Toni Morrison can be proud of other Black American women authors’ unabashed portrayals of Black American people as honorable but flawed, saintly but imperfect, and whole but struggling in ways both certainly and only gently connected to racism. Continue reading
From Goodreads: At the center: a woman who calls herself Bride, whose stunning blue-black skin is only one element of her beauty, her boldness and confidence, her success in life; but which caused her light-skinned mother to deny her even the simplest forms of love until she told a lie that ruined the life of an innocent woman, a lie whose reverberations refuse to diminish . . . Continue reading
“Now,” Eva looked up across from her wagon at her daughter. “Give me that again. Flat out to fit my head.”
“I mean, did you? You know. When we was little.”
“No. I don’t reckon I did. Not the way you thinkin’.”
“Oh, well. I was just wonderin’.” Hanna appeared to be through with the subject.
“An evil wondering’ if I ever heard one.” Eva was not through.
“I didn’t mean nothing by it, Mamma.”
“What you mean you didn’t mean nothing by it? How you gone not mean something by it?”
“Awww, Mamma? Awww, Mamma? You settin’ here with you healthy-ass self and ax me did I love you? Them big old eyes in your head would a been two holes full of maggots if I hadn’t.”
“I didn’t mean that, Mamma. I know you fed us and all. I was talkin’ bout something else. Like. Like. Playin’ with us. Did you ever, you know, play with us?”
“Play? Wasn’t nobody playin’ in 1895. Just ‘cause you got it good now you think it was always this good?”
And here, a mother and daughter in Ohio, America, circa-Depression, discuss their “relationship”—why exactly they live in the same home unto that moment, why they are two grown women shelling peas together, what they have to show for it and each other.
In Toni Morrison’s 1973 novel Sula, published by Alfred Knopf at a time when “Black Power” commingled with Blaxploitation and Black revolution, three generations of impoverished Black whores—the third generation being educated, city-dwelling and experienced with “White men”—confront each other and their interior mysteries within their grand pre and post-Depression Ohio mansion. How is the home still standing? Who has passed through it? Who dies off within it? Who returns to claim it? Why are all levels occupied by vestiges of characters we would love to know better but almost hate to know at all—three alien and adopted toddler mulatto brothers who appear oddly the same and who finally wind up with the same name as a result (The “Deweys”), a cracked-out original son and brother torched in sacrifice when he will not rehabilitate (“Plum”), a good girl-bad girl-good girl come home who will preserve herself before she practices the good old African-American commitment and sentiment of never putting the family elderly into a nursing home (“Sula”). Not only does Sula finally throw the one-legged matriarch Eva into a nursing home and go on about what will be a shorter life than she can admit she had hoped, but she also departs from her best friend she has grown up with and formed herself with—a willowy, flexible and malleable character named Nel, that type of best friend who would forgive a friend for condescending her, patronizing her, losing touch with her and sleeping with her husband.
Sula, in many ways, is an ugly novel. I was introduced to it as a junior and wandering English student at the University of Chicago, in a course entitled Fiction of Three Americas, by a psychoanalytic, Americanist and Joyce-loving professor who was a novelist as well; this book is what finally anchored me into a reason to study English. That he would choose Sula, above all other of Morrison’s works, was a tribute to the awesome illusion of poetry as prose with the purpose of exposing the “put-down” Black American mind like never before. Thankfully, my mind was not put down in the course. I held a wonder in my hands each day that I carried a work to class and could speak freely on it; Sula proved to be the most wondrous of them all.
The final progeny in this slim trilogy of 3 generations, Sula, provides the title character and turning moments of the novel. Sula has learned, and seen, and experienced beyond the village, township, subdivision, rural area or neighborhood where her home of the “Bottom” is situated. It is Sula, 10 years beyond her departure from the town and her sincere questioning of where her life might be headed near the provincial, “Man-loving” life is not nearly as limited to it as she once thought it was but that ultimately it may be grandly limited to this place—for here is the only place where she may remain a Queen Bee, a Diva who controls things, a woman large and in charge, an influence and not just a participant. In the space of ten years that Morrison questionably leaves absent from the novel, betwixt when Sula leaves her residence of “The Bottom” and how she returns, a bildungsroman of girlhood gone good, the best it could have been, a discovery of a self and a return to the place that made that self.
There are not many things to love about Sula, but there is everything to love if these are your generations, these are your stories and you know these women in some way or fashion. Morrison discusses the constipation of the tertiary matriarch’s son, Eva’ Plum, nearly 20 years before that matriarch discovers that Plum has a severe drinking and drug problem in the basement of her home. Eva “gallops” down her staircases and burns Plum up as a result. Yet, when Eva’s eldest daughter Hannah is burning to death due to an accident and oversight in the home, it is Eva who hurls herself outside of a high story window to rescue Hannah. And in the novel, it was Hannah who first brought up and discussed “love.” Aphrodite would balk. This “love” is not what one would expect.
Hannah’s crime, committed during a conversation with her mother Eva and over the ritual of shelling peas, was to, simply, ask about “love.” Among these rooms, these doors, this house, these women, these men, and these generations of sisters one minute and mothers to daughters next, there is no room for love. There is only room for getting by, surviving, one day at a time, and “Hi, how ya doin’?” to the people or things that one might think matters. Anything beyond that is open to chance, to luck and to impossibility in this world of pre and post-Depression era working class Blacks that Toni Morrison so beautifully captures—for their honesty, loyalties, realities, gumption and strong, high heads.