall not stillborn into the world-wilderness.’53
With this in mind I chose a metaphor that connects in with Jones’s
notion of the ‘liberating voice’ and its heritage within the oral tradi-
tions that evolved through the enforced synthesis of cultures that began
in the Caribbean and American plantations of the Deep South – that of
creative marronage. This is a term of Édouard Glissant’s that signifies the
cultural opposition that began with the physical resistance of the
maroon fighters of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries of which I
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wrote in the first chapter – what Glissant terms historical marronage.54 As

colonialism moved into the postcolonial, historical marronage evolved
into differing forms of discursive resistance known as creative or
imaginative marronage, such as music, literature and so on, as a
means of continuing to counteract and subvert renewed forms of re-
appropriation by dominant white cultural values. Kincaid’s creative mar-
ronage represents one of the newest forms of innovative writing that has
its roots in the Caribbean.
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5
The Search for a Voice
Lucy’s antiphonal backchat
The structure of Jamaica Kincaid’s novel, Lucy, is an important compo-

nent of the attempt to recover the voice and self-conscious interiority
of the black female subject. It consists of five titled chapters that appear
in the following order: ‘Poor Visitor’, ‘Mariah’, ‘The Tongue’, ‘Cold
Heart’, and finally, ‘Lucy’. The first chapter covers Lucy’s arrival from
Antigua and her unexpected homesickness as she settles in with Mariah
and her family. The protagonist’s attempt to move beyond her frag-
mented identity takes place in the numbing environment of self-
congratulatory wholeness of being that accompanies the privilege of
whiteness:
The household in which I lived was made up of a husband, a wife,

and four girl children. The husband and wife looked alike and their
four children looked just like them. In photographs of themselves,
which they placed all over the house, their six yellow-haired heads
. . . smiled out at the world, giving the impression that they found
everything in it unbearably wonderful. (12)
Mariah, a strong exponent of liberal humanism, tells Lucy to make

herself at home and become part of the family, rhetorically disregard-
ing the seemingly obvious differences in positions of class and race. Yet
her actions quite often belie her ‘good’ intentions. This recalls bell
hooks’s argument that the ideology of liberalism – by merely asserting
a universal subjectivity (we are all just people) without making any
changes in the structuring of society will automatically bring about the
disappearance of racism – in fact masks a ‘deep emotional investment
86
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The Search for a Voice 87
in the myth of “sameness”, even as their actions reflect the primacy of

whiteness’.1 Lewis, Mariah’s husband, is not even this accommodating,
but he veils his responses in derogatory remarks. He ridicules Lucy for
staring at them while they eat, asking her if she has never seen anyone
eat ‘French-cut green beans’ before (which of course is not very likely),
all the while keeping a look of concern on his face (14); and he repeat-
edly recounts to her a monkey story, ostensibly blind to its racist impli-
cations. Lucy has little to do with him as he is a peripheral character in
the story, but as a symbolic WASP male he exerts the ultimate author-
ity on his family from behind the scenes. However, most of the young
au pair’s time is spent with Mariah and the children. Mariah is the focus
and foil of Lucy’s developing sense of self, and with the opening of the
second chapter – significantly titled ‘Mariah’ – Lucy’s quest for identity
begins.
In this chapter Lucy will ask a question five times, the core of which
is: ‘How does a person get to be that way?’ but it alternates between this
and the more personal, ‘How do you get to be that way?’ (emphasis
added). The searching inquiry is always asked in relation to Mariah.
My suggestion is that this is an adapted form of the call-and-response
pattern that I outlined in the last chapter. However this is complicated
by Lucy’s deep immersion in the ‘books [she] had read’ (6), and which,
at the outset at least, provide the template for her reading of American
society. With her sense of self buried by both the effects of double-
consciousness that have resulted from her past colonial education and
her present position as servant, Lucy’s first attempts at calling Mariah
to respond to the very real differences between them are both internal
and individualistic. Contrary to the thematics and politics of call-and-
response, which has at its heart a calling in of additional voices that
will respond to the caller and a gradual building up to an empowering
communal response that is intrinsic to becoming part of a collective
voice, Lucy can only begin by reaching out towards this heritage. Her
questing voice cannot initially be spoken aloud. However, both the rep-
etition of the question, its variations, and the response that occurs when
Lucy finally speaks, intensifies the meaning of the repeating call.
The chapter begins with the ambivalent subject of daffodils. It is
March, and Mariah talks excitedly of the coming Spring, a season that
Lucy has yet to encounter, and a season that is symbolised for Mariah
by the flowering of daffodils. Her description of them is ridiculously
rhapsodic: ‘when they are in bloom and all massed together, a breeze
comes along and makes them do a curtsy to the lawn stretching out in
front of them. Have you ever seen that? When I see that, I feel so glad
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to be alive’ (17). It is almost a parody of Wordsworth’s famous poem

that comes to play such a pivotal role in the novel. Lucy is reduced to
a wondering amazement: ‘So Mariah is made to feel alive by some
flowers in the breeze. How does a person get to be that way?’ (17). At
this stage the question is merely a generalised query, for Lucy has yet
to interconnect Mariah’s effusive enthusiasm and idealisation of nature
with her ability to depoliticise and decontextualise racialised social
injustices. Directly after this moment, Lucy tells Mariah with subdued
anger the story of how she had to recite Wordsworth’s poem on the
school podium, which at the time had engendered in her a disconcert-
ing feeling of being split in two. Mariah listens to Lucy’s story of psychic
alienation, but it has no impact on her way of seeing the world. The
first day of spring finally arrives, and any hope of daffodil watching is
buried under a huge fall of late snow, an event that Mariah takes as an
almost personal insult. Inwardly laughing, Lucy wonders to herself for
the second time: ‘How do you get to be a person who is made miserable
because the weather changed its mind, because the weather doesn’t live
up to your expectations? How do you get to be that way?’ (20, empha-
sis added). Again the questions are represented as internal dialogue, but
this time it is varied by the use of the second person interrogative aimed
at someone who is not herself. The inquiry is becoming more personal.
By the time Lucy comes to ask the question for the third time, things
have become much more complicated. She is beginning, albeit uncon-
sciously, to confront the elitism of Mariah’s aura of easy perfection, and
she is also having to deal with memory echoes from her past, memo-
ries, as we shall see, that always connect back to her mother. Kincaid
then inserts a scene that is bracketed off by ellipses and covers exactly
two pages – beginning top left and ending on the bottom right, so they
are also divided off from the rest of the text by the mechanism of page-
turning. It is an ambivalent scene because it lays the imagined purity
of whiteness under a piercing spotlight, but it also bathes Mariah, the
subject of the questioning and also the symbol of white middle-class
femininity, in a setting that exudes love, benevolence and empathy.
Lucy is alone in the kitchen when Mariah enters lightheartedly dancing
and singing, swirling wildly but with a grace that ensures she avoids
banging into the ‘many things on her path’ (26). She stops, announc-
ing with a flourish how she has always wanted four girl children and
that she loves them wholeheartedly. Lucy thinks to herself:
Mariah was beyond doubt or confidence. I thought, Things must

have always gone her way, and not just for her but for every body
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she has ever known from eternity; she has never had to doubt, and
so she has never had to grow confident; the right thing always
happens to her; the thing she wants to happen happens. Again I
thought, How does a person get to be that way? (26, emphasis added)
Now, ‘how does a person get to be this way’ has come to mean how does
a ‘white person come to be this way?’ Lucy’s unspoken interrogation
is really about the normativity and unacknowledged presumption of
white-skin privilege and its matrix of naturalised power. However, it is
a question which Lucy cannot yet voice aloud, especially as this privi-
leged whiteness is symbolised throughout the text by Mariah, the beau-
tiful ‘golden mother’ who loves her children and Lucy, and whom Lucy
herself ‘grows to love’ (46). Moreover, not only is Mariah a surrogate
mother, but she seemingly offers an uncontradictory acceptance of
Lucy’s difference in both race and class status. Furthermore, while
Mariah not only outwardly expresses her love for Lucy, an understand-
ably seductive offering for a young woman alone in a foreign world, she
is also her employer. But Mariah is not just a perfect mother bathed in
a light of blinding whiteness, she becomes the white mother of Chris-
tianity, represented at this moment in the text as the Marian symbol of
goodness, femininity, loving maternity and selflessness:2
She looked so beautiful standing there in the middle of the kitchen.

The yellow light from the sun came in through a window and fell
. . . on Mariah with her pale-yellow skin and yellow hair, [She] stood
still in this almost celestial light, and she looked blessed, no blemish
or mark of any kind on her cheek or anywhere else. (27)
The idealised image, however ambivalently treated, and especially one

bound up in the dynamics of love, gratitude or grace, is hard to con-
front. This is also one of the reasons that the liberal humanist approach
is so difficult to gainsay, especially if the one seeking to ask the ques-
tions is, like Lucy, shrouded under the mantle of a servant. Tactics of
evasion under the guise of civility are, in the words of Toni Morrison,
‘further complicated by the fact that the habit of ignoring race is under-
stood to be a graceful, even generous, liberal gesture. To notice is to
recognize an already discredited difference’.3 This is the ideological
approach that Mariah pursues, that is, until Lucy displeases her and the
mask of liberalism is replaced by an angry employer who demands the
hierarchical black and white relationship of master/slave and the humil-
ity and subservience that it entails.
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What is also extremely significant is that directly before this isolated

vignette is a strange story from Lucy’s childhood about a friend of her
mother’s called Sylvie who has a scarred cheek, the result of a bite, ‘an
embrace of hatred’, from another woman whom she had enraged. This
is an allegorical story of a fall from grace, connected to Eve by the bib-
lical imagery: ‘It was as if her cheek was a half-ripe fruit and someone
had bitten into it, meaning to eat, but then realized it wasn’t ripe
enough’ (24). As a child Lucy was always sure that the ‘mark on [Sylvie’s]
face was a rose . . . and it was as if the mark . . . bound her to something
much deeper than its reality, something that could not be put into
words’ (25). Lucy was sure that when she grew up she too ‘would end
up with a mark somewhere’ (25), a statement echoingly reminiscent of
the opening of Spillers’ essay, ‘Mama’s Baby: Papa’s Maybe’ that I have
already mentioned and which begins: ‘Let’s face it. I am a marked
woman, but not everyone knows my name’.4 So the story-line moves
from the story of the marked black woman and the assumed inheritance
of this scarring, through the distinctly separated Madonna scene, to one
of the climactic moments in the text when Lucy is faced for the first
time in her 19 years with the reality of ‘A host, of golden daffodils . . .
fluttering and dancing in the breeze’, and a confrontation with the scars
that she cannot yet voice.5
In a caricature of a colonial act of capturing, Mariah insists on blind-
folding Lucy and leading her into the midst of ‘her beloved daffodils’
(30). Despite now knowing of Lucy’s aversion to this paradoxical flower
– insignia of Empire and a symbol of mourning for her lost self – Mariah
assumes that in the end she will be able to charm Lucy into finally
seeing things from her perspective. ‘There was such joy in her voice,’
Lucy recounts, ‘how could I explain to her the feeling I had about daf-
fodils – that it wasn’t exactly daffodils . . . Where would I start? . . . I
tried to talk I stammered and by accident bit my own tongue’ (29).
Mariah, thinking she is overcome with joy, reaches out to hug Lucy.
Lucy moves back in anger, and this physical act reactivates her speak-
ing self: ‘Mariah do you realize that at ten years of age I had to learn
by heart a long poem about some flowers I would not see in real life
until I was nineteen?’ (30). They walk home in silence.
The first three ‘calls’ come towards the beginning of the ‘Mariah’
chapter. Then after the catalyst scene, there is a gap in the pattern. Lucy,
Mariah and the children travel to the family holiday house on the Great
Lakes, where Mariah had grown up and to which she has great nostal-
gic attachment. They spend a number of weeks there, playing on the
beach, walking, planting a garden and generally living a country life.
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On the whole Lucy is distracted from her quest for self for she has
embarked on a pleasurable love affair, but while she experiences flashes
of intense resentment, these are still internalised responses. At one
moment she wants to say to Gus, a Scandinavian who has worked for
Mariah’s family all his life, ‘Do you not hate the way she says your name,
as if she owns you?’ (34); another time Mariah, returning proudly with
some fish she has just caught says to Lucy, ‘Let’s go feed the minions’
(37), and Lucy thinks bitterly to herself:
It’s possible that what she really said was ‘millions’ not ‘minions’.
Certainly she said it in jest. But as we were cooking the fish, I was
thinking about it. ‘Minions.’ A word like that would haunt someone
like me; the place where I came from was a dominion of someplace
else. (37)
Lucy caustically reframes the meanings of both dominion and its deriv-
ative minion by placing them firmly in a postcolonial perspective. She
aligns the words with the phrase ‘racial domination’, and with her home-
land, a place long haunted by its colonial ownership. But she says
nothing to Mariah, and instead tells her a story from her childhood.
What finally liberates Lucy’s interrogatory voice is an extraordinarily
insensitive race-blind statement by Mariah.
One evening, as the two women are about to go to bed, Mariah says
to Lucy: ‘I was looking forward to telling you that I have Indian blood,
that the reason I’m so good at catching fish and hunting birds and roast-
ing corn and doing all sorts of things is that I have Indian blood. But
now, I don’t know why, I feel I shouldn’t tell you that. I feel you would
take it the wrong way’ (39–40). Underneath Mariah’s statement, the
masked assumption of white privilege that permits the owning of
anyone’s identity (though ironically the one drop of blood policy in
America would have meant that if this was the case Mariah could be
considered coloured), to Lucy who is struggling to find hers, is almost
incomprehensible in its arrogance. Not least because Lucy herself has a
Carib Indian grandmother. Her anger now visibly rising, Lucy says to
herself:
If someone could get away with it, I am sure they would put my
grandmother in a museum as an example of something extinct in
nature, one of a handful still alive. In fact, one of the museums to
which Mariah had taken me devoted a whole section to people, all
dead, who were more or less related to my grandmother.
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Mariah says, ‘I have Indian blood in me,’ and underneath everything

I could swear she says it as if she were announcing her possession of
a trophy. How do you get to be the sort of victor who can claim to
be the vanquished also? (40)
The latter part of the quotation pinpoints a worrying trend of those

privileged by the unacknowledged power attached to whiteness theory,
claiming of the victim position as a way of avoiding ethical repsonsi-
bility in relation to issues of racial injustice. The irony is that Mariah
can enact a performance of liberal guilt which appears truly to have
consumed her, while at the same time she is writing a book of ‘vanish-
ing things’, which to her means only the local flora. Native Americans,
whose lands the Puritans originally bartered for a pittance and who have
either been slaughtered or forced to vanish into reserves, play no part
in Mariah’s historicising of things lost from the past.
So far Lucy has said nothing aloud. Perhaps sensing Lucy’s inner
turmoil, Mariah lets out a ‘long breath, full of sadness, resignation, even
dread’ (41), but Lucy is angered enough finally to confront her surro-
gate mother and employer with the direct question, twice repeated:
‘All along I have been wondering how you got to be the way you are.
Just how it was that you got to be the way you are.’ (41)
Mariah tries a new disarming tack. She moves to hug Lucy. But Lucy
steps out of her path, and repeats: ‘“How do you get to be that way?”’
(41). The anguish on Mariah’s face ‘almost broke my heart,’ Lucy admits,
‘but I would not bend. It was hollow, my triumph. I could feel that, but
I held on to it just the same’ (41).
This ends the second chapter. Lucy has finally called the question she
has been building up to voice throughout this chapter. But it provides
her with no sense of triumph. Call-and-response is a collective enter-
prise, a joining in solidarity and communal resistance, and Lucy is alone
in the white world, cut off from her cultural roots. Reclaiming a self
signifies a self-conscious developed sense of interiority. It is about con-
nection, conjoining affect to event, and about reconnecting to a self
that is allowed to feel. While Lucy’s political consciousness and voice
are beginning to surface, she has to shut out, even as an echo, her pro-
foundly ambivalent feelings towards her own mother. What she has to
do now is to learn to feel again, which is the subject of the remainder
of the novel.
The third chapter is named ‘The Tongue’, the organ of speech, of taste,
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of sensuality and of feeling. It is also the fleshly agent of the voice. ‘Taste
is not the thing to seek out in a tongue,’ the adolescent Lucy decides
after experiments in kissing, ‘how it makes you feel – that is the thing’
(44). Importantly though, the tongue, voice and an ability to feel are
all intrinsic to the notion of double-consciousness and the sense of inte-
riority so long erased by white readings of black culture. The masking
performance of double-consciousness teaches a person to divorce herself
from her true feeling that Kincaid refers to earlier as ‘two-facedness’.
From Toni Morrison’s point of view, if she has made the reader feel the
event she is describing, it means she has succeeded in her work. When
asked in an interview whether she had read many slave narratives in
order to write Beloved, Morrison answered that she had read a number
of them, but because they could not alienate their audience which was
usually white, these ‘narratives had to be very understated. So while I
looked at the documents and felt familiar with slavery and overwhelmed
by it, I wanted it to be truly felt . . . I wanted to show the reader what
slavery felt like’.6 So a resistance narrative is not just about having a
tongue but about being able to give voice to inner trauma and pain, the
self-conscious ability to feel one’s interiority and to be able to voice this.
As Kincaid implies through her character, Lucy: ‘to feel is the thing’.7
How to feel, then, could be said to be the existential quandary of this
novel, but beyond that, how to speak what the protagonist feels, to be
able to name and speak of the ‘bad feeling’ for which she had no name,
but ‘only knew it felt a little like sadness but heavier than that’ (3–4).
However, first Lucy has to circumnavigate the cold heart of a self
negated and othered by her own mother who has adopted the cultural
mores of the British imperial nation that has colonised their home
island of Antigua. Thus Lucy’s self-abnegation is complicated not just
by her sense of cultural doubleness, the lines of which are blurred by
the internalisations from her schoolday teachings and then furthered
by the seductions of English literature and American white liberalism,
but also because this double-consciousness is so profoundly bound
up within the complications of her deeply ambivalent relationship
with her mother who sides ideologically with all that Lucy is trying to
combat.
The maternal echo
While most adolescent girls fight strongly against becoming like their
mothers as a means of forming a separate identity, Kincaid’s obsession
with her mother dominates all her work and sometimes criss-crosses
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unnervingly between biography and her strongly autobiographical

fiction. Indeed, there is a particularly intriguing point of contiguity
between Kincaid’s autobiographical fiction, her own enunciatory voice
represented in a number of interviews conducted with her, and her
memoir, My Brother. However, it is through a reading of the latter that
we encounter the story of Kincaid’s and her mother’s symbiotic rela-
tionship. We also, in a particularly vivid traumatic vignette, learn of
their alienation from each other which is clearly bound up around the
subject of books and literature. It is Kincaid’s mother who teaches her
to read at three and a half and is then very proud of her ability and her
love of reading, and who gives her an Oxford Dictionary for her seventh
birthday.8 But then, as Kincaid becomes immersed too deeply into
Western literature, her mother revokes her endorsement and loving
encouragement. This happens after the birth, in quick succession, of
Kincaid’s three male siblings, when her mother begins to demand her
help in the home, another recurring theme in her fiction. In My Brother
Kincaid recalls a devastating scene of her childhood in which she
becomes so absorbed in her reading that she fails to look properly after
her small brother whom she is minding for the day. On discovery, her
mother piles all her daughter’s treasured books in a great pyre, douses
them with kerosene, and sets them on fire.9 Indeed, so painful is this
memory that Kincaid tells and retells it over a number of pages. In Lucy,
this is re-presented as the traumatic moment when her Edenic world is
shattered, and the ‘paradise of mother’ is dramatically ruptured.10
Betrayal by the beloved mother, then, is a theme that echoes through-
out Kincaid’s work, and this treachery is matched by another, that of
the British colonial power which dominates their lives.11 To complicate
this, the protagonist’s mother symbolically represents the despised
yet alluring mother-country against whom the colonial daughter must
inevitably rebel, thus conflating mother–daughter antagonisms with the
power imbalances inherent in the relationship between the imperial
nation and its colony. Thus, in Kincaid’s work double-conscious alien-
ation from self is always relational, based on an anguished intersubjec-
tive relationship between mother and daughter, which in some sense is
always the story of Kincaid’s troubled relationship with her own mother
endlessly replayed. ‘I’ve never really written anything about anyone
except myself and my mother’ Kincaid has said.12 The contradictions of
her feelings for her mother are reflected in the many comments Kincaid
makes in interviews. On one hand, she can state that ‘the fertile soil of
my creative life is my mother’: yet elsewhere in the same article she dis-
parages her mother for her Anglophilia and the ‘middle-class English
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upbringing’ she forced upon her daughter.13 Kincaid’s fictional attempts

to come to terms with psychic alienation of the colonised is compli-
cated by the agonising disparity, loss, even hatred, that drive mother
and daughter apart: indeed they are often inseparable in the text. Yet
neither can they can ever break free of their psychic circuitry because
each is also simultaneously caught in an entanglement of deep longing
for reconnection that at times resembles a physical pain. The character
of Lucy’s mother – only ever focalised from the daughterly perspective
– appears to be a deeply compromised colonised subject who has been
seduced into complete acceptance of colonial cultural mores and
English ways of being that she then tries to impose upon her daughter.
Conspicuously unnamed in the novel, she is both an agent of empire,
and symbolically rendered as the loving and rejecting mother-country.14
Thus the theme of the echo which threads through the novel is not
only one of literary enchantment alternating with deep resentment.
A love/hate relationship with English literature, a numbed and frag-
mented sense of self that is entangled with the effects of colonisation,
and the repression of feeling that in moments of resurfacing always echo
back to the mother, combine into the maternal echo, which collectively
concerns loss, incomplete mourning and a reaching out to an incom-
prehensible sadness. This is the context in which Mariah, Lucy’s white
employer, becomes a substitute mother. The two mothers echo each
other. Sometimes the echoes meld together; more often they reverber-
ate one against the other, causing Lucy pain and inner conflict. Her sur-
rogate mother carries far less cultural baggage for Lucy: it is with her
biological mother whom she has left behind that her psyche is more
constantly engaged. Yet the conflict between the two always lies in
juxtaposition in the text. At one moment Lucy tells us:
Mariah wanted all of us, the children and me, to see things the way
she did . . . The children were happy to see things her way . . . But I
already had a mother who loved me, and I had come to see her love
as a burden . . . I had come to feel that my mother’s love for me was
designed solely to make me into an echo of her; and I didn’t know
why, but I felt that I would rather be dead than become just an echo
of someone. That was not a figure of speech. (35–6)
She is not just refusing to become an echo of her mother: she is refut-
ing her mother’s passive mimicry of the imperial mother country. It is
only in the final pages of the novel that Lucy begins to move towards
understanding that it is not her mother’s love that burdens and
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suppresses her but the burden of colonial history that has damaged their
relationship.
However, for most of the novel Lucy expends a great deal of energy
in repressing all feeling toward her mother. The fourth chapter, entitled
‘Cold Heart’, opens with the metaphor of ‘iron bars twisted decoratively
into curves and curls’ (85) that cling and bind around the organ of
affect. Lucy had believed that ‘a change of venue would banish forever
from my life the things I most despised’ (90), that once she had phys-
ically crossed the ‘vast ocean’, she could leave her past behind. But
whatever she’s doing, and however hard she tries to immerse herself in
her new position in the white world, echoes of her mother always inter-
vene. She may be feeding Miriam, the youngest of the children in her
charge and the one she loves the most, when she is suddenly reminded
of her mother feeding her when she was exactly the same age (44–5);
or she may be walking in the woods with the children when a memory
from the past suddenly intrudes into the present, this time a recollec-
tion of how when she was a child she would sit in her mother’s lap and
fondle the scar on her mother’s temple, a wounding from which she
had nearly died, and would have, if her own mother had not been able
to save her with her obeah healing powers (54–5). Time and time again
associative thinking somehow connects her back to her mother, until
one day it dawns on her:
My past was my mother . . . Oh, it was a laugh, for I had spent

so much time saying I did not want to be like my mother that I
missed the whole story: I was not like my mother – I was my mother
(90).
To try and counteract her enormous psychic presence in her life, Lucy
refuses to open the 19 letters she has received from her mother, ‘I knew
that if I read only one, I would die from longing for her’ (91). ‘I would
rather die’ – Echo’s missing words to Narcissus – now echo through
Kincaid’s text in a series of repetitions. Having made love to Mariah’s
best friend’s son, Hugh, for the first time, and immediately realising that
she has forgotten to use contraception, her thoughts ricochet to a time
years before when her mother had taught her about abortifacient herbs.
She now wonders if she will contact her if she has to, as she ‘had always
thought I would rather die than let her see me in such a vulnerable posi-
tion’ (70). The psychic force of their connection is so strong that Lucy
begins to suffer from violent headaches exactly like the ones that used
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to afflict her mother (93), and it is when she is describing her mother’s
first paralysing migraine headache that the origins of this echoing rep-
etition become apparent. Once, in a bitter argument with her mother,
she had turned to her and said,
‘I wish you were dead.’ I said it with such force that had I said it to
anyone else but her, I am sure my wish would have come true. But
of course I would not have said such a thing to anyone else, for no
one else meant so much to me. (93–4)
The outcome of this had been days of childish terror. For her mother
was overcome by such a powerful headache that she retired to bed for
days, and during the night Lucy would hear strange sounds which she
imagined to be the undertaker come to remove her mother’s body. Each
morning when ‘I saw her face again,’ Lucy recounts as an adult,
I trembled inside with joy. And so now when I suffered from these
same headaches which no medicine would send away, I would see
her face again before me, a face that was godlike, for it seemed to
know its own origins, to know all the things of which it was made.
(94)
While this is an adult recollection of a childhood memory, it still seems,

at this stage, a trifle melodramatic. Elsewhere, Lucy tells Mariah with an
even greater intensity that ‘for ten of my twenty years, half my life, I
had been mourning the end of a love affair, perhaps the only true love
in my whole life I would ever know’ (132). It is only with the arrival of
Maude Quick – her mother’s much-loved god-daughter, a bully who has
always been held up as a shining light of perfection in direct contrast
to Lucy’s ‘evil’ ways – that we begin to understand both the psychic
intensity of her obsessive love for her mother and the link with the
statement, ‘I would rather die’. This is a citation that turns out to rep-
resent her repressed and incomplete mourning for her lost relationship
with her mother that had resulted from a traumatic and constitutive
instance of mother–daughter betrayal.
Maude arrives unannounced at Mariah’s house bearing a letter from
Lucy’s mother that she is to hand-deliver on her way back from the
Caribbean. The letter contains news of Lucy’s father’s death a month
before. Lucy is devastated. She cannot cry or speak, until, that is Maude
says:
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‘You remind me of Miss Annie, you really remind me of your mother.’

I was dying, and she saved my life. I shall always be grateful to her
for that. (123)
Lucy launches into a litany of complaints against her mother, which is

only really stopped by Maude’s departure. Maude leaves behind a smell
of clove, lime and rose oil, a scent that makes Lucy ‘almost . . . die of
homesickness’ (124), for the scent draws her into the immediacy of her
past with the image of her mother bathing her in water in which she
had boiled the leaves and flowers of those plants in order to ward off
evil spirits. The deep contradictions of Lucy’s behaviour now manifest
themselves in her writing a ‘cold letter’ to her mother that ‘matched
my heart’ (127), yet in which she also encloses all the money she has
been saving to move out into a flat of her own.
Ironically, it is Mariah who brings about the possibility of catharsis.
She asks Lucy a piercing question: ‘“Why don’t you forgive your mother
for whatever you feel she has done? Why don’t you just go home and
tell her you forgive her?”’ (129). This reactivates a haunting memory,
and ‘with the memory came a flood of tears that tasted if they were
juice squeezed from an aloe plant’ (130). The release of the traumatic
memory concerns the birth of her three brothers that began when Lucy
was nine. Until that time she has received her mother’s undivided love
and attention. In her mind there is an abrupt cessation of love with the
birth of the first boy. Each male child is adored and their futures as a
doctor or lawyer trained in England is a subject of much discussion and
immense pride between her parents:
I did not mind my father saying these things about his sons, his own
kind . . . But my mother knew me well, as well as she knew herself:
I, at the time, even thought of us as identical; and whenever I saw her
eyes fill up with tears at the thought of how proud she would be at
some deed her sons had accomplished, I felt a sword go through my
heart, for there was no accompanying scenario in which she saw me,
her identical offspring, in a remotely similar situation. (130, empha-
sis added)
It is a very gendered betrayal. Her mother now expects her to neglect

her own schooling to help at home, and her future possibilities are
limited to some form of domestic service, or at best being a nurse when
she had wanted to be a doctor. Lucy can to some degree feel again, and
she tastes the bitterness of belatedly encountering this memory of her
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mother’s treachery on her tongue as her tears run into her mouth. She
now reads all her mother’s unopened letters, acknowledging that, ‘if I
had seen those letters sooner, one way or another I would have died. I
would have died if I did nothing; I would have died if I did something’
(139). She then burns them, writes a final letter, lying to her mother
pretending she will come home soon, tells her she is moving out of
Mariah’s house and finally, in an act of symbolic severence, gives her a
false address to ensure that she will never receive a reply. Lucy has
erased, she thinks, the maternal echoes in her head. Now she has to
divest herself of the shroud of whiteness.
The deadening impact of whiteness
The maternal echo and the internalised impact of whiteness come

together in Kincaid’s ambivalent metaphor of snow. Her use of this trope
is hardly unusual, but Kincaid moves beyond its orthodox allusions to
the purity of whiteness by accentuating instead snow’s seductive power,
leaving hidden (initially at least) the co-existing dangers of paralysis
from the cold, blindness from its devastating bright glare, even the
possibility of death:
When the snow fell, it hung on the trees like decorations ordered for
a special occasion . . . even I could see that there was something to it
– it had a certain kind of beauty . . . [it made] the world seem soft
and lovely and – unexpectedly, to me – nourishing. (22–3)
In Lucy’s first winter in America there had been innumerable snow-

storms, but she only notices the snow’s impact when she has to make
her way ‘through the mounds of it that lay on the sidewalk’ (22).
Without any break in sequence, and reflecting the use of associative
thinking, the next sentence proceeds straight into a memory of a story
her mother had told her that connects both the deadening effects the
ideology of whiteness can have on colonised subjects and a sense of the
immense pleasure it offers:
My parents used to go every Christmas to a film that had Bing

Crosby standing waist-deep in snow and singing a song at the top of
his voice. My mother once told me that seeing this film was among
the first things they did when they were getting to know each other.
(22)
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As insidious as the daffodil that produces a reading of nature totally

alienated from their Caribbean island, Bing Crosby’s singing of ‘White
Christmas’ becomes an annual nostalgic ritual that provides Lucy’s
parents with a momentary psychic escape from the impoverishment of
their own material reality and the sun-drenched drought-ridden land-
scape that has been denuded of its tropical rainforests in the name of
white capitalist expansion and profit.15 Waist deep in nostalgia and
celebrating the Christian story of rebirth, her parents are pictured as
immersed in an unseen ideology that is so normative that it is an intrin-
sic part of the ritual of their lives. Crosby can sing at the top of his voice
with no impediments to either sound or content because he is part of
the (celebratory) culture of whiteness. Finding a voice to counter this is
not so easy.
While the engulfment of whiteness that faces Lucy in America – or at
least the part that is the hardest for her to resist – is symbolically rep-
resented in the maternal persona of Mariah, Kincaid’s other characters
cleverly illustrate different characteristics of whiteness that impact on
Lucy in subtly different ways. In Playing in the Dark, Toni Morrison’s
study of whiteness in American literature, she outlines the ways in
which black characters are used as a foil in the construction of white
identity, while simultaneously being deprived of their own interiority
and constitution of selfhood.16 All the adult white characters in Lucy –
Mariah, Dinah, Hugh, Paul, Lewis and Peggy need Lucy to oppose and
help construct their own sense of identity. Hers means nothing, or very
little, except to Mariah, who genuinely seems to love her.
Mariah’s husband, Lewis is an apt symbol for the narcissistic or self-
obsessed nature of white masculine power. Interestingly, he is repre-
sented as lacking a voice: ‘He was the sort of person – a cultivated man,
usually – who cannot speak his mind. It wasn’t that speaking frankly
had been bred out of him; it was just that a man in his position always
knew exactly what he wanted, and so everything was done for him’
(119). He is the man with the deceitful tongue who can simulate sexual
desire when touching Mariah’s neck with his tongue, and then, in an
almost replica scene caress the neck of his wife’s best friend, Dinah, with
the tongue that will ‘attack in an underhand way’ when it suits him
(119). For instance, he manoeuvres Mariah into asking him to leave,
thus making him blameless over his affair. He is a user, a man of power,
a manipulator, who is then ‘kind’ to Mariah in her misery, for as Lucy
caustically remarks in an aside, ‘it is so easy to be kind when you are in
his position, the winning-hand position’ (112). This statement also con-
tains a masked contestation of colonial paternalism. Moreover, Lewis
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has no sense of beneficence: it is he, not Lucy, who represents the cold-
heart and callous behaviour, and an oblique connection can be made
here between Lewis and Narcissus, both of whom have stared too long
and lovingly at their own images.
Dinah, Mariah’s best friend, and Lewis’s lover, appears proprietary in
all areas of her life. She wants what Mariah has although she already
has so much of her own, her predatory arrogance symbolising a con-
trasting position to Mariah’s liberal well-meaningness within the ideo-
logy of whiteness in American culture. Dinah makes it quite clear to
Lucy that to a person such as herself, ‘someone in my position is
[always] “the girl” – as in “the girl who takes care of the children” ’ (58).
From Dinah’s perspective, Lucy is merely the newest manifestation of
the Mammy figure of preceding eras and, as such, easily dismissed: she
is just another black girl performing a different form of ‘involuntary
servitude’, to use a phrase of George Lipsitz.17 Indeed, among the many
iniquities of white capitalism is the labour structure that continues to
allocate black female immigrants such as Lucy to the position of domes-
tic labour in white American middle-class homes. It is quite beyond
Dinah’s comprehension to imagine that, in the words of bell hooks,
‘Many of the [whites] are shocked that black people think critically
about whiteness because racist thinking perpetuates the fantasy that the
Other who is subjugated . . . lacks the ability to comprehend, to under-
stand, to see the workings of the powerful’.18 This arrogant blindness is
humorously disrupted by Lucy’s unspoken aside: ‘It would never have
occurred to her that I sized her up immediately, that I viewed her as a
cliché, as something not to be, a something to rise above’ (58).
Lucy also meets Dinah’s brother, Hugh, at a party in the holiday home
organised by Mariah in part to entertain her employee. This party is the
epitome of a white masquerade. It consists of impeccably dressed and
behaved people, ‘their clothes, their features, the manner in which they
carried themselves were the example all the world should copy. They
had names like Peters, Smith, Jones, and Richards – names that were
easy on the tongue, names that made the world spin’ (64). During this
event, Hugh becomes Lucy’s first lover in America. For Lucy this
relationship represents the enjoyment of sex with someone who has
enough courtesy to ask which island she comes from in the Caribbean,
and importantly, the fact that he was about five inches shorter than she
especially pleased her. However, despite his attraction, he unconsciously
speaks the language of privilege: ‘“Isn’t it the most blissful thing in the
world,”’ he says to Lucy, ‘“to be away from everything you have ever
known – to be so far away that you don’t even know yourself anymore
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and you’re not sure you ever want to come back to all the things you’re
part of?”’ (66). His privileged position in society means that he does not
have to examine the great difference between the position of a wealthy
young white man who can travel the world for as long as he is enjoy-
ing it, and that of a young West Indian woman who travels into this
white world, her shoulders cloaked under the ‘mantle of a servant’ (95).
If a cold heart and narcissistic behaviour is epitomised by Lewis, it is
Lucy’s second lover Paul, who is connected in the text with direct ref-
erences to the classical Narcissus myth. He is an artist, textually aligned
to Paul Gaugin (unnamed in the novel but obviously referenced), and
indeed he seems to have inherited the earlier Paul’s fetish of visual own-
ership through representations of exoticised, but docile, black women.19
The younger Paul’s paintings are not ‘straightforward . . . the people [in
them] looked like their reflections in a pool whose surface has been dis-
turbed’ (97). With instant attraction redolent of the myth, on meeting
him all Lucy can think about is that she wants ‘to be naked in a bed
with him. And I wanted to see,’ she says, with the second reference to
Narcissus, ‘what he really looked like, not his reflection in a pool’ (97).
Consummated lust prevails in their relationship (unlike Echo’s celibate
and passive longing), and Lucy dismisses Paul as soon as he becomes
overly possessive of her. While Gaugin exoticised and sexualised Tahit-
ian women through his paintings, Paul fetishes Lucy’s hair and colour-
ing (100) and reproduces photographic images, such as one of her,
naked from the waist up, standing over a boiling pot of food (155). Both
are examples of othered women’s positionality within the global system
of white male ownership, whether by gaze and its representations, or
in the figurations of literal bondage, as the photograph of Lucy implies.
It comes as no surprise that Paul has a penchant for violent sex (113),
the feats of the great explorers (129) and also has a fetish for ‘things
that came from far away and had a mysterious history’ (156). If this is
not alienating enough for Lucy, his idea of an outing is to take her to
visit the ruined Plantation house of a rich slave-owner.
However, none of the males is represented as having good qualities
in this novel: only the women really matter. Peggy, Lucy’s closest friend,
and the second most developed white character in the text, plays an
important role in that her white trash heritage places her in between
Mariah’s WASP liberalism and Lucy’s black immigrant/servant status.
Mariah’s attitude toward Peggy is particularly interesting. She gives Lucy
‘lectures about what a bad influence a person like Peggy could be. She
said that Peggy was never to come to the house and should never be
around the children’ (63) as if her presence would pollute and conta-
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minate. Her strong disapproval of Peggy accentuates the class bias of

the WASP hegemonic consciousness that is an important part of the
denigration of white trash who act as the border between working-class
whites and blacks.20
Peggy is disconcertingly different to other white Americans with
whom Lucy forms a relationship, for she does not participate in defin-
ing identity through the legibility of the racial body: indeed, she does
not even notice the difference between the colours of their skins. To
her, it is about voice: ‘You’re not from Ireland, are you? You talk funny’
(62), Peggy says on meeting Lucy. Ironically, Lucy and Peggy end up
sharing a flat for the very reason that they have nothing at all in
common except that they recognise in each other, as Lucy states: ‘the
same restlessness, the same dissatisfaction with our surroundings, the
same skin-doesn’t-fit-ness’ (145, emphasis added). While it is the distance
that grows between her relationships with both Peggy and Paul that pro-
vokes Lucy to move into a different psychic space at the end of the
novel, there is perhaps a suggestion of the possibilities of an alliance
of solidarity between lower classes of both black and white who are
conventionally separated by the powerful ideologies of the white
hegemony.
While both Peggy and Lucy are disempowered by their position at the
lower echelons of the American class structure, Peggy’s stress on the
voice over skin colour could suggest that whatever happens, however
much she is distanced from the hegemonic power base by virtue of
her class status, Peggy still has access to the normative privilege that
she has accrued merely from being white. Displaced Caribbean-British
writer, Caryl Phillips, also suffers from a profound sense of alienation
that has resulted from his British schooling, one that he acknowledges
at the beginning of his moving memoir, The European Tribe, with these
words: ‘If the teaching of English literature can feed a sense of identity,
then I like many of my black contemporaries in Britain, was starving.’21
Phillips also repeatedly articulates how being or not being at home
in one’s skin produces a complex relation to the power to speak and
to be heard.22 It is the connection between access to a liberating,
resistant voice and racial positioning that is important here, I think.
Lucy experiences a psychic shift when she is able to tell the story of
her traumatic loss of her mother’s love when she was nine to Mariah,
but disillusionment sets in when Mariah’s final answer is to produce a
classic tome of white feminism, Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, as
the answer to all Lucy’s problems with her mother. Lucy reads the first
sentence:
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‘Woman? Very simple, say the fanciers of simple formulas: She is a

womb, an ovary; she is female – this word is sufficient to define her.’
I had to stop. My life could not really be explained by this thick book
that made my hands hurt as I tried to keep it open. My life was at
once something more simple and more complicated than that. (132)
This great feminist text has no way of speaking to Lucy or approaching

the complexities of her racial existence, for de Beauvoir’s ‘Woman’ is
always unspokenly white.23 This moment of estrangement between
Mariah and Lucy ends the fourth chapter, ‘Cold Heart’, and it is the
defining moment for Lucy to make ‘a new beginning again’ (133).
Indeed, it is only when her frustrated expectations with whiteness – and
by extension with her surrogate mother – set in, that Lucy can finally
begin the painful return towards her own mother and her ancestral
history.
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6
‘The Sea is History’
. . . in the salt chuckle of rocks

with their sea pools, there was the sound
like a rumour without any echo
of History, really beginning.

Derek Walcott1
It was the oceans of the globe that enabled the discovery of the New
World and the implementation of slavery through the Middle Passage.
As described by Édouard Glissant in his Poetics of Relation (in which he
uses the title of Walcott’s poem as an epigraph) cries of unbearable suf-
fering emanating from thousands of slave-ships were only audible to
their captors. The plaintive echoes of torment and mourning dispersed
unheard over the vast Atlantic ocean, mingling only with the cries of
wheeling seabirds. Thus the reclaiming of that lost history is tied up
with the acknowledgement that sea and history overlay one another in
an ambivalent symbiotic relationship. Indeed, the symbolism of loss of
voice and the ocean as destroyer could be seen to merge in what Cornel
West describes as the ‘metaphorical association of black hearts, black
people, and black culture with water (the sea or a river) [which] runs
deep in black artistic expression’.2 It is interesting then that in Kincaid’s
novel, from the very beginning, there is a strong presence of water
imagery that is connected to the divisions between the young protago-
nist’s past and future:
I was no longer in the tropical zone, and this realization now entered
my life like a flow of water dividing formerly dry and solid ground,
creating two banks, one of which was my past – so familiar and
105
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predictable that even my unhappiness then made me happy just now

to think of it – the other my future, a gray blank, an overcast seascape
on which rain was falling and no boats were in sight. (5–6)
Imagery that could be connected to the Middle Passage continues to be

entangled with Lucy’s unhappiness on her arrival in America where she
is to sleep in a room ‘like a box – a box in which cargo traveling a long
way should be shipped. But I was not cargo’ (7). However, the body of
water that divides Lucy’s past from her future is both physical and
mental. There is as yet no present, for this, as she will discover, is caught
up in the belatedness of both historical and personal trauma: ‘I was
unhappy. I looked at a map. An ocean stood between me and the place
I came from, but would it have made a difference if it had been a teacup
of water? I could not go back’ (9–10).
However, the rupturing of the past from the future needs to be healed
if the promise of a future can be implied. At the beginning Lucy
attempts to repress the past, believing that a ‘change of venue’ will
ensure that the things she wants to banish from her life will remain on
the other side of ‘the vast ocean’ she has just crossed (90). What she
has not taken into account is the binding form and force of the echoes
of her past, echoes that always relate, consciously or unconsciously, to
her mother, and by extension to her lost maternal ancestry: ‘As each
day unfolded before me, I could see the sameness in everything; I could
see the present take a shape – the shape of my past. My past was my
mother’ (90). Yet she also realises that ‘[e]verything remains the same
and yet nothing is the same’, a gradual understanding that she had first
discovered a long time ago but has forgotten: ‘When this revelation was
new to me, years ago, I told it to my mother, and when I saw how deeply
familiar she was with it I was speechless’ (78). Yet away from the poli-
tics of the Caribbean and the backchat between herself and her mother,
much of Lucy’s resistance takes place unconsciously, and in silence, in
a series of haunting dreams. The last of these is a repetitive dream that
connects her obliquely to the theme of maternal loss, but in the form
of a patterning she cannot yet break. The sense of profound bereave-
ment is condensed into the image of a beautiful present that her mother
leaves for her at the bottom of a murky pool, but it is a gift she cannot
grasp because it keeps suddenly disappearing in the deep, sullied water
(87).
The last chapter, ‘Lucy’, is a circular return centring on change, both
personal and historical:
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‘The Sea is History’ 107
The person I had become I did not know very well. Oh, on the
outside everything was familiar. My hair was the same . . . My eyes
were the same. My ears were the same. The other important things
about me were the same.
But the things I could not see about myself, the things I could not
put my hands on – those things had changed, and I did not yet know
them well. I understood I was inventing myself, and that I was doing
this more in the way of a painter. (133–4, emphasis added)
This is the depiction of an awakening consciousness. Lucy is becoming

aware that she has been previously reading herself through the inter-
pretations of others. This shedding of double-consciousness means
seeing that her body parts have been fractured in surface readings that
have occluded any interiority or subjective depth. Possibilities of future
agency are now linked to a self-conscious, albeit painful, process of
intentionality which means breaking through the deadened feelings
that have been veiled under unacknowledged experiences of shame.
When Lucy breaks open the traumatic silence of the melancholy long
held within her – when she finally admits to Mariah something she has
never spoken of before, that ‘I was not an only child but it was almost
as if I was ashamed of this, because I’d never told anyone’ (130) – she
begins to release her story, and as a result ‘all sorts of little details of my
life on the island where I grew up came back to me’ (131). This em-
bodied traumatic memory and its belated return is full of the colour and
imagistic presence for which such memories are renowned. But, sud-
denly, just as she remembers how one of her brothers had nearly choked
to death swallowing a plum he had found, Lucy is forced by an inner
compulsion to speak no more: ‘[M]y mouth was empty, my tongue had
collapsed into my throat. I thought I would turn to stone just then,’ she
says (131). In a reversal of the Western Echo myth, in which her body
turns to stone, but her voice lingers on, Lucy’s painful recollection is
interrupted by Mariah’s presence. It is at this moment that Mariah then
produces de Beauvoir’s white feminist text, and Lucy’s cathartic moment
of telling of her shame is swallowed up again by the white echo.
The second shaming incident happens when Lucy meets an Ameri-
can who has just returned from holidaying in Antigua. This tourist is
blind to the poverty and the material legacies of slavery that are only
too visible on Lucy’s home-island with its economy built on distress and
deprivation and the ownership of people. To the holiday-maker, it is
just ‘a beautiful place’ (134): she cannot see what British Guyanian poet,
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Grace Nichols, describes in one of her poems on the Caribbean as

‘islands/fertile/with brutality’.3 But what disconcerts Lucy even more is
that the woman ‘named a village by the sea and then went on to
describe a view that was unknown to me. At that time I was so ashamed
I could hardly make a reply, for I had come to believe that people in
my position in the world should know everything about the place they
were from’ (134–5). Yet, the fact that Lucy knew little of her island is
embedded in the political history of Antigua: white colonialists owned
all the banks, offices, and resorts such as the exclusive Mill Reef Club,
and all the island’s most beautiful beaches were reserved for whites
only.4 Shame again almost interrupts her answer, but a new sense of
belonging to her island’s subaltern history makes Lucy realise:
I know this: it was discovered by Christopher Columbus in 1493;

Columbus never set foot there but only named it in passing, after
a church in Spain. He could not have known that he would have
so many things to name, and I imagined how hard he had to rack
his brain after he ran out of names honoring his benefactors, the
saints he cherished, events important to him. A task like that would
have killed a thoughtful person, but he went on to live a very long
life.
I had realized that the origin of my presence on the island – my ances-
tral history – was the result of a foul deed . . . (135, emphasis added)
Columbus’s ‘discovery’ of the West Indies in 1492 began a period of

genocide of Amerindian peoples which was followed by the mass im-
portation of African slaves. The humorous stress on the importance of
names honouring Columbus’s white heritage emphasises how imperial
ownership by naming is in itself a ‘foul deed’. Tzvetan Todorov describes
it this way: ‘The first gesture Columbus makes upon contact with the
newly discovered lands . . . is an act of extended nomination . . . the
declaration according to which these lands are henceforth part of the
Kingdom of Spain.’5 It is a written deed of ownership. Columbus landed,
as Todorov ironically states, ‘armed with his inkwell’.6 Todorov’s
metaphor also applies to the writing of imperial histories, which when
joined with imposed phantasmatic economy of Western literature,
plays such a powerful role in creating the ‘two-facedness’ of double-
consciousness. But Lucy has begun to feel again:
One day I was living silently in a personal hell, without anyone to

tell what I felt, without even knowing that the feelings I had were
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possible to have; and then one day I was not living like that at all. I
had begun to see the past like this: there is a line; you can draw it
yourself, or sometimes it gets drawn for you. (136–7, emphasis added)
Shamed by her lack of localised knowledge into contemplating the real-

ities of her history, Lucy no longer constantly relives the traumatic past.
She has gradually learned this in her year away, by ‘trying to explain it
to myself, [through] speaking to Mariah, how I got to feel the way I
even now feel’ (137). She has recently disengaged from a relationship
with her mother by sending her the lying letter with the false address.
Now she leaves Mariah’s employ and moves into an apartment with
Peggy. She has not, however, divested herself entirely from her trau-
matic attachment to her mother, as is clear by the obsessive stress on
the books she will take with her (143).
It is not surprising, then, that the climactic tension builds around an
image of water in the shape of one of Lucy’s photographs taken of the
Great Lakes, which she has pinned on her bedroom wall in her new
room:
it was a body of water . . . no boats, no people, no signs of life – except

the water, its surface of uniformly shaped ripplets, its depths dark,
treacherous and uninviting. It was the very opposite of the water I
was surrounded by on the island where I grew up. The water was
three shades of blue, calm, inviting, warm; I had taken it for granted,
so much so that it became one of the things I cursed. (148)
As Lucy disengages from Mariah, she reunites imaginatively with her

island and its beautiful surrounding sea. It is a psychic return built on
adjectival differences. She opens a drawer and takes out a collection of
documents that define her life in the white world: her passport, immi-
gration card, permission-to-work card, birth certificate and a copy of the
lease of the apartment. These documents, she thinks, show ‘everything
about me . . . where I was born . . . my birthday . . . They showed my
skin and my eyes were the same color brown’ (149). Indeed, the iden-
tificatory photographs show everything and nothing, for they are all
surface readings bound by skin colour, official documentation re-
miniscent of the classificatory role photography played in imperial
dominance.
What they do not illustrate is the internal impact of the power of
naming and labelling. Startled by seeing her name repeated again and
again on the documents, Kincaid’s protagonist is finally provided with
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the name we as readers have so far only assumed: ‘These documents

all said that my name was Lucy – Lucy Josephine Potter’ (149), and so
begins a four-page meditation on the origins of her three names, two
of which have been chosen by her mother, and all of which she hates.
Her hatred of her patronymic is understandable: it is an inherited slave
ownership name. Josephine was chosen in relation to her mother’s
uncle, Mr Joseph who was reputed to be rich and might, her mother
thought, leave Lucy some money in his will. The ironic moral of this
tale is that he had lost all his fortune and was forced to live in an old
tomb in the Anglican churchyard, the spiritual home of the imperial-
ists. It is, however, the first name that matters. As a child Lucy had hated
her name, thinking it ‘slight, without substance’ (149). She had not
received an answer when she asked her mother the origins of her name
years before, and it is important that when she gets a response her
mother is pregnant with the last of her three sons, a time of extreme
alienation between mother and daughter: ‘ “I named you after Satan
himself. Lucy short for Lucifer. What a botheration from the moment
you were conceived” ’ (152), her mother finally replies.
This is not only a very ambiguous statement, it is the peripeteiac sen-
tence of the novel in many ways. Lucy is illegitimate, her brothers legit-
imate. Lucy has to ask twice, the second time her mother answers ‘under
her breath’, so it is quite possible that this reply is a projection of Lucy’s
bound up with her profound sense of her mother’s betrayal that had
occurred after her first brother was born. Yet, despite its negative con-
notations, Lucy declares: ‘I was transformed from failure to triumph. It
was the moment I knew who I was’ (152). Lucy immediately goes on to
tell how she was taught to read through the Bible, Paradise Lost, and
that part of her education involved having to memorise parts of Par-
adise Lost. As I see it, this is the moment in the novel when the two cul-
tures merge together. Her joy is in part a response to her deep affinity
with this great poem, thus representing the white literary echo that has
resounded through her life; however, it is extremely important that
Satan was also the favourite anti-hero of slave folklore, work songs, spir-
ituals and slave narratives.7 Lucy now renames Milton’s Lucifer as her
own: ‘The stories of the fallen were well known to me, but I had not
known that my own situation could even be distantly related to them’
(152–3). Having always despised the name Lucy, she now affirms the
appellation her mother gave her, which she can now connect to a
reading of the Caribbean and maybe a rereading of the passage in which
Milton ambivalently connects Columbus’s discovery of the New World
as an afterword to the biblical scene of shame. Milton’s canonical echo
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has now merged with the resistance Satan has provided for African oral
traditions in the New World.
All this time Lucy has been lying in her bed. She gets up and looks
out of the window onto the white world below where she notices a
broken clock: ‘it made me even more conscious of a feeling I had con-
stantly now: my sense of time had changed . . . For a very long moment
I wondered what my mother was doing and I saw her face; it was the
face she used to have when she loved me without reservation’ (154–5).
The very long moment is a distillation of trauma and its passing into
consciousness. Lucy moves out of the latency of belated time. Instead
of the stilling of time around the moment of trauma of her mother’s
rejection in which the past had continually forced itself into an endless
repeating possession of her present, the past can now be aligned with
a future that can stretch ahead.
In her final act in the novel, Lucy is alone one night in the apart-
ment. She picks up a leather notebook with blank white pages that
Mariah had given her as a parting present:
It was on the night table next to my bed. Beside it lay my fountain

pen full of beautiful blue ink. I picked up both, and opened the book.
At the top of the page I wrote my full name: Lucy Josephine Potter.
At the sight of it, many thoughts rushed through me, but I could
write only this: ‘I wish I could love someone so much that I could
die from it.’ And then as I looked at this sentence a great wave of
shame came over me and I wept and wept so much that the tears fell
on the page and caused all the words to become one great blur.
(163–4)
The only other occasion in the book where Lucy cries was the profound
moment of belated understanding why her relationship with her mother
was scored with such a profound sense of ambivalent hatred and des-
perate longing for reunion. It was the moment when she finally admits
out loud that she was not an only child as her previous silence suggested,
but one with a traumatic past, a past haunted by her mother’s sudden
expiration of maternal love. But one of the echoing memories of that
terrible time was that her mother’s eyes also constantly filled with tears.
However, they were not tears of mourning for her lost love for her
daughter, but tears of pride at the thought of what great deeds her sons
might very well perform when they grew up. Lucy’s tears that flow as
she tells the story to Mariah tasted as if they were squeezed from an
aloe plant. In the Western pharmaceutical industry, aloe is used as a
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bitter purgative. But the label aloe means that the plant belongs to the
genus of the African lily. The entangled trope of taste and feeling has
threaded through this novel, and Lucy’s will-to-feel must always be as
ambivalent as the tears that taste of aloe. Now, Lucy’s tears flow again.
She begins to mourn the lost relationship with her mother, but her
future life and the self she is crafting will always hold that sense of loss
at her centre. She can never be totally free of either the literary or the
maternal echoes that haunt her life.
Separated from her African cultural roots by her mother’s assimilation
into the cultural mores of the colonists, Lucy’s method of call-and-
response has been partly subsumed by the deadening whiteness of the
responding echo that returns from Mariah, the only person she has
an empathetic face-to-face relationship with in the novel. I began this
section by describing two colonial punishments that Kincaid endured
as a child. I have already discussed the reconstitution of the echoes of
Milton’s Paradise Lost. However, the lines of Gray’s poetry, ‘Ignorance is
bliss: It’s folly to be wise’, which Kincaid was forced repeatedly to copy
follow a different trajectory which contains a wonderfully ironic justice.
In an essay entitled, ‘The Muse of History’, Derek Walcott describes how
in the Plantations of the New World ‘the slave [gradually] wrested God
from his captor’8 and with extraordinary dexterity reformed the only
language and imagery available to them into differing forms of oral
backchat. One such act of resistance was the Afro-Caribbean proverb
which turned the ideology behind the biblical proverb into one of
mimicry or mocking subversion. In the plantation fields of Jamaica the
slaves retaliated by reconfiguring the master’s language in a manner that
was all their own. The biblical proverb which reads: ‘Answer not a fool
according to his folly, lest thou also be like unto him. Answer a fool
according to his folly, lest he be wise with his own conceit’9 became,
according to Orlando Patterson, one of the slaves’ favourite proverbs,
but now reading, ‘Play fool, to catch wise.’10 Stereotyped as lying, cow-
ardly, lazy, subhuman and utterly unintelligent, the slaves re-troped the
ideological prescription imposed upon them by turning it into a double-
coded subversion that echoed, but rewrote, the original. As African tra-
ditions of orality provided a way of projecting a resisting voice through
and across the dualistic world that silenced them, so too has it enabled
the creation of a distinctive literary form. The socio-historical context
of Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy is contemporary America, but the force of
its call is grounded in Glissant’s theory of ‘creative marronage’ which
explodes outwards from the Caribbean to become part of that subver-
sive tradition.
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Importantly, however, Kincaid’s racial reconfiguring is specifically

gendered; her protagonist’s subjectivity is a relational identity fash-
ioned, painfully and tentatively, out of her maternal heritage and ances-
try. Barbara Christian, in her significant essay, ‘Race for Theory’, argues
that ‘people of color have always theorized – but in forms quite differ-
ent from the Western form of abstract logic. And I am inclined to say
that our theorizing . . . is often in narrative forms, in the stories we
create, in riddles and proverbs, in the play with language, since dynamic
rather than fixed ideas seem more to our liking. How else have we
managed to survive with such spiritedness the assault on our bodies,
social institutions, countries, our very humanity?’11 Kincaid’s narrative
form itself can be seen to be a writing back against the abstract pre-
scriptions of a colonial education and its double-conscious heritage
through instigating a subversive response to the pull of the ‘white world’
and the interpellative pleasures of its literary echoes.
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7
‘Knots of Death’: Toni
Morrison’s Sula
‘Gotta make a way out of no way’ – Traditional

black folk saying1
The short untitled prologue of Toni Morrison’s second novel, Sula, pow-
erfully delineates the devastating potency of white American society to
create, structure, name, then destroy, a black community merely on a
whim. Her carefully crafted opening sentence expresses both the vio-
lence and loss that will permeate the novel: ‘In that place, where they
tore the nightshade and blackberry patches from their roots to make
room for the Medallion City Golf Course, there was once a neighbor-
hood.’2 ‘The violence lurks’, Morrison states elsewhere, ‘in having
something torn out by its roots – it will not, cannot grow again.’3 The
capricious destruction of the rural community by the ubiquitous ‘they’
also suggests a sense of the black community’s alienation and exclusion
from any participation in the history that had, and continues to have,
so much impact on the lives of African-Americans. However, the con-
nection between racial violence and white history becomes more appar-
ent when immediately after describing its death, Morrison explains the
story of the community’s beginnings, for she illustrates quite clearly
that the inhumanity and capitalist impulsion of slavery were not halted
by Emancipation:
A good white farmer promised freedom and a piece of [fertile]

bottom land to his slave if he would perform some very difficult
chores. When the slave completed his work, he asked the farmer
to keep his end of the bargain. Freedom was easy – the farmer
had no objection to that. But he didn’t want to give up his land.
(5)
114
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‘Knots of Death’: Toni Morrison’s Sula 115
The ‘good’ white farmer therefore tricks the slave into believing that the
infertile land up in the hills really is ‘the bottom of heaven – the best
land there is’ (5). Thus the black community becomes called the Bottom
‘in spite of the fact that it was up in the hills . . . where planting
was backbreaking, where the soil slid down and washed away the seeds,
and where the wind lingered all through the winter’ (4, 5). This cruel
reversal of fortunes the narrator describes as a ‘nigger joke’, a survival
technique that inverts and masks the profound existential pain hidden
beneath the laughter, ‘[t]he kind [of joke] colored folks tell on them-
selves when . . . they’re looking for a little comfort somehow’ (4–5).4
However, as is already clear before the reader is more than two pages
into the novel, there is very little spiritual or material comfort to be
found cushioning the lives of the black characters in this novel, who
are often reduced to an existence of mere survival. As the narrator
describes it, ‘the laughter was part of the pain’ (4).5 Indeed, the repres-
sion of pain masked by laughter acting as solace is a recurrent trope in
the novel, as is an interweaving of laughter and death.
While Morrison, as Barbara Christian suggests, ‘weaves a fable about
the relationship between conformity and experiment, survival and
creativity’, death has an overwhelming presence in this novel, begin-
ning with the death of the black community itself.6 As Maureen Reddy
argues, ‘Each of the ten major chapters includes a death, sometimes
metaphoric but more usually actual’.7 The literal deaths are often almost
incomprehensible in their violence, and always involve a family
member or someone known to those involved; the spiritual deaths are
long and drawn out and equally as painful. While the novel’s surface
construction appears to be contained within the conventions of a
chronological timeframe, the text is divided exactly in half, with the
two almost identically sized parts separated by a 10-year interval. It
begins with an untitled prologue, then the chapters are titled by the
dates 1919, 1920, 1921, 1923, 1927 – the 10-year temporal rupture reg-
istered as pure absence – then 1937, 1939, 1940, 1941, and finally 1965,
which serves as an epilogue. However, the deep structure of the novel
does not progress along the assumed teleological ethos of traditional
historical time but moves in the rhythms of the psychic time-frame of
trauma. Morrison’s methodology involves placing each death at a
moment in history suggested by the chapter title: at first it is merely
described by the omniscient narrator – often in horrific detail, but also,
paradoxically, in evocative and hauntingly lyrical language. Then an
explanation from the character that has been most involved in each
death appears later in the text, usually in another chapter altogether.
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These knots of traumatic grief Morrison unties and reconfigures at a later

moment in the text, with the dénouement breaking through the
sequence of repeating death with an epiphanic moment of belated expe-
rience. More than Wide Sargasso Sea and Lucy, Sula exhibits the formal
devices of belatedness – the protective numbing that initially accompa-
nies a traumatic experience, the repeating intrusions that are unavail-
able to conscious assimilation, and the moment of belated recognition
that can unexpectedly occur, thus moving the traumatised person out
of a perpetual melancholia and into the possible healing of mourning.
Even more importantly, in Morrison’s text belatedness is intrinsic to
the novel’s formal properties; its figuration is subtle, original and the
knots’ unravellings are profoundly affected by the logic and ethics of
metaphor.
However, if death and time are inextricably interwoven with the
concept of belatedness in the novel, neither can they be separated out
from the presence of nature, for Morrison’s characters’ philosophy of
life is also bound up with the cyclical patterns of nature. Not only does
their survival depend on it in certain ways, but reading the signs of
nature is an intrinsic part of life in the Bottom.8 Hot and freezing winds,
uncanny frosts, sudden rises of temperature in the dead of winter,
plagues of birds and so on, charge the text: even promises are repeat-
edly ‘leaf-dead’ (161, 162). These unfulfilled promises emanate from
white society, and the effects of their withdrawal result in yet more
deaths. However, the adjective ‘leaf-dead’ also holds within it both a
configuration of the complexity of the ever-changing, ever-damaging
relationship between black and white Americans, but also the sugges-
tion that with spring’s renewal there is a hope of redemptive possibil-
ity. Nevertheless, such a possibility must be kept at arm’s length as a
tactic of survival, and more often the black community’s attitude sug-
gests an interweave of ideas of nature with a notion of determinism:
They did not believe Nature was ever askew – only inconvenient.
Plague and drought were as ‘natural’ as springtime. If milk could
curdle, God knows robins could fall. The purpose of evil was to
survive it and they determined (without ever knowing that they had
made up their minds to do it) to survive floods, white people, tuber-
culosis, famine and ignorance. (90)
The problem with the enforced victim status of the community in the
face of omnipotent white manipulation is that it results in a resigned
obstinacy, which means that the inhabitants no longer have the
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strength to determine the difference between the ills inflicted by nature

and the social ills inflicted by the white system. Tolerating evil is a
passive means of survival, as the community cannot fight back against
the enormity of the oppression that surrounds them. As I shall go on
to argue, the Bottom has all the hallmarks of a traumatised community.
It is the notion of a communal response to trauma – or trauma that
cannot be separated out from the embodiment of a raced and gendered
existence that is knotted into community life – that differentiates this
novel from the other two I have discussed.
The story of the Bottom’s birth, then, is the outcome of what Barbara
Christian describes as the ‘result of a White man’s inversion of the truth,
and it is destroyed years later when Whites again alter the truth, [and]
the worth of the land, to suit their own desires. Thus, a tradition evolves
during the life-span of the Bottom that is inextricably connected to its
beginning, a tradition that is rooted in the nature of the land as the
bottom on the top.’9 The Bottom becomes a community of devastating
economic poverty: the inhospitable land cannot support the black
families, there are few jobs available for the men, and only low-paid
domestic work in the white houses of the valley for the women, with
the result that husbands frequently desert their families.10 In turn, this
political economy of distress and deprivation gives rise to emotional,
psychic and physical trauma that engenders repeated familial patterns
of violence, oppression and hate.
The space between the Bottom’s birth and death and its struggle for
survival is central to Sula; it is also the ‘black’ history of the Bottom that
Morrison unravels and re-ravels in the course of the novel. As a conse-
quence of the pressure exacted by the invisible force of whiteness, the
black community’s principal survival strategy is to shore up seemingly
impermeable boundaries governed by strict unspoken rules to which
both individuals and the community must conform. This necessarily
creates an insular black society, but one that is, as Wendy Harding and
Jacky Martin suggest, brimming with a ‘richness and intensity of life’.11
Indeed, the community of the Bottom is a paradigmatic ambivalent
space, and as with all Morrison’s fictitious communities, is in her words
simultaneously ‘a support system and a hammer’.12 Interestingly, and
in accordance with this status of ambivalence, ‘the Bottom’ is both a
generic term for a black suburb and a particularised example of enforced
segregation that gave birth to blues, jazz and new forms of dance.
Geneva Smitherman explains that the label ‘bottom’ or ‘bottoms’
describes an area of any city or town where African-Americans live, and
which over time has come to refer to a run-down or slum area in the
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black community.13 However, Zora Neale Hurston, in a wonderful article

entitled ‘Characteristics of Negro Expression’, also refers to a specific
black community which had existed in 1920s in the ‘Jook section
of Nashville, Tennessee . . . a tough neighbourhood known as Black
Bottom – hence the name’, which was a particularly famous spot where
black music and dance grew and flourished.14 Here then, we have both
the positive and the negative: the segregated black communities of
endless Bottoms but within which black-created jooks sparked an artis-
tic creativity that spread back outward into American white society in
ways that forever changed and rejuvenated ‘American’ culture.15
It is this kind of masked resistance built out of African-American cul-
tural traditions that underwrites Morrison’s novel. This is signalled by
a small incident on the second page which will only alert a reader who
can read the cultural reference.16 It occurs when the narrator seamlessly
switches the description of the violent uprooting of the community to
a nostalgic remembrance of the neighbourhood as it had once been:
[O]n quiet days people in valley houses could hear singing some-
times, banjos sometimes, and if a valley man happened to have busi-
ness up in those hills – collecting rent or insurance payments – he
might see a dark woman in a flowered dress doing a bit of cakewalk,
a bit of black bottom, a bit of ‘messing around’ to the lively notes of
a mouth organ . . . The black people watching her would laugh and
rub their knees, and it would be easy for the valley man to hear the
laughter and not notice the adult pain that rested somewhere under
the eyelids . . . somewhere in the sinew’s curve. (4, emphasis added)
The intrusion of the generic white man on capitalist business into the
apparently carefree atmosphere of the black community offers the first
sign of a masked critique. However, the more obvious allusion to the
white man’s objectifying, sexualised gaze, the superiority of his finan-
cial position and his inability to see the pain that lurks below the skin
– a distress which must be misrecognised in order to justify its contin-
ued existence – is accentuated by the fact that the white valley man also
fails to register the mimicking power of the dance known as the cake-
walk, a Sunday dance that originated in the plantation system. This was
a parodic performance undertaken for pleasure, a masked but public
satire in which, according to black musician and former slave, Shephard
Edmonds, slaves ‘would dress up in hand-me-down finery to do a high-
kicking, prancing walk-around. They did a takeoff on the high manners
of the folks in the “big house”, but their masters, who gathered around
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to watch the fun, missed the point’.17 Eric Sundquist maintains that
Edmonds was mistaken in asserting that the white masters always
missed the satire at their expense, but whether the mimicry was silently
acknowledged and then ignored by the white owners, is not really the
point.18 As I see it, this makes the impact doubly subversive, but it does
not necessarily, or only momentarily, lessen the existential pain of the
slaves. However, this example of subversive upstaging has a wonderfully
resonant energy because it also illustrates the ‘indomitable power of
slaves to assert their human agency in closely restricted circumstances’,
as Paul Gilroy says in relation to another form of resistance, Morrison’s
use of the Margaret Garner story for Beloved.19
Morrison’s vignette of the white valley man subtly evokes the oppres-
sive structure of the objectifying look and the reliance on exterior body
signs that feeds the otherness of racial prejudice. It also foreshadows
one of the most metaphysically difficult scenes in the novel when
Helene Wright, one of the women from the Bottom, is publicly humil-
iated and punished for being black and female by both a demeaning
racial censure and the lingering sexualised look of a repulsive white con-
ductor, when she mistakenly gets into the whites-only carriage of a Jim
Crow train. This episode, as I mentioned in the introduction, is emblem-
atic of Sara Ahmed’s reading of the racial encounter and, importantly,
is the politicised reversal of the encounter in Wide Sargasso Sea in which
the white creole child, Antoinette, is shamed by donning the ‘dirty’
dress of Tia’s blackness. In Sula, Helene’s humiliation is witnessed by
her 10-year-old daughter, Nel, an experience that will haunt the impres-
sionable girl for the rest of her life. It is a scene as piercing and echoic
as Frantz Fanon’s important work on the constitutive white gaze and
repeated trauma of being derisively singled out by the pointing finger,
and the accompanying words, ‘ “Look a Negro!” ’, which results in the
sprawling, distorted black body riven with psychic pain that is returned
to him ‘clad in mourning’.20 Yet, Fanon’s brilliant exposition of the suf-
fering black body distorted by ideological prejudice and ‘legends, stories,
history, and above all historicity . . . [metaphorically] battered down by
tom-toms, cannibalism, intellectual deficiency, fetichism [sic], racial
defects, slave-ships’21 and so on, was of course also famously masculin-
ist. In contrast, Morrison states in Playing in the Dark, ‘[m]y work
requires me to think about how free I can be as an African-American
woman writer in my genderized, sexualized, wholly racialized world’.22
Thus, while Morrison, like Fanon, is interested in confronting her
readers with the damaging embodied effects of white dominance of
American society – strongly implying that white control of history has
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created unbearable suffering – she adds a radically gendered critique. In

particular, she unravels, often in intricate detail, how the dominant
social order of whiteness in its various mutations is internalised by her
black female characters.
Racial suffering is pin-pointed in Sula as beginning with the traumatic
historical experience of slavery, an experience that crippled African-
American bodies and minds. The story then shifts to World War I when
black bodies were again considered an economic necessity, but this time
as cannon fodder in the wider historical framework of a white man’s
war, and then continues in what appears, initially at least, to be a linear
progression towards 1965. However, after the prologue and first chapter,
Morrison concentrates on the female members of the black community.
My argument is that the psychic suffering of this continuing legacy can
never literally be seen unless rhetorically (re)presented and imagina-
tively visualised.23 In this novel, psychic traumas are literally written
onto the bodies of the main characters, and as a result many have bodies
that are physically marked in some way, whether by birthmark, self-
mutilation, or through the process of violent death. ‘Freedom was easy’
(5), the text tells us, but relinquishing ideological control of black lives
was not something that was going to be so easily given up. After Eman-
cipation, the continuation of white supremacy shifted from material to
ideological ownership – from the corporeal to the abstract.
The freedom to tell stories, whether fiction or the writing of history,
is based on the structures of power, and in the case of the disempow-
ered, both the ability to tell stories and the thematic content is very
often, as Obioma Nnaemeka tells us, about ‘survival (to live
beyond/after the event) . . . one must outlive/survive the event in order
to engage in its telling’.24 From the perspective of Chinua Achebe, whom
Nnaemeka quotes to illustrate her point: ‘It is the storyteller, in fact,
who makes us what we are, who creates history. The storyteller creates
the memory that the survivors must have – otherwise their surviving
would have no meaning.’25 And, as Nnaemeka goes on to state, Toni
Morrison is ‘one of the greatest storytellers of all times’.26 But African-
American storytelling, whether fiction or history, has been immeasur-
ably complicated by what black historians and other anti-racist
intellectuals term the ‘African Holocaust’, the repressed history of the
Middle Passage, black slavery in the New World, and its long-term
effects that have continued on in differing forms to the present day, in
what Morrison herself terms, the ‘trauma of racism’.27 From Morrison’s
perspective, ‘[t]he trauma of racism is, for the racist and the victim, the
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severe fragmentation of the self, and has always seemed to me a cause

(not a symptom) of psychosis’.28 Yet this form of trauma, Morrison
continues, holds little interest for the institutions of white-controlled
psychiatry, or indeed, most generally for the still white-dominated
discipline of literary criticism.29
The foundations of trauma theory, formulated by Sigmund Freud in
‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’, were written under the shadows of
World War I. The context of this work and the focus on the psychic
effects of war, have a particular relevance for a reading of Sula,
especially as the first chapter concerns a black soldier’s traumatised
experiences in this same war.30 As Freud struggled to understand the
phenomena of war neuroses, he came to believe that the trauma of wit-
nessing horrific violence and the mutilations of death in war instigated
repeated traumatic reactions that were relived in the mind. But he
argued that it was not so much the horrific visions of death itself, but
death’s utter unexpectedness that the mind could not fathom and incor-
porate into consciousness. Because the mind withholds assimilation of
the horror of the traumatic event, from Caruth’s contemporary per-
spective, ‘the outside has gone inside without any mediation’.31 This
means that sufferers have continually to wake in, and into, fright, to a
repeating state of consciousness of their survival. It is the repeating
experience of the realisation of survival itself that causes the ongoing
structure of psychic trauma. This is the peculiar and perplexing experi-
ence of survival which is intrinsic to the lived experience of the inhab-
itants of the Bottom.
Of all trauma theorists, Caruth provides the most intriguing and illu-
minating understanding of the direct effects external violence can have
on both the individual and the collective psyche. Moving beyond
Freud’s notion that response to a traumatic event most often occurs in
delayed and uncontrollable ways, repetitive dreams, flashbacks, hallu-
cinations and other intrusive phenomena, Caruth maintains that the
‘problem of trauma is not simply a problem of destruction but also, fun-
damentally, an enigma of survival’.32 The intricate relationship between
trauma and survival is ‘through the very paradoxical structure of in-
directness in psychical trauma . . . trauma is suffered in the psyche pre-
cisely, it would seem, because it is not directly available to experience’.33
While the body can protect itself by means of a spatial boundary
between inside and outside, the mind reacts to trauma by creating a
‘break in the mind’s experience of time’,34 what is called in the
metaphoric logic of this text, ‘the closed place in the middle’ (118).
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[A]lthough history should not become a straitjacket,

which overwhelms and binds, neither should it be
forgotten. (Toni Morrison)35
In this section then, I shall address the notion of indirectness in psychic

trauma (the mind’s protective act of creating a suspension in
consciousness and time) and the idea of a history of trauma both as an
individual and collective attempt to claim one’s own survival as the
necessary experience of waking into consciousness. Such a reawakening
must be identified with some means of reliving that trauma in a way
that requires events of the past to be acknowledged and assimilated into
the conscious life of an individual. Once reclaimed – as opposed to being
the unclaimed experience of the traumatic past – this previously
silenced history, whether individual or collective, needs to be articu-
lated, so that survival is not just mere survival, but becomes a possibly
transformative measure that will alter not just how the past can be read,
but can radically change perceptions of the future. The extraordinarily
powerful metaphoric logic inherent in Morrison’s literary fiction offers,
I believe, a particularly imaginative conduit between repressed trau-
matic experience(s) and an awakening into consciousness of the previ-
ously excised experience of black historical trauma which is, in its many
personalised configurations, continually damaging to the psyche. In the
first section on Wide Sargasso Sea, I discuss how metaphor can be used
as a ‘safety’ valve, a means of shutting oneself off from the realities of
historical injustices. In the second section on Lucy I maintain that the
metaphor of echoing evoked the notion of an interpellative complicity
with what has been, and also prefigures the possibility of moving
beyond once the pull of the echo is mediated. With a close reading
of Sula, I move into the final stage of my argument by suggesting that
Morrison’s exquisite use of the indirectness of metaphorical structuring
provides a creative method of breaking through to unacknowledged
traumatic material. Borrowing from psychoanalytic use of metaphor, I
contend that ‘inasmuch as repression represents an inability to under-
stand unconscious meaning in abstract literal terms, a metaphorical
statement may represent this unconscious meaning in concrete figura-
tive language’.36 In particular, I want to address Morrison’s evocative
creation of a conceptual metaphor of unique force which both struc-
tures and drives the text – her brilliant rendition of ‘gone things’ (174,
emphasis added) which are never gone but linger and echo in the minds
of all the main characters. Indeed, Sula is overwhelmingly a story
of loss, of ‘gone things’ historically and collectively imposed on
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African-Americans, and individually on the lives of those who suffer the

trauma of racism. In fact, the whole narrative structuring is based on
the notion of belated assimilation and retelling as the way to salvage a
lost past of ‘gone things’ and, in conjunction with the notion of belat-
edness, this echoing metaphor is only explicitly named on the last page.
However, in my reading of Sula I shall stress, as I did with Lucy, that
the awakening into consciousness associated with white-dominated
trauma theory can never be separated from double-consciousness, inter-
nalisation of racist ideologies and the need continually to mask the
impact of psychic pain. But I shall now argue that the masking, inver-
sion, double-coding and the structuring of metaphorical language and
logic that is threaded through the double-consciousness heritage of the
African-American tradition can be played out in a literary text in unex-
pectedly cathartic ways by utilising the very same linguistic strategies that
perhaps had initially been more centred around strategies of survival.
This is particularly relevant because, as Geneva Smitherman argues in
her important book, Talkin and Testifyin: The Language of Black America,
American Black English is not only highly innovative and often deeply
subversive, but is also a verb-driven, profoundly metaphoric and imag-
istic evocation of the English language.37 This is the narrative impulse
that Hurston had described 50 years earlier as the ‘will to adorn’, which
from her perspective is the ‘second most notable characteristic in Negro
expression’.38 The constitutive force of black semantics comprises
metaphor and simile, the use of the double descriptive, and finally,
creative verbal nouns (such as to ‘funeralize’), which together form
‘the Negro’s greatest contribution to the language’.39 What I hope to
demonstrate is that the will to adorn is also a highly visualised form
of will-to-narrative, both spoken and written, that provides a bridge
between traumatised affect and event.
Trauma, imagery of knotting and the death-like binding of white
history, psychic loss and its inversion, psychic comfort and the power
of metaphor, all converge in Sula in the enigmatic figure of Shadrack, a
young black soldier traumatised by the events he witnessed in World
War I. The first chapter, entitled ‘1919’, tells his story. Shadrack is in
fact psychically damaged in 1917, but it is as if time stills; he is held
within a numbing stasis, which lasted, ‘for more than a year, only eight
days of which he fully recollected’ (11). As if mirroring this encapsula-
tion of time, this chapter appears initially to be moving seamlessly on
from the description of the violent destruction of the black community
and into Shadrack’s individual, but equally violent destruction of self.
However, the shift from prologue to first chapter also represents a radical
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temporal disjuncture, for, as we later realise, the death of the Bottom

has been told from the perspective of the time of the epilogue, as if it
were the present tense. Returning now to an experience that took place
50 years earlier, we are abruptly plunged into a different form of trauma.
This time it concerns the white masculinist violence of World War I
which leaves Shadrack ‘[t]wenty-two years old, weak, hot, frightened,
not daring to acknowledge the fact that he didn’t even know who or
what he was . . .’ (12). Persistent and delayed responses to combat stress
occur because the traumatic events of the war damage the foundations
of his identity: ‘he didn’t even know who or what he was . . . with no
past, no language, no tribe, no source, no address book, no comb, no
pencil, no clock, no pocket handkerchief, no rug, no bed, no can opener,
no faded postcard, no soap, no key, no tobacco pouch, no soiled under-
wear and nothing nothing nothing to do’ (12). The double-coding
inherent in this description of a shattered identity (rendered in repeated
negatives) applies to the experiences of a traumatised ex-soldier,
and may also recall a sense of obliteration that could be related to the
long-term effects of the Middle Passage, slavery and its ongoing racist
aftermath.
Unlike his biblical forebear, a Hebrew dissident who emerges a hero,
whole in body and spirit from Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace because
of his unshakeable faith in his God,40 Morrison’s shell-shocked and dis-
orientated Shadrack emerges psychically wounded from the furnace of
war. He is literally ‘bound in a straitjacket’ (9), tied up in the knots of
white male history that he cannot undo, when he becomes violent with
fear in the mental ward of a hospital where he has been incarcerated
suffering from shell-shock. His psychic trauma is the result of his first
experience on the battlefield, when he ‘saw the face of a soldier near
him fly off . . . [while] the body of the headless soldier ran on, with
energy and grace, ignoring altogether the drip and slide of brain tissue
down his back’ (8). He develops an irrational fear that his hands are
growing ‘higgledy-piggledy fashion like Jack’s beanstalk’ (9), and the
‘unchecked monstrosity of his hands’ (12) make them not only terrify-
ing, but useless. The poignancy of straitjacket metaphor is wonderfully
rendered. On one hand, the narrator acknowledges that ‘[w]hen they
bound Shadrack into a straitjacket, he was both relieved and grateful,
for his hands were at last hidden’ (9), but at the same time, because of
the problem with his hands, Shadrack cannot, however much he
desires, disentangle himself from the straitjacket in which he has been
bound, even though he is unconsciously aware that ‘his very life
depended on the release of the knots’ (12). The straitjacket is a space of
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safety, a comfort and a trap. Shadrack is then callously, and to him inex-
plicably, ejected from hospital with his trauma unhealed, and with
nothing but a fleeting memory of home and a longing ‘to see his own
face . . . [so that he can] tie the loose cords of his mind’ (10). This yearn-
ing to reclaim his lost identity, to see his face, directly results from his
sense of invisibility as mere cannon fodder in the wider historical frame-
work of a white man’s war. Shadrack, a black man with no patronymic,
is a generic symbol of trauma.41 However, and very importantly, while
his experiences were a common feature of trauma theory symptoms
registered by the inordinate number of shell-shocked soldiers in World
War I, Shadrack’s adaptation to and resistances against his trauma, and
the story that grows out of it, are both class and race-driven.42
Thrown in prison as a vagrant, Shadrack finally recognises his lost self.
Overwhelmed by a recurring desire to see his face, and as there is no
other mirroring surface to look into, he is forced to search for a sight
of himself in the water of his toilet bowl. Significantly, as if offering a
premonitory warning to his black community to which he is about to
return, Shadrack has first to shut out the contaminating white light that
surrounds him in his cell, by placing his prison blanket over his head.
In an ironic reversal of the Narcissus myth, he then catches a glimpse
of his face, which reveals not only that he is ‘real’, that he ‘exists’, but
‘the indisputable presence’ of his own blackness (13).43 Instead of falling
in love with his own reflection and pining away and dying by a forest
pool, Shadrack rediscovers life through acknowledging the ‘joy’ of his
blackness in a filthy cell of a country jail, and starts his personal fight
back against the straitjacket of white history, a trauma in which he has
been enmeshed by a force greater than himself. Finally back in his com-
munity of the Bottom, he inaugurates an annual National Suicide Day
which ‘had to do with making a place for fear as a way of controlling
it. He knew the smell of death and was terrified of it, for he could not
anticipate it . . . [so] he hit on the notion that if one day a year were
devoted to it, everybody could get it out of the way and the rest of the
year would be safe and free’ (14). Paradoxically, Shadrack, the only male
figure in Sula to gain an inner strength and sense of self, is thought to
be mad by the rest of the community, and yet his madness is imbued
with a strong sense of power that is almost Christ-like: as the Reverend
Deal, the minister who presides over the black church in the Bottom
says quite explicitly, ‘[m]ay’s well go on with Shad and save the Lamb
the trouble of redemption’ (16). Moreover, ‘[t]he terrible Shad who
walked about with his penis out, who peed in front of ladies and girl-
children [was] the only black who could curse white people and get
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away with it’ (61–2). Thus, Shadrack is both black victim and resister.
He is almost incoherently mad, yet he can still curse and thus intimi-
date white people, and the self-exposure of his black body, and in par-
ticular his penis, confronts a long-standing white fear and fetishistic
preoccupation with black masculinity.
At first the inhabitants of the Bottom are frightened of the very dif-
ferent Shadrack who has returned from the war, but ‘once the people
understood the boundaries and nature of his madness, they could fit
him so to speak, into the scheme of things’ (15). Gradually his annual
holiday becomes ‘absorbed . . . into their thoughts, into their language,
into their lives’ (15). To a lesser extent, it is as if Shadrack is also woven
into the natural fabric of the environment. In America the signifier
‘shad’ is applied, usually with a defining word, to many forms of fish,
the creatures he relies on for material survival and a species he loves
along with the river. His profound spiritual connection to the protago-
nist Sula Peace involves his reading of her birthmark: ‘She had a tadpole
over her eye (that was how he knew she was a friend – she had the mark
of the fish he loved)’ (156).44 But much more importantly, Shadrack and
Sula are also conjoined through his only conscious, heartfelt action in
the novel: when the tear-stained face of the 12-year-old Sula appears in
his immaculately tidy hut (one of the many ways in which he tries to
ward off the disorder in his mind) he looks at her face, sees the skull
beneath and knows instinctively that she is as deeply afraid and trau-
matised by death as he had once been:
he tried to think of something to say to her to comfort her, some-

thing to stop the hurt spilling out of her eyes. So he had said ‘always,’
so she would not be afraid of the change – the falling away of skin,
the drip and slide of blood, and the exposure of bone underneath.
He had said ‘always’ to convince her, assure, her of permanency. (157,
emphasis added)
The violence underpinning Shadrack’s singular word is hidden from the

child, for his interior vision of war-torn horror is not reflected on his
body. Ironically, his hands are now stilled, and the limbs which had
once been a source of such terror to him, reassure Sula: ‘no one with
hands like that, no one with fingers that curved around the wood so
tenderly could kill her’ (62) she believes. She has no concept of his inner
trauma, just fears him for his reputation. From Shadrack’s point of view,
this child wants something from him which he, and only he, can
provide and his intuitive word of ‘always’ to the crying Sula is offered
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as a loving gift of comfort. It is the only word he speaks in the text, and
it is of intrinsic importance. However, his comfort word is interpreted
by the young Sula not as a ‘promise that licked her feet’ (63), but as a
lifetime threat of trauma and overhanging guilt.
I have taken a long time to introduce both the death of the commu-
nity and Shadrack, who importantly frames the text. After his tale is
told at the beginning, he becomes only a shadowy figure in the narra-
tive, but one around whom the plot threads. Although the novel is
named after the protagonist, Sula Mae Peace, and tells the story of Sula’s
entwined friendship with her closest companion, Nel Wright, Sula does
not appear until 30 pages into the text and then dies about three-
quarters of the way through. This positioning and the amount of early
narrative space given to Shadrack and the community signals the tri-
partite entanglement of Shadrack, Nel and Sula as crucial, together with
the absolute centrality of the black community as socio-political, his-
torical, cultural and psychic context for both agency and victimisation
for every black character in the text. Thus, although Sula’s life quest is
to seek a self that necessarily lies outside the rules of her black com-
munity, this searching is always in relation to the wider framework of
race and gender oppression in American society, in which the Bottom
is necessarily immersed. Each main character has a double that inverts
and contradicts the other: the white town of Medallion is juxtaposed
to the black community of the Bottom; the stunted deweys, the ‘trinity
with a plural name’ (38), offset Shadrack, Nel and Sula; and the inter-
generational matrilineal members of the Wright and Peace families are
constituted in a complex interwoven opposition to each other. First
there are the grandmothers, Helene Wright and Eva Peace, then the
daughters, Rochelle and Hannah, and finally, the most important
pairing of the granddaughters, Nel and Sula. This is not a narrative that
proceeds on binary dichotomies, but one that consists of relational
cross-overs and entanglements.
As the second chapter begins, Morrison suddenly and abruptly trans-
poses the traumatic violence of the white male public sphere onto the
interior lives and material worlds of the black female private sphere,
focusing her (re)vision on the matriarchal Wright and Peace families.
By translating the historical into the personal, the public into the
private, and actual male violence and grand historical traumas into
repeated patterns of oppression, self-mutilation, and violence between
women, she draws all her readers into the untying of the patterning of
hierarchical and prescriptive binaries, thereby implicating us in her
rereading of history and its structures of representation and meaning.
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For it is no longer possible to distance ourselves from the impact of

racism and sexism, if, as Morrison says: ‘the historical becomes people
with names’.45 Her radical shift in perspective from public to private,
from outer to inner, has been ironically signalled by Shadrack himself.
Waking in fright from his year-long catatonic state of paralysed trauma
in the hospital after the war, he does not recognise himself under the
de-individualising, white-institutional army label of ‘Private’, a label
often repeated to him by the exasperated white nurses who have no
interest in understanding his trauma:
He wanted desperately to see his own face and connect it with the
word ‘private’ – the word the nurse (and the others who helped bind
him) had called him. ‘Private’ he thought was something secret, and
he wondered why they looked at him and called him a secret. (10,
emphasis added)
The secret, or unknown quality that is Shadrack, as he discovers in the

epiphanic moment in the cell, is a self that is tied to race and bound to
community. This is the binding grace, the small thread of strength
gained against all the odds that Morrison transfers from the masculine
dominated prologue and first chapter to the remainder of the novel that
centres on the black women of the Bottom community.
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8
Ambivalent Maternal Inheritances
When reading a novel like Sula, we need to keep in mind, as Mary Helen
Washington reminds us, that ‘motherhood, complicated and threatened
by racism, is a special kind of motherhood’.1 This comment is especially
relevant to a text in which the greatest acts of maternal love are repre-
sented through the black matriarch, Eva Peace, who fights past her inner
pain and ignores the beckoning lure of the ‘comfort’ of death in order
to stay alive for the sake of her three young children, and then offers a
sacrificial leg as the only possible indemnity for their collective survival.
These are not the usual actions of motherhood, but ones that result from
the brutalities of poverty and pervasive social distress. This does not
mean that love between mothers and daughters does not exist, just that
it is transmitted in other forms. At one moment in the text Eva is ten-
tatively asked by her adult daughter Hannah: ‘ “Mamma, did you ever
love us? . . . I mean, did you? You know. When we was little?” ’ (67). Eva
abruptly answers: ‘ “what you talkin’ ‘bout did I ever love you girl I
stayed alive for you can’t you get that through your thick head or what
is that between your ears, heifer?” ’ (69). Unable verbally to express the
protective tenderness she feels, Eva hides her fierce maternal love under
her disparaging language and angry, ambivalent tone. The lack of punc-
tuation suggests an onrush of confusion and hurt at the question,
mingled with an instinctive self-protective defiance. The fight for phys-
ical and mental survival for herself and her children, in itself a supreme
act of maternal love, leaves her with no time or energy to articulate or
to encompass maternal nurturance in conventional terms.2 In her book
on trauma and recovery, Judith Herman argues that the ‘damage to rela-
tional life is not a secondary effect of trauma, as originally thought.
Traumatic events have primary effects not only on the psychological
structures of the self but also on the systems of attachment and
129
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meaning’.3 Both Nel and Sula grow up in maternal households distorted

and traumatised by the external pressures of racial, class and sexual
oppression, and this drives a wedge between the successive generations
of women. As Spillers suggests, these echoing circles of sorrow are
‘transmitted from mother to daughter, female to female by mimetic,
unspoken gesture’.4
Morrison’s choice of narrative strategy exposes the unspeakability of
psychic crippling associated with physical survival in an inimical world
by creating the contrastive parallelism of the matrilineal inheritances of
the Wright and Peace families. This doubling is then emphasised by
paired antithetical character development.5 On one hand, the Wrights
are a family rigid with repression, righteousness and a yearning for
assimilation with white middle-class ideals. On the other, the Peaces
represent a three-woman household of happy-go-lucky chaos in which
female sexuality can be pleasurably indulged without confining com-
mitment, a freedom entwined with a sense of resistance to white capi-
talism through community responsibility – in this case caring for others
who have been cast adrift by the system, such as Tar Baby and the
deweys.6 Yet, the first is not right, and the latter far from rewardingly
peaceful from either inner or outer turmoil. What then is the purpose
of this complicated, interwoven narrative strategy? Why are we asked
to contemplate the profound physical and internalised distress of loss
by involvement in the lives of a domineering matriarch who murders
her own son, or her granddaughter who passively watches her own
mother burn to death? Why compare the seeming indifference and bru-
tality of one family on the one hand, with the good behaviour and
acquiescence of the other family, who live a death-in-life of conven-
tionality and such strict adherence to the mores of the community that
they are stifled into silence? It is, I think, an elaborate and brilliant
narrative manoeuvre that entices readers into confronting the trauma
of racism and sexual oppression.
In Sula, it is the community that moderates individual pain, provides
a context of shared resistance against the omnipresence of whiteness
and serves as a repository for binding traditions, with the Reverend
Deal’s black church as its heart and sanctuary. However, the Bottom is
also a community that suffers from collective trauma.7 It is a damaged
social organism, what Cathy Caruth would term, ‘a symptom of
history’.8 The inhabitants are collectively possessed by the long-term
insidious effect of racism: they are psychically ‘owned’ to a greater or
lesser degree by events beyond their control. Kai Erikson strongly
believes that ‘[t]raumatized people often come to feel that they have
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Ambivalent Maternal Inheritances 131
lost an important measure of control over the circumstances of their

own lives and are thus very vulnerable . . . they also come to feel that
they have lost a natural immunity to misfortune and that something
awful is almost bound to happen’.9 It is interesting then, that there are
three telling references to vulnerability in this novel, each of which is
central to comprehending the different ways that the women charac-
ters survive by displaying various forms of adaptive behaviour.10 The
word is used in reference to the matriarchs of both Wright and Peace
families as they try to strengthen or protect themselves against ‘routine
vulnerabilites’ (36); and inversely to Sula who is said to be evil in part
because she possesses no visible sign of such weakness. ‘[W]here were
the scars? Except for a funny-shaped finger and that evil birthmark, she
was free of any normal signs of vulnerability’, the narrator comments
(115).
I will examine in detail the two references that connect vulnerabili-
ties to the contrastive personalities of Helene Wright and Eva Peace, but
first I want to draw attention to the fact that for them the noun is always
in the plural, while for Sula, the only woman in the text referred to as
being free of vulnerability – and this, the narrator suggests, is one of the
reasons she is both hated and feared – the noun is used in the singular.
The adjectives attached to the noun are ‘old’, ‘routine’ and ‘normal’,
the choice implying that the plurality of vulnerabilities is what all the
women of the Bottom face, yet it is Sula alone who fights against the
numbing presence of racial and sexual vicissitudes, which results in her
being singled out to be the community’s ‘pariah’ (122). The derivation
of the word vulnerable is from the Latin verb vulnerare, to wound, and
suggests ideas of covering over in order to protect the self, a self open
or susceptible to being wounded or hurt. Trauma’s etymological source
is the Greek word for wound. So the thrice repeated word vulnerability
in Sula serves an important synecdochic function in that it connects the
outward manifestations of racial and sexual trauma to individualised
psychic wounds of a specific character.
Helene Wright has succumbed to the internalisation of whiteness. In
a desperate attempt to distance herself from her own maternal heritage
– she is the ‘daughter of a Creole whore’ (17) – Helene Sabat becomes
Helen(e) Wright and thrives on her new life of repression and empty
pretentiousness that merely masks the psychic distortion that has arisen
because she has distanced herself from any sense of racial pride. Helene’s
self-protection manifests as an obsession with social order that mimics
white values and customs. Like Shadrack, but reversed – Shadrack is
bound to his blackness, while Helene is trying to disavow hers – she
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devotes herself to creating a façade of ritualistic order. This is reflected

in her neat and oppressive home, but more alarmingly in the way she
moulds her only daughter’s imagination, character, and even her body.
‘Any enthusiasms that little Nel showed were calmed by the mother
until she drove her daughter’s imagination underground’ (18) the nar-
rator tells us and, indeed, ‘calm’ becomes the emotional state around
which the adult Nel binds her righteous life. Thankful that Nel has not
inherited her ‘dusky’ beauty,11 Helene nevertheless tries to erase her
daughter’s negroid features, her father’s flat nose and wide lips. Her
daughter must not ‘look’ like her own mother Rochelle, but neither
must she appear as negroid as her father. Nel is blissfully unaware of all
this until the train journey south to visit her dying grandmother. On
this journey to death she has to confront the lived effects of Jim Crow
laws, and her mother’s profoundly abject behaviour that is so incredi-
bly different from the mother she knows who rules the most conserva-
tive black church in the Bottom.
Nel is only ten when Helene receives the letter summoning her
back down South to say goodbye to her dying grandmother – ‘the
woman who had rescued her’ from her mother and their life in the
brothel (19) – but it is an experience that will scar and haunt Nel
for the rest of her life. In keeping with the physical and emotional veil
with which Helene has shrouded herself as a protection,12 she over-
comes her heavy misgivings about returning to the racially segregated
South – and the possibility of re-meeting her mother, Rochelle – by
believing that ‘her manner and her bearing’ and also a beautiful new
‘elegant dress’ (19) would best protect her. They are late arriving at the
station and, in their haste to board the segregated train, by mistake
Helene and Nel enter a whites-only coach.13 Quickly moving to the
‘right’ section of this train, as Helene opens the door marked ‘COLORED
ONLY’ (20) they are confronted by a repulsive, sweaty white conductor,
who publicly humiliates Helene. The ensuing scene is watched help-
lessly by a group of black soldiers, who mask their own humiliation at
not being able to intervene ‘with closed faces [and] locked eyes’ (21).
The conductor demands:
“What you think you doin’, gal?”

Helene looked up at him.
So soon. So soon. She hadn’t even begun the trip back. Back to her
grandmother’s house in the city where the red shutters glowed, and
already she had been called ‘gal’. All the old vulnerabilities, all the old
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fears of being somehow flawed gathered in her stomach and made

her hands tremble. She had heard only that one word . . . (20, empha-
sis added)
The ineffectiveness of Helene’s psychic cloak of self-righteous distanc-

ing is immediately apparent. Her fear and anguish in the face of
inevitable humiliation now becomes inscribed both internally and
externally in and on her body: a sense of overwhelming helplessness
floods her stomach, her hands tremble. Her mimicking of white middle-
class respectability and repression cannot help her now. Later in the
novel, Morrison connects this painful scene of symbolic death with the
grief surrounding the very real death of a little boy when the narrator
describes the depth of feeling of the collectivity of black women in the
congregation at Chicken Little’s funeral: ‘They did not hear all what he
said; they heard only one word, or phrase, or inflection that was for them
the connection between the event and themselves’ (65, emphasis
added). The women here are in the safe space of the black church where
they can be themselves and enact their pain.14 Helene Wright, cut
off from connecting with her racialised self, cannot begin to merge
affect with event. The racially inflected ‘gal’ – a word, according to
Smitherman, to which black women take particular exception because
of its suggestive white denial of black womanhood and connotation of
white notions of ownership15 – directly and unexpectedly throws Helene
back into the realities of her despised heritage and buried self, a self not
tied to race or to the black community from which she has distanced
herself with all her affected ways.
So far, the staged spectacle only alludes to the fact that the racial
humiliation is also gendered. However, Helene’s response to white male
bullying is one of obsequious sexual abasement, a scene to which Nel
bears witness:
[F]or no earthly reason, at least no reason anybody could understand,

certainly no reason that Nel understood then or later, she [Helene]
smiled. Like a street pup that wags its tail at the very doorjamb of
the butcher shop he has been kicked away from only moments
before, Helene smiled. Smiled dazzlingly and coquettishly at the
salmon-colored face of the conductor. (21)
Ironically, while Helene has attempted to dissociate herself from her

mother’s contaminating public sexuality and heritage of prostitution,
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in her performance with the white conductor she unconsciously turns

to ‘acting out’ her despised maternal inheritance. Indeed, Morrison
draws attention to the inescapability of each woman’s matrilineal her-
itage and heightens the connection between bodily rejection, sexual
betrayal and loss of self-identity by repeating the same imagery when
many years later Jude (Nel’s husband) betrays her by having sex with
Sula. Nel finds them ‘on all fours (uh huh, go on, say it) like dogs’ (105)
and when Jude looks at her in silent guilt, all Nel can see is that ‘your
eyes looked like the soldiers’ that time on the train when my mother
turned to custard’ (106). Morrison’s use of simile to liken Helene’s ser-
vility to a starving street dog and the idea of a black couple having sex
in an animalistic manner is of great interest to the argument towards
which I am working – the possibilities of recuperation inherent in the
figurative structure of metaphor. However, whereas metaphor merges
two things being compared into a new non-literal conceptual com-
pound which allows for a space of imaginative connection and recon-
nection, simile keeps the comparison direct and explicit, and in many
ways binds the two figurative elements within something like a rhetor-
ical straitjacket. The connection is harder to evade and more binding.
In this way, the grovelling woman becomes the grovelling puppy. Animal
imagery is used by both white male characters in the novel who are
discussed with more than just a passing reference: the conductor and,
later, a white bargeman refer to black people as animals (63).
The lacing and binding imagery introduced in the Shadrack chapter
now reappears.16 Yet while the young black man is bound and knotted
inside, something he cannot undo, Helene’s body is seemingly exposed
by the white male gaze. Nel believes that if she raises her eyes above
the fall of the skirt of the ‘elegant dress’, she too will see the nakedness
that this gaze imposes. The feminine detail of ‘hooks and eyes’ – the
tiny and most often invisible fastenings that hold together the opening
or slit at the top of a dress (the placket) – is juxtaposed with the child’s
overwhelming fear that all the world will see her mother’s body.
The image, with its connection between binding imagery and vision, is
a very feminised and beautifully apt metaphor for intense shame in
which the eyes look down, and the self is exposed in ritual humilia-
tion.17 Nel projects her own feeling of shame onto her mother’s
body. The metaphor also imaginatively employs the domestic vocabu-
lary of needlework, the meaning of which would probably exclude
many men, providing a clear example of Morrison’s reconfiguring
of the masculinity of the Black Aesthetic to which I referred in the
introduction. Nel,
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looked deeply at the folds of her mother’s dress. There in the fall of
the heavy brown wool she held her eyes. She could not risk letting
them travel upward for fear of seeing that the hooks and eyes in the
placket of the dress had come undone and exposed the custard-colored
skin underneath. She stared at the hem, wanting to believe in its
weight but knowing that custard was all that it hid. If this tall, proud
woman . . . were really custard, then there was a chance that Nel was
too. (22, emphasis added)
Helene’s elegant disguise is effectively destroyed by ‘the stretch of her

. . . foolish smile’ (22). Yet the metaphorical undoing of the hooks and
eyes is also connected at a deeper level to the oppressive power of white
stereotyping in which Helene becomes Jezebel, the oversexed and always
available black woman, the fantasy of white male prejudice and
assumed sexual superiority. Moreover, the thrice repeated reference to
‘custard’ carries the connotative negatives of moral cowardice, sexual
consumption and miscegenation.
Nel is only 10 but she has learned a very adult lesson. Yet her own
life of repression is built upon this foundational trauma – the unveiling
of her mother’s vulnerabilities. As a result of this journey (an inversion
of the usual allusion to spiritual growth), Nel ‘resolved to be on guard
– always. She wanted to make certain that no man ever looked at her
that way’ (22). Paradoxically, however, the immediate impact was an
affirmation of self and ‘her newfound me-ness [that] gave her the
strength to cultivate a friend in spite of her mother’ and her previous
dismissal of Sula’s ‘sooty’ heritage (29). From that moment on until she
marries at 17, Nel Wright and Sula Peace are inseparable, for ‘they found
in each other’s eyes the intimacy they were looking for’ (52). The pre-
viously meek and docile Nel lets down her guard in her adolescent years
with Sula: ‘Her parents had succeeded in rubbing down to a dull glow
any sparkle or splutter she had. Only with Sula did that quality have
free reign’ (83), and they roam the neighbourhood ‘in the safe harbor
of each other’s company’ (55). They are always together: that is, until
Jude Greene comes along and ‘selects’ Nel away from Sula. Before they
had shared everything, including the boys, but now, at 17, Nel wants
to be seen ‘singly’, despite the fact that from Jude’s point of view she
would only ever ‘be the hem – the tuck and fold that hid his raveling
edges’ (83). Again the recurrent trope of the sewing metaphor stresses
a radical gender imbalance, and in this case foreshadows the predictable
outcome of Nel’s retreat into the conventional subservient female role
of ‘someone sweet and industrious and loyal’ whose wifely duty will be
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to ‘shore up’ her new partner who marries her in a vain attempt to have
his ‘adulthood recognized’ (83, 82).18 Nel’s wedding marks the final
pages of the first half of the novel. Ominously, her wedding veil is too
heavy for her to feel the core of Jude’s kiss pressed on her head (85). It
is not only that the veil represents a mantle of social convention and
identity erasure that will negatively overlay the rest of her life, but in
marriage she has relinquished the one person who saved her imagina-
tion from being permanently driven underground. During the wedding,
Sula leaves the Bottom, and it will be 10 years before she and Nel see
each other again. When she returns, she will be accompanied by a
plague of robins, and will be dressed in the ‘manner that was as close
to a movie star as anyone would ever see. A black crepe dress splashed
with pink and yellow zinnias, foxtails, a black felt hat with a veil of net
lowered over one eye’ (90, emphasis added).
The repeated reference to veiling is particularly intriguing in a novel
that places a great deal of credence on the visual economy. There is even
a command to look, ‘Voir! Voir!’ (27),19 and textual emphasis is placed
on the different ethics between the active verbs see, watch and look.20
This I read as a strategy to make the reader look deeper, in order to con-
sider the ethical questions Morrison raises by the comparison between
these verbs. Subtly directed to what is veiled or masked, we begin to
‘see’ the double message that has always been not just a matter of sur-
vival for African-Americans in the white world, but a means of resis-
tance and subversion of the dominant culture and its constitutive
ideologies.21 Importantly, the veil metaphor has both an ideological and
literary history in the African-American tradition. In her essay entitled
‘The Site of Memory’, Morrison discusses her own literary heritage and
its relationship with the ‘print origins of black literature (as distin-
guished from the oral origins) [which] were slave narratives’.22 Written
to enlist the support of white audiences to help in the fight to abolish
slavery, these narratives necessarily avoided explicit renditions of the
most violent and demeaning details of this experience. ‘Over and over,’
Morrison relates, ‘the writers pull the narrative up short with a phrase
such as, “But let us drop a veil over these proceedings too terrible to
relate”.’23 Given the shift in time, Morrison sees her participation in this
literary heritage this way:
For me – a writer in the last quarter of the twentieth century, not

much more than a hundred years after Emancipation, a writer who
is black and a woman – the exercise is very different. My job becomes
how to rip that veil drawn over ‘proceedings too terrible to relate.’24
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In Sula then, Morrison takes us behind the veil of the distortions of

white ideology and shows us the black world as it is, a world of survival
against all the odds, but one with profoundly painful individual and
collective consequences. Ripping the veil also means exposing vulnera-
bilites. This is not to suggest that the women of the Bottom are weak
and their behaviour ineffective, but to emphasise their enormous
courage and perseverance in the face of their powerlessness amid the
exigencies of the dominant white world. Helene’s lighter skin speaks of
her whitened heritage, but instead of banding together with the rest of
the community against white oppression, Helene protects her vulnera-
bilities by becoming the ultimate assimilationist who tries to ‘git ovah’
by leaving her blackness behind.25
Eva Peace follows a completely different path as she tries to overcome
her particular vulnerabilities. As undisputed head of the three-woman
household at 7 Carpenter’s Road, built with insurance money she
earned from self-mutilation, Eva becomes its powerful ‘creator and
sovereign’ (30). However, her empire is built not on love, but upon a
base of ‘liquid hatred’. When her deserting husband unexpectedly
returns, and stands before her, a ‘picture of prosperity and goodwill. His
shoes were a shiny orange, and he had on a citified straw hat, a light-
blue suit, and a cat’s-head stickpin in his tie’ (35), instead of anger,
disgust, or a rush of love, Eva feels no emotion at all. All feeling has
been excised in the will-to-survive. The visit is amicable, that is, until
BoyBoy goes outside, bends down and whispers something in the ear
of the woman in the pea-green dress who has accompanied him, and
she laughs aloud:
A high-pitched big-city laugh that reminded Eva of Chicago. It hit

her like a sledge hammer, and it was then that she knew what to feel.
A liquid trail of hate flooded her chest . . . Hating BoyBoy, she could
get on with it, and have the safety, the thrill, the consistency of that
hatred as long as she wanted or needed it to define and strengthen
her or protect her from routine vulnerabilities. (36, emphasis added)
It is not just BoyBoy’s sartorial finery that sparks Eva’s hatred – for she
sees that it merely masks the ‘defeat in the stalk of his neck’ (36) – or
even jealousy at his attention to the other woman. It is, I think, the
‘big-city laugh’ that plunges Eva into a traumatic memory that has to
do with the loss of her leg. There are two adjectives that refer to the
city, and although it is not defined in the text, it seems likely that in
the mysterious 18 months of her absence she would have had to be in
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a city, both to survive the event of self-mutilation in a hospital, and to

be on hand to claim the insurance money. This city could easily have
been Chicago. Moreover the laughter here is not the community’s
answer to masking pain, but a singular, perhaps derisive laugh of
(an)other, that manifests separation not solidarity. Thus for Eva the
impact of BoyBoy’s return does not provide comfort through a belated
relinquishing, and perhaps acceptance, of the past. Instead, ‘hit like
a sledge hammer’ she is slammed into a bodily centred traumatic
memory, and this ‘gone thing’ transforms into bitterness and the
driving force of hate.26 The result is a kind of psychic stunting, the oblit-
erated feelings of tenderness or love corporeally represented in the text
by her ‘lost’ leg and vulnerable body.
While Eva thrives on hate, her daughter Hannah, whose ‘laughing’
husband dies when Sula is three, subsumes her grief under a mask of
indifference, and spends her days in domestic tasks in her mother’s
house interspersed with ‘some touching every day’ (44). Despite con-
stantly wearing the ‘same old print wraparound’, Hannah ‘rippled with
sex’ (42) the narrator tells us, and her casual and frequent encounters
with men ‘taught Sula that sex was pleasant and frequent but otherwise
unremarkable’ (44). Both the form of dress and sexual abandon will
become intrinsic to the maternal heritage within which Sula becomes
unconsciously bound. Although Hannah does not remain in the text
for very long, she is a character created with a great deal of warmth and
allure (and in this she resembles Rochelle).27 ‘Nobody but nobody, could
say ‘hey sugar’ like Hannah’ (42–3) the narrator continues, but her
promiscuousness is damaging and, not suprisingly, she has few friend-
ships with women. Most important of all, her relationship with Sula
seems one of indifference, registered in the text by an almost total
absence of closeness, or even communication, between them. Not sur-
prisingly then, Sula clings to Nel ‘as the closest thing to both an other
and a self’ (119) that she can ever have, and indeed Nel provides the
stability and closeness that she cannot find in her home.
The reason for Sula’s self-protective displacement and her seeming
‘lack’ of vulnerability has a history. With Nel as her friend, Sula
negotiates her childhood quite happily until one fateful day when she
is 12 two events happen that shake the very foundations of her growing
self. En route to swim in the river with Nel, Sula drops into 7 Carpen-
ter’s Road, and as she passes the kitchen she overhears Hannah telling
two women: ‘ “I love Sula. I just don’t like her. That’s the difference” ’
(57). Although she is accustomed to her mother’s indifference, this
betrayal is particularly destructive as it is spoken aloud, and thus shared
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publicly. ‘[T]he pronouncement sent her flying up the stairs. In bewil-

derment, she stood at the window fingering the curtain edge, aware of
the sting in her eye’ (57).28 Nel calls to Sula, disrupting her ‘dark
thoughts’ (57); they meet downstairs, and run towards the river. Then
an incident occurs that embroils the two girls in a ‘knot of death’ from
which neither will ever be able totally to unravel themselves. A small
boy named Chicken Little approaches. Sula is playful and kind to the
little boy, and helps him climb to the top of a nearby tree, then swings
him round and round as he shrieks with joy. Suddenly, he slips from
her hands, sails out over the nearby river, and he and his bubbly laugh
disappear under the water:
The water darkened and closed quickly over the place where Chicken
Little sank. The pressure of his hard and tight little fingers was still
in Sula’s palms as she stood looking at the closed place in the water
. . . Both girls stared at the water . . . There was nothing but the
baking sun and something newly missing. (61, emphasis added)
The small detail of the indentation of his fingers in Sula’s hand is as

harrowing as any description of brutality, and the image of this deep
but small imprint lingers long after reading the words, together with
the sudden stillness as the childish laughter is swallowed by the con-
centric circles in the water. The vividness, immediacy and lyricism of
the language almost replicates the structuring of the deep unconscious
imprinting of traumatic unassimilated experiences that will return in
flashbacks and haunting memories. Indeed, the two italicised phrases
repeat continually throughout the remainder of the novel, especially
‘the closed place in the water’, which appears three times (61, 101, 141)
and then in varying manifestations from ‘the dark closed place in the
water’ (62), ‘the closed place in the middle’ (118), and finally ‘the water
closing quickly over the place’ (170). ‘Something newly missing’ appears
twice on the page that describes Chicken Little’s drowning. The signif-
icance of this repeating phrasing is important. The ‘closed place in the
middle’ comes to represent the moment of trauma that does not enter
consciousness, because of its unexpectedness and incomprehensible
horror. ‘Something newly missing’ symbolises the moment of revelatory
belatedness when the trauma of Chicken Little’s death enters Nel’s con-
sciousness and becomes mediated meaning in the final paragraphs of
the novel.
After the initial shock, Nel tells Sula that someone has seen the
drowning, and it can only be Shadrack whose riverside hut is close by.
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Terrified, Sula goes up there, to be met by Shadrack in the scene I have

already discussed, in which he pronounces the one word, ‘Always’ (62).
Sula flees back to Nel, collapsing in tears (62). In contrast to Sula’s hys-
terical crying, ‘Nel has remained calm’ throughout (170), enacting an
emotional numbing that her mother has unconsciously passed on to
her daughter as a means of self-protection against life’s malevolence.
From the beginning of the incident, the girls have behaved in com-
pletely different ways. Sula is friendly and welcoming and plays with
Chicken Little; Nel is patronising and distant. Trained in possessiveness,
Nel is possibly jealous that Sula’s attention is diverted from her, and this
may well be the cause of her hidden pleasure when he disappears under
the water. But this is something that is not revealed until the last couple
of pages of the novel, at the same moment as it enters Nel’s own con-
sciousness. However, Sula is unable to speak of the traumatic event ever
again and, foreshadowing her internalised silencing, the narrator tells
us that ‘Sula covered her mouth as they walked down the hill’ (63). This
silence is bound up with both the symbolic death of what she perceives
as the loss of her mother’s love, and a physical death of which she was
the cause. As if in further punishment, Chicken Little’s death also ends
any aspirations that Sula holds towards maternity – they drown ‘in the
closed place in the water’ along with the little boy.
The death creates a temporary distance between the two young girls:
they neither hold hands nor look at each other during Chicken Little’s
funeral. Sula cries ceaselessly but ‘soundlessly’ throughout the service,
letting her tears run down her face, into her mouth and over her chin
onto her dress (65). It is only after the little coffin is lowered into the
earth, that ‘the space that had sat between them in the pews . . . dis-
solved’ (66). They are reunited in an unspoken and probably uncon-
scious acknowledgement that although he is dead, Chicken Little’s
‘bubbly laughter and the press of fingers in the palm would stay above-
ground forever’ (66). For Sula, the two events of the catastrophic day
also revolve around the presence or absence of words. In the first scene,
Sula overhears her mother’s painful words, not intended for her ears. In
the second, Chicken Little drowns in echoing silence, followed by
Shadrack uttering his singular haunting word. Nel and Sula are bound
together in the unspeakability of this trauma: each has her own sepa-
rate ‘dark closed place in the water’. They never tell what happens to
the little boy, though Eva implies at the end that she always knew, and
she may easily enough have connected Sula’s silent but extreme distress
with the disappearance of the boy.
However, Sula has yet to face the last monumental trauma of her
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childhood, the witnessing of her mother burning to death when she

was 13. Although this occurs up to a year after Chicken Little’s death,
there is only one mention of Sula in the interim period. However, in
Morrison’s ambiguous style, her clipped reference to ‘Sula’s craziness’
(75) just before her mother’s death can be attributed to the hot dry wind
that rattled roofs and loosened doors – one of the five natural omens
warning of the impending death – or it could be that she is suffering
badly from the traumatic aftershock of Chicken Little’s death. On the
terrible day, Hannah catches on fire in the backyard, runs frantically
around, a ‘flaming dancing figure’ until a tub of water is thrown on her,
the steam searing her flesh as she lay ‘twitching lightly among the
smashed tomatoes, her face a mask of agony so intense that for years
the people who gathered ‘round would shake their heads at the recol-
lection of it’ (76). The air smells of ‘the odor of cooked flesh’ (77). This
is the scene that her grandmother accuses Sula of passively watching,
‘because she was interested’ (78). Whether this is the case, or whether
Sula is paralysed by trauma, or a state between the two, the burning
represents the second knot of death which threads through Sula’s life.
Brooks Bouson argues that Morrison wants her readers to love and
hate her characters, to feel intense sympathy and solidarity with them
and then be repulsed by their actions.29 Indeed, one of the complica-
tions of reading Morrison’s fiction is that she grants the narratee the
ambivalent reading position, thus in many senses disallowing a con-
clusive resolution, which is also of course one of the reasons why her
writing is so compelling.30 In particular, this applies to Sula,31 who dies
quite early in the novel, as if punished for her many dishonourable acts
of resistance, the most notable of which are refusing to become a
mother, and putting Eva ‘away’ in an old folks’ home.32 Yet, we are
literally confronted by and urged to mourn her ‘stunning absence’, not
Ajax’s, to whom the phrase refers (134). Morrison’s epigraph (to the
future loss of her sons from her immediate family life) gives a clue to
the importance of loss and absence as a core theme in the text. Sula is
the most precious of the ‘gone things’ and the loss of her presence
echoes the haunting despair with which the novel opens.
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9
The ‘Gift for Metaphor’
The epistemology of ‘gone things’
In Sula, Morrison threads together the multiplicity of psychic and mate-

rial impediments that circumscribe the lives of African-American
women during the time-frame of the novel. She then attempts to untie
the knots, ensuring that the relational complexity of the situation facing
these women is placed within the strictures of the white system that
invisibly dominates their lives, what Chimalum Nwankwo calls ‘the
potency of white absence in Morrison’s work’.1 Survival in the white
world, to a large extent, depends on the strength of cultural mores
manifested through familial and communal bonds. Thus, because she
estranges herself from all close connections, Sula’s courageous attempts
to create a unique sense of self are predestined to fail. Spillers suggests
that the ‘possibility of art, of intellectual vocation for black female char-
acter, has been offered as a style of defense against the naked brutality
of conditions. The efficacy of art cannot be isolated from its social and
political means.’2 However, while Spillers then maintains that Sula is
specifically circumscribed by the ‘lack of an explicit tradition of imagi-
nation or aesthetic work, and not by the evil force of “white” society’,
I would argue that Morrison’s text seems to suggest that these two cat-
egories are hard to separate out in this way.3 As Alice Walker delineated
in her famous essay, ‘In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens’, even in the
face of inhumanity, poverty and oppression, black women kept their
creativity alive, through music, quotidian acts of beauty such as creat-
ing ‘a screen of blooms’, as Walker’s mother did, or sewing beautiful
quilts, but most of all by telling stories and passing them on.4 ‘[S]o many
of the stories that I write, that we all write, are my mother’s stories’
writes Walker, and with the telling of these stories, from childhood
142
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The ‘Gift for Metaphor’ 143
onwards, she unwittingly absorbed her people’s culture. As I read it,

Sula’s loss of creativity is the result of a rejection of her maternal her-
itage and her community. However, her rejection is also a complex
entanglement of her individual loss of maternal love and a defiant
stance against collective black cultural dictates that have themselves lost
the art of creativity in the ceaseless struggle to survive white oppression
and domination. The famous passage – on which practically every critic
has commented – reads as follows:
In a way, her strangeness, her naiveté, her craving for the other half
of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had
she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of dance, or strings; had
she anything to encourage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for
metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccu-
pation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she
yearned for. And like any artist with no art form, she became dan-
gerous. (121, emphasis added)
While there can be no doubt that as both Nel and Sula had discovered
years before that as they ‘were neither white nor male . . . all freedom
and triumph was forbidden to them, they had [still] set about creating
something else to be’ (52). For me, what underwrites this text is the
incredible strength of black women in the community of the Bottom
who attempt some form of creative expression only too aware that it
may well fail, such as Helene’s careful crafting of her ‘elegant dress with
velvet collar and pockets’ (19) to carry her safely down South. Writing
on this passage, a number of years ago now, Renita Weems says that
the artist without art form applies to every female character Morrison
creates in her first three novels, and ‘[s]uch Black women are both
mourned and praised’.5 In the case of Sula, it is impossible not to want
to praise her. Yet, ultimately, it is Nel, the survivor, who has not only
to learn to grieve for the loss of Sula, but also to mourn for both their
gone things.
Sula may be a frustrated artist, but her tendency to become restless
and dangerous is more a result of her childhood traumas. Hers is not
the monstrous ego so often attributed to artists. In fact she has no ego
at all, the narrator tells us. With few avenues open to Sula, her artistry
becomes the lived performance of her life:
As willing to feel pain as to give pain, to feel pleasure as to give plea-

sure, hers was an experimental life – ever since her mother’s remarks
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sent her flying up those stairs, ever since her one major feeling of
responsibility had been exorcised on the bank of a river with a closed
place in the middle. The first experience taught her there was no other
that you could count on; the second that there was no self to count
on either. She had no center, no speck around which to grow . . . She
was completely free of ambition, with no affection for money, prop-
erty or things, no greed, no desire to command attention or com-
pliments – no ego. (118–19, emphasis added)
Sula’s closed place in the middle had its traumatic birth on that cata-
clysmic day and from this day on she becomes gradually disconnected
from all others as she struggles to maintain a sense of self. Judith
Herman believes that the ‘damage to the survivor’s faith and sense of
community is particularly severe when the traumatic events themselves
involve the betrayal of important relationships. The imagery of these
events often crystallises around a moment of betrayal, and it is this
breach of trust which gives the intrusive images their intense emotional
power’.6 Despite Robert Grant’s disclaimer that ‘[t]oo often Hannah’s
comment is interpreted as a “determining” factor in Sula’s personality
formation, as if this one remark betokened a socio-behavioral pattern
and “key” ’, I believe that what Sula perceives as a betrayal by her mother
is supported by the text.7 It is her mother’s remarks that taught her that
she has no significant other to count on. Chicken Little’s death adds to
her loss of self. Together they crystallise into the imagery of traumatic
repression, the much-repeated ‘closed place in the middle’, a phrase that
carries immense resonant power. For the rest of her life her inner being
is overshadowed by this ‘closed place’. She is still dreaming of it as she
dies.
Writing at much the same time as Weems, Deborah McDowell also
discusses what she calls the figure of the ‘thwarted female artist’,
quoting the passage from Sula as a classic example of one of a number
of thematic commonalities in the work of contemporary black female
novelists, citing Morrison and Alice Walker as prime examples.8 How-
ever, it is McDowell’s third example of thematic parallels – the use of
‘clothing as iconography’ – as central to the writings by black women to
which I now turn.9 (Her second, which blends down from the first and
into the third is an obsessive ‘ordering of things’ for which McDowell
names Eva Peace’s ‘ordering the pleats in her dress’.)10 In the days
following Sula’s return to the Bottom after her 10-year absence, her con-
versation is marked by constant references to burning and a complete
change of dress. Surrounded by dying robins, Sula arrives back incon-
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gruously dressed with city sophistication, which is possibly one reason

why Eva reacts so strongly to her sudden and unexpected arrival. Both
the unexpectedness of Sula’s entrance and her citified glamour replicate
the earlier scene of Eva’s reunion with BoyBoy, and plunge Eva into a
sudden recall of her time in the city when she is forced to sacrifice her
leg:
Eva looked at Sula pretty much the same way she had looked at
BoyBoy that time when he returned after he’d left her without a dime
or a prospect of one . . . ‘Them little old furry tails ain’t going to do
you no more good than they did the fox that was wearing them.’
‘Don’t you say hello to nobody when you ain’t seen them for ten
years?’
‘If folks let somebody know where they is and when they coming,
then other folks can get ready for them. If they don’t – if they just
pop in all sudden like – then they got to take whatever mood they
find’. (91–2)
This first moment of the meeting spirals grandmother and grand-

daughter into an antagonistic relationship that probably neither would
have wanted if their moods had been different. Sula tries to recapture
what might have been by asking, ‘How you been doing, Big Mamma?’
(92), but Eva immediately slips back into a self-protective hatred, and
they become involved in a mutually destructive repartee which revolves
around accusing each other of murder. Sula accuses Eva of burning Plum
to death; Eva in return retorts: ‘Don’t talk to me about no burning, You
watched you own mamma . . . You the one should have been burnt’
(93). Sula’s answer is to threaten her grandmother with a fiery death of
her own. There is then a complete shift in pace, tone and rhythm as
the scene shifts from the bitter anger and confrontation between Eva
and Sula to Sula’s reunion with Nel, which is described with glowing
warmth and images of benevolence and natural fecundity. The abrupt
transition is also registered by the first of three signifiers of ellipsis,
clearly marked out by .
The next few pages describe Nel and Sula’s reunification. For Nel the
strangely magical quality of this May was ‘all due to Sula’s return to the
Bottom. It was like getting the use of an eye back, having a cataract
removed. Her old friend had come home’ (95). Sula, divested herself of
her flamboyant city apparel, visits Nel most afternoons ‘wearing a plain
yellow dress the same way her mother, Hannah, had worn those too-
big house dresses – with a distance, an absence of a relationship to
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clothes which emphasized everything the fabric covered’ (95). Patricia

McKee reads this as an example of Sula’s ‘absence of relation’ in all
things: ‘Clothing might represent or reform the body, making it look
different . . . for Sula there is no relation between her body and her
clothes, which therefore do not seem to contain or alter her body at
all’.11 I have been arguing that the point of clothes in this novel is that
they matter as artefacts of veiling over of traumatic relations. For Sula,
as McKee suggests, clothes mean nothing on one level, but I would add
that they are extremely important as markers of trauma. It would seem
that the detail of Sula’s imitating of her dead mother’s form of dress
carries a sense of yearning for so many of the gone things of her life.
However, there are three more examples of clothing, or pieces of cloth-
ing, as designators of psychic pain in the novel: the first concerns the
traumatic triangle of Nel, Sula and Jude, the second the short but pas-
sionate relationship between Ajax and Sula and the third, the meta-
physical connection between Shadrack and Sula.
The first example occurs near the end of the chapter that describes
the joyful reconnection of Nel and Sula’s friendship and concerns a thin
length of fabric that will come to embody the symbolic weight of trau-
matic betrayal. The scene is contained within a two-page section that
is specifically marked off in the text by the second ellipsis and an abrupt
change of scene. It begins with the narrator’s words: ‘He left his tie’
(104), and ends with Nel for the only time in the text taking the first
person point of view, ‘you walked past me saying, “I’ll be back for my
things.” And you did but you left your tie’ (106). The tie in question
belongs to Jude, her husband, and the scene opens with the traumatic
moment when Nel discovers Jude and Sula making love on the floor. In
her trying to shut out the immediacy of her distress, Nel focuses on his
‘fly’ being undone which is repeated three times, stressing the unveiling
of his penis, which is also connected further down the page to the
unveiling of her mother’s body all those years ago on the train, as I dis-
cussed earlier. Even though Sula does not bother to put her clothes back
on she does not seem naked to Nel, only Jude does, because although
he has re-dressed, he has forgotten to button the fly. But, finally, as the
scene ends, Nel’s agony refocuses on Jude’s tie, and a scrap of material
becomes a symbol of traumatic loss that hereafter will continue to echo
through the text.
The second incident follows the third and final elliptical marker. After
many alienating sexual encounters through which she desperately
searches for herself, Sula falls deeply in love with the free-spirited Ajax,
a man of ‘sinister beauty’ (50) and bearer of wondrous gifts. Now she
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discovers the meaning of ‘possession’ (131), an emotion about which

she had always been so disdainful when it happened to others. Just
before the ellipsis is a long and erotic celebration of Ajax’s body, then
the discovery of possession. Significantly, Sula marks this moment by
‘tying a green ribbon in her hair [and] the green silk made a rippling
whisper as she slides it into her hair – a whisper that could easily have
been Hannah’s chuckle, a soft slow nasal hiss she used to emit when
something amused her’ (131). The ribbon, the marker that adorns her
body as a sexual enticement, is the first of the signs that Sula will proffer
that day that alerts Ajax to the ‘scent of the nest’ (133), which he im-
mediately deserts. Sula’s death follows soon after. On the surface, the
ribbon, coloured green, is suggestive of jealousy and its attendant feel-
ing of possession. However, at a far deeper and ever-present level, there
is always the whispering voice of her dead mother whose lifestyle Sula
emulates, however unconsciously that may be. The first time she and
Ajax make love, she pulls him into the pantry, a ‘gesture [that] came to
Hannah’s daughter naturally’ (125).
The final example, like the others, is of a piece of clothing that is
cloaked in the iconography of gone things. When Sula visits Shadrack’s
hut immediately after the drowning of Chicken Little, unnoticed by her,
the belt of her dress falls off. The missing item is not mentioned again
until near the end of the novel, when it unexpectedly reappears as a
marker of violent loss and death. On the day that Shadrack had offered
the small crying child a word of benediction that to his mind would
‘convince her, assure her, of permanency’ (157), his reward had been
finding her lost belt which he had pinned over his bed as a visible
reminder that he had once had a visitor: ‘It hung on a nail near his bed
– unfrayed, unsullied after all those years, with only a permanent bend
in the fabric made by its long life on a nail’ (157). The small purple and
white belt becomes his life-long symbol of connection: ‘His visitor, his
company, his guest, his social life, his woman, his daughter, his friend
– they all hung there on a nail near his bed’ (157). An uncanny ambiva-
lence resides in this scene. On one hand there is the extreme poignancy
and loneliness of the image of the belt, with all Shadrack’s repressed
longings and feelings transferred onto a scrap of cloth. On the other,
the nail on which it hangs may well repeatedly return him to the fac-
ticity of experiential pain that overwhelmed him on the battlefield in
1917, when in the face of extreme trauma his mind concentrated on
‘the bite of a nail in his boot’ (8).
Each example connects clothing or a fragment of cloth to spiritual or
physical death. The first example centres around Nel’s spiritual death,
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for from the moment that Jude leaves his tie Nel is harassed by the
haunting grey ball and the repression of a death-in-life existence. The
green ribbon is the marker of Sula’s final ‘spirit damage’12 that leads to
her death. And the final example of the intense focus on Sula’s belt only
happens just after Shadrack has accidentally seen Sula’s dead body in
the mortuary, described as ‘[a]nother dying away of someone whose face
he knew’ (158, emphasis added). This sighting of death may well have
triggered a series of flashbacks to his postwar experience in the mental
hospital when he is overcome by an overwhelming and repeated
longing to see his face because he now totally loses interest in the next
National Suicide Day, which happens to be the following day: ‘for the
first time he did not want to go. He wanted to stay with the purple-
and-white belt. Not go. Not go’ (158). His instincts are right as this is
the day when so many members of the Bottom community who have
usually ignored his call to celebrate a day of death now follow him
singing and dancing to what might be read as a multiple suicide.
The irony, of course, is that as a metaphor for the containment of
traumatic experience the ritual behind National Suicide Day is to devote
one day a year to death so that the ‘rest of the year would be safe and
free’ (14). Members of the black community, the text informs us, ‘knew
anger well but not despair . . . and they didn’t commit suicide [because]
it was beneath them’ (90). Yet, if so many well-known faces of the
Bottom died by accidental suicide, as it were, is there also an argument
for Sula’s death as self-inflicted? When Ajax suddenly leaves, Sula seems
to fall apart: ‘His absence was everywhere, stinging everything . . . When
he was there he pulled everything toward himself. Not only her eyes
and all her senses but also inanimate things seemed to exist because of
him’ (134). Soon after, Sula becomes ill, and lies dying at 7 Carpenter’s
Road, alienated and alone. She receives a single visit from Nel, from
whom she has been estranged ever since her brief fling with Jude, and
the visit does little to change this. Yet, after she leaves, Sula thinks long-
ingly of Nel and the loss of times past:
[S]he will walk on down that road, her back so straight in that old
green coat, the strap of her handbag pushed back all the way to the
elbow, thinking how much I have cost her and never remember the
days when we were two throats and one eye and we had no price.
(147)
From the pain of this loss, Sula drifts into a jumble of remembrances,
then abruptly, and following no particular sequence, an oblique refer-
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ence to one of the founding traumas of her life flashes into her mind:
‘I didn’t mean anything. I never meant anything. I stood there watch-
ing her burn and was thrilled. I wanted her to keep on jerking like that,
to keep on dancing’ (147). However, the trauma of her mother’s death
has yet to be integrated into her consciousness. Sula immediately falls
into a sleep and into her recurring nightmare of The Clabber Girl Baking
Powder Lady, who smiles and beckons. However:
When Sula came near she disintegrated into white dust, which Sula
was hurriedly trying to stuff into the pockets of her blue-flannel
housecoat. The disintegration was awful to see, but worse was the
feel of the powder – its starchy slipperiness as she tried to collect it
by handfuls. The more she scooped the more it billowed. At last it
covered her, filled her eyes, her nose, her throat, and she woke
gagging and overwhelmed with the smell of smoke. (147–8)
This is one of the most extraordinarily eloquent metaphorical repre-

sentations of a forced reliving of a witnessed death and the intense grief
and powerlessness both of the memory of that time and the unstop-
pable repetition of the traumatic re-enactment. The first sentence twice
repeats Sula’s name in full rather than using a pronoun, as if calling her
into the swirling dust. A small child’s act of trying to save her mother’s
disassembling body by stuffing the powder in her pockets mingles with
the adult Sula’s interpretation, for a ‘housecoat’ is not the garment of
a child. The feel of the starchy slipperiness of cornflour is familiar to
anyone who cooks, and it would be almost impossible to pick up a sub-
stantial amount as it would indeed slide out of your hands: it is a perfect
depiction of enforced ineptitude. The dream, which in its final moments
transposes the dust into Hannah’s ashes, almost chokes and smothers
Sula. She wakes in fright to her survival and the knowledge of her
mother’s death. A traumatised agony now takes hold of her body, and
it is as if the community’s last reading of her birthmark as ‘Hannah’s
ashes marking her from the beginning’ (114) is what she finally comes
to believe in. For as her own death nears, her embodied pain becomes
a ‘kind of burning’ (148), a corporeal inscription of psychic pain. This
is not only from having watched her mother die, but also having inter-
nalised her grandmother’s, and later the community’s, interpretation of
her as evil. Thrilled or not at the spectacle of her mother’s death, it has
still traumatised her all her life as this last scene so clearly demonstrates.
As Jill Matus says: ‘If anything, Sula’s artistic sensibility – the interested-
ness, curiosity, aesthetic wonder – leaves her more vulnerable to pain
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than others who see more restrictedly and conventionally.’13 However,

as I see it, the existential problem that assails Sula right up to her death
is that because this repeating trauma is unintegrated knowledge, she is
unable to accept and mourn her mother’s death and see that as a child
it was not her fault that she had not tried to save her.
At the time of her death the narrator states that ‘[s]everal times she
tried to cry out, but the fatigue barely let her open her lips, let alone
take the deep breath necessary to scream’ (148). It is not until the final
pages of the book that we learn through Nel’s reminiscence that Sula’s
mouth in death had looked like ‘a giant yawn that she never got to
finish’ (172). This represents the gagged silence of her life. Sula lived her
rebellion. Like her grandmother, it was her actions that counted far
more than her words. Perhaps the saddest thing of all is that Nel never
knew that Sula’s final words after death were addressed to her. The
poignancy of Sula’s ‘ “Wait’ll I tell Nel” ’ (149) is compounded by the
fact that in the last years of her life Sula never had the opportunity to
speak her love aloud. Sula’s inability to give words to her love had begun
in her childhood as a defence against the loss and trauma she had suf-
fered. If only she had been able to heal the breach with Nel things might
well have been very different, because severed as she was from her
maternal heritage, her closeness to Nel was what could have recon-
nected her to her lost subjectivity and, by extension, to her black com-
munity. Yet Sula’s gift for metaphor, at least during her life, did have a
positive impact on the Bottom. She becomes a catalyst for good and by
her very existence lays down a methodology for healing.
Yet one of the problems of Sula’s will-to-resist is her silence. Sula
has, she believes, sung every song, but – and this is very important –
she never voices her songs of rebellion to the community. She only lives
them soundlessly by deed. There is no call and response. Her pride is
that her mind and her loneliness are her own and not second-hand
emotions, but by keeping what she feels to herself, by keeping her song
internalised, she has ostracised herself from the community. Barbara
Johnson argues that Morrison’s most striking literary technique in Sula
is the ‘dissociation of affect and event’, citing Nel’s attempt to howl her
pain as the ‘most important example of affective discontinuity’.14 While
in total agreement with Johnson, I think that the silencing of Nel in
the traumatic renunciation of her sexuality and her marriage is insepa-
rable from Sula’s traumatised silence, over and beyond, that is, the fact
that Sula caused Nel’s pain. What both Sula and Nel lose, for completely
different reasons, is the capacity to acknowledge, assimilate, voice and
mourn their traumatic grief within the community of women. Indeed,
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it is highly significant that Morrison prefaces Nel’s howl that will not
come with a long and evocative passage about how a collective of
women can keen and outpour their grief:
She [Nel] thought of the women at Chicken Little’s funeral. The

women who shrieked over the bier and at the lip of the open grave.
What she had regarded as unbecoming behaviour seemed fitting
to her now; they were screaming at the neck of God, his giant nape,
the vast back-of-the-head that he turned on them in death . . . The
body must move and throw itself about, the eyes must roll, the
hands should have no peace, and the throat should release all the
yearning despair and outrage that accompany the stupidity of loss. (107,
emphasis added)
The implication is that the women can mourn because in the very phys-
ical act of their keening they can move from the state of melancholia
and into mourning. Mourning is a forward moving and dynamic
process while melancholia is static and self-destructive. Melancholia and
depression are passive acts of aggression against the self. Mourning is a
release of this repressed malignancy.15 The repression ingrained in Nel’s
psyche by her mother’s attempt to protect her daughter from the outside
world and its attendant vulnerabilties means that she is unable to let
herself go enough to keen aloud in her pain. Instead:
Hunched down in the small bright room Nel waited. Waited for the
oldest cry. A scream not for others, not in sympathy for a burnt child,
or a dead father, but a deeply personal cry for one’s own pain. A loud
strident: ‘Why me?’ She waited. The mud shifted, the leaves stirred,
the smell of overripe green things enveloped her and announced the
beginning of her very own howl.
But it did not come. (108)
Even though an attempt to keen her own internal agony, this contains
a passing reference and longing for the solidarity of communal pain.
‘Such a cry,’ Alan Rice avers, ‘would resemble a field holler, the cry by
which slaves showed their deep private despair in the antebellum
South.’16 But it is a cry from which Nel has been disassociated, for her
mother had severed any connection with her mother tongue and a
matrilineal inheritance that was not contaminated by the effects of
internalised whiteness. Nel’s conscious legacy of maternal repression,
which had been the basis of her emergent 10-year old ‘me-ness’, has
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merged with the unconscious repression of the ‘closed place in the

middle’ that surrounds Chicken Little’s drowning, but neither we nor
Nel herself are aware of her traumatised withholding of that event until
the last pages of the novel. Her howling cry cannot escape her and fill
the small space in the bathroom with her grief because she has ‘a flake
of something dry and nasty in the throat’ (108). The possibility of verbal
relief is replaced by a striking visual symbol of silent containment:
There was something just to the right of her, in the air, just out
of view . . . A gray ball hovering just there. Just there. To the right.
Quiet, gray, dirty. A ball of muddy strings, but without weight, fluffy
but terrible in its malevolence. She knew she could not look. (108–9)
She refuses to look. The dirty ball’s intrusive haunting presence is empha-
sised by the repetition of the phrase ‘just there’ and Morrison’s use of
verbs and nouns connected with vision.17 It is a metaphor that could
only apply to the highly-controlled and ever righteous, Nel. It is as if
the hooks and eyes that earlier had simultaneously imprisoned and
revealed her mother’s body are converted here into a metaphor of
psychic repression. The tight ball of muddy strings that is ‘terrible in its
malevolence’ (109) is the maternal inheritance that Nel failed to escape;
both metaphorically symbolise dissociation from the traumatised body.
The maternal circuitry binding her psyche has become dangerously ven-
omous because she no longer has Sula, the one person who could keep
her restricted imagination alive, with whom to talk and laugh. Her
repressed imagination shrivels in its containment of the grey ball, a
colour that has connotations of whiteness in black American culture.18
The lost history of gone things – the howl of history – both individual
and cultural all have to be acknowledged if the move into mourning
can take place. Yet as Cathy Caruth asks: ‘How is it possible . . . to gain
access to a traumatic history?’19
‘Something newly missing’ – the poetics of belatedness
Trauma, whether individual and collective, is not only experienced as

repression or a defence mechanism, but also involves a temporal delay,
a break in psychic time, that carries the individual(s) beyond the shock
of the unexpected moment(s) of trauma. This is how the concept of
‘belatedness’ works. In Caruth’s words: ‘Trauma, that is, does not simply
serve as a record of the past but precisely registers the force of an expe-
rience that is not yet fully owned.’20 In order to move beyond psychic
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survival into a form of recovery, the traumatised memory must be

moved from its recurring pattern of unconscious repetitions into the
conscious mind where it can be integrated. Only then can withheld grief
be mourned. If this is to be applied to the excised history of a trauma-
tised people, that which is ‘lost’ or ‘gone’ has to be brought forward
into consciousness and then publicly articulated in a form of collective
witnessing that can assuage past wrongs. This offers hope of moving
towards both an individual and collective form of psychic and literal
reconciliation. I believe that the metaphoric logic of Morrison’s fic-
tional work offers a very special way of bridging some of the traumatic
absences and gaps of black history and its repeated knots of death, for
the dialogical structure of metaphor opens up a space for ‘a testimony
that can speak beyond what is already understood’.21 I shall later discuss
the transformative importance of the connection between traumatic
narrative and metaphor, but first of all I want to examine in more detail
the concept of belatedness which also involves trying to find a way past
the psychic barrier that prevents the speaking of the unspeakable.
When previously dissociated unconscious trauma finally moves into
consciousness through a triggering event, it is the moment when time
returns back into the present but in a way that provides for a new
separation from the traumatised past. A distinction can now be made
between past and present, making possible the imagination of a future.
It therefore becomes the moment when time is located and placed
into a historical time-frame. However, as I outlined in the introduction,
LaCapra believes that there is a risk of obfuscation and ethical evasive-
ness in moving between the concepts of structural and historical
trauma.22 But if the movement of belatedness also involves a forming
or reforming of identity out of a loss that now is specifically acknowl-
edged, then I think a different form of ethical engagement is brought
into play. In the African-American tradition of self as part of commu-
nity, the articulation of even one identity (which in any case is rela-
tional and concerned with doubleness or multiplicity) means that it
will be part of a re-evaluation of the historical situatedness of the whole
community. It is interesting that the epilogue, which is narrated from
Nel’s point of view, begins with Nel contemplating the community’s
loss in the static framework of melancholia. Following LaCapra’s
reading, her loss ‘is converted into (or encrypted in an indiscriminately
generalized rhetoric of) absence’,23 which would make mourning impos-
sible. Yet in the last paragraphs of the epilogue and the novel, Nel passes
through the moment of belatedness into an epiphanic revelation of self,
and in this process moves beyond the stasis of melancholia and into
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the beginnings of mourning what has now reconverted back into the
temporality of loss and ‘gone things’ which become specific, individu-
alised and located. Now she realises it is not Jude, but Sula, whom she
has missed all these years, and can begin to move into a state of account-
able grief and mourning. Her feelings surrounding her estrangement
from Sula, compounded by Sula’s 25-year absence in death, are speci-
fied and named (spoken, or in this case howled) as her historically lost
other. To mourn is to be able to place history (individual and collective)
in the time-frame of gone things.
I believe that the location of metaphor as an act of transference (this
is its etymological source) aids the shift into belatedness, though this is
not the case in all metaphoric logic, as I demonstrated in the first chap-
ters. Metaphor in Wide Sargasso Sea, and most centrally the concept
of marooning, is divested of its historical specificity in order to justify
an assumption of the victimised position of African-Caribbeans for the
newly deterritorialised white creole family of the Cosway-Masons. Their
situation became one of structural trauma, an inward flight that enabled
evasion of the racialised socio-political ethics of that time. But as I have
been emphasising, Black English is a highly metaphoric language, one
created out of the ambivalent need to veil meaning while simultane-
ously providing a dissenting alternative.
The structure of a metaphor is inherently ambivalent. A metaphor
provides a bridge between two opposing worlds, feelings, events, images
and so on, but at the same time it can be – consciously and uncon-
sciously – utilised only as a distancing measure or defence mechanism.
Within the figurative language, of which metaphor is one of the most
fundamental components, terms literally connected with one object
are transferred to another and so achieve a new wider meaning, and
one that may well remain ambiguously concealed. The use of metaphor
provides a path to that which is too difficult and isolated but also
untouchable, and thus offers a viable, indirect approach to traumatic
histories:
A metaphor is a descriptive statement with a double connotation.

On the one hand it symbolically expresses the hidden emotion-laden
content (a memory, a meaning, a dynamic conflict), and on the
other, the metaphor fits an outer configuration of facts (or a fictitious
or idiosyncratic, highly personalized interpretation of what is
believed to be ‘true’ facts). In this way the metaphorical linguistic
configuration bridges the gap between the inner and outer factors
and carries a strong emotional content and impact. The metaphor
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may be used therapeutically in circumnavigating resistance, at the

same time symbolically uncovering hidden content.24
Until trauma is acknowledged and consciously assimilated, the person

will remain frozen in the position of trauma. Sula is a text that is com-
posed around the concept of belatedness, not only in the recurrent
deaths (symbolic or real) that haunt those who have been involved, or
in Morrison’s manipulations of time. The actual structure of the text is
an example of belatedness. The prologue covers a historical – and there-
fore collective – traumatic event in the far past that is represented as
the immediate present in the manner of a flashback. The chapters that
cover the 1920s (Nel and Sula’s childhood), the late 1930s and early
1940s (the period of their adult estrangement), and then finally the
1965 epilogue (the end of the community), bring together both the
principal characters, and by extension the wider community, in an
act of remembrance and belated understanding. As Johnson states, ‘the
novel itself is written under the sign of “something newly missing” ’.25
The notion of belatedness involves both a distanciation between affect
and event and a temporal disjunction, which is why trauma is some-
times referred to as a ‘disease of time’.26 And Morrison, in line with her
use of the iconography of clothing, has a particular idiographic
metaphor that connects in with this idea of the psychic disease of his-
torical time: the pleats of history and their invisible ironing.
Eva Peace’s ‘fastidious lining up of the pleats or pressing out of wrin-
kles on her skirts’ (167) is Morrison’s domestic metaphor for the pro-
fundity of personal loss and extreme psychic pain that can eventually
turn into madness. Yet because it concerns a mother’s killing of her own
son – an act of maternal ‘love’ necessitated by Plum’s psychic degrada-
tion that has resulted from his participation in the white man’s war –
personal trauma is implicated in the wider framework of American
society. The first reference to realigning a pleat occurs at the beginning
of the ‘1923’ chapter when Hannah asks her mother if she had ever
loved her children. Hannah has to repeat the question twice as Eva does
not answer the first time. Then with the repetition of the query that
cuts right to the repressed centre of her being, ‘Eva’s hand moved snail-
like down her thigh toward her stump, but stopped short of it to realign
a pleat’ (67). Then she answers and we are figuratively catapulted into
Eva’s remembrance of Plum’s murder, which had taken place two years
earlier, and which Eva now describes to her daughter in great detail as
if reliving the traumatic memory for the first time. ‘Long after Hannah
turned and walked out of the room, Eva continued to call his [Plum’s]
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name while her fingers lined up the pleats in her dress’ (72). By the end
of this chapter Hannah too has burnt to death in a scene of appalling
horror. Forty-four years later, Eva is trapped in her endless realigning of
the pleats and ‘dreaming of stairwells’ (167). The metaphor of pleats has
a double function: in the first place its patterning suggests the contrac-
tion of time into neat ordered segments that defy the intermingling of
past, present and future in a continuous flow of narrative time. Eva
orders and contains her past by a concertina-like repression, which
means that while the past may constantly intrude into her present, it
is contained within the folds of the knife-edged pleats of time. It is a
means of overcoming chronological time and its effects. By the time
Morrison reuses the metaphor near the end of the novel, the literal
pleats have, in Eva’s madness, become her tangible connecting psychic
life-line with Plum. As she talks to him, and he to her, so she thinks,
as she tells Nel: ‘ “Plum. Sweet Plum. He tells me things” ’ (169). The
metaphoric link between the fruit overlaid with suggestion of a delicacy
ready for eating, adds to the already existing ambivalence of the whole
mother–son relationship. Thus, figurative use of hems, hooks and eyes,
pleats, fragments of clothing and dress itself are all part of Morrison’s
black female artistry that both hooks into and defies the straitjacket
of white male history. It is an ambivalent figuring, however, because
both Shadrack, who is associated with the straitjacket, and Eva, with the
pleats, can only survive their pain in a state of devastating dissociation.
Indeed, the three main protagonists, Nel, Sula and Shadrack, all in
their different ways are silenced by the displacement of trauma. Ironi-
cally, it is Nel Wright who moves beyond the impact of her own per-
sonal incomprehension of the ‘stupidity of loss’ and into the beginnings
of belated understanding. ‘Virtue, bleak and drawn, [has become] her
only mooring’ (139), and in her capacity as community carrier of
extreme righteousness, towards the end of the novel she goes to visit
Eva, who, now aged over 90, has outlived both her daughter and her
granddaughter. It turns out to be a confronting visit for Nel. Eva sud-
denly accuses her of killing Chicken Little, and when Nel offloads the
blame onto Sula, Eva replies: ‘ “You. Sula. What’s the difference?” ’ (168).
Throughout the whole conversation between them, Eva continues
pleating and her imaginary ironing. Nel extracts herself and thankfully
escapes from the building, fastening her coat against the rising wind as
she walks. ‘The top button was missing so she covered her throat with her
hand. A bright space opened in her head and memory seeped in’ (169,
emphasis added). The implication is that the 30-year-old flake in her
throat is beginning to shift, and in her fear of what may unfold she
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covers the spot on her body where it is contained. Prompted by Eva’s

accusatory, ‘ “You was there. You watched, didn’t you?” ’ (168), Nel has
a sudden and very vivid flashback of the scene of the drowning, and
with its assimilation into her conscious thought finally admits to herself
that she had experienced a ‘good feeling . . . when Chicken’s hands
slipped’ (170). With this ‘new’ knowledge she is forced to ask herself:
‘“Why didn’t I feel bad when it happened? How come it felt so good
to see him fall?” ’ (170). What she had always admired in herself is her
calm, controlled behaviour that she first exhibited that day so long ago
on the river and which had contrasted so strongly to Sula’s hysterical
sobbing: ‘Now it seemed that what she had thought was maturity, seren-
ity and compassion was only the tranquillity that follows a joyful stim-
ulation’ (170). Significantly, that reconnection occurs as she approaches
the cemetery where Sula is buried, an area which McDowell sees as a
metaphor for ‘Nel’s buried shadow’.27
As Nel walks along, her memory roams to the day that Sula was
buried. After the white folks had left the cemetery, a group of black
people from up in the Bottom enter with ‘hooded hearts and filed eyes
to sing “Shall We Gather at the River” over the curved earth that cut
them off from the most magnificent hatred they had ever known’ (173).
This is a sorrow song that, in the words of Trudier Harris, ‘is one that
has traditionally brought comfort to black people and the expectation
that life after this world would be much better than that lived here’.28
Ironically, their singing is more a ritual-bound affirmation of their reli-
gion and the spiritual comfort it provides than any heartfelt sadness at
Sula’s death, and as if in one last mocking gesture, the narrator suggests
that perhaps Sula answers them from beyond the grave, ‘for it began to
rain, and the women ran in tiny leaps through the grass for fear their
straightened hair would beat them home’ (173). This is an ironic refer-
ence to the fact that although it is now 1965, the era of Black Power
and the slogan of ‘Black is Beautiful’, members of the Bottom are still
worried about the effect of rain on their ‘nappy’ hair, suggesting that
internalised whiteness is still paramount in the community.29
Nel continues walking and Shadrack passes her on the road. They
move in opposite directions, ‘each thinking separate thoughts about the
past. The distance between them increased as they both remembered
gone things’ (174). Suddenly Nel stops. It is as if the trees are calling in
Sula’s voice: ‘ “Sula?” she whispered, gazing at the tops of the trees.
“Sula?” Leaves stirred; mud shifted; there was the smell of over-ripe green
things. A soft ball of fur broke and scattered like dandelion spores in the
breeze’ (174, emphasis added). The sentence I have italicised is a replica
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(although with the ordering shifted) of the painful moment 28 years

before when Nel had slumped in her bathroom waiting for the howl
that would not come (108). Now all the gone things press down on her
and with a sudden surge of what is a mixture of mourning and joyful,
but belated, understanding she realises that it was not Jude she has been
missing all these years, but Sula, and a wild keening cry finally breaks
out of her throat:
‘O Lord, Sula,’ she cried, ‘girl, girl, girlgirlgirl.’

It was a fine cry – loud and long – but it had no bottom and it had
no top, just circles and circles of sorrow. (174)
This is the beginning of articulating the traumatic history that has

impacted on her own life and all the inhabitants of the Bottom. It is
important that the racially demeaning word ‘gal’ which had reduced
her mother to custard all those years ago, now becomes ‘girl’ which is,
Smitherman says, a term most often used by black women to denote
close female friendship.30 It is a moment of radical personal catharsis,
moral transformation and coming to consciousness.31 It may well
become Nel’s future role to take up where Sula left off and try to change
the face of her community thinking. Her life has been one of refusing
to look, of repressing pain, of ignoring her history. Through connect-
ing back to Sula by admitting the vital nature of gone things, her life
will never be the same again. She has lost Sula, but she now has to
mourn that loss. The ending, then, is necessarily ambivalent.
One of the central questions the novel seeks to answer is how does a
singular, personalised story become a communal one? How does Nel’s
story become a collective historical voice? Through the character of Nel
the novel comes full circle. From a maternal heritage of repression,
conventionality and assimilation to white middle-class values, it is as if
Sula’s voice whispering in the trees – as Hannah’s voice had whispered
in Sula’s hair through the symbol of the green ribbon – could well be
saying to Nel what Janie says to her best friend Phoeby in Zora Neale
Hurston’s Their Eyes Are Watching God: ‘ “You can tell ’em what Ah say
if you wants to. Dat’s just de same as me ‘cause mah tongue is in mah
friend’s mouf.” ’32 By unravelling the silenced knots of death, of exis-
tential pain and historical grief and by rebinding them as the ‘hem of
life’,33 Morrison voices black history that grows out of sharing both suf-
fering and resistant knowledge.
In a continuation of Nel’s maternal literary heritage, Morrison knots
into the configurations of an African-American woman-centred text, in
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which Karla Holloway maintains ‘[i]n rejection of conventional histo-

riography, feelings are proven more durable and trustworthy than
history’.34 By joining affect to events of the past in Sula, ‘feelings’ have
become history, a black history both personal and collective. It is also a
dynamic process of mourning, and therefore inverts and rewrites of the
stasis of Wide Sargasso Sea, a text caught in the paralysis of melancho-
lia. Sula has been dead for 30-odd years, and it is only belatedly that
Nel can begin to mourn for the great loss of what was perhaps the most
important relationship in her life. Yet it is hopeful, and reminds me of
the ending of Their Eyes Were Watching God, when Janie sits up all night
reciting and reliving the memories that make up her life to her oldest
and closest friend Phoeby whom she has not seen for a number of years.
Phoeby leaves and Janie is alone with her memories: ‘Here was peace
. . . She called in her soul to come and see.’35
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Conclusion: A Meditation
on Silence
As my tongue unravels
in what pitch
will the scream hang unsung
or shiver like lace on the borders
of never recording
Audre Lorde, ‘Echoes’1
Audre Lorde believed in redemptive possibilities. All her life she actively
and eloquently fought discrimination in all its permutations – racism,
sexism, heterosexism and homophobia – in her essays, in her poetry, in
the way she lived and spoke. And as a black feminist lesbian mother
living in a society dominated by the social power of whiteness and patri-
archal heteronormativity, her fight was more complicated than most.
In 1977 she gave a paper entitled ‘The Transformation of Silence into
Language and Action’ that was to come to exemplify her public stance
against external and internalised pain that resulted from her position-
ing as a ‘sister outsider’.2 However, it was also immensely courageous
on another level, for in this talk Lorde unveiled her private battle with
breast cancer which was finally to take her life in 1992. But the break-
ing of silence always crossed between the public and private in Lorde’s
work and one gave strength to the other.3 So when she says, ‘My silence
had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you’,4 she is also
calling for a response from all of us, regardless of race, class, health or
choice of sexuality:
The fact that we are here and that I speak these words is an attempt
to break that silence and bridge some of those differences between
160
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Conclusion 161
us, for it is not difference which immobilizes us, but silence. And there
are so many silences to be broken.5
However, as Lorde constantly emphasised in her work and as my read-

ings of Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea, Kincaid’s Lucy and Morrison’s Sula
suggest, the historical structuring of silence for women-of-color living
in societies in which whiteness is the dominant discursive and mater-
ial force has many layers, most of which are painfully hard to break.
Despite revisionary readings of literature and history by a collection
of eminent black feminist critics, the masked whiteness of theory –
literary theory, theories of trauma, feminist theories, postmodernism,
deconstruction, and so on – ensures that black voices continue to be
marginalised. Indeed, in her poem that prefaces this conclusion, Lorde
registers a deliberate gap between never and recording, thereby suggest-
ing the continuing erasure of black identity under the continuing
traumas of contemporary racial prejudice and exclusion. This spatial
ellipsis also alerts us to the fact that as a result of trauma some memo-
ries are in fact irrecoverable. Nevertheless, Evelynn Hammonds, like
Audre Lorde, maintains that ‘[t]he goal should be to develop a “politics
of articulation” that would build on the interrogation of what makes it
possible for black women to speak and act’.6 In response, my focus has
been on interrogating the unseen dynamics of power in figurative
language and to emphasising the creative power of metaphor that can
create a bridge between the unspeakable and the spoken. But because
of the high incidence of racial disarticulation, I have concentrated on
cultural readings of ‘the closed place in the middle’ – the silent space
of repression of traumatic memories and traumatised histories, both per-
sonal and collective – across a range of historical contexts. This psychic
silencing has so often meant that the ‘scream [does] hang unsung’.7
Silence then, is an inherently ambivalent word. It can protect, dignify
and honour, or it can erase, subjugate and oppress, and the spaces
between the two are often blurred. As the conclusion to Sula suggests,
for African-American women the breaking of years of repression and
silence (Nel’s ululating mournful cry) symbolically and literally takes
place within and out of what Paul Gilroy calls the ‘condition of being
in pain’.8 Yet the doubled-edged coding and metaphorical logic integral
to African-American cultural traditions has played a large part in the
politics of survival and resistance, which is why, as Valerie Smith main-
tains, close reading focusing on the ‘figurative dimensions of the text
within the context of its production’, is an important mode of a politi-
cised and historicised critical inquiry.9 For instance, Lorde’s strategic
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connection of the verb hang to the noun scream carries silently within
it reverberations of historical trauma and the violence of death by
lynching, and also recalls Billie Holiday’s 1939 blues song, ‘Strange
Fruit’, with its ‘strange bitter crop’ hanging silently in the trees, the
outcome of excessive white violence and silencing.10 However, read
within the cultural paradigm of whiteness alone, despite her eloquence,
the power of Lorde’s race politics are significantly undermined.
While I have focused on whiteness, ambivalence and trauma in the
chapters of this book – all of which compound acts of racialised silenc-
ing – I now want to offer a way to gesture beyond these difficulties. I
thus end with a close reading of Toni Morrison’s only published short
story ‘Recitatif’, which is a complex meditation on silence and the dif-
ficulty of gaining a voice in a world structured by racial hierarchies.11
As the musical metaphor of the title suggests, ‘recitative’ is a style of
musical declamation, intermediate between singing and ordinary
speech. The story is a riff on the traumatic ambivalence of silence that
threads through the lives of two young girls named Twyla and Roberta,
one black and one white, who meet for the first time when they are
both eight in St Bonney’s, a shelter for abandoned and orphaned chil-
dren. They have both been removed from or abandoned by their
mothers (it is purposefully ambiguous), Twyla because her mother
‘danced all night’ and Roberta because her mother was sick (243). Mor-
rison’s narrative concentrates on the working through of difficult (and
previously silenced) knowledge, which so often accompanies experi-
ences of cumulative trauma, and ends with a tentative speculation on
how to engage in more open and equal, but still difficult, interracial
dialogue.
‘Recitatif’ is, in many ways, an uncomfortable and demanding story
to read, not least because all the anger, pain and hatred are projected
onto the body of a mute woman named Maggie who has no recourse
to spoken resistance: in the words of one of the young girls who taunt
her, she ‘wouldn’t scream [because she] couldn’t’ (260). Moreover, in a
story in which Morrison deliberately erases all linguistic colour coding
in order to expose the hidden ideologies that are the mainstay of con-
tinuing racial prejudice in language, Maggie is the only ‘raced’ charac-
ter in the narrative, and indeed the colour of her skin is a constant
source of fascination.12 It is an unsettling, ambivalent reading experi-
ence that meshes with my work for a number of reasons. The two female
protagonists’ self-definition, read over a 30-year span, is hinged on the
knotted entanglement of their respective maternal inheritances and the
material and psychic effects of racial divisions. It is a story of damage,
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Conclusion 163
but one engaged with the possibilities of belated healing. It is also, in

many respects, a parable of the problematics of feminist politics that
have, for some decades now, become paralysed around the emotive
subject of difference.
Of the story’s 24 pages, the first six describe the girls’ incarceration in
the institution, the remaining three-quarters narrate four subsequent
chance encounters. The time-frame covers three decades, the 1950s,
1960s and 1970s, but it is as if time is condensed into one day in the
manner of a traumatic vignette, because the four meetings occur at
dawn, mid-morning, afternoon and finally, late at night.13 The women’s
first reconnection – when they are 16 or 17 – takes place at dawn eight
years after their stay at St Bonny’s in one of the Howard Johnson chain
of eateries that are replicated across the United States. At this stage
Twyla (who narrates the story as an adult) is a Howard Johnson wait-
ress and Roberta a customer on her way to a Jimi Hendrix concert.
Despite their earlier friendship in the shelter, the encounter is a disas-
ter: ‘A black girl and a white girl meeting at Howard Johnson’s on the
road and having nothing to say’ (253). Their next two accidental meet-
ings happen approximately 12 years later, when they would be about
30 and are now themselves mothers. Twyla, with one son, is married to
a fireman and their economic status is strained. Roberta has married a
wealthy executive and has four step-children. They practically collide
in the check-out queue of an upmarket gourmet store where Roberta is
at home and Twyla the interloper, but their earlier estrangement at
Howard Johnson’s is temporarily overcome over a cup of coffee. Four
months later they end up on opposite sides of picket lines as they
demonstrate against the compulsory bussing of their children – the
American government’s attempt to enforce a reversal of their own
implementation of the discriminatory Jim Crow laws – and the divisive
politics become personalised. They part in a scene of semi-veiled hatred.
Their last encounter – another eight years on when they would be about
38 – takes place on a snowy night just before Christmas, and it offers,
as I shall infer, a tentative revisioning of the trauma that has shadowed
and silenced their friendship.
This may seem a tedious retelling of the story without analysis, but
the structuring has important political implications. Like Sula, the nar-
rative’s formal composition favours belatedness, both in its temporal
and psychic aspects. The girls’ life-long traumas unfold during their time
in the shelter but the traumatic impact is not confined to the first quarter
of the narrative space. Each subsequent meeting is in effect a replaying
of these traumatic experiences through a reliving of traumatised
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memories that have remained encapsulated in a psychic time-lock. Thus,

their childhood suffering is represented by repeating flashbacks that
occupy most of the narrative space. But more than that, Morrison’s nar-
rative strategy draws us as readers into an imaginative engagement with
these returning memories such that we both witness and participate in
their re-enactments in truly disconcerting and unsettling ways.
As with all her work, Morrison deliberately structures this story to
ensure an interactive and creative relationship between author and
reader.14 However, in this instance, she goes further by attempting to
disarticulate the prescriptive racial codes invisibly present in language
by removing them altogether and replacing them with contradictory
readings of class-based mores. From the opening paragraph we are made
aware that one girl is black and one white and that they are both trau-
matised by their mothers’ desertion. Thrown together in an institution
that can be read as symbolising a microcosmic representation of the
outside world of institutionalised racism (or, and this is my tentative
speculation, the imagined world of a feminist politics indentured to an
empowering, but exclusionary, ideal of a universal sisterhood), the two
young girls bond in a particularised form of silencing that necessarily
erases the complexities of their racial positioning:
‘Is your mother sick too?’ [Roberta asks]

‘No,’ I said. ‘She just likes to dance all night.’
‘Oh,’ she nodded her head and I liked the way she understood
things so fast.
So for the moment it didn’t matter that we looked like salt and
pepper standing there. (243–4)
However, what they appreciate in each other is a gestural but unspoken

acceptance of the problems of the other, which means that they never
get to understand the other’s perspective or affective distress. Moreover,
as Kalpana Seshadri-Crooks contends, ‘[t]he girls’ willingness to main-
tain silence, to refuse curiosity, then also becomes the point of vulner-
ability that the two [will later] use against each other’.15 Yet, despite their
masked-over differences, Roberta and Twyla are encouraged into a
deeper sense of solidarity by the external pressures that exist in their
small society. In the institution they are resented by the majority of
other children because even though they were ‘dumped’16 they do still
have mothers, while the rest are orphans. They are also the youngest
by a number of years and are frightened of the older girls, whom they
nickname the ‘gar girls – Roberta’s misheard word for the evil stone faces
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Conclusion 165
described in civics class’ (253). The ambivalence of the metaphor is start-

lingly apt. On the one hand, gargoyles have open mouths as if emit-
ting a silent scream (though ironically, the aim of their open mouths is
to protect the buildings from which they jut by expelling excess water);
on the other, the imagery suggests that these ‘gar girls’ are frozen in car-
icatures of pain, a suffering which they in turn inflict on others less
strong than themselves; among these, Twyla and Roberta, and especially
Maggie. Indeed, Morrison does not shy away from depicting the spir-
alling violence and abuse in the home or the reasons for the inmates’
wounding. The gar girls, as Twyla remembers from the distance and
understanding of her adult perspective, are themselves ‘put-out girls,
scared runaways most of them. Poor little girls who fought their uncles
off’ (244), but nevertheless they passed the violence on. At the time
though ‘[w]e were scared of them, Roberta and me, but neither of us
wanted the other one to know it’ (244). When the gar girls chase them
and twist their arms and pull their hair, they help each other but never
speak between themselves of the shared intimidation. This then, is the
other side of the protective silence with which they shroud themselves
as an internal flight from the pain their mothers inadvertently inflict,
yet both merely mask different manifestations of distress. They may
bond together to protect each other or their inner selves, but because
their distress is not consciously acknowledged, the only real resistance
is running away, calling out ‘dirty names’ that echo back over their
shoulders as they run (244).
We never know if the gar girls are white or black and that really is
not the point. For if the ‘hermeneutic impulse of the literary critic’ –
which is how Seshadri-Crooks describes Elizabeth Abel’s ‘playing the
critic-as-detective [as a means of] trying to figure out who is white and
who is black’ in Morrison’s story – concentrates solely on trying to work
out which girl is of which race, the carefully constructed readings of the
causes of racial prejudice and discrimination are lost. The story’s diffi-
cult knowledge is then elided. For instance, one of the more difficult
aspects of the story with which it is necessary to come to terms, if
reading from a race-cognisant feminist perspective, is that the daugh-
ters’ racism has been inculcated by their mothers:
The minute I walked in and the Big Bozo introduced us, I got sick to
my stomach. It was one thing to be taken out of your own bed early
in the morning – it was something else to be stuck in a strange place
with a girl from a whole other race. And Mary, that’s my mother, she
was right. Every now and then she would stop dancing long enough
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to tell me something important and one of the things she said was
that they never washed their hair and they smelled funny. Roberta
sure did. Smell funny, I mean. (243)
As the story is focalised through Twyla’s perspective, it is not known at

first if Roberta also internalises racism through her mother’s teaching.
What the story stresses is that solidarity gained through the need to
knot together against society’s dictates can alter the tenets of learned
racism, but that this path, though necessary, is far from easy. As the
girls’ friendship grows, they hear that their mothers are coming to visit,
and they long for, discuss at length and plan a meeting between them.
On the day, they curl each other’s hair and dress in their best clothes,
but when Roberta smilingly brings her mother over to where Twyla and
her mother Mary are standing, Roberta’s mother turns away in silent
disdain as soon as she sees them, humiliating Twyla and embarrassing
Roberta.
Interestingly, in her depiction of the mothers, Morrison appropriates
one of the central stereotypes of white patriarchal discourse, the radi-
cally binarised madonna/whore dichotomy. Mary becomes the whore
mother, unsuitably dressed in tight green slacks ‘that made her behind
stick out’ (247) and a fur jacket with ripped pocket linings in which her
hands get stuck.17 The inexpediency of her attire is emphasised by the
fact that one of the day’s activities is to attend a chapel service, and in
the church Mary lives up to her stereotyping, groaning, muttering in
the silent spaces and then refusing to sing the hymns, instead checking
her lipstick in her pocket mirror (248). In contrast, Roberta’s mother is
an imposing and excessive madonna figure: ‘She was big. Bigger than
any man and on her chest was the biggest cross I’d ever seen. I swear it
was six inches long each way. And in the crook of her arm was the
biggest Bible ever made’ (247). The final touch of irony is that it is not
only the whore mother who has tried to inculcate racial hatred in her
daughter; it is the madonna mother who in the end refuses to shake
hands with Mary who has been only too willing ‘to yank her hand out
of the pocket with the raggedy lining’ and tangibly connect with
Roberta’s mother (247). The Christian edict of loving thy neighbour
clearly means little when there are racial lines to be crossed, even when
the other woman bears the traditional name of the madonna figure.
This contemptuous and silent racial dismissal is a pivotal scene in the
narrative and when repeated years later in one of their chance encoun-
ters as adults engenders the only italicised word in the text: ‘Remember
. . . how we tried to introduce them?’ (253) Roberta asks Twyla.
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Conclusion 167
So the first level of silencing contains many layers. There is the indi-
vidualised silence of repression or displacement through dissociation
which becomes so much a part of the lives of Rhys’s Antoinette,
Kincaid’s Lucy and Morrison’s Nel, and now, Roberta and Twyla. In the
stories I have discussed, this traumatic silencing centres on profoundly
ambivalent relationships between mothers and daughters. However,
as I hope to have demonstrated, this repressive silencing can never be
separated out from racial positioning, and in particular from the psychic
and material effects of the oppression and domination inherent in
the ideology of whiteness. It is an ambivalent protection, of course,
because knowledge hidden from the self remains in a state of stasis or
impasse and stifles the psychic movement necessary to move into a
state of mourning, thus curtailing forms of resistance. Indeed, this
individualised silence, or inability to share deep self-knowledge with
similar others, radiates outwards into the public arena. But at the same
time, this form of silence is constructed very ambivalently in Morrison’s
story:
Two little girls who knew what nobody else in the world knew – how
not to ask questions. How to believe what had to be believed. There
was politeness in that reluctance and generosity as well. Is your
mother sick too? No, she dances all night. Oh – and an understand-
ing nod. (253)
However, ‘politeness’ and the liberal gesture can also mask white denial
(as is symbolised by Mariah in Kincaid’s Lucy), which is really only a
more benign form of the contemptuous dismissal. In a race-driven
society silencing is a power tactic of the privileged: ‘generosity’ as a pro-
tective shield can become a form of displaced denial made possible by
the shield of power.
In Morrison’s tale these forms of silence are shown to be socially con-
structed, as is racial prejudice, and the concepts are interwoven and
destructively tied together. The implication is that silent (or linguisti-
cally invisible) prejudices must be consciously confronted, disassembled
and laid bare in order that they may then be rethreaded in a different
configuration, one that makes the knots’ figurations a binding of posi-
tive strength. The second level of silencing in ‘Recitatif’, and one much
more entrenched and hard to break, is an essentialist one, tied to the
body, with the accompanying implications (and complications) of the
biological and the innate – the feminist taboo, as it were. In the text,
this tabooed area is further complicated by the fact that the mute figure
1403_921989_12_conc.qxd 12/3/2003 2:25 PM Page 168
in the text is Maggie who, as I stated earlier, is the only character explic-
itly connected to a racial positioning and the figure on whom all the
girls in St Bonny’s – regardless of race – vent their rage, violence and
cruelty. Abel describes her as a ‘figure of racial undecidability’ (472) –
she is variously drawn as ‘sandy-colored’ (245), ‘black’ (257) or even pos-
sibly ‘pitch-black’ (259) – she changes colour depending on the race of
the beholder and the vagaries of traumatic memory. What never alters
though is the fact that Maggie is punished for everybody else’s pain.
The gar girls push her down and tear off her clothes (254), Twyla and
Roberta also taunt and ridicule her, as if obsessed by her muteness:
‘[W]hat if somebody tries to kill her?’ I used to wonder about that.

‘Or if she wants to cry? Can she cry?’
‘Sure,’ Roberta said. ‘But just tears. No sounds come out.’
‘She can’t scream?’
‘Nope. Nothing.’
‘Can she hear?’
‘I guess.’
‘Let’s call her,’ I said. And we did.
‘Dummy! Dummy!’ She never turned her head. (245)
But one incident in particular becomes for both the girls a traumatic
memory that will plague them for the duration of the story, overpow-
ering happy reminiscences of their past friendship nearly every time
they meet, as I shall demonstrate.
We first learn of Maggie’s existence through Twyla’s description of a
repeating dream of the shelter’s orchard in which ‘[n]othing really hap-
pened. Nothing all that important, I mean. Just the big girls dancing
and playing the radio. Roberta and me watching. Maggie fell down there
once’ (244–5). The sudden and abrupt inclusion of Maggie into the nar-
rative bespeaks trauma, but the depth of the repressed trauma and its
connection with the maternal only gradually becomes clear. After a brief
description of Maggie and a diversion into why she and Roberta ‘got
along’ – it is a friendship almost entirely based on ‘being nice about not
asking questions’ about each other (245) – there is a hint and fore-
shadowing of the interconnection in their minds of Maggie and their
mothers who have silently shut them out of their lives: ‘I think it was
the day before Maggie fell down that we found out our mothers were
coming to visit us’ (246). The agonies of the maternal visit (symbolic of
the many instances of distress that occur for both girls) become merged
with the horror of the day that Maggie falls down and is kicked and
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Conclusion 169
abused. They become condensed into one memory. All the children’s
self-hatred, their woundings from their mothers’ displacing behaviour
and their fear of permanent abandonment are projected onto Maggie,
whose mute coloured body becomes the repository for Twyla’s and
Roberta’s wounded bitterness and for the hatred and confusion of the
gar girls. Maggie becomes the abject, the object onto which all other
subjects expel the unspeakable aspects of their psyches in order to
survive.18 However, as ‘abjection is above all ambiguity’, it also simul-
taneously represents the failure of an abject displacement, ‘something
rejected from which one does not part’.19 Maggie has herself been raised
in an institution: she is all they might themselves become and, as such,
is loathed and persecuted. Yet ironically, it is the spectre of Maggie that
they take with them into the outside world.
Despite their tentative attempts to rekindle their past relationship,
three out of the four times Twyla and Roberta encounter each other over
the following decades, they are overwhelmed by the haunting memory
of the day Maggie fell down. At their first and disastrous meeting at
Howard Johnson’s, Roberta, falling back into her maternal patterns,
contemptuously dismisses Twyla apparently on racial grounds. They
part in anger and with a jibe about each other’s mother – the shared
part of them that is both a wound and a weapon. However, their next
chance encounter starts off promisingly by their being able to laugh at
what, at the time, had been a harrowing episode:
‘Remember . . . how we tried to introduce them?’

‘Your mother with that cross like two telephone poles.’
‘And yours with those tight slacks.’
We laughed so loudly heads turned and made the laughter harder
to suppress. (253)
But their laughter turns to dissonance when the remembering shifts

to the subject of Maggie and the day she fell down. Roberta argues
that the gar girls knocked her over, and Twyla seems to have totally
repressed the confrontation so that they cannot talk it through. They
cover the differences over and depart with Twyla promising to contact
Roberta, but knowing she never will.
Their third meeting centres around a scene of racial strife and flaring
antagonisms. Twyla spots Roberta demonstrating against the introduc-
tion of bussing, and stops to talk to her. The political context quickly
inflames their conversation, which ends with a threatening accusation
from Roberta:
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‘Maybe I am different now, Twyla. But you’re not. You’re the same
little state kid who kicked a poor old black lady when she was down
on the ground. You kicked a black lady and you have the nerve to
call me a bigot.’ (257)
What is particularly interesting about this scene (and also what makes
it hard to write about) is that what bothers Twyla about the incrimina-
tion is not that she is accused of bigotry, or that she has kicked an old
black lady, but the fact that Roberta says that Maggie is black:
What was she saying? Black? Maggie wasn’t black.

‘She wasn’t black,’ I said.
‘Like hell she wasn’t, and you kicked her. We both did. You kicked
a black lady who couldn’t even scream.’ (258)
Is this to be read as implying that a profound trauma will override ques-

tions of race? Or that the masking over and silencing of racial differ-
ences will end up in acts of violence both physical and psychic? In any
event, it is a question that troubles Twyla for years and she provides the
answer herself. She had not kicked Maggie but she had wanted to,
because:
Maggie was my dancing mother. Deaf, I thought and dumb. Nobody

inside. Nobody would hear you if you cried in the night. Nobody
who could tell you anything important that you could use. (259)
With this epiphany, the story shifts into its final phase. On the way
home from buying a Christmas tree late one night, Twyla stops into a
diner, where she encounters Roberta, resplendent in a ‘silvery evening
gown and dark fur coat’ (260). Roberta leaves her grand circle of friends
and comes over and launches straight into an apology for her accusa-
tion all those years ago: ‘I have to tell you something, Twyla. I made up
my mind if I ever saw you again, I’d tell you’ (261). Twyla is reluctant
to re-enter this psychic space but Roberta insists:
‘Listen to me. I really did think she was black. I didn’t make that up.
I really thought so. But now I can’t be sure. I just remember her as
old, so old. And because she couldn’t talk – well, you know; I thought
she was crazy. She’d been brought up in an institution like my
mother was and like I thought I would be too. And you were right.
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Conclusion 171
We didn’t kick her. It was the gar girls. Only them. But, well, I wanted
to. I really wanted them to hurt her.’ (261)
In an interesting article on trauma and race and the pedagogical imper-

atives of helping African-American students to work through the history
of slavery and the lingering and negative impact of its long term asso-
ciations in contemporary America, Rinaldo Walcott argues that the
trauma of racism – historical and contemporary – is ‘laden with the evi-
dence of defeat and shame’ which in turn articulates a kind of knowl-
edge with which it is difficult to engage.20 He therefore advocates
Deborah Britzman’s notion of ‘difficult knowledge’, which suggests that
however confronting or difficult knowledge is to deal with, it must be
worked through at a psychic level in order to engage with the release
that accompanies the act of mourning.21 Quoting Britzman, Walcott
states ‘perhaps the greatest risk of learning is that lonely recognition
that knowledge of loss and our own insufficient response can be made
only in belated time’.22 The breaking of psychic silence does not neces-
sarily have to be spoken out loud, but it would seem that most
successful workings through of trauma take place within some form of
dialogue, whether this be through medical means, reconciliation tri-
bunals, private or public sharing of traumatic memories, or, as I have
been advocating, through the use of metaphoric understanding in lit-
erature, which returns me to Morrison’s short story.
As Roberta has been talking she starts to cry and we move into the
story’s conclusion. Importantly, it is Roberta’s voice that for the first
time leads the narrative, which has until now been told from Twyla’s
point of view:
She wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand and smiled. ‘Well
that’s all I wanted to say.’ . . .
‘Thanks, Roberta.’
‘Sure.’
‘Did I ever tell you? My mother, she never did stop dancing.’
‘Yes. You told me. And mine, she never got well.’ Roberta lifted
her hands from the tabletop and covered her face with her palms.
When she took them away she really was crying. ‘Oh shit, Twyla.
Shit, shit, shit. What the hell happened to Maggie?’ (261)
In the end the ‘difficult knowledge’ about their mothers is a final

healing gift to each other – an ambivalent acknowledgement of sharing
1403_921989_12_conc.qxd 12/3/2003 2:25 PM Page 172
and voicing ‘the condition of being in pain’. Nothing is resolved, least

of all the problem of Maggie, but the interracial lines of dialogue are,
for the first time in the narrative, opened and redolent with future
possibilities.
I end by connecting the possibility of such a dialogue to Ann duCille’s
notion of complementary theorising that describes the ways in which
black and white feminists ‘think with, rather than across, one another
about the intersections of racial and gender differences’.23 Working
through difficult and previously silenced knowledge is, I believe, a
means not only to participate in this vital dialogue but also to engage
actively in the possibilities of cross-cultural healing.
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Notes
Introduction
1. June Jordan, ‘Gettin Down to Get Over’, a poem dedicated to her mother,
Naming Our Destiny: New and Selected Poems (New York: Thunder’s Mouth
Press, 1989) 75–6, emphasis in original.
2. Clifford W. Ashley, The Ashley Book of Knots (New York: Doubleday, 1946)
8.
3. Sara Ruddick, ‘Maternal Thinking’, Feminist Studies 6 (1980): 368.
4. Rosi Braidotti, ‘The politics of ontological difference’, Between Feminism &
Psychoanalysis, ed. Teresa Brennan (London & New York: Routledge, 1990)
96.
5. Nancy Chodorow, The Reproduction of Mothering: Psychoanalysis and the
Sociology of Gender (Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of Califor-
nia Press, 1978).
6. Patricia Hill Collins, ‘Shifting the Center: Race, Class, and Feminist Theo-
rizing about Motherhood’, Mothering: Ideology, Experience, and Agency, eds
Evelyn Nakana Glenn, Grace Chang and Linda Forcey (New York & London:
Routledge, 1994) 63.
7. Hill Collins (1994), 45–65.
8. Jane Lazarre, The Mother Knot (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976).
9. Marianne Hirsch, The Mother/Daughter Plot: Narrative, Psychoanalysis, Femi-
nism (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1989).
10. Future readings, Hirsch states, ‘should relinquish their exclusive depen-
dence on psychoanalytic models and will have to integrate psychoanalysis
with other perspectives – historical, social and economic . . . They will have
to include aggression, ambivalence, contradiction, even as they wish for
connection, support, and affiliation. They have to include the body even
as they avoid essentialism. See Hirsch (1989), 198–9.
11. As Spivak’s use of the metaphor has many similarities to mine, I quote a
central passage in full: ‘A subject-effect can be briefly plotted as follows:
that which seems to operate as a subject may be part of an immense dis-
continuous network (“text” in the general sense) of strands that may be
termed politics, ideology, economics, history, sexuality, language, and so
on. (Each of these strands, if they are isolated, can also be seen as woven
out of many strands.) Different knottings and configurations of these
strands, determined by heterogeneous determinations which are them-
selves dependent upon myriad circumstances, produce the effect of the
operating subject.’ Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘Subaltern Studies: Decon-
structing Historiography’, In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (New
York & London: Routledge, 1988b) 204.
12. Diana Fuss ed. Inside/Out: Lesbian Theories, Gay Theories (New York &
London, Routledge, 1991).
13. Susan Rubin Suleiman, ‘Nadja, Dora, Lol V. Stein: women, madness and
173
1403_921989_13_note.qxd 12/3/2003 2:24 PM Page 174
174 Notes
narrative’, Discourse in Psychoanalysis and Literature, ed. Shlomith Rimmon-

Kennan (London & New York: Methuen, 1987) 124.
14. Elizabeth Grosz, Volatile Bodies: Toward A Corporeal Feminism (St Leonards,
NSW: Allen & Unwin; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994).
15. Grosz (1994), xii.
16. Grosz (1994), 142.
17. Grosz (1994), 142.
18. Sara Ahmed, Strange Encounters: Embodied Others in Post-coloniality (London
& New York: Routledge, 2000) 42.
19. Ahmed (2000), 42.
20. Gayatri Spivak terms the discriminatory reduction of race to the question
of skin colour ‘chromatism’. See Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘Imperialism
and Sexual Difference’, Contemporary Literary Criticism: Literary and Critical
Studies, eds Robert Con Davis and Ronald Schleifer (New York & London:
Longman, 1989) 526.
21. Ahmed (2000), 42 (emphasis in the original).
22. Hortense Spillers contends that for African-Americans, ‘their New-World
diasporic plight marked a theft of the body – a willful and violent (and
unimaginable from this distance) severing of the captive body from its
motive will, its active desire.’ Hortense J. Spillers, ‘Mama’s Baby, Papa’s
Maybe: An American Grammar Book’, Diacritics 17 (Summer 1987): 67
(emphasis in original). The troping of the captive body and the symbolic
violence of its branding and marking as a cultural text through the discur-
sive power of the American Grammar is the subject of Spillers’s brilliant
article, to which I shall frequently refer.
23. Ahmed (2000), 6–9.
24. Toni Morrison quoted in Cheryl Lester, ‘Meditations on a Bird in the Hand:
Ethics and Aesthetics by Toni Morrison’, The Aesthetics of Toni Morrison:
Speaking the Unspeakable, ed. Marc C. Conner (Jackson: University of Mis-
sissippi, 2000) 133. Morrison’s metaphorical language (the veil, the caul and
so on) is itself steeped in the metaphorical logic and idiom of W.E.B. Du
Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk [1903] (New York & London: Penguin, 1989).
25. See Jacques Derrida, The Truth in Painting, trans. Geoff Bennington and Ian
McLeod (Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press, 1987) 324. See
also 5, 367.
26. Ahmed (2000), 6. These surprise meetings do not necessarily involve a face-
to-face encounter of two or more subjects. More generally, ‘a meeting sug-
gests a coming together of at least two elements. For example, we can think of
reading as a meeting between reader and text’ (7, emphasis in original).
27. Quoted in Ahmed (2000), 38. It is a description in which, as Ahmed inti-
mates, ‘Lorde uses the poetics of remembering to dramatise the operation
of racism on her body, in the violence of its particularity’ Ahmed (2000),
39. The scene describes the young Audre accompanying her mother home
from a Christmas shopping trip. A white woman sitting opposite them in
the subway car stares so hard at the child, her gazing moving all over
Audre’s body with such a look of disgust that she silently communicates
‘her horror’ to the child. Audre Lorde, ‘Eye to Eye: Black Women, Hatred,
and Anger’, Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (Freedom CA: The Crossing
Press, 1984) 147–8.
1403_921989_13_note.qxd 12/3/2003 2:24 PM Page 175
Notes 175
28. Karla F.C. Holloway, Codes of Conduct: Race, Ethics, and the Color of Our
Character (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1995) 34.
29. Holloway (1995), 34, emphasis added.
30. Lorene Cary, Black Ice (New York: Vintage, 1991) 58–9. Quoted in Holloway
(1995), 30. bell hooks has also written extensively of her notion of ‘talking
back’, see Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black (London: Sheba,
1989), especially 5–9. Jamaica Kincaid has a version called ‘backchat’ which
she uses in Lucy and which I shall discuss again in the chapters on her work.
31. See Holloway (1995), 30–6.
32. Valerie Smith, ‘Black Feminist Theory and the Representation of the
“Other” ’, Changing Our Own Words: Essays on Criticism, Theory, and Writing
by Black Women, ed. Cheryl A. Wall (London: Routledge, 1990), 45.
33. Articles which draw attention to such forms of appropriation are Norma
Alarcón, ‘The Theoretical Subject(s) of This Bridge Called My Back and Anglo-
American Feminism’, Criticism in the Borderlands: Studies in Chicano Litera-
ture, Culture and Ideology, eds Héctor Calderon and José David Saldivar
(Durham & London: Duke University Press, 1991) 28–39; Chela Sandoval,
‘The Theory and Method of Oppositional Consciousness in the Postmod-
ern World’, Genders 10 (1991): 1–24; Paula M.L. Moya, ‘Postmodernism,
“Realism,” and the Politics of Identity: Cherríe Moraga and Chicana
Feminism’, Feminist Genealogies, Colonial Legacies, Democratic Futures, eds M.
Jacqui Alexander and Chandra Talpade Mohanty (New York & London:
Routledge, 1997) 125–50; and Abby Wilkerson, ‘Ending at the Skin:
Sexuality and Race in Feminist Theorizing’, Hypatia 12:3 (1997): 164–73.
34. Holloway (1995), 18.
35. Patricia J. Williams, Seeing a Colour-Blind Future: The Paradox of Race, The
1997 Reith Lectures (London: Virago, 1997) 57.
36. Williams (1997), 59.
37. Williams (1997), 13.
38. Williams (1997), 13.
39. Elizabeth Abel, Barbara Christian and Helene Moglen, ‘Introduction: The
Dream of a Common Language’, Female Subjects in Black and White: Race,
Psychoanalysis, Feminism, eds Elizabeth Abel, Barbara Christian and Helene
Moglen (Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press,
1997) 13, emphasis added.
40. Judith L. Raiskin, Snow on the Canefields: Women’s Writing and Creole Sub-
jectivity (Minneapolis & London: University of Minnesota Press, 1996) 98.
41. See Rosalyn Terborg-Penn, ‘Black Women in Resistance: A Cross-Cultural
Perspective’, In Resistance: Studies in African, Caribbean, and Afro-American
History, ed. Gary Y. Okihiro (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press,
1986) 198–200.
42. Betsy Wing, ‘Translator’s Introduction’, Poetics of Relation, Édouard Glissant,
trans. Betsy Wing (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997) xii.
43. Glissant (1997), 71.
44. Glissant (1997), 33.
45. See, for instance, Motherlands: Black Women’s Writing from Africa, the
Caribbean and South Asia, ed. Susheila Nasta (London: The Women’s Press,
1991); Vron Ware, Beyond the Pale: White Women, Racism and History
(London & New York: Verso, 1992).
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176 Notes
46. Lorde (1984), 149–50. The emphasis is mine. The interweaving themes of
survival and maternal love is an important focus in Sula.
47. Michelle Wallace, ‘Variations on Negation and the Heresy of Black Femi-
nist Creativity’, Invisibility Blues: From Pop to Theory (London & New York:
Verso, 1990) 214.
48. See ‘Ambivalence’, The New Fontana Dictionary of Modern Thought, eds Alan
Bullock and Stephen Trombley (London: Harper Collins, 2000) 26.
49. Muriel Dimen, ‘In the Zone of Ambivalence: A Journal of Competition’,
Feminist Nightmares, Women at Odds: Feminism and the Problem of Sisterhood,
eds Susan Ostrov Weisser and Jennifer Fleischner (New York & London: New
York University Press, 1994) 379.
50. Deborah E. McDowell, ‘Boundaries: Or Distant Relations and Close Kin’,
Afro-American Literary Study in the 1990s, eds Houston A. Baker Jr and Patri-
cia Redmond (Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press, 1989) 51–70
and Hortense J. Spillers, ‘Response’, 71–3. Spillers’ quotations appear on 72
and the emphasis is hers.
51. Geneva Smitherman, Talkin and Testifyin: The Language of Black America
(Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1977) 10–11 (emphasis in original).
See Du Bois, (1989 [1903]) 5 for his concept of double-consciousness.
52. Homi K. Bhabha, ‘Of Mimicry and Man: The ambivalence of colonial dis-
course’ [1984], The Location of Culture (London & New York: Routledge,
1994(b)) 85–92.
53. Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial
Conquest (New York & London: Routledge, 1995) 65.
54. Wahneema Lubiano, ‘Mapping the Interstices between Afro-American
Cultural Discourse and Cultural Studies’, Callaloo 19:1 (1996): 69.
55. Cheryl A. Wall, ‘Introduction: Taking Positions and Changing Words’,
Changing Our Own Words: Essays on Criticism, Theory, and Writing by Black
Women, ed. Cheryl A. Wall (London: Routledge, 1990) 2.
56. Avtar Brah, Cartographies of Diaspora: Contesting Identities (London & New
York: Routledge, 1996) 14.
57. Leslie G. Roman, ‘White is a Color! White Defensiveness, Postmodernism,
and Anti-Racist Pedagogy’, Race, Identity and Representation in Education, eds
Cameron McCarthy and Warren Crichlow (New York: Routledge, 1993) 72.
58. Toni Morrison, Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination.
The William E. Massey Sr. Lectures in the History of American Civilization
(London: Picador, 1993(a)) 46.
59. Yvonne Atkinson, ‘Language That Bears Witness: The Black English Oral
Tradition in the Works of Toni Morrison’, The Aesthetics of Toni Morrison:
Speaking the Unspeakable, ed. Marc C. Conner (Jackson: University of
Mississippi, 2000) 25.
60. Morrison (1993(a)), 63.
61. I refer throughout this book to Morrison’s fiction, which aside from my
close reading of Sula especially includes The Bluest Eye and Beloved, but also
her essays such as ‘Memory, Creation, and Writing’, Thought 59:235 (1984):
385–90; ‘Rootedness: The Ancestor as Foundation’, Black Women Writers:
Arguments and Interviews, ed. Mari Evans (London & Sydney: Pluto Press,
1985) 339–45; ‘The Site of Memory’, Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft
of Memoir, ed. William Zinsser (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1987) 103–24;
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Notes 177
‘Unspeakable Things Unspoken: The Afro-American Presence in American

Literature’, Michigan Quarterly Review 28 (1989):1–34; ‘Toni Morrison: The
Art of fiction CXXXIV’, Paris Review 128 (1993(b)): 82–125; ‘Home’, The
House That Race Built: Black Americans, U.S. Terrain, ed. Wahneema Lubiano
(New York: Pantheon, 1997) 3–12; Playing in the Dark, as listed above, and
a collection of her interviews, Conversations with Toni Morrison, ed. Danille
Taylor-Guthrie (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994). My conclu-
sion will be a meditation on her only published short story, ‘Recitatif’, Con-
firmation: An Anthology of African American Women, eds Amiri Baraka (LeRoi
Jones) and Amina Baraka (New York: William Morrow, 1983) 243–61.
62. Ruth Frankenberg, White Women, Race Matters: The Social Construction of
Whiteness (London & Minneapolis: Routledge and University of Minnesota
Press, 1993) 1.
63. Robin Bennefield interviews Maulana Karenga, ‘Whiteness Studies: Decep-
tive or Welcome Discourse?’, Black Issues in Higher Education 16:6 (1999):
26, emphasis added.
64. Joe L. Kincheloe, ‘The Struggle to Define and Reinvent Whiteness: A
Pedagogical Analysis’, College Literature 26:3 (1999): 162.
65. Barbara J. Flagg, ‘ “Was Blind, But Now I See”: White Race Consciousness
and the Requirement of Discriminatory Intent’, Michigan Law Review 91:5
(1993), 979.
66. This phrase is a quotation taken from Abel, Christian and Moglen, ‘Intro-
duction: The Dream of a Common Language’, Female Subjects in Black and
White: Race, Psychoanalysis, Feminism (Berkeley, Los Angeles & London:
University of California Press, 1997) 10.
67. Sara Ahmed and Jackie Stacey, ‘Testimonial Cultures: An Introduction’, Cul-
tural Values 5:1 (January 2001): 1. For an important work on testimony and
its relationship with literature see Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub, Testi-
mony: Crisis of Witnessing in Literature, Pyschoanalysis, and History (New York:
Routledge, 1992). See also, Tense Past: Cultural Essays in Trauma and Memory,
eds Paul Antze and Michael Lambek (New York & London: Routledge,
1996); and Kirby Farrell, Post-traumatic Culture: Injury and Interpretation in
the Nineties (Baltimore & London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998).
68. Du Bois (1989 [1903]), 1.
69. Ruth Leys, Trauma: A Genealogy (Chicago & London: University of Chicago
Press, 2000).
70. Leys (2000), 1.
71. Leys (2000), 2. The article to which Leys refers appeared in the New York
Times, Saturday, 21 March 1998.
72. Leys (2000), 2.
73. Leys uses a quotation of Freud’s about his race in which he in fact is
referring to his Jewishness, Leys (2000), 289. Leys’s only other reference to
race is a brief reference to Walter Benn Michaels’s article ‘ “You who was
never there”: Slavery and the New Historicism, Deconstruction and the
Holocaust’, Narrative 4:1 (1996): 1–16, Leys (2000), 268, 285.
74. Morrison (1989), 16.
75. Laura S. Brown, ‘Not Outside the Range: One Feminist Perspective on
Psychic Trauma’, American Imago 48:1 (1991): 121.
76. Brown (1991), 130.
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178 Notes
77. Brown (1991), 128.

78. Brown (1991), 129.
79. Dominick LaCapra, ‘Trauma, Absence, Loss’, Critical Inquiry 25:4 (1999):
699.
80. Dominick LaCapra, Writing History, Writing Trauma (Baltimore & London:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001) 40.
81. LaCapra emphasises it is very important to distinguish between the notion
of absence and that of loss. In general terms he situates the historical past
as the scene of losses which holds the possibilities of reconfiguration
through narrative in ways that may transform the present and the future.
He situates absence, on the other hand, in the realm of the transhistorical
because in the way in which he is using the term it is not as a locatable
event, so that it does not imply the temporal concepts of past, present and
future. See LaCapra (1999), 699–700.
82. LaCapra (1999), 724. Other than slavery, LaCapra lists the Holocaust,
apartheid, and the effects of the atom bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki
as examples of founding trauma.
83. LaCapra (2001), xiii.
84. I have taken the distinguishing definitions of reactive and endogenous from
Robert Jay Lifton’s discussion of depression in his book The Broken Connec-
tion: On Death and the Continuity of Life (New York: Simon and Schuster,
1979) 182.
85. LaCapra (2001), ix.
86. LaCapra (2001), 21.
87. LaCapra (2001), 23.
88. Cathy Caruth, ‘Introduction’, Trauma: Explorations in Memory, ed. Cathy
Caruth (Baltimore & London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995a) 11
(emphasis added).
89. Cathy Caruth, ‘Introduction’, American Imago 48:1 (1991): 5.
90. Caruth (1991), 2. The areas of study to which she refers include the fields
of psychoanalysis, psychiatry, sociology and literature (emphasis added).
91. Robert Young, ‘Neocolonial Times’, Oxford Literary Review 13 (1991): 2.
The first quotation in the sentence is also Young’s from the same article
(1991) 3.
92. Ruth Frankenberg and Lata Mani, ‘Crosscurrents, Crosstalk: Race,
“Postcoloniality” and The Politics of Location’, Cultural Studies 7 (1993):
294–5.
93. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, Marxism and the
Interpretation of Culture, eds Cary Nelson and Laurence Grossberg (Urbana
& Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1988a) 271–313.
94. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘Questions of Multi-culturalism’, The Post-
Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sarah Harasym (New York
& London: Routledge, 1990) 59.
95. Cathy Caruth, Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History (Balti-
more & London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996) 3.
96. Sherley Anne Williams, ‘Some Implications of Womanist Theory’, Reading
Black, Reading Feminist: A Critical Anthology, ed. Henry Louis Gates, Jr
(New York & London: Meridian, 1990) 74.
97. Valerie Smith, Self-Discovery and Authority in Afro-American Narrative
(Cambridge, MA & London: Harvard University Press, 1987) 7.
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Notes 179
98. Roman (1993), 78.

99. Ann duCille, ‘The Occult of True Black Womanhood: Critical Demeanor
and Black Feminist Studies’, Female Subjects in Black and White: Race, Psy-
choanalysis, Feminism, eds Elizabeth Abel, Barbara Christian and Helene
Moglen (Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press,
1997) 21.
100. The quotation appears in duCille (1997), 23.
101. duCille (1997), 51 (emphasis added).
1 ‘The White Hush between Two Sentences’: The Traumatic

Ambivalence of Whiteness in Wide Sargasso Sea
1. Derek Walcott, ‘Jean Rhys’ in his Collected Poems 1948–1984 (New York:
Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1986) 427–9 (emphasis added).
2. Walcott modifies the ‘hush’ with the racial marker white, for he is writing
about the racialised culture of the white creole in a cultural context in
which the meaning of the word creole changed along with the shifting
forces of colonisation. The racial and linguistic fluidity of the term ‘creole’,
its history and ambivalent status are outlined by Edward Brathwaite in his
Contradictory Omens: Cultural Diversity and Integration in the Caribbean
(Mona: Savacou Publications, 1974). I found while writing the chapters on
Wide Sargasso Sea that having always to insert a racial modifier extremely
problematic as this constantly reifies racial divisions.
3. This is a quotation from Homi Bhabha’s ‘Introduction’ to his collection
of essays published as The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994a)
11.
4. Thomas Loe begins his essay, ‘Patterns of the Zombie in Jean Rhys’s Wide
Sargasso Sea’, World Literature Written in English 31:1 (1991): 34–42 with
much the same line of argument about the suggestiveness of the unsaid in
Rhys’s Caribbean novel but with a different inference.
5. Caruth (1996), 24.
6. Helen Carr, Jean Rhys (Plymouth, UK: Northcote House, 1996) 18.
7. Kenneth Ramchand, The West Indian Novel and its Background (London:
Faber & Faber, 1970) 225. Ramchand was referring to three novels by white
West Indians: Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea, Phyllis Shand Allfrey’s The
Orchid House, and Geoffrey Drayton’s Christopher.
8. Sanford Sternlicht, Jean Rhys (New York: Twayne; London, Prentice Hall,
1997) 118.
9. While Jean Rhys grew up in Dominica (hence Walcott’s references), Wide
Sargasso Sea is set in Jamaica.
10. Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea [1966] (London: Penguin, 1997) 122. This
Penguin edition has a useful introduction, appendix and notes by Angela
Smith. Gold was indeed the imperial idol, as is well documented by Eric
Williams in his early classic text, Capitalism and Slavery (London: Andre
Deutsch, 1964). The equation of wealth with the authoritative power of
imperial whiteness is so omnipresent in this novel that even as a small child
Tia says tauntingly to Antoinette: ‘Plenty white people in Jamaica. Real
white people, they got gold money . . . Old time white people nothing but
white nigger now’ (10).
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180 Notes
11. From the point of view of former slaves, the apprenticeship system was just
slavery in a new guise. They were effectively still owned by white masters,
only now these were special magistrates paid by the government. See Sue
Thomas, The Worlding of Jean Rhys (Westport, CN & London: Greenwood
Press, 1999) 167–71. See also Angela Smith (Wide Sargasso Sea 1997) 133–4.
12. The phrase ‘white but not quite’ is an intervention into Homi Bhabha’s the-
oretical exposition of his reading of the ambivalence of ‘mimicry as ironic
compromise’. See his essay ‘Of Mimicry and Man: The ambivalence of colo-
nial discourse’, Bhabha (1994(b)), 85–92. See especially 86, 89 and 91 for
variants of the phrase.
13. Brathwaite (1974), 6 (emphasis in original).
14. Brathwaite (1974), 11.
15. The notion of a creative ambivalence that radiates out from the Caribbean
is a theme I explore in the chapters on Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy.
16. Brathwaite (1974), 34–5.
17. Brathwaite (1974), 38.
18. Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York: Knopf, 1993). See especially
66–7, 295, 278–81, 316–17, 335–6. Importantly for my reading, Said’s inter-
pretative strategy stresses the importance of contradiction, ambivalence and
the power of metaphor. Indeed, Said’s metaphor of musicality echoes
through this book which ends with a reading of a short story of Toni
Morrison’s entitled ‘Recitatif’.
19. Said (1993), 66.
20. Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre [1847] (Oxford & New York: Oxford University
Press, 1993) 307.
21. In an interview in the late 1970s, Rhys describes how when she read Jane
Eyre she had wondered: ‘Why should she [Brontë] think Creole women are
lunatics . . . What a shame to make Rochester’s first wife, Bertha, the awful
madwoman . . . I thought I’d try and write her a life.’ Quoted in Nancy R.
Harrison, Jean Rhys and the Novel as Women’s Text (Chapel Hill & London:
University of North Carolina Press, 1988) 128.
22. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘Three Women’s Texts and a Critique of
Imperialism’, Critical Inquiry 12 (1985): 244.
23. However, Dominick LaCapra, an important historian of trauma, also main-
tains that while empathy can be ‘mistakenly conflated with identification
or fusion with the other . . . it should rather be understood in terms of an
affective relation, rapport, or bond with the other recognized and respected
as such’, sympathy implies ‘difference from the discrete other who is the
object of pity, charity, or condescension’. LaCapra (2001) 212–3. Here I have
used the categories of empathy and sympathy interchangeably because in
Rhys’s novel they are affective weapons of power that are utilised in the
same way for the same result.
24. This point is also made by Judith Raiskin but with a completely different
focus from mine. Her reading of Rhys’s cultural appropriation solely relates
to the notion of zombification of which she writes interestingly and in great
detail. Raiskin (1996), 129–43. Of marooning she says little, just a one sen-
tence reference to the possibilities of the word’s double reading (132). Mary
Lou Emery is the only critic to my knowledge who discusses marooning in
its fully developed Caribbean meaning. See her monograph Jean Rhys at
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Notes 181
‘World’s End’: Novels of Colonial and Sexual Exile (Austin: University of Texas
Press, 1990) 39–45. However, Emery’s reading of maroon history and its
connections with Rhys’s character Annette, focuses on the betrayals of
maroon leaders and so has a completely different political focal point from
mine.
25. Oxford English Dictionary, Vol VI, L–M (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1961) 178.
26. See Spillers (1987): 65–81.
27. Antonio Benítez-Rojo, The Repeating Island: The Caribbean and the Postmod-
ern Perspective, trans. James Maraniss (Durham & London: Duke University
Press, 1992) 254 (emphasis added).
28. Cited in Teresa O’Connor, Jean Rhys: The West Indian Novels (New York &
London: New York University Press, 1986) 36. The enigmatic insight of Wide
Sargasso Sea is that racial positioning is not always reliant on skin colour
that cannot be changed. Instead, the novel highlights the discursive con-
struction of racial subjectivity in all its contradictions, especially the split
subjectivity of the white, Caribbean, creole woman.
29. Mavis C. Campbell, The Maroons of Jamaica 1655–1796: A History of Resis-
tance, Collaboration & Betrayal (Granby, MA: Bergin & Garvey, 1988) 1. See
also Eugene D. Genovese, From Rebellion to Revolution: Afro-American Slave
Revolts in the Making of the Modern World (New York: Vintage, 1981) espe-
cially Chapter 2, ‘Black Maroons in War and Peace’, 51–81.
30. The root of the word maroon is the Spanish cimarron which referred to
domesticated cattle which escaped to the mountains. Carib Indians who
avoided being massacred by the colonisers by also escaping to the moun-
tains were then called maroons. However, it was when the African slaves
started fleeing the plantations in sizeable numbers, forming communities
and engaging with highly effective guerilla tactics against the plantation
owners that the term maroon became synonymous with successful resis-
tance. Maroon societies have survived on into the present day in Jamaica
and Suriname. Continuation of the maroon tradition of resistance to
oppression resonate in great freedom fighter icons of the twentieth century
such as Marcus Garvey, whose father was a maroon. Campbell (1988), 12.
The ‘chronic plague’ is a quotation taken from Lucien Peytraud, L’esclavage
aux Antilles françaises avant 1789 (Paris, Hachette, 1897) 373, and cited in
Richard Price, ‘Introduction: Maroons and Their Communities’, Maroon
Societies: Rebel Slave Communities in the Americas, ed. Richard Price (New
York: Anchor, 1973) 2.
31. See Campbell (1988), 47.
32. Price (1973), 2.
33. Hardly a decade went by without some kind of large-scale revolt that threat-
ened the white plantocracy. There were two Maroon Wars – the first begin-
ning in 1725 and lasting 15 years, the second from 1784 until 1832 – both
of which required the British to sign Treaties to end them. There was, of
course, one outrightly successful slave rebellion in the Caribbean led by
Touissaint L’Ouverture. See C.L.R. James, The Black Jacobins: Touissant Lou-
verture and the San Domingo Revolution (London: Secker and Warburg, 1938).
34. David Spurr, Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel
Writing, and Imperial Administration (Durham & London, Duke University
Press, 1993) 31.
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182 Notes
35. Spurr (1993), 28.

36. Captured slaves came from all over the coastal belt of West Africa. In 1703
there were about 45 000 on Jamaica. By the time the Emancipation Act was
ratified in 1834, the slave population on this island alone stood at an esti-
mated 311 070. See Orlando Patterson, The Sociology of Slavery: An Analysis
of the Origins, Development and Structure of Negro Slave Society in Jamaica
(London: MacGibbon & Kee, 1967) 250. In contrast, a census of 1844 stated
that only 4 per cent of the population in Jamaica were identified as white.
37. Campbell (1988), 3–4 (emphasis added).
38. These leaders were not always male. The most famous of the female fugi-
tives who became a warrior of great ferocity and leadership was the cele-
brated Nanny, now a national hero of Jamaica. Campbell (1988), 5, 50–1.
Nanny’s resistant presence lives on in the fiction of writers such as Michelle
Cliff and the poetry of Grace Nichols.
39. In the 1760s Tacky engaged an obeah man as a spiritual leader whose del-
egates spread out among plantations supplying the slaves with a magic
powder that made them invincible against the whites’ weapons. In the year
of the rebellion’s planning, the power of rebellious silence among the slaves
(strengthened by all conspirators taking the Akan blood oath) meant that
the whites were totally unprepared for the uprising. See Benítez-Rojo
(1992), 160. However, the rebellion was crushed at great cost of life to the
slaves, many of whom chose suicide rather than re-enslavement. As against
60 whites dead, 300–400 slaves were either killed or committed mass
suicide. The planters exacted a savage revenge by executing or transporting
600 more slaves. Patterson (1967), 271.
40. Bryan Edwards, The History, Civil and Commercial, of the British Colonies in
the West Indies (Dublin: Luke White, vol. 2, 1793) 87–8. Cited in Alan
Richardson, ‘Romantic Voodoo: Obeah and British Culture, 1797–1807’,
Sacred Possessions: Vodou, Santería, Obeah, and the Caribbean, eds Margarite
Fernández Olmos and Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert (New Brunswick, NJ:
Rutgers University Press, 1997) 174–5.
41. See Richard Hart, Slaves Who Abolished Slavery, Vol. I, Blacks in Bondage
(Kingston, Jamaica: Institute of Social and Economic Research, University
of West Indies, 1980), Vol. II, Blacks in Rebellion (1985).
42. Maximilien Laroche describes a zombi thus: ‘The zombi, or living-dead, dies
only in appearance and is resurrected by those who have created the illu-
sion of his death. Ordinarily, that is according to the most widely held
beliefs, a spell is cast on someone who then “dies” and is buried. But in the
night following his burial, the one who has cast the spell goes to the ceme-
tery and there, with the aid of the appropriate incantations brings back to
life, albeit a lethargic one, the dead man who is not dead but is simply lost
in sleep. And from the point on, this dead man who has returned to life,
but to a life without any real autonomy, to a larval existence is the prop-
erty of the person who has killed him. He is thus chained to this master
and forced to work for him.’ Maximilien Laroche, ‘The Myth of the Zombi’,
Exile and Tradition: Studies in African and Caribbean Literature, ed. Rowland
Smith (London: Longman & Dalhousie University Press, 1976) 49.
43. Laroche (1976), 55.
44. Laroche (1976), 51.
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Notes 183
45. Laroche believes that ‘it was apparently the trauma of slavery, transporta-
tion from Africa . . . [and] the experience of colonial oppression, which led
the Africans . . . to make adjustment in their conception of the living-dead’
(58).
46. duCille (1997), 21–56.
47. This is a quotation from Patricia Sharpe, F.E. Mascia-Lee, C.B. Cohen, ‘White
Women and Black Men: Different Responses to Reading Black Women’s
Texts’, College English 52 (February 1990): 146. It appears, and duCille’s
discussion of it, in duCille (1997), 49.
48. duCille (1997), 29, emphasis added.
49. Judith Herman, in her monograph on trauma written from a feminist per-
spective, argues that despite the fact that traumatic experiences are very
varied, ‘the recovery process always follows a common pathway. The fun-
damental states of recovery are establishing safety, reconstructing the
trauma story, and restoring the connection between survivors and their
community.’ Trauma and Recovery: From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror
(London: Pandora, 1992) 3 (emphasis added). Traumatic events destroy the
victim’s general belief in safety of self, a sense of safety that is initially estab-
lished in earliest life in the relationship with the first caretaker, who is most
often the mother. Herman (1992), 51.
50. In direct opposition to the idea of concealment in the white safety in
metaphor is the key black trope of testimony which Henry Louis Gates Jr
discusses at length in The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of African-American
Literary Criticism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). See especially,
51–4.
51. Christophine was one of Annette’s former husband’s wedding presents to
her.
52. This is a particularly bitter story of racial betrayal. The order for the mas-
sacre is thought to have been given by Philip Warner, Sir Thomas Warner’s
legitimate (white) son. See Thomas (1999), 173. See also Wild Majesty:
Encounters with Caribs from Colombus to the Present Day, eds Peter Hulme and
Neil L. Whitehead (Oxford: Clarendon Press; New York: Oxford University
Press, 1992) 89–106. A related part of the forgotten history is that Massacre
was one of the villages that was singled out by white authorities as a site
central to the powers of obeah practices. Thomas describes how a ‘moral
panic’ was engendered in the white population by outbreaks of obeah
rituals in Massacre which pushed forward the promulgation of The Obeah
Act 1904 amid much accompanying publicity. Rhys, Thomas tells us, was
14 at the time of the passing of the Act and would have been well aware
of its implications and the fear it engendered among white creoles (158–9).
53. Elaine Savory, Jean Rhys (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998)
135.
54. Savory (1998), 136. Hereby a gender reading completely overrides the racial
underpinnings of the metaphor and its power differentials and, in effect,
reproduces the logic of Western imperialism in its unthinking appropria-
tion of the difference of the other.
55. Another example that particularly struck me was a chapter on Rhys in a
text of literary criticism that focuses on metaphor in women’s fiction. The
chapter is entitled ‘ “. . . marooned . . .”: Jean Rhys’s desolate women’ and
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184 Notes
yet it overlooks the importance of the metaphor’s Afro-Caribbean cultural

significance. See Avril Horner and Sue Zlosnik, Landscapes of Desire:
Metaphors in Modern Women’s Fiction (New York & London: Harvester
Wheatsheaf, 1990) 133–80.
56. Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman
Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination (New Haven &
London: Yale University Press, 1979) 360. It must also be remembered that
the title, which has become iconic of 1970s feminist literary criticism,
remains just that, an empty titular gesture. The references to Bertha Mason
are always and only in relation to being Jane Eyre’s angry and hidden self.
Bertha herself was subsumed in her role as ‘the dark double’ (360) and was
never discussed separately as a woman in her own right.
57. Deirdre David interestingly argues that although Bertha Mason is an
‘insane, creole white woman from the West Indies [she is] figuratively
described as having the obscene propensities of a black woman’. Deirdre
David, Rule Britannia: Women, Empire, and Victorian Writing (Ithaca &
London: Cornell University Press, 1995) 95. See also Susan Meyer, Imperi-
alism at Home: Race and Victorian Women’s Fiction (Ithaca & London: Cornell
University Press, 1996) 67, for a similar reading of the narrative construc-
tion of Bertha as black.
58. I owe this phrase to Shaobo Xie and his article on postcolonialism in which
he argues for an attempt to move beyond Eurocentric ideology, beyond
colonialist binary structures of self/Other and, ultimately, beyond any
forms of racism. He suggests that ‘ethnocentrism [is] a closet monster in
every ethnic community and individual’. Shaobo Xie, ‘Rethinking the
Problem of Postcolonialism’, New Literary History 28:1 (1997): 17.
59. Williams (1997), 6.
60. See Michael Lambek and Paul Antze, ‘Introduction: Forecasting Memory’,
Tense Past: Cultural Essays in Trauma and Memory, eds Paul Antze and
Michael Lambek (New York & London: Routledge, 1996) xi–xxxviii. I found
this a useful introduction to the social dimension of the psychology of
trauma.
61. Iain Chambers, ‘History after humanism: responding to postcolonialism’,
Postcolonial Studies 2:1 (1999): 38.
2 Keeping History Safe
1. The quoted phrase is used by Laurence Kirmayer to describe dissociation, a

particular form of mental escape from overwhelming trauma. See Laurence
J. Kirmayer, ‘Landscapes of Memory: Trauma, Narrative, and Dissociation’,
Tense Past: Cultural Essays in Trauma and Memory, eds Paul Antze and
Michael Lambek (New York & London: Routledge, 1996) 174.
2. Kirmayer (1996), 186.
3. Kirmayer (1996), 189.
4. Spivak, Sarah Harasym ed. The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies,
Dialogues (New York & London: Routledge, 1990) 59.
5. Internalised victimhood as a result of the belittling and covering over of
the very real traumas of slavery and its legacy of psychic wounding is the
subject of my chapters on Toni Morrison’s Sula.
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Notes 185
6. Kirmayer (1996), 148.

7. Jon G. Allen, Coping with Trauma: A Guide to Self-Understanding (Washing-
ton & London: American Psychiatric Press, 1995) 86–7.
8. Kirmayer (1996), 188.
9. Kirmayer (1996), 174.
10. Elizabeth A. Waites, Trauma and Survival: Post-Traumatic and Dissociative
Disorders in Women (New York & London: Norton, 1993) 117–18.
11. Kirmayer (1996), 181 (emphasis added).
12. The conflation of imperial ownership of virgin land and the othered female
body is a classic example of the use of metaphor as imperial appropriation.
See Spurr (1993), 29–31. See also McClintock (1995), 24–8.
13. Deborah Kelly Kloepfer, The Unspeakable Mother: Forbidden Discourse in Jean
Rhys and H.D. (Ithaca & London: Cornell University Press, 1989) 147–8.
14. There are two types of trauma listed in the psychological literature. Single
traumatic events that happen once only, often called ‘single-blow trauma’,
and prolonged and repeated cumulative trauma that may lead the individ-
ual to resort to more elaborate strategies of dissociation and repression.
Kirmayer (1996), 187. For the differences between repression, suppression
and dissociation see Kirmayer (1996), 179.
15. Deirdre Barrett argues that ‘[d]reams constitute a unique window on trauma
and its effects. The window is not clear, however, but prismatic, showing
us a changed version of events that is frequently distorted but can also bring
chaos into resolution.’ Deirdre Barrett ed. ‘Introduction’, Trauma and
Dreams (Cambridge MA & London: Harvard University Press, 1996) 1.
16. Caruth provides yet another evocative slant on theories of the traumatic
dream that is useful in a reading of Antoinette’s dream. In a close reading
of Freud’s description of the traumatic nightmare, she states: ‘the trauma
of the nightmare does not simply consist in the experience within the
dream, but in the experience of waking from it. It is the experience of waking
into consciousness that, peculiarly, is identified with the reliving of the
trauma.’ Caruth (1996), 64 (emphasis in original). I shall return to this
supposition in my reading of Sula.
17. Dori Laub and Marjorie Allard maintain that ‘[t]he absence of an empa-
thetic listener, or more radically, the absence of an addressable other, an
other who can hear the anguish of one’s memories and thus recognize their
realness, annihilates the story and destroys the survivor again’. ‘History,
Memory, and Truth: Defining the Place of the Survivor’, The Holocaust and
History: The Known, The Unknown, The Disputed, and The Reexamined, eds
Michael Berenbaum and Abraham J. Peck (Bloomington & Indianapolis:
Indiana University Press, 1998), 804.
18. Tia and Antoinette are frequently referred to as two sides of one character,
a form of racial doppelgänger. This is as reductive an interpretation as Bertha
Mason as Jane Eyre’s dark double and nothing more. Both readings smother
difference into normative whiteness as if the black other could only exist
as a shadowy double that enhances white luminosity, especially in a canon-
ical text. It is this kind of literary construction that Toni Morrison decon-
structs with her reading of ‘American Africanism’ in Playing in the Dark:
Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (1993a). See especially her first essay,
‘Black Matters’, 1–28.
19. As is so often the case in Rhys’s depictions of race, there is an interesting
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186 Notes
textual contradiction around the issue of hybridity. Repulsion and abhor-

rence infuse the representations of Annette’s jailers and the albino with
negroid features who appears later in the text. However, Antoinette’s
cousin, Sandi, is also ‘coloured’, and yet he is affirmed as the only person
who can save Antoinette, and the only character besides Christophine who
exhibits a secure sense of self.
20. See Allen (1995), 75–6.
21. In the face of witnessing Antoinette’s misery, and against her better judge-
ment, Christophine agrees to supply Antoinette with a love potion pro-
vided she talks to Rochester and explains how she feels (71–3).
22. Paul de Man, ‘The Epistemology of Metaphor’, On Metaphor, ed. Sheldon
Sacks (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1979) 19.
23. de Man (1979), 19.
24. The use of catachresis as a form of tropological resistance in postcolonial
theory – as pioneered by Spivak – is informative here. ‘Claiming catachre-
ses from a space that one cannot want to inhabit and yet must criticise is,
then, the deconstructive predicament of the postcolonial,’ Spivak argues. A
gestural politics of claiming ‘the names that are the legacy of the European
Enlightenment (sovereignty, constitutionality, self-determination, nation-
hood, citizenship, even culturalism) are catachrestical claims, their strategy
a displacing and seizing of a previous coding of value.’ Gayatri Chakravorty
Spivak, Outside in the Teaching Machine (New York & London, Routledge,
1993) 64–5. Rhys’s strategical use of catachresis, on the other hand, wrests
a word from its normative meaning in a manner that, unconsciously or
not, endorses the nineteenth-century white creole point of view of the
‘rightness’ of slavery.
25. LaCapra (1999), 699, n.5.
26. Robert J.C. Young, Colonial Desire: Hybridity in Theory, Culture and Race
(London & New York: Routledge, 1995) 149.
27. Young (1995), 108.
28. Young (1995), 108.
29. Psychic numbing is an extreme form of psychic arrest. It is a complete ces-
sation of feeling in the face of overwhelming traumatic impact. As a life-
consuming feeling of inner deadness, it represents symbolic death, a state
of radically impaired existence of an emotionless ‘death in life’. Paradoxi-
cally, psychic numbing protects the person from a sense of degrading help-
lessness by keeping the inner self isolated and safe. As stated earlier, it
resembles the enforced state of dehumanisation that was effected by slavery.
See Robert Jay Lifton, Death in Life: Survivors of Hiroshima [1968] (Chapel
Hill & London: University of North Carolina Press, 1991) 500–10.
30. See Claire Pajaczkowska and Lola Young, ‘Racism, Representation, Psycho-
analysis’, ‘Race’, Culture and Difference, eds James Donald and Ali Rattansi
(London: Sage, 1992) especially 201 and 213.
31. Laura E. Ciolowski in her essay, ‘Navigating the Wide Sargasso Sea: Colonial
History, English Fiction, and British Empire’, Twentieth Century Literature
43:3 (1997): 344–5 also focuses on this connection between racial degen-
eracy and the hybrid body of this albino boy.
32. Oxford English Dictionary, Vol III, D-E (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1961) 44.
33. Rhys’s use of the term sans culottes is another example of her colonialist-
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Notes 187
constructed catachresis. The term was a class-based appellation used during

the French Revolution to refer to extreme republicans. It referred to the fact
that these revolutionaries wore long trousers instead of the fashionable
knee-breeches worn by aristocrats. Smith (Wide Sargasso Sea 1997) 141, n.
49.
34. In her ethnographical exploration on the underground Africanist religious
practices of voodoo and obeah in Haiti and Jamaica, Zora Neale Hurston
comments on examples of black resistance through ‘songs, their Anansi
stories and proverbs and dances’. Zora Neale Hurston, Tell My Horse: Voodoo
and Life in Haiti and Jamaica [1938] (New York: Perennial, 1990) 9. She con-
tinues: ‘Jamaican proverbs are particularly rich in philosophy, irony and
humour’ and then provides 12 examples. One of these, which interrelates
with Rhys’s text, reads: ‘Cock roach nebber in de right befo’ fowl. (The
oppressor always justifies his oppression of the weak)’ (9).
35. Brontë (1993 [1847]), 297.
36. Caruth (1995a), 4–5.
37. LaCapra (1999), 722.
38. Naomi Morgenstern, ‘Mother’s Milk and Sister’s Blood: Trauma and the
Neo-slave Narrative’, Differences: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies 8:2
(1996): 104–5 (emphasis in original).
3 ‘Caught between Ghosts of Whiteness’:

The Other Side of the Story
1. This phrase is Audre Lorde’s. It is the second line of one of her poems enti-
tled, ‘A Song for Many Movements’, which begins: ‘Nobody wants to die
on the way/caught between ghosts of whiteness’. Audre Lorde, The Black
Unicorn [1978] (New York: Norton, 1995) 52.
2. Spivak (1993), 226.
3. Jean Rhys Letters 1931–1966, eds Francis Wyndham and Diana Melly
(London: Penguin, 1985) 297.
4. Given the importance of naming in the novel, there is a certain sense of
irony in Rhys’s choice for Christophine’s surname. Even if Rhys had not
heard of W.E.B. Du Bois, many contemporary readers would be well aware
of the significance of this name. Moreover, Christophine exhibits many of
the hallmarks of Du Bois’s exposition of double-consciousness, albeit trans-
figured into female (Caribbean) form. The notion of double-consciousness
is a subject to which I shall return in greater detail in later chapters.
5. Spivak (1985), 252.
6. This point is also made by Caroline Rody, ‘Burning Down the House: The
Revisionary Paradigm of Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea’, Famous Last Words:
Changes in Gender and Narrative Closure, ed. Alison Booth (Charlottesville:
University Press of Virginia, 1993) 307.
7. Benita Parry, ‘Problems in Current Theories of Colonial Discourse’, Oxford
Literary Review 9 (1987): 38.
8. Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and
the Politics of Empowerment (New York & London: Routledge, 1990) see espe-
cially 119–23.
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188 Notes
9. Hill Collins (1990), 121.

10. I borrow the phrase ‘servant/mother’ from Rody who states: ‘Christophine
holds the paradoxical authority of servant/mother to the white heroine’.
Rody (1993), 307.
11. Jean Rhys, Voyage in the Dark [1934] (London: Penguin, 1969) 27.
12. Jean Rhys, Smile Please: An Unfinished Autobiography (London: Penguin,
1981) 42. Her mother’s ‘indifference’ is taken from 43. The trope of the
looking-glass textually associated with identity loss and issues of racial dis-
placement is a recurrent theme in Wide Sargasso Sea.
13. Bhabha, (1994b) 86, (emphasis added). Mimicry is an especially important
concept in the Caribbean partly as a result of the theory’s referential rela-
tionship with V.S. Naipaul’s novel The Mimic Men, London: André Deutsch,
1967. However, the concept of cultural mimicry of periphery to metropo-
lis is also a much debated area. See Derek Walcott, ‘The Caribbean: Culture
or Mimicry?’, Journal of Interamerican Studies and World Affairs 16:1 (1974a):
3–13.
14. Abreaction involves the vivid re-experiencing of a traumatic event or events
and their associated effects. As a release of psychic tension that has built
up around a trauma, verbalising or acting out the repressed trauma can
be extremely painful, the re-enactment likely to be experienced as re-
traumatising or re-victimising. See Waites (1993), 220–3.
15. The idea of the (Caribbean) sea as a force that might overcome the sym-
bolic white ship has interesting echoing repercussions in my reading of
Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy.
16. Sandra Drake, ‘All that Foolishness/That All Foolishness: Race and
Caribbean Culture as Thematics of Liberation in Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso
Sea’, Critica: A Journal of Critical Essays 2:2 (1990): 97–112 also offers a
complex reading of the symbol of the dress in Rhys’s novel. However,
Drake’s focus is different from mine in that she connects the image of the
dress with Antoinette’s identity and her autonomy (102).
17. Sandi is her ‘coloured’ cousin with whom she was close until her new step-
father forbade their friendship because he could not pass as white. Sandi
has an invisible but haunting presence in the text. When Antoinette attrib-
utes her graceful act of stone-throwing to his youthful training it gives rise
to Rochester’s paranoiac jealousy that will ruin any possibility of their hap-
piness. It is also implied that he and Antoinette had an affair before her
removal to England.
18. See Brontë (1993 [1847]), 323.
19. It seems that many more critics read the end of the novel as a final reso-
lution of Antoinette’s divided subjectivity. Her unequivocal choice, they
say, is with the Caribbean side of herself. See for instance Drake (1990), 110.
Emery goes as far as to suggest that Antoinette ‘transformed into the flying
trickster’ takes the ‘flight [of] marronage . . . She can make this choice, not
because she has consolidated her character, but because she has lost and
multiplied it, become enslaved, and thus joined the history of the blacks
on the island, learning from them the traditional means of resistance’,
Emery (1990), 59.
20. This phrase is Maurice Blanchot’s from his The Writing of Disaster, [1980]
trans. Ann Smock (Lincoln & London: University of Nebraska Press, 1995)
30.
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Notes 189
21. See Thorunn Lonsdale, ‘Literary Allusion in the Fiction of Jean Rhys’,
Caribbean Women Writers: Fiction in English, eds Mary Condé and Thorunn
Lonsdale (New York: St Martin’s Press (now Palgrave Macmillan), 1999,
59–66. See also Belinda Edmondson, ‘Race, Privilege, and the Politics of
(Re)Writing History: An Analysis of the Novels of Michelle Cliff’, Callaloo
16:1 (1993): 180–91.
22. Caruth (1991), 423.
23. Elspeth Probyn, ‘This Body Which Is Not One: Speaking the Embodied Self’,
Hypatia 6:3 (1991): 116.
24. John Frow, ‘The Politics of Stolen Time’, Meanjin 57:2 (1998): 366.
4 Lucy: Jamaica Kincaid’s Postcolonial Echo
1. Deborah E. McDowell, ‘The Changing Same’: Black Women’s Literature, Criti-

cism and Theory (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press,
1994) 23.
2. Leslie Garis, ‘Through West Indian Eyes’, New York Times Magazine 7 October
1990): 70.
3. Jamaica Kincaid quoted in Diane Simmons, ‘Jamaica Kincaid and the
Canon: In Dialogue with Paradise Lost and Jane Eyre’, Melus 23:2 (1998): 67.
4. Helen Tiffin, ‘Cold Hearts and (Foreign) Tongues: Recitation and the Recla-
mation of the Female Body in the Works of Erna Brodber and Jamaica
Kincaid’, Callaloo 16:3 (1993): 920, n.7.
5. Jamaica Kincaid, Lucy [1990] (London: Picador, 1994) 18. Henceforth, ref-
erences to Kincaid’s text will appear in parentheses in the main text.
6. See, for instance, Alison Donnell, ‘Dreaming of Daffodils: Cultural Resis-
tance in the Narratives of Theory’, Kunapipi 14:2 (1992): 45–52; Helen Tiffin,
‘ “Flowers of Evil”, Flowers of Empire: Roses and Daffodils in the Work
of Jamaica Kincaid, Olive Senior and Lorna Goodison’, Span 46 (1998):
58–71.
7. The Complete Poems of Thomas Gray: English, Latin and Greek, ed. H.W. Starr
and J.R. Hendrickson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966) 10.
8. Roger Lonsdale, The Poems of Thomas Gray, William Collins, Oliver Goldsmith
(London: Longmans, 1969) 55. ‘Prelapsarian innocence’ is Lonsdale’s
phrase.
9. Lonsdale (1969), 55.
10. My reference to an ‘imagined community’ refers to Benedict Anderson’s oft-
cited concept which provides a means of understanding the need of people
to form an identity by participating in a group whether a small and
localised collectivity such as a school or the wider complications of national
identity. However, Anderson’s conceptualisation is masculine-dominated. I
wish instead to approach the idea of both a literal and a figurative belong-
ing that is both race and gender cognisant. Benedict Anderson, Imagined
Communities: Reflections on the Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983).
11. Lonsdale (1969), 10. The emphasis is mine.
12. Ketu H. Katrak, ‘Colonialism, Imperialism, and Imagined Homes’, eds Cathy
N. Davidson, Patrick O’Donnell, Valerie Smith, Christopher P. Wilson, The
Columbia History of the American Novel (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1991) 654.
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190 Notes
13. Elleke Boehmer, Colonial and Postcolonial Literature: Migrant Metaphors

(Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press, 1995) 51.
14. Spivak, ‘The Post-Colonial Critic’, Harasym (1990) 73.
15. Gauri Viswanathan, ‘Milton and Education’, Milton and the Imperial Vision,
eds Balachandra Rajan and Elizabeth Sauer (Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne
University Press, 1999) 273–93.
16. Backchat is a word that Lucy uses to describe how her relatives back home
in Antigua answer back, as opposed to the black waiters on the train whom
she encounters in America, who silently and submissively go about their
work (32).
17. Jamaica Kincaid quoted in Kay Bonetti, ‘An Interview with Jamaica Kincaid’
Missouri Review 15:2 (1992): 129.
18. Jamaica Kincaid quoted from an interview with Eleanor Wachtel, ‘Eleanor
Wachtel with Jamaica Kincaid’, The Malahat Review 116 (Fall 1996): 66, 67.
19. Sharon Achinstein, ‘Imperial Dialectic: Milton and Conquered Peoples’,
Milton and the Imperial Vision, eds Balachandra Rajan and Elizabeth
Sauer (Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne University Press, 1999) 69. The emphasis
is Achinstein’s.
20. Frank Birbalsingh, Frontiers of Caribbean Literature in English (New York: St
Martin’s Press – now Palgrave Macmillan, 1996) 147. Kincaid describes the
enormous influence that not only Paradise Lost, but also the biblical books
of Genesis and Revelation have had on her writing. She then goes on to
state: ‘Some people say I’ve grown up in a paradise. No one growing up in
any of these islands [Kincaid was born in Antigua] ever thinks it’s a par-
adise. Everybody who can leave, leaves. So it’s not this paradise that’s a big
influence on me. It’s not the physical Antigua. It’s the paradise of mother in
every way: the sort of benign, marvellous, innocent moment you have with
the great powerful person who, you then realize, won’t let go’ (emphasis
added).
21. This phrase is a quotation of Edward W. Said (1993), 317.
22. Jamaica Kincaid, Annie John (New York: Plume, 1985) 76.
23. See Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert, Jamaica Kincaid: A Critical Companion
(Westport, CN & London: Greenwood Press, 1999) 27, 82; Laura Niesen de
Abruna, ‘Jamaica Kincaid’s Writing and the Maternal-Colonial Matrix’,
Caribbean Women Writers: Fiction in English, eds Mary Condé and Thorunn
Lonsdale (New York: St Martin’s Press – now Palgrave Macmillan, 1999)
174.
24. John Milton, Paradise Lost [1667], ed. Christopher Ricks (London: Penguin,
1968) Book IX, 1090–1118, 223. With regard to the importance of the artic-
ulation of shame implicit in so many of Milton’s colonial references, see
Paul Stevens, ‘Milton and the New World: Custom, Relativism, and the Dis-
cipline of Shame’, eds Rajan and Sauer (1999), 90–111.
25. See Jennifer Biddle, ‘Shame’, Australian Feminist Studies 12:26 (1997): 228.
26. See Milton (1968 [1667]), Book IV, 450–88.
27. For a psychological analysis of the connections between shame and nar-
cissism, see Andrew P. Morrison, Shame: The Underside of Narcissism (Hove
& London: The Analytic Press, 1989).
28. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘Echo’, The Spivak Reader: Selected Works of
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, eds Donna Landry and Gerald MacLean (New
1403_921989_13_note.qxd 12/3/2003 2:24 PM Page 191
Notes 191
York & London: Routledge, 1996) 176. Spivak contends that the impetus of
this essay is to ‘give woman’ to Echo.
29. See The Metamorphoses of Ovid, trans. & ed. Mary M. Innes (London:
Penguin, 1955) Book III. The myth of Narcissus and Echo is told in lines
256–510, on pages 83–7.
30. Bonetti (1992), 130.
31. Spillers (1987), 65–81.
32. Spillers (1987), 66, 67–8.
33. Spillers (1987), 68. Proverbs constitute an essential dimension of commu-
nication in Africa and the African diaspora, and creating or re-troping
already exisiting Anglo-European proverbs is an important part of resistance
practices inherent in Black English. See Jack L. Daniel, Geneva Smitherman-
Donaldson and Milford A. Jeremiah, ‘Makin’ A Way Outa No Way: The
Proverb Tradition in the Black Experience’, Journal of Black Studies 17:4 (June
1987): 482–508.
34. Hortense J. Spillers, ‘Interstices: A Small Drama of Words’, ed. Carole Vance,
Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality (Boston: Routledge & Kegan
Paul, 1984) 84.
35. John Hollander, The Figure of Echo: A Mode of Allusion in Milton and After
(Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press, 1981) 8.
36. Ovid (1955), 84.
37. Ovid (1955), 84.
38. John Brenkman, ‘Narcissus in the Text’, Georgia Review 30 (1976): 297–8.
39. Bhabha outlines his theory of colonial mimicry most clearly in his essay,
‘Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse’, Bhabha
(1994(b)), 85–92. The word echolalia is both a psychiatric term that
describes the tendency to repeat mechanically words just spoken by another
person which can occur in case of brain damage, mental retardation, and
schizophrenia; or it denotes the imitation by an infant of the vocal sounds
produced by (maternal) others. I use this word with a sense of irony.
40. Barbara Christian, ‘Fixing Methodologies: Beloved’, Female Subjects in
Black and White: Race, Psychoanalysis, Feminism, eds Elizabeth Abel, Barbara
Christian, Helene Moglen (Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of
California Press, 1997) 364.
41. Cornel West, ‘W.E.B. Du Bois: An Interpretation’, Africana: The Encyclopedia
of the African American Experience, eds Kwame Anthony Appiah and Henry
Louis Gates Jr (New York: Basic Civitas Books, 1999) 1974.
42. Du Bois (1989 [1903]), 209.
43. Du Bois (1989 [1903]), 205, 208, 209. See Barbara E. Bowen, ‘Untroubled
voice: call and response in Cane,’ Black Literature and Literary Theory, ed.
Henry Louis Gates Jr (New York & London: Methuen, 1984) 199; Chapter
1, ‘African American History and Culture, 1619–1808: The Description of
the Conditions of Slavery and Oppression’, Call and Response: The Riverside
Anthology of the African American Literary Tradition, ed. Patricia Liggins Hill
(Boston & New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1998) 1–68.
44. Gayl Jones, Liberating Voices: Oral Tradition in African American Literature
(Cambridge, MA & London: Harvard University Press, 1991).
45. Bernard W. Bell, ‘Voices of Double Consciousness in African American
Fiction: Charles W. Chestnutt, Zora Neale Hurston, Dorothy West, and
1403_921989_13_note.qxd 12/3/2003 2:24 PM Page 192
192 Notes
Richard Wright’, Teaching African American Literature: Theory and Practice, eds
Maryemma Graham, Sharon Pineault-Burke and Marianna White Davis
(New York & London: Routledge, 1998) 132.
46. Cheryl A. Wall, ‘Review of Houston Baker Jr’s Modernism and the Harlem
Renaissance and Melvin Dixon’s Ride Out the Wilderness: Geography and
Identity in Afro-American Literature’, American Literature 60 (1988): 680.
47. Jones (1991), 197 (emphasis added).
48. Toni Morrison, Beloved (London: Picador, 1988) 87–9.
49. Historian Darlene Clark Hine suggests that double-consciousness would
become a great deal more complex if both gender and class were also con-
sidered important in Du Bois’s dialectical model. If the Negro male was to
feel his ‘two-ness’, then, Clarke Hine argues, ‘he would have mused about
how one ever feels her “fiveness”: Negro, American, woman, poor, black
woman’ (emphasis is mine). Darlene Clark Hine, ‘ “In the Kingdom of
Culture”: Black Women and the Intersection of Race, Gender, and Class’,
Lure and Loathing: Essays on Race, Identity, and the Ambivalence of Assimila-
tion ed. Gerald Early (New York & London: Penguin, 1994) 338.
50. Du Bois (1989 [1903]), 5.
51. Gates Jr (1988).
52. Jones (1991), 102.
53. Du Bois (1989 [1903]), 217. For a reading of The Souls of Black Folk as a
classic Enlightenment text, see West (1999), 1967–8.
54. Glissant (1997), 71.
5 The Search for a Voice
1. bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation (Boston MA: South End
Press, 1992) 167.
2. For a reading of the whiteness of the Virgin Mary in Western culture, see
Richard Dyer, White (London & New York: Routledge, 1997) 66, 68.
3. Morrison (1993a), 9–10.
4. Spillers (1987), 65.
5. William Wordsworth, ‘I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud’, The Selected Poetry
and Prose of Wordsworth, ed. Geoffrey Hartman (New York: Meridian, 1980)
157.
6. Morrison (1993b), 103, 104.
7. This seems particularly pertinent when you read what Thomas Jefferson
said of African slaves: ‘Their griefs are transient. Those numberless afflic-
tions, which render it doubtful whether heaven has given life to us in mercy
or wrath, are less felt, and sooner forgotten with them’. Jefferson went on
to explain that this lack of feeling in slaves was the reason why they pro-
duced no art or literature: ‘Misery is often the parent of the most affecting
touches in poetry,’ he stated. ‘Among blacks is misery enough, God knows,
but no poetry’. It would seem that Jefferson’s description would be better
utilised to describe both his own lack of feeling and any sense of empathy
for the traumas inflicted on others. Thomas Jefferson, The Portable Thomas
Jefferson, ed. Merrill D. Peterson (New York: Penguin, 1977) 187–88, 189.
Quoted in Atkinson (2000), 13.
8. Birbalsingh (1996), 143. Her early loving relationship with her mother and
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Notes 193
its connection with her mother’s immense pride in her precocious reading
ability and her love for reading is a frequent trope in Kincaid’s interviews,
much of the subject matter of which always revolves around her mother.
It is the subject to which she incessantly returns, even to the extent that
she admits that her mother is ‘the person I really write for, I suspect’.
Bonetti (1992), 141.
9. Jamaica Kincaid, My Brother (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997) 132.
10. See Kristen Mahlis, ‘Gender and Exile: Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy’, Modern
Fiction Studies 44:1 (1998): 168–9.
11. See Diane Simmons, Jamaica Kincaid (New York: Twayne, 1994) 1–2.
12. Quoted in Paravisini-Gebert (1999), 25.
13. Selwyn R. Cudjoe, ‘Jamaica Kincaid and the Modernist Project: An
Interview’, Callaloo 12 (1989): 400 and 402.
14. See Allan Vorda, ‘An Interview with Jamaica Kincaid’, Mississippi Review 20
(1991): 12.
15. Kincaid tells an interviewer that the reason Antigua suffers from drought is
‘because the English people who settled it cleared it of its rain forest and
changed the ecology’. Pamela Buchanan Muirhead, ‘An Interview with
Jamaica Kincaid’, Clockwatch Review 9:1–2 (1994–95): 46.
16. Morrison (1993a).
17. George Lipsitz, The Possessive Investment in Whiteness: How White People
Profit from Identity Politics (Philadelphia, Temple University Press, 1998).
Lipsitz’s provocative thesis is a confrontational reading of the material
effects of white privilege in America and the demonisation of non-white
people. He deliberates from a clearly-argued historical perspective that the
so-called ‘color-blind’ public policy contributes to the maintenance of
racism: ‘Desire for slave labor encouraged European settlers in North
America to view, first, Native Americans and, later, African Americans as
racially inferior people suited “by nature” for the humiliating subordina-
tion of involuntary servitude. The long history of the possessive investment
in whiteness stems in no small measure from the fact that all subsequent
immigrants to North America have come to an already racialized society.
From the start, European settlers in North America established structures
encouraging such a view of whiteness’ (20, emphasis added).
18. hooks (1992), 167–8.
19. For a gender and race-cognisant reading of Paul Gaugin’s Melanesian art
and the racist discourse that structures art and art history, see Griselda
Pollock, Avant-Garde Gambits 1888–1893: Gender and the Colour of Art History
(London: Thames and Hudson, 1992).
20. For a reading of the status of white trash who act as the polluted border
between black and white races in America, see John Hartigan, Jr, ‘Unpop-
ular Culture: The Case of “White Trash” ’, Cultural Studies 11:2 (1997):
316–43; Annalee Newitz and Matthew Wray, ‘What is “White Trash”?
Stereotypes and Economic Conditions of Poor Whites in the United States’,
Whiteness: A Critical Reader, ed. Mike Hill (New York & London: New York
Univeristy Press, 1997) 168–84.
21. Caryl Phillips, The European Tribe [1987] (New York: Vintage, 2000) 2.
22. See Fran Bartkowski, ‘Travelers v. Ethnics: Discourses of Displacement’,
Discourse 15:3 (Spring 1993): 169.
23. Important though de Beauvoir’s work is, her philosophical destabilising is
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194 Notes
predicated on a Eurocentric reading of sexual difference alone. More prob-

lematic still, is de Beauvoir’s reliance on Hegel’s model of the master/slave
dialectic in her comparison between slavery and women’s oppression
and her unquestioning repetition of the racist ideology that underpinned
American slavery to which she frequently refers. See Margaret A. Simons,
Beauvoir and The Second Sex: Feminism, Race, and the Origins of Existentialism
(Lanham, Maryland & Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield, 1999) 24–8.
6 ‘The Sea is History’
1. Derek Walcott, ‘The Sea Is History’, Collected Poems 1948–1984 (New York:
Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1986) 364–7 (emphasis added). Édouard Glissant
uses the title of Walcott’s poem (minus the definitive article) as an epigraph
to his Poetics of Relation (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997).
2. West (1999), 1974.
3. Grace Nichols, I is a long memoried woman (London: Caribbean Cultural
International, Karnak House, 1983) 31.
4. de Abruna (1999), 178.
5. Tzvetan Todorov, The Conquest of America trans. Richard Howard (New York:
Harper & Row, 1984) 28.
6. Todorov (1984), 28.
7. Liggins Hill (1998), 14–15. Because of the enforced illiteracy in the slave
plantations and the outlawing of their own languages and religions, slaves
drew images for songs and tales from biblical epic narratives of the Old Tes-
tament that they heard from itinerant preachers and missionaries. Their
favourite scriptural heroes were Moses, Joshua, Samson, David who killed
Goliath and especially Satan, with his propensity for lying and conjuring
tales.
8. Derek Walcott, ‘The Muse of History: An Essay’, Is Massa Dead? Black Moods
in the Caribbean, ed. Orde Coombs (London: Anchor Books, 1974b) 11.
9. Proverbs 26: 4–5.
10. Orlando Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cam-
bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982) 338.
11. Barbara Christian, ‘The Race for Theory’ [1987] rpt. in Making Face, Making
Soul Haciendo Caras: Creative and Critical Perspectives by Feminists of Color,
ed. Gloria Anzaldúa (San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books, 1990) 336.
7 ‘Knots of Death’: Toni Morrison’s Sula
1. Quoted in Toi Derricotte, Tender (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh

Press, 1997) 5. The phrase ‘knots of death’ is Barbara Christian’s. See Barbara
Christian, Black Women Novelists: The Development of a Tradition, 1892–1976
(Westport, CN & London: Greenwood Press, 1980b) 163.
2. Toni Morrison, Sula [1973] (London: Picador, 1991) 3. References to the
novel will appear hereafter in parentheses in the main text.
3. Morrison (1989), 25.
4. For readings of this section, see Chikwenye Okonjo Ogunyemi, ‘Sula: “A
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Notes 195
Nigger Joke” ’, Black American Literature Forum 13 (1979): 130–3; and Madhu
Dubey, Black Women Novelists and the Nationalist Aesthetic (Bloomington &
Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1994) 57, 62.
5. Patricia McKee writes interestingly in relation to this scene about the
embodiment of pain in relation to spaces of experience that the white man
can and cannot enter. See Patricia McKee, Producing American Races: Henry
James, William Faulkner, Toni Morrison (Durham & London: Duke Univer-
sity Press, 1999) 151.
6. Christian (1980b), 153.
7. Maureen T. Reddy, ‘The Tripled Plot and Center of Sula’, Black American
Literature Forum 22:1 (Spring 1988): 29.
8. Morrison describes the importance of the cycle of seasons, of birth and
death and natural signs that can be read in her fictive world this way: ‘It’s
an animated world in which trees can be outraged and hurt, and in which
the presence or absence of birds is meaningful. You have to be very still to
understand these so-called signs, in addition to which they inform you
about your behavior.’ Charles Ruas, ‘Toni Morrison’, Conversations with Toni
Morrison, ed. Danille Taylor-Guthrie (Jackson: University Press of Missis-
sippi, 1994) 100.
9. Barbara Christian, ‘Community and Nature: The Novels of Toni Morrison’,
Journal of Ethnic Studies 7:4 (1980a): 67.
10. In general, Morrison stages a harsh critique of black masculinity in Sula,
but this is always tempered by both a sympathetic and political under-
standing of the historical structures that resulted in the powerless position
of black men in American society.
11. Wendy Harding and Jacky Martin, A World of Difference: An Inter-Cultural
Study of Toni Morrison’s Novels (Westport, CN & London: Greenwood Press,
1994) 89–90.
12. Amanda Smith, ‘Toni Morrison’, Publishers Weekly (21 August 1987): 50.
Quoted in Harding and Martin (1994), 90.
13. Geneva Smitherman, Black Talk: Words and Phrases from the Hood to the Amen
Corner (Boston & New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1994) 68.
14. Zora Neale Hurston, ‘Characteristics of Negro Expression’ [1934], African-
American Literary Theory: A Reader, ed. Winston Napier (New York & London:
New York University Press, 2000) 40.
15. The entwining of black musical and artistic forms are rarely acknowledged
in mainstream white American culture. See Sieglinde Lemke, Primitivist
Modernism: Black Culture and the Origins of Transatlantic Modernism (Oxford
& New York: Oxford University Press, 1998) in which she uncovers a crucial
history of white and black intercultural exchange, a phenonemon until
quite recently obscured by a cloak of whiteness.
16. The idea of those that can or cannot read black cultural references here is
not meant as a statement of self-satisfied superiority. Until I started my
research for this chapter, I had no idea what the term cakewalk represented,
nor, for that matter, the meaning of a jook, or the allusion to the reading
of a community called the Bottom. My intention here is to emphasise
the importance of the subversive double-coding through which black
Americans communicate with one another in ways that the white popu-
lation cannot understand. As the whole notion of double-conscious
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196 Notes
represents an enforced knowledge of white culture as a survival strategy,

it seems to me that it is a matter of respect to other cultures for white
outsiders, such as myself, to learn as much as possible about the cultural
heritage of those whose literature I am interested in. But it also leaves me
open, as it should, to questioning, or even a double-coded ‘backchat’.
17. Quoted in Eric J. Sundquist, To Wake the Nations: Race in the Making of
American Literature (Cambridge, MA & London: The Belknap Press of
Harvard University Press, 1993) 278. The cake, Edmonds goes on to relate,
would be awarded by the master to the ‘couple that did the proudest move-
ment’ (278).
18. Sundquist (1993), 278.
19. Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (London
& New York: Verso, 1993) 219.
20. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks [1952] (London: Pluto, 1986) 109,
112, 113.
21. Fanon (1986 [1952]), 112 (emphasis in original).
22. Morrison (1993a), 4 (emphasis added).
23. For an interesting article on the politics of vision in Morrison’s oeuvre, see
Edward Guerrero, ‘Tracking “The Look” in the Novels of Toni Morrison’,
Black American Literature Forum 24:4 (Winter 1990) 761–73, especially
762–4, 766–8.
24. Obioma Nnaemeka, ‘Introduction: Imag(in)ing knowledge, power, and sub-
version in the margins’, The Politics of (M)Othering: Womanhood, Identity, and
Resistance in African Literature ed. Obioma Nnaemeka (London & New York:
Routledge, 1997) 7.
25. Nnaemeka (1997), 7.
26. Nnaemeka (1997), 9.
27. Geneva Smitherman describes the term ‘African Holocaust’ as ‘[a]n emerg-
ing term among writers, Rappers, and Black activists [which] refers to the
enslavement of African people in the United States and throughout the
diaspora’. Smitherman (1994), 44.
28. Morrison (1989), 16.
29. Gilroy provides an extreme example of this white ‘disinterest’ when he
quotes Stanley Crouch whose ‘acid polemic’ includes this reading of
Beloved: ‘Beloved, above all else, is a blackface holocaust novel . . . [that]
seems to have been written in order to enter American slavery in the big-
time martyr ratings contest.’ Stanley Crouch, ‘Aunt Medea’, in Notes of a
Hanging Judge (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990) 205. Quoted in
Gilroy (1993), 217.
30. See Sigmund Freud, ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’ [1920], Great Books of
the Western World, Vol. 54, The Major Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. C.J.M.
Hubback, ed. Robert Maynard Hutchins (Chicago, London, Toronto &
Geneva: William Benton, 1952) 639–63.
31. Cathy Caruth, ‘Violence and Time: Traumatic Survivals’, Assemblage: A
Journal of Architecture and Design Culture (Special Issue on Violence and
Space) 20 (1993): 24. This quotation refers to Freud’s concept of
Nachräglichkeit and his formulation of the temporal logic of unconsciously
enforced ‘deferred action’. See Leys (2000), 20–1. This is the basis of what
Caruth re-terms as the principle of ‘belatedness’: ‘Traumatic experience,
beyond the psychological dimension of suffering suggests a paradox: that
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Notes 197
the most direct seeing of a violent event may occur as an absolute inabil-
ity to know it, that immediacy, paradoxically, may take the form of belat-
edness. The repetitions of the traumatic event – unavailable to
consciousness, but intruding repeatedly on sight – thus suggest a larger rela-
tion to the event that extends beyond what can simply be seen or what can
be known, and that is inextricably tied up with the belatedness and incom-
prehensibility that remain at the heart of this repetitive seeing.’ Cathy
Caruth, ‘Traumatic Awakenings’, Performativity and Performance, ed. Andrew
Parker and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (New York & London: Routledge, 1995b)
89.
32. Caruth (1993), 24. Caruth goes on to suggest that ‘[i]t is only in recogniz-
ing traumatic experience as a paradoxical relation between destructiveness
and survival that we can also recognize the legacy of incomprehensibility
at the heart of catastrophic experience.’
33. Caruth (1993), 24.
34. Caruth (1993), 25. I have intentionally broken the textual flow here to
suggest the unsettlingness of an abrupt shift in ‘linear’ progression that is
effected by a ‘break in the mind’s experience of time’.
35. Morrison (1993b), 114.
36. William Hurt Sledge, ‘The Therapist’s Use of Metaphor’, International Journal
of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy 6 (1977): 128. See also, Richard Billow,
‘Metaphor: A Review of the Psychological Literature’, Psychological Bulletin
84:1 (1977): 87. Sledge sees the use of metaphor as an heuristic tool because
the use of metaphor can represent a form of ‘indirect discourse’ that allows
the person speaking to maintain the necessary distance from conscious
awareness of something that may be unspeakable, and at the same time
provide a safe vehicle for an unconscious off-loading of latent content
(114).
37. Smitherman (1977), 70.
38. Hurston (2000 [1934]), 32.
39. Hurston (2000 [1934]), 32, 33.
40. See Daniel 1–3. See also Karen Stein, ‘ “I Didn’t Even Know His Name”:
Names and Naming in Toni Morrison’s Sula’, Names: Journal of the Ameri-
can Name Society (September 1980): 228.
41. Jill Matus, Toni Morrison (Manchester & New York: Manchester University
Press, 1998) 55–6. Matus also applies a trauma reading to Sula along with
all Morrison’s other novels. She refers to the straitjacket imagery and to the
notion of Shadrack as a generic trauma case, but her focus is different from
mine.
42. See Elaine Showalter, The Female Malady: Women, Madness, and English
Culture, 1830–1980 (London: Virago, 1991), Chapter 7 ‘Male Hysteria:
W.H.R. Rivers and the Lessons of Shell Shock’, 167–94. It appears that the
symptoms of shell-shock took different forms in officers and regular sol-
diers: ‘paralysis, blindness, deafness, contracture of a limb, mutism, limping
– appeared primarily among the regular soldiers, while neurasthenic symp-
toms, such as nightmares, insomnia, heart palpitations, dizziness, depres-
sion, or disorientation, were more common among officers’ (174). Mutism,
the most common shell-shock symptom among regular soldiers, was very
rare among officers (175). Interestingly, Shadrack suffers from limping and
contracture of a limb, and to a lesser extent a form of mutism, though not
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198 Notes
in the sense of being literally silenced, but a silencing of transmittable

meaning.
43. Wilfred D. Samuels and Clenora Hudson-Weems, Toni Morrison (Boston,
Twayne Publishers, 1990) 50. Samuels and Hudson-Weems make the very
valuable point that ‘he sees a self that is tied to race, the missing, tangible
element that must be restored if the whole self – psychological and physi-
cal – is to emerge.’
44. Dictionary of Americanisms: On Historical Principles, ed. Mitford M. Mathews
(Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1951) 1504.
45. Morrison (1993(b)), 105.
8 Ambivalent Maternal Inheritances
1. Mary Helen Washington, ‘Introduction’, ed. Mary Helen Washington,

Memory of Kin: Stories About Family by Black Writers (New York: Doubleday,
1991) 6–7.
2. Faith Pullin, ‘Landscapes of Reality: The Fictions of Contemporary Afro-
American Women’, Black Fiction: New Studies in the Afro-American Novel since
1945, ed. A Robert Lee (London: Vision, 1980) 196.
3. Herman (1992), 51.
4. Spillers (1987), 198.
5. See Monika Hoffarth-Zelloe, ‘Resolving the Paradox?: An Interlinear
Reading of Toni Morrison’s Sula’, Journal of Narrative Technique 22:2 (1992):
114.
6. Susan Willis argues that the three-woman household is a trope that ‘crops
up throughout Morrison’s writing to suggest an alternative and utopian
possibility for redefining the space and the relationships associated with
social reproduction’. Susan Willis, ‘Black women writers: taking a critical
perspective’, Making a Difference: Feminist Literary Criticism, ed. Gayle Greene
and Coppélia Kahn (London & New York: Routledge, 1985) 234. Of the
examples she offers from The Bluest Eye, Sula and Song of Solomon, Willis
believes that 7 Carpenter’s Road represents the ‘most fully evolved [utopian]
vision’. (235).
7. Kai Erikson, ‘Notes on Trauma and Community’, American Imago 48:4
(1991): 460. Erikson differentiates between individual trauma, ‘a blow to the
psyche that breaks through one’s defenses so suddenly and with such brutal
force that one cannot react to it effectively’; and collective trauma by which
he means ‘a blow to the basic tissues of social life that damages the bonds
attaching people together and impairs the prevailing sense of community.
The collective trauma works its way slowly and even insidiously into the
awareness of those who suffer from it, so it does not have the quality of
suddenness normally associated with “trauma” ’ (459, 460).
8. Caruth (1991), 4. Caruth continues: ‘The traumatized person, we might say
carries an impossible history within them, or they become themselves a
symptom of a history that they cannot entirely possess’ (4).
9. Erikson (1991), 466. The emphasis occurs in Erikson’s text.
10. Harding and Martin contend that the ‘opposed family structures reflect the
opposition between two different types of adaptive behaviours to the racial
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Notes 199
conflict that is always rampant on the outskirts of the black community.

While the Wright family consents to white domination (cf. the railway
compartment episode), the Peace household adopts a more exploitative
form of semi-independence (cf. the compensation money alleged to have
been paid for Eva’s amputation)’. Harding and Martin (1994), 43.
11. The allusion to the notion of the ‘tragic mulatto’ in connection to past
maternal inheritances in nineteenth-century black literature is of interest
here. See Hazel V. Carby, Reconstructing Womanhood: The Emergence of the
Afro-American Woman Novelist (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1987) especially 88–91, 140–1; and Hortense J. Spillers, ‘Notes on an alter-
native model – neither/nor’, The Difference Within: Feminism and Critical
Theory, eds Elizabeth Meese and Alice Parker (Amsterdam & Philadelphia:
John Benjamins Publishing, 1989a) 165–87.
12. Patrick Bryce Bjork, The Novels of Toni Morrison: The Search for Self and Place
Within the Community (New York: Peter Lang, 1992) 61.
13. The train is an ambivalent symbol for it suggests one of the most visible
and quotidian sites of the racial segregation and injustice bound up in the
Jim Crow laws, and also hope for liberty and a very real possibility of such
freedom in the shape of the escape route known as the ‘Underground
Railway’. See Alonford James Robinson, Jr, ‘Underground Railroad’,
Africana: The Encyclopedia of the African and African American Experience, ed.
Kwame Anthony Appiah and Henry Louis Gates, Jr (New York: Basic Civitas
Books, 1999) 1915–18.
14. Historically, the black church and its appropriation of white Christianity in
many forms is the most protected resistant space within black communi-
ties. See, for instance, C. Eric Lincoln and Lawrence H. Mamiya, The Black
Church in the African American Experience (Durham & London: Duke Uni-
versity Press, 1990).
15. Smitherman (1977), 254.
16. See Dubey (1994), 65.
17. Shame and identity formation remain in a very dynamic relation to one
another, and as shame comes with an awareness of one’s self as funda-
mentally lacking in some way, it can have a devastating effect on the con-
struction of identity. The impact of culture on individuality, or for that
matter the collective identity of a social grouping, is mediated in many ways
through the affect of shame. It must therefore be remembered that as the
negative views of shame are constituted by the myths and beliefs of the
dominant culture in which the person lives, projections of shame can never
be separated from racial, sexual and class oppression. See Halina Ablam-
owicz, ‘Shame as Abject Communication: A Semiotic View’, American
Journal of Semiotics 11:3–4 (1994 [1998]): 155–70; Biddle (1997): 227–39.
18. See C. Lynn Munro, ‘The Tattooed Heart and the Serpentine Eye: Morri-
son’s Choice of an Epigraph for Sula’, Black American Literature Forum 18
(1984): 152.
19. While the use of the French word voir by Helene’s mother, Rochelle, is in
fact a condensation of the farewell, au revoir, ‘Voir’ is also the imperative
form of the French verb voir which in translation means to see, to behold
or to inspect, and thus suggests a command to look. For a reading of the
politics of the visual economy in Sula, see Helena Michie, Sororophobia:
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200 Notes
Differences Among Women in Literature and Culture (New York & Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1992) 164–8, and for a discussion of the scene that
threads around the command to look, see 159.
20. See especially passages in Sula on 170 and 110.
21. For a careful discussion of the double-voicing of African-American litera-
ture, and especially as it relates to Morrison, see Marc C. Conner, ‘Intro-
duction: Aesthetics and the African American Novel’, The Aesthetics of Toni
Morrison: Speaking the Unspeakable, ed. Marc C. Conner (Jackson: University
of Mississippi Press, 2000) xix–xx.
22. Morrison (1987), 103.
23. Morrison (1987), 109–10.
24. Morrison (1987), 110.
25. ‘Both in the old-time black Gospel song and in black street vernacular,
“gittin ovuh” has to do with surviving. While the religious usage of the
phrase speaks to spiritual survival in a sinister world of sin, its secular usage
speaks to material survival in a white world of oppression . . . In Black
America, the oral tradition has served as a fundamental vehicle for gittin
ovuh.’ Smitherman (1977), 73. See also Smitherman (1994), 124. She lists
the term here as ‘git ovah’.
26. For a reading of the notion of ‘body memories’ and the embodiment of
traumatic memory, see Roberta Culbertson, ‘Embodied Memory, Transcen-
dence, and Telling: Recounting Trauma, Re-establishing the Self’, New Lit-
erary History 26 (1995): 169–95.
27. In a small vignette in her essay that connects memory to writing, Morri-
son draws an evocative picture of how ‘Hannah Peace’ came to be created,
which very much suggests the magnetism of the unsaid that surrounds
characters like Hannah and Rochelle. See Morrison (1987), 116.
28. Here again we have another metaphoric connection between sewing, seeing
and female distress.
29. J. Brooks Bouson, Quiet As It’s Kept: Shame Trauma, and Race in the Novels of
Toni Morrison (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000) 52.
30. The position of the ambivalent narratee is a theme that I will explore in
more detail in my conclusion that is a reading of Morrison’s short story
‘Recitatif’.
31. Brooks Bouson (2000), 62.
32. Madhu Dubey states that ‘Sula’s refusal of reproduction is her greatest point
of difference from her community; it is what renders her evil and unnat-
ural to the people of the Bottom’. Dubey (1994), 58. Morrison, comment-
ing on Sula’s act of placing her grandmother in a home states in an
interview: ‘That’s more unforgivable than anything else she does, because
it suggests a lack of her sense of community.’ Anne Koenen, ‘The One Out
of Sequence’, Conversations with Toni Morrison, ed. Danille Taylor-Guthrie
(Jackson: University of Mississippi, 1994) 68.
9 The ‘Gift for Metaphor’
1. Chimalum Nwankwo, ‘ “I is”: Toni Morrison, the Past, and Africa’, Of

Dreams Deferred, Dead or Alive: Perspectives on African-American Writers, ed.
Femi Ojo-Ada (Westport, CN & London: Greenwood Press, 1996) 175.
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Notes 201
2. Spillers (1987), 184.

3. Spillers (1987), 184.
4. Alice Walker, ‘In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens’, [1974] In Search of Our
Mothers’ Gardens: Womanist Prose (London: The Women’s Press, 1992) 234,
241.
5. Renita Weems, ‘ “Artists Without Art Form”: A Look at One Black Woman’s
World of Unrevered Black Women’, [1979] Home Girls: A Black Feminist
Anthology, ed. Barbara Smith (New York: Kitchen Table: Women of Color
Press, 1983) 97.
6. Herman (1992), 55.
7. Robert Grant, ‘Absence into Presence: The Thematics of Memory and
“Missing” Subjects in Toni Morrison’s Sula’, Critical Essays on Toni Morrison
ed. Nellie Y. McKay (Boston: G.K. Hall, 1988) 98.
8. Deborah McDowell, ‘New Directions for Black Feminist Criticism’ [1980],
‘The Changing Same’: Black Women’s Literature, Criticism, and Theory (Bloom-
ington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1995) 13.
9. McDowell (1995 [1980]), 13.
10. McDowell (1995 [1980]), 13.
11. McKee (1999), 165.
12. This phrase is Karla Holloway’s. See Holloway (1995), 103.
13. Matus (1998), 67.
14. Barbara Johnson, ‘ “Aesthetic” and “rapport” in Toni Morrison’s Sula’,
Textual Practice 7:2 (1993): 168.
15. For the distinguishing features of melancholia and mourning in the
economy of pain, see Sigmund Freud, ‘Mourning and Melancholia’, On the
History of the Psycho-Analytic Movement, Papers on Metapsychology and Other
Works, The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of
Sigmund Freud, trans. James Strachey, Vol XIV (1914–16) (London, The
Hogarth Press, 1957), 243–58, especially, 244.
16. Alan J. Rice, ‘ “It Don’t Mean a Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing”: Jazz’s
Many Uses for Toni Morrison’, Black Orpheus: Music in African American
Fiction from the Harlem Renaissance to Toni Morrison, ed. Saadi A. Simawe
(New York & London: Garland, 2000) 173.
17. Alan Rice also makes this point. Rice (2000), 174.
18. Geneva Smitherman describes this colour as used as a fairly neutral term
for a white person. However, the connection between grey and white
comes, Smitherman believes, from the grey colour of Confederate army uni-
forms, and if this is the case, she says, it ‘originally must have referred to
white racial supremacists’. Smitherman (1994), 129.
19. Caruth (1991), 417.
20. Caruth (1991), 417.
21. I borrowed this application of Caruth’s trauma theory from Linda
Anderson’s lucid and very succinct outline of how testimonies and the
trauma theory that underlines them work in autobiographical writing. See
Linda Anderson, Autobiography (London & New York: Routledge, 2001) 129.
22. LaCapra (1999), 725.
23. LaCapra (1999), 698.
24. Eliezer Witzum, Haim Dasberg, Abraham Bleich, ‘Use of a Metaphor in the
Treatment of Combat-induced Posttraumatic Stress Disorder: Case Report’,
American Journal of Psychotherapy XL:3 (1986): 458.
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202 Notes
25. Johnson (1993), 167.

26. This phrase is Allan Young’s which I have taken from his essay, ‘Bodily
Memory and Traumatic Memory’, Tense Past: Cultural Essays in Trauma and
Memory, eds Paul Antze and Michael Lambek (New York & London:
Routledge, 1996) 97 (emphasis in original).
27. Deborah E. McDowell, ‘ “The Self and the Other”: Reading Toni Morrison’s
Sula and the Black Female Text’, Critical Essays on Toni Morrison, ed. Nellie
Y. McKay (Boston: G.K. Hall, 1988) 85.
28. Trudier Harris, Fiction and Folklore: The Novels of Toni Morrison, (Knoxville:
University of Tennessee Press, 1991) 1, 68, 84.
29. Smitherman describes the long and painful process of straightening ‘nappy’
hair with a heated iron comb and other procedures. As Smitherman goes
on to stress, the ‘psychic pain caused by all this black self-hatred was far
worse than all the hot combing and lye in the world’. Smitherman (1977),
64–7. The quotation appears on 66. Morrison makes intermittent references
to the practices of hair straightening in the novel: from the image of the
community women leaning back on the sink trays in Irene’s Palace of Cos-
metology to have their hair lathered in Nu Nile, to Helene’s enforced hot
combing of Nel’s hair as a child.
30. Smitherman (1994), 122.
31. See Carole Anne Taylor, The Tragedy and Comedy of Resistance: Reading Moder-
nity Through Black Women’s Fiction (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylva-
nia Press, 2000) 42–3.
32. Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Are Watching God [1937] (London: Virago,
1992) 17.
33. Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye [1970] (London: Chatto & Windus, 1993c)
11.
34. Karla F.C. Holloway, Moorings & Metaphors: Figures of Culture and Gender in
Black Women’s Literature (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press,
1992) 137.
35. Hurston (1992 [1937]), 286.
Conclusion
1. Audre Lorde, The Marvelous Arithmetics of Distance: Poems 1987–1992 (New
York & London: Norton, 1993) 7 (emphasis added).
2. Audre Lorde, ‘The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action’,
Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (Freedom, CA: The Crossing Press, 1984)
40–4. Lorde’s self-reflexive positioning suggested by the term sister outsider
has both political and personal implications. Gloria Hull describes Lorde’s
choice this way: ‘When Lorde names herself “sister outsider”, she is claim-
ing the extremes of a difficult identity. I think we tend to read the two terms
with a diacritical slash between them – in an attempt to make some sepa-
rate, though conjoining, space. But Lorde has placed herself on that line
between either/or and both/and of “sister outsider” – and then erased her
chance for rest or mediation. However, the charged field between the two
energies remains strong, constantly suggested by the frequency with which
edges, lines, borders, margins, boundaries, and the like appear as significant
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Notes 203
figures in her work.’ Gloria T. Hull, ‘Living on the Line: Audre Lorde and
Our Dead Behind Us’, Changing Our Own Words: Essays on Criticism, Theory,
and Writing by Black Women, ed. Cheryl A. Wall (London: Routledge, 1990)
154 (emphasis added).
3. There is a wonderful moment in this essay when Lorde, struggling with the
knowledge that the transformation of silence into language and action is
necessarily an often painful act of self-revelation, discusses it with her
daughter who responds with a delightful and trusting openness that helps
her to proceed. Lorde (1984), 42.
4. Lorde (1984), 41.
5. Lorde (1984), 44 (emphasis added).
6. Evelynn M. Hammonds, ‘Toward a Genealogy of Black Female Sexuality:
The Problematic of Silence’, Feminist Genealogies, Colonial Legacies, Democ-
ratic Futures, eds M. Jacqui Alexander and Chandra Talpade Mohanty (New
York & London: Routledge, 1997) 180.
7. Scream is also an important word in Toni Morrison’s short story to which I
refer below.
8. Gilroy (1996), 203. In the last chapter of his book, Gilroy argues that black
people have not yet adequately dealt with the traumas of slavery. The ‘con-
dition of being in pain’ derives from the historical conditions of slavery
and its legacies but it is often an unspoken and unassimilated and there-
fore negative grief that carries over into contemporary black culture.
9. Smith (1987), 5.
10. The song is quoted in Angela Y. Davis, Blues Legacies and Black Feminism:
Gertrude ‘Ma’ Rainey, Bessie Smith and Billie Holiday (New York: Pantheon,
1998) 181. There is an eerie undercurrent of silence to the words ‘Black
bodies swing . . . in the Southern breeze’ (181). The imagery of silence cap-
tures the notion of haunting that is so significant to the idea of recaptur-
ing and re-engaging with memories of historical trauma.
11. Toni Morrison, ‘Recitatif’, Confirmation: An Anthology of African American
Women, eds Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) and Amina Baraka (New York:
William Morrow, 1983) 243–61. Any further references to Morrison’s short
story will appear in parentheses in the main text.
12. Elizabeth Abel in her essay, ‘Black Writing, White Reading: Race and the
Politics of Feminist Interpretation’, Critical Inquiry 19 (1993): 470–98 – in
which she uses ‘Recitatif’ to open and conclude her argument – maintains
that it is Twyla’s and Roberta’s very different assumptions about the colour
of Maggie’s body that provides the racial ‘clues for our readings of them,
readings that emanate similarly from our own cultural locations’ (472).
However, while Abel’s article is admirable in many ways for its courageous
exposition of her own race-bound ways of reading, it is also problematic.
Both her fascination with attaching whiteness or blackness to Twyla or
Roberta, and her methodology of juxtaposing her white reading as against
her black female colleague’s black reading (Abel ascertains that Twyla is
white, her ‘black feminist critic’ friend Lula Fragd is ‘equally convinced that
she is black’ (471)) is in fact a replication of the divisive racial politics I
think Morrison is trying to undo.
13. Kalpana Seshadri-Crooks outlines the same kind of structural details, but
her focus is on a Lacanian reading, while mine is more concerned with the
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204 Notes
racialisation of the trauma narrative. See Desiring Whiteness: A Lacanian

Analysis of Race (London & New York: Routledge, 2000) 144.
14. In an interview with Claudia Tate, Morrison implies that all her readers
should actively participate in the deconstruction of the fixed meanings that
demean women of color: ‘My writing expects, demands participatory
reading . . . It is not just about telling the story; it is about involving the
reader . . . My language has to have holes and spaces so the reader can come
into it . . . The we (you, the reader, and I, the author) come together to make
this book, to feel the experience.’ Black Women Writers at Work, ed. Claudia
Tate (New York: Continuum, 1985) 125.
15. Seshadri-Crooks (2000), 149.
16. Dumped is one of the repeating words in the text that carries the symbolic
weight of trauma, but its meaning changes during the course of the story.
Another repeated word is shelter, a third, introduce.
17. The ‘ugly green slacks’ that shame Twyla is a trope that repeats throughout
the story, as is Roberta’s mother’s oversized cross. However, the icon of
clothing in which most of the ambivalent pathos in the story is invested
is Maggie’s hat with its long ear flaps which suggest both the longing and
the need to shut out the verbal abuse to which she is constantly subjected.
In Twyla’s words: ‘She wore this really stupid little hat – a kid’s hat with ear
flaps . . . A really awful little hat. Even for a mute, it was dumb – dressing
like a kid and never saying anything at all’ (245).
18. The concept of abjection is usefully theorised by Julia Kristeva in her Powers
of Horror: An Essay on Abjection trans. Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Colum-
bia University Press, 1982). However, it is important to note that Kristeva
has been admonished for her silencing of the subaltern voice in About
Chinese Women, [1977] trans. Anita Barrows (New York: Marion Boyars,
1986).
19. Kristeva (1982), 4, 9.
20. Rinaldo Walcott, ‘Pedagogy and Trauma: The Middle Passage, Slavery, and
the Problem of Creolization’, Between Hope and Despair: Pedagogy and the
Remembrance of Historical Trauma, eds Roger I. Simon, Sharon Rosenberg
and Claudia Eppert (Lanham, Boulder, New York & Oxford: Rowman & Lit-
tlefield, 2000) 137.
21. Walcott (2000), 137.
22. Walcott (2000), 137. Walcott is quoting Deborah P. Britzman, Lost Subjects,
Contested Objects: Toward a Psychoanalytic Inquiry of Learning (Albany: State
University of New York Press, 1998) 133 (emphasis added).
23. See Abel, Christian and Moglen (1997), 1–2 (emphasis added).
1403_921989_14_bibl.qxd 12/3/2003 2:23 PM Page 205
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Index
Abel, Elizabeth, 165, 168, 175n39, Antigua, 72, 75, 83, 86, 93, 107–8,
177n66, 179n99, 191n40, 109, 190n20, 193n15
203n12, 204n23 Antze, Paul, 177n67, 184n60
abjection, 169, 204n18 Ashley, Clifford, 2, 173n2
Ablamowicz, Halima, 199n17 Atkinson, Yvonne, 14, 176n59
abreaction, 67, 188n14
Achinstein, Sharon, 75, 190n19 backchat, 74, 81, 86, 106, 175n30,
acting out, 19, 20 190n16, 196n16
African-Americans, 5, 199n13 Barrett, Deirdre, 185n15
creativity of, 118, 142 Bartowski, Fran, 193n22
experience of white violence, Bell, Bernard, 191n45
114 Barthes, Roland, 13
literature, 22 belatedness see trauma
oral tradition, 14, 81–3, 112, 142–3, Benítez-Rojo, Antonio, 32, 181n27,
194n7 182n39
segregation of, 117–18, 132, Bennefield, Robin, 177n63
199n13 Bhabha, Homi, 13, 64–5, 176n52,
racism and sexism, impact of, 6–7, 179n3, 180n12, 181n27, 182n39,
10, 127–8, 132–4, 137, 188n13, 191n39
198–9n10 Bible, 42, 76–7, 78, 82, 110, 190n20,
songs and music, 82–3, 118, 157, 194n9, 197n40
195n15 Biddle, Jennifer, 190n25
white stereotyping of, 79–80, Birbaksingh, Frank, 190n20, 192–3n8
125–6, 135 Bjork, Patrick Bryce, 199n12
African Caribbeans, 9–10, 69, 112–13, Black Aesthetic, 13
187 Black English, 6, 14, 22, 123, 154
see also maroons; slavery Black Studies, 13, 15
African Holocaust, 120, 196n27 Blanchot, Maurice, 188n20
Ahmed, Sara, 5, 6, 8, 47, 119, body, 4–5, 6, 7–8, 173
174n18,19,21,23,26,27, psychic trauma written on, 120,
177n67 133
Alarcón, Norma, 175n33 and race, 5, 6–7, 47–8, 90, 119,
aletheia, 6 120, 125, 126, 132–4, 135, 136,
Allen, Jon, 185n7, 186n20 167–8, 169, 174n22,27,
ambivalence, 3, 11–14, 27–8, 30, 203n12
70–1, 154, 180n18 and shame, 134
and echo, 79 see also white gaze under Sula
cultural, 28 Boehmer, Elleke, 74, 190n13
intersubjective, 28 Bonetti, Kay, 190n17, 191n30
socialised, 13 Bouson, Brooks, 141, 200n29,31
and whiteness studies, 15 Bowen, Barbara, 191n43
Anderson, Benedict, 189n10 Brah, Avtar, 14, 176n56
Anderson, Linda, 201n21 Braidotti, Rosi, 3, 173n4
220
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Index 221
Brathwaite, Edward, 30–1, 179n2, Cliff, Michelle, 70, 72

180n13,14,16,17 clothing, iconography of, 48–9,
Breeze, Jean Binta, 70 144–5, 155
Brenkman, John, 191n38 see also dress as symbol under Wide
Britzman, Deborah, 171, 204n22 Sargasso Sea
Brontë, Charlotte see also clothing and sewing
Jane Eyre, 9, 31, 42, 59, 66, 69, 70, imagery under Sula
78–9, 180n20,21, 187n35, colonial education, 6, 72–4, 75, 76,
188n18: Bertha, 9, 31, 37, 40, 87
59, 69, 180n21, 184n56,57, echoes of, 78–9, 87, 113
185n18 colonialism, 20, 70, 100, 179n2
Brown, Laura, 17–18, 177n75,76, cultural processes in, 13, 30, 34,
178n77,78 64–5, 82, 99–100, 112,
Buchanan, Pamela Muirhead, 188n19
193n15 and histories, 30–1, 32, 39, 40, 59,
95–6, 107–8
cakewalk, 118–19, 196n17 mental, 74, 78, 79, 90, 95, 113
as mimicry, 119 metaphors for, 10, 76, 94, 185n12
call-and-response, 81, 82–3, 87, 90, as trauma, 21–2
92, 150 complementary theorising, 23, 172
and double consciousness, 84 Conner, Marc, 174n24, 176n59,
Campbell, Mavis, 33, 35–6, 200n21
181n29,31, 182n37,38 creative marronage see
Carby, Hazel, 199n11 marooning/marronage
Caribbean, 9–10 creole, 179
and creative ambivalence, 30, see also white creole society
180n15 criticism, feminist literary, 11, 23, 71,
history, 28–30, 32, 33, 39, 77, 161–2, 165
183n52 postcolonial, 39–40, 185n18
end of slavery, 26, 28, 29 of Wide Sargasso Sea, 37,
see also creative marronage 183–4n54–6
Carr, Helen, 179n6 Cudjoe, Selwyn, 193n13
Caruth, Cathy, 17, 20–1, 22, 30, Culbertson, Roberta, 200n26
59, 121, 130, 152–3,
178n88,89,90,95, 179n5, 185n16, Daniel, Jack, 191n33
187n36, 189n22, 196–7n31, David, Deirdre, 184n57
197n32,33,34, 198n8, Davis, Angela, 203n10
201n19,20,21 de Abruna, Laura Niesen, 190n23,
Cary, Lorene, 7, 175n30 194n4
catachresis, 54, 186n24, 186–7n33 de Beauvoir, Simone, 103–4,
Césaire, Aimé, 13, 72 193–4n23
Chambers, Iain, 40, 184n61 de Man, Paul, 54, 186n22,23
Chodorow, Nancy, 3, 173n5 Derricote, Toi, 194n1
Christian, Barbara, 81, 113, 115, 117, Derrida, Jacques, 13, 174n25
175n39, 177n66, 179n99, difference, politics of, 8, 11, 163
191n40, 194n11, 194n1, differentials, 55, 68, 74, 77, 127
195n6,9, 204n23 Dimen, Muriel, 176n49
Ciolowski, Laura, 186n31 dissociation see trauma
Clark Hine, Darlene, 192n49 Donnell, Alison, 189n6
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222 Index
double consciousness, 12–13, 61, 82, Flagg, Barbara, 16, 177n65

83–4, 87, 93, 108, 113, 123, Frankenberg, Ruth, 15, 21, 177n62,
176n51, 187n4, 192n49 178n92
and call-and-response, 84 Freud, Sigmund, 17, 19, 121,
and metaphoric logic, 123 196n30–1, 201n15
shedding of, 107 Frow, John, 71, 189n24
as socialised ambivalence, 84 Fuss, Diana, 4, 173n12
double coding, 14, 80, 84, 118, 123,
124, 136, 154, 161, 195n16, Garis, Leslie, 182n2
200n21 Garvey, Marcus, 181n30
Drake, Sandra, 188n16,19 Gates, Henry Louis Jr, 84, 183n50,
Du Bois, W.E.B., 12, 16, 82, 84, 192n51
174n24, 176n51, 177n86, 187n4, Genovese, Eugene, 181n29
191n41–3, 192n49,50,53 Gilbert, Sandra, 184n56
Dubey, Madhu, 158, 195n4, 199n16, Gilroy, Paul, 119, 161, 196n19,29,
200n32 203n8
duCille, Ann, 23, 37–8, 172, Glissant, Édouard, 9–10, 84–5, 105,
179n99,100,101, 183n46–8 112, 175n43–4, 192n54, 194n1
Dyer, Richard, 192n2 Goodison, Lorna, 70
Grant, Robert, 144, 201n7
Echo and Narcissus, 78, 80–1, 82, 96, Gray, Thomas, 73–4, 112, 189n7–8
101, 102, 107, 190n28 Grosz, Elizabeth, 4–5, 6, 174n14–17
Echo as subaltern subject, 81 Gubar, Susan, 184n56
ironic reversal of Narcissus myth in Guerrero, Edward, 196n23
Sula, 125
echolalia, 81, 191n39 Hammonds, Evelynn, 161, 203n6
Edmonds, Shephard, 118–19, 196 Harding, Wendy, 117, 195n11,
Edmondson, Belinda, 189n21 198–9n10
Emery, Mary Lou, 180–1n24, 188n19 Harris, Trudier, 157, 202n28
empathy see trauma Harrison, Nancy, 180n21
English literature see colonial Hart, Richard, 182n41
education Hartigan Jr, John, 193n20
Englishness, 26, 29, 63, 72, 94–5 healing, cross-cultural, 172
Erikson, Kai, 130–1, 198n7,9 Herman, Judith Lewis, 129–30, 144,
183n49, 198n3, 201n6
face/facing, 1, 7, 10, 52, 59, 111, 125, Hill Collins, Patricia, 3, 173n6,7,
126, 148 187n8, 188n9
of shame, 80 Hill, Mike, 193n20
Fanon, Frantz, 13, 119 Hirsch, Marianne, 4, 173n9,10
Farrell, Kirby, 177n67 Hoffarth-Zelloe, Monika, 198n5
Felman, Shoshana, 177n67 Holiday, Billie, 162, 203n10
feminist theory, 13, 37, 164 Hollander, John, 80, 191n35
the body in see body Holloway, Karla, 6–7, 8, 159,
class differentials, 3, 5 175n28,29,31,34, 201n12,
on mothering see mothering 202n34
race differentials, 3, 5, 14, 163 hooks, bell, 86–7, 175n30, 192n1,
racial blindness, 23, 37, 40, 62, 193n18
161, 183n54,55 Horner, Avril, 183n55
racial exclusion in, 4, 5, 11 Hull, Gloria, 202–3n2
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Index 223
Hulme, Peter, 183n52 Maude Quick, 97–8;

Hurston, Zora Neale, 118, 123, 158, mother–daughter relationships,
187n34, 195n14, 197n38,39, 75, 76, 89, 92, 93–9, 104, 106,
202n32,35 110, 111, 112; Paul, 102, 103;
hybridity, 51, 55, 56, 57, 185–6n19, Peggy, 76, 102–3, 109; racism,
186n31 87, 91–2; recollections of loss,
hybrid space, 68 98–9, 107, 109, 111–12;
recovery process, 105–11; water
identity, 66, 79–80, 153–4 imagery, 96, 105–6, 109,
and community, 73–4, 189n10 188n15; white insensitivity, 86,
and race, 100 87, 88–9, 90, 91–2, 101–2;
white literary echo, 79, 113
Jamaica, 9, 28, 39, 67, 182n36 My Brother, 94, 193n9
James, C.L.R., 13, 181n33 My Garden (Book), 95
Jefferson, Thomas, 192n7 paradise of mother, 75, 94, 190n20
Jim Crow, 119, 132, 163, 199n13 Kincheloe, Joe, 177n64
Johnson, Barbara, 150, 155, 201n14, Kirmayer, Laurence, 41, 43, 184n1–3,
202n25 185n6,8,9,11,14
Jones, Gayl, 37, 59, 82–3, 84, 191n44, Kloepfer, Deborah Kelly, 44, 185n13
192n47,52 knot as metaphor, 1–2, 4, 9, 116, 123,
Jordan, June, 1, 173n1 124–5, 139, 141, 142, 152, 153,
158, 167, 173n11
Karenga, Maulana, 15, 177n63 knots of grief, 116
Katrak, Ketu, 74, 189n12 see also metaphor
Keats, John, 73, 79 Koenen, Anne, 200n32
Kincaid, Jamaica, 72, 192–3n8 Kristeva, Julia, 204n18,19
Annie John, 75, 76
At The Bottom of the River, 75, 79 LaCapra, Dominick, 18–20, 55, 59,
Autobiography of My Mother, 75 153, 178n80–3,85–7, 180n23,
daffodils, 73, 81, 87–8, 90, 100 186n25, 187n37, 201n22–3
Lucy, 1–2, 5–6, 9–10, 20, 72–113: Lambek, Michael, 177n67, 184n60
aloe, 111–12; brother(s), 98–9, Lamming, George, 72
107, 110; call-and-response, 83, Laroche, Maximilien, 36, 37,
87–8, 90, 92, 112; Christopher 182n42–4, 183n45
Columbus, 76, 77, 108, 110; Laub, 177n67, 185n17
Dinah, 100, 101; Echo and Lazarre, Jane, 3–4, 173n8
Narcissus 78, 80–1, 82, 96, 101, Lemke, Sieglinde, 195n15
102, 107; echoes, 78, 92, 95, Lester, Cheryl, 174n24
96, 105, 106, 107, 110, 111, Leys, Ruth, 16–17, 177n69–73
113, 122; Fall from Grace, Lifton, Robert Jay, 178n84, 186n29
76–7, 90, 190; feeling, 92–3, Liggins Hill, Patricia, 191n43, 194n7
112 (see also 159 in Sula); Lincoln, C. Eric, 199n14
Hugh, 101–2; letters, 96, 97, Lipsitz, George, 101, 193n17
98, 99; Lewis, 75, 87, 100–1; Loe, Thomas, 179n4
Lucifer, 72, 110–11, 194n7; Lonsdale, Roger, 189n8,9,11
Lucy, naming of, 109–10, 111; Lonsdale, Thorunn, 189n21
Madonna imagery, 89–90; Lorde, Audre, 6, 10, 160–1, 161–2,
Mariah, 75, 76, 86, 87–9, 91–2, 174n27, 176n46, 187n1, 202n1,
95, 98, 100, 109, 111, 112; 202–3n2, 203n3–5
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224 Index
L’Ouverture, Touissant, 181n33 Middle Passage, 81–2, 105, 106, 120,

Lubiano, Wahneema, 13, 176n54 124
Lucy, see Kincaid Milton, John, 73, 74–5, 76, 110–11,
190n24,26
Mahlis, Kristen, 193n10 Paradise Lost, 72, 73, 77–8, 110,
Mani, Lata, 21, 178n92 112, 190n20,24
marooning/marronage, 9–10, 31, 32, mimicry, 13, 64–5, 81, 95, 118–19,
33, 34, 35, 40, 154, 180–1n24, 180n12, 188n13
181n30, 183n55 Möbius strip, 4
appropriative use of, 32, 34, 35, 37, Morgenstern, Naomi, 59, 187n38
41 Morrison, Andrew, 190n27
creative marronage, 9, 10, 84–5, Morrison, Toni, 6, 14, 37, 89, 114,
112 117, 120–1, 122, 128, 136, 162,
historical marronage, 9 176n61, 177n74, 192n6, 194n3,
as metaphor for white alienation, 195n10, 196n35, 198n45,
37 200n22–4,27
maroons, 9, 84 Beloved, 59, 83, 93, 119, 192n48,
leaders, 36, 182n38,39 196n29
resistance, 33–4, 36, 41, 181n30,33 Bluest Eye, 202n3
settlements, 32, 33–4, 35–6 involving the reader, 141, 164,
Martin, Jacky, 117, 195n11, 204n14
198–9n10 metaphors, use of, 6, 14, 122–3,
Matus, Jill, 149–50, 197n41, 201n13 174n24
McDowell, Deborah, 12, 72, 144, Playing in the Dark, 14, 100,
176n50, 189n1, 201n8–10, 176n58,60, 185n18, 192n3,
202n27 193n16, 196n22
McClintock, Anne, 13, 176n53, on racism, 14, 17, 19, 89, 100,
185n12 119–21, 136
McKee, Patricia, 146, 195n5, 201n11 ‘Recitatif’, 162–72, 180n18, 200n30,
melancholia, 19, 20, 26, 66, 107, 116, 203n12: belatedness, 163–4; gar
151, 153, 159, 201n15 girls, 164–5, 168, 169, 171;
metaphor, 5–6, 8, 14, 27, 99, 108, Maggie, 162, 165, 168–9,
122, 154–5, 173n11, 180n18 170–1, 172, 203n12;
for addressing trauma, 22, 122–3, mother–daughter relationships,
124, 153, 154, 197n36 162, 165–6, 167, 168–9, 170,
ambivalence of, 154 171–2, 204n17; muteness, 162,
as colonial cover-up, 34 167–8, 169, 170, 196–7n31;
and double consciousness, 123 narrative structure, 163–4;
Morrison’s ‘gift for metaphor’, silence, 164, 165, 167, 203n10
142–59, 164–5 on slavery, 93, 114
and race, 14 Sula, 1–2, 5–6, 114–59: Ajax, 146–7,
and similes, 123, 134 148; belatedness, 116, 139,
white appropriation, 31–2, 38, 152–3, 155, 159; the Bottom,
79–80, 185n12 115, 116, 117–18, 121, 124,
white metaphor, 38, 56 126, 127, 128, 130, 150, 157,
see also knot as metaphor 158; Chicken Little, 133,
Meyer, Susan, 184n57 139–41, 144, 147, 152, 156–7;
Michaels, Walter Benn, 177n73 clothing and sewing imagery,
Michie, Helena, 199–200n19 6, 132, 134–5, 139, 143, 144–8,
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Index 225
Sula – continued see also under Lucy, ‘Recitatif’, Sula

149, 152, 155–6, 200n28; and Wide Sargasso Sea
creativity as protection, 140, ambivalence of, 3, 4, 12
142–3; deaths, 115–16, 133, mothering, 2–3, 62
139–40, 141, 147–9; Eva Peace, and racism, 129
127, 129, 137–8, 144, 145, surrogate, 38, 62, 95
155–6; families, contrasting, mourning, 19–20, 66–7, 83, 95, 97,
127, 130, 198–9n10; gone 104, 112, 150–2, 158–9, 201n15
things, 122–3, 141, 142, 143, daffodil as symbol of, 90
146, 152, 153–4, 157, 158; Moya, Paula, 175n33
Hannah, 129, 138, 141, 149, Munroe, C. Lynn, 199n18
155–6, 200; Helene Wright, 7,
119, 127, 131–5; Jude Greene, Naipaul, V.S., 72, 188n13
134, 135, 136, 146, 154; Narcissus see Echo and Narcissus
laughter, 115, 139, 140; loss, Nasta, Susheila, 175n45
122–3, 141, 154, 157–8; New World, 5, 6, 32, 34, 35, 36, 77,
mother–daughter relationships, 82, 105, 111, 112
129–30, 132–5, 138–9, 140–1, Nichols, Grace, 108, 194n3
143–52, 158; narrative Newitz, Annalee, 193n20
structure, 115–16, 130, 155; Nnaemeke, Obioma, 120, 196n24–6
National Suicide Day, 125, 126, Nwankwo, Chimalum, 142, 200n1
148; nature, 116–17, 126,
195n8; Nel, 20, 119, 127, 130, obeah, 36, 62–3, 70, 96, 182n39,
132–6, 139, 140, 143, 145, 146, 183n52
148, 150–2, 153–4, 156–8; O’Connor, Teresa, 181n28
Shadrack, 123–7, 128, 131, Ogunyemi, Chikwenye Okonjo,
139–40, 147–8, 156, 157, 194–5n4
197–8n42; Sula, 126–7, 130, oppression and trauma, 17–18
134, 135, 136, 138–41, 142–7, Ovid, 80, 191n29,36–7
148–50, 152, 154, 156, 157,
158; survival, 115, 116, 117, Pajaczkowska, Claire, 186n30
120, 121, 129, 136, 138, 148, Paravisini-Gebert, Lizabeth, 190n23,
149, 152–3, 176n46; 193n12
traumatised community, 20, Parry, Benita, 61, 187n7
116–17, 118, 122, 127, 130–1; Patterson, Orlando, 112, 182n36,39,
traumatic silencing, 140, 194n10
150–2, 156–8; veiling, 6, 132, Phillips, Caryl, 103, 193n21
135, 136–7, 146; Pollock, Griselda, 193n19
vulnerabilities, 131, 135, 137, positionality, 14, 74, 181n28
138, 151; white oppression, white creole, 69
114–15, 117, 118, 119 see also whiteness and
trauma imagery, 115–16, 117, 120, self-positioning
122–4, 125, 130, 149–52, postcolonialism, postcolonial theory,
197n41 40, 184n58
trauma of racism, 17 ambivalence of, 69–70
works, 14, 176–7n61 as belatedness, 21–2, 69–70
mother-country, 9, 76, 94, 95 Price, Richard, 34, 181n30,32
mother–daughter relationships, 1, Probyn, Elspeth, 70–1, 189n23
2–3, 5, 9, 10, 171–2 projection, 57
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226 Index
proverbs as mode of resistance, 80, 42, 43, 50; dress as symbol,

112, 187n34, 191n33 44–5, 47–9, 52–3, 67–9, 119,
Pullin, Faith, 198n2 188n16; Grace Poole, 67, 68;
hair as symbol, 44–5, 46, 51,
race, 40 52, 56–9; historical setting, 26,
and betrayal, 183n52 28–30, 59, 180n11; Massacre
and body see under body (town), 39, 183; marooning, 9,
as metaphor, 14 32, 35, 40, 41; mimicry, 64–5;
and mother–daughter relationships, mother–daughter relationships,
3 44–6, 49, 52–3, 58, 62–3, 66–7,
and sex, 52–4, 55–6 68, 70; postcolonial theories,
and trauma theory, 16–17, 18, 19 69–70; race, 44, 45, 46–9, 50–4,
racism, 6–7, 46–7, 119–21, 128, 55–6, 57–8, 59, 185–6n19;
132–3, 160–1, 174n22,27, Richard Mason, 67; Rochester,
184n58 43–4, 50, 53, 54, 55–6, 58, 61,
and skin colour, 5, 8, 103–4, 65; safety, and loss of, 38, 43,
174n20 45, 46, 49–51, 53, 55, 56, 68;
defiance responses, 7, 74, 80–2, 85, Sandi, 58, 68, 185–6n19,
112, 190, 200n25 188n17; shame, 49, 50; slavery,
internalisation of, 120, 131, 9, 30, 31, 34, 37, 50–1; Tia,
198–9n10 46–7, 49, 51, 69, 119, 179n10,
learned, 165–6 185n18; trauma, 19–20, 27, 28,
and motherhood, 129 30, 33, 44–53, 59, 66–8, 70–1;
trauma of, 7, 17, 19, 22, 42, 119, zombification, 31, 32, 35, 36–7,
120–1, 161 56, 58
Raiskin, Judith, 9, 175n40, 180n24 Rice, Alan, 151, 201n16,17
Ramchand, Kenneth, 28, 179n7 Richardson, 182n40
Reddy, Maureen, 115, 195n7 Robinson, Alonford James, 199n13
Rhys, Jean, 27–8, 33, 60, 180n21 Rody, Caroline, 187n6, 188n10
desire to be black, 33, 64 Roman, Leslie, 23, 176n57, 179n98
poem about, 25–7 Root, Maria, 17
Smile Please, 64, 188n12 Ruas, Charles, 195n8
Voyage in the Dark, 64, 188n11 Ruddick, Sara, 3, 173n3
Wide Sargasso Sea, 1–2, 5–6, 9–10,
25–71, 122, 159, 179n10: Said, Edward W., 31, 75, 180n18,19,
ambivalence, 27–8, 42, 62, 64; 190n21
Annette, death of, 66–7; Samuels, Wilfred, 198n43
Annette’s rejection of Sandoval, Chela, 175n33
Antoinette, 43, 45–6, 47–8, 49, Savory, Elaine, 39–40, 183n53–4
50, 51, 52; Antoinette, 27–8, Senior, Olive, 70
35, 36–7, 39, 43, 44, 70, 119, Seshadri-Crooks, Kalpana, 164, 165,
185n18, 188n17,19; Antoinette 203–4n13, 204n15
in attic, 44, 56, 66–9; Biblical shame, 33, 48, 49, 50, 66, 76–7, 80,
imagery and Christianity, 42, 107–8, 109, 110, 111, 119, 132–5,
46, 69, 70; Christophine, 29, 171, 190n27, 199n17
31, 34–5, 38–9, 44, 46, 54, 56, Showalter, Elaine, 197n42
60–5, 68, 69, 183n51, 186n21; silence, 160–2, 163, 167–8, 197–8n42
cultural appropriation, 31–2, psychic, 161, 171
35, 37, 38–9, 69; dissociation, racialised, 89, 161, 162, 167–8
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Index 227
see also silence in ‘Recitatif’ and trauma

traumatic silencing in Sula absence, 178n81
Simmons, Diane, 189n3, 193n11 belatedness, 20–1, 106, 111, 116,
Simons, Margaret, 193–4n23 123, 139, 152–3, 155, 159, 163,
slavery, 5, 6, 82, 93, 105, 108, 114, 171, 196–7n31; poetics of,
182n36, 186n24,29, 192n7 152–9
abolition of, 28, 180n11 betrayal, 144, 146
and Christianity, 82, 112, 194n7, community, 18, 20, 82, 83, 114–15,
199n14 116–17, 198n7
narratives of, 93, 119–20, 136 cumulative, 67, 185n14
resistance to, 33–4, 35–6, 82, 112, dissociation, 41, 42–3, 51, 167,
181n30, 33, 182n39, 194n7, 184n1, 185n14
199n13, 200n25 dreams, 49, 106, 149, 168,
songs of, 82, 110, 151 185n15,16
as theft of body, 79, 174n22 empathy, 18, 37, 50, 66, 180n23,
trauma legacy, 5, 9, 18, 203n8 185n17
see also maroons founding trauma, 18, 19, 178n82
Sledge, William Hurt, 197n36 history, 20, 21, 26, 27, 29, 40, 41,
Smith, Amanda, 195n12 69, 70, 106, 122, 178n81
Smith, Valerie, 7–8, 23, 161, 175n32, insidious, 17–18
178n97, 203n9 listener/listening, 20, 21–2, 41–2,
Smitherman, Geneva, 13, 117–18, 50, 66–7, 70, 185n17
123, 158, 176n51, 191n33, and literature, 22–3
195n13, 196n27, 197n37, loss, 178n81
199n15, 200n25, 201n18, loss of control, 130–1
202n29,30 and metaphor, 71, 122, 153, 154–5,
Spillers, Hortense, 12, 79–80, 90, 130, 171, 197n36, 201n24
142, 174n22, 176n50, 181n26, psychic, 18, 120, 121, 122, 123–6
191n31–4, 192n4, 198n4, of racism see racism
199n11, 201n2–3 recovery from, 153–4, 158–9,
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 4, 21–2, 183n49
41–2, 74, 78, 173n11, 174n20, reliving of, 67–8, 121, 122, 149–50,
178n93–4, 180n22, 184n4, 156–7
186n24, 187n2,5, 190n14,28 repression of, 41, 42–3, 144, 152,
Spurr, David, 34, 181n34, 182n35, 156, 161, 167, 168, 185n14
185n12 restoration of safety, 38, 59,
Sternlicht, Sanford, 28, 179n8 183n49
Stevens, Paul, 190n24 testimony, 16, 21, 22–3, 40, 41,
Sula see Morrison 153, 171, 177, 183n50
Suleiman, Susan Rubin, 4, 173n13 shell shock, 124, 197–8n42
Sundquist, Eric, 119, 196n17,18 survival, 10, 121, 122, 137, 144,
200n25
Tate, Claudia, 204n14 trauma theory, 16–22, 121, 185n14,
Taylor, Carole Anne, 202n31 198n7
Terborg-Penn, Rosalyn, 175n41 and postcolonialism, 21–2, 42
Thomas, Elean, 70 race in see under race
Thomas, Sue, 183n52 whiteness of, 15, 17, 40, 123
Tiffin, Helen, 189n4,6 traumatic memory, 98, 107, 137–8,
Todorov, Tzvetan, 108, 194n5–6 152–3, 168, 171, 200n26
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228 Index
turning it out see defiance responses hierarchies of, 54, 59, 63, 102–3,
under racism 193n20
imperial, 25–6, 28, 29, 54, 60, 68,
unveiling, 6, 136–7, 146 69
identification of, 23
veiling, see under Sula invisibility of, 22
victim position of liberal humanism, 75, 76, 86–7,
African-Caribbeans, 154 89, 102–3, 167
African-American community, loss of, 28
116–17, 184n5, see also as norm, 3, 5, 7–8, 14, 16, 32, 89,
traumatised community under 100, 103
Sula and power, 92, 167
vicarious, 18, 31, 33, 35, 37–8, 40, and self-positioning, 4, 8, 23
59, 60, 66 and wealth, 28, 179n10
Viswanathan, Gauri, 74, 190n15 white-on-white racism, 9
Vorda, Alan, 193n14 white skin privilege, 3, 23, 89, 91,
102, 193n17
Wachtel, Eleanor, 190n18 whiteness studies, 14, 15–16
Waites, Elizabeth, 185n10, 188n14 Wide Sargasso Sea see Rhys
Walcott, Derek, 72, 105, 112, Wilkerson, Abby, 175n33
179n1–2, 188n13, 194n1,8 Williams, Patricia, 8, 175n35–8,
‘Jean Rhys’, 25–7 184n59
Walcott, Rinaldo, 171, 204n20–2 Williams, Sherley Anne, 23, 178n96
Walker, Alice, 37, 142–3, 144, 201n4 Willis, Susan, 198n6
Wall, Cheryl, 14, 82, 176n55, Wing, Betsy, 9, 175n42
192n46 Witzum, Eliezer, 201n24
Wallace, Michelle, 11, 176n47 women-of-color, voices of
Ware, Vron, 175n45 appropriation of, 8, 37–8
Washington, Mary Helen, 129, 198n1 exclusion of, 11, 14, 23
Weems, Renita, 143, 144, 201n5 marginalisation of, 37, 161
West, Cornel, 82, 105, 191n41, Wordsworth, William, 73, 79, 88,
194n2 192n5
white creole society, 9, 25–6, 68, 69, wound/wounding, 8, 11, 96
154, 179n2,10, 182n36 psychic wounding, 45–6, 184n5
abandonment, 28, 29, 34, 53 wounded space, 70
cultural entrapment, 26 working through, 19, 20, 21
as marooned, 31–3, 34, 48 Wyndham, Francis, 187n3
as victims, 34, 35, 59, 60
white control of history, 16, 114, 119, Xie, Shaobo, 184n58
124
white gaze, 6–7, 119 Young Allan, 202n26
whiteness, 4, 5, 8, 13, 89–90 Young, Lola, 186n30
ambivalence of, 13 Young, Robert, 21, 55–6, 178n91,
in America, 100, 102–3, 193n17 186n26–8
blindness of, 91, 99, 101–3,
193n16–18, 193–4n23 zombification, 31, 32, 35, 36–7, 56,
as cause of trauma, 16, 22, 119–20 58, 180n24, 182n42, 183n45
dominating, 99–100, 142, 161 as psychic numbing, 37, 186n29

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Whiteness and Trauma

The Mother–Daughter Knot in the Fiction of

Whiteness and Trauma

Whiteness and Trauma

© Victoria Burrows, 2004

For my mother, Fan;

Introduction: Unravelling the Knot 1

1 ‘The White Hush Between Two Sentences’:

2 Keeping History Safe 41

3 ‘Caught between Ghosts of Whiteness’: The Other Side

4 Lucy: Jamaica Kincaid’s Postcolonial Echo 72

5 The Search for a Voice 86

6 ‘The Sea Is History’ 105

7 ‘Knots of Death’: Toni Morrison’s Sula 114

8 Ambivalent Maternal Inheritances 129

9 The ‘Gift for Metaphor’ 142

Conclusion: A Meditation on Silence 160

I wish to thank my colleagues in the Department of English, Commu-

Introduction: Unravelling the Knot

I Laying out the strands

I open by asking my readers to imagine a densely threaded knot, one

2 Whiteness and Trauma

Morrison’s Sula. These novels provide the literary grounding for my

The simple act of tying a knot is an adventure in unlimited space. A

of identities, but also aggression, ambivalence and even hate. As Sara

4 Whiteness and Trauma

Knot8 and Marianne Hirsch’s The Mother/Daughter Plot.9 However, while

example of the sort of white feminist exclusion that I aim to disavow.

The more or less permanent etching of even the civilized body by

Sara Ahmed, commenting on this paragraph, contends that Grosz intro-

6 Whiteness and Trauma

trauma imposed by racism and sexism often materialises as a ‘disﬁgur-

As varied as our stories are, it seems that at some point African

As I understand it, ‘turning it out’ means speaking out or answering

8 Whiteness and Trauma

black womanhood,32 and there is ample evidence of white feminists

I sit at my desk, I am writing this lecture. I reach for a little bottle of

Williams gave ﬁve lectures on the topic of racism, concentrating on

II The mother–daughter dyad, ambivalence and whiteness

[T]he racially fractured mother–child relationship is the site at

Each of the three novels delineates a mother–daughter relationship or

10 Whiteness and Trauma

My mother taught me to survive from a very early age by her own

I have brought these three texts together, one by a white author

mother–daughter relationships, in order to explicate the way history

12 Whiteness and Trauma

disrupt apparently mutually exclusive polar opposites that idealise ﬁxity

socialised ambivalence to which I shall refer later, as it is in Geneva

14 Whiteness and Trauma

Race has become metaphorical – a way of referring to and disguising

Morrison is also a central ﬁgure in the instigation of whiteness studies

The point of whiteness studies should be to ﬁght racial prejudice and

16 Whiteness and Trauma

privilege has to be addressed.64 Barbara Flagg maintains that, ‘[a]ny

III Trauma and the power of the literary text