An American harvest: the textual provenance of ‘Strange Fruit’

           Each morning I delight in my daily  ritual of cradling and sipping a hot cup of coffee while perusing the ‘news’—‘news’ in my definition not only encompasses reading a few articles in online journals but also checking my e-mail and Facebook to find out what is occurring in my world: personal and political; local and global.

           I’d like to think that although I gather my information while occasionally typing on a keyboard and staring at a screen it probably was the same experience Abel Meeropol, a Jewish-American high school teacher in the Bronx, had when he opened his newspaper and was confronted with what was thought to be this image:

Please understand by showing this photograph, I am not trying to be gratuitous but thorough.  Painfully thorough. 

This picture was taken by Lawrence Beitler.  It’s night time and the horror we are witnessing would be swallowed up in the darkness if it wasn’t harshly illuminated by what I assume to be the headlights of a car.  We see two young African-American men hung on a tree.  These men have names:  Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith.  They were accused of robbing and murdering a white factory worker and raping his white girlfriend.  Look at what the young men are wearing, or more aptly, barely wearing, because there are no photos that document the struggle that ensued prior to this picture being shot.  What the clothes hint to, but do not directly tell us, is that a mob broke into the jail where these men were being held with sledgehammers.  We, however, can read the dirt, blood, and tatters to know that both men were beaten and tortured before being hung. 

Look at the crowd.  They are all white but of different ages.  To the left we see a young white couple.  The camera has caught the young man in the beginnings of a smile.  He is clutching his wife/girlfriend’s thumb.  This small intimation arrests us because its sweetness is so out of context with the situation they are in.  The older woman to their right looks bored, as if the photograph has captured only the denouement. 

The people gaze off in the distance, somewhere behind the photographer.  Others gaze at the hanging bodies.  There is one exception to this and that person, in my opinion, creates the true horror of this picture.  Near the center a man stares right at us—through nearly eighty years; through history and death—and points to one of the hanging bodies in either pride or warning, but most likely both.

            What the photograph doesn’t show is that the police were complicit to this lynching or that there was a third man, James Cameron, who managed to escape.  It also doesn’t give us a historical context but it’s estimated that between 1882-1968, 4,743 people were lynched in the US.  (http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/strangefruit/film.html)

            Declared the song of the 20^th Century by Time, few people realize that Strange Fruit was originally a poem.  This poem was written by the aforementioned Abel Meeropol, under the pen name of Lewis Allan, who later set it to music.  It was inspired by the above photograph.  Meeropol later set it to music and thus created its better known form as a song.  And while many artists have performed Strange Fruit, only one singer comes to mind when we say its name: the inestimable Billie Holiday.

            Lady Day added Forbidden Fruit to her routine and is said to have sung it at the end of her performances with a somber single spotlight shining down on her.  She sang it even when it was met with racial epithets or threats of violence.  Combined with Holiday’s voice, the words gain dimension and weight---they are weighed down by sadness and mourning but Holiday’s voice is unfaltering with defiance. 
(http://www.ladyday.net/stuf/vfsept98.html)

            Ironically though, I am one of the few people that encountered possibly the least familiar form of Strange Fruit, a sculpture by Alison Saar which is displayed in the Baltimore Museum of Art.  I encountered this manifestation of Strange Fruit when I was either sixteen or seventeen while on a class trip.  My recollection is that although it occupied a corner, Saar’s work managed to dominate the room.   While Holiday gave Meeropol’s words metaphoric weight, Saar gives literal weight.  Suspended from the air from a rope tied around the feet, the dark form of a woman composed of wood and metal casts a shadow on the gallery floor.  Her lips, the only part with color, are a lurid, vaguely erotic red which contrasts with her attempts at modesty, clutching her breasts and pubis.  Made in 1995, Saar’s work addresses a modern form of ‘lynching’ which is the media’s portrayal of non-white women.  (http://books.google.com.hk/books?id=O3ZldmMty7UC&pg=PA210&lpg=PA210&dq=strange+fruit+sculpture+saar&source=bl&ots=p8btZtlHBJ&sig=ytkXAeBXS8Y82w3ktSsPKrom6LY&hl=en&sa=X&ei=ucMVT6-EI5Hb4QSksqj4BQ&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=strange%20fruit%20sculpture%20saar&f=false)

            Which brings us back to our newspaper, whether a set of pixels on a screen or ink on paper.  For me the beauty of Strange Fruit is its narrative: as a horrific act against humanity; as a haunting photograph in a newspaper; as an idea that persists even after the page was turned; as a poem written in a high school teacher’s busy day; as a song sung by one of the world’s most talented singers; as a sculpture that reminds us there is still so much more to do; as a feeling that transcends time.  Whichever form Strange Fruit speaks to you, it does so because someone made a choice to lend his or her voice to its narrative. 

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Who ISN’T Invited to Dinner: Paul Theroux and "Dark Star Safari"

“Which famous person, from any given time period, would you like to eat dinner with and why? “ is an interview question that most of us have or will answer at some point in our lives.  While some of us reply with the seemingly safe answers (Martin Luther King, Jr., Mahatma Gandhi, Helen Keller have received the societal nod of approval despite being very controversial figures on closer inspection), others may list the slightly more obscure (Tycho Brahe, Andrei Rubliev, or Margaret Sanger.)  Yet no one seems to ever ask the more interesting, negative form of the question: “Which famous person, from any given time period, would you NOT like to eat dinner with and why?”

After reading Paul Theroux’s Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Capetown, I have my answer should I ever need it.

The first page holds a very telling line for the trajectory of this travelogue: “Feeling that the place was so large it contained many untold tales and some hope and comedy and sweetness, too—feeling that there was more to Africa than misery and terror—I aimed to reinsert myself in the bundu, as we used to call the bush, and to wander the antique hinterland.” (1)  The key word is “we” and the reader needs to ask who else the author is referring to.  As Theroux was a former Peace Corps volunteer, my take on “we” extends from there: more or less privileged, educated white males usually aged 50 and above.  

My main complaint with Theroux is the assumption, either by him or his fans, that he has revolutionized travel writing, offering something other than what he himself characterizes as “like a postcard saying: “Everything is fine. Wish you were here.”  (http://www.salon.com/weekly/interview2960902.html)  This is very untrue.  Theroux uses a variety of very commonplace features found throughout personal diaries to professional ethnologies.  I will try to briefly outline a few:

1.   Sex.  Sex, as we know, sells.  While Theroux’s work is definitely not advocating sex tourism it definitely keeps the reader interested through sexual imagery.  In fact, there is little sex but Theroux cleverly keeps the reader tumescent and titillated with images of foreign sexual “taboos.”  These images run from ”Egyptian bananas” (a sort of female-oriented prostitution along the Nile, khitan (cliterectomy), leering at a covered woman on the way to jummah prayers to sexy nuns.  (See the following pages: 29, 50, 55, 99, 115, 120, 130, 132, 145, 172, 201, 247,250, 211, 300 to name only a few.)  Actually, each female character is almost inevitable introduced with an acknowledgement to her attractiveness or lack thereof. 

2.  Danger.  Danger, as we know, also sells.  And similar to his treatment to sex, Theroux likes to tease the reader with danger without actually delivering it.  Despite hearing about wars, theft, hyenas, landmines, and bandits there only two instances of immediate danger:  One, when Theroux is traveling along a stretch highway well known for banditry, his caravan is shot at.   Second, when a young woman is nearly raped outside a bathroom on a train.  With that said, the real violence (torture, war, rape, famine, political instability, exploitation, pollution, and disease) is mostly experienced by Africans themselves with little discussion of that fact by Theroux.  I would especially urge readers to watch where Theroux places “danger” in the novel.  Usually, it is either theatrically at the end or the beginning (or both!) of the chapter.  (37, 53, 60, 79, 93, 96, 98, 115, 116, 118, 119, 152, 154, 196, 260, 339, 349, 355, 366, 377, 380, 465)

3.  The Other.  Exotica, as we know, along with sex and danger sells (at least we understand his unquestioned popularity in the genre.)  Whether it is polygamy, camel meat, or witch doctors, Theroux knows what exotic African good to present his audience.   His treatment of the “natives,” can be only compared to the robustly racist tracts from the Victorians during the height of imperialism.  Here is a sampling of classic “native” archetypes:

Lovable, strange natives (84)

Backwards, ignorant, irrational native (19, 24, 73, 104, 152)

Hostile natives (102)

Child-like natives (303)

4.   Literary.  Compared to sex, violence, and exotica, literary prowess seems less marketable unless you consider that most readers would like the self-satisfaction of feeling as if they are well-read, educated people.  It also allows Theroux to maintain a place of unapproachable authority—the reader feeling that Theroux is educated is less tempted to question his opinions of Africa.  Theroux mainly draws from the Western canon (with Naguib Mahfouz and few others acting as tokens) quoting Pushkin, Nabokov, Waugh, Donne, Rimbaud, Melville, Conrad, etc.)   Again I urge the reader to note how often Theroux uses quoted text.  Also, note when you like an observation or a well-turned phrase.  9 out of 10 times it’s when he is quoting another author.

Lastly, Theroux uses some literary devices not usually found in travel literature:

5.   Quoted text:  Theroux usually uses an enormous amount of quoted text.  Some of it, as previously noted, is literary but most of it is the opinions of Africans themselves.  One would think that an excellent feature in such a book and I would normally agree but again note what they are saying.  They are usually discussing the most controversial, and often most unpopular, subject matter in the book whether it is violence directed at white landowners, AIDS, charitable aid, or apartheid.  Theroux carefully shields himself in others' words, careful never to offer his own opinion or analysis which in all truthfulness would have been the only real danger he would have faced while writing this book.

6.  Self-Promotion:  Perhaps one of the most nauseating aspects of reading this book was hearing all the little vignettes of Theroux’s ego:  seeing if his books are still banned, buying one of his books for an exiled African writer, meeting surprised readers throughout the trip, and listening to his old interviews on the radio.  Clearly Theroux made sure he packed his ego.

7.  Contradiction:  Throughout the novel, Theroux laments about his upcoming age and queries if he is too old to travel.  I cannot attest for his physical vigor but the reader does have to wonder about his mental vigor after reading a number of contradictions in the novel.  For example, Theroux vehemently states at the beginning of book he wants to be rid of all modern forms of communication which ensnare him in this modern world: TV, fax, radio, cellphones, internet,and newspapers yet he uses them throughout his journey.  He condemns conventional tourists yet partakes in a commercial Nile river cruise and a high class safari—he definitely makes time for souvenir shopping.  He mocks a bunch of young backpackers who decide it is too dangerous to go a certain route and then he himself admits to holing up in his hotel room out of fright.

In sum, Dark Star Safari is a spectacle and it never rises above that.   It has more in common with pornography (strategic  sex, violence, exotica, personal promotion, and endless repetition) than literature. Please consider Pico Iyer or Vikram Seth for travel writing that utilizes beautiful language, unsparing descriptions, and excellent reflections.  This is possibly the worst book I have ever read.  With that said, I urge you to read it (though please borrow it from the library—the least thing you should do is fund another one of his journeys.)  For teachers, this would be an excellent book for a low level anthropology class or a class discussing Orientalism or the construction of “other.”

Lastly, like I will soon be doing, keep a wary eye out for the old white guy with the note pad and dour expression.  I hope he hasn’t had a recent hankering for Japan.

I guess I should join Oprah’s Book Club: Praise for Uwem Akpan’s “Say You’re One of Them”

Two days after I finished Uwem Akpan’s Say You’re One of Them, Oprah Winfrey selected this collection of short stories as part of her popular book club.  As a reader, I personally hate to have my literary consumption tattooed with giant “O”s on the cover but I generally support the arguably most influential woman in modern history’s attempt to get people to read good books.  Akpan joins the rest of Winfrey’s literati entourage: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, William Faulkner, Leo Tolstoy, and Toni Morrison to name a few.

I’m curious to how Winfrey’s devotees, usually middle class women, will react to possibly the most violent, morally-challenging books I have ever read.  In fact, whether you read Say You’re One of Them on lazy Sunday mornings, on your lunch breaks, or a few minutes before bed time, I should warn the prospective reader that there is no “good” time to read Akpan’s horrific tales.

Prior to reading Say You’re One of Them, I considered Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle the most violent, though poignant, social commentary I have read.  It also contained, in my opinion the worst literary death, in which a minor character, young Stanislovas, falls asleep from exhaustion and malnutrition after hours at his place of illegal employment and is eaten alive by rats.  Please let me know of a worse literary fate. Akpan’s protagnists, all of which are children, now vie for this terrible distinction as they face an adult world of ethnic and religious violence, rape, prostitution, drug use, AIDS, poverty, and hunger.

When Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner first debuted, I was in the awkward position of hating a novel that everyone and their grandma adored.  To say you hated The Kite Runner in 2003-2004 was akin to declaring you considered drowning kittens as a hobby.  I still maintain that Hosseini’s prose and structure are amateurish at best and the novel simply capitalizes on a contemporary event. Whether, intentional or unintentional, the popularity of The Kite Runner among Americans is in part due to its complicity with the American invasion of Afghanistan.  I worried similarly that Akpan’s work would suffer the same trappings.  It does not.  Akpan is a talented writer and one I hope to follow as I age.

Summer's Last Heat: A Belated Reading of Bradbury's Classic

Despite appearing on many a summer reading list, I haven’t read Ray Bradbury’s classic work Fahrenheit 451 until now, at the ripe age of 28. The dystopian tale is worth the hype and I admittedly feel sheepish, as if I have been lurking under some sort of rock (albeit a fairly large rock as I am 5’11.)

Inspired by a 1933 photo of German soldiers and civilians burning books, Bradbury claims that the novel is not a commentary on censorship as widely thought (http://www.laweekly.com/2007-05-31/news/ray-bradbury-fahrenheit-451-misinterpreted/), but rather a criticism made towards television’s tendency to essentialize without analysis, making it a more appealing yet deadlier alternative to literature. 


Nonetheless, it’s hard not to read censorship as a major theme, particularly since the image that inspired Bradbury was indeed depicting an act of censorship. Personally, I see Bradbury’s novel as any bibliophile’s horror story: a metacognitive metaphor: a good book about the destruction of good books.


The pleasure derived from reading Bradbury’s work only intensifies its theme.  I read Fahrenheit 451 as I would have as a young reader—in a breathless, uninterrupted gulp.  It reminded me of my younger fifth grade self, staying up far too late into the night but waking content in completion and contemplation of a book; slightly drowsy and drunk off books for the rest of the day; falling in love with the power of books.


The work itself is beautifully crafted in both form and content—a Zoroastrian could not capture the dangerous beauty of fire better. Bradbury is wonderfully descriptive yet my favorite passages were in stark language as with this passage which depicts Montag’s response to the never-ending fleet of bombers tearing through the sky:


“Jesus God,” said Montag. “Every hour so many damn things in the sky! How in hell did those bombers get there every single second of our lives! Why doesn’t someone want to talk about it! We’ve started and won two atomic wars since 1990! Is it because we’re having so much fun at home we’ve forgotten the world? Is it cause we’re so rich and the rest of the world’s so poor and we just don’t care if they are? I’ve heard rumors; the world is starving, but we’re well fed. Is it true, the world works hard and we play? Is that why we’re hated so much?” (71)

Eerily, I, like Montag, frequently hear jet planes roaring across the sky as I live between two active military bases as my country fights simultaneously in two wars. Previously, I had blocked them out, rendered them harmless white noise until I began reading the novel which suddenly intensified their noise and frequency. I never thought before who was in the planes or where they were headed much like Montag rarely questions his own orderly life in the first third of the novel. This in many way sums Fahrenheit 451, people, not books are dangerous and if a book holds any danger it is in the fact that it compels the reader to examine the unexplored, often uncomfortable corners, of his or her mind.