By way of explaining the metaphor that serves as the title of his latest book, “The Black Box,” the Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr. transcribes a conversation he had with his son-in-law after the birth of his granddaughter 10 years ago:
“Did you check the box?” I asked, apropos of nothing we had just discussed.
Without missing a beat, my good son-in-law responded, “Yes, sir. I did.”
“Very good,” I responded, as I poured a second shot of Pappy Van Winkle.
The box that Gates’s son-in-law checked on a birth registration form indicates that his granddaughter is Black, even though his daughter’s genetic admixture is 75 percent European, and his son-in-law is 100 percent European. In other words, as Gates notes, his granddaughter “will test about 87.5 percent European when she spits in the test tube.”
Gates offers this anecdote to suggest the arbitrariness of racial categories, and to focus our attention on the image of the box — a container that can function simultaneously as a “circumscribed enclosure” and a zone in which the confined can create a thriving “social and cultural world.”
For Gates, the box is a supple concept. Not only does it appear with surprising frequency in literature by Black Americans — from the fugitive slave author Henry Box Brown (who escaped slavery in a box) to Booker T. Washington (who described the box as a barrel) to the contemporary poet Terrance Hayes — but Gates extends the metaphor to other kinds of boxes that relate to Black experience, to ordeals withstood and survived. He cites an airplane’s flight recorder box, a device that “preserves a record of the truth amid disastrous circumstances,” and the slave ship, before arriving at his thesis: African Americans have consistently relied on the written word to express and shape their reality despite the constraints imposed on them from outside, which they have endured since they were first brought to this continent.
“The Black Box” is based on lectures Gates has delivered for many years in his Introduction to African American Studies class at Harvard. From the beginning, he shows, African Americans have turned to literary forms to validate their humanity. He quickly sketches the childhood of Phillis Wheatley — her journey to America via slave ship, her rapid mastery of English — and the varied responses to her poetry, which she began to publish as a precocious teenager.
Wheatley’s success undermined the prevailing sentiment that Black Americans were less intelligent than their white counterparts, and in response to her art some thinkers, such as Voltaire, revised their formerly negative perspectives on Black people, while others, including Thomas Jefferson, remained steadfast in their views. (Jefferson on Wheatley: “The compositions published under her name are below the dignity of criticism.”)
Gates traces the history of slave narratives, a genre that “always told the story” of how enslaved authors “learned to read and write, and always, always, of course, of their escape to freedom.” And he describes the intense conversations within the Black American community around self-definition: “They stood on uncertain ground. Were they Africans, Americans, both, or neither?” In each of these instances, as throughout his book, Gates adroitly demonstrates how literature served as a site of self-interrogation and a pathway to liberation.
In other chapters, Gates writes about the manifold contributions of W.E.B. Du Bois; the boldness and flair of the Harlem Renaissance generation; the fierce debate between Zora Neale Hurston and Richard Wright over the proper way to represent the Black experience in literature; and the politics of passing.
Many of these ideas will be familiar to readers — Gates has written about them before. The allure of this book, and the reason for its existence, are the narrative links he draws among these people and events, and his insistence that a survey of African American history is incomplete without a special consideration of how writing has undergirded and powered it. This is a literary history of Black America, but it is also an argument that African American history is inextricable from the history of African American literature.
“The Black Box” arrives at an auspicious moment. This year marks the 100th anniversary of the birth of a great man of American and African American letters: James Baldwin. Next year marks the 100th anniversary of the publication of “The New Negro,” an anthology of fiction, poetry, art and essays edited by Alain Locke that is widely regarded as a defining text of the Harlem Renaissance.
This is also a moment when many politicians are hard at work revising our shared history in order to justify present-day policy agendas. Gates addresses this phenomenon in his concluding chapter, portions of which appeared in The New York Times a year ago. He invokes the story of Mildred Lewis Rutherford, the historian general of the United Daughters of the Confederacy, who argued throughout her career that the Civil War was simply “the War Between the States,” and had nothing to do with slavery.
As Gates notes, it is important to repeat the truth about history as often as possible, and to repel efforts to redefine it, because “what is inscribed on the blackboard translates directly to social practices unfolding on the street.”
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