Identity, Narrative, and Agency Theme Analysis

“Well, yes, but all men are equal. That’s my point. But even you have to admit the presence of, shall we call him—it—the devil, in your African humans.” Voltaire adjusted his position and held his hands to the fire.

“You’re saying we’re equal, but also inferior,” I said.

“I’m detecting a disapproving tone,” he said. “Listen, my friend. I’m on your side. I’m against the institution of slavery. Slavery of any kind. You know that I am an abolitionist of the first order.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

Then I wrote my first words. I wanted to be certain that they were mine and not some I had read from a book in the judge’s library. I wrote:

I am called Jim. I have yet to choose a name.

[…]

But I will not let this condition define me. I will not let myself, my mind, drown in fear and outrage. I will be outraged as a matter of course. But my interest is in how these marks that I am scratching on this page can mean anything at all. If they can have meaning, then life can have meaning, then I can have meaning.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn’t even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them, sounding them out or comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free and, therefore, completely subversive.

I had already come to understand the tidiness of lies, the lesson learned from the stories told by white people seeking to justify my circumstance. […] And so, after all these books, the Bible itself was the least interesting of all. I could not enter it, did not want to enter it, and then understood that I recognized it as a tool of my enemy. I chose the word enemy, and still do, as oppressor necessarily supposes a victim.

My name is James. I wish I could tell my story with a sense of history as much as industry. I was sold when I was born and then sold again. My mother’s mother was from someplace on the continent of Africa, I had been told or perhaps simply assumed. I cannot claim to any knowledge of that world or those people, whether my people were kings or beggars […] I can tell you that I am a man who is cognizant of his world, a man who has a family, who loves a family, who has been torn from his family, a man who can read and write, a man who will not let his story be self-related, but self-written.

With my pencil, I wrote myself into being. I wrote myself to here.

“White folks watch us work and forget how long we’re left alone in our heads. Working and waiting.”

I smiled. “If only they knew the danger in that.”

“I don’t believe they even know we talk to each other,” Easter said.

“They can’t accept it. They won’t accept it. And they’re always surprised.”

I made eye contact with a couple of people in the crowd and the way they looked at me was different from any contact I had ever had with white people. They were open to me, but what I saw, looking into them, was hardly impressive. They sought to share this moment of mocking me, mocking darkies, laughing at the poor slaves, with joyful, spirited clapping and stomping. I looked at one woman who might have been intrigued by me or taken with me, the entertainer. I saw the surface of her, merely the outer shell, and realized that she was mere surface all the way to her core.

Slaves didn’t have the luxury of anxiety, but at that moment, I had felt anxiety. Slaves didn’t have the luxury of anger toward a white man, but I had felt anger. The anger was a good bad feeling. In addition, my feelings about Daniel Emmett were complicated, confused. He bought me, yes, but reportedly not to own me, though he expected something from me—my voice, he claimed. I wondered what he would do if I tried to leave. In my head I could hear him shouting, “But I paid two hundred dollars for you.” A man who refused to own slaves but was not opposed to others owning slaves was still a slaver, to my thinking.

“We’re slaves. We’re not anywhere. Free person, he can be where he wants to be. The only place we can ever be is in slavery.” She looked at Norman. “Are you really a slave?” she asked.

“I am.”

“And you’re colored,” she said.

Norman nodded.

“Who can tell?”

“Nobody,” Norman said.

“Then why do you stay colored?”

“Because of my mother. Because of my wife. Because I don’t want to be white. I don’t want to be one of them.”

Massa Corey bring me cone bread,
Hoo Ya Hoo Ya!
Massa Corey bring me cone bread,
He makes da boat go.

I opened an eye and watched him awhile, then shut it again because I did not like the sight. Unfortunately, neither I nor the engine’s roar could block out the sound of his dreadful singing.

[…]

I imagined Norman upstairs, nervous, but perhaps physically comfortable, not hot and covered with soot, but no doubt more frightened than I was, more lost. I wondered if he was angry. I wondered if I had ever not been angry.

“Why me, Jim?”

Maybe because I was tired of the slave voice. Maybe because I hated myself for having lost my friend. Maybe because the lie was burning through me. Because of all of those reasons, I said, “Because, Huck, and I hope you hear this without thinking I’m crazy or joking, you are my son.”

Huck shot out a short laugh. “What?”

“You are my son. And I am your father.”

“Why are you talking like that?”

“Are you referring to my diction or my content?”

“What? What’s content?”

“Belief has nothing to do with truth. Believe what you like. Believe I’m lying and move through the world as a white boy. Believe I’m telling the truth and move through the world as a white boy anyway. Either way, no difference.” I looked at the boy’s face and I could see that he had feelings for me and that was the root of his anger. He had always felt affection for me, if not actual love. He had always looked to me for protection, even when he thought he was trying to protect me.

“Liar,” he cried.

I took it.

“Imagine it all as a state of war,” Locke said. “You have been conquered, and so long as the war continues, you shall be a slave.”

“When does the war end?” I asked.

“Does it end? That’s the question. Who gets to say that it’s over? A war continues until the victor says it’s over.”

“If I am in a war, then I have the right to fight back. That follows, doesn’t it? I have a right, perhaps a duty, to kill my enemy.”

“Well, now.”

Huck showed the excitement of a boy at the sight of our catch. I was reminded that he was just that, a boy. He could have gone through life without the knowledge I had given him and he would have been no worse off for it. But I understood at that moment that I had shared the truth with him for myself. I needed for him to have a choice.

I had exacted revenge. But for whom? For one act, or many? Against one man, many men or the world? I wondered if I should feel guilty. Should I have felt some pride in my action? Had I done a brave thing? Had I done an evil thing? Was it evil to kill evil? The truth was that I didn’t care. It was this apathy that left me wondering about myself—not wondering why I didn’t feel anything or whether I was incapable of feeling, but wondering what else I was capable of doing. It was not an altogether bad feeling.

“Why on earth would you think that I can’t imagine the trouble I’m in? After you’ve tortured me and eviscerated me and emasculated me and left me to burn slowly to death, is there something else you’ll do to me? Tell me, Judge Thatcher, what is there that I can’t imagine?”

[…]

“Are you going to kill me?”

“The thought crossed my mind. I haven’t decided. Oh, sorry, let me translate that for you. I ain’t ’cided, Massa.”

I had never seen a white man filled with such fear. The remarkable truth, however, was that it was not the pistol, but my language, the fact that I didn’t conform to his expectations, that I could read, that had so disturbed and frightened him.

“I am the angel of death, come to offer sweet justice in the night,” I said. “I am a sign. I am your future. I am James.” I pulled back the hammer on my pistol.