Price’s absolutist stance. These registers are discussed in the first chapter. The other three—the inversion, guilt, and Kikongo registers—I call the “subversive” registers insofar as they attempt to overturn this authority, and I discuss these registers in my second chapter. By performing a rhetorical analysis of varying linguistic registers in the novel, I argue that Kingsolver succeeds in suggesting a method for subverting Western discourses in her privileging of the Congolese language at play in her novel and in her American characters’ assumptions of complicity, among other elements. However, Kingsolver’s cultural inaccuracies and attempted identifications between her American and African characters often problematize her more subversive moves. Despite their common subjection of African cultures to Western-manufactured discourses and conceptions, Western authors continue to, and always will, write about Africa. If we accept this right to authorship, the question becomes not whether Western authors should write about Africa, but how they can do so in a way that fully acknowledges the gap in information with which they work and respects the cultures they discuss. While Kingsolver’s novel brings attention to her nation’s involvement in the Congo and, indeed, to its despicable role in overthrowing Patrice Lumumba, the Congo’s independence leader and subsequent Prime Minister, scholars and readers alike must remain cognizant and critical of her novel’s flaws. In doing so, we can continue to push for Western authors to purge their writing of the ideological egotism that they attempt to criticize. Additionally, we can establish a readership that will hold such authors accountable for their portrayals.
Much like the Biblical language used throughout the novel, the political language that Kingsolver’s characters employ demonstrates the Price family’s and the United States’ dogmatism and arrogance. Though many characters—such as Anatole, Brother Fowles, and Tata Ndu—speak politically throughout the novel, this section specifically examines the sort of political language that functions as an agent for colonial and neo-colonial frameworks; the other characters’ more subversive political language will be considered in a later section. The following examples demonstrate how political language constructs the Congo as an ailing, undeveloped nation reliant on Western aid and as a backwards nation vulnerable to Soviet influence and therefore to association with a dangerous enemy. As in the Biblical register, Nathan Price is the character that makes the most abundant use of arrogant political language. Strehle writes, “In the distorted evolutionary logic of imperialism, Nathan considers Africa as inadequately evolved, backward, primitive—a childish culture dwarfed by its grown-up Western colonizers—and thus in need of help from the advanced West” (418). Strehle’s analysis neatly sums up Nathan’s superiority complex, though she unfortunately chooses to attribute his “distorted evolutionary logic” to “nineteenth-century imperialism,” failing to note that similar attitudes continue to influence political decision-making in the contemporary moment. If we overlook this not-so-minor flaw, however, Strehle’s claim suggests that an infantilizing rhetoric similar to that in the Biblical register exists in the political register as well. Indeed, when Nathan discusses Western involvement in the Congo with a doctor in Stanleyville, he passionately proclaims, “The Belgians and American business brought civilization to the Congo! American aid will be the Congo’s salvation. You’ll see!” (Kingsolver, Poisonwood 121). Glossing over the doctor’s descriptions of exploitation and slave labor, Nathan has bought into a Western-manufactured rhetoric that establishes the Congo as a
The United States’ position in the Cold War isn’t the only political backdrop that contributes to its production of blatant propaganda. As mentioned in the previous section, rampant anti-Black sentiment in the United States during this time period also influences the condescension that the United States practices abroad. Ruth May, once again, lends us an understanding of this climate through her repetition and slightly misconstrued interpretation of others’ language. She states the following about Black people in the United States: “The man in church said they’re different from us and needs ought to keep to their own. Jimmy Crow says that, and he makes the laws” (Kingsolver, Poisonwood 20). Ruth May exposes the connection between domestic racism and international racism, demonstrating how political language has compelled her belief in racial inequality in the United States and, subsequently, how this translates into her attitude towards the Kilanga villagers. Her mistaken belief that “Jimmy Crow” “makes the laws” in the United States calls into question the authority of the true process and illustrates another linguistic dimension of the Jim Crow Laws: the name itself refers to a caricatured black character played by the blackface performer Thomas D. Rice in the 1800s (Woodward 7). Ruth May’s confused political language demonstrates both the rhetorical impact that segregationist discourse has in the United States and elsewhere, but also Kingsolver’s subtle attempt to subvert that particular discourse. Another politicized element of language repeatedly invoked throughout the novel is that of national language. Despite the fact that the Kilanga villagers speak Kikongo, Nathan insists on making his family members learn French to assist with communication in Kilanga. Leah says, “. . . Before we came to Africa he made us all sit down and study French, for the furtherance of our mission” (Kingsolver, Poisonwood 42). Leah’s comment presents a subconscious double entendre—she suggests that learning French will help the family
herself to the reader she states, “My name is Ruth May and I hate the Devil. For the longest time I used to think my name was Sugar. Mama always says that. Sugar, come here a minute. Sugar, now don’t do that” (Kingsolver, Poisonwood 21). In this passage, Ruth May chooses to identify herself in two ways; first, by professing her hatred of the Devil—a hatred she derives from her father and the Baptist church—and secondly, by demonstrating the significance of naming. Due to her fallacious impression that her mother named her “Sugar,” Ruth May once assumed that her identity corresponded to that name. Her confusion has political implications; as seen above in the instance of Mobutu’s re-naming campaign throughout the Congo—or Zaire, as he would have it—the names assigned to locations have political significance while simultaneously containing complex meanings of identification for the people who have internalized those names. In re-naming cities and other geographical features with African names, Mobutu garnered support for his theoretical denunciation of Belgian influence in the Congo. Ruth May inadvertently shows how the associations formed through naming operate on an individual level. Ruth May’s older sister Rachel shares the same ignorance about the insight embedded in her language. Rather than attribute her obliviousness to youthful misunderstandings, however, critics see Rachel as a “literal-minded, materialistic teenager” (Austenfeld 295), a “heavy-handed symbol of crass American consumerism and paternalistic racism” (Demory 191), and a “clueless and morally neutral” character (Ognibene 31). Within her selfish and oblivious dialogue, however, Rachel unwittingly unearths some of her father’s hypocrisies and offenses. The most significant of her revelations derive from her frequent malapropisms, which critics often note: “Because Kingsolver equips Rachel with a laughably poor mastery over language, Rachel’s malapropisms create moments of humor within the novel; however, her observation, though seen
Nathan’s intensity and seriousness by creatively rearranging words, here associating his emotive bodily gestures with the “purg[ing]” effects of an unpleasant medical procedure. Adah’s other interest is rhyming, and, similarly to her palindromes, her rhymes often play upon her father’s language. For example, Adah slyly comments on Nathan’s dismissal of Orleanna’s and Ruth May’s illness and discomfort when a case of malaria confines them to bed. She states, “. . . Our Father irritably countered that the Lord operates in mysterious ways. . . . Serious delirious imperious weary us deleterious ways” (Kingsolver, Poisonwood 218). Though most of the words that Adah rhymes with “mysterious” describe the crippling impacts of malaria, her insertion of “imperious” suggests that these words also describe the wearying authority that Nathan and his religious dogma hold over the Price women. Whereas Nathan remains convinced, despite all available evidence to the contrary, that God’s intentions shape every element of his life, Adah’s language highlights the exhaustive, dangerous, and illusory nature of these convictions. While Adah’s linguistic oddities inform many of her tendencies to invert her father’s ideological standpoints, her general philosophical beliefs also undermine Nathan’s rigidity. For example, she declares, “Misunderstanding is my cornerstone. It’s everyone’s, come to think of it. Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under our feet. They are what we call civilization” (Kingsolver, Poisonwood 532). Adah’s radical definition of “civilization” as something akin to structured illusion evokes a sentiment expressed by political theorist Kenneth Reinhard: . . . Just as in the Bible God’s inaugural declaration “let there be light” was an extraordinary and fully arbitrary intervention of creation ex nihilo into the “darkness” of primal chaos, a cut that divided the world into stable oppositions of “light” and
you to remember what he did to us. Tall and straight I may appear, but I will always be Ada inside. A crooked little person trying to tell the truth. The power is in the balance: we are our injuries, as much as we are our successes” (496). Though the verbal conversation between the two women ends after Adah’s grim confession, Adah extends the dialogue in her mind. Her imaginary conversation reveals the full extent of her belief in the power of remembering; though she knows that death would have brought Orleanna peace, Adah wants her to “remember what he did to us,” to assume the burden of memory and maintain the words of a story that others will try to forget. The conviction with which Adah speaks and the resolve behind her commitment to preserving memories mark her as the strongest subversive voice within the guilt register and, indeed, within the novel as a whole. Not only does she denounce colonial and neo-colonial activity by expressing complicity, but she takes this expression to a more constructive level than her family members by confronting and accepting her once colonizing position within the historical narrative and striving to preserve a story that must be told. Orleanna, Leah, and Adah all express guilt and complicity in ways that subvert, on some level, Nathan’s goals in the Congo. Though Kingsolver makes a number of blunders in this register—namely incorporating exotic descriptions of Africa and overemphasizing her characters’ desires to throw away their cultural identity and the burden that accompanies it—she nevertheless creates characters that differentiate themselves from their father’s mission. These women achieve subversion by creatively imagining alternative histories, by acknowledging their roles in their nation’s pursuits, by renouncing association with the colonizer and instead associating with the colonized, and by demonstrating a dedication to remembering and preserving the story of what happened in the Congo.
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