teacher. My sick student has
gotten me sick. Yeck.
teacher. My sick student has
gotten me sick. Yeck.
Riding the subway is like playing a game of chance, I never know what I’m going to get. Some trips are totally calm, uninterrupted; others are so bad I have to switch cars. People watching is often entertaining, and I have been hugely surprised, in the short time that I’ve lived here, to recognise three different people on their commutes. What are the odds? I’m not someone that has a particular spot on the platform, nor do I get on the trains at the same time each day. Somehow though, the fates have lined up and faces that were foreign on a previous day become familiar on the next.
One thing that is a huge peeve of mine is when people don’t adjust their legs to accommodate newcomers to their bench. It’s happened to me with both men and women, but is a more regular occurrence with men. People have discussed this elsewhere on the internet, but I have also found it to be true: they sit with their legs spread, and cannot for the life of them close them when they have a seat mate. It is so disgustingly rude and entitled, and obviously not necessary. If some men can sit with their legs closed then it must be possible for other men to do the same.
Another thing I’ve noticed with male subway riders is their tendency to make noise. The subway is supposed to be a place where you keep your personal activity just that – personal. If you’re having a conversation, watching a movie, listening to music, that’s all fine, just don’t oblige your neighbours to be involved. Well, I have been the audience for many a rap freestyle, opera singing practice and general sing-along for my fellow male riders. I’ve also had the opportunity to go to a number of free (!) mini-concerts, as men have shared their music with all of us by playing it through the speakers of their phone or stereo. There are signs all over the cars informing passengers to wear headphones and speak quietly, but these are flagrantly ignored.
Why is it that these men think it’s ok to infringe on other passengers’ personal space and activity, to disregard the rules and pretend as though their actions are not in fact disrespectful? Power. Here comes that word again. The subway presents an opportunity for them to dominate a space and make their strength and presence known. Particularly for men who are part of minority groups, who have limited abilities to demonstrate their masculinity in the expected ways of the world: wealth, career, social prestige. The subway car or platform is a place where they can assert themselves and people are forced to pay attention because of the ways they are made to feel uncomfortable. This brings me to something else I’ve noticed – no one ever confronts them.
Perhaps with seating one individual might ask the man next to them to close his legs. For myself, I do the passive aggressive thing and wiggle around until I have room, take advantage of the shifting that happens during stops and starts. However, when it comes to men performing or enjoying a performance, they’re left alone. In weighing the possible outcomes of confronting them against the benefit of keeping the peace, it seems like the odds are ever in the men’s favour. I mean, as much as they invade our spaces and intrude in our lives, they clearly feel they have a right to what they’re doing, and/or they don’t think that it’s a big deal. How then, in the space of a subway ride, could you convince them otherwise? Could you peacefully convince them otherwise? I don’t know, but it certainly makes me angry – and feel impotent – about the fact that the best answer seems to be to try and ignore them, which is what everyone does. The status quo is maintained, but we all more or less peacefully ride the subway one more day.
“Papa, just cause you didn’t, that don’t mean…” Augustus took down a stick, one with an array of squirrels chasing one another, head to tail, tail to head, a line of sleek creatures going around and around the stick all the way to the top where a perfect acorn was waiting, stem and all. Augustus slammed the stick down across Henry’s shoulder and Henry crumpled to the floor. “Augustus, stop now!” Mildred shouted and knelt to her son. “Thas how a slave feel!” Augustus called down to him. “Thas just how every slave every day be feelin.”
Henry squirmed out of his mother’s arms and managed to get to his feet. He took the stick from his father. “Henry, no!” Mildred said. Henry, with two tries, broke the stick over his knee. “Thas how a master feels,” he said and went out the door.
Edward P. Jones, The Known World p. 138
I don’t usually mark up the books that I read. A passage has to be particularly striking for me to highlight it or write a note in the margins. This was one of those. I was overcome by the truth and the violence in this scene, and it’s haunted me ever since.
The Known World tells the story, in a roundabout way, of what happens to the plantation of black slave-owner Henry Townsend after he dies. It’s an incredible book, not least because the places and people are entirely fictional but feel so real I kept trying to look up miscellaneous facts and personalities. I told a cousin that my favourite thing about The Known World is probably the way it’s so destabilising. There are lots of characters involved, but Jones doesn’t tell their stories in chronological order, so it took a while to get my bearings and even then I felt like the ground was ever-shifting beneath my feet. There’s a little magical realism sprinkled throughout the story too, just enough so that you’re mostly on solid rock, but every now and again puddles of water creep through so slowly and ordinarily you wonder whether some fantastical event that you wouldn’t otherwise be taken in by could actually be possible.
Then of course the whole subject of the novel is unfamiliar territory – who really talks about black slave owners? Even though they were an extreme minority, the fact that there were free black people who owned slaves adds a fascinating complexity to the fabric of society during this period. One aspect of this complexity is played out in the relational dynamics of this scene, and dwelling on what’s happened for a little bit shows us why it’s important to think about these complexities at all.
Augustus and Mildred are Henry’s parents. All of them began their lives as slaves, and Augustus worked to free first himself, then his wife and finally his son. While he was still enslaved Henry developed a relationship with his master, which continued after he was freed. His former master mentored him and helped him develop his own plantation. This scene is the aftermath of Henry revealing to his parents that he has bought his first slave.
Augustus and Mildred are, understandably, bewildered – how could a son of theirs ever think to buy another human being? Did they somehow go wrong in assuming that he would implicitly understand the evils of owning another person? That it was tantamount to returning to Egypt “after God done took you outa there”? (137). They have to ask him, explicitly, whether or not he knows it’s wrong, and Henry replies that no one ever taught him so. Then he becomes defensive – owning slaves isn’t illegal; he’s not doing anything a white man wouldn’t do. It’s clear that parents and child are at odds, and Augustus, having vowed to himself never to suffer a slaveowner on his property, kicks Henry out. As he’s ushering his son out the door, he tries, one last time, to convey to Henry the implications of his purchase.
When Augustus brought the walking stick crashing down onto Henry’s shoulders, I felt as though I too was receiving the blow. It’s one thing to be moved by accounts of the mistreatment of slaves, to be appalled at how plantations were run and to be disgusted by Jim Crow laws. It’s quite another to imagine myself buckling to the floor every day under the force of a solid wooden stick slamming down onto my shoulders. I felt as though the wind was knocked out of me. I felt beaten down. The analogy was so very real. I cheered for Augustus for making his point so clearly, for definitively proving the moral high ground, even as I was still reeling from the blow he dealt his son. Then, before I could catch my breath, Henry comes back for the last word, demonstrating his immense power by actually breaking the stick over his knee. He is totally free from that subservient position, and, strangely, I felt myself rooting for him too. Yes! Go Henry! You’re not gonna take that! Sock it to ’em!
Therein lies the tension that makes this passage so illuminating and compelling. On the one hand, Augustus, standing up against the oppression of a system and refusing any part in it, even if it means ejecting his son from his house. On the other hand, Henry, who has found a way to extract himself from the system and will soon benefit from it. Who can blame him? In the moment his father chooses to represent him as a slave, Henry appears the underdog. Then he pulls himself up off of the floor, takes the white man’s chains and shows himself capable of destroying them. The memory of him beaten down is still so fresh in my mind, it’s easy to understand the delicious temptation for the power that a master wields, and the desire never to be on the ground that way again.
In this exchange we have two black men on opposite sides of the slavery debate, and both of them appear to be winning; well, winning in the sense that we can empathise with either side. It’s brilliant, and one example of the way The Known World constantly plays on our perceptions of absolutes, of truth and fiction. To the very end, I found myself wondering about my beliefs of the known and the unknown, what’s fixed and mutable in the world. What about decisions that some (black) people make today to look out for their best interests, deceiving themselves about the effects they have on the wider community? If they have personal experiences with these consequences, is it worthwhile illustrating these to try and convince them to pursue a less selfish course of action? How far does empathy for that individual’s experience with this pain go in our conversations with them? And let’s make this more personal – what about me? If there’s anything I learned from this novel, it’s that I can think I’m totally within my rights to act in some way or hold a particular belief that is in truth abhorrent.
The power dynamics described in The Known World – between slaves and slave owners; black, white and Native American people; civilians and the law; men and women – make this far away 19th century world more real to me, and make the unseen forces which operate in our world seem realer to me too. And I wonder about all the ways of being that I – we – have inherited: absolute, fluid and somewhere in that spectrum, from the world that Augustus and Henry lived in.