The next week in Sunday school I remember that our teacher asked us about that. That, I’m sure, was one of the very few times an adult asked about our response to current events. If I remember correctly, it was a Wednesday or Thursday evening when King was assassinated. That was when Batman came on. That was probably why I was hanging out in front of the tube—waiting for Batman.
Aww, man! Batman and Robin, brother! My boys Adam West and Burt Ward! And there was Bruce Lee as Cato on the Green Hornet, and I don’t remember the cat who played the Green Hornet that Cato drove around in the Hornet’s Lincoln Continental.
I remember that on the Sunday following my Sunday school teacher asking us how the assassination made us feel—probably the only time anyone asked us. One girl in the class said she was glad King died because some show she wanted to watch had been interrupted. There was some TV show she wanted to see, but the news preempted all that. That seems, again, to be one of the interesting ways television plays out in our culture. And occasionally I’m one of those people—I’d rather watch some sitcom than the Republican convention. I can catch what I need to later on CNN or C-SPAN. I don’t have to sit there and watch it all unfold live.
These news programs are part of the option glut that television now presents. Our nation, indeed our world, has been deeply affected by the CNNing of American discourse where all information, or at least the information that is deemed worth knowing, is immediately available. Therefore, there’s little psychic space for reflection, little intellectual or emotional space in which to recover what we learn or reconstitute the ideas we absorb. We have little time to figure out the meaning of what we learn. As Derrida taught us, understanding is not simply about what something means but how it signifies. However, you can’t even figure that out unless you have some space, some remove, from hugely influential events. I’m not embracing the myth of news objectivity, since I think the best we can hope for is fairness, which includes placing our biases right out in the open. I’m thinking here of the need to recover the fragments of events, and to experience them as fully as possible through interpreting and articulating them.
What the immediacy of communications technology has done is to make us believe that because we’ve perceived something, that because we’ve got the raw data through our senses, we’ve thoroughly experienced it. But we don’t know what we know until we begin to think critically about what it means, and until we intervene with a conscious, deliberate intent to classify, to categorize, and to filter our experiences. It takes much more than empirical access to information to create understanding. Without interpretation and analysis, experience remains mute and inarticulate beneath the sheer fact of its existence. The phenomenological weight of immediacy results in a distorted capacity for interpretation and analysis.
As you mention the idea of space, there is a glut of options and information such that if you know that you need space to reflect, interpret, and reinterpret, you don’t have time before the next fragment hits you. This is a totally unplanned but nice little segue. There was a Jay Wright symposium here at which Harold Bloom was a speaker. Jay Wright said this in a 1983 interview: “These last two terms, explication and interpretation, should call attention to one of my basic assumptions: that naked perception (just seeing something), is misprision in the highest degree. Every perception requires explication and interpretation. Exploration means just that. A simple report of experience, if you could make such a thing, isn’t good enough.” Although he’s talking about the art of poetry, this seems to apply to this sort of experience of information. One of the things that Harold Bloom lamented at this conference was the absence of learnedness, although he put Jay Wright on this wonderful pedestal as a learned poet in the tradition of Dante and Milton. Somehow, it occurred to me that there’s something about this peculiar postmodern information glut that makes “learnedness” impossible. Bloom mentioned that earlier in his career, although it wasn’t often, he would hear people referred to as a “learned” scholar.
In the light of our postmodern option glut, erudition becomes nearly obsolete and impossible to attain, at least according to a specific understanding of the concept. You can’t master the discursive tongues that have proliferated via the media in our own time. In some senses, I lament the loss of such erudition because I’m a nontraditional traditionalist at that level, reared on The Harvard Classics, TV, and Motown. I saw no disjuncture between Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Dana, and William “Smokey” Robinson’s “My Girl” sung by the Temptations. Although I understand and even empathize with elements of Bloom’s lament, I’ve got disagreements with him and other critics over canon formation and related literary issues, because I think there are multiple canons and multiple forms of literacy that we ought to respect. The intellectual and rhetorical integrity of these traditions ought to be acknowledged, and not in a condescending, compensatory fashion designed to make sure that “the other” is represented, except such inclusion is usually a procedural and not a substantive engagement with a given work. We’ve got to take the revelations about America that “minority” authors offer as seriously as we do conventional heroes of literature. We have much to learn from black writers’ engagement, for instance, with what Baraka termed “vicious modernism.”
On the other hand, I think that there’s a need to historicize our conceptions of erudition, too. We should constantly be reevaluating what we mean by learnedness and erudition, since those qualities were never absolutely divorced from the priorities and prisms of the dominant culture. The learned and erudite were not simply revered for their knowledge, but they reflected a hierarchy of privilege that provided some the opportunity to acquire such a status while foreclosing the possibility to others in an a priori fashion. Ironically enough, even though the possibility of a particular kind of erudition may be quickly vanishing with the proliferation of information systems, it may offer a relatively more democratic conception of literacy that invites us to acknowledge a wider range of people as legitimate bearers of “learning.”
In the past, the erudite person could only be a white male whose prodigious learning was acknowledged by his peers and intellectual progeny. Now, at least, we’ve widened the view of what counts as erudite and learned, and in many ways that’s a very good thing.
Interview by Jonathan Smith
St. Louis, Missouri, 1996
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PART FOURTEEN
CODA: THE LIFE OF THE MIND
I have strived as an intellectual to enhance the public good by thinking as broadly and deeply as possible about issues of supreme importance to the nation. Although I derive immense pleasure from the sheer act of thinking, reading, and writing, I believe that those of us blessed with the leisure of such pursuits should also, if we are so inclined, and sufficiently capable, help our fellow citizens reflect on pressing social problems. In this role of engaged academic, or public intellectual, I have appeared on countless television and radio programs; written for numerous newspapers, journals, and magazines; lectured in universities, public forums, and political gatherings; and preached in pulpits around the nation, with the hope of bringing intellectual insight and moral clarity to complex matters. Public intellectuals—black ones in particular—have come in for a great deal of criticism: we are said to be more interested in fame than rigor, more moved by money than vocation, and more taken with praise than pupils. Despite the undeniable shortcomings of public intellectual life, and despite the legitimate criticism that is launched our way, I think it is honorable to serve one’s society by analyzing our nation’s mores, folkways, intellectual habits, social practices, and political behaviors.
Thirty-Six
IT ’S NOT WHAT YOU KNOW, IT’S HOW YOU SHOW IT: BLACK PUBLIC INTELLECTUALS
This chapter, written for my book Race Rules: Navigating the Color Line, was excerpted in Emerge magazine and extensively cited in The Chronicle of Higher Education. It caused quite a stir among my fellow black intellectuals, largely because of the tongue-i
n-cheek awards I give out at the end. This is one of the most playful pieces I’ve written; I poke fun at myself and my colleagues while trying to write substantively about the place black intellectuals should occupy in the culture. I found out that many intellectuals don’t have a great sense of humor. Neither can many of us stand the scrutiny we routinely cast on others. Since I have received great acclaim, as well as bitter denunciation, for my role as a “public intellectual”—a loaded term that is at times a help and hindrance—I decided to speak about the blessings and burdens of my vocation. Despite the playfulness of my essay, I take my vocation—but not myself—with utter seriousness. Black intellectuals are neither above nor beneath the rest of our culture. Instead, we are agents of the critical consciousness that can spur the collective self-examination and thoughtful reflection upon which social action should rest. This is the perfect chapter to end this reader, since it captures my ambition as an intellectual to shape the culture in which I live and think. In light of the anti-intellectual environment the nation is presently living through, it is even more imperative that we explore the social benefits of the engaged intellectual.
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Distracted, instead, by false or secondary issues, yielding apparently little resistance to the sound intrusion of market imperatives on the entire intellectual object, including that of African American studies, today’s creative black intellectual lends herself/himself—like candy being taken from a child—to the mighty seductions of publicity and the “Pinup” . . . . Might it be useful, then, to suggest that before the black creative intellectual can “heal” her people, she must consider to what extent she must “heal” herself.
—HORTENSE SPILLERS
“THE CRISIS OF THE NEGRO INTELLECTUAL: A POST-DATE,” 1994
GENTLE READER, I BEGIN THIS CHAPTER WITH a confession and a warning. First, the warning. This is not an objective examination of the contentious debates surrounding the rise of so-called black public intellectuals. (You haven’t heard of us? Well, the debates are mostly “inside baseball.” To tell the truth, the debates are more like inside-the-academy bickering. Okay, you’ve got me: they’re tempests in teapots, even though the teapots are pretty prestigious. But if it’s any consolation, the debates offer the same sort of mudslinging, backbiting, gossiping, and dozens-playing you’re likely to find in a supermarket tabloid.) Mine is a partisan account of how black intellectuals got into the fix of being lauded and lambasted, admired and despised, in the same breath. This is simply one black public intellectual’s teeth-baring, tongue-in-cheek mea culpa and apologia rolled into one.
Now the confession: I have been chosen as one of the lucky few. I have been the recipient of great praise (and sharp criticism, but more on that later) for my writing and speaking at universities and before the general public. Along with a relatively few others—including Henry Louis Gates, Cornel West, bell hooks, Robin Kelley, Patricia Williams, and Stephen Carter—I’ve been dubbed a public intellectual. This designation emphasizes how our work contributes to public debate, especially about race and American society. The term public intellectual is certainly not new. It’s been applied to a range of scholars and intellectuals throughout Europe and America. Other terms, like political intellectual and organic intellectual, hint at the same public function for the thinker. The term public intellectual gained fresh currency in the late ’80s with the publication of Russell Jacoby’s book, The Last Intellectuals.
But never before has such a highly educated and vastly literate group of black thinkers had access to the Public Mind of America—and acclaim or derision for managing to do so. We have been hailed and harangued by publications ranging from the New Yorker and the Atlantic Monthly to the Village Voice. And most of us have appeared on Oprah Winfrey, Charlie Rose, Nightline, and a spate of other television shows, to talk about a range of subjects, and a lot about race. So I’ve got no complaints about the publicity my work receives. (Well, I’ve got a few, but they’re the carps of the privileged, so I’ll spare you.) I’ve been very fortunate indeed.
You’d think that academics everywhere, especially black ones, would be proud that they’d see in our achievements their investments in us, and those like us, paying all sorts of dividends. Increased visibility for the profession. Heightened respect for black intellectual work. And a celebration of the unsung giants, especially the black ones, on whose shoulders we all stand. And many, many scholars and intellectuals do brim with pride and joy. But a lot don’t. They simmer in resentment and prophesy trouble. Much of what makes them troubled is legitimate. Then, too, much of their resentment stems from pettiness, parochialism, and snobbishness.
In my case, as with many other black public intellectuals, there has been a strident, severe, but altogether predictable “blacklash.” I’ve been called a “sellout.” Cornel West’s work has been viciously dismissed as “completely worthless.” bell hooks has been assailed for being “a hustler.” After my appearance on Nightline to talk about making the Million Man March more than a walk for testosterone or bigotry, I was accused of playing “Goebbels,” the shrewd and perverted Nazi propagandist, to Farrakhan’s Hitler. (Yeah, that’s pretty libelous, but the guy who wrote it is named Adolf; I guess it was a case of vicarious nostalgia.) As you can tell, things have gotten nasty. What’s the problem?
According to critics, there are several. First, there is the question of how the few of us who are deemed public intellectuals got anointed. Second, our work suffers from an intellectual thinness that could be remedied if only we weren’t busy pontificating, prophesying, or playing pundit on television or radio. Third, the prestige, fame, and fortune bestowed on us are corrupting, making us sellouts. Fourth, we public intellectuals play an authenticity game, claiming to speak as politically rooted prophets for The Race as we peddle distorted meanings of blackness to the undiscerning white masses. Fifth, we’re treated with kid gloves by colleagues and not really criticized. Finally, we all want to be HNIC (for the uninitiated, Head Negro In Charge).
Let’s face it, there’s some truth to some of these charges, and, depending on whom we’re talking about, there’s a lot of truth to many of these charges. Still, we don’t have to give up on being public intellectuals. It’s an honorable, even critical vocation. After all, just because counterfeit money exists, we don’t have to stop spending the real thing. (Uh-oh, maybe the criticism about materialism is right; it’s even seeping into my analogies!) We’ve just got to pay attention to fair criticisms, confess our masked and bald opportunism, admit that we’re susceptible to the seductions of fame and fortune, and acknowledge that there are other equally gifted intellectuals who could do what we do, maybe even better. We’ve also got to face head-on the vicious personal attacks that get palmed off as brave commentary. And we’ve got to call a spade a spade: there’s a lot of jealousy out here.
The irony of all this infighting and name-calling is that just as black intellectuals begin to receive our due—that is, a few of us, which, as you can’t tell by the fury of the complaints, is more than received it in the past, the rule being the less there is to go around the more you fight over who gets it—we begin to knock each other off. Or others do the job for us. Hateful assaults from black and white writers often reveal their ignorance, or their distorted views, of how we got where we are. There’s a difference between sharp criticism and the animus of ad hominem and ad feminem roasting. Sure, when you’re the object of even the healthy kind of criticism, it can sting for days. And sometimes a literate intellectual licking leaves you feeling like you’ve been mugged by a metaphor. But you gird your loins to write again.
Why are so many critics hot and blathered?
The anointing of a few voices to represent The Race is an old, abiding problem. For much of our history, blacks have had to rely on spokespersons to express our views and air our grievances to a white majority that controlled access to everything from education to employment. For the most part, powerful whites only wanted to see and hear a fe
w blacks at a time, forcing us to choose a leader—when we could. Often a leader was selected for us by white elites. Predictably, blacks often disagreed with those selections, but since the white elites had the power and resources, their opinions counted.
Such an arrangement created tensions in black communities because it reduced blackness to its lowest common denominator. Only what could be condensed into speeches, editorials, and other public declarations survived transmission to white elites. Complexity was often sacrificed for clarity. It also made the content of what was communicated about black culture conform to the spokesperson’s gifts, vision, or interests. Thus, a spokesperson had a profound impact on what goods or services the rest of his or her black constituency received. The accountability of such leaders was often low.
Complicating matters further was the fact that the choice of spokespersons didn’t always turn on issues that were of greatest interest or importance to blacks. Often a spokesperson was selected because his themes, style, and ideology were acceptable to the white majority. Many black leaders were viewed skeptically by their constituencies. Booker T. Washington is a prime example of this model of leadership.
Naturally, these conditions introduced considerable tension into the relationship between those who did the speaking and those who were spoken for. Black spokespersons acquired influence because they were given legitimacy by the white majority, whose power to establish such legitimacy was far greater than that of the black minority. As a result, these spokespersons used their power in black communities to reward loyal blacks and to punish dissidents. This arrangement meant that patronage more than moral principle determined the allocation of the limited resources for which the spokesperson was a funnel. As a result, few blacks benefited from the leadership that was supposed to speak for them all.
The Michael Eric Dyson Reader Page 78
