The American Studies Association is having its annual meeting now, virtually. I presented a talk that didn’t have a title. If it did, it might have been Black Living and/as Black Freedom. I’m posting the talk here because I know many people could not see our virtual panel. Organized by Julius Fleming, it also featured Michelle M. Wright and Michael Sawyer. I could not transcribe the rich Q&A, but I will amend some of my own thoughts.
The Talk:
As our theme is blackness and time, I want to begin by acknowledging the discrepant interval Covid time has introduced into all of our lives. It is an interval of heightened expectation and anxiety, postponed joy, and postponed grief. I’m presenting from Nashville, the ancestral land of the Cherokee and Shawnee people. I acknowledge the of multiple unresolved timelines of genocide, stolen land, stolen labor, stolen pasts and futures whose complex weave and lingering ghosts, commingling theres and thens, are the history of the present. We gather. May we imagine and work toward and build better futures that honor the dead and the living.
Thinking after Sylvia Wynter for whom black studies is a re-enchantment with the critique of coloniality (I draw the phrase from an unpublished talk by Rinaldo Walcott), I propose we study the spacetimes of black living—what I call in a forthcoming article the black situation—in their complexity and unscalability rather than abstract “blackness.” [Interjection: it’s the -ness, the nominal, that worries me.] The latter, whether explicitly yoked to Afropessimism or not, at least rhetorically obliges the sense of a more or less static antagonism—a “dichotomy” (Wilderson, revising the master/slave dialectic) within which time does not pass, only repeats.
Our collective sense of living within the penumbra of a ceaseless catastrophe whose contours we cannot know but only sense is symptomatic what I think of as a crisis of temporality: a theoretical and affective disjuncture between temporality and history, an experience of time lived and theorized as an accretion of exhausted past possibilities and foreclosed futures. I could fill my time with a list of sovereignties undermined by leaders who were assassinated or corrupt. I could detail the effects of the state of siege, shaped by killings, imprisonment, and what Ruth Wilson Gilmore termed “organized abandonment” on the domestic and international scenes. I could draw attention to people whose freedom dreams surpassed sovereignty. I could tease out the implications of what looks to be an effective domestication of Black studies so that scaling logics of the US or overdeveloped world stand in for the world as such. [Interjection: I wish I had included the time of inarceration, for those imprisoned and for their communities, the time of waiting at the benefit office, waiting for pay day, waiting for the money order from relatives abroad, of waiting for the day when the translator you need will be in the office to help you with your claim, and more.]
A “crisis of temporality” has as its flipside a crisis of history: the present navigates unresolved antagonisms and attachments to outmoded desires without grasping the relation between the unresolved and the outmoded, or their relation to the new forms antagonisms take. My hypothesis is that this disjuncture refracts the experience of living in the wake of subverted, annulled, or still unfulfilled collective freedom projects across the diaspora. In the absence, say, of Black nationalism’s projected past to be redeemed on the one hand or, say, the Black bourgeoisie’s faith in the project and promise of incorporation into the nation state, time itself feels disordered. The “total perspective against which the work of the intellectual unfolds” Hortense Spillers called for appears to us now in the guise of ontology. I worry that easy reference to an “antiblack world” obscures the material conditions and the complexities of Black living.
In short, I have some questions about the ways we—Black studies scholars—theorize now, recognizing that theory is a) the form of a desire to connect discrepant issues, attachments, incoherencies, and contradictions that shape the living of a life and b) the form of a desire to relate to others across differences of space, geography, and history among others. Invoking Katherine McKittrick, “What happens to our understanding of black humanity when our analytical frames do not emerge from a broad swathe of numbing racial violence but, instead, from multiple and untracked enunciations of black life?” (Dear Science 105).
Let’s approach that question through what Cedric Robinson in Black Marxism terms “the invention of the Negro.” As readers of Sylvia Wynter, of Frantz Fanon, we might situate that invention alongside the “parallel discursive and institutional inventions” that include the secular West itself along with its necessary categoremes. Invention here is not an event, a one-time act, but a historical process, a framework for epistemological and other forms of production. Framed as invention, “antiblackness” is one way of worlding the world and, like other hegemonic worldviews, it works by discrediting alternatives and minimizing daily struggles and other worldmaking projects. The work of black critical theory is to uplift those struggles not in a bid to insist, citing Lauren Berlant, on the successful resistance of “sovereign persons and publics in self-relation and relation to the state” but in order better to grasp how the normative and legal strictures shaping ordinary life are reproduced and altered through direct and indirect forms of sabotage (see Erica R. Edwards on sabotage).
Invention is a site of practical struggle to transform practical everyday consciousness, the very bounds of the thinkable and knowable. Black histories—black living—precede and exceed the invention of normative and legal structures meant to normalize Black enslavement and subjugation as a subspecies of a more general unfreedom. Black subjugation normalizes quotidian unfreedom by making it unthinkable. People think they are free because they imagine, see and benefit from black immiseration.
One conclusion, I think, is that “Negro” or “Black” is not our name. This, I think, is why Robinson has recourse to the quasi-nationalist “ontological totality” to which some maintain fidelity. If the invention of the Negro is a modality of social poetics, Robinson’s ontological totality is a counter-poetics, a drama staged and staked on what that name “Negro” or “black” might conjure. We may, with hope, respond when called by the wrong name. [Interjection: The Cherokee and the Shawnee are the Indigenous groups whose names I know who once inhabited Middle Tennessee. There were others whose names remain unknown. I want to acknowledge them, too.]
We may, with hope, call to others to see who will answer, to see what is answerable. I want to emphasize the call. Taking place in language, it is not strictly legible as a sovereign act, but participates in the madness of redefinition, of the failure of communication as its possibility. Think of George Clinton’s What’s happening, Black? on “Chocolate City.” Who answers? Perhaps the underlying order (or, if you like, “grammar”) of call and response is white supremacist. I don’t think it is. More importantly, I think the unruly desire of the call—of affiliation—shakes something loose. The interval between call and anticipated or longed-for response is the time of living. History is a process of making fit or refusing a name that “properly” belongs to no one.
(Here, framed as response to and symptom of a crisis of temporality, I’m interested in what the desire to make slave and black work metaleptically as metaphors for one another does. Metalepsis: making the (ghosts of) legal and normative processes by which black flesh becomes the symbolic and cultural site upon which legal, economic, and social orders are inscribed coexist with and overwrite the processes by which black and slave post-Emancipation have been strategically disarticulated. Poor people, encouraged to work hard so they won’t be in the same position as their neighbors or their family know that disarticulation. Promoting “exceptional” black people serves the interest of ongoing counterinsurgency efforts [going back to the techniques by which enslaved people were dissuaded from revolt] that narrow the legitimate range of black political ambition. It was not destiny that Black people, not known to each other prior to the transatlantic slave trade as such, would be enslaved. Some people have strategically been spared the burden of (some of) the legacy of enslavement and serve to discipline the majority. The process of disaggregation has everything to do with post-Civil Rights politics that, for present purposes, I link to a more general crisis of temporality.)
Sylvia Wynter has helpfully framed humanity as a rhythmic weave of nature and narrative, each incomplete and undone and redone by the other. (Here I draw on McKittrick, O’Shaughnessy and Witaszek). One conclusion to make in these short comments is that we cannot with any confidence speak of the ontology or, indeed, “lived experience” of blackness or the black as fixed outside of time, outside of our stories, outside of our desire for certain stories which is itself deeply implicated in our attachment to certain states of affairs. Staying in this vein, to misname genres of black living by calling them black life, is to still them within the nominal’s amber or museum wax. Borrowing another of Wynter’s powerful figures, to conflate narrative and nature is to conflate map and territory. What does it mean then insist that there’s no way out?
What if we told the history of blackness—or better Black living—as a history of the untimely? What if we took seriously the unfulfilled or subverted futures that inform a general sense of mourning—an inability to make Blackness present, to make it local–in a place or a body? What if, deeper still, we didn’t study blackness as the invention of an ontological totality but delved deeper into what remains implicit in Robinson: the invention of black freedom—black living out of bounds—despite refused relation (Du Bois), wounded kinship (Mackey), distorted or denied kinship (Spillers)? Fear of black freedom, rather than the presence of Black being, engenders mechanisms of control and subjugation, a point Hartman and others have been making [for decades]. The oppressor, who imagines himself free, anticipates and prevents those expressions of freedom that might sabotage the system. To study black living is to study both the changing situation of Black studies and the transforming political imaginings, desires, and strategies, within and beyond the aesthetic realm, that unevenly shape black social life. [Gerunds easily nominalize but I want to keep the emphasis on activity.] It is to try to consider black life and aesthetic practice beyond the relatively thin analytical grammars of US or Western “race relations.”
Blackness, Fred Moten suggests, is “the name that has been given to the social field and social life of an illicit alternative capacity to desire” (Universal Machine 234). I would amend his claim this way: the practice and possibility of black freedom, beyond the dominant modes of physical and conceptual discipline that shape our understanding of both terms, remains illicit. Freedom unfolds in complex, concrete situations. Black critical theory should take that as its starting point.
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Michelle challenged us to define freedom. I think of it as a set of collective endeavors to create the condition of more abundant life for all. Michael spoke of Du Bois and the cognitive and phenomenological stakes of double-consciousness, which he very productively put in conversation with Toni Morrison. I would emphasize Du Bois’ analysis of enslaved people–men, women, and children–abandoning plantations to fight for their own freedom without any real idea how it would work out here.
There was a question about the status of capitalizing the B in black, which collectively we linked to discussions of Créolité (creolism) vs. Créolisation (creolization), and obviously I’m more interested in the process. If blackness is anything, it seems to me it stands as living rebuke, if not critique, of systems of propriety and property. A distinct history but not one history. Others obviously see it differently, and I think it’s worth debating, especially given the ease with which capitalizing the initial letter became the house standard for publications that made little other moves to redress harms they continue to perpetrate.