Another Evening with the Nu Skool of African American Thought

Yesterday evening, I was in St. Paul, Minnesota, attending a meeting of the Nu Skool of African American Thought. I had been invited to give a talk, as I reported on this blog. After consultations with me, Nu Skool facilitator Adrian Mack had formulated the topic of my talk as "Cultural Continuity From Africa to the Americas: Black Creativity and Resistance."

The evening started with announcements and a reading of a poem by Adrian Mack which dwelt on the historical experience of Africans and people of African descent. We split into small groups and discussed several issues, such as what resistance meant for us and how we conceptualized the continuity of African and African Diaspora cultural expression.

Then I was introduced to the audience, so I could initiate the main discussion. I started by observing that the previous remarks had highlighted the key issues I might have wanted to dwell on. However, I underlined what I consider most vital considerations.

First I said that in my role as a teacher of Literature and Folklore, I pay great attention to Africa as the cradle of the human race, which means that Africa is where language, literature and other forms of cultural production originated and evolved. I pointed to the present day Tanzania, Kenya, and Ethiopia as the places most closely associated with human origins.

I said that humans migrated from there to other parts of Africa and the world after having acquired the knowledge and skills required for survival and further development. Not wanting to dwell too much on this, I fast forwarded my account to Ancient Egypt, where writing evolved, enabling the production of written records, including religious teachings and folktales, such as the "Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor" and "The Tale of the Two Brothers."

I talked about the "Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor" as a precursor, so to speak, of tales such as The Odyssey of Homer, "Sindbad the Sailor," Daniel Defoe's  Robinson Crusoe, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." Beyond the Ancient Egyptian tradition, for which we have written evidence, I dwelt on oral traditions that flourished in Africa, such as the ones which enslaved Africans brought to the Americas.

I highlighted the fact that these traditions expressed the African philosophy, value systems, imagination, aesthetic consciousness, and creativity. I cited proverbs as an example of how Africans thought about values and the human condition. In the absence of books, archives and libraries, each one of those ancestors of ours was a walking encyclopaedia, and a dynamic one at that, since there was unending interaction and communication between people, whereby each individual's knowledge  was being constantly refreshed and enriched.

Such is the heritage that enslaved Africans brought to the Americas. Tales, songs, proverbs, skills, customs, and beliefs were brought here, which have been extensively documented over the last two centuries or so. I mentioned, for example, the work of Zora Neale Hurston in the southern United States and the Caribbean. But, I noted, Africans were taken to other parts of the world also, where some distinguished themselves in various fields.

I gave the example of Antar bin Shaddad, the pre-eminent poet of pre-Islamic Arabia, who is still celebrated by the Arabs. I mentioned another black poet of Baghdad who was famous there at the beginning of the 9th century AD and then moved to Spain where he made significant contributions to Andalusian poetry. I also mentioned Alexander Pushkin, the father of Russian literature, who had African ancestry. The list of such notables is long.

In response to questions from the audience, seeking clarification on the connections between African traditions and African American traditions, I talked about "playing the dozens," as an example of the continuation of the African tradition of joking relations in general and banter in particular. I also mentioned trickster tales. Trickster tales, such as those of Brer Rabbit, exemplify this connection.

If time had allowed, I would have told a tale or two with both an African and an African American version. In line with the theme of my talk, notably the idea of resistance, I would have wanted to focus on the trickster tale. Trickster tales in the time of slavery in the Americas, as well as songs of protest, even in the guise of spirituals, are most obvious expressions of black resentment towards and resistance to oppression. Tales such as those of High John the Conqueror, Shine, and Stackolee, not only served as a strategy of psychological survival through laughter at the expense of the slave master as he was outwitted by the tricksters, but also expressed the aspirations of slaves to triumph over the slave master. In all, there is much to say about folklore as both an expression and a vehicle of resistance.

Nawal el Saadawi and "The Fall of the Imam"

This week, in my course on Muslim Women Writers, we have been discussing Nawal el Saadawi's The Fall of the Imam. Reading this engaging novel, which moves freely between dream and reality, memory and fantasy, and is peppered with irony, sarcasm, and sharp wit, we see its underlying continuous indictment of oppression and injustices perpetrated in the name of religion.

In order to gain a sense of the issues that are central in Nawal el Saadawi's life and work, and to witness the spirit of her activism as a champion of women's rights, we watched this video

The Spring Semester Has Started

The spring semester started on February 8 here at St. Olaf College. I am teaching three courses: First Year Writing, Folklore, and Muslim Women Writers. I have taught First Year Writing many times and Folklore a number of times, but will be teaching Muslim Women Writers for the first time.

Teaching a course again and again does not diminish its freshness. It is always a different experience, even if we are discussing the same texts. My Muslim Women Writers course is going to be even more of a novelty, as I have noted, and I wish to say a word about it.

I will be teaching the following texts:

1. Aboulela, Leila. Minaret. Grove. 
2. Ali, Monica. Brick Lane. Scribner.
3. Ba, Mariama. So Long a Letter. Waveland Press, Inc.
4. el Saadawi, Nawal. The Fall of the Imam. Telegram Books.
5. Hossein, Rokeya S. Sultana's Dream. Feminist Press.
6. Mattu, Ayesha. & Nura Maznavi. Love, InshAllah. Soft Skull Press.
7. Nafisi, Azar. Reading Lolita in Tehran. Random.

Of all these works, I have only read Minaret, So Long a Letter, and The Fall of the Imam. In preparing for the course, I have been reading other works, particularly Amina Wadud's Qur'an and Woman and Opening the Gates: A Century of Arab Feminist Writing, edited by Margot Badran and Miriam Cooke.

I have already talked to the class about Islam, dwelling on Muhammad, The Qur'an, the hadiths and the five pillars. I will be saying more based on the readings, the first of which will be Sultana's Dream.

Connecting With "Minnesota Prairie Roots"

One of the joys and benefits of participating in fairs and festivals is getting to know people. I learn about the interesting things they do, their experiences, thoughts and dreams.

At the August 22, Faribault International Festival, for example, I met Audrey Kletscher Helbling, a writer and photographer whose blog Minnesota Prairie Roots chronicles Minnesota life in photos and text.

I like Audrey's photographs of Faribault, a city I know well. She deftly captures highlights of the Faribault International Festival. My interest in Literature and Folklore has taught me to see photography as a form of storytelling, and I appreciate it as such.

At the Faribault International Festival this year, Audrey spent some minutes at my table, where I had displayed my books. She took a photo of me, seen above, which she featured on her blog.

Audrey's life story is a rich mix of experiences and accomplishments. I look forward to seeing more of her photographs and reading her works, and perhaps seeing her again next year at the Faribault International Festival.

The South Asian Literature Final Exam

This afternoon, my South Asian Literature students did the final examination. I drafted the questions last night, after a two day struggle as I noted in my previous blog post. Looking at these questions, neither I nor anyone else, I suppose, can believe that it took me a rather long time to create them. For two days, my mind was simply unable to do what I desired.

Eventually, I created three questions, from which the students were required to answer two. I am willing to present the questions here, for whatever they are worth:

1) Discuss the situation of the Parsees in Bapsi Sidhwa's The Crow Eaters and how they deal with it.

2) Discuss one of the characters in Bapsi Sidhwa's The Crow Eaters.

3) Discuss the relationship between any two characters in Romesh Gunesekera's Reef.

Certainly, I could have created a question dealing with narrative techniques or artistry in general. However, considering that the class comprises students of different disciplines, spanning the spectrum from mathematics to exercise science, I decided to ask questions that would be fair to everyone. If this was a class of only English majors, I would create at least one question on the artistic dimension of the literary works.

With the teaching and the final examination over, I am bracing myself for grading the answer scripts, a task that can be full of surprises but is always interesting and refreshing. One of the surprises is simply that a student majoring in, say, biology or economics might be the one with the best performance in an examination like this one, which, according to conventional wisdom, is outside that student's field. In a liberal arts college such St. Olaf, however, such surprises are not uncommon. That, at least, has been my experience.

An English Class at Augustana College

I was a guest of Augustana College, Illinois, from January 30 to February 2. The highlight of my visit was a talk I gave to over 40 students and faculty preparing to go to Ghana and Senegal on a study program. However, as often happens during such visits, I did other activities as well, one of which was to visit Professor John Tawiah-Boateng's English class.
Professor Tawiah-Boateng had told me that at the time of my visit, the class would be reading Chinua Achebe's short story, "Marriage is a Private Affair," and I was to lead the discussion on that story. Introducing me to the students, he mentioned my various academic activites, travels, and publications. He noted that I had written a study guide on Chinua Achebe's "Things Fall Apart." Before this invitation to Augustana College, I had not read Achebe's "Marriage is a Private Affair." Reading the story, as I was preparing for this visit, I found it to be vintage Achebe.
Not only does Achebe dwell on conflict between indigenous African and European culture, but he also explores the contradictions within the so called indigenous culture. His description of an elder torn between the two conflicting worlds is memorable, if ironic, at the same time.In discussing the story, I led the students through an exploration of its themes, such as the dialectic between rural and urban reality, gender and the relations between men and women, language and communication.
I dwelt on the central place of marriage in African culture as depicted in folklore and literature. I highlighted the specific issue of choosing a spouse and the cautionary narratives depicting young people who defied tradition and parental wishes: Amos Tutuola's "The Complete Gentleman" and Ama Ata Aidoo's "The Dilemma of a Ghost" and "Anowa."On the subject of parental wishes and injunctions, I mentioned Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice" and the theme of the three caskets.
With imput from the students and Professor Tawian-Boateng, I think we had a good class. I can sit back, relax, and remember that class, reflecting on what a priviledge it is to be a teacher, blessed with the opportunity to touch minds across the world.

J.M. Coetzee: Waiting for the Barbarians

J.M. Coetzee is one of the writers whose works I have been teaching, in the context of Post-colonial literature and also as part of my new course on South African Literature. I have taught Coetzee's In the Heart of the Country, Disgrace, and Foe, and, lately, Waiting for the Barbarians.

Whenever I teach my literature courses, I like to include some works I have not read before, so that I can explore these works with the students. I enjoy the risks this entails, such as lagging behind the students in reading the text. A convert to Paulo Freire's Pedagogy of the Oppressed, I feel that this somehow empowers the students.

As part of my South African Literature course this semester, I have been teaching Waiting for the Barbarians, a haunting narrative whose very first sentence catches your attention: "I have never seen anything like it: two little discs of glass suspended in front of his eyes in loops of wire."

Waiting for the Barbarians can be read on many levels. On the surface, this is a novel about a frontier town--at the farthest end of an Empire--anxious about an invasion by barbarians who live just beyond. The fear of the barbarians and the actions the rulers take to confront that threat invests this novel with allegorical significance, even for our time. The fear of evil forces, of enemies, is quintessentially human, and Coetzee explores the impact of this fear on the people who run the Empire as well as on their subjects.

Trying to decode Coetzee's novel, I have invoked works as disparate as Kafka's The Trial and the powerful play, Fire on the Snow, by Douglas Stewart of Australia. I have invoked theories of alienation and the absurd as articulated by existentialists and other philosophers. I even made my students read Ward Churchill's controversial essay, On the Justice of Roosting Chickens.

One of the most intriguing aspects of Waiting for the Barbarians is its lack of geographical specificity. We don't know where on earth the story takes place. It could be anywhere. History is replete with examples of the workings of Empire as described in this novel, examples of what happens when rulers use the idea of enemies--real of imagined, domestic or foreign--to whip up xenophobia and clamp down on the population. The siege conditions and mentality Coetzee describes so insightfully has something in common with the story Albert Camus tells in The Plague.

With its spare storyline, flowing like a silken thread, Waiting for the Barbarians is a masterful depiction of the dark side of the human condition. We might be unwilling to take a pessimistic view of ourselves, but history, unfortunately, yields unforgettable examples of the kind of truths Coetzee tells. We so readily believe dire warnings about enemies being out there, waiting to harm us, that we succumb to manipulation by those who claim to be safeguarding our security. We are, perhaps, our own worst enemies.

Teaching South African Literature

This Spring semester, 2009, for the first time since I came to St. Olaf College, I taught South African Literature. It was the first offering of a course I designed last year, titled African Literature. Designing the course afforded me the opportunity to showcase the rich traditions of my continent. Africa is where language and storytelling evolved, since that is the original home of humans. The African Literature course is meant to be open ended. It can dwell on a particular region, a set of authors, a topic. For this semester, I chose to focus on South Africa.

Over the years, I have encountered the works of many South African writers. In secondary school, back in Tanzania, I read Peter Abrahams’s Mine Boy, and was moved by it. I also read short stories by such writers as Ezekiel Mphahlele, Richard Rive, James Mathews, and Alex La Guma. The little collection, Quartet, published by Heinemann, created a lasting impression on me.

As an undergraduate at the University of Dar es Salaam, 1973-76, I read more works, such as the plays of Athol Fugard and Lewis Nkosi, as well as poetry by Dennis Brutus, Keorapetse Kgositsile and other poets. Both Alex la Guma and Kgositsile taught us at the University of Dar es Salaam, as did Mofolo Bulane of Lesotho, who introduced us to the study of folklore. Then, as a graduate student at the University of Wisconsin Madison, 1980-86, I studied more south African literature, including the oral tradition, under professors Daniel Kunene and Harold Scheub. Kunene’s expertise on SeSotho poetry and Mofolo’s works, and Scheub’s expertise on oral narratives greatly enhanced our understanding. We studied the Xhosa intsomi, Shona praise poetry, and the Zulu izibongo, A.C Jordan, Mazisi Kunene, Athol Fugard, and many other writers. It was during that time that I read the works of critics such as Lewis Nkosi, whose book, Tasks and Masks, left a lasting impression on me.

In the course of my own career as a teacher, I have taught the works of many South African writers, including Thomas Mofolo, Peter Abrahams, Alex la Guma, Nadine Gordimer, Dennis Brutus, J.M Coetzee, Bessie Head, Percy Mtwa and Mbongeni Ngema.

No wonder that when the English Department at St. Olaf College asked me to design a course on African literature, I thought right away of South African Literature. I felt well prepared. I could have, as easily, designed a course on Nigerian Literature, Kenyan Literature, East African Literature, Contemporary African Women Writers or on some theme. The possibilities are numerous and equally interesting. In a way, the choice of South Africa was arbitrary, but, again, not quite so.

I taught Mofolo's Chaka, Peter Abrahams's Mine Boy, Nadine Gordimer's July's People, J.M. Coetzee's Foe, Athol Fugard's Master Harold and the Boys, Mbongeni Ngema's Woza Albert, and Zakes Mda's Madonna of Excelsior. I like to include, in my reading list, works I have not read before. This time, I tried Madonna of Excelsior. I discovered, as we read it, that it is moving story that explores the realities of contemporary South Africa, ranging from illicit racial relations between white men and black women under apartheid to the corruption of power in the wake of apartheid.

Re-reading works one had first encountered in earlier years always turns up something new and fresh. I experienced this most clearly with Mine Boy, which brought back memories of my first encounters with Zuma, one of the main characters. Zuma's coming from a village into the city and experiencing the strange ways of the city reminded me of “Chicago,” Carl Sandburg’s famous poem, in which Sandburg describes the move from the rural to the urban space as entailing the loss of innocence. When I first read Mine Boy, I was but a teenager. In subsequent years I read widely, including Marx and Engels’s Communist Manifesto, which neatly illuminates Leah’s comments on the role of money in Zuma's new world.

We ended the course with a selection of poems, including Dennis Brutus’s “Nightsong: City” which, for some reason, I have always liked very much. In the final examination, I asked students to discuss this poem alongside “Night of Terror,” another searching, soulful poem, by Willie Adams.

Overall, I found the course most satisfying, and I look forward to teaching it again and again.