Breaking Gender Boundaries in "God's Bits of Wood"

A boundary is defined as “something that indicates or fixes a limit or extent” (Merriam-Webster). There are many types of boundaries. Some are based on commonly accepted factors such as geography, politics, and laws, while others are drawn from more controversial factors, such as gender, age, and race. Gender is an especially problematic and widely used determinant of boundaries. In traditional societies, women are confined to the home while men are constrained to economically productive activities. Even public space is controlled by men; women have no say in how the community functions. All of these examples are explored in Sembéne Ousmane’s novel God’s Bits of Wood, which portrays a highly structured community of railroad workers in 1940s French occupied West Africa. These workers and their families are bound by socially sanctioned ideas of space until a railroad strike leads to the breakdown of traditional borders established by gender. Although the changes are not universal or immediate, the strike has a demonstrable effect on previously accepted notions of boundaries and space within this fictional community.

In order to understand how boundaries are broken in the novel, one must first understand how they were created. In his book The Gendered Society, Michael Kimmel provides several explanations for the existence of gender inequality, including division of labor and family size, which are helpful in understanding the situation of women in Ousmane’s novel. He writes that higher levels of “sexual egalitarianism” are the result of “women and men shar[ing] access to the productive elements of the society” (by which he means the “market economy”) (52). Thus, the division of labor (which is based on cultural norms rather than “physical constitution”) contributes to women’s inferiority because their work is not seen as economically productive (50). The railroad is the main source of income for this community; since the women don’t work there they are understood to be less important than the men. However, women are not able to engage in so-called “productive” activities because they are too busy taking care of the family: “It also seems to be the case that the larger the family group the larger the differences between women and men” (53). In the novel Ramatoulaye is responsible for “no less than twenty of ‘God’s bits of wood’” (40) and therefore her role as caretaker is inescapable. If her family only consisted of her, a husband and two kids there would be more room for overlap into traditionally male areas; she would have the time and energy to find herself a role outside of the home. Kimmel asserts that “gender difference is the result of gender inequality—not the other way around” (47) and by that logic, these inherent inequalities within the society can be seen as the source of the rigid notions about women’s and men’s space in the novel (before the strike). Ultimately what these women are doing when they break the boundaries of socially sanctioned space is challenging and disproving old notions of gender difference as a biological fact.

In the time before the strike, women and men were confined to certain spheres of influence, or spaces, which were the result of social ideas regarding gender difference. As one might expect, women’s lives centered on the home and its related duties. On the first page of the novel Ousmane provides an example of this segregated space: “It was an afternoon in mid-October, at the end of the season of rains, and as was the custom at this time of day the women of the Bakayoko house were gathered in the courtyard. Only the women. As they went about their household tasks they chattered constantly…” (1, emphasis added). Already the author has provided the key to the operation of this society: custom. There are only women working in the courtyard because that’s the way it has always been. Using Kimmel’s research it becomes clear that the women have been limited to this space because their primary role in society is caring for the family. The family exists in the home, and thus it is the women’s sphere of influence. Kimmel writes that “All forms of spatial segregation between males and females are associated with gender inequality” (54). Because women are not equal to men, the home is not equal to the men’s place of work (in this case the railroad) and household duties become a symbol of weakness and femininity. In order for women to break the boundaries of gender they must transcend the space of the home. Even after the strike starts, the men are resistant to leaving the railroad: “Like rejected lovers returning to a trysting place, they kept coming back to the areas surrounding the stations…they would just stand there…their eyes fixed on the two endless parallels, following them out until they joined and lost themselves in the brush” (76). As men, their whole lives have been defined by the railroad and they don’t know what they are without it. Kimmel would say that they are unable to cope with the fact that they are no longer economically productive elements of society. Although the strike has clearly upset the patterns of their society, they are so indoctrinated by the ideas of space that they initially cannot leave the railroad, even though there is nothing for them to do there. Just as the home is a symbol of femininity, the railroad represents masculinity, an ideal which they are reluctant to give up. As the strike goes on the men will be forced to enter female space and take on traditionally female roles in order to survive, and women will have to do the same.

Much like the men, the women of the novel are at first hesitant to break social boundaries. The catalyst for the women of Dakar is the invasion of Mabigué’s ram into the home of Ramatoulaye. For these women the ram symbolizes their oppressors, both in the form of the toubabs (French colonists) and the traitors like Mabigué, who have done nothing but profit at their expense. Upon discovering that the ram had entered her home and eaten the little food she had managed to scrounge up, Ramatoulaye takes a knife and kills the animal for its meat, much to the shock and chagrin of the other women. However, “There was neither pride nor arrogance in [Ramatoulaye’s] attitude, but just a kind of satisfaction, as if what she had done had been only a duty she could not avoid” (68). With the men out of work, it falls to the women to provide for their families. Before the strike, meals were women’s main responsibility; however, their husbands’ work provided the money that made them possible. In this instance, Ramatoulaye is literally taking matters into her own hands and undermining the gendered division of labor outlined by Kimmel. In this community, women and men both play an integral part in providing for their families, yet the male role is more removed and impersonal. Although she hasn’t escaped the space of the home, Ramatoulaye has put a considerable dent in the borders defining gender. To explain her actions to the other women Ramatoulaye says, “’It was because we were hungry—we were all too hungry for it to go on. The men know it too, but they go away in the morning and don’t come back until the night has come and they do not see…Being the head of a family is a heavy burden—too heavy for a woman. We must have help’” (69). In this quote she is directly condemning the segregation of the sexes as an impractical practice in light of the strike. The entire burden of caring for the family is put on the women’s shoulders, while the men loaf around the station and the union office, waiting for something to do. She is pleading for the men to leave their comfort zone and help the women cope. The men of this community are used to not taking any direct responsibility for the daily life of the family; they must start to integrate themselves into the space of the home, just as the women must leave it. Ramatoulaye’s incident with the ram leads to further invasion of her home, this time in the form of police. In reaction to this affront the women finally go on the offensive and break the boundaries that hold them. After an altercation with the police, “Some of the women…formed into little groups and began patrolling the streets of the neighborhood, armed with bottles filled with sand…they accosted every man who appeared in their path” (109). By patrolling the streets, these women have asserted their control over a space outside the home, even going so far as to challenge traditional male control by questioning each one they see. This is one of the first acts in the novel of women trying to desegregate their gendered society. It takes a desperate situation to create radical change among the men and women of the Dakar-Niger railway.

The next step for the women of God’s Bits of Wood is to make their presence felt in male-controlled public space as a means of challenging the inequalities that permeate this society. Traditionally the women are in the home and the men are on the railroad, but by breaking the boundaries of custom the women are able to put themselves on an equal level with men. One way in which women insert themselves into public space is through speech. At least twice in the novel there is a direct mention of a woman asserting herself in public. During Diara’s trial in Bamako a woman testifies about his treachery before an audience in the union building: “It was the first time she had ever spoken at a meeting of the men, and she was filled with pride…The idea of a woman addressing a meeting as important as this was still unfamiliar and disturbing” (92). In addition, when Penda tells the people of Thiès about the march of the women, “It was the first time in living memory that a woman had spoken in public in Thiès” (187). The act of speaking in front of the community is important because it forces the men to pay attention to the women and consider their opinions and ideas. Like the women patrolling the streets in Dakar, this is a way for women to overcome the boundaries that confine and limit their abilities. Because the task of caring for the household is so devalued in this society, the men are disturbed by this unforeseen evidence that the women have something worthwhile to contribute. The women of Thiès, led by Penda, perform the most striking act of breaking out of the home when they march for several days to the city of Dakar. Some of the men, like Beaugosse, resist this deliberate attack on the status quo, complaining that “all the…men were scouring the city for a cask or even a bottle of water—which is what the women should be doing. Instead of that, they have been battling troops in the streets and starting fires” (188). Beaugosse rejects the actions of the women as inappropriate given the community’s standards for women, but that is why the march is significant. The women are leaving their home and familial obligations far behind, forcing the men to compensate for their absence by taking the female role. In a complete role reversal, the women are furthering the goals of the community while the men are left to deal with the day-to-day necessities of survival. In Kimmel’s terms, the women have become the productive elements of society. The effect of the march is clear: “Since their triumphal return from Dakar, the women had organized their lives in a manner which made them almost a separate community. Distances no longer inspired any fear in them, and each morning they left the city very early and walked the few miles out to the lake” (242). These women have finally transcended the boundaries of the home and the end of the strike does nothing to diminish this. Without the complete overthrow of social customs caused by the strike, the women would not have had an opportunity to reinvent themselves in this way. In order for them to be more equal with men they had to separate themselves, so as to not fall into old patterns of dominance. Philosopher Hannah Arendt stated that “Power is never the property of an individual”; instead it belongs to and is exercised by a group (qtd. in Kimmel 93). Thus it took the efforts of a group of women acting together to counteract the dominant male power within the society. The insertion of women into the public sphere is an important development which leads to the first signs of gender equality, spatial and otherwise.

And yet, truly radical change cannot simply happen overnight. Although there are many challenges to rigid ideas of gendered space within the novel, this society is so used to segregating itself this way that its people easily fall into old patterns. As a part of their household duties, going to the well or the fountain for water was a woman’s job: “In the days before the strike the trip to the fountain had been an occasion for the exchange of all kinds of gossip, for the spreading of news, and even for arguments; but now there was only a gloomy silence, a stillness that was a reflection of impatience worn down by fatigue” (65). Much like the courtyard at the beginning of the novel (see paragraph 3), the fountain is symbolic of women’s space, and is therefore avoided by the men. After the strike, the water supply is cut off by the toubabs and the fountain becomes a constant reminder of colonial rule, just like their empty kitchens. As the women become more involved in the strike, they abandon traditional spaces like the fountain in search of ways to prove themselves and deconstruct gender roles (such as the march to Dakar). As Beaugosse notes (see previous paragraph), the men are forced to fill the void and perform the duties necessary for the survival of the family and the community. In Dakar, the men have so thoroughly extended themselves into women’s space that they claim it as their own. When N’Deye Touti voices her intent to get water from the well, she is criticized for doing what is now a man’s job: “’You’re not going to tell me that you’re going to the well for some, like the men?’ …And she left, pushing an old barrel before her, watched with amusement by the other women, who lost no opportunity to make fun of her” (227). This situation is problematic because it suggests that, with the exception of one person, this society is still segregated along gender lines. The fact that men have embraced a woman’s role should be a cause for celebration, but not if they’ve done so by pushing the women out. This scene also reveals that women are involved in enforcing notions of space, as they tease N’Deye for her actions. The situation surrounding the fountain reveals the complexity of this issue. Gender difference and inequality are not easy constructs to escape. Anthropologist Margaret Mead offers a reason why: "I have suggested that certain human traits have been socially specialized as the appropriate attitudes and behavior of only one sex, while other human traits have been specialized for the opposite sex. This social specialization is then rationalized into a theory that the socially decreed behavior is natural for one sex and unnatural for the other… "(qtd. in Kimmel 48). In this case, the men have taken on a specialized trait of the women, thereby making it unnatural for the women to get water from the fountain. Mead’s theory seems to suggest that there can be no sharing of traits (or of space) between men and women; difference and segregation are ingrained aspects of human society.

In the end, the issue of the fountain in Dakar is only one troubling instance in a novel that has an otherwise optimistic view of the future of this railroad community. There is overwhelming evidence to suggest that men and women have learned to view each other differently because of the experiences of the strike. Boundaries between men’s and women’s spaces are broken, and in doing so are proven to be less rigid than previously supposed. Women are able to become the breadwinners and voice their opinions in public forum, while men are able to put aside their pride and engage in household tasks. Ideas about gender are malleable because, as Kimmel says, “gender is not a ‘thing’ that one possesses, but a set of activities that one does…[we] constantly define and redefine what it means to be men or women in our daily encounters with one another” (106). Gender is frequently a means of separation or segregation, but it doesn’t have to be. Sembéne Ousmane’s novel shows us how, under the right circumstances, there is the possibility for radical change.

Works Cited
“Boundary.” Webster's Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary. 7th ed. 1972. Print.
Kimmel, Michael S. The Gendered Society. New York: Oxford University Press. 2000. Print.
Ousmane, Sembène. God’s Bits of Wood. Essex: Heineman. 1962. Print.

Breaking Boundaries in "God's Bits of Wood"

The following is my paper proposal for the annual Honors Colloquium held each spring semester at CSUN:

It is an inescapable reality that many people find themselves confined to certain boundaries within a society based on their gender, age, and/or race among other factors. The highly structured community of railroad workers in 1940s French occupied West Africa, as portrayed in Sembene Ousmane’s novel God’s Bits of Wood, lends itself to an exploration of the creation and destruction of these arbitrary spaces. In this paper I discuss the ways in which the fictional community along the Dakar-Niger railway is initially limited by socially sanctioned ideas of space and how a strike of the railroad workers leads to the breakdown of borders between men and women, old and young, and white and black.

Before the strike, the women were primarily confined to the home and to domestic duties, however; the sudden loss of income forces them to venture further and further from their traditional spheres of influence in order to feed and protect their families. In an ultimate act of breaking barriers, the women from the city of Thies spend several days marching to Dakar (a coastal city at the end of the rail line) to show their support for the men of the union. Similarly, this society has traditionally given precedence to the elderly, placing them in venerated space because of their assumed wisdom and experience. However, the strike brings forth new leaders from among the younger generations and they control the dialogue at union meetings, pushing the elderly to the side. The stark contrast between white and black space is frequently alluded to in the novel, with the primary focus on the juxtaposed appearances of buildings. Although the black community does not overtake and re-appropriate white space, they do force many of the French colonial elite to leave the region. In this paper I prove that although these changes are not immediate and universal, the strike is clearly the catalyst for radical changes to notions of space and boundaries within the fictional railroad community of West Africa.

Bodies as Signs in "Foe"

“’At last I could row no further’” (5). Thus begins J.M. Coetzee’s novel Foe, an imaginative retelling of the Robinson Crusoe story (originally written by Daniel Defoe) in which a woman, Susan Barton, joins Crusoe and Friday as a castaway on their island. This opening line and several others on the first page alone are repeated over-and-over throughout the text as Coetzee uses the themes of language and storytelling to explore how marginalized people (in this case a woman and a black man) find the means to speak about their lives. The last chapter of the novel is only a few pages long, but by repeating key phrases and ideas from the rest of the text Coetzee summarizes the themes and ideas of the work as a whole. In my attempt to make sense of this final chapter, I will work through it piece-by-piece and hopefully approach some understanding of the author’s intended message.

The first sentence, “The staircase is dark and mean” (153) is an exact repetition of the beginning of the previous chapter, except the word “was” is now replaced by “is.” Apparently the narrator is now describing events of the present time, whereas the rest of the novel took place in the past. This is significant because it leads me to believe that the author, Coetzee, is the narrator of this chapter. Of course it isn’t literally the author, but rather a fictional persona adopted by him for the purposes of the story. It is not unusual in postmodern fiction for the author to insert him/herself into the narrative. I also conclude from the surreal nature of the events in this chapter it is taking place in a vision or dream-like state.

The narrator climbs the staircase to what the reader assumes is Foe’s apartment (Mr. Foe is the author Susan has asked to write her story) and he encounters a body blocking the door, “a woman or a girl…she weighs no more than a sack of straw” (153). Judging from previous events I conclude that this is meant to be Susan’s “daughter,” whom she believes to be lost in Brazil but whom Foe is convinced has come to England to find her mother. The narrator tries to unwrap the scarf from around her face, a glimpse of which might settle the question of her parentage, but the layers are unending. As a representation of progeny, the girl may signify the book that Foe and Susan are fighting to control; to discover her source is to find the author. Entering the room, the narrator finds a couple lying “side by side in bed, not touching,” (153) their skin dry and their lips pulled back, revealing their teeth. This couple is Susan and Foe, presumably at odds with each other since they are not touching. Although he later tries to open Friday’s mouth, he leaves theirs alone, they have said too much already. He initially fears that they will obstruct his purpose and seems relieved that they are incapable of speech, “I draw the covers back, holding my breath, expecting disturbance…but they are quietly composed” (153).

His goal is revealed in the next paragraph as he makes his way to the “pitch black” (154) alcove where Friday sleeps. Friday is still warm and alive, perhaps because he has not yet told his story (the other two, in speaking/writing, have literally dried themselves out). Try as he might, the narrator cannot pry open Friday’s teeth, he must wait patiently until Friday decides to roll over and open his mouth. Even then the narrator must “ignore the beating of my own heart” (154) and listen carefully to Friday without imposing his own narrative. Susan and Foe were so busy speaking about, and essentially colonizing, Friday that they were unable to listen to him as the narrator does. As Susan first suspects, Friday doesn’t speak in words (he hardly knows any) but rather “like the roar of a seashell held to the ear” (142). The sounds that the narrator hears from Friday’s mouth are the sounds of the island, which seem to indicate a feeling of homesickness. The question that remains is how to interpret these sounds in a way that lets us understand Friday’s story.

The beginning of the second vision makes it clear that the house we are visiting is Foe’s, as a plaque on the wall proclaims “Daniel Defoe, Author.” This is the first mention of the author’s full name, although the reader has probably suspected it all along. The inclusion of the word “Author” on the plaque suggests that Foe has claimed ownership over the story, the ambiguity of the first dream vision is gone. As if in reflection of this fact, the bodily positions of the couple have changed, they are now facing each other and Susan’s head is in the crook of Foe’s arm. He has asserted his authority and she has succumbed to the female role. As he makes his way up the stairs the narrator once again encounters the mysterious body of the girl, stumbling over it as if it is not important. When the narrator turns his gaze on Friday’s corner of the room he notices “a scar like a necklace, left by a rope or chain” (155). He seems surprised not to have noticed this before, but it’s possible that everyone has been so distracted by Friday’s missing tongue that they have ignored the rest of his body. The narrator also notices that the table only has two plates on it, which speaks to the troubling manner in which Susan and Foe regard Friday. They seem deeply concerned with his lack of voice, yet they cannot do him the courtesy of having a plate for him (he must wait until they have finished before he can eat).

Finding the dispatch box in which the manuscript is kept, the narrator reads the first line “’Dear Mr. Foe, At last I could row no further’” (155), which is almost an exact repetition of the opening line of the novel. Literally this line indicates exhaustion, but it also suggests inability to surmount an obstacle (possibly the issue of Friday’s voice). Reading this sentence transports the narrator into the boat that Susan was cast away in, and from here he enters the water in exactly the same manner as she did, “With a sigh, making barely a splash, I slip overboard” (155). The narrator’s change in location is signaled by the use of quotation marks in the first line and none in the second. This line is repeated again to describe the narrator submerging himself in the ocean: “With a sigh, with barely a splash…” (155). The repetition of these words may indicate the importance of non-resistance and quiet immersion as a precondition for hearing and understanding Friday. Beneath the surface the narrator finds the wrecked ship that had originally brought Friday and Crusoe to the island. Earlier in the novel Susan equates the wreck (which the narrator describes as a cavernous hole) with Friday’s mouth, saying that “It is for us to descend into the mouth” (142) and hear his story.

The narrator’s entrance into the ship parallels that of his entry to Foe’s house. He is obstructed by something soft which he thinks is either a dead shark or “the body of a guardian wrapped in rotting fabric, turn after turn” (156). The body of the unknown girl wrapped in scarves, and thus the looming question of authorship, still blocks his path. Just like at Foe’s house there is a stairway leading to the living quarters, and further inspection reveals two dead bodies here too, only this time it’s Susan and the captain of the ship from which she was cast away. The bodies are bloated with water, or symbolically glutted with power. Their hands are “held out in blessing” (157), yet Friday wears a chain around his throat and is once again hidden, half-buried, in a corner; clearly their effusions of good will are ineffectual.

In a burst of sudden understanding the narrator realizes that “this is not a place of words” (157) because Friday has not allowed himself to be colonized in that way. He does not speak as we would wish him to, instead “This is a place where bodies are their own signs” (157). The narrator’s visions have allowed us to understand the themes of the novel through the use of bodies: Friday’s continually in a corner (the oppressed “other” who is spoken about but not listened to), the unknown girl’s always blocking the door (the ever-present question of authorship), and Susan’s repeatedly next to a man (the necessity of a male figure to validate women’s experience). Words are not the only way of communicating, Coetzee has explained a lot about the story just from the positioning of bodies in this final chapter. In the last paragraph Friday opens his mouth and speaks, yet the narrator can only describe it as “soft and cold, dark and unending” (157). The entire novel has been building up to this moment, only to discover that the mere act of speaking doesn’t mean that we can understand him. A similar conclusion was reached at the end of the first vision; all we have is sounds and no way to make sense of them. Although there has been some progress, there are still more obstacles to overcome before Friday (and through him repressed peoples) can be understood by his oppressors.

Work Cited
Coetzee, J. M. Foe. New York: Penguin, 1986. Print.

The Sound of Silence

Sound is an important aspect of film that many people take for granted. In most Hollywood movies the soundtrack provides cues for the audience indicating how to feel about certain characters or situations. For instance, a tense or frightening scene will be set to music that creates anxiety in the audience (like this iconic score from Psycho: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o_XfUxXDldY&feature=related) and a romantic scene will have music that makes the audience feel warm and fuzzy inside (like this scene from Titanic: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MDPeL8lpzo). The soundtrack has become an integral part of the movie-watching experience, even to the point where the music carries as much weight as any of the actors. Given this, it is surprising to encounter a film in which music plays little or no role. This is the case in Nick Hughes’ film 100 Days, a heartbreaking chronicle of the horrific events which took place amidst the Hutu extermination of the Tutsi during the Rwandan genocide of 1994. Far from being a problematic omission, the noticeable absence of a dramatic or emotional soundtrack in this film allows the filmmaker to convey his ideas through the careful use of silence.

The scene: Josette, the female protagonist, is running through the forest and behind her is an indistinguishable male character who appears to be in hot pursuit. With no music in the background to influence our interpretation, it is unclear whether she is running away in fear or in playfulness. When the man finally catches up with her, we learn that he is her boyfriend, Baptiste, and that they have simply been playing a game. However, the ambiguous tension of this scene foreshadows the later chase scenes in the film in which the intentions of the pursuer are decidedly more threatening. Shortly thereafter, the filmmaker again uses silence to create tension, only this time the threat is real.

The scene: Josette’s brother Pierre enters the vandalized home of Baptiste’s family and slowly creeps towards the back room where he finds their mutilated bodies, courtesy of a gang of Hutu men. Instead of a dramatic crescendo, the only sound is the crunching of glass under Pierre’s feet. Hughes doesn’t need background music to help the audience understand what’s going on, the action speaks for itself. In fact, the ominous silence punctuated by the crackling glass is worse because it heightens your anticipation of a loud noise to come (in this case a two person film crew that comes barreling around the house to do an interview about the deaths). In these and many other scenes throughout the movie, Hughes uses oppressive and uncomfortable silence to create intense agitation in the viewers and to force their attention to the action of the scene.

The scene: after convincing Josette’s mother that the only way to protect her daughter from the Hutus is to place her into his custody, a priest takes Josette to his room and rapes her. The only sounds are the deafening creaks of the bedsprings and her muffled whimpering. The lack of any background music in this scene means that the viewer cannot escape the disturbing sounds of the rape; we are trapped just like Josette. The silence also draws our attention to the lack of a significant struggle on her part; she doesn’t scream or cry out for help. Perhaps the silence is also a tacit acknowledgment of the futility of speaking out when there is no one to rescue you. The inadequacy of the armed forces portrayed in the film in preventing the massacres also reinforces the idea that no one hears the Tutsi’s calls for help. Hughes’ use of silence in the film may have been purposely intended to make a statement about the actions of the U.N. and the rest of the world (who clearly weren’t listening) in relation to the Rwandan genocide.

The scene: Baptiste, now a member of the RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Front), finds Josette living in the church of the priest who raped and impregnated her. Together they sit outside, their bodies turned away from each other and neither one saying a word. This scene is in stark contrast with their earlier, playful and loving encounter in the forest. The silence reflects her shame at her pregnancy and his feelings of betrayal. Although their suffering could be alleviated with speech (she doesn’t tell him about the rape), they are consumed by their personal demons. This scene is especially powerful because it shows the difficulty of speaking about genocide, or the inadequacy of language to address such horrific experiences. Not only does the film use silence as a dramatic technique (i.e. creating tension), it is effective thematically as well. 100 Days is a perfect example of a film that conveys its meaning without the ubiquitous crutch of a soundtrack. The rest is silence.

The Mother in the Subway

The following poem was inspired by the final short story in Ama Ata Aidoo's collection No Sweetness Here, which is entitled "Other Versions." In this story a college student from Ghana, Kofi, leaves his country to study in the United States. Before he departs, he tries to give his mother some money that he earned at his summer job, but she refuses him. Instead he is instructed to give the money to his father. Kofi is shaken by his mother's refusal and one night he tries to give money to a woman in the subway who reminds him of his mother. I wrote this poem to describe that scene from the point of view of the woman. Enjoy!

It was
late night
too late
perhaps
for a woman
like me
riding alone
in a subway
But
those bills
won’t pay
themselves
will they?
Listen,
I don’t mind
really
the gentle rocking
of the car
the blur
of the lights
…it’s home
As I was
saying,
a man
gets on
at 14th
Not from here
clearly
his dress
and
his walk
out of place
But listen,
he stared
that’s right
STARED
at me
I clutched
my handbag
and wrapped
my body
tighter
in my raincoat
Don’t look
at me like
that
I’m still here
aren’t I?
He fumbles
with his wallet
and…
get this…
he hands me
a wad
of cash
Yes, cash
The boy
(for I see
now
that he is
young)
is from Africa
a student
and I
remind him
of his mother
poor thing
Sitting
next to me
now
he looks
at my face
with a strange
expression:
awe, frustration, love
We sit
in silence
staring:
seconds, minutes, hours?
From the platform
he watches
as I wave
goodbye
What? Of course
I didn’t
take the money
What kind of
mother
would I be
if I had?

Bakayoko

The strike that informs the plot of Sembene Ousmane’s novel God’s Bits of Wood is more than a struggle for worker’s rights and benefits; it is a catalyst for radical change in the communities along the Dakar-Niger railroad in West Africa. Throughout the novel Ousmane masterfully navigates the complex issues that arise in a society forced to question its deeply held prejudices and traditions. Although he is clearly on the side of the strikers, Ousmane does not deify them; his characters are realistically flawed. Such is the case with Bakayoko, the ideologue at the heart of the strike, who does not appear in person until late in the novel but whose name is on everyone’s lips from the very beginning. In the following excerpt Bakayoko is criticized by another strike leader, Alioune, about his methods:

“[Alioune] was annoyed by the way Bakayoko had spoken about Beaugosse, because he knew the story of N’Deye Touti and the boy. He lay down again and said very softly, as if he were talking to himself, ‘You know, the difficult thing about you is that although you understand the problems very well, you don’t understand men—or if you do understand them, you never show it. But you expect them to understand every word you say, and if they don’t, you lose your temper. Then they become timid, because they know they are not as intelligent as you are, and they don’t like to be made fools of. So the result is that no one dares to do anything when you are not around…I ought to tell you that I wrote a letter to Lahbib about it. You were already on the way here when it was sent, but now you won’t be surprised if he mentions it to you’” (209-210).

This paragraph is surprising because it is the first outright criticism of Bakayoko, who for most of the book is resoundingly praised by the strikers. However, upon further inspection, Alioune’s statement turns out to be dead-on. In his response to Alioune, Bakayoko admits to having lost his sense of perspective, comparing himself to a train conductor who thinks only of the final destination and not the concerns of the passengers. The situation Alioune refers to regarding Beaugosse and N’Deye is representative of Bakayoko’s shortcomings. N’Deye is strongly attracted to Bakayoko and Beaugosse (who wants to marry her) is jealous and resentful. And yet Bakayoko is oblivious to this insignificant (to him) human drama and cruelly rejects N’Deye’s later suggestion of marriage. In addition, he doesn’t recognize that all of the intelligence and knowledge he has gathered from Western political books has put up a wall between him and the people, even though he is using those ideas for their benefit. While the strikers may admire Bakayoko, they feel closer to leaders like Alioune and Lahbib who are more attuned to their interests. They were the ones who were around during the times of deprivation and hardship when Bakayoko was nowhere to be found.

Of course, despite his flaws, Bakayoko plays a key role in the strike. It is suggested that he is the strike’s originator and he definitely traveled extensively in an effort to convince all of the towns along the railway to join in. He is successful in persuading the other worker’s unions of French-occupied West Africa to join the strike, which tips the scales and leads to victory. He provides the ideological underpinnings of the strike, but theory must coexist with reality, and as Alioune says, he does not understand men (or women for that matter). Bakayoko has some radical ideas about how society should be, but he’s out of touch with how it is. Strike leaders like Lahbib are necessary intermediaries between Bakayoko’s ideology and the reality of the people, without them it would never work.

When the strike is over, Bakayoko returns home and leaves the strike leaders to deal with the practical arrangements that must be made. He had an important role to play, but Ousmane leaves no doubt in the readers’ minds that he is a flawed and limited character. He is not the savior that he appeared to be at the beginning of the novel. To drive home his point about the tension between theory and reality (or Bakayoko and the common man), Ousmane writes (at the end of Alioune and Bakayoko’s late night conversation), “A voice from the other side of the office interrupted [Bakayoko]. ‘What you are saying is very interesting, but also very tiring. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day’” (210).

Work Cited
Ousmane, Sembene. God's Bits of Wood. Essex, UK: Heinemann, 1970. Print.

The Importance of Costumes in Sia

In A Short Guide to Writing about Film, Timothy Corrigan writes that costumes provide “the key to a character’s identity” (58). This is especially true in the film Sia: The Dream of the Python, which chronicles the political intrigue surrounding a young woman who is chosen as a sacrifice to the Python-God. Not only does costuming provide insight into the various characters, it also illustrates the changes that they undergo as the narrative develops. Most importantly, the costumes highlight and underscore the film’s critique of politics and religion.

The first costumes that the audience encounters are the robes of the priests, who are purportedly engaged in a ritual to determine the will of the Python-God. The physical appearance of these robes (long and dark with hoods covering their eyes) shrouds these men in mystery and mysticism and gives the audience no reason to doubt that they are communing with the gods. Likewise, the emperor and the townspeople are taken in by their appearance and do not doubt their authority (although some of the villagers are skeptical). In the scene before Sia’s rape, the priests are revealed without their hoods, smoking and drinking like any other men. It doesn’t take too long for the audience to realize that they have been taken in by the costumes; these priests are merely men acting on their carnal urges.

In other cases costumes do not obscure the characters’ true nature, but underline them. For instance, Kaya Maghan (the emperor) is dressed in an opulent purple robe and tasseled hat that represent his power and wealth. This costume also serves to illustrate the distance between him and his people (a circumstance he frequently bemoans but is ultimately unable to rectify). When he realizes the impotence of his advisors he strips off his outer robe and hat as if that act will puncture the bubble in which he lives. However, underneath he is still wearing a gold tunic and he is still no closer to knowing his people. The village madman, Kerfa, also has a distinctive form of dress which sets him apart from the majority of the townspeople. The audience can immediately tell that he is different from everyone else. His cape and raggedy shirt lead the people to think that he is a lunatic (as well as his rambling speech), but as the story unfolds we find that he is the only one who sees things clearly. If he is mad, it’s because he understands what’s going on and is powerless to stop it.

The changes to Mamadi’s costume over the course of the film highlight the problems with the emperor’s government. He starts out in the garb of a soldier, which indicates his susceptibility to being controlled by others (particularly by his uncle Wakhane). All of the soldiers in the film are portrayed as mindless automatons doing the bidding of the people in power, even when it involves brutalizing the townspeople. Wakhane fills Mamadi with his own political ambitions until the latter becomes the new emperor and dons Kaya Maghan’s robes. In case the symbolism of this was not clear enough, Mamadi kills Wakhane for disagreeing with him and perpetuates the cycle of totalitarian regimes. Although Wakhane had earlier told Mamadi that they would be “reinventing the world” by overthrowing the emperor, they have merely upheld the status quo.

Sia’s costume transformations throughout the film are also highly significant. She starts out dressed like the other women at the river and is largely indistinguishable from the rest. When she is singled out to be sacrificed, her separation from the community begins. This is symbolized by her presence at Kerfa’s house on the outskirts of the village. The strikingly white dress and scarf she wears as a part of the sacrifice ritual are a visual representation of her distance from the community (they also symbolize her virginity). After the rape she tells Mamadi that she feels “soiled.” Her costume, which is torn and muddied, is a physical representation of this. As a part of Wakhane’s attempt to legitimize Mamadi’s rule and downplay the trauma that Sia has undergone, she is dressed as a queen and paraded before the people. However, she quickly realizes what the men are trying to do to her and (more importantly) to the truth and she strips off the costume. Now mostly naked, she leaves the palace and the community behind and becomes mad like Kerfa, wandering the streets of a modern-day city in a cape and shouting her wisdom to the passing cars. The lesson: After all these years people are still blinded by falsehoods and no one heeds the lone voice of truth.