For a novel whose entire plot revolves around the idea that "we wear the mask," that nobody truly sees anyone other than themselves, we sure see a lot of one-dimensional characters that serve one symbolic purpose and leave. To an extent, you can't have a book with one personality and one overly complex plotline-- you have to have simpler plots thrown in. I chose to discuss a few black characters (although there are plenty of quirky, one-off white characters too: think Emerson Jr., Norton, or Sybil) Do we see further into these characters' lives with their stories, or just see further proof of how invisible they really are, even to our invisibility-conscious narrator?
The first is Trueblood. What was up with that?? Yes, he was an example of a bad guy to show to Norton. But why did he get 15 pages to himself to tell a seemingly non-sequitur, kind of squicky story when a more concise example could have sufficed? Perhaps the answer is that it anything shorter couldn't have sufficed, and his long story was a testament to just how badly the narrator screwed up (plus possibly a reason for Norton to be so lightheaded, furthering the plot.) A question nobody asks: Is Trueblood invisible? It's complicated. He occasionally sings at the college, where he is widely disliked for his racial self-caricature. The college hotshots know of the people in the slums ironically next to the college, but choose to be blind to them (and keep the donors blind to them as well.)
Rather than talk about the Vet (who gets plenty of screen-time in critical review) I'll discuss the more one-dimensional characters in the bar scene-- Supercargo, Halley, and Edna. To recap: Supercargo is the big bodyguard-type guy who gets shoved down in defiance of white control over them: "He's the white folks' man!" (84). Halley (and Barrelhouse, in a later scene on p. 489 [and maybe earlier-- can anyone find it?]) is the stereotypical peacekeeping barkeep who just wants everyone to settle down and spend their money on beer instead of fighting. Edna is one of the only named girls at the Golden Day, who calls Norton a "little white baby" and who "ain't never been to no Chicago" (87, 88). They each play a role in that scene; a good barfight would be incomplete without rousing characters on both sides. But the narrator never seems to think critically about their personalities, and never convinces us to do so either. This is, to be fair, early in his ideological shift, when he isn't thinking about invisibility himself.
The last "character as simple symbol" I'll talk about is Brother Clifton. There's no explanation, no understanding of the turmoil that sent him into selling Sambo dolls. He is the trendy youth pastor of Harlem until the narrator leaves and he goes off the deep end. The conclusion to be drawn is that the narrator was the only thing keeping Harlem together, and Clifton is justified to be used as a rallying cry. But he remains one-dimensional and unexplained, even as the narrator is understanding invisibility himself. Really, for all his introspection the narrator never even attempts to delve into the minds of other people. I suppose that's not the point of the book.
Can you think of more characters that have more personality than screen time? Maybe Emma, or Westrum, or the evicted couple (who clearly have a full life which is used by the narrator as a general symbol), or the white guy who drunkenly sings gospel, or the woman who apologizes for him later. There are plenty in the book, all deserving their own explication. What individual and group effect do all these side characters have on the evolution of the narrator?
Bonus not-quite-worth-a-blog-post idea: Isn't it weird that the narrator gets electrocuted twice in his life, both times after significant injury? It seems like a parallel but I don't know of what.
September 28, 2018
September 14, 2018
Who's Taking Grandpa's Advice?
The narrator's grandfather's "curse" in Invisible Man permeates the book. It represents the shift in the narrator's personality, the "look under the surface" motif, and something to compare every character's mindset to. Here it is, in its entirety.
"Son, after I'm gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you but our life is a war and i have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy's country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion's mouth. I want you to overcome 'em with yeses, undermine 'em with grins, agree 'em to death and destruction, let 'em swoller you tell they vomit or bust wide open. ...Learn it to the younguns"(page 16).
Most of the time the narrator has referenced this so far, he's confused. "he had spoken of his meekness as a dangerous activity" (16). He has doubts about it as a kid-- "When I was praised for my conduct I felt a guilt that in some way I was doing something that was really against the wishes of the white folks" (17). He really does want to do the right thing, but either option of the "right thing" seemed bad. So the narrator is complicated, and I'm sure character development will kick in and we'll understand better what his opinion is going to end up being. What I want to look at is how the other side characters (specifically Bledsoe and the Vet) in Invisible Man follow Grandpa's advice, and what that says.
Bledsoe is a weird one. If true rebellion is to "overcome 'em with yeses," Bledsoe's a firebrand. "I's big and black and I say 'Yes, suh" as loudly as any burrhead when it's convenient, but I'm still the king down here," he says. Isn't that, in stronger terms, what Grandpa was talking about? Say "yes" when it's convenient to gain power with white people, but believe what you believe. But Bledsoe is an antagonistic character-- why does he follow Grandpa's advice better than the narrator? Perhaps he's the example of Grandpa's advice gone too far, or the dangers of taking Grandpa's advice without humor. I think humor is a crucial difference between Grandpa's rhetoric and Bledsoe's-- Bled vents with anger and impugnment instead of laughing it off.
The vet, in comparison, doesn't follow Grandpa's advice at all! He's an influential guy on our narrator, but not once does he try to overcome anybody with yeses nor put his head anywhere near a lion's mouth. He's tried that, and it's not worth it. Those are the "fundamentals which I should never have forgotten": that black people in the south are forced to follow Grandpa's advice if they want to do anything with their lives. He chooses to not do anything with his life, and be his own person.
Maybe that's the answer: Ellison isn't saying that Grandpa's advice is 100% what everyone should always do. It depends on what you want, power or happiness. The advice leads to power, as Bledsoe attests to. It may or may not lead to happiness. That's the conclusion I hope the narrator arrives at as well.
"Son, after I'm gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you but our life is a war and i have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy's country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion's mouth. I want you to overcome 'em with yeses, undermine 'em with grins, agree 'em to death and destruction, let 'em swoller you tell they vomit or bust wide open. ...Learn it to the younguns"(page 16).
Most of the time the narrator has referenced this so far, he's confused. "he had spoken of his meekness as a dangerous activity" (16). He has doubts about it as a kid-- "When I was praised for my conduct I felt a guilt that in some way I was doing something that was really against the wishes of the white folks" (17). He really does want to do the right thing, but either option of the "right thing" seemed bad. So the narrator is complicated, and I'm sure character development will kick in and we'll understand better what his opinion is going to end up being. What I want to look at is how the other side characters (specifically Bledsoe and the Vet) in Invisible Man follow Grandpa's advice, and what that says.
Bledsoe is a weird one. If true rebellion is to "overcome 'em with yeses," Bledsoe's a firebrand. "I's big and black and I say 'Yes, suh" as loudly as any burrhead when it's convenient, but I'm still the king down here," he says. Isn't that, in stronger terms, what Grandpa was talking about? Say "yes" when it's convenient to gain power with white people, but believe what you believe. But Bledsoe is an antagonistic character-- why does he follow Grandpa's advice better than the narrator? Perhaps he's the example of Grandpa's advice gone too far, or the dangers of taking Grandpa's advice without humor. I think humor is a crucial difference between Grandpa's rhetoric and Bledsoe's-- Bled vents with anger and impugnment instead of laughing it off.
The vet, in comparison, doesn't follow Grandpa's advice at all! He's an influential guy on our narrator, but not once does he try to overcome anybody with yeses nor put his head anywhere near a lion's mouth. He's tried that, and it's not worth it. Those are the "fundamentals which I should never have forgotten": that black people in the south are forced to follow Grandpa's advice if they want to do anything with their lives. He chooses to not do anything with his life, and be his own person.
Maybe that's the answer: Ellison isn't saying that Grandpa's advice is 100% what everyone should always do. It depends on what you want, power or happiness. The advice leads to power, as Bledsoe attests to. It may or may not lead to happiness. That's the conclusion I hope the narrator arrives at as well.
August 30, 2018
I'm A Mary
...and I don't know how to feel about it.
On the one hand, Marys are good! Better than Mr. Daltons, or especially Brittens or Buckleys, right? (That is, better to be a radical who wants equality than to 1) give to the black community nominally and/or hypocritically or 2) actively be racist, discriminatory, and against black "progress" (Invisible Man has made me rethink the meaning of that word))
However, being a Mary, at least to a Bigger, is clearly not the safest course of action. Her willingness to sit in the front seat as an equal, or ask him about his life, or let him carry her like a drunken, potentially incriminating ragdoll, all have the opposite of their intended effect. Mary makes Bigger uncomfortable in a deep sense, and her defiance of societal norms is not refreshing to him but a jarring what the hell are you doing sort of social limbo. It's that exact unidentifiable hate that makes Bigger come to terms a little easier with her death, and also go from "accidental death" to "murder" as fast as he does.
Some of my Mary-like impulses (from, among other things, growing up a privileged, white liberal woman in a moderately wealthy family) made me frustrated with Bigger as a character. "He can't see the good in anybody!" I wrote furiously in my notes. "I hate that about him!" The naturalist point of the novel is that I shouldn't hate Bigger for that-- I should hate the circumstances that brought that hate about: the institutionalized racism in housing, jobs, movies, and all the other things Bigger has been affected and afflicted by his whole life. Mary (and Marys like her) are just cut off from those things and just don't see them. As Bigger says, they're "blind."
I have a complicated relationship with Mary. I believe that in general, she's a good person. I imagine she gets along quite well with white people speaking the way she does, and with certain African-Americans willing to entertain her nonsense long enough to see that she really is trying to be nice. She's sort of like Effie Trinket, if you've ever read The Hunger Games. (That's the prissy, airheaded representative from the rich, dominating Capitol whose job is to lead the two main characters to a televised battle to the death.) She's insufferable at first, but given enough time to understand the gravity of the situation that she's never had to face, she becomes a little more sympathetic a few books into the series.
The obvious next step is thinking about how not to be a Mary, if/since being a Mary is that undesirable. (There's a perpetuation here that Leslie informed me of: In my worry to not be a Mary I'm becoming...more of a Mary. Sigh.) Since I've never dealt with Marys as a black person, I might look at the analogy of Effie. In the Hunger Games, there's really no good way you'd want anyone to treat you when they're leading you to the slaughter. Sympathy seems forced and stark optimism is just repulsive. Ignorance would be alienating, but at least you would know what to do with her.
I really have no good way to resolve this question. Partly it's not my question to answer, and partly everyone likes to be treated differently. Maybe someone would enjoy being around Mary. Maybe the narrator from Invisible Man (as he is in the first few chapters) might admire her. It's the difference between the Booker T Washingtons and the DuBoises of the world, the MLKS and the Malcolm X's: Is a white person's respect worth having? Is collaboration the key, or separatism?
I would love to be refuted in the comments. This is an issue I am far from authoritative on, and I would hate to be a Mary.
On the one hand, Marys are good! Better than Mr. Daltons, or especially Brittens or Buckleys, right? (That is, better to be a radical who wants equality than to 1) give to the black community nominally and/or hypocritically or 2) actively be racist, discriminatory, and against black "progress" (Invisible Man has made me rethink the meaning of that word))
However, being a Mary, at least to a Bigger, is clearly not the safest course of action. Her willingness to sit in the front seat as an equal, or ask him about his life, or let him carry her like a drunken, potentially incriminating ragdoll, all have the opposite of their intended effect. Mary makes Bigger uncomfortable in a deep sense, and her defiance of societal norms is not refreshing to him but a jarring what the hell are you doing sort of social limbo. It's that exact unidentifiable hate that makes Bigger come to terms a little easier with her death, and also go from "accidental death" to "murder" as fast as he does.
Some of my Mary-like impulses (from, among other things, growing up a privileged, white liberal woman in a moderately wealthy family) made me frustrated with Bigger as a character. "He can't see the good in anybody!" I wrote furiously in my notes. "I hate that about him!" The naturalist point of the novel is that I shouldn't hate Bigger for that-- I should hate the circumstances that brought that hate about: the institutionalized racism in housing, jobs, movies, and all the other things Bigger has been affected and afflicted by his whole life. Mary (and Marys like her) are just cut off from those things and just don't see them. As Bigger says, they're "blind."
I have a complicated relationship with Mary. I believe that in general, she's a good person. I imagine she gets along quite well with white people speaking the way she does, and with certain African-Americans willing to entertain her nonsense long enough to see that she really is trying to be nice. She's sort of like Effie Trinket, if you've ever read The Hunger Games. (That's the prissy, airheaded representative from the rich, dominating Capitol whose job is to lead the two main characters to a televised battle to the death.) She's insufferable at first, but given enough time to understand the gravity of the situation that she's never had to face, she becomes a little more sympathetic a few books into the series.
The obvious next step is thinking about how not to be a Mary, if/since being a Mary is that undesirable. (There's a perpetuation here that Leslie informed me of: In my worry to not be a Mary I'm becoming...more of a Mary. Sigh.) Since I've never dealt with Marys as a black person, I might look at the analogy of Effie. In the Hunger Games, there's really no good way you'd want anyone to treat you when they're leading you to the slaughter. Sympathy seems forced and stark optimism is just repulsive. Ignorance would be alienating, but at least you would know what to do with her.
I really have no good way to resolve this question. Partly it's not my question to answer, and partly everyone likes to be treated differently. Maybe someone would enjoy being around Mary. Maybe the narrator from Invisible Man (as he is in the first few chapters) might admire her. It's the difference between the Booker T Washingtons and the DuBoises of the world, the MLKS and the Malcolm X's: Is a white person's respect worth having? Is collaboration the key, or separatism?
I would love to be refuted in the comments. This is an issue I am far from authoritative on, and I would hate to be a Mary.
August 27, 2018
This is a New Blog
May this semester be filled with complicated discussions and extrapolous blog posts.
May 14, 2018
Libra Is A Conspiracy Theory
Libra is one big conspiracy theory. Yes, it's based in facts. But so are other theories. Yes, it's well-written. But so are (some) other theories. What makes Delillo more able to compose a narrative than Nicholas Branch? How can we trust a guy who's telling us we can't trust any narrative, especially one given to you by someone in power (aka, an author)?
I've struggled with this throughout Libra. We're told that 1) the Warren commission is widely distrusted, and 2) There's a strong possibility that fake evidence was planted by who-knows-who. If the Historic Diary wasn't written by Lee, why does Delillo depict him writing it? If Lee's mother later says (effectively) "What if he was replaced by someone else in Russia" why don't we laugh at her, because we were reading the book and we know he wasn't replaced? Libra occupies that space in between History and fiction that we've been talking about all semester, but it leads to some plot holes and cognitive dissonance in the story. We're told that we can't be sure of a narrative, yet we're fed a narrative (with filled-in characters like Win and Raymo) that is plausible, but no more proven than any other.
Since I want to make this a nice wrap-up blog, I'll connect this idea to a few other books we've read. What makes any of them any better than a series of tame, slightly-less-important conspiracy theories?
Slaughterhouse-Five: Sci-fi is taking a big conspiracy theory (there's this dude who can travel in time) and applying it to a reasonably familiar setting (WWII). Within that world, everything makes sense. But I somehow can't imagine someone getting a cult following about a poor, confused, undocumented guy who maybe traveled in time. Part of what makes Libra so interesting is that it's about mostly real people (and stand-ins for real people).
Ragtime: The little "bubbles in time" and slots where something could have concievably happened? Those are where conspiracy theories are born. Maybe Houdini crashed his car once. Not a very juicy conspiracy, but a plausible one. But some things (like the two Harries in identically named, but different prisons) are totally fudging the details without telling the reader, making it not even a fictionalized history but a close-to-history. Is there anything in Libra that's actually contrary to facts, not just made up? Let me know in the comments, because I can't think of any.
As others have said, this has been a fun class, if a lot of work. I'm excited to see where my meta, #postmodern reading ability will take me next.
I've struggled with this throughout Libra. We're told that 1) the Warren commission is widely distrusted, and 2) There's a strong possibility that fake evidence was planted by who-knows-who. If the Historic Diary wasn't written by Lee, why does Delillo depict him writing it? If Lee's mother later says (effectively) "What if he was replaced by someone else in Russia" why don't we laugh at her, because we were reading the book and we know he wasn't replaced? Libra occupies that space in between History and fiction that we've been talking about all semester, but it leads to some plot holes and cognitive dissonance in the story. We're told that we can't be sure of a narrative, yet we're fed a narrative (with filled-in characters like Win and Raymo) that is plausible, but no more proven than any other.
Since I want to make this a nice wrap-up blog, I'll connect this idea to a few other books we've read. What makes any of them any better than a series of tame, slightly-less-important conspiracy theories?
Slaughterhouse-Five: Sci-fi is taking a big conspiracy theory (there's this dude who can travel in time) and applying it to a reasonably familiar setting (WWII). Within that world, everything makes sense. But I somehow can't imagine someone getting a cult following about a poor, confused, undocumented guy who maybe traveled in time. Part of what makes Libra so interesting is that it's about mostly real people (and stand-ins for real people).
Ragtime: The little "bubbles in time" and slots where something could have concievably happened? Those are where conspiracy theories are born. Maybe Houdini crashed his car once. Not a very juicy conspiracy, but a plausible one. But some things (like the two Harries in identically named, but different prisons) are totally fudging the details without telling the reader, making it not even a fictionalized history but a close-to-history. Is there anything in Libra that's actually contrary to facts, not just made up? Let me know in the comments, because I can't think of any.
As others have said, this has been a fun class, if a lot of work. I'm excited to see where my meta, #postmodern reading ability will take me next.
April 22, 2018
Annal History: Why Libra proves it's hard to pull off
Remember way back at the beginning of the semester, when we talked about Postmodern history? We thought about the different ways to display it: incomplete annals, complete omniscient annals, large-scale narratives implying smaller themes, "textbook" "unbiased" storytelling, and drawing connections that might not have been there (as Doctorow did in Ragtime.) At this point we could add a few more ways to tell History As Fiction™: Mumbo Jumbo told history by making up stuff based off of real events in order to paint a picture of history showing the themes he wanted to highlight. Slaughterhouse Five threw in elements of science fiction to illustrate the effects of WWII, and made a whole alien race that challenged the typical narrative of war stories (and, well, human life in general.) Kindred told history as an engaging, plot-driven story while keeping everything "historically true" in the world of the book. And now we find Libra telling two stories of different types and 'fictionalities.'
Style-wise, the location-based Lee story in Libra is closer to the Kindred or Ragtime way of doing things. The people in the story are almost all real (more so than in Ragtime), and the stories and motivations of the real characters are fictionalized because they weren't recorded. However, as noted in class, the Lee storyline is based more on facts than the FBI storyline, which concerns real events but many fictionalized people (perhaps like Kindred or Slaugherhouse Five).
But I want to focus on annal history: In an Annal such as the Annals of Saint Gall ("Charles fought against the Saxons," etc) we're given very little information. A more complete "list of events" might include births, deaths, and marriages, but even that is leaving out details. Historians would love to have that record, but it wouldn't create a narrative for the town (which is, debatably, the point of history.) So then you ask your deity of choice for an annal describing the feuds of the town, such as "Geoffrey beat up Paul for kicking Duke Gottfried's elderly cat." That gives a reason, but is not the whole story. I did a blog post on this messy topic a while ago, but the basic gist is you can't describe one event in history without connecting it to a thousand other previous events-- related to the Butterfly effect.
Part of the reason Nicholas Branch (and everyone who has tried to unravel the JFK assassination mystery) has trouble is that there is too much information. Hundreds of pages of documents (read: a detailed, researched annal of the locations, descriptions, thoughts, actions, and backstories of all the people in Dallas that day) don't help if you have a) no way to synthesize them and b) possibly not all the information. This, of course, is straight out of that postmodern history discussion: An omnipotent-annal history could work, but practically is impossible; the proliferation of conspiracy theories prove that more information doesn't necessarily mean a more definite answer, especially when theories suggest that information was falsely planted.
TL;DR The Warren Report and other clouds of information surrounding the JFK assassination are a bunch of facts (assuming they're true, not planted, somehow don't contradict). With all the conspiracy theories surrounding the "facts," it doesn't make a good case for "more information = more accuracy."
Style-wise, the location-based Lee story in Libra is closer to the Kindred or Ragtime way of doing things. The people in the story are almost all real (more so than in Ragtime), and the stories and motivations of the real characters are fictionalized because they weren't recorded. However, as noted in class, the Lee storyline is based more on facts than the FBI storyline, which concerns real events but many fictionalized people (perhaps like Kindred or Slaugherhouse Five).
But I want to focus on annal history: In an Annal such as the Annals of Saint Gall ("Charles fought against the Saxons," etc) we're given very little information. A more complete "list of events" might include births, deaths, and marriages, but even that is leaving out details. Historians would love to have that record, but it wouldn't create a narrative for the town (which is, debatably, the point of history.) So then you ask your deity of choice for an annal describing the feuds of the town, such as "Geoffrey beat up Paul for kicking Duke Gottfried's elderly cat." That gives a reason, but is not the whole story. I did a blog post on this messy topic a while ago, but the basic gist is you can't describe one event in history without connecting it to a thousand other previous events-- related to the Butterfly effect.
Part of the reason Nicholas Branch (and everyone who has tried to unravel the JFK assassination mystery) has trouble is that there is too much information. Hundreds of pages of documents (read: a detailed, researched annal of the locations, descriptions, thoughts, actions, and backstories of all the people in Dallas that day) don't help if you have a) no way to synthesize them and b) possibly not all the information. This, of course, is straight out of that postmodern history discussion: An omnipotent-annal history could work, but practically is impossible; the proliferation of conspiracy theories prove that more information doesn't necessarily mean a more definite answer, especially when theories suggest that information was falsely planted.
TL;DR The Warren Report and other clouds of information surrounding the JFK assassination are a bunch of facts (assuming they're true, not planted, somehow don't contradict). With all the conspiracy theories surrounding the "facts," it doesn't make a good case for "more information = more accuracy."
April 6, 2018
Magic Tree House: The Other Time-Traveling Observers
I realized this week that I had seen the time-traveling dynamics of Kindred before. In Magic Tree House, wholesome white 8-and-7-year-old protagonists Jack and Annie are summoned to their tree house when there's a mission to be done. They frequently get to their new time period just in time to save someone, and only go back once their "mission" is finished (not when they're in mortal danger, like Dana.) They are in a similar situation to Dana, although 1) they sometimes have other missions than saving someone and 2) they never go to the same place more than once for a mission.
As for being observers, their position is complicated. First off, they can take things with them both ways when they go on treehouse trips. Second, unlike Dana they can do some magic (to help Da Vinci's machine fly, inspire The Magic Flute, etc.) Third: some of the historical missions have a basis in history but little effect on it; they meet real historical figures mixed with convenient fictitious ones. I seem to remember Jack (the one who researches everything before and after they go, in order to sneakily teach readers something) finding a poem/document from someone they met that describes the two kids, meaning they made a mark on the historical record. But as we discussed in class, metaphorically it doesn't really matter. Fourth, it's canonical that their clothes and language change in order to fit in wherever they are, and we can see that in the cover illustrations; however, we don't see their race change, and it might take more than wardrobe for two white kids to fit in when they go to, say, Qin dynasty China. (to be fair, changing race would probably be more problematic.) They do their mission and leave, so individual missions don't have as much effect on them as Dana's. Finally, in keeping with the whole "3rd-5th grade reading level" thing the kids don't see anything remotely traumatizing like the race violence Dana sees and experiences.
I drudged through the Wikipedia page to see if Jack and Annie ever actually did go to the reconstruction/antebellum South. I suspected they didn't, and I was right. They approach the time period when they go out west (like Kevin wanted to, neatly avoiding the nasty stuff going down in the South. They meet a nice white cowboy named Slim, and no black people if I remember correctly!) They go to the Civil War, and the only mentioned characters they interact with are white. (If I had the book I would do further research. Maybe to be continued on my next post?) Many of the American-history stories are pretty okay even though parts are definitely sugarcoated and simplified for younger readers. Thanksgiving on Thursday gives a pretty realistic retelling of the first Thanksgiving, with minimal Pilgrim-Wampanoag buddy-buddyism. Blizzard of the Blue Moon, set during the Depression, doesn't focus on the depression as much as finding a unicorn. Yes, really.
It turns out, someone already wrote their Educational Studies thesis on the historical inaccuracies of the books, and why it's almost as important to give kids a gut-level link to those time periods through someone their own age. I personally find the results a little off, seeing as the author of the thesis "collected a total of 86 facts" from 28 books (seems a little small, for the supposedly historically immersive books) and at least partially verified 62 of those facts only through the World Book Encyclopedia 2010.
But back to Kindred: what if Magic Tree House decided to take Jack and Annie on an eye-opening, probably traumatizing romp to the Weylin plantation? Well, seeing as the two didn't hang with the slaves when they went to Pompeii (Book #13) or the civil war (Book #21), or with the lowest class at any time of racial/class divide, they would probably find themselves living with the Weylins, become friends with Rufus and spend a lot of time inside the house.They might meet Nigel or Alice in a nice, pleasant way. If Mary Pope Osborne were feeling rated-R Jack and Annie might watch a whipping or walk through the slave quarters, or maybe see them working in the field.
Now, I totally haven't done as much research as Octavia Butler on what would really happen. But we see in the book that Kevin is (obviously) treated differently than Dana is on the plantation, and sees different aspects while completely missing others. We can only assume that Annie and Jack would be the same, and would, like Kevin, get a warped view because of it.
This book would never happen, but there are some interesting ties to stuff we've seen before: Mumbo-Jumbo-Atonistically declaring a certain narrative "the truth," and putting characters in that narrative to teach kids "History," or Kindred's putting historians literally into the story to create more visceral truth, and how when you're actually participating in the story, you can't just be an observer, black or white.
As for being observers, their position is complicated. First off, they can take things with them both ways when they go on treehouse trips. Second, unlike Dana they can do some magic (to help Da Vinci's machine fly, inspire The Magic Flute, etc.) Third: some of the historical missions have a basis in history but little effect on it; they meet real historical figures mixed with convenient fictitious ones. I seem to remember Jack (the one who researches everything before and after they go, in order to sneakily teach readers something) finding a poem/document from someone they met that describes the two kids, meaning they made a mark on the historical record. But as we discussed in class, metaphorically it doesn't really matter. Fourth, it's canonical that their clothes and language change in order to fit in wherever they are, and we can see that in the cover illustrations; however, we don't see their race change, and it might take more than wardrobe for two white kids to fit in when they go to, say, Qin dynasty China. (to be fair, changing race would probably be more problematic.) They do their mission and leave, so individual missions don't have as much effect on them as Dana's. Finally, in keeping with the whole "3rd-5th grade reading level" thing the kids don't see anything remotely traumatizing like the race violence Dana sees and experiences.
I drudged through the Wikipedia page to see if Jack and Annie ever actually did go to the reconstruction/antebellum South. I suspected they didn't, and I was right. They approach the time period when they go out west (like Kevin wanted to, neatly avoiding the nasty stuff going down in the South. They meet a nice white cowboy named Slim, and no black people if I remember correctly!) They go to the Civil War, and the only mentioned characters they interact with are white. (If I had the book I would do further research. Maybe to be continued on my next post?) Many of the American-history stories are pretty okay even though parts are definitely sugarcoated and simplified for younger readers. Thanksgiving on Thursday gives a pretty realistic retelling of the first Thanksgiving, with minimal Pilgrim-Wampanoag buddy-buddyism. Blizzard of the Blue Moon, set during the Depression, doesn't focus on the depression as much as finding a unicorn. Yes, really.
It turns out, someone already wrote their Educational Studies thesis on the historical inaccuracies of the books, and why it's almost as important to give kids a gut-level link to those time periods through someone their own age. I personally find the results a little off, seeing as the author of the thesis "collected a total of 86 facts" from 28 books (seems a little small, for the supposedly historically immersive books) and at least partially verified 62 of those facts only through the World Book Encyclopedia 2010.
But back to Kindred: what if Magic Tree House decided to take Jack and Annie on an eye-opening, probably traumatizing romp to the Weylin plantation? Well, seeing as the two didn't hang with the slaves when they went to Pompeii (Book #13) or the civil war (Book #21), or with the lowest class at any time of racial/class divide, they would probably find themselves living with the Weylins, become friends with Rufus and spend a lot of time inside the house.They might meet Nigel or Alice in a nice, pleasant way. If Mary Pope Osborne were feeling rated-R Jack and Annie might watch a whipping or walk through the slave quarters, or maybe see them working in the field.
Now, I totally haven't done as much research as Octavia Butler on what would really happen. But we see in the book that Kevin is (obviously) treated differently than Dana is on the plantation, and sees different aspects while completely missing others. We can only assume that Annie and Jack would be the same, and would, like Kevin, get a warped view because of it.
This book would never happen, but there are some interesting ties to stuff we've seen before: Mumbo-Jumbo-Atonistically declaring a certain narrative "the truth," and putting characters in that narrative to teach kids "History," or Kindred's putting historians literally into the story to create more visceral truth, and how when you're actually participating in the story, you can't just be an observer, black or white.
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