Take this book. It is primarily set in the US but some of the scenes are in England and Egypt. The Egyptian scenes are pretty bad, of course, following the formula of dirty cities and mysterious, untrustworthy, exotic people, fierce desert dwellers, savages, so on. A bit of conflict occurred in this location – a betrayal by superstitious Arabs, who left them to die in the desert, a rescue by a desert tribe, a capture by a different tribe, more conflict, escape, pursuit, recapture, then rescue by cool, calm and dominant British soldiers at the last minute.

Pretty bad, as I said. The characters in the story — at this point, three white men (one of them the “villain” of the piece) and two white women — react in different ways to all this. The white women — well, I’m not sure the author knew what to do with the women. He has them being all fainty a lot, but at the same time they help with the scientific discoveries, are the main character’s assistants in his detective work, they wield guns like pros, travel great distances while injured to rescue the main character and others and, in general, are fairly well-rounded for stories of that era.

Anyway, after they escape from the desert, they board a ship back to the United States, lose the villain again, and set off in pursuit of him across the western plains. Or maybe not quite there, because they wind up at a camp with a bunch of cowboys, close to the Mexican border. And, yes, of course the Mexicans come in for their share of denigration and stereotyping – the mustachioed woman-botherer, the bar-working, beautiful young woman who hides the white “villain”, and more.

I don’t mean to gloss over or excuse any of the racist treatment of the Egyptians, Mexicans or unnamed “savages” in the story. It’s all pretty bad. But each of these groups had some purpose in the story, some part to play that was essential, pretty much, to the plot. Each, of course, could have been written without all the racist stereotyping, too, but their presence in the story has a purpose in the plot. Pretty bad, yes.

But then we come to the Chinese cook and I realized we hadn’t seen anything yet.

See, the “villain” of the piece hid out with the cowboys, working as their cook. When he was found out he escaped into Mexico, where we get the chance to see all the Mexican stereotyping. Meanwhile, back at the camp, a Chinese cook appears from nowhere. I mean, we don’t see him enter the story, he is just suddenly there as a replacement for the escapee/cook.

Now, with the other non-white characters, even if they were racist stereotypes they were engaged with as people. Some grumbling about having to adhere to their cultural norms and so on, but still… people. The Chinese cook thing, though… a whole nother level of bad.

He interacts primarily with one of the white female characters. Prior to this I kind of liked her; she was smart, resourceful, happy with herself and her life and didn’t just moan about wanting to get married and all that. Probably close to what early feminists were like, without the book saying so. But when she interacts directly with the Chinese cook she’s haughty, vicious in her speech toward him, denigrating and very, very “I’m white and thus must be respected and obeyed; you, on the other hand, are dirt.” I mean, she doesn’t say that, but everything she does and says says that, if you know what I mean.

I found it a bit shocking, even though, of course, I know these old books are just dripping with racism, some of them, and anti-Semitism galore. But not, of the ones I’ve read, with this level of … just complete, face-to-face dehumanization. What made it worse is that this character seemed to have no other purpose in the story other than to allow this woman (or one of the characters, anyway) to treat him like this. After a few paragraphs he puts a snake in her bed, jumps on a horse and rides off with everyone in pursuit. He avoids them by rolling off his horse and letting the horse continue on while he hides in the grass, then escapes. And that’s the end of him in the story.

I remembered, then, that the Chinese Exclusion Act had just been passed in 1882, I think. And this book was written, or at least published in 1915, when anti-Chinese racism was still at its height. It’s one thing to read about that, though — quite another to see it in practice.

The author was a British writer who, I guess, was attempting to show some sort of white solidarity with Americans while writing this book. In fact, when the group is rescued by the British soldiers in the desert, one of them says something to the effect that they were Americans, not British. And the officer answers, “Same thing.” Which, of course, it’s not, but obviously there is more going on here, too. Wasn’t there a war somewhere around then?

It’s not, as I mentioned before, a very good book, and probably doesn’t merit all this rambling analysis, but I think what struck me most was how white supremacy/white privilege was reinforced by much of the literature of the day. Not a surprise or a revelation, mind — in decades to come people will probably look back at the treatment of Muslim characters in some current books with the same horror.

Anyway, I suppose I should edit this and attempt to pare it down and organize it into some sort of coherent piece, but that will have to wait for another day.

[Illustration from here. Wall with "Chinese Wall Around the United States of America" written on it. People on top of the wall pulling up ladders. Apparently Chinese people at the bottom of the wall. Text of cartoon says "Throwing down the ladder by which they rose."

Say... that wall kinda looks familiar, doesn't it?]

Of course, it could be my inner storytelling self in combat with my inner “Oh, but I can’t do that very well” self – but I prefer instead to think that it’s an ancestor or two giving me a slight nudge. Or shove. Yes, definitely sometimes a shove. Ancestors apparently being rather bossy folks. And who can blame them? (Or do anything about it? After all, who do you complain to?)

I think one of my problems is that I have too many stories, of too many people, other people’s ancestors and my own – some of them like untitled, unsigned paintings lining an old entryway; when you go to look behind them there is nothing but a blank wall. Yet the mystery of their lives nags at you, and you just can’t help but let the curiosity take you over as your imagination fills in the blanks.

Like the other day I came across a listing of slaves included in one woman’s will and distribution of “property.”  It was just like many listings one comes across – a bunch of first names (if you are lucky; sometimes there are only ages and gender listed), but you never get used to them. At least, I hope I never get used to seeing the names of men, women and children listed as “property” to be disposed of along with the house, the furniture and the livestock. (If I do it will be time to put down my pen and let someone else take it up.)

There were about 20 names or so on this list and I looked it over, attempting to record and acknowledge every name – but then my eye swiveled back to the first name on the list, because my brain noticed something odd about it. Ah, there it was… “Sara, 28, slave for life.” Slave for life? Of course, most slaves were expected to live out their lifetimes in bondage, but sometimes some were able to buy their freedom, or gained freedom through the death of a slaveholder, or by other means, as apparently was allowed for the other people listed. But not Sara. Not only did the slaveholder who held her in bondage die; she died deliberately doing what she could to make sure that Sara, already and only 28, never took a breath of freedom.

And you just have to wonder: why? Did she particularly hate Sara? Was Sara perhaps not as meek as the slaveholder wished? Too pretty? Or maybe it was one of those grotesque perversions of “love” one sometimes comes across in those old stories; the slaveholder loves their captive so much that they never want to let them go. For this they would condemn their “loved ones” to a life of unending submission and drudgery.

Whatever the reason – and it could be any one of many; slaveholders were masters (and mistresses) of self-justification – I hope Sara had the last laugh. The slaveholder died just around the time of the Civil War.

So, so many stories of people rendered nameless, faceless and useless except as beasts of burden – but they simply refuse to stay that way. They demand bones and sinew and flesh and clothing; they clamor for recognition of the depth of their thoughts, the strength of their minds; they insist on acknowledgment that they loved and hated, laughed and cried, were indifferent or cowardly or courageous in turn, like almost everyone who has ever lived. Entire nations drew their wealth from each welt or ridge on their scarred backs or callused hands and they, these unwilling builders and wealth creators, are demanding to exist, at least in memory.

I can’t tell all the stories, of course – but then I am far from the only one the ancestors are pinching, and nudging and hectoring (and let’s not forget shoving) into “tending to the past.” I’d love to hear your tales, too.

[Crossposted at The Book of Louis. Photo from here (I cannot vouch for all of their content, not having read the entire site, but they have built a great resource of Civil War and related history items.)]

Prehistoric people in southern Africa developed a highly skilled way of shaping stones into sharp-edged tools long before Europeans did, suggested a study released Thursday.

A technique known as pressure-flaking, which scientists previously thought was invented in Europe some 20,000 years ago, involves using an animal bone or some other object to exert pressure near the edge of a stone piece and precisely carve out a small flake.

Researchers from the University of Colorado at Boulder examined stone tools dating from the Middle Stone Age, some 75,000 years ago, from Blombos Cave in what is now South Africa.

I’m always amazed at what we know, what we think we know, and what we don’t know at all.  Me, I wouldn’t recognize one sort of flaking from the other.  In fact, the tool pictured looks a lot like some arrowheads I have which were sent to me by a friend who dug them up in Alabama. I don’t have a clue whose they were originally, or even what tribes/nations lived in that state, but I think I will look it up one day and see if I can match up the arrowheads.

Anyway, I thought it was a cool story.

Three Women and a Suitcase (1930s)

From the Charles “Teenie” Harris Collection (via Omega418’s photostream again – a wonderful resource)

Doesn’t this picture just make you wish you were going wherever these three women were going? Love the hat on the seated one, too. In fact, have those styles come back into fashion yet? If not, they  should.

What an amazing archive of work. Here is one collection of Harris’ photos – each picture a part of telling our stories. In his work he didn’t just photograph celebs but also working-class/blue collar people, the poor, the middle class, and children. In other words, a full-spectrum of lived lives – more than just a single story.

Don’t speak too soon: I’ve been reading this clown for months now and this is probably the only time he doesn’t soak a discussion about Civil War history with melodrama about slavery.

Dog forbid one should clog up discussions of Civil War history with “melodrama” about slavery.

No link. I did some looking around the forum where I found this (following a link from a link to something I was interested in) and it’s not a place I would send either of my two readers to, or anyone else.

Oh, the “clown” he is talking about is Ta-Nehisi Coates of The Atlantic, who has been having some amazing discussions on his blog about Civil War history, the characters… and what I think makes these folks hopping mad – the primary cause.

Disney, in the planning and making of the movie featuring their first Black princess, tried to please the wrong demographic. The story would have made a good second, or maybe third, Black princess movie, but for the first? No. For the first film, they needed a real, capital “P” Princess (said, in my mind, with the British pronunciation. Which sounds far more official.)

This isn’t a review of a year old film, though. In fact, before I sat down to write I had no intentions of mentioning anything at all about frogs, princesses or films. I just wanted to highlight what I think is a really nice photo of a young Black girl.

Except. The photo, on the flickr site where I found it, is titled “Boogie Woogie Girl”, maybe because of the hair. I don’t think the person meant anything by it; this photo set seems to be lovingly made up of vintage photos of Black women in all their variety. Still, this title rubbed me the wrong way. The effort to tease out just why sent my mind whirring off to mainstream cultural views of young (and old) Black women, Snow White, and then on a beeline straight to the Princess and the Frog. Simple, no, when you see the progression?

She’s lovely, isn’t she, the girl in the photo. Sweet smile, bright eyes and that hair! It was picture day and we all know what that means. Momma probably sat her down on the kitchen chair and dragged the sides up into the clip or rubber band, teasing the front then working each curl to make it lie perfectly against the next, before making sure the cascading curls in the back were just fluffy enough – but not too much. I think the lipstick was the addition of whoever tinted the photo – either the original photographer or someone in later years, but it looks good.

She just looks like a nice young girl. And that, I think, is why the photo title hit the wrong nerve. Because, in traditional U.S. and colonial culture, young Black girls (and boys) are barely allowed childhood, let alone niceness and innocence -,even when they are small children.

For instance, not long after Katrina I was reading a post, I think about how the recovery was going, on one of the White feminist blogs. One nice, liberal White woman commented, saying she was a resident of New Orleans and that the schools would be starting back up soon. Because of where she lived and how the school system had been jerry rigged together, she was going to have to send her children – kindergarteners – to a kindergarten that had almost all Black children in it. She was worried, you see, for her children’s safety because her little snowflakes would be surrounded by all these children who were – not to be racist or anything – Black! What should she do? And, she asked, was it racist even to worry and to wonder? 

Many of the other commenters gave her advice and consoled her and stuff (mainly about being a victim of the storm), but not one said “Yes, that IS racist to worry that these Black babies are all violent criminals or something.” I finally signed on and said so… I would point you to the comment but the site had some issues and lost all their comments. When they were finally restored mine was not among them. A glitch, I’m sure.

Anyway, back to the young girl and Snow White and the Princess Frog. Snow White really has little to do with anything except that the film came out in 1937 and it’s entirely possible that this young girl saw it and instead of a hoochie momma or a boogie woogie girl, imagines herself a princess. Well, sure, she doesn’t resemble Snow White at all, except for maybe the hair but, particularly back in those days, if one is Black and is going to identify with a Disney character, it will likely be a princess and not one of Disney’s racist caricatures of Black people.

And I wouldn’t be surprised if, even today, if a young Black girl (or boy) is going to identify with a Disney princess that it won’t be Cinderella or Snow White or someone, instead of Tiana or whatever her name was (I liked the name they were originally going to use, Maddy, better, personally.) Why? Because they were real princesses. And yes, looking at Disney movies from a feminist prospective the princess movies are dreadful, dreadful things, which must be placed within their sexist context and all that. But, as I’ve mentioned before, little Black girls have no such context, in the mainstream consciousness, of being pampered and coddled and innocent and protected. Of course many had those things within their own family circles, where to momma and daddy and all the extended family, they have always been princesses. But you know how things go – few things are real (growing up) unless everyone else knows it.

After all, many feminists are not kicking back against the actuality of all those things in their lives but at the perception of (White) women as helpless and needing protection and extra care for their feelings and all that. This is not something that Black girl children have had to fight against in popular consciousness because they are not portrayed as any of those things. This is why, in my view, the Princess and the Frog was targeted toward the wrong demographic. Whoever it was targeted to – and I suspect I know – it wasn’t to an ignored young girl who had hoped to finally have her place on the pedestal.