“I
am not like James Joyce; I am not like Thomas Hardy;
I am not like Faulkner. I am not like in that sense”
(McKay 1). These words spoken by Toni Morrison accurately
summarize the uniqueness of her writing in comparison to other
authors' works of literature. A close reading of both The Bluest
Eye and Beloved results in the discovery of common themes
and techniques utilized by the novelist, Morrison, in order to
achieve a sense of identity in the literary world. Although the
themes and techniques Morrison makes use of are numerous in number,
this paper is limited to the following: how families shape and
constitute identity, cyclical patterns of life, and notions of
community.
Looking
first at The Bluest Eye, one must acknowledge that both
parents of Pecola Breedlove are responsible for her eventual
dysfunctional sense of identity. As a young woman, Pecola's mother,
Pauline, finds solace at the movie theater. A virtual newlywed,
pregnant and lonely, Pauline describes her time at the picture show
as, “The onliest time I be happy” (Morrison, The Bluest Eye
123). Seeing such women as Jean Harlow on the large screen, Pauline
attempts to mirror the Caucasian look, “I fixed my hair up like I'd
seen hers [Jean Harlow] on a magazine. A part on the side, with one
little curl on the forehead. It looked just like her. Well, almost
just like” (123). In the same manner, Pauline's daughter is
obsessed with the desire to have blue eyes, an Anglo characteristic.
Morrison
depicts Pecola's yearning for blue eyes early in the novel. While at
“Yacobowski's Fresh Veg. Meat and Sundries Store,” Pecola has
three pennies with which she may purchase any candy available behind
the display window (48). Pecola chooses the Mary Janes. The image
on the wrapper is the face of a white girl, “Blond hair in gentle
disarray, blue eyes looking at her out of a world of clean comfort”
(50). Morrison establishes the motive for Pecola's selection, “To
eat the candy is somehow to eat the eyes, eat Mary Jane. Love Mary
Jane. Be Mary Jane” (50).
Pecola's
admiration for unattainable physical traits not only stems from her
mother's motion picture influences, but also from Pauline's treatment
of white children in comparison to her own. This is best exemplified
in the scene with the berry cobbler. Pecola, out of curiosity,
lightly touches the pan that houses the cobbler resulting in the
“splattering [of] blackish blueberries everywhere” (108). The
cobbler, fresh from the oven, burns Pecola's legs when it spills.
However, Pauline virtually ignores Pecola. Instead, she rushes to
the assistance of the distraught “pink-and-yellow girl” (109),
the daughter of the white people for whom Pauline works. The
intimacy between the white girl and Pauline is further reinforced
when the reader discovers that the young girl has an informal name
for Pauline, “Polly” (109). Pauline, in turn, refers to the
Caucasian child as “baby” (109). On the other hand, Pauline
denotes her own daughter, Pecola, as “Crazy fool” (109), whereas
Pecola calls her mother by the formal name of “Mrs. Breedlove”
(107). Here, the dialogue represents more than just “spilled pie.”
The reader is given no option but to overhear the dysfunction in
this mother/daughter relationship. Pecola infers that if she
embodies the look of an Anglo with blue eyes, she, too, may possess
the love of her mother.
As
for Pecola's father, Cholly, the reader learns that he is abandoned
by his mother at a mere four days of age. Raised by his Aunt Jimmy,
she, too, abandons him in death while Cholly is still a child,
thirteen-years-old. Cholly attempts to reunite with his father whom
he has never met. Yet, Morrison chooses to have Cholly's father
hinder the meeting with abrasive words, “ . . . get the fuck outta
my face!” (156). Due to his own upbringing, it comes as no
surprise that Cholly is less than adequate as a father. “Had he
not been alone in the world since he was thirteen . . . he might have
felt a stable connection between himself and the children. As it
was, he reacted to them, and his reactions were based on what he felt
at the moment” (161). Thus, one reaction Cholly chooses to engage
in, the rape of Pecola, has a detrimental effect on the sanity of his
daughter. Cholly fuels the familial dysfunction instead of breaking
the cycle of absent or neglectful parenting. What results is
Pecola's hopelessness, “she flailed her arms like a bird in an
eternal, grotesquely futile effort to fly” (204). Pitied by the
community, isolated from academic opportunities, and impregnated by
her father, Pecola's identity has been reduced to nothing more than
“searching the garbage”- a direct result of the fatalistic
influences of the family (205).
In
Beloved, Morrison reaffirms the notion of family shaping
identity through the mother/daughter relationship of Sethe and
Denver. When Sethe recalls her own past, the reader learns of her
short-lived relationship with her mother, “I didn't see her but a
few times out in the fields and once when she was working indigo”
(Beloved 60). In a fleeting moment together, Sethe's mother
reveals the brand on her body, a cross inside of a circle. Sethe
questions her mother as to when she will be able to have a mark
similar to her mother's not understanding the circumstances
surrounding the branding. She simply loves her mother and wishes to
mimic her in every way. Later, Sethe reveals her failed aspirations
for being a good daughter. She explains that she “would have been
[a good daughter] if my ma'am had been able to get out of the rice
long enough before they hanged her and let me be one” (203). In
contemplating the reasons behind her mother's hanging, Sethe
reassures herself that it could not possibly be due to her attempting
escape. For, “ . . . nobody's ma'am would run off and leave her
daughter” (203).
Sethe's
idea of motherhood leads to a literal slaying of her own daughter.
She murders her first born daughter in an attempt to protect her from
a life of slavery at the hands of Schoolteacher. This act, in turn,
creates an unspoken distance between Sethe and Denver, her second
daughter. Because of Sethe's violent conduct, Denver fears her
mother and becomes a virtual recluse:
I
love my mother but I know she killed one of her own daughters, and
tender as she is with me, I'm
scared of her because of it. . . . I'm afraid the thing that happened
that made it all right for
my mother to kill my sister could happen again. I don't' know what
it is, I don't know who it
is, but maybe there is something else terrible enough to make her do
it again. . . . So I never leave
this house and I watch over the yard, so it can't happen again and my
mother won't have to
kill
me too” (205).
Thus,
Denver's paranoid behavior stems from Sethe's metaphorical smothering
of her, a love that is too “thick” (164). In conversation with
Paul D. regarding Denver's belligerent attitude, Sethe refuses to
“hear a word against her” (45). Instead, Sethe explains the
extent of her love for her daughter, “Grown don't mean nothing to a
mother. A child is a child. . . . I'll protect her while I'm live
and I'll protect her when I ain't” (45). This protection equates
into seclusion. Since her brief schooling with Miss Lady Jones',
Denver has left 124 Bluestone merely twice, both times she is with
her mother.
When
Denver finally departs from the house alone to look for work, the
walk into town is terrifying. “Under her headcloth her scalp was
wet with tension” (245). She hears male voices approaching her
and imagines they belong to white men. “Denver kept her eyes on
the road in case . . . she was walking where they wanted to; in case
they said something and she would have to answer them. Suppose they
flung out at her, grabbed her, tied her” (245). This is learned
behavior; Denver does not have personal knowledge of the harm
inflicted by the white men. Instead, all that Denver knows and all
that she fears emanates from Sethe's mothering.
The
generations of abnormal familial interactions mentioned above are
cyclical in nature. There appears to be no end and no beginning to
the deviant behavior. Morrison supports this cyclical theme with
various techniques in both Beloved and The Bluest Eye.
For example, The Bluest Eye is divided into recurrent seasons
versus linear chapters. “Morrison's notion of time as cyclical is
based on the rhythms of nature: one season ends and another begins;
the cycle repeats itself over and over in an almost invariable
pattern” (Heinze 122). This leads the reader to believe that just
as the seasons follow one another forever, so, too, will the
dysfunction continue.
Time
in Beloved is also circular. The skeletal portion of the
novel is chronological: the novel begins at 124 Bluestone, time
lapses, and the novel concludes at 124 Bluestone. However, the flesh
of the novel consists of “rememories” (Rigney 74) and
retellings. The reader learns of Paul D.'s journey from Sweet Home,
Stamp Paid's past marital relationship with Vashti, and the source of
Sethe's isolation while progressing further and further into the
novel. Sethe struggles with “beating back the past” (Morrison,
Beloved 73), and, therefore, has difficulty trusting the
notion of time. For, as she explains earlier in the novel, “It's
so hard for me to believe in it [time]. Some things go. Pass on.
Some things stay” (35). This occurs for several characters in the
novel as mentioned above. Yet, their shared stories combine to form
a whole. The completeness of the circle becomes apparent when, at
the conclusion of the novel, Paul D. “wants to put his story next
to hers [Sethe's]” (273). Thus, when the two symmetrical circles
are placed one on top of another, the two mesh and become one with no
visible end and no visible beginning.
In
addition, Morrison's mention of the marigolds in The Bluest Eye
reiterates cyclical patterns of life forms. Marigolds are, in fact,
annual flowers. They recur every year with the simple planting of
seeds. Although there did not happen to be marigolds in the fall of
1941, that does not mean there never will be the presence of
marigolds again. Just as Pecola's child, conceived from an
incestuous relationship, “came too soon and died,” there is no
assurance that future children will not be the product of such a
harrowing situation (Morrison, The Bluest Eye 204).
The
cyclical pattern of life continues in Beloved. Here, Morrison
alludes to the twenty-eight day menstrual cycle of the female in
order to reinforce the repetition of life. Sethe remembers her
twenty-eight days of freedom, “ . . . twenty-eight days of having
women friends, a mother-in-law, and all her children together; of
being part of a neighborhood; of, in fact, having neighbors at all
to call her own” (Morrison, Beloved 173). In the same
manner, a woman who menstruates experiences twenty-eight days of
freedom: freedom from cramps, freedom from bloating, and, most
importantly, freedom from bleeding. Yet, on the twenty-eighth day, a
woman sheds blood just as Sethe sheds blood. In terms of the novel,
though, Sethe sheds the blood of her own children.
In
remembrance of that horrific day, Morrison allows Sethe, herself, to
recognize the repetition within her own life and question it:
. .
. twenty-eight happy days were followed by eighteen years of
disapproval and a solitary life.
Then a few months of the sun-splashed life that the shadows holding
hands on the road
promised
her; tentative greetings from other colored people in Paul D.'s
company; a bed life
for herself. Except for Denver's friend, every bit of it had
disappeared. Was that a pattern?
. . . every eighteen or twenty years her unlivable life would be
interrupted by a short-lived
glory? (173).
Just
as women must acknowledge the inevitability of monthly physiological
changes, Sethe, too, resigns to the rhythmical patterns of her life,
“Well, if that's the way it was- that's the way it is” (173).
In
The Bluest Eye and Beloved, cyclical patterns of
dysfunction in the family seem to dispel when there exists a close
tie to the community. Pecola, in The Bluest Eye, finds
shelter at the MacTeer household after her father commits arson. Not
only is Pecola free from any incestuous attempts through this
communal living arrangement, but also “Frieda and . . . [Claudia]
stopped fighting each other and concentrated on . . . [their] guest,
trying hard to keep her from feeling outdoors” (Morrison, The
Bluest Eye 18-19). Furthermore, this kinship with the MacTeer
girls protects Pecola from harm at the hands of her peers. While
Pecola is being teased on the playground, Frieda and Claudia come to
her rescue. The antagonists “buckled in confusion, not willing to
beat up three girls” (67). A sound argument for the fact that
there is strength in numbers.
Pecola's
mother, Mrs. Breedlove, also finds comfort with the community. “She
joined a church where shouting was frowned upon, served on Stewardess
Board No. 3, and became a member of the Ladies Circle No. 1”
(126). In Mrs. Breedlove's case, though, she utilizes the community
as a means of escape: escape from Cholly, the “model of sin and
failure,” and her children whom she “bore . . . like a cross”
(126-127).
As
for Cholly, although both his parents reject him, he is still able to
find a father figure within the community, a man by the name of Blue
Jack. After he quits school, Cholly meets Blue while working at
Tyson's Feed and Grain Store. “Cholly loved Blue” (134). While
at a picnic, Blue chooses to share the heart of a watermelon with
Cholly. Blue's influences have a profound effect on Cholly, “Long
after he was a man, he remembered the good times they had had”
(134). Unfortunately, with the absence of community, positive
childhood influences are not lasting as seen with Cholly and the rape
of his daughter, Pecola.
The
impact of the community is clearly defined in Morisson's Beloved.
For the first twenty-eight days of her “unslaved life,” Sethe
belongs to a community.
Days
of company: knowing the names of forty, fifty other Negroes, their
views, habits; where they
had been and what done; of feeling their fun and sorrow along with
her own, which made it
better. One taught her the alphabet; another a stitch. All taught
her how it felt to wake up at dawn
and decide what to do with
the day . . . . Bit by bit . . . she had claimed herself (95).
Sethe is blissful and anxious to celebrate. Yet, when ecstasy is
mistaken for “uncalled-for-pride” by the community, their
support falters.
Through repeated phrasing in close proximity, Morrison depicts the
weakening of a once strong sense of community in the novel.
Ninety people who ate so well, and laughed so much, it made them
angry. They woke up the next morning and remembered . . . and got angry . . . . 124, rocking
with laughter . . . made them angry. . . . Now to take two buckets of blueberries and make
ten . . . it made them mad. . . . It made them furious (Beloved 136-137).
Even Baby Suggs, the one to whom the community refers to as “holy,”
recognizes that “The scent of their disapproval lay heavy in the
air” (137).
The community's revulsion towards the perceived boastful
celebrations of Sethe and her family leads to absolute abandonment.
When Schoolteacher and his men approach 124 Bluestone, “Six or
seven Negroes [who] were walking up the road toward the house . . .
stood where they were” (148-149). No one attempts to warn Sethe
of the danger that is nearing or assist in her escape. Instead, the
community stands by silently. The silence becomes deafening once
Sethe is led away for her crimes. Morrison addresses the reader at
this point:
Was her [Sethe's] head a bit too high? Her back a little too
straight? Probably. Otherwise the singing would have begun at once, the moment she appeared in the
doorway of the house on Bluestone Road. As it was, they waited till the cart turned about,
headed west to town. And then no words. Humming. No words at all (152).
Here, Morrison demands that the reader realize the impact of the
community. The implications are that their vital retreat is a direct
result of Sethe's aloofness. As the novel continues, it becomes
obvious that a family closed off from the community is doomed to be
consumed.
Although the Colored Ladies of Delaware, Ohio, are responsible for
sparing Sethe from hanging. Sethe “made no gesture toward anybody,
and lived as though she were alone” (257). For eighteen years,
“Nobody, but nobody visited that house” (284). Even Sethe's
friend, Ella, “junked her and wouldn't give her the time of day”
(256). Sethe somehow endures, but Denver is the one who suffers
“serious losses since there were no children willing to circle her
in a game or hang by their knees from her porch railing” (12). In
conversing with her mother, the catastrophic effect on Denver is
evident as a direct result of the isolation, “I can't live here. I
don't know where to go or what to do, but I can't live here. Nobody
speaks to us. Nobody comes by. Boys don't like me. Girls don't
either” (14).
It is Denver, though, who eventually reestablishes the connection
between the outside world and her family. She realizes the
desperation of the situation at home with her mother and Beloved and
seeks the assistance of the community. The women rally around the
young woman providing food and consolation. Mrs. Jones addressing
Denver as “baby' . . . inaugurated her life in the world as a
woman” (248). This, in turn, insinuates that “the personal
pride, the arrogant claim staked out at 124 seemed to them to have
run its course” (249). When word spreads that “Sethe's dead
daughter, the one whose throat she cut, had come back to fix her,”
the women decide to rescue her.
Thirty neighborhood women gather outside of 124 Bluestone and break
the eighteen year silence through song. Sethe, hearing the voices,
exits the house and observes from her porch. While there, Sethe
notices what she perceives to be Schoolteacher riding down the lane.
Determined to spare the lives of her children this time around, she
resolves to attack “the man without skin” with an ice pick
(263). Ella, a member of the community, interjects by putting “her
fist in her jaw” sparing Sethe further years of heartache (265).
Thus, without the presence of the community, Sethe, first, would have
never left the security of her house. Second, Sethe would have never
seen the white man and imagined he was coming for her children.
Third, history would never have altered for Sethe without the
assistance of the community. Seeing “Schoolteacher,” Sethe is
given a second chance to protect her children without harming them.
Thus, her attempt on the white man's life alleviates Beloved's ghost
of all power she holds over Sethe. By preventing the actual act from
taking place, the community not only remedies the present
predicament, but also secures Sethe's future, a future free of guilt
and detachment.
A final sense of community as Rigney suggests is the color of
characters, “ . . . blackness itself is a mark to symbolize their
participation in a greater entity . . . The marks are hieroglyphs,
clues to a culture and a history more than to individual personality”
(39). Thus, in The Bluest Eye, the reader is aware of
Pauline's crippled foot. This, in fact, is what attracted Cholly to
her. The mangled foot is not the result of a birth deformity, but
rather a rusty nail, “it punched clear through her foot during her
second year of life” (Morrison, The Bluest Eye 110). A
white child would have had the puncture mark cleaned and dressed.
However, the poverty to which Pauline belongs prevents medical
attention and is representative of the black culture as a whole. A
further example is Pauline's loss of her front tooth. Morrison
describes this occurrence as “The end of her lovely beginning”
(110). Pauline does not have the means to maintain the health of her
teeth or to even replace missing teeth with dentures or the like.
There exists no options for Pauline; she must live with the symbol
of her blackness.
In Beloved, the marks of blackness are more obvious, a result
of enslavement. Sethe recalls the branding of her mother, “Right
on her rib was a circle and a cross burnt right in the skin”
(Morrison, Beloved 61). She remembers pleading with her
mother, “Mark me, too . . . Mark the mark on me too” (61).
Her mother replies by slapping Sethe's face. Sethe remarks how she
did not understand at the time, “Not until I had a mark of my own”
(61). Sethe's mark is the choke-cherry tree scars on her back, a
result of a brutal whipping. As Rigney concludes, these scars
“represent membership rather than separation” (39). Membership
that mandates a life of subhuman existence at the hands of the white
man.
As previously mentioned, Morrison's creative palette of themes and
techniques is vast and colorful. Her interweaving of familial
influences, cyclical patterns, and the importance of community feed
off of one another in both Beloved and The Bluest Eye.
The reader is left with a feeling of having experienced the two
novels in question versus simply acting as a passive spectator.
Although Beloved and The Bluest Eye certainly stand
alone, a comparison of the two further reinforces the irrefutable
craft of Toni Morrison.
