meta-

CFP: Transregional Postcolonialisms: Queer Remainders of Disappearing Imperialism

American Comparative Literature Association 2019 Annual Meeting

Georgetown University, Washington, DC

March 7 – 10, 2019

Transregional Postcolonialisms: Queer Remainders of Disappearing Imperialism

https://www.acla.org/transregional-postcolonialisms-queer-remainders-disappearing-imperialism

Co-organizers:

Ryanson Alessandro Ku, Postdoctoral Associate, Duke University

Sony Coráñez Bolton, Assistant Professor, Amherst College

 

In a perennially globalizing world, the deconstruction of borders has given impetus to manifold critical responses, notably US empire, postcolonial, and queer critique. US empire studies shows that imperialism proceeds not just through the violation of boundaries, but also their redefinition. This redefinition obscures the violation that makes redefinition possible in the first place, thereby disappearing imperialism. The subterranean nature of empire—its quality of being everywhere at the same time always absconding from sight—has necessitated modes of postcolonial criticism that go beyond the comparison of national traditions to trace the relation between cultures in an imperial system. Similarly, queerness maps modes of relationality that destabilize established norms. In performing their own deconstruction of boundaries, postcolonial and queer cultural formations function as sites of struggle for the negotiation of the contradictions of empire.

How might we queer current postcolonial lines to catch sight of the ever-shifting formations of imperialism? How might we queer the queer to make it resonate with yet other ways of going beyond, or remapping, established boundaries? If in forming itself it disappears, thus constantly expanding, where, to begin with, is the empire? Through attention to the region—smaller and larger than the nation—this panel explores imperialism across its colonizations and the queer and postcolonial cultures that emerge as responses to its asymmetrical building of a world. How does imperialism tie one region to another, constituting a region, itself multiple, as part of a world? In what ways is queerness also a “region” targeted for colonization? What relays—from north to south, between east and west, in queer directions—enable the extension of empire and the flow of anti-colonial resistance from one region to another, indeed globally, and how is struggle queered in transit, indeed local? How does postcolonialism evoke not the aftermath but rather a perennial response to the eternal recurrence of imperialism, including in its disappearance? In what ways do postcolonial cultures serve as reminders of empire’s disappearance and remainders unable to be disappeared in empire, that is, queer rem(a)inders that in their unassimilability threaten the system, that in following existing lines reconfigure them? How, in particular, do identities activated by transregional movement—transatlantic and hemispheric blackness, transpacific Asian/American subjectivity, diasporic/minority non-citizenship, nativism around the world—reify their postcolonial borders, like the normative postcolonial state, or remain postcolonial, amid subjection thereby ever in transition, to replicate and subvert the boundaries through which empire disappears?

Given the sustained engagement afforded by the ACLA Conference structure of multi-day seminars, we invite proposals to think critically about some aspect of these lines of inquiry that, in the spirit of comparison, seek conversation with others beyond their field. We are especially interested in papers that explore literary, visual, and other forms of culture to trace the dynamics of and resistance to colonization beyond conventional boundaries. Please submit an abstract of 250-300 words through the ACLA website https://www.acla.org/annual-meeting between Thursday, August 30, at 12 noon EST and Thursday, September 20, at 9 a.m. EST.

criticism, political economy, politics

Degrees of Absolute Evil

dick-the-man-in-the-high-castle

I would argue that the text of the moment is The Man in the High Castle, the book written by Philip K. Dick (1962) and the series created by Frank Spotnitz (2015) based on the premise that the Allies lost WWII to Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan, an alternate history pursued in two genres with substantial differences. The novel reads more like philosophy as it makes us privy to the characters’ thoughts while the series is a suspense thriller, hence its more obvious plot structure and emphasis on action. Race, especially in the uncanny reversals between white and yellow, is very palpable in the novel, but Dick’s characterization of Juliana leaves a lot to be desired (an understatement; although what she does toward the end does make up for it) whereas she is the lead in the series. The most striking difference, however, lies in the depiction of the Japanese, a difference, I argue, that sheds light on the various forms taken by imperialist power predicated on violence, repression, and the blatant disregard for human life, and hence on degrees of absolute evil.

Weirdly, the Japanese are portrayed in the novel—I don’t quite know how to put it—as “too nice” (again, I would stress how weird this is). Maybe this is because, unlike in the series where they are abrasively present, the Kempeitai, the secret police of the Imperial Japanese Army, does not figure prominently in the novel; as such, we only get acquainted with Japanese characters that, as in the series, are sympathetic. The portrayal of the Japanese, however, does not rely merely on omission. Early on, we find Tagomi, Trade Minister in San Francisco (part of the Pacific States ruled by the Japanese), a “kindly” (212) “Buddhist” (211), the figure of wisdom in both the novel and the series, telling a German co-conspirator, “During the war, […] I held minor post in District of China. In Shanghai. There, at Hongkew, a settlement of Jews, interned by Imperial Government for duration. Kept alive by JOINT relief. The Nazi minister at Shanghai requested we massacre the Jews. I recall my superiors’ answer. It was, ‘Such was not in accord with humanitarian considerations.’ They rejected the request as barbaric. It impressed me” (76). This is not historically consistent, even in the context of the alternate history of the novel. Japanese soldiers were notorious in their brutality in WWII in places like the Philippines—just ask the comfort women and the soldiers of the Death March. War crimes and human rights violations were part and parcel of life in an empire that, like its German counterpart, was militarist, state nationalist, expansionist, and totalitarian, if under the banner of the sun.

In contrast, in the series, the Japanese police is well represented, and they’re not as bad as the Nazis, but … Juliana’s foray into the Neutral Zone (the Rockies) in a quest, as her sister’s substitute (not in the novel), to join the Resistance and find the Man in the High Castle puts Frank, her boyfriend whose grandfather happens to be Jewish, in the hands of Inspector Kido, the head of the Kempeitai (the analogous scene in the book is Frank’s arrest by American policemen, who threaten, even though he’s US-born, to deport him to Germany [205-6]). Kido brings in Frank’s sisters and her kids as well, locks them in a room and then tells Frank, “You’ve heard of Zyklon D? […] It is much improved since the war. Odorless and fast-acting. They’ll fall asleep and never wake up” (S1E2) (in contrast, in the novel, Frank reflects about how the Japanese “would no more set up gas ovens than they would melt their wives into sealing wax” [10]). The allusion to the Nazi gas chambers is unmistakable, if made more “civilized”—consistent with what in the novel is alluded to as Japanese subtlety in contrast to white crudeness —this form of torture suggested as deliberate, Kido having told Frank earlier that “Jews don’t get to decide if they’re Jews.” Kido does all this so that Frank would tell him where Juliana is; otherwise, he doesn’t care: “There are no Jews in Japan, after all.” Kido, in other words, is not genocidal, but he’s all too willing to abide by Nazi genocidal policies and employ Nazi methods to get what he wants. And what does he want? In the series, the Man in the High Castle is producing these films that show the Allies winning the war, “a different world, a better world,” as Juliana says (S1E2). These films are interpreted as a danger to the current world order (not made explicit why), but it is the Führer (still alive in the series) who is really obsessed with them. Kido’s efforts can thus be interpreted as done in the service of Japan, but is really of benefit, of primary interest, to the German Reich. Even if sovereign Japanese, then, Kido is portrayed as a delegate of the Reich—this despite the tensions between the two empires even more palpable in the series. This is part of the series’ larger point about how the Empire of Japan is no less fascist than Nazi Germany. In this regard, the statement, “There are no Jews in Japan, after all,” is particularly troubling. Japan, it would seem, in contrast to the novel’s “humanitarian considerations,” is not genocidal against Jews only because they don’t have to be. This raises the question, then: If not Jews, who? If fascism arises in another setting in which perhaps Jews are not the target (but perhaps they also are), who will be put in their place?

The series is able to raise this question because it refuses to whitewash Japanese brutality, thereby clarifying that fascism is not specific or limited to Nazi Germany. But does Dick really whitewash the Japanese (if so, like his depiction of women, this would be curious)? Why do the Japanese feel “nice” in the novel? This, I argue, is due to the way in which they are set in contrast to the Nazis, who are portrayed as extremely bad, in fact, as absolutely evil—precisely because white. In chapter 6, along with other high-ranking Imperial officials Tagomi is summoned to the Japanese Foreign Office for a briefing on the death of the Reich Chancellor (essentially the Führer, Hitler already dead). Speculating on possible replacements, the Foreign Office spokesman offers a “dry, slow recitation” of Nazi notables and their achievements (a scene of comparable horror is yet to be presented in the series, which is more focused on the Resistance), culminating in “Doctor Seyss-Inquart. Former Austrian Nazi, now in charge of Reich colonial areas, responsible for colonial policies. Possibly most hated man in Reich territory. Said to have instigated most if not all repressive measures dealing with conquered peoples. Worked with Rosenberg for ideological victories of most alarming grandiose type, such as attempt to sterilize entire Russian population remaining after close of hostilities. No facts for certain on this, but considered to be one of several responsible for decision to make holocaust of African continent thus creating genocide conditions for Negro population. Possibly closest in temperament to original Führer, A. Hitler” (99). At this point, Tagomi feels that he’s “going mad”: “I have to get out of here; I am having an attack. My body is throwing up things or spurting them out—I am dying” (99). When he recovers, he realizes, “There is evil! It’s actual like cement” (100). Seyss-Inquart may be the worst, but he is not the only one—Göring, Himmler, Goebbels, Heydrich and Schirach already having been described by the spokesman—his acts not the only hallmarks of Nazism. In fact, Tagomi missed what the spokesman said next: “The Home Islands take the view that Germany’s scheme to reduce the populations of Europe and Northern Asia to the status of slaves—plus murdering all intellectuals, bourgeois elements, patriotic youth and what not—has been an economic catastrophe. Only the formidable technological achievements of German science and industry have saved them. Miracle weapons, so to speak” (101).

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history, political economy

(Non-)Independence and the Imperial Rights of Colonials

(This post first came out in Common Rhetoric in 7/2014.)

Trumbull - Declaration of Independence (1819)

(John Trumbull’s Declaration of Independence [1819])

There is not one, but (at least) two Fourth of Julys. July 4, 1776: Thirteen colonies declare Independence from the British Crown, constituting the United States of America (“united” in original document). What are the grounds for this declaration? First, what did it do? The Declaration absolves the colonies from all allegiance to the British Crown, dissolving all political connection between the colonies and the State of Great Britain, thereby constituting free and independent States, separate and equal to Great Britain, mutually pledged and united with each other. Why did the colonies do this? The Declaration lists the British King’s history of repeated injuries and usurpations, oppressions that have been petitioned by the colonies, only to be answered not by redress but by repeated injury, part and parcel of the British Crown’s establishment of an absolute Tyranny over the colonies (interchangeable with “States” in the document). What gives the colonies—declaring themselves as States—the right to do this? The principle: All men are created equal, endowed with unalienable rights secured through the institution of government, which the People have a Right and duty to alter and abolish should government become destructive of this end, which manifests in abuses and usurpations.

July 4, 1946: U.S. President Harry S. Truman grants recognition to the Philippines, hitherto an American colony, as a separate and self-governing nation, under the control of the government instituted by the people, duly prepared by Americans to assume this obligation. The terms of this recognition of independence are laid down in the Treaty of Manila (Treaty of General Relations) of 1946. Is the Fourth of July, then, a double celebration, the celebration of the Independence of two States, of the colonized and the colonizer? That is, is American Independence also Filipino Independence, tying the fate of two peoples as intricate, inextricable? American and Philippine independence—are these two Fourth of Julys the same? What makes them different, in fact, fundamentally opposite? The Philippines had already declared its Independence on June 12, 1898, in a war the Philippines waged against Spain, a previous colonizer. The U.S., an ally of the Philippines due to the fact that it was itself in conflict with Spain over Cuba, refused, however, to recognize this Declaration uncannily similar to its own (colony against the empire), negotiating instead with Spain the Treaty of Paris of December 1898, which ceded the Philippines and other Spanish colonies to the U.S. This led to the long, bloody, and bitter armed conflict between the U.S. and Filipino revolutionaries known as the Philippine Insurrection or the Philippine-American War (1899-1902/1913) and, eventually, the U.S. colonization of the Philippines. Only 48 years later, in 1946, did the U.S. finally recognize the independence of the Philippines with a treaty that nonetheless ensured continued postcolonial American control of the Philippines on the same day that the founding fathers, using the tenets of democracy, declared themselves free.

Most of this history, including the Philippine-American War that resulted in the death of 34,000 to 220,000 Filipinos, is forgotten or minimized in the official narratives, hidden in the self-image of the first Fourth of July. If independence is not declared but granted, and not by the self, in which the colonizer declares the form of this independence in the time that it sets, and puts things in place to ensure postcolonial control, is it Independence? If Independence derives its legitimation from the principle of democracy, but then refuses to recognize the very same Independence of a colored people, thereby betraying that, perhaps, its basis was not democracy after all, is it Independence? If independence is recognized, but not on the self-proclaimed date of the state becoming independent (June 12), but on the date of the colonizer’s own Independence (July 4) serving to erase the former and one’s own self-declaration and to engrave on this “independent” state the mark of the colonizer, to imprint on Philippine independence the shadow of American colonization, what is Independence?

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meta-

Theory and Scholarship

In my dissertation, I’m looking at the place of the Filipino in the United States, specifically in the US deployment of a new kind of imperialism. The new imperialism is not easy to define: late capitalism, anticolonial imperialism, globalization, empire, neoliberalism, hegemony—these are only some of the terms used against disavowals such as, “We don’t do empire.” This is symptomatic of US imperialism’s novelty, which renders the designation US empire, made visible only recently and partially, “problematic.” Interestingly, the Philippines is one of the few places in which US empire can be unraveled. After all, the new imperialism has as its precursor the direct, colonial imperialism that the US undertook in the Philippines at the turn of the last century. However, even in the Philippines, empire is forgotten, and it is easy enough for the US to dissociate itself from its imperialist history through the claim that the Philippines was an “aberration.” In fact, the Philippine “disenchantment” changed the way that the US does empire. That is, its experience in the Philippines caused the US to configure a new imperialism, one that is invisible and “problematic.” Drawing from characterizations of aberration and disenchantment, my dissertation aims to explore the ways in which the Filipino itself is problematic, in particular with regards to the US denial of empire. In refuting the US exceptionalist rejection of its imperialist designation, the “problem” that is the Filipino undermines the supposedly “problematic” nature of US empire.

The “problem” is thus the metaphor I’m pursuing in thinking about my dissertation topic, namely the Filipino and the US. What led me to this trajectory? What allowed me to think about such a relation, one that has an entangled, contradictory, and erased history, in a way that makes some sense, and which could be articulated along political lines? Tracking down the mutation of empire aligns with the poststructuralist sense of the world as having changed after WWII, which demands that we think about power, desire, etc. anew, in a way appropriate to the changed nature of things. The old lens brought us this far, and while we should keep their aspirations and lessons in mind, poststructuralism, as it were, points out the ways in which they don’t work anymore, or are in need of adjustment. At the same time, poststructuralism may be in too much accord with its time, of which, after all, it is a product, even in struggling against it. There are thus important ways in which the insights and strategies of older traditions, such as Marxism and psychoanalysis, afford more pointed critiques of the now, especially when this now legitimates itself precisely through its disconnection from history. Empire, in other words, has to be understood in its specific and contingent workings; at the same time, however, it has to be connected to, or studied as a variant of, good old imperialism.

There is thus a need to ask simultaneously: How is the new empire different from old imperialism (the new being poststructuralism’s emphasis, as it were)? And how are empire and imperialism one and the same thing (which calls for the expertise of older discourses of power and desire), as the (mere?) play in words seems to indicate? Poststructuralism provides the tools needed to discern change, the contemporary, its moment; however, many of the political positionalities, tendencies, and strategies at play in the present have a much older origin, from which we cannot simply dissociate, and which teaches many valuable lessons indeed: about the “class” struggle, the relation between subject and object, between conscious and unconscious … The “problem” as response to empire, in turn, derives from queer theory. And what is queer theory if not a hybrid, especially in its positing of the queer (as subject, as object?) as that which is excluded in the system (dissected so well by poststructuralism) because if fails to abide by the norm (the subordinate “class,” the repressed), an anomaly (the invisible, the remainder, the unconscious?) that, in turn, returns as the system’s failure, to make the system fail.

I offer this brief, rudimentary sketch of my project and unravel my method as deriving from theoretical schools in order to make a larger point. What I did to my project description can be done, I argue, to any scholarly undertaking. Is it really possible to carry out scholarship without theory? One can describe one’s project in the way I did in the first paragraph, through a straightforward statement “unburdened” by theory. I wager, however, that paragraphs (not always the same as mine, of course, and not always explicitly) always lurk underneath as the theoretical context of any scholarship. The genealogy tells us that critical theory derives from the Frankfurt School, perhaps the first attempt, dissenting from established philosophy, to integrate or, better yet, intersect Marxism and psychoanalysis, with the goal of “liberat[ing] human beings from the circumstances that enslave them.” This does lend critical theory a certain inflection. Critique, however, goes back even earlier, and critical theory has forked into multiple paths since the Frankfurt School. This is perhaps why the Critical Theory Emphasis at UC Irvine simply describes critical theory as the “develop[ment of] theoretical models” (compare to Critical Theory at Berkeley). If critical theory is the analytical attempt to develop ways of thinking about value, power, desire, rhetoric … more broadly, social forces and structures, and if scholarship, especially in the humanities, is the study of cultural materials (both objects and subjects), can we really disentangle one from the other? Can we really study a work of culture without thinking about our stance and method, about the social conditions of culture? And can we do such work without the political goal of liberation, or at least of critique of the given?

Far from something extraneous added to an argument to make it seem learned or which gains one entrance into an esoteric field, critical theory, in developing ways, modes, and frames of thinking about cultural materials, is the foundation of any project of thinking—and we should assert it as such. Critical theory itself would tell us not to take anything for granted, to not stop asking questions. At the same time, however, the question should not be about how theory is relevant, but about how what we’re doing, whether we like it or not, consciously or unconsciously, is already and thoroughly imbued with and founded on theory. This, I argue, shifts our concerns and affords a stance that sees, and can therefore productively use, the value of critical theory at a time when it is urgently needed, when the humanities are being undermined. We should stop apologizing for being too theoretical; it is them who claim not to be theoretical who are either ignorant or in denial. This sense of the foundational importance of theory is something that a scholar ought to have, and instinctively—you see it in the way he thinks, in her practice … It is, likewise, something that, as second nature, like the way that one carries himself, she fosters, like something contagious. Just as language is his/her primary medium, critical theory is the scholar’s pen.