Oppression and the American dream

Based at least on a random sampling of major American literature, readers from the rest of the world might consider us a profoundly depressed and rather sorry bunch. But perhaps nothing more defines our country than these stories of minority groups overcoming oppression, as our nation’s most pivotal historical moments have stemmed from mass movements to improve a subgroup’s circumstances, with none more prototypical or important than the very revolution against a repressive empire which ignited this American experiment. Our country’s history since independence has been a patchwork narrative of repressed peoples, from the African-American population during and for generations after slavery to the feminist struggles for suffrage and recognition in the workplace. If a nation’s literature is indicative of its cultural mindset, then it would logically follow that works of American literature would incorporate stories of repressed and disadvantaged heroes, and the challenges faced by those in both Petry’s The Street and Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying are prime examples of this relationship. Not only are the experiences of these novels’ protagonists archetypical of many Americans, but their themes aim at a higher truth of what it means to call one’s self “American.”

Although Petry’s and Faulkner’s characters both offer perspectives into the lives of downtrodden Americans, they represent two distinctly different repressed subgroups from two different time periods. In The Street, Lutie Johnson and her son Bub are frightfully destitute African-Americans trying to make their way in 1940s New York City, frequently becoming victims of both racial prejudice and sexual objectification. As Lutie’s struggle to achieve financial stability is chronicled over the course of the novel, her inability to find work likely proved a familiar experience for the generation of Americans who came of age during the Great Depression. But her difficulties maintaining employment are not the fruit of any nationwide economic downturn, but instead are due to her race and sexual desirability. Her poverty was a trial she shared with the Bundren family in As I Lay Dying, whose severe impoverishment is more thematic backdrop than focal point for the narrative. Unlike Lutie’s challenges, which were merely reminiscent of the Great Depression, the Bundrens suffered through their unsuccessful agricultural lifestyle during what appears to be the height of the Depression. However, like so many other literary heroes over the course of American literary tradition, these characters all offer a similar perspective from the downtrodden and disadvantaged elements of our society, and it is this position that allows readers familiar with their struggles to better sympathize with them.

But if the reality of American society is plagued with issues like poverty, racial prejudice, and social disillusionment, one might wonder why literature tends to be so reflective of these more tragic aspects? Should not our authors produce something uplifting, something to give those caught at the forgotten edges of American society a glimmer of hope during their toughest times? And shouldn’t mainstream readers prefer tales of people overcoming their circumstances, of people winning the lottery to catapult them out of despair? While this sentiment may run rampant in a generation raised on such drivel as Twilight, a great portion of American literature—especially of the naturalistic category into which both Faulkner’s and Petry’s novels fit comfortably—has always preferred to focus more on the realistic than the fantastic, the pragmatic than the idealistic. Nobody is served in sugarcoating the harshness of human existence, and it would seem that none recognize this better than writers of naturalist American literature. Faulkner reminds us, “It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That is how the world is going to end” (39). In real life there are few truly happy endings, if any, as both happiness and health fade over time—within fifty years, both Mr and Mrs Darcy are long dead. Many literary works reflect this stark reality with their seemingly pessimistic themes.

Both As I Lay Dying and The Street are products of a real-life mass loss of faith: the Great Depression and urban black culture before the Civil Rights Movement, respectively. They each depict the experiences of doubtless millions of frustrated and disillusioned Americans during each time period, and therefore each book was intimately relatable to a large subset of the population. For many, the trials and tribulations of the Johnson and Bundren families were ordeals they understood all too well, a realism making these characters all the more lifelike and all the more effective. For many of the countless Americans who count these novels among their personal library, these tales are no more pessimistic or depressing than their daily subsistence, and for that reason should be considered prototypical stories of people in pursuit of their personal American Dream. But just how representative are these characters? Do they incorporate a sentiment of disillusionment common to—or even definitive of—Americans from every era?

It’s a curious thing to consider what it means to be an American, as the vast majority of people living in this country today claim ancestry from another continent entirely. We’re a venerable medley of cultures and traditions thrown together into that same hackneyed melting pot, with perhaps the only common threads tying us together being our identification on our passports. What could so many different people from countless backgrounds and ethnicities have in common? I would argue that our mutual aim to improve our circumstances, an aspiration colloquially referred to as the classic “American Dream,” is the psychological component of our union. From our nation’s outset millions have flocked through our port cities, seeking to carve for themselves a chunk of fulfillment from the mountain of promise that was America. The farming Bundrens sought it, Lutie Johnson sought it, and in neither case were they successful, much like the majority of real-life instances. However, this seemingly depressing outcome retains its interest for many people due to its realism and honesty—simply put, many people would have been more disappointed had Lutie lived happily ever after married to a nice man or had the Bundren family journeyed to Jefferson without incident. Americans enjoy stories involving insurmountable adversity because many of them face it every day of their lives.

One can easily consider the character of Lutie Johnson to be a profoundly American figure. Child of a repressed and disenfranchised African-American culture and struggling to find work in the most prototypical American metropolis, she represented the vested interests of millions of black Americans, especially women, from the time period. “Streets like the one she lived on were no accident,” Lutie considers, “They were… the method the big cities used to keep Negroes in their place” (323). The reality of practical segregation in even Northern communities was a major part of American life which reinforced the countless disadvantages in employment and legal status African-Americans suffered during the historical period between Emancipation and the Civil Rights Movement. For Lutie, there really were few options at her disposal to ensure a better future for her child save abandoning her ideals and compromising her integrity, and virtually no way for her to legitimately achieve any degree of financial stability in a society which treated her as a second-rate citizen. Lutie Johnson could be treated as the poster-child for the plight of her generation, a capable and ethical young woman unable to follow any viable paths to her American Dream.

Similarly, Faulkner’s story of the Bundrens accurately depicts the crippling circumstances faced by farming families across the United States during the Great Depression, and are therefore a group of true Americans. Their dream could have simply been to live comfortably, or at the very least to have the means to make ends meet from month to month, but due to an inescapable cycle of poverty they are unable to come close to either goal. Coupled with their meager lot is how fundamentally dysfunctional each character becomes by novel’s end, from Anse’s self-centeredness to Darl’s eventual insanity. Dewey Dell’s attempts to correct her unwanted pregnancy are interestingly microcosmic of the family’s interaction with society as a whole: much like the pharmacist takes advantage of Dewey Dell’s necessity to fulfill his own perverse aims, the more affluent America ravages the Bundrens for their agricultural product without once seeming to consider their societal status or their profound inability to even slightly improve their position within the cultural system. This continual failure to make gains on chasing their American Dream is relatable to the countless multitudes rendered unemployed by the economic collapse this time period is most famous for.

American society is defined best by the pursuit of happiness, and so it follows that such trends would extend into the country’s best literature. However, while the fantasy associated with the myth of the American Dream—some would call it a delusion—suggests that everyone’s goal is achievable, the reality of the situation is that nearly everybody fails in their aims in some capacity, and the pessimism of American literature is simply reflective of this fundamental truth. Maybe if people begin seeing their every hope for the future fulfilled, Twilight will enter the canon of essential American literature. But probably not.