Douglass: Rhetoric of Irony

English: Portrait of Frederick Douglass as a y...

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Irony is a critical keyword for us to consider when thinking of Douglass. There are examples of this rhetorical figure and concept in every chapter, perhaps on every page. The first encounter with irony, one could argue, is in the title, the phrasing “American Slave.” Some have argued that the entire project is a matter of irony, a matter of seeking and finding freedom in the difference between what the text says and what it does. Douglass’s narrative essay, in other words, as dramatic irony. This is a critical insight developed by William Andrews, a leading literary scholar in the field of slave narratives (and  African American autobiography) and their influence in American literary history. His book,To Tell a Free Story (pages 101-105), is linked here.

Douglass and his important successors in the slave narrative implied that the writing of autobiography was itself to be understood as an act of self-liberation, part of the continuum of events narrated in the text. Instead of existing as the theme of the text, that which the slave narrative is about, freedom becomes the crucial property and quality of a text—not just what it refers to, but how it signifies. [William Andrews, To Tell A Free Story: The First Century of Afro-American Autobiography, 1760-1865 (University of Illinois Press, 1986): 103-104]

Andrews certainly has in mind, in his notion of the ‘quality of a text,’ the various craft, rhetorical strategies, imaginative properties that we began to focus on in class with regard to This Boy’s Life: Douglass, like Tobias Wolff, is the literary author of his own story–despite what Garrison says in the preface (that Douglass is just relaying facts, with nothing imagined). In other words (as I put it), Douglass is told to document slavery “as it is,” but wants to write, more like Emerson or other essayists, the analogy of slavery, a slavery that (to echo back to Montaigne) does not teach so much as relate.

Andrews challenges readers of Douglass’s Narrative to understand it as a more complicated text–not to treat Douglass as Garrison, the abolitionist, seems to do: ironically, making Douglass the slave narrator remain in slavery. [For more on that irony, consider Douglass’s revised version of his first experiences as a lecturer in the North, as described in his 1855 text My Bondage and My Freedom (p. 361)]. I am borrowing this challenge for the essay–I want us to consider the ways that the ‘facts’ of autobiography, for Douglass and for Wolff, can be read in a more complicated way that focuses on how and why the narratives are written, not just for what they say. Douglass is not just a witness, a transparent window onto the reality of slavery. He is also a participant–his participation (we learn early from the Aunt Hester scene) is one of the complications of slavery. And one of the keys to this participation, we learn, concerns language: Douglass writes his way out of slavery and its attempt to deny the slave an autobiography (memory, literacy, self-knowledge, identity). A key rhetorical device that Douglass uses in this re-writing of slavery is irony.

In simplest terms, irony is the literary or rhetorical device of deception: saying one thing while meaning another. There are complications to it, as the Wikipedia entry begins to outline. In my understanding of the concept, one of the important complications is that irony is not simply opposition or contradiction. In fact, irony shows where oppositions or contradictions, ironically, come together. With irony (in my book), consequences are always at some level unintended. And so the slave system builds its power in part on the denial of literacy (and by extension, humanity) to the slave; thus setting up a distinction between man and slave that is incredibly easy to undo. Just learn to write your “pass” or have someone forge one for you. The difference between “slave” and “man” is in the spelling. In fact, since the word ‘complication‘ derives from words which mean “to fold or weave together,” I might argue that what we learn from Douglass, and what Douglass learns from literacy, is that irony is a crucial property of any verbal text: there is always the potential of different meanings, understandings, interpretations, uses, folded into anything we write or say. This is what the slave knows when singing the songs. And this is what the slave narrator knows when writing his autobiography.

And this complication, we learn, cuts both ways. American freedom and slavery are entangled not just in the South. Douglass’s freedom in the North is ironically bound by racial prejudice. As we see at the end, Douglass draws a parallel between the darkness he faces as a fugitive in the North and the darkness that hangs over the slave in the South. Notice what Douglass does with this irony. He puts his reader in the position of not only the fugitive (pathos, sympathy, as we might expect), but of the slaveholder. We, too, in the end, are witnesses and participants in American slavery. Adding to the irony–or perhaps revealing it–we learn in the 1855 revision that Douglass is compelled to write his Narrative to prove that he was in fact a slave: he is not believed since he appears so articulate when lecturing before crowds in the North.


Black Ice: layers of reminiscences

Let’s focus on chapter 7. We have started to discuss the ways that Cary’s narrative is crafted. I have identified elaboration and reflection as ways that she develops her narrative. She takes her time, returns to a phrase (such as “turn it out”) or an idea (Pap’s stories) and reflects back and forth. This is noticeably different than Tobias Wolff. If his is a fast-car ride on the roads of his past, without much in the way of back-seat driving from the adult author, Cary’s stays mainly in place. Think of her out on the pond–but not skating, walking, observing.

So, chapter 7 provides two good examples of the ways Cary elaborates her narrative, takes her time: the pot-smoking episode in the first half of the chapter; the next day out on the pond in the second. And in both cases, the episodes are layered with reminiscences that, as she puts it, the author audits. Notice the way she works Shakespeare (sonnet 64) and Alice in Wonderland and African storytelling into the layering of memory–it’s quite impressive. There is a reminder here, if nothing else, that autobiographical writing, whatever the focus, needs the same sort of development and depth we expect from other genres. And perhaps particularly so if it is going to take on something such as racial identity.

In this way I audit the layers of reminiscences, checking one against the other, mine against my schoolmates’. I trust the memory of my resentment…. But it’s also true that my memory is a card shark, reshuffling the deck to hide what I fear to know…. (127)

I suggest that in this layering, the author also moves forward on a key element of her conversation: the complications of race. If the book overall has the purpose of showing what it means to grow up black in America, from the author’s perspective, then this chapter complicates that perspective by indicating that there is room for error.