DuBois at 90, or the Simplicity of Age

In the opening paragraphs of W.E.B. Dubois’ last autobiography, written in “the Last Decade of its First Century,” DuBois tells an ostensibly simple story. For almost a decade, he says, “I had been refused a passport by my government,” which used the bureaucratically opaque excuse that “it was not considered to be ‘to the best interests of the United States’ that I go abroad.” The US’s interests and his have diverged, it seems, and as a result he has been deprived of that most basic of civic identities, the right to be interpellated as American while abroad. Since the government had suspected-correctly!-that he would criticize the United States for its “attitude toward American Negroes” if released, he had become-as he dramatically analogizes-a convict. An unrepentant old committer of dissent, he is an almost certain recidivist, and his hope of parole, it would seem, is dim.

But through an unexpected twist of fate, he tells us, he managed to acquire a passport and depart his country, “like a released prisoner.” The Supreme Court ruled that Congress had not yet given the State department the right to do what they had done, so before the President was engineer a bill to zip up the loophole, DuBois jumps ship and is gone, travelling to Europe, the Soviet Union, and China. Like a criminal accidently paroled, he savors every drop of what he no doubt expects will be his last trip abroad. And then, he says, simply, “I came home.”

Dubois in Moscow

Readers accustomed to the younger DuBois will, I suspect, tend to find DuBois at 90 to be a disappointingly limp writer. There is little of the polished brilliance of Souls’ prose and absolutely none of the baroque extravagence of Darkwater, written around his 30^th and 50^th years, respectively. By Dusk of Dawn, in his 70^th year, his writing has slowed down considerably, and by the time he got around to writing his final autobiography of the four, so much of the sturm and drang of that young student in Berlin has faded as to leave him almost unrecognizable. Instead, he writes in a flat and declarative tone, the voice, perhaps, of a writer unconvinced that anyone is listening, or that it will matter if they are. Some of this, too, is probably the result of a certain hardening in DuBois’ perspective, the kind of elderly disinclination to question one’s own beliefs that makes it hard to talk to one’s granparents about the crazy stuff they believe. When he talks politics and economics-for him, there is almost no distinction-the poetic ambiguity of his earlier works has become a resignedly manichaean third-world boosterism. Evil Capitalist Imperialists confront the Virtuous Opressed Masses and the painstaking sociology of his (relative) youth has become a tendency towards almost comically broad strokes and overgeneralization, a great deal of which is just painfully wrong. Did you know that WWII was really a war between the Soviet Union and the rest of the world? I didn’t. As he surveys the Potemkin villages erected for his benefit, he finds confirmation for a belief in Communism that is difficult to take seriously, difficult to square with everything we now know about what went on behind the iron curtain.

This DuBois is something of an embarrassment, and the overwhelming majority of his readers focus on Souls to the exclusion of virtually everything else. But it’s also too easy to dismiss this Stalinist apologist for non-Western despotism as simply an angry old man, though he certainly was that. He was, after all, an angry old man for the majority of his incredibly long career, something that’s easy to overlook if you lose sight of just how preposterously long he lived (especially remarkable given that his parents died in their fifties) and how much he had to be angry about. There’s something stunning about a man who was born during Reconstruction and whose death was announced during King’s March on Washington, someone whose life spanned the incredible chasm between Andrew and Lyndon Johnson. So when he mentions, offhandedly, that Poland and Czechoslovakia are visibly better off in 1959 than they were when he saw them in 1950 and also, by the way, in 1893, the mind boggles a little bit. DuBois wrote four autobiographies, but that was because he had at least four lifetimes worth of living to write about, and as he notes, with a certain gentle humor, he had more or less considered his life to be complete two autobiographies and forty years ago. In the meantime, he had simply, inexplicably, failed to die.

So I’d like to take this autobiography seriously, and neither dismiss out of hand his enthusiasm for communist authoritarianism nor subordinate the book in favor of the more flashy (and a certain sense, less impassioned) works of his youth. This is exactly the rhetorical tactic he takes, in fact, opening the book not with his early years but with what he has seen on his recent trip abroad, and the convictions it has strengthened. “I believe in communism,” he says, and it is in hopes of making you understand the significance of this belief-of making you respect it-that he wants to tell you who he is. He knows you will resist. But he gambles that if he can connect the man to the belief, you will find it hard to dismiss either: respect the man, he hopes, and you will respect the belief. It’s a powerful rhetorial tactic, and I’m almost halfway convinced by it, halfway convinced not to call it by the pejorative “rhetoric” and simply accept his credentials. What, after all, do I know about Soviet modernization that hasn’t been filtered through half a century of cold war propoganda? DuBois is certainly ideological, but then, who isn’t? And he, at least, saw it with his own eyes.

In any case, in returning to the text, I find that the dull flatness of those first few paragraphs might be more artful that I originally thought, more like a medium whose transparency is precisely the point. The drama of DuBois’ life, of a man released from prison that is also his home, perhaps, speaks more powerfully about what he once called “the strange meaning of being black here at the dawning of the Twentieth Century” than all the verbal fireworks he employed in Souls or Darkwater ever could. The Kafkaesque logic of being denied a passport by your own government, of being given an identity by very act of being denied an identity, what could speak more eloquently than that? And perhaps, in doing this, it does the work of autobiography more effectively than any of his previous essays in the genre had ever managed, for by rendering the verbal medium so very transparent, it becomes harder and harder to distinguish the man from the message. What could be more apparently artless than the sentence “I came home”? And yet, underneath that simplicity, what could be more impossibly tangled?

Making Autobiography and Racial-Self-Making

David Roediger opens his brilliant The Wages of Whiteness with a bit of autobiography: growing up in Cairo, at the point where the Ohio river meets the Mississippi, he was educated to a knowledge of racism and white supremacy that was hardly hindered by the fact that he, personally, didn’t actually know any black people. The implicit point (which becomes more explicit later on) is simple: white supremacy, as he experienced it, is not really about black people, it just uses them as its object, on its way towards something else.

His book is therefore in sharp disagreement with someone like Winthrop Jordan, for whom “race” is a given (and for whom there are very basic psychological reasons why white people feared, then hated, and then despised black people, a point Jordan illustrates in White over Black at great and intimidating length). In Jordan’s narrative, in other words, racism begins when different races met each other, “race” being an existing precondition, and a thing which (it is implied) will continue in some form as long as they are in contact. For Roediger, on the other hand, “white” and “black” are very much in quotation marks; what they mean is neither a given, nor are they terms that mean anything in a permanent sense: race is a thing which is always being practiced and made according to social necessities, and as these practices and necessities change with changing society, so too does “race” change, fundamentally. That, you see, is an empowering gesture: in contrast to the kind of fatalism implied by the “race is forever” argument of a Winthrop Jordan, Roediger’s conception of race as a formation, a construction, or a production allow for the possibility that it might be made in different ways, or even unmade altogether. The title of Theodore Allen’s The Invention of the White Race makes this point explicitly, and takes direct aim at the weaknesses in Jordan’s book to argue, again, that race is thing that must be made. And as Roediger’s more recent work (Towards the Abolition of Whiteness) argues, it is also a thing which must be un-made.

As a sidenote, this intellectual debate is related to one of the ways that Edward Said (of the previous post) can be usefully critiqued. One problem with “Orientalism” as a framing paradigm is that it conflates the kinds of orientalizing gazes that Europe used to understand the other it was Crusading against in the middle ages with the radically different ways an explicitly imperial Europe understood its colonial others in places like India (and with, as a bonus, the ways that “The West” has taken in recent years to understanding “the Muslim world”). Said has a tendency to run all these things together, to produce (ironically) a timeless and unchanging “Orientalist,” a figure who who continually re-imagines and reproduces a timeless and unchanging “Oriental.”

The trouble is, though, there is a kind of continuity between the ways that wars with the Saracens were understood in medieval Christiandom and the style of contemporary doctrines of “preemptive war,” as Bush’s revealing lapses into “crusade” rhetoric occasionally indicate. By the same token, for all the limitations of Winthrop Jordan’s work (and some of the psychoanalysis seems particularly sketchy to me), it is also true that colonial-era attitudes towards African slaves and free-men are part of the same history that informs the ways Barack Obama can and cannot run for president. Roediger wouldn’t deny that, of course; his work as an engaged historian indicates precisely his belief in the past’s relevance to present struggles. And how to navigate historical continuity and historical change, at the same time, is one of the most difficult rhetorical and conceptual problems that a historian has to grapple with. I personally favor Raymond Williams’ notion of “structures of feeling”: as he observes in the dazzling opening to The Country and the City, the difference between rural and urban in medieval England was completely and totally different than it was in industrializing England, and neither has a nearly strong enough empirical corellation with how urban and rural are integrated today. These terms, “urban” and “rural,” simply mean different things. And yet, he notes, the fact that we continue to use the same words even as we reinvent them indicates that our feelings about urban and rural have a certain continuity of structure, a fact which gives the social scientist something to grip on to as everything else changes.

I tend to be quite skeptical of the autobiographical gesture. W.E.B. DuBois, the patron saint of The Wages of Whiteness (and this blog, sort of) once claimed that “autobiographies have had little lure; repeatedly they assume too much or too little: too much in dreaming that one’s own life has greatly influenced the world; too little in the reticences, repressions, and distortions which come because men do not dare to be perfectly frank” and my dissertation will make a certain amount of hay out of the fact that he wrote five or so autobiographies. But in moments like this, DuBois was his own best critic, and he always cast a critical eye on the ways that “autobiography” could function as a technology of the self, to use a terminology not his own; likewise, the autobiographical gesture in The Wages of Whiteness also functions as a way of asserting a kind of control over history and personal history, a kind of place to stand from which the world can be moved. As Roediger explains it,

“Until very recently, I would have skipped all this autobiographical material, sure that my ideas on race and the white working class grew out of conscious reflection based on historical research. But much of that reflection led back to what my early years might have taught me: the role of race in defining how white workers look not only at Blacks but at themselves; the pervasiveness of race; the complex mixture of hate, sadness and longing in the racist thought of white workers; the relationship between race and ethnicity.”

This claim seems to me at least very optimistic, and perhaps somewhat of a delusion: the idea that one can transcend one’s history by looking back over it, by transforming the formative experiences of one’s life into “teachings” that can be discarded or retained, depending. I guess it’s just that I’m a believer in the nature/nurture debate: we are what we are, and whether that being is more determined by the stuff we were born with or by the experience we have been blessed to receive, there is no self that can make itself without reference to that formative experience. This is far from an argument for fatalistic acceptance of the status quo, of course; as Roediger puts it, “the complex mixture of hate, sadness and longing” is a volatile mixture, offering many choices and possibilities. As historians put it, beware monocausal outcomes, and this is just as true with personal histories: the overdetermination of the self means that we’re not so much determined by some singular identity as we are racked by conflicts between the many different and contradictory parts of ourselves that make us up.

So maybe there’s nothing necessarily so wrong with an optimistic delusion or two, and maybe it’s okay to occasionally assert, against all the available evidence, that “Yes we can.” And the gesture of Roediger’s authorial position, the claim that he could grow up amidst a culture of white supremacy and race hatred, and yet transcend that origin, to claim that we make race instead of being made by it, that we make ourselves instead of the reverse, well, I find such a claim as logically unconvincing as I find it emotionally necessary.

DuBois Abroad

I picked up John Lewis Gaddis’ The Long Peace in a library “free books” box. They must have assumed that a book of essays on the cold war from the eighties would be of limited interest. The more fools they! So I’ve been flipping through it here and there. And the first essay (“Legacies: Russian-American Relations Before the Cold War”) turned out to be surprisingly relevant. I’ve been trying to make sense of DuBois’ tendency in his later years to apologize for indefensible dictators (Stalin, Mao, the Japanese empire before WWII, and so forth), and understanding the vicissitudes of American relations with Russia is a good way to contextualize these kinds of choices, which DuBois always saw in the context of American politics. As Gaddis makes clear, the U.S. and Tsarist Russia got along quite well until the end of the nineteenth century, as the purchase of Alaska illustrates; a shared antipathy for the British (or a shared interest in countervailing Western European power) meant that more often than not the interests of “the worlds great democratic hope” and the interests of “the absolutist Tsarist empire” didn’t, for example, get expressed in such terms. Neither state saw the radically different ideological premises of the other’s government as a threat until later.

That changed, Gaddis observes, in the late nineteenth century, a change he relates to larger shifts in the American state’s sense of itself: from a belief in democracy as necessitating a hands-off approach to foreign policy (in which only the oppressed could really revolutionize themselves), the U.S. started to clearly articulate a policy of taking responsibility for democratizing the world, just in time for 1898, the high water mark in American colonialism, and the era of Wilsonian interventionism that would follow.

There is a lot that can be teased out of this shift, I think, and not least interesting is the role of post-civil war intellectuals in leading the charge for liberal interventionism abroad. But to me, the most interesting thing is that although Gaddis tries to stress the “obvious” threat to capitalism posed by an anti-capitalist revolution in 1917, he also clearly shows that the breakdown of Russo-American amity began a bit earlier, in the time period when the breakdown of Chines power in Asia gave Russia new opportunities to expand and the fast-industrializing American state started looking for new outlets for its economy. And the DuBoisian approach, I think, would quite rightly note that this conflict in interests begins with opposing colonial ambitions, and that ideology only serves as a means of rationalizing and justifying it. Ideology, in other words, is irrelevent without the sense that both states had an investment in foreign territories, the sense that a place like China was already always the business of American and Russian security. “How is our oil under their sand?” puts it in another idiom.

This doesn’t explain why DuBois would idolize Stalin, or why he became such a fan of the Japanese that he would urge the Chinese, after the rape of Nanking, to grin and bear it. That’s a different set of questions. But it does shed some light on how the American sense of its own internal colonies was shifting in the very period when DuBois was maturing as an intellectual in a very suggestive way. The previous generation of abolitionists had (perhaps disingenuously) disclaimed responsibility for the freed slaves, arguing that the job of a slave was to declare its own independence and no one else could do it for them. But DuBois was part of a new generation of American intellectuals who believed that modernizing the primitives was the responsibility of the enlightened few, and I’m not so quick to assume that they were as personally disinterested as they themselves liked to believe. After all, when the self-declared talented tenth of the world declared their responsibility to clean up the messes made by the other ninety percent, the primitives that were not so blessed, things like the colonialism and the the cold war for world domination had a way of happening. So, too, do I wonder what the untalented nine-tenths thought of DuBois and his struggles with Booker T. Washington for race leadership, how they felt about being the terrain over which the cold war between those two was fought.

(The pictures all from the UMass Amherst DuBois collection, just because)