Harlow's 1987 book looks at the role of literature — especially poetry and the prison memoir — in “Third World” liberation movements during the late days of European colonialism. What I have shaved off that summary post at the Grandfather Hu blog is shared here, in this Voce Della Volpe blog. It is a brief look at the topic of “language” as a weapon in the hands of the oppressor.
What are the “representative aspects” of resistance
literature?
At the top of the list is “language.” Harlow argues that the writer’s choice of the language is itself “a political statement.” In this Voce Della Volpe post, I’ll focus on the idea of “language” as a strategy for oppression.
This is actually a topic close to my heart, as I recall stories told by my grandmother who grew up as a minority subject of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire. My grandmother could speak and read Hungarian, which was the language of her schooling. But she also spoke of the punishment she and her classmates received when the teachers caught them their native tongue. They were forced to kneel on the point of a triangular piece of wood until their knees bled. Whippings for repeat violators were not unusual.
This memory of my grandmother’s stories remained
with me as I heard stories from Taiwanese friends who shared their own memories
of being chastised, often with corporal punishment, for speaking their mother
tongue in the classroom.
Language loss and linguistic repression are powerful implements in the colonial toolbox. The history of colonization in Taiwan offers a fascinating and frightening example of how conquerors understand the power of language as both a force of oppression and resistance.
In the early years of imperial Japan’s occupation of the island (1894 to 1945) the local “Taiwanese” dialect and aboriginal languages were allowed as the languages of the non-official realm, while Mandarin was strictly forbidden. That situation was completely, albeit gradually, flipped when the island was ceded to the control of the Nationalist Party from China. With the Nationalists in full power, the many indigenous languages, the Chinese Hakka language, and the majority Taiwanese language were prohibited in classrooms, the media, and trade.
Mandarin came to be associated with “loyalty,” and Taiwanese was shunted
aside as a signifier of lower social and cultural status until the late 1980s
when the full authority of the authoritarian regime started to fade. Even so, the
result of the decades-long oppression of linguistic expression was a highly
successful endeavor of the colonizing regimes, resulting in the
endangerment of some tribal languages and the reduction in the number of
Taiwanese-language speakers, even in those regions where the majority
population once was dominated by non-“mainlander” communities.
Linguistic colonization continues today in many
nations, in part through language and educational policies, as is suggested by what some see as a decrease in the number of Cantonese speakers throughout Guangdong
Province, the regional birthplace of this beautiful and complex language. Though
the cause of this oppression may just as likely be the flattening effects of
the electronic media. It may even be the demands of a capitalist economy that
play a role in cutting the hard crust of regional accents from the bread of a
national language, a concern expressed by some in the United Kingdom. In the
United States the dominance of the media has inarguably affected the way
English is, like, you know, like, you know, spoken? Oh Valley Girl, what have you done to English?
In terms of literary production, polyphony is an important aspect of resistance writing. I cannot help but think of Mikhail Bakhtin’s idea of “heteroglossia” as a quality of resistance writing, with different speech patterns standing as challenges to the “historical record” of officialdom while representing the continuing presence of the marginalized. Polyphony in the resistance text reveals social and political dimensions, as well as the psychological depths of the protagonists engaged in these struggles.
One of the living examples of the use of language as an obvious form of
resistance is Gabino Iglesias, whose novels include entire passages of
untranslated Spanish as well as accents that identify protagonists’ cultural
and class backgrounds. Iglesias’ first book, Zero Saints, is an ideal example of Harlow’s observation that
resistance narratives “may be positively or healthily challenging” to readers
who are unfamiliar with texts that ask of them a larger degree of “awareness.”
The predominance of Spanish in Zero
Saints challenges the idea of English as the “American language,” while the
protagonists and the narrative serve as “resistance” to the major political
climate that has given rise to the horrors of human trafficking and economic inequality.
Language can be such an important part of a literary
text, providing not only an element of resistance but of reality as well.
----------
*Artwork: “Roots and Wings” by Patti Durr, as found at the Whitman Works Company art gallery blog. Used without permission, so please undo my error by visiting their website and checking out the beautiful and relevant artworks displayed and discussed on their blog.
