Part 1
Writing America at Home, 1930â1947
Life and Death of a Black Man(n) in
Richard Wrightâs âDown by the Riversideâ
âGINEVRA GERACIâ
Two basic forces shape language and imagery in âDown by the Riverside,â the second of Richard Wrightâs five short stories that comprise Uncle Tomâs Children (1938). The first concerns the naturalistic representation of the general conditions and inescapable circumstances of life and death for blacks living in the American South. The other specifically concerns the African American hero Brother Mann. He tries to rescue his family during a period of martial law because of the massive flooding of the Mississippi River; however, he is forced into conscription and then shot by white soldiers for killing a white man. During the series of mishaps complicating Brother Mannâs rescue operations, the reader senses the modernist presence of his voice and thoughts as well as the interiority of his being and selfhood. Wright captures the heroâs subjectivity by employing the modernist techniques of vernacular interior monologues as well as using a symbolic mythic framework that reflects the biblical deluge.
Wright places the heroâs predictable failure within a system of hard facts that will defeat him according to race, milieu, and epoch. Brother Mann perceives the white-dominated American social structure as a solid, impenetrable wall and feels compelled to obey orders and give himself up to white authority.1 He lives in the Deep South where racial conditions have changed very little since slavery. To illustrate, Wright insinuates the contradictory social conditions that frustrate Mannâs attempts to act as a man. He also uses opposite pairings throughout the text to balance the fluid transition between the external, third-person narratorâs voice and Mannâs personal, desperate, and alienated voice.
Critics have repeatedly highlighted Wrightâs ability to fuse different elements and techniques into his writings, including those that focus on American culture. With regard to âDown by the Riverside,â Michel Fabre mentions the authorâs ability to âblend and fuse elements and techniques borrowed from Joyce, Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Conrad, and even Jamesââall being white European and American writers. Fabre also stresses that, in his depictions of natural disasters, individual loneliness, and existential numbness complicating the lives of his African American characters, Wright chooses to utilize philosophical theories as an alternative mode to writing protest fiction (Fabre, World 68). In his introduction to the HarperPerennial edition of Uncle Tomâs Children, Richard Yarborough also considers the different disciplines and influences occurring in Wrightâs collection, and especially notes the literary influences ranging from American naturalism to modernism to African American folklore (xiiiâxxii). Similarly, Yoshinobu Hakutani places Wright in the African American modernist tradition by stressing its affinity with Anglo-American modernism in terms of their shared interest in traditions, myths, and legends (Hakutani, Cross-Cultural 8).
Yet, in assessing Wrightâs American-based short story, it is also possible not to consider naturalism as an expression of social commitment and modernism as a concern with form and craft, and, therefore, as naturally contrasting principles. In âCulture and Finance Capitalâ from The Cultural Turn, Fredric Jameson proposes a dialectical theory of ârealism as modernism, or a realism which is so fundamentally a part of modernity that it demands description in some of the ways we have traditionally reserved for modernism itselfâthe break, the Novum, the emergence of new perceptionsâ (148).2 On the other hand, in reviewing Marxist theories of literature, Terry Eagleton defines naturalism as a distortion of realism. Choosing LukĂĄcsâs interpretation of realism as a starting point, Eagleton considers the passage from realism to naturalism as a process of deterioration; in fact, âthe great realist writers arise from a history which is visibly in the making. . . . For the successors of the realists . . . history is already an inert object, an externally given fact no longer imaginable as menâs dynamic product. Realism, deprived of the historical conditions which gave it birth, splinters and declines into ânaturalismâ on the one hand and âformalismâ on the otherâ (28).
By combining these two notions of naturalism and modernism, they can be considered as deeply related perspectives on the world, and even as a means to gain a tentative renewed alliance between man and history in the writerâs conscience after the reification of historical perception as mentioned by Eagleton. Thus, naturalism and modernism are not opposing forces: the former provides the theoretical background against which the social and economic analysis implied in Wrightâs short story can be assessed; the latter supplies a range of technical tools that make the characterâs subjectivity come to life while stressing the artistry of the writerâs effort. Wright himself had acknowledged naturalismâs inability to delve into the charactersâ psychology as one major flaw. In Uncle Tomâs Children, Wright seems willing to balance that inability through âthe complexities of the narrative line, the twists and turns of the plot [that] are essential for an understanding of the charactersâ feelings and the nuances of their emotionsâ (Margolies, âWrightâs Craftâ 76).
âDown by the Riversideâ is set in American culture, the Deep South, and the racial and cultural conditions existing in the 1920s and 1930s. It provides an example of such interplay between naturalism and modernism that is further processed through solid imagery on the one hand, and fluid tropes on the other. External reality, which is consistent with the naturalistic and protest fiction angles that take into account the hard life of vanquished African Americans, is depicted as a solid, impenetrable wall erected by violent nature, hard unfriendly whites, and iron-like American racist authority.3 This solidity, metaphorically representing the deterministic nature of social and historical conditions, has a balancing principle in the liquidity of both sounds and images. The modernist elements thus include water imagery, thematic representations of individual isolation, and stylistic techniques that capture the qualitative levels of the African American heroâs voice.
Wright portrays, and Mann perceives, white people and white authority as a solid barrier that symbolizes âthe inflexibility of the Southern status quoâ (Howard 60). His perception of whites is no different from that of Bigger Thomas in Native Son. This solid inalterability of the social system is also expressed in the âunrelieved bleakness symbolized by the endless waters of the flood or the silt-draped landscape left after itâ (Howard 48).4 Nature, too, is unrelenting and resistant to Mannâs endeavors.
Throughout the narrative, the African American characterâs psyche remains detached and even subordinated to external reality because, as Eagleton writes about naturalism, âthe dialectical relations between men and their world give way to an environment of dead, contingent objects disconnected from charactersâ (28). An example of such estrangement is the frequent juxtaposition of Mannâs thoughts with white peopleâs orders. Social reality in general in the form of white authority coincides with the specific moment that dominates the external reality in Mannâs consciousness. After being sidetracked from acquiring a boat to take his pregnant wife Lulu to a hospital, Mannâs thoughts are still on his personal mission at hand: âLawd, Lulu down there somewhere, Mann thought. Dead! She gonna be left there in the flood . . .â (Wright, âDownâ 103). The suspension dots at the end make it evident that Mann is not fully allowed to indulge in his train of thought because a soldierâs voice interrupts it to urge him to get back to work.5
Wright depicts American whites as being similar to rock-hard surfaces reflecting, according to circumstances, fear, hatred, or disgust. When Mann approaches the white man Heartfield and asks him for help with his sick wife, even nature seems hard-edged as the surrounding darkness is disrupted by solid light: âA pencil of light shot out in the darkness, a spot of yellow caught the boat. He blinked, blindedâ (79). To Mann, an enraged Heartfield appears heartless: âHe watched a white man with a hard, red face come out onto a narrow second-story porch and stand framed in a light-flooded doorwayâ (80). Darkness is intercut by lightness or whiteness. White authority is also metonymically represented by white soldiers, whose faces seem to Mann to be âlike square blocks of red and he could see the dull glint of steel on the tips of their riflesâ (83). Here the impenetrable wall of racial prejudice is portrayed as being made of square blocks and steel rifles. Later in the concluding scene, Mann will perceive the pressure of pursuing whites as being equivalent to physical weight: âMann knew they were behind him. He felt them all over his body, and especially like something hard and cold weighing on top of his head, weighing so heavily that it seemed to blot out everything but one hard, tight thought: They got me nowâ (113).
Wrightâs imagery in this short story recalls similar tropes in Native Son (1940) with its setting being in the American North, and specifically urban Chicago, Illinois, and its segregated South Side. The African American hero Bigger Thomas, another product of the South but now having grown up in the North, registers his disappointment with his oppressive environmental and economic conditions. Bigger feels as if the snow covering the city is weighing down on him and is symbolically like another white mass crushing him: âWhite people were not really people; they were a sort of great natural force, like a stormy sky looming overheadâ (Wright, 1987 Native Son [NS] 129). Mannâs external environment in the South shares the same menacing quality, as it is clear in this scene shortly preceding his arrest: âThe landscape lay before his eyes with a surprising and faithful solidity. It was like a picture that might break. He walked on in blind faith, he reached level ground and went on past white people who stared sullenly. He wanted to look around, but could not turn his head. His body seemed encased in a tight vise, in a narrow black coffin that moved with him as he movedâ (âDownâ 114). Mann feels that his own mortality is imminent.
Ironically, Mann contributes to his own ending from the very beginning of his desperate mission to transport his pregnant wife to a hospital. First, he signs a note to be repaid for a boat that he steals and that will later be used against him as evidence of his theft. Second, he is indicted by means of another note carrying Heartfieldâs address that compels him to rescue the family of the man he has just killed in self-defense.6 These notes predate symbolically the derisive one inscribed by Dr. Bledsoe that Ellisonâs Invisible Man carries in his briefcase to white patrons in the North and that reads: âKeep this nigger boy running.â7
The text also refers to the problem of inaction by the larger communityâthe black sector that Wright does not fail to represent in its shortcomings. Mann feels more at ease when he is with âhis peopleâ; yet, no help comes from them during his travails and tribulations. In fact, when he is arrested and members of the black community are present, he notes that âthe black faces he passed were blurred one into the otherâ (117). He despairingly wonders: âWhy dont they hep me?â (117). They, too, are subjugated victims of white oppression and powerless to save themselves against white authority. Mann turns out to be a typical, powerless black man, a condition Wright continually presents as a contradiction to the claims of equality written in the Declaration of Independence and freedom guaranteed to blacks according to the Emancipation Proclamation. In the South, however, Mann is not a âmanâ; he is still a âboyâ to whites, no matter at what age because he is black.
In essence, Mann is an aspect of Wrightâs other typical, black male heroes who become thwarted by white society from achieving their ambitions. His story gains additional parabolic force by Mannâs efforts to save his pregnant black wife who will never be delivered of her child (Brigano 18). This African American adult male is also a painfully isolated hero, a desperate and lonely modernist character wobbling in an American sea of white and some black faces staring indifferently at him. The passage concerning Mannâs puzzlement over his black communityâs inaction has been interpreted as a hint of Wrightâs pessimism regarding black cultureâs failure to live up to the nationalistic ideals it often extols (Kent 46).
The proof of a modernist intention is evinced by Wrightâs incorporation of its stylistic techniques. Extending his analysis to Uncle Tomâs Children as a whole, Richard Yarborough equates Wrightâs use of the âstream of consciousness,â especially in âLong Black Song,â to Gertrude Steinâs âMelanctha,â included in Three Lives.8 The modernist frame of reference in âDown by the Riversideâ is further suggested by Wrightâs use of the flood metaphor as a variant of the biblical deluge. He repeats this water imagery in his other short story, âThe Man Who Saw the Flood,â also included in Eight Men. As modernist literary echoes, they resonate the water imagery enveloping the symbolic elements in T. S. Eliotâs The Waste Land (1922). In addition, Mannâs desperate effort to fight the current additionally recalls the equally hopeless confrontation with nature that the Bundren family in Mississippi experience in William Faulknerâs As I Lay Dying (1930). During one scene, Cash and the familyâs wagon are swept away while crossing a river similarly as forceful and powerful as the one impeding Mannâs efforts.
Edward Margolies also notes that there is âa certain epic quality to the pieceâman steadily pursuing his course against a malevolent nature only to be cut down later by the ingratitude of his fellow men: âThe scenario is suggestive of Mark Twain or Faulkner. And Mannâs long-suffering perseverance and stubborn will to survive endow him with a rare mythic Biblical qualityâ (Margolies, âWrightâs Craftâ 80). Michel Fabre has also included Faulkner into Wrightâs sources of inspiration (Fabre 1973 Unfinished Quest [UQ] 17, 112â36). Yet, the experimental nature of a text like that of As I Lay Dying, which powerfully relies on fragmentation and disorder as a gnosiological method and as a metanarrative meditation on the nature of the authorial process, may appear unparalleled in comparison to Wrightâs reworking of a modernist perspective (Rubeo, âFragmentsâ 209â12).
However, Wrightâs short story and Faulknerâs novel do have a few elements in common. As already mentioned, while evoking a hopeless confrontation between man and nature, Wright endeavors to follow the characterâs mobile, flowing train of thought as it is being pitted against a stone-like background that seems to mock him. Consistently, the reader has to deal with a âconfused rush and whirl of events and is swept along, like Mann, as if in the flood itself. Wrightâs main means of engaging the reader in this way is his rapid and frequent shifts in point of view from third person to first person and backâ (Kinnamon, Emergence 89). Nature consistently undercuts human efforts.
Faulknerâs novel, too, displays a complex combination of naturalistic and modernist elements. In fact, the naturalistic setting of Mississippi in which man struggles with indifferent nature, and the material and spiritual ruin of the Bundrens have their modernist counterpart in ways similarly represented in Wrightâs short story. There is the challenging fragmentation of charactersâ thoughts, scenes, or events in the text over several sections. The different points of view and narrative voices for each section in Faulknerâs longer work tentatively outline or provide an overall picture of persons living under chaotic conditions. Faulkner questions the very nature of literary creation by opposing two essential linguistic modes against each other. For example, there is the strictly referential, even dreary language used by Anse as opposed to the creative but incoherent âimagistâ language used by Darl and Vardaman. They âspeak with a freedom that allows them to get directly to the essence of things, and thus expose, quite unintentionally, the hypocritical redundancy, the labyrinthical course of what is commonly accepted as ânormal speechââ (Rubeo, âFragmentsâ 208). Their fragmentary and/or incoherent expressions are modernistic.
Wright, too, embeds the motifs of fragmentary and/or incoherent references in his modernist short story âDown by the Riverside.â The work suggests an analogous contrast: the matter-of-fact language of authority of white men, such as the case of Mann being given orders by the soldiers, as well as the more extensively naturalistic language clashes with the strongly emotional or at times broken language of the main character. Wright portrays Mann as someone who is much more verbal when talking to himself than he can ever be when talking to others, especially white people. The story is a multifaceted combination of discursive levels unceasingly shifting from pure third-person narration to first-person vernacular interior monologue to direct speech. The liquid transition between these levels adds force to the figures of fluidity, to the water imagery that Tracy Webb has extensively discussed as a predominant feature not just in âDown by the Riverside,â but also throughout Uncle Tomâs Children (5â16).
From the very first pages, the third-person narratorâs voice and the characterâs interior monologue alternate constantly to bring the reader back and forth between the world outside and the world inside. This alternating combination becomes at times intricate, as in the following quotation that shows an alternation of direct speech, interior monologue, third-person internally focalized narration, and nonfocalized third-person narration, all in the space of a few lines:
âAh sent Bob wid the mule t try t git a boat,â he said . . . he swallowed with effort. . . . No boat. No money. No doctah. Nothing t eat. N Bob ain back here yit. Lulu could not last much longer this way. If Bob came with a boat he would pile Lulu in and row over to that Red Cross Hospital, no matter what. The white folks would . . . have to take her in. They would not let a woman die just because she was black. . . . He grew rigid, looking out of the window, straining to listen. (âDownâ 65â66)
The sentence âLulu could not last much longer this way,â in particular, seems an example of imperfect free indirect discourse. While it is a statement that can only belong to Mann in terms of subjective knowledge and especially because of the pro...