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Chris Witter
En este trabajo quiero abrir una discusión acerca de la ficción breve de tres
escritoras: Anzia Yezierska, Tillie Olsen y Grace Paley. Al hacerlo, tengo dos
propósitos principales:
- Primero, confirmar y elaborar la tesis central de esta conferencia: que las escritoras
han sido marginadas dentro de los cánones de la literatura experimental.
- Segundo, quiero utilizar la obra de estas escritoras para sugerir que no es suficiente
entender el experimento literario como una “alteración de la superficie lingüística de un
texto”. En su lugar, sugiero tentativamente una base conceptual diferente para
comprender el “experimento literario”, que surge de entender las estrategias literaria
como prácticas sociales situadas.
-~-
Esta generación literaria era una clase social, definida como suelen serlo las clases sociales
estadounidenses, de acuerdo con líneas étnicas y raciales. De ahí que la “tradición”, como sea
que se la conciba –ya sea enraizada en el anglo-catolicismo de Eliot, o en el Medio Oeste mítico
de Fitzgerald, o en los bosque de Michigan de Hemingway, o el Sur de Faulkner con sus
magnolias, o dondequiera que sea- tuvo el efecto de excluir a todos los rudos bárbaros [es decir,
con amarga ironía, a los recientes inmigrantes de clase trabajadora…] La propiedad estaba
claramente señalizada: No se permiten irlandeses, los judíos no son bienvenidos, solo para
caucásicos. Y dadas las realidades de la historia contemporánea de la cultura estadounidense,
estas señales iban a ser en un grado considerable el recurso mediante el cual la propiedad – la
Civilización, la Cultura, la Tradición- sería definida.2
Yo ya sabía que había una literatura que no era sobre mí, sexualmente. Y sabía que ciertas
literaturas no me liberaban. Me refiero a que sabía sin saber.5
En una media hora esta mujer había tocado el rango completo de las emociones humanas […] La
terrible desesperación ante la avalancha de sus hijos muriéndose de hambre, cuando gritó,
“¡Ojalá que los entierre a todos solo en un día!”. Y ahora la luz saltarina de las palabras: “Como
ríe todavía en mí, la vida, en el instante en que le doy la espalda a mis preocupaciones.”
“Ah, si solo pudiera escribir como habla Hanneh Breineh!” pensó Sophie. (HH, 241-2)
5
Grace Paley, entrevistada por Birgit Fromkorth y Susanne Opfermann, en American Contradictions, ed.
Wolfgang Binder y Helmbrecht Breinig (Hanover y Londres: Wesleyan University Press, 1995), pp.80-
81.
Aquí Paley conecta y celebra en un solo gesto el arte de la tía Rose –el de hacer
flores de papel y el de narrar- con su lucha por autoafirmarse y establecer su autonomía.
Al mismo tiempo, entonces, mientras Rose proclama que su independencia “no tenía
raíces”, Paley cultiva y renueva sus propias “raíces”, colocando en la creatividad y el
esfuerzo de las mujeres de clase trabajadora de diferente origen étnico que habitan el
edificio una base diferente para la “tradición” y la “cultura”, de las cuales la narración
oral es una parte clave. Esto es importante, porque sugeriré que lo que es crucial acerca
del uso del lenguaje vernáculo es que ataca el “aura” del arte –su autonomía y su
especialización- animando a otros a producir haciendo del lenguaje cotidiano que tienen
a su alcance un aparato de producción literaria. Como tal, también hay un carácter
colectivo en esta forma de producción literaria: es la voz de un pueblo, de una clase, en
lugar de la de un sujeto individual. Más aún, como sostiene Denning, estos relatos “no
fueron exploraciones de como vive la otra mitad. Más bien, fueron cuentos sobre como
vive nuestra mitad.” Es una ficción escrita por y para la clase trabajadora, “contra los
estereotipos raciales y étnicos” que caracterizaban, volviendo exóticos los relatos en
dialectos regional y popular.”7
Esta idea en desarrollo del sujeto colectivo y la voz colectiva puede ser analizada
más extensamente en relación con el relato que da su título a la colección de cuentos de
Olsen Tell Me a Riddle. Situado en la década de 1950, el cuento trata sobre una anciana
pareja de inmigrantes judíos rusos de primera generación, y se centra en la lenta agonía
de la esposa, Eva. El relato emplea la técnica del flujo de conciencia, focalizado a través
de Eva. Pero esta no es una narración sobre la psicología del individuo; sino más bien
una historia que intenta cambiar desde nuestra perspectiva de sujetos individuales
interpelados por relaciones sociales capitalistas a una conformada por el sujeto colectivo
de las luchas de la clase trabajadora. De hecho, el error que cometen los personajes al
comienzo del cuento es culpar de sus problemas a los defectos del carácter del otro. A
medida que se desarrolla la historia, sin embargo, Olsen nos obliga a prestarle atención
a la relación entre esos problemas personales, localizados y los problemas colectivos del
patriarcado, la explotación capitalista, y la derrota de los movimientos de la clase
trabajadora de principios del siglo XX –es decir, explícitamente, las fuerzas de la
revolución rusa de 1905 de la cual Eva formó parte, e implícitamente el movimiento del
Frente Popular en la década del treinta en los EEUU del cual Olsen formó parte. Para
lograrlo, Olsen refuncionaliza la técnica del flujo de conciencia, de modo que se
convierte en un medio para sintonizar las frecuencias perdidas de una voz colectiva que
ha sido suprimida en el clima reaccionario de la posguerra estadounidense.
Mientras Eva yace en su lecho mortuorio pierde la conciencia, y como si hubiera
escondido dentro de si un “grabador, infinitamente microscópico”, comienza a
“reproducir” su pasado, “enrollado, milla infinita sobre milla” dentro suyo. En tanto “el
cuerpo palpitaba en agonía,” la voz de Eva “flotaba”, “con delgadez fantasmal”, en un
“enjambre de sonidos” recordando “cada canción, cada melodía, cada palabra leída,
escuchada, y dicha”, y particularmente los discursos y canciones revolucionarios de su
6
Paley, Collected, pp.6-7.
7
Denning, p.232.
Ella abrió de golpe la puerta y contempló la maravilla de la fábrica –la gente – la gente –
un mar de cabezas inclinadas y manos ocupadas de la gente – el zumbido de la maquinaria
– correas volando – el chasqueante repiqueteo de las ruedas al girar – todo parecía
mezclarse y fundirse en una única y creciente canción de esperanza – de nueva vida –un
nuevo mundo – ¡América! (HH, 41-42)
The Subaltern Modernism of Anzia Yezierska, Tillie Olsen and Grace Paley8
Chris Witter
In this paper I want to open a discussion of the short fiction of three women
writers: Anzia Yezierska, Tillie Olsen and Grace Paley. In doing so, I’ve two main
purposes:
- First, to confirm and elaborate the central thesis of the conference: that women writers
have been marginalised within canons of experimental literature.
- Second, I want to use the work of these writers to suggest that it is not enough to
understand literary experiment as a ‘ruffling of the linguistic surface of a text’. Instead, I
tentatively suggest a different conceptual basis for understanding ‘literary experiment’,
which proceeds from an understanding of literary strategies as situated social practices.
This feeds back into the first point. It may be that the problem of women being
marginalised within experimental canons cannot be resolved by retroactively
assimilating women into existing canons. For, drawing on work undertaken in my
thesis, I will suggest that the conceptual and ideological frameworks that inform these
canons were established through a set of active exclusions.
-~-
This literary generation was a social class, defined as American social classes tend to be
defined, along ethnic and racial lines. Hence the “tradition,” however conceived – whether
rooted in Eliot’s Anglo-Catholicism or Fitzgerald’s mythical Middle West or Hemingway’s
Michigan woods or Faulkner’s magnolia South, or wherever – had the effect of excluding
all of the abrupt barbarians [that is, with bitter irony, the recent, working-class
immigrants….] The property was plainly posted: No Irish Permitted, Jews Not Welcome,
Caucasians Only. And given the actualities of the contemporary history of American
culture, these postings were to a considerable extent the device by which the property –
Civilization, Culture, Tradition – was to be defined.9
That is to say, for Klein the dominant ‘modernism’ of the 1920s was constituted
in part in reaction to the massive socio-political changes of the early 20th Century US –
particularly rapid industrialisation and urbanisation, which created an enormous demand
for labour, leading to an unprecedented wave of immigration to the US between 1880
and the 1920s. These forces were constitutive of the emergence of an ethnic proletariat
in the new modern metropolises. And, indeed, it was these forces, as well as harsh
oppression in Tzarist Russia, that brought the Russian Jewish families of Yezierska,
Olsen and Paley to the US: Yezierska was born in Russian Poland in 1880, and came to
8
Presentado en la Contemporary Experimental Women’s Writing Conference, University of Manchester,
12 y 13 Octubre de 2013.
9
Klein, pp.16-18. Adapted.
the US as a child, in 1890; Olsen and Paley were second generation Russian Jewish,
born in the US in 1912 and 1922 respectively.
It is in this context that ‘subaltern modernism’ arises, a concept I borrow from
Michael Denning’s account of the cultural practices of the Popular Front working-class
movement of the 1930s and ‘40s. The corollary of this strong working-class movement
was ‘the increased influence on and participation of working-class Americans in the
world of culture and the arts’.10 A new militant working-class culture arose from this
conjuncture, ‘no longer marginalized in the “foreign” ghettoes.’ As Denning argues, this
combined ‘pride in ethnic heritage and identity’ with ‘an assertive Americanism’ – an
‘ethnic Americanism’ - that renegotiated and partially reclaimed ‘the figure of
“America” itself.’11 ‘Subaltern modernism’, then, is for my purposes here, a distinct
tradition emerging in the early twentieth century US, formed through the literary
articulation of suppressed working-class experiences of modernity in texts produced by
working-class writers. In so far as it appropriates the dominant US and European
literary traditions – particularly of modernism and romanticism - it does so by
renegotiating, extending and transforming them from a subaltern perspective.
It is in terms of this conjuncture, and as part of this tradition, that I understand
the work of Yezierska, Olsen and Paley – writers who were also involved in socialist
and women’s movements.
-~-
Within time constraints, I want to mark out a few sites where the importance of
the ‘subaltern modernism’ of Yezierska, Olsen and Paley becomes clear.
One of the crucial things binding these writers together is their concern with
‘everyday life’. Given how nebulous the concept of the ‘everyday’ is, it seems to me
that there must always be a catalyst for this concern – something to give it shape and
weight and necessity. I would suggest that this catalyst, for Yezierska, Olsen and Paley,
is a strong class consciousness inclusive of the modalities of ethnicity and gender. ‘As
one of the dumb, voiceless ones I speak. One of the millions of immigrants beating,
beating out their hearts at your gates for a breath of understanding.’ So begins
Yezierska’s story ‘America and I’. In Yezierska’s work the everyday is very specifically
located: it is the everyday of the young immigrant women working in the sweatshops
and the ladies garment factories, and of the Jewish mothers, cursing in Yiddish, as they
scrub floors and peel potatoes in the tenements. Every story in her 1922 collection,
Hungry Hearts, concerns this day-to-day labour, as well as its female characters’
attempts to escape this endless drudgery. When Olsen and Paley were writing short
story collections in the mid-50s, their fiction was still underpinned by this collective
subject - the ethnic working-class, living in the ghetto tenements – even as they mark
out social change in the increased possibilities open to their more ‘Americanized’
second generation female narrators: culturally, economically, educationally, sexually,
and so on. Moreover, they still felt that this exploration of the lives of working-class
women was something strange, necessary, daring. For example, Paley has said in an
interview that she put off writing about the lives of working-class women for a long
time because a lot of the literature around her was ‘heavily masculine’:
I already knew that there was a literature that was not about me, sexually. And I knew that
certain literatures didn’t free me. I mean I knew without knowing.12
10
Denning, pp. 8-9; p.239; pp.xvi-xvii..
11
Denning, p.7; p.9.
Olsen and Paley’s fiction, then, not only continued to address the historical
struggles of the ethnic working-class – it also became a means of producing and
reproducing a feminist political consciousness in (as Paley put it) that ‘early moment
when small drops of worried resentment and noble rage were secretly, slowly building
into the second wave of the women’s movement.’
A crucial aspect of this exploration of gender, ethnicity and class in relation to
the quotidian is the deployment, by these writers, of vernacular language. One of things
that marks Yezierska out as a writer is that she wrote her stories of immigrant life in
English – or rather, in ‘American’ – rather than in Yiddish. At a time when sharp social
distinctions were enforced between the ‘foreign’ immigrant and the American-born, she
appropriates the American English language and transforms it by adapting it to the
rhythms of Yiddish inflected vernacular speech. This everyday speech becomes a source
of vitality, disrupting the decorum of established ‘literary’ language. This decision is
addressed directly in her work. In one story, for example, Sophie Sapinsky, a surrogate
for Yezierska, is struggling to write – struggling ‘to give out what’s in me’. ‘What had
she, after all,’ she wonders, ‘but a stifling, sweatshop experience, a meager, night-
school education, and this wild, blind hunger to release the dumbness that choked her?’
Sophie is annoyed when she, trying to write, is interrupted by another Russian-Jewish
woman living in her tenement, but this encounter becomes a turning point for her:
Within a half-hour this woman had touched the whole range of human emotions […] The
terrible despair at the onrush of her starving children, when she cried out, “O that I should
only bury you all in one day!” And now the leaping light of the words: “How it laughs yet in
me, the life, the minute I turn my heard from my worries.”
“Ach, if I could only write like Hanneh Breineh talks!” thought Sophie. (HH, 241-
2)
Here Paley connects and celebrates in one gesture Aunt Rose’s craft – in making
paper flowers and in story-telling – with her struggle to assert herself and to establish
her autonomy. At the same time, then, as Rose claims her independence ‘didn’t have no
roots’, Paley cultivates and renovates her own ‘roots’, locating in the creativity and
struggle of the ethnic working-class women of the tenement a different basis for
‘tradition’ and ‘culture’, of which oral story-telling is a key part. This is important, for I
would suggest that what is crucial about the use of vernacular language is that it attacks
12
Grace Paley, interviewed by Birgit Fromkorth and Susanne Opfermann, in American Contradictions,
ed. Wolfgang Binder and Helmbrecht Breinig (Hanover and London: Wesleyan University Press, 1995),
pp.80-81.
13
Paley, Collected, pp.6-7.
the ‘aura’ of art – its autonomy and its specialisation – encouraging others to produce by
making the everyday language at hand into an apparatus of literary production. As such,
there is also a collective character to this form of literary production: it is the voice of a
people, of a class, rather than of an individual subject. Moreover, as Denning argues,
these stories ‘were not explorations of how the other half lives. Rather, they were tales
of how our half lives.’14 This is a fiction written by and for the working-class, ‘against
[the] racial and ethnic stereotypes’ which characterised exoticising regional and popular
dialect stories.’15
This developing idea of the collective subject and the collective voice can be
elaborated further in relation to the title story of Olsen’s collection Tell Me a Riddle. Set
in the 1950s, the story concerns an aging first-generation, Russian-Jewish immigrant
couple, centring on the slow dying of the wife, Eva. The story employs the stream of
consciousness technique, focalised through Eva. But, this is not a story about the
psychology of the individual; rather, it is a story that attempts to shift our perspective
from that of the individuated subject as interpellated by capitalist social relations, to one
informed by the collective class subject of working-class struggle. Indeed, the mistake
the characters make at the beginning of the story is to blame their problems on each
other’s character flaws. As the story develops, however, Olsen forces us to address the
relation between these localised, personal problems and the collective problems of
patriarchy, capitalist exploitation, and the defeat of the working-class movements of the
early 20th century – that is, explicitly, the forces of the 1905 Russian revolution in which
Eva took part, and implicitly the 1930s US Popular Front movement in which Olsen
took part. In order to do so, Olsen refunctions the stream of consciousness technique, so
that it becomes a means of tuning into the lost frequencies of a collective voice that had
been suppressed in the reactionary climate of the postwar US.
As Eva lies on her deathbed she loses consciousness, and as though concealing
within her a hidden ‘tape recorder, infinitely microscopic’, she begins ‘playing back’
her past, ‘coiled infinite mile on mile’ within her. While ‘the body fluttered in agony’,
Eva’s voice ‘floated’, ‘ghost thin’, in a ‘swarm of sounds’ recalling ‘every song, every
melody, every word read, heard, and spoken’, and particularly the revolutionary
speeches and songs of her youth. These ‘worked themselves into’ her husband’s
consciousness, as he sat by the bed, we’re told, recalling to him ‘that joyous certainty,
that sense of mattering, of moving and being moved, of being one and indivisible with
the great of the past, with all that freed man’ (TfS, 227). As Eva becomes less and less
lucid the individual stream of her consciousness is supplanted by the collective stream
of the history (or heritage) she transmits, forcing both those around her and the reader to
hear again these forgotten voices, ‘uncoiling’ our ears so that we might recover in the
present the legacy of the social struggles of the past (TfS, 226).
Beyond appropriating and transforming a key modernist formal strategy, here,
Olsen is doing something else that is important to note: she is offering a distinctive
conception of history and time. Like the Jews in Walter Benjamin’s ‘Theses on the
Philosophy of History,’ for whom ‘every second of time was the strait gate through
which the Messiah might enter’, for Olsen, the present is ‘shot through with chips of
Messianic time’. That is, the insistent ‘music’ of past struggles; struggles which might,
at any moment, be taken up again. This transforms a key ideological trope of canonical
modernism: that is, a suspicion of ‘strident affirmations of modernity’; a sense that
‘things fall apart’, which ran counter to narratives of progressive modernisation.
14
Denning, p.230.
15
Denning, p.232.
She flung open the door and beheld the wonder of a factory – people – people – seas of
bent heads and busy hands of people – the whirr of machinery – flying belts – the clicking
clatter of whirling wheels – all seemed to blend and fuse into one surging song of hope –
of new life – a new world – America! (HH, 41-42)
Just as Yezierska qualified this vision with the realties of exploitation and
poverty in the US, Olsen, writing in the 1950s in the midst of the McCarthyite backlash
against the working-class movement of the 1930s and ‘40s, acknowledges the violent
defeat of these visions of progressive modernisation. But, both writers go beyond this to
establish a conception of history as a site of struggle, where liberation remains a
possibility – a dream deferred, but not broken, which might at any moment be
reactivated. Indeed, ‘Tell Me a Riddle’ is a conscious work of memorialisation that
projects this history of class struggle into the present and the future.
What I hope I’ve begun to mark out here are some of the ways in which the
subaltern modernism of Yezierska, Olsen and Paley constituted an important and novel
expression of modernity which ran up against, critiqued, transformed dominant
modernist modes. Nonetheless, this tradition has been marginalised in existing literary
histories – boxed off as parochial period pieces, speaking only of the narrow
experiences of particular interest groups. In doctoral research on the emergence of US
literary postmodernism in the 1960s, I’ve found that Olsen and Paley appeared,
glancingly, within anthologies of ‘new’ and ‘experimental’ literature – but that the
terms of experimental literary formations more often led to their exclusion. As Russian
Jewish immigrant writers, exploring the everyday lives of working-class women, their
work did not accord with the basic terms of the New American Experimental Fiction
out of which US literary postmodernism emerged. It recalled a particular experience of
modernity forged in the 1930s; its authors were only ambivalently ‘American’; and its
innovations were not flashy and conspicuous, seeking to extend the formal innovations
of ‘the Moderns’. Rather they were attempts, as I have said, to attack the ‘aura’ of art, to
induce other working-class women writers to produce, and they had a highly ambivalent
relation to ‘the moderns’.
If we are to critique these exclusions we need to shift the terms in which we
judge ‘serious’ and ‘significant’ writing, moving away from abstract notions of
‘experiment’ as ‘formal innovation’. What is important about these writers is the way in
which they worked to reconfigure the relations of cultural production, wresting ‘the
tradition’ and the formal means of literary production away from that elite social and
ethnic group to which it traditional belonged. In the process, these writers also critiqued
the aesthetic categories of literary production: literature’s illusory autonomy, its
specialised discourse, its conception of authorship and tradition and culture, as well as
the active cultural ideologies of US modernism. This challenge continues to be relevant
today: if our aim is to counter the marginalisation of women writers in canons of
experimental literature, we must locate alternative paradigms in which to understand
and value the literature women writers produced.