Dream Come True?

From the very beginning of the novel, we've seen Lee Oswald's desire to be in the spotlight. He's always stood out well in a crowd and strives leave his mark in history. As a kid we saw him with his pretentious tomes on Marxism and his accent that left him mocked wherever he travelled. He really didn't fit in very well with neither the marines nor the Russians, and has never been taken particularly seriously for his ideas. Reading this last section with the long-anticipated assassination of Kennedy, I couldn't help but wonder if Lee's childhood dream finally became reality here.

What made this chapter a bit frustrating for me was just how detached it was. The whole novel so far has been up and down everyone's thoughts, all building suspense for the famous shot. This section, while insightful and tied nicely to the plot that DeLillo has spent the previous 400 pages setting up, was more or less just a retelling of the famous Zapruder film. I immensely enjoyed how slow and carefully the whole event was written, but we unfortunately got very little insight into Lee's mind at all. It's as if DeLillo is teasing us, at the time when we want to hear Oswald the most, he seems to have gone silent.

Still, it sure appears to me that Lee's remained a fairly static character throughout the course of this novel. He's seemed to maintain his rather opportunistic tendencies, building multiple guises for himself, demanding that history examine him with a microscope. Of course the infamous Lee Harvey Oswald smirk has persisted as well, that half-smile he always seems to have, as if he smugly knows something nobody else does (and also appears on the covers of most of our books). Lee also takes it extremely hard when he realizes he's not the sole assassin of Kennedy (despite how history seems to remember him) and inadvertently completely tears apart the rest of Mackey's plan to have Lee shot immediately. I do believe that while he's firing the weapon Lee completely believes that this is his destiny, his Lee-Harvey-Oswald-sized spot in history, and once he realizes he's been played, his confusion and distress is genuine, not part of some grand scheme.

Ultimately though, it sure seems to me like Lee got almost exactly what he's always wanted, and his dreams did come true in a way on that Nov. 22, 1963.

Oswald's Difficult Character

I'm finding Lee Harvey Oswald's character somewhat difficult to pin down. Throughout the Frontline documentary he was definitely portrayed as a man who tended to act on his own and didn't enjoy following others' instructions. That seems to be resonating in the novel as well, as we've been discussing how Oswald likes to be different for the sake of being different. He appears smart, but is intentionally provocative and seems to enjoy being rejected by others. His exact beliefs or values can sometimes be somewhat difficult to pin down as well, and de Mohrenschildt mentions, "He may be a pure Marxist, the purest of believers. Or he may be an actor in real life."

I do think that Oswald's emotional detachment, lack of trust, and strong desire to go against the grain set him up fairly well to be an assassin. The Frontline documentary seemed to conclude that Oswald basically acted alone, presenting some possible ties to organized crime, but not pursuing them in depth. This seems fairly plausible from what we've seen of the novel so far, he enjoys doing things alone and nobody seems to particularly like him very much either.

What I found particularly interesting from the documentary of Oswald's life though, was his strange behavior after killing JFK. He seemed somewhat aimless, carelessly killing a police officer, ultimately winding up in a movie theater and getting himself caught. Afterward, he was recorded shouting about police brutality and completely denying owning the murder weapon at all. This whole showdown struck me as somewhat out of character, since he's clearly a very smart and organized man who would plan for events following the shooting. It almost seems like he wanted to get himself caught, and this seems to strongly indicate that Oswald wasn't just acting alone. I tend to lean toward Oswald having sole responsibility for JFK's death, but the more facts I hear about the case, the fuzzier it seems to become. I definitely look forward to seeing how Oswald's character continues to evolve throughout the novel.

Dana's Influence on Rufus

One of the main themes that's definitely being explored throughout Kindred is the capability and tendency of people to change, especially in the presence of some new social setting or dynamic. Kevin and Dana are both intensely interested in maintaining their twentieth century philosophies and attitudes, even in the context of such a wildly different world where every idea seems to go against theirs. Both of them, especially Dana, are fearful of adjusting too well to the backwards norms of this brutal time period. Equally importantly though, the book also explores this theme of human change as Dana tries to impart her contemporary ideas of racial and gender equality to Rufus in an effort to alter his ideas and actions for the better. She knows that she can only have an incredibly limited impact on him, but still she strives to go against his upbringing and, unfortunately, never seems to have as much effect on him as she thinks she does.

I don't doubt that Rufus demonstrates that she's done something to change him. He's clearly very sympathetic toward her, goes out of his way to keep her close to him, and makes an effort to treat her with some respect. Still, this only points to Dana's ability to make Rufus like her. She's failed to make any perceivable impact on his idea of a trusting relationship. He seems to have some underlying abandonment issues, demonstrated by how his relationships are always completely dominated by him. I don't think he can even begin to conceive of one where he isn't the power figure. He will never restrain himself from trying to get what he wants, no matter how much it will hurt others, and it makes me wonder what exactly it is that Dana's done to alter his actions in any way. He feels his love for Alice should be enough justification for her rape, and his more platonic love for Dana should be enough reason to force her to stay with him.

Rufus' lack of a conscience is pretty sickening, and Dana clearly feels the same way, yet she always seems to give him the benefit of the doubt at just about every opportunity. We saw this especially when she accepted that he had sent the letters, even when she had been warned he probably didn't. She feels a familial connection to Rufus and sees some hope for change in him, despite all evidence to the contrary. Rufus trusts Dana but completely takes her for granted, and Dana interprets his confidence around her and politeness toward her as her making a positive impact on him. I can't help but roll my eyes a bit every time Dana finds herself surprised at Rufus' harsh actions, thinking that she's figured him out. I definitely take his behavior to be more indicative of the fact that he has power over her, is used to having this sort of power over people like her, and has no intention to give it up.

I imagine Rufus will remain a fairly static character throughout the course of the novel and Dana will eventually have to accept her failure to change him.

A Delusional Middle-Aged Man

The postmodernist fiction we've been reading so far has certainly required some suspension of disbelief. Ragtime flaunted its fictitious historical meetups, forcing the reader to accept them as factual within the world of the novel. Mumbo Jumbo, even more so, constantly invited the reader to believe in the slew of fictitious or impossible elements of the story, like the secret societies and immortal beings and whatever else. Likewise, once aliens were introduced in Slaughterhouse Five, I had to decide whether or not to take their existence for granted within the novel itself. It's not always very easy to discern what's intended to be real or not real within the world of a work of fiction.

Obviously the aliens are figments of Vonnegut's imagination, and he doesn't try to hide that by giving them any sort of scientific credibility. Still, for most of the novel, I was fairly convinced that they did exist within the world of Slaughterhouse Five. It wasn't until I was toward the end that I really started to get the impression that they were only the delusions of a sad, damaged, middle-aged man. Chapter nine is where this is especially demonstrated, as, immediately following his traumatic brain injury and still under observation, he wanders into an adult bookstore where he begins to read The Big Board. I doubt it's much coincidence that it's about "an Earthling man and woman who were kidnapped by extra-terrestrials" and "put on display in a zoo on a planet called Zircon-212." Only moments later, he catches a glimpse of the pornstar Montana Wildhack and an article speculating of her disappearance. His broken mind immediately latches onto these random details of his surroundings and used them to help craft a new story of himself.

It seemed fairly evident to me at this point that poor Billy is having delusions that are drastically upsetting his memory. Nearly all of his time travel episodes that he describes throughout the novel only take him to points preceding the brain injury and his daughter shortly afterward asking, "What are we going to do with you?" His memory is disrupted and jumbled, and he makes sense of it all by saying he became "unstuck in time" and was, in a completely unrelated event, abducted by aliens. This works well to explain Billy's passivity and reluctance to try and affect any outcomes he's sure will happen during his time travels. His own death, the only event he time travels to beyond the events immediately following his plane crash (I think this is true, someone please fact check me if I'm incorrect here), is almost certainly a figment of his own imagination. Unfortunately, he'll probably meet his end in a decidedly less dramatic way down the line.

I definitely believe that Billy is a very tragic character, and certainly an interesting choice of personality with which to frame Vonnegut's story.

So What Genre is Mumbo Jumbo Anyways?

Recently in class, we've delved into the idea that Mumbo Jumbo can be viewed as an ontological detective novel. Throughout the story, LaBas is acting as a detective, trying to unravel the mystery of the big bad Atonists interfering with and trying to take down Jes Grew. He's constantly gathering clues and putting together metaphysical evidence that reveals Hinckle Von Vampton to be the villain he is, finally culminating in the great story beginning in ancient Egypt that satisfyingly fills in the mysterious holes lurking in the narrative. The whole book plays out like a movie, with a number of obviously cinematic elements scattered throughout, like the title coming after the first chapter and the stage cues in the final chapter. I can definitely understand the book being viewed as a detective novel of sorts.

Still, I feel like if I were to describe the novel to someone, I'm not sure I would call it a detective story. There are just so many other elements at play throughout the book I'm very reluctant to pin it to just one genre. The novel consists of a whole number of themes and stories, and it's all jumbled enough so as to appear something like a collage. It seems like Reed is most trying to make fun of contemporary western culture and reveal an alternate perspective to early twentieth century history directly in opposition to the common "Atonist" narrative. I would say that his method of telling a detective story is definitely twisting and building on the modernist ways of doing so, but it's not his chief purpose in the novel.

So it's pretty difficult to assign some specific genre to Mumbo Jumbo that people will understand immediately. It's not really like any other works I've read before, and I would say intentionally so. It's a very postmodernist novel, obviously, and is designed to be particularly unpalatable or unfamiliar, at least at first. Slowly, as I read, it opened itself up as satire, historical narrative, a detective story, and also text simply designed to provoke the reader. This chaotic mixture of work definitely seems to allow for a whole slew of interpretations, as I'm sure Reed was aware. I'm certainly glad to have read it, I'm just still gathering my thoughts together and trying to determine exactly what it is I've read.

History in the Making

In class we've been grappling with the idea that history might just be a collection of arbitrary events that are magically strung together by historians to form compelling stories. I certainly don't think it's a very intuitive way of thinking about the historical record. Chronology and cause-and-effect tend to be our primary concerns and it's the burden of proof that keeps historians from making random connections between seemingly unrelated events. Still though, the physical evidence more often than not only sheds light on one potential story, when something entirely different may have happened. All throughout Ragtime, Doctorow presents a whole number of improbable situations but the book nonetheless remains historically grounded, and nothing in it can be definitively pointed out to not have happened. It's very frustrating just how open to interpretation and possibility the historical record is.

Rarely, it seems, are the historical events themselves disputed. Its the unrecorded encounters and unclear relations between these events that enable historians to create a variety of stories from different perspectives, some disputed and others not so much. To me, a historian has always been someone who analyzes primary sources, tangible evidence, the works of other historians, and formulates their own uniquely-positioned narrative equally subject to analysis and criticism. Not all historical events are created equal, and it's up to the historian to determine which ones make for an interesting perspective or important connection. In this way, all histories leave out information and offer interpretation of the evidence they present, or else they would be entirely worthless.

Postmodernism teaches us that there is no one true historical perspective or narrative from which to view events past. This is extremely important, highlighting the key idea that history is a discussion. New narratives are constantly being presented, differing perspectives being emphasized and illustrated. Nobody should sit in a history class and mindlessly treat the subject matter as gospel, because the mere recounting of undisputed historical events is inherently demonstrating bias in some way or another. Stories (and flowcharts) need to be constantly challenged and tested, their purposes and positions made transparent. As is repeatedly demonstrated throughout Ragtime and the articles we've been studying, we can never have all the facts about history or understand every intimate cause-and-effect. It is unproductive at best and malicious at worst to pretend like we do.

Coalhouse's Movement

There's been a fair amount of class discussion recently about Coalhouse Walker, primarily concerning his actions following the destruction of his car. One of the most controversial aspects of of these unfolding events is probably whether or not his violence is justified. Coalhouse could have just as easily paid the arbitrary fine set forth by the men and been on his way. Being a full grown man black man living in this period of America, he, like many others, has in all likelihood had to submit to the unfair tolls of racism before.  This time was different though, and he instead chose to take the hard way, refusing to suffer the consequences of his skin tone. He firmly asserts and fights for the belief that he has rights equal to any other and justice will prevail for him.

He's fully aware that he's representing something larger than himself by taking such a resolute stand. He knows that if he emerges from this struggle victorious, this instance will be cited again and again and will hopefully begin to set a precedent for the rights of African Americans in the future. Presenting himself as a respectable, well-off man, he demands to be taken seriously. Doctorow certainly seems to, judging by his lack of irony about Coalhouse and his distancing himself from the events to make them flow as organically as possible.

Doctorow doesn't condone Coalhouse's murders and destruction of property, but he does appear to deem it necessary. Coalhouse has thoroughly demonstrated that, alone, he has pretty much exhausted all possible legal means of getting his justice. Nonetheless, I feel he was fully prepared, and unfortunately expecting, to escalate the situation. He couldn't just give up and accept defeat, his single mission was to restore his dignity and make a push toward African American civil rights. He's not some crazed psychopath who just snapped one day, he's actually being very transparent with his desires and making the conditions of his war very clear. He doesn't want to have to fight it, but he feels as though he must, and for it to have any meaning at all it needs to be as public as possible. The bombings of the firehouses hold the public's attention and the car is a tangible thing that he wants people to see and feel for, as though it were a martyr of some sort.

The violence shouldn't be necessary, but racism is extremely ugly. Coalhouse is now waiting for the authorities to 'just give him his car and justice' instead of spending all the effort to pursue him in parallel to how they originally wanted him to 'just pay the $25.' The war was certainly starting to work in his favor too, as "Will Conklin became a despised person everywhere." (219) Coalhouse is tired of waiting for his justice and has now willfully become the leader of a movement, and as far as I can tell, he's playing this out as best as he possibly could.

END HISTORY AS FICTION POSTS, BEGIN HERO'S JOURNEY POSTS

This blog has been recycled from one class to another, so this is the point where my posts on "History as Fiction" stop and my posts on heroism-themed literature begin. So stop scrolling.