The Mimic Men

"We pretended to be real, to be learning, to be preparing ourselves for life, we mimic men of the New World, one unknown corner of it, with all its reminders of the corruption that came so quickly to the new."

Harsh and somewhat unfair characterization of the Caribbean from Naipaul, although there was and is an undeniable mimicry of Europe and North America among some West Indians of Naipaul's generation. The Mimic Men seems like Naipaul's harsher way to distance himself from Trinidad and the postcolonial government through Ralph Singh as a deracinated Indian, uprooted from his ancient Hindu past by the sea, shipwrecked in the Caribbean or London. I think Patrick French's biography is right to emphasize Naipaul's personal life as shaping novels like The Mimic Men or A Bend in the River, which clearly draw from the author's personal frustrations and identity crisis as an "East Indian of the West Indies."

Moreover, one sees here, in The Mimic Men, the shift in Naipaul's writing from the comic satire of his previous Trinidad novels. There are a few good jokes interspersed here (sheet paper pronounced by a Maltese in London, Eden being so black out of spite that Spite becomes his nickname at school), but The Mimic Men represents a shift to sexually frustrated, anxious, protagonists of displaced Indian descent. Like Saleem, Ralph Singh is an East Indian shipwrecked in the Caribbean island of Isabella, modelled on Naipaul's origins in Trinidad. Much like the trees carried away by ocean and river currents which arrive on Isabella's beaches, Ralph Singh is displaced and caught as an 'intermediate' Asiatic in a slave island of blacks and whites. Like other people of the 'transplantation,' Singh is a mimic men in many ways, becoming what others see of him and, like the decolonized world, operating through borrowed expressions, ideas, and civilizations. 

The problem with Naipaul is one of imposing the center's view of the periphery, the Caribbean. Instead of seeing the region as transplantations and focusing on his displacement from his Indian roots, Naipaul does not engage the Caribbean as a region of History, not solely European colonies for profit. Naipaul should have spent more time reading J.J. Thomas instead of Froude, more time understanding the Haitian Revolution instead of falling into the trap of racial theory and obsession with the Metropole. Much like his Middle Passage, a travelogue whose casual racism was too much for me to complete it, The Mimic Men shares a similarly dismal view of the early postcolonial Caribbean. 

While there were certainly deep contradictions and a problem of 'mimicry' in the West Indies, and an issue of racial divisions which plagued Trinidad & Tobago, Naipaul's perspective as a postcolonial Mandarin who could not return for good to Trinidad, but accepts a sort of stasis in a London hotel through the fictional character of Ralph Singh, is quite disturbing and ignores how the societies of the Caribbean were only copies of the allegedly superior West. I could rant endlessly about this novel and its complexities, its memoir structure, how it moves back and forth chronologically or even its universal implications of mimicry and identity (Sandra, perhaps one of the most interesting female characters in Naipaul's corpus, or the university students at the School in London, for example, all are 'playing' in their own ways that mirror or differ from that of the 'half-societies' of the West Indies), but I shall leave that for future posts.

On another disturbing note, the colonial politicians (Browne, Singh, etc.) and the experiments at satisfying distress while ensnared in mimicry, actually reminded me of Idi Amin Dada. The Mimic Men was written in Uganda, where Naipaul met Theroux, and actually contains a reference to colonial politicians 'turning' the tables and having whites serve them, in a troubling portent of Idi Amin's photographs of whites carrying him. These kinds of token symbolic decolonisation did not work for the fictional Caribbean island of Isabella. They most definitely did little for Uganda under Idi Amin, who took power a few years after The Mimic Men was published.

Note: The Kindle Edition is full of grammatical or formatting errors, which made this a harder read than necessary. Fortunately, those formatting or editing mistakes for the Kindle edition were not as numerous as they could have been.

Some Favorite Quotes

"The career of the colonial politician is short and ends brutally. We lack order. Above all, we lack power. We mistake words and the acclamation of words for power; as soon as our bluff is called we are lost."

"Flight to the greater disorder, the final emptiness: London and the home counties."

"They talk of the pessimism of the young as they talk of atheism and revolt: it is something to be grown out of."

"I no longer seek to find beauty in the lives of the mean and the oppressed. Hate oppression; fear the oppressed."

"How right our Aryan ancestors were to create gods. We seek sex, and are left with two private bodies on a stained bed. The larger erotic dream, the god, has eluded us. It is so whenever, moving out of ourselves, we look for extensions of ourselves. It is with cities as it is with sex. We seek the physical city and find only a conglomeration of private cells. In the city as nowhere else, we are reminded that we are individuals, units. Yet the idea of the city remains, it is the god of the city that we pursue in vain."

"He was like me: he needed the guidance of other men's eyes."

"In London I had no guide. There was no one to link my present with my past, no one to note my consistencies or inconsistencies."

"We become what we see of ourselves in the eyes of others."

"For there is no such thing as history nowadays; there are only manifestos and antiquarian research."

"Politicians are people who truly make something out of nothing. They have few concrete gifts to offer. They are not engineers or artists or makers. They are manipulators; they offer themselves as manipulators."

"Those student associations! Playing at being students, playing at being questioning and iconoclastic, playing at being young and licensed, playing at being in preparation for the world! The dishonesty of the young!"

"To be born on an island like Isabella, an obscure  New World transplantation, second-hand and barbarous, was to be born to disorder."

"We came out into the Indian areas, the flat lands where rice and sugarcane grew. My father spoke of the voyage, so recent but already in our strange hemisphere so remote, which the fathers and indeed some of the people we saw had made from another continent, to complete our own little bastard world."

"But in our slogans, we assumed the role of metropolitan party-givers. We did so easily; at Isabella Imperial, we were natural impersonators."

"Eden was something of a buffoon. He was the blackest boy in the school and for some time was known as Spite because some boys said he was black for spite."

When I Was Puerto Rican

"That's part of being an imperialist. They expect us to do things their way, even in our own country."

Esmeralda Santiago's When I Was Puerto Rican is a beautiful memoir. It's always interesting when writers return to the magical world of youth and the experience of loss, which is inevitable in one's younger days. Her moving personal story takes her from the poor barrios of Puerto Rico to Brooklyn in the 1960s, chronicling her migrant experience, the bitter fights between her parents, and the colorful, tropical delights of her 'jibara' romanticized lifestyle. Her 'life' story during her youth seems to encompass every aspect of growing into adulthood, but I wonder how vivid and accurate can the memories of a four year-old child be? She surely embellished certainly memories with fiction literary techniques to enhance her story, which is really a tribute to a loss of life and culture due to urbanization, migration, and family discord. 

Despite some of her perhaps romanticized notions of Puerto Rican rural life (then again, I think I would rather live in rural Puerto Rico than a filthy slum like El Mangle), the other strength to this work is the attention to the experience of women as central to the narrative. Women work non-stop and get little recognition or respect, as Esmeralda Santiago's mother illustrates perfectly. The sexist, patriarchal world of Puerto Rico and New York affect young Esmeralda in ways she only begins to understand in her teen years, and highlight a factor lacking in other Puerto Rican writers, like Piri Thomas, whose famous work does not highlight themes of gender at all despite Puerto Rican women being the potomitan of Puerto Rican culture and society, too.

This memoir also reminded me of works by V.S. Naipaul, Patrick Chamoiseau and Dany Laferrière which also explored their childhoods in Martinique and Haiti. Overall, Laferrière's short fictionalized novel of his childhood in Petit-Goave is my favorite, but the parallels in all three's work is remarkable. Laferriere also shares with Santiago a narrative rooted in the influential women who raised him and the world of a child in provincial Haiti. Chamoiseau, on the other hand, shares a political subtext in his School Days that is present in Santiago's work but muted in An Aroma of Coffee. Naipaul's Miguel Street (arguably, A House for Mr. Biswas, too) also explores life in the Caribbean, provincial and urban, with similar local color, language, cultural miscegenation, and identity (including some rather humorous and intriguing conflicts along lines of gender).

Perhaps would be an interesting research topic to analyze Caribbean writers on the subject of childhood, because I am sure there are other writers who have returned to their youth and reached similar conclusions or observations on Caribbean societies, migration, gender, race, or language. There is something magical about nostalgia and youth, and I intend to read more on the subject. 

The World Is Moving Around Me: A Memoir of the Haiti Earthquake

"All some commentator has to do is say the word "curse" on the airwaves and it spreads like a cancer. Before they can move on to voodoo, wild men, cannibalism, and a nation of blood-drinkers, they'll see that I have enough energy to fight them."

The strength of The World Is Moving Around Me: A Memoir of the Haiti Earthquake lies in its similarities with the fictional works of Dany Laferrière and the long-term translator, David Homel. Dany Laferrière's established style of blending fact and fiction in multiple semi-autobiographical novels made the disjointed structure of this novel accessible and interesting. One feels as if one already knows Laferrière's family quite well from the fictionalized versions of them in his novels. 

Indeed, one should read his fiction before tackling this memoir, since the novels establish who many of his family are and why their suffering, albeit light compared with the havoc the earthquake wrought for the poorer masses, is so meaningful for Laferrière. When his elderly aunt passes after the earthquake and he returns to Petit-Goave twice, I would be lying if I said I was not moved by his nostalgia and the powerful memories of his grandmother (the relationship between a boy and his grandmother is also alluded to in the play of a grandmother and her grandson in Port-au-Prince in the days after the earthquake). Laferrière also structures the memoir stylistically and in content like his fiction: numerous vignettes, short chapters, several literary allusions, a sense of humor, poetic language, sharing stories of literary and journalist friends, references to the importance of his mother and the women who raised him. 

Unfortunately, this somber reflection on surviving the earthquake and experiencing the aftershocks (figuratively and literally) is weakened by the author's constant praise of 'culture.' While distancing himself from those who praise 'voodoo' or sensationalize the Haitian people's ability to keep living on after the horrendous tremor as somehow 'resilience' or the other side who approach Haiti as a 'cursed' nation, it sounds simply ridiculous to look to culture (and, to be fair, the author does define it as more than written, elite culture or the school of naive paintings) as the only way for Haiti to stand up to the earthquake. 

It seems as if  Laferrière wants to avoid any overt political messages, but given the vast inequalities that characterize Haitian society (something he acknowledges with the Haitian elite villas only occupied for part of the year in Mount Calvary), one cannot help but express some surprise at the seemingly apolitical text. While critical of foreign constructs of Haiti (and calling out the Haitian government's corruption), without any real political solutions addressing class, it is left to the reader's imagination as to how culture can stand up to the earthquake. Furthermore, his own bias against religion seems to automatically push to the margins some aspects of Haitian culture which are particularly strong.

Despite my minor quibbles, this memoir is certainly a worthwhile read for those interested in Haitian or Haitian-Canadian responses to the catastrophe that leveled Port-au-Prince. Dany Laferrière manages to capture the humanity of the people of Port-au-Prince in a highly personal way that prompts the reader to rethink their assumptions about Haiti. While certainly lacking in detail (he never spent much time in the tent cities, and he left Port-au-Prince with other Canadian citizens soon after the first few days and only returned later after his aunt dies) of the kind one finds in journalistic writings, Laferrière tells the story of the earthquake as it affected him, his immediate family, and friends. 

Frankétienne,  Rodney Saint-Éloi, Lyonel Trouillot, Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Thomas Spear, radio hosts, Georges and Mireille Anglade, and other well-known literary or intellectual figures appear in the text, providing a sort of litany for Haitian intellectuals and writers. The text's ending is also classic Dany, ending in a metatextual way as he describes himself finishing the writing of the very text we are reading from a Paris hotel room. 

Romulus

Fernand Hibbert

Romulus, first published in 1908, is Haitian novelist Fernand Hibbert's fictionalized version of the 1883 siege of Miragoâne during the Salomon presidency. Recently translated into English for the first time by Matthew Robertshaw, the novella explores life in the Haitian port town before and after the unrest. As the translator's introduction elucidates, an appeal to discourse is one of the messages of the novel, written at a time of rapidly declining Haitian political stability. Using the politically turbulent period of Salomon's presidency (and the dangers of absolutism and corruption), Hibbert's novel subtly comments on the instability of Haiti in 1908, such as the lack of a Haitian middle-class or commerce class, for instance (often with a sense of humor, too, particularly in the first section of the book, which introduces Romulus, the town, and the pace of life). 

Furthermore, Romulus, the titular character, a police commissioner in Miragoâne, exploits his position for personal gain, as does the Commandant and local merchants, to smuggle goods custom-free through the port, thereby depriving Haiti of revenue. Romulus, and his children through two 'wives' or women, symbolize Haiti (black and mulatto are his wives), and his family, by extension the entire city of Miragoâne, represent a troubled country. However, when relatively free from Port-au-Prince and the 'Restorer,' Salomon, life in Miragoane appears idyllic and lively, because the author compares the town to a beautiful women, yet its corrupted, overtaken, and besieged as a result of the exiles returning from Jamaica, led by Boyer-Bazelais (whose death is fictionalized in this tale) and his Liberal principles. 

Of course, some of his supporters do not even understand the political reasons why they oppose Salomon (Romulus included), and Boyer-Bazelais is operating on the assumption that all the towns of Haiti will rise up in opposition to the tyrant Salomon, including Jacmel, the 'Iron Coast' and Jérémie, where the exile revolutionaries also landed. In short, the Bazelaists planned poorly, and Boyer-Bazelais himself is depicted as foolisly relying on Providence for his movement to succeed. Later, he comes to realize that the true beginnings of liberal government in Haiti will not manifest until a popular demand by the people themselves calls for it, which implies the growth of a middle class and Haitian economic development, which will force politicians and the military to recognize them. 

This in directly tied with the political philosophy of non-involvement, characterized by the Haitian elite Mr. Trévier, an exporter of coffee and logwood (also friend of Romulus and Merlin, a Haitian caught up in the intellectual and political fervor of Bazelaisism) who refuses to get involved in politics, preferring to engage in business and commerce to slowly and gradually support Haitian merchants and capitalists, thereby paving the path for a larger middle class-class (which is an idea recognized by Haitian intellectuals of the late 19th century and early 20th century as one of the reasons Haiti's political system was so turbulent and weak). Yet this path is not a solution to Haiti's woes because, as a result of the political instability and siege, the exile revolutionaries requisition some of his goods and all of his assets are lost in the fires and battles that consume the city. Even the military, the only "organized structure" of Haiti, to paraphrase Trévier, cannot ensure stability for business.

Thus, I read the novel as offering a reconciliation of sorts, between political idealism and revolutionary movements (which, unlike Bazelaism, actually reach out to the masses)  and economic self-determination. Oddly, the author of the text wrote this at at time when foreign economic penetration of Haiti was so completely entrenched, one has no idea how such a goal would be achievable in the early 20th century, and a more radical approach of empowering the peasantry directly is certainly not explored in this text. 

As for the structure of the novel, it makes quite the rapid transition from its early chapters, which focus on Romulus and introduce the town, and then the several chapters on the battles, bombardments, or casualties of the conflict. Including numerous historical figures, Hibbert has an annoying penchant in this novel for long lists of influential exiles and locals who joined the revolutionary movement. I am not sure why he does this, but the translator retains it. Perhaps it is to show how elite-dominated the movement was, thereby limiting its success? I am also perplexed by Hibbert's choice of title, and the brief allusion to Cinette, who dies suddenly. Unless her death is an ominous sign of the forthcoming revolutionary movement, it is out of place.

Regardless, the novel is an interesting exploration of Haiti's political discord with a focus outside of Port-au-Prince. Even at a time when Haiti's export economy is portrayed as healthy, conflict over political office, the spoils of corruption, etc. ruin the chance to develop the economy. Moreover, as a novel first published in 1908, Hibbert succeeds in painting a portrait of provincial town life, with negative as well as positive attributes. Romulus, his large family (which is related to everyone in  Miragoâne by blood or godparents), the influence of the Catholic Church, political favoritism or corruption, as well as the strict class divide reveal an important era in Haitian history, one in which the US Occupation swiftly followed years of Haitian political fratricide. 

Favorite Quotes

"In those days,  Miragoâne was a prosperous and lively town."

"Romulus's defining characteristic consisted in this: he preferred high society. He was perfectly willing to commit himself against a man from the country, no matter how honest, if the man was in a dispute with a notable from the city--in this way Romulus was the most abject of scoundrels."

"Oh! That Romulus, he knew how to sway a person with his political rhetoric. He'd speak of generosity while at the same time working for his own good at the expense of the public. He was quite a modern man."

"Since Dessalines, people had kept trying to restore this poor country, a country that only wanted one thing: to be left in peace."