The Land of the Brave. Home of the Free?

Juliette Di Bello

America is a land of many voices, but it is undeniable that some are given more amplification than others. Throughout history, but still in today’s society, most of those voices are male and white. However, it is the other voices that often tell the most powerful stories, and that can most poignantly criticize and confront issues of social justice in what is supposed to be a land of opportunity. Both Natalie Diaz’s Postcolonial Love Poem and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s The Thing Around Your Neck offer powerful perspectives on citizenship and issues regarding social justice by highlighting the experiences of women of colour in America, a country with a violent history of white patriarchy. Postcolonial Love Poem is Diaz’s exploration of the Native American experience in a contemporary America. There is a beautiful interchange between ideas of utopia and dystopia that run throughout Diaz’s poetry; utopic in the romanticisation of the natural world into a lover, and dystopian in the desperation to please this lover, and in the feeling of emptiness that is present in the poetry in which the lover is not the focus. Where so much Black American art focuses on the experience of the African American in an attempt to address the inequalities in both artistic and political representation of Black people, the experience of the Black immigrant has, one could say, been sidelined in an attempt to address the experiences of the ‘American.’ Adichie, in her short story The Thing Around Your Neck, highlights the experience of a female African immigrant in America, and does so in such a way that the reader inevitably feels a sense of kinship with the protagonist despite having what will often be incredibly different life experiences.

In Postcolonial Love Poem, an overarching theme is that of the natural world personified as Diaz’s nameless female lover. In her essay on the erotic, Audre Lorde states that “the erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply female and spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpressed or unrecognised feeling,”[1] and this idea is clearly evident in Diaz’s book, where the relationship with the lover is symbolic of the relationship with the land, and the depth of spiritual connection with the land that exists in Native American culture. The words “hip”[2] and “thigh”[3] are used often in description of this lover; notably sexualised parts of the body that physically differentiate women from men. The idea of nature as a female is one that is common to most religions or senses of spirituality, and Diaz capitalises on this in the tenderness she experiences in relating to this lover; in doing so also incorporating her unique experience as a member of the queer community, and thus confronting the reader with a different Native American voice: one of a queer woman who celebrates both lesbian sexuality and love as well as a spiritual connection with nature by using each as a lens to experience the other. Diaz’s description of her “hips horned with loneliness”[4] melds the imagery of the female lover and the Minotaur; both of which have been weaved throughout multiple poems in Diaz’s book, and thus bringing both extremes together in a description of the self; she is of the natural world, and is soft and feminine underneath her anger at what her land has become, as symbolised by the horns. Furthermore, the image of the Minotaur is exceptionally powerful, as it invokes a guardian of a labyrinth – an “American labyrinth,”[5] just as Indigenous peoples consider themselves guardians or custodians of the land from which they originate. However, the Minotaur is also an angry, entrapped creature, and one which, in Ancient Greek mythology, the hero Theseus desires to kill. The idea of ‘monster’ or ‘thing’ in relation to Indigenous peoples and white dehumanisation of them has been a sad and regrettable reality in world history, and an image which has been internalised by Diaz’s protagonist in Postcolonial Love Poem. However, her interior is a shared space between these angry, defensive horns and “light,”[6] which is released through a “wound,”[7] both of which remain important images throughout her book. The interplay between “light” and “wound” is a fascinating one, as the light’s release through the wound suggests that it is through an acknowledgement of suffering, of the wound imposed upon Native Americans by colonialism, that the light of spiritual connection to the land may be shared with the world, and truly acknowledged by the self. Diaz thus transforms the notion of Native American experience through an exploration of both a love and hurt for culture that feed off of each other as integral parts of the self.

In addition to a deep love, both sensual and spiritual, of the land and of culture, Diaz explores the fierce protectiveness Native Americans feel towards the land and their relationship with it. A sense of defensiveness is established in the first line of ‘Manhattan is a Lenape Word.’ Diaz begins the poem with the sentence “It is December and we must be brave,”[8] immediately creating a sense of solidarity with the reader with the inclusive pronoun “we,” and thus inviting the reader into Diaz’s experience and understanding of New York from a Native American perspective. Furthermore, the month of “December” invokes images of Christmas, a festival which has moved beyond religion and dominates popular culture at the end of every year; and yet is a traditionally European festivity imposed upon America by colonialism. Diaz confronts her reader with the idea that one must be “brave” around December, and thus invites them to share in a different experience of what is in Western culture a time of celebration. Furthermore, the title of the poem, which appears again in the fourth stanza, reminds the reader that Manhattan, a word which by association with New York City has become inseparable with industrialised Americanness, is in fact a Native American word. Diaz thus prompts her reader to reconsider the notion of ‘Americanness’ – and how much of what is now considered contemporarily American has been appropriated from Indigenous cultures. This is furthered by her “know[ing]”[9] that she is “the only Native American… [in] this hotel or any” in Manhattan, which thus critiques the ignorant use of Native American language while the spoils of the land which was taken from the Lenape people, and by extension all Native Americans, are not truly shared with Native Americans. This is solidified in Diaz’s emotionally italicised question of “where have all the Natives gone?”[10] In her essay ‘The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,’ Lorde states that “survival… is learning how to take our differences and make them strengths.”[11] Diaz’s image of the “lonely coyote… crying stars”[12] is representative of how minoritized cultures in America, regardless of their isolation from a sense of belonging in lands that have been stolen from them, raise their individual and unique voices to be heard, and thereby offer poignant illustrations on the experience of being an Native American in an America that has built its identity around a celebration of colonialism.

This exploration of the idea of Native American citizenship, but a felt citizenship, in that one truly feels that they are an accepted part of a country, is continued in ‘American Arithmetic’, a poem that begins with a statistical evaluation of the number of Native Americans in America. The introductory statement of the poem, that “Native Americans make up less than 1 percent of the population of America,”[13] when considered with Diaz’s later statement that “in an American room of one hundred people, I am Native American – less than one, less than whole – I am less than myself,”[14] display how the actualities of the Native American experience are internalized by their people, and how their living as an overwhelming minority in their country results in a feeling of not only invisibility to others, but a damaged sense of personal and cultural identity. Throughout Postcolonial Love Poem, Diaz associates her identity with a “river;”[15] water being an important image running through the work, both as the life of the self and of the land, and further how those two entities become one in a powerful sense of Native American spiritual connection with the land. Diaz states that she “carr[ies] a river,” that it is “who [she is];”[16] that the “river runs through the middle of her body,”[17] that “energy is a moving river moving [her] moving body.”[18] She explicitly states that “in Mojave thinking, body and land are the same,”[19] thus introducing her reader to a connection with the natural environment so entrenched and strong it is completely distinctive, and so very different from a Western view of land ownership. Diaz thus confronts the idea that people are truly able to own land at all by critiquing the Western perspective of the land being an object to be owned rather than a living entity that gives life, and one that has power over humanity.

While Diaz focuses on the Native American experience in contemporary America, and what it is to have your spirituality as connected with the land disrespected by the colonialist and industrialized manner in which America operates, Adichie’s short story The Thing Around Your Neck explores a different female perspective of America: one of the Black immigrant, and what it is to come into America as a complete outsider. In The Thing Around Your Neck, there is an interesting interplay between the ideas of a utopian and a dystopic idea of modern America. In the first paragraph a very concrete picture of America is presented in only three images: “big car,” “big house,” and “gun.”[20] The sense of promise associated with a foreign view of America is heightened by the word “soon” in conjunction with “big car” and “big house,” and the sense of fear and judgement established in the imperative “don’t buy a gun like those Americans;”[21] the phrase “those Americas” prematurely separating Akunna from any sense of Americanness she may have felt upon living there. Furthermore, the ‘good’ associated with “big car” and “big house” and the ‘bad’ associated with “gun” strongly establishes the dichotomy of extremes with which foreigners view America: both as a land of opportunity and as a place of danger. Education, arguably the most significant of opportunities, has been identified by many as the way out of poverty. Akunna’s statement that she “could not afford to go to school, because now [she] paid rent for the tiny room with the stained carpet”[22] critiques the lack of available education in American to those who truly need it to advance their financial situation, and yet are caught in the cycle of living hand to mouth. Furthermore, the fact that all Akunna is able to afford is a “tiny room with a stained carpet” in what is supposed to be a land of opportunity introduces the notion that America is only a land of opportunity for those with enough money to take advantage of them to begin with. Additionally, Akunna sending her family “half [her] month’s earnings”[23] explores the notion that immigrants cannot truly start fresh upon arrival in America, or by extension in any new country, as they are tied to the needs of the family they have left behind.

A major theme of Adichie’s story is ignorance, and in many cases, ignorance manifesting as racism. Due to the assumption that “every black person with a foreign accent [is] Jamaican,”[24] Akunna is not asked “if” she had come from Jamaica, but “when,” through which Adichie critiques the thoughtlessness many Americans display when given the opportunity to connect with or learn about an immigrant, and by extension, any non-American culture. Furthermore, the Americans that “guessed” that Akunna was from Africa did not ask her where in Africa she was from, or any other question to her, the native of the continent, about the continent, and instead informed her that they “loved elephants and wanted to go on safari.”[25] This type of response, while seemingly positive when viewed at a glance, as it shows some sort of interest in a non-American culture, is in fact an illustration of how the most dominant images Americans have of non-American cultures are romanticised ideas of a white experience of tourism. In her book The Encyclopedia of Trouble and Spaciousness, Rebecca Solnit states that “the revolt against brutality begins with a revolt against the language that hides that brutality.”[26] As it could be argued that ignorance is a form of brutality, and as the language of Akunna’s customers is undoubtedly ignorant, it can be assumed that Adichie uses this language to examine the power of microaggressions, which is indeed far beyond what their name would suggest. Adichie’s writing is all therefore more powerful for its subtlety, as it is in these seemingly mild phrases that she ‘revolts;’ presenting her harshest critiques of American ignorance of the cultures in other parts of the world. Another theme addressed in Adichie’s story is loss of innocence, both naturally in one’s entering adulthood and imposed by a separation from family. Akunna’s uncle’s molestation of her is followed by the statement that “he wasn’t really [her] uncle… not related by blood;”[27] thus confronting the notion of family as a place of safety. This loss of innocence is furthered by the uncle’s statement that Akunna is “no longer a child at twenty-two,”[28] but his following declaration that if Akunna let him, he “would do many things for [her]”[29] critiques how a woman is expected to transition from a childlike dependence on her family to financial dependence on a man in exchange for sexual companionship. Akunna’s immediate departure from her uncle’s house is evidence of her strength of character, and of Adichie’s belief that a woman should in no way be bound by this idea. Juan’s hiring of Akunna based on his experience that “all immigrants worked hard”[30] explores the notion of the outsider’s need to prove their worth, but also, conversely, the idea that from an immigrant perspective, Americans possess a sense of entitlement that results in a diminished work ethic. Additionally, Akunna’s uncle is symbolic of how American corporations capitalise on people of colour in order to attempt to conform to a contemporary understanding of equality. The company for which her uncle works “offer[s] him a few thousand more than the average salary plus stock options” as they are “desperately trying to look diverse.”[31] Adichie’s choice of the word “look” instead of the word “be” clearly displays that in America there is a greater need to appear nonracist rather than to actually be so. Adichie thus confronts the self-promotive ways in which American companies handle the issues of equal opportunity and inclusivity.

Akunna’s boyfriend serves as a personification of the paradox of simultaneously belonging and not when in a new place; the result being an existence somewhere in between. Initially, Akunna is taken by his knowledge of African culture, and his recognising her as a person, like him, who happens to be from a different part of the world, rather than an “ivory tusk”[32] or something to be “gawped”[33] at. However, even he, who asserts that he “never [does] any of the silly tourist stuff”[34] when he travels, claims to ask Akunna out because her name rhymes with “hakuna matata [from] The Lion King,”[35] Furthermore, despite his “familiarity”[36] with the products in the African store, he “threw up in [Akunna’s] sink”[37] after eating African garri and onugbu soup. This act of vomiting is symbolic of the fact that despite a significantly more detailed knowledge of African culture than most Americans, he is not any iteration of an ‘honorary African’ as he arguably believes himself to be. Akunna’s desperation to be seen, however, manifests itself in her agreeing to go out with her boyfriend before he asks her, and the “blank”[38] strips of paper she finds in her fortune cookies on their first date are symbolic of the ability to choose one’s own destiny in America, once one feels that they have a place there. While Akunna’s boyfriend initially makes her feel seen in a place in which she feels she does not belong, in doing so, he prompts the realisation that he, and by extension Americans, can never truly see her. When Akunna “hug[s] him tight for a long, long moment,” and then “let[s] go,”[39] her boyfriend is no longer only her boyfriend, but the personification of her dreams of America, which she realises she can no longer delude herself into believing. Therefore, Adichie confronts the difficult truth that once an individual has been exposed to another way of living, some of which they like, and some of which they do not, there is a distinct possibility that neither this new way of living nor their original one will ever fully satisfy them. Adichie therefore confronts the ‘limbo’ immigrants experience both in living in another country and returning to their original one, and questions whether they can every truly feel a sense of belonging in either again.

The most important image in Adichie’s story is undoubtedly “the thing around your neck,”[40] made even more powerful by its nebulousness. The word “thing” is wonderfully lacking in any descriptive quality, and yet can be seen to be associated with the dehumanisation and objectification of both Black people and women throughout history. The “thing around [one’s] neck,”[41] however, is a deeply layered image, and the sensation of choking that accompanies it references both feelings of extreme anxiety as well as the image of the noose, and the unjust lynching of Black people in America throughout its colonial history. Furthermore, it is a biblical allusion the punishment of a millstone hanging around one’s neck – the heavy burden and implied societal punishment of those who do not conform to preconceived notions of their ethnicity figuratively ‘drowning’ in judgment and nonacceptance. The first word of the story is “you,”[42] and in this use of second person Adichie immediately melds the experiences of the protagonist and the reader, and therefore from the outset of the narrative establishes the personal nature of the story in that the protagonist’s experiences are the reader’s experiences, regardless of who the reader is. Adichie’s philosophy of storytelling to educate is arguably more successful than other art that is outwardly politically confrontational, as such art often focuses on what makes the marginalized group different, or ‘other’, and puts forward a sense of pride in regards to those differences; Lorde stating that “difference is that raw and powerful connection from which our personal power is forged.”[43] While this is undoubtedly true, and while this is a valid form of self-expression, Adichie’s story manages to convince the reader that these differences, both physically and culturally, while important and a part of the protagonist, are secondary to natural human feeling and human experience, thus allowing the reader to feel, rather than be told, that all people are equal and are deserving of respect.

Citations:

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. The Thing Around Your Neck. United Kingdom, Fourth Estate, 2009.

Diaz, Natalie. Postcolonial Love Poem. United States, Graywolf Press, 2020.

Lorde, Audre. “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House.” Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches, United States, Crossing Press, 1984, pp. 110–14.

Lorde, Audre. Uses of the Erotic: Erotic as Power. United States, Out and Out Books, 1978.

Solnit, Rebecca. The Encyclopedia of Trouble and Spaciousness. United States, Trinity University Press, 2014.

[1] Lorde, The Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power, pp 87

[2][3] Diaz, Skin-Light

[4] Diaz, If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert

[5] Diaz, I, Minotaur

[6] Diaz, Skin Light

[7] Diaz, My Brother, My Wound

[8] Diaz, Manhattan is a Lenape Word

[9][10] Diaz, Manhattan is a Lenape Word

[11] Lorde, The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House, pp 2

[12] Diaz, Manhattan is a Lenape Word

[13][14] Diaz, American Arithmetic

[15][16][17][18][19] Diaz, The First Water Is the Body

[20][21] Adichie, pp 115

[22] Adichie, pp 117

[23] Adichie, pp 118

[24][25] Adichie, pp 119

[26] Solnit, The Encyclopedia of Trouble and Spaciousness, pp 59

[27] Adichie, pp 116

[28] Adichie, pp 117

[29] Adichie, pp 117

[30] Adichie, pp 117

[31] Adichie, pp 116

[32] Adichie, pp 126

[33] Adichie, pp 116

[34][35] Adichie, pp 120

[36][37] Adichie, pp 123

[38] Adichie, pp 121

[39] Adichie, pp 127

[40][41] Adichie, pp 115

[42] Adichie, pp 115

[43] Lorde, The Master’s Tools, pp 2