Z.I. Mahmud analyzes Alice Walker’s The Colour Purple

‘The Colour Purple is a treasure trove of racially and ethnically diverse backdrop of a protagonist’s double discrimination; Celie is a Black American gendered quester everywoman flustered and crestfallen into the quagmires of precarious predicament, tumultuous turmoil, herculean struggle and existentialist debacle surmounting the perils and animadversions of adversities and hindrances through the epistolary genre fiction corresponding between God and lately her blood relation Nettie.

Alice Walker, after all, surrealistically and poetically limelights the rhetorical statements foreshadowing Celie’s bildungsroman as implied in the newfound revelation of a transcendentalist triumphalism emerging as a gendered crusader evangelizing and divinizing heavenly celestial indoctrination: “Dear God. Dear stars, dear trees, dear skies, dear people, dear everything.” Evolving herself as a veteran victor of Amazonian spirited independent beingness and body-polity corporeality identity consciousness personifies the struggles and tribulations of survivalism and existentialism from the ghettoization and otherization of stalwart patriarchal masculinity hegemonic misogyny of father Alfonso and husband Mr. ______ or Mr. Albert. Celie radically transforms herself as a womanist of colour in critiquing the viciousness and wretchedness of domestic abuse, sexual exploitation, marital rape, tormetns and tortures of widowhood and dowry, incessant painstaking manual labour of the barnyard farmwork, libidinization and fetishization of powerlessness and non-beingness.

As a civil rights era suffragette activist and feminist movement advocate the Southerner African American novelist Alice Walker foretells chronicles of epistolary sagas in the voice of iron-willed, impulsive, resolute, maverick, obdurate and curmudgeon feminine countenances such as Shug Avery, Celie, Nettie, Sofia and Mary Agnes that relegates and condescends veteran masculine figures into deconstructionist colloquial vernaculars of being ‘mad captor’ and ‘beastly dog’. Quintessentially quiltmaking craftsmanship of the peasantry trade embellishes the prospects of female empowerment although the framed meta-narrative allegorically symbolizes lioness spirited Black Womens’ resurrectionist redemptive emergence. Racism, sexism, collourism, ethnic cleansing, racial apartheid and so forth intertwines story-telling motifs and themes.

Alice Walker’s ‘The Colour Purple’ is a feminist bildungsroman epistolary chronicle of women’s fictional life writing that navigates an odyssey of stories and poetry such as the relationship between men and women and the relationship between parents and children. The canonical womens fictional novel spotlights the human condition: loss of innocence, quest for individuality, the nature of human suffering and the triumph of the human spirit. Furthermore Alice Walker’s rhetorical statements illuminates captivating enchantment to the tastes and fashions of contemporary modern readers: “I’m committed to exploring the oppressions, the insanities, the loyalties and triumphs of black women.” 

Albert Johnson’s racist patriarchal misogyny implores imperative hierarchical zeitgeist of power, dominance and control through teachings and preachings to the heirloom Harpo. Harpo harnesses the spirit of antifeminism by downcasting and dehumanizing behavioral etiquettes with his wife, Sofia as substantiated by these dialectics: “I’m getting tired of Harpo. All he think about since us getting married is how to make me mind. He don’t want a wife, he want a dog.” Notwithstanding companionship amity blossoms into fosterage of loving partnership between the foiled duo couple Samuel and Nettie being entrusted with the spirit of equality. Equanimity and egalitarianism is further advanced by the progression of the womens libertarian social justice and freedom for emancipation movement in the artisanal craftsmanship of quiltmaking. Quintessentially Smithsonian depiction of crucifixion symbolizes the historic legacy of anonymous black women more than a century trademark, Celie’s entrepreneurial proprietorship in Memphis towards financial independence of the heroic protagonist.

In ‘The Colour Purple’ iron-willed and obdurate declarative: “I make myself wood. I say to myself Celie you are a tree” symbolically metamorphoses towards enlightening transcendence as emerging victor cator of the destructive and dehumanizing microcosm. Celie disgruntled oppression and objectification through these unflinching and unwavering declarations. Moreover, the womanist fictioneer projects Celie’s alienation and estrangement through personality. Womanist of Colour, Walker furthermore crafts the farewell valedictorian quoteworthy speech as epiphanic emergence of transcendentalist triumphalism: a song of glory, the revelation of newfound harmony between the heroine and the universe within and without: 

“Dear God. Dear stars, dear trees, dear sky, dear people. Dear everything. Dear God.”

The Fourth of July Celebration is both festive and jubilant since Nettier’s husband, Samuel and Celie’s long-lost children reunites: “White people are busy celebrating they independence from England July 4th, say Harpo, so most black folks don’t have to work. Us can spend the day celebrating each other.” All the divisions between people which plagued and tormented the characters during the epistolary fable have concluded in comical relief.

The epistolary womanist fiction chronicles the harrowing survivor of dysfunctional family household; Celie’s existentialist emergence as a bildungsroman emancipatory voice of Black woman through formulation of letter correspondence between God and later to her sister Nettie. Parallel to these events of the plotline, Alice Walker foreshadows curmudgeon relationship conflicts amongst Mr. ____ or Mr. Albert’s daredevil and sexist son Harpo and his soulmate, Sofia, as a formidable, amazon-like woman who dramatizes the plight of the female in rebellion. Being a woman’s rights’ movement advocate and liberations struggle emancipator, Walker highlights racial undercurrents of American society visa-vis the polarized binaries between black-white male/female consciousness and/or beingness. Celie is the object of male gaze who underscores nothingness and powerlessness; being undermined by despotic whims and idiosyncratic desires of the patriarchal houselord Mr_____or Mr. Albert. Despite these tumultuous turmoils Celie’s association with the libertarian Sofia and Shug ushers doors into the world of agency, autonomy, self-individuality and self-fulfillment.

Celie discovers newfound identity and female selfhood corresponding with the community of women: Avery Shug, Nettie, Sofia and Mary Agnes, thus radicalizing liberty and freedom from the captivity and enslavement of patriarchal dominance and/or male brutality and/or conservative Chrisitian orthodoxy. Both infantilism and maternity bond emerges following episodic erotic orgasmic relationship between Celie and Shug: “And God love all them feelings” salvages spiritualist quest merging with archaic, preoedipal, prephallic and preverbal fantasy desire fulfillment and/or ideal ego formations during the mirror stage. Mary Agnes as the alter ego Doppelganger reincarnate of Celie; janitor or warden’s daughter escapes brutal subjection of the oppressive tyrant father within the post traumatic torment of the resultant limpid, disfigured robes, heels gone missing from her shoes, repudiates derogatory names of “Squeak”; ultimately these victors transcends enduring oppressions by bolstering powers over men with daggering denunciation. 

Sewing or weavings evolves as quintessentially women’s transformative powers that transplants renewal and regeneration in puritanical patriarchs: “Now us sit sewing and talking and smoking our pipes” symbolizes eradication of gender and class status quos, thus expediting gendered racial egalitarianism of matrifocality within the community of kinship network. Walker (1982) used quiltmaking as a metaphor of bridging and mending differences and ameliorating interpersonal dynamics fostered among the brethrenship; thus quiltmaking facilitates a metaphor of subversion to conventional and parochial gender roles and stereotypes. Despite dysfunctional family dynamics, characters reconcile to each other as encapsulated in Walker’s words: “Committed to survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female.” 

After all, Alice Walker’s ‘The Colour Purple’ is the penultimate testament to critique the survival of African American community as genealogical isolates and /or natally alienated beings; the epistolary fiction furthermore reiterates ‘sisterhood as a tactic of survival and springboard to freedom’ . “My whole life is [there]…they are all [there], my hopes and fears, my joys and sorrows, my loves and hates.” Alice Walker’s Corrine is the harbinger for the spectrum of creative possibilities embodied by language and sewing, clothworking and letterwriting, quilt-making and correspondence. 

“A needle and not a razor in my hand” ——Celie’s comrade Shug Avery bolstering of creative and productive choice rather than a vengeful, destructive choice; Shug furthermore fosters empowerment for Celi’s rebirth, renewal, regeneration, resurrection, reincarnation, redemption  and new life through Easter Sunday family holiday excursion. Mystical moments of spiritual promptings coincided herein “going to church, singing in the choir, feeding the preacher and all like that.” 

Alice Walker’s womanist prose declares the very essence of commitment to the survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female. The womanist novelist epitomizes herself as the feminist of colour in love(ing) the spirit and love(ing) herself. Natural scenery of the sublime and the beautiful awakens Walker’s heroines to the sense of intimate interconnectedness of all life. Wily Shug’s ministrations regains the possession of letters by Nettie from infamous and malicious Mr______/ Despite World War II torpedo of Nettie and her family; nonetheless Celie’s reunion with her children from fostered parentage reunites at the novel’s conclusion thus culminating in the novel’s denouement following nineteenth century Victorian bildungsroman as “a Black Jane Eyre.” 

Tyrants, desports, captors, conspirators, oppressors, suppressors and tormentors  of patriarchal stalwartness radically reconciled as redeemed figures through gender role reversals. Mr ______ sewing, house-keeping, home-making and collection of sea-shells pontificates the substantive reconciliation and renewal. The apocalyptic vision of the novel is offered by the resolution which establishes a peaceful kingdom by anthropogenic questers in seeking for love and justice.

Black folkloric indigeneity ballads of heritage and culture is in fact contemporary African-American writers access to their racial heritage, not only as a content of struggles for freedom, liberty, justice, emancipation, egalitarianism and equality but also as a form of dialectical experience, practice and self. 

From these discussions Alice Walker’s ‘The Colour Purple’ popularizes Victorian bildungsroman as a sitcom of the black American diaspora by sadomasochism of the masculine stalwart legions of patriarchy and misogyny.

Poetry from Bruce Roberts

Abe, We Need You!

Lincoln said it—November 19, 1863—

GETTYSBURG, Pennsylvania

“. . .the government of the people,

by the people, and for the people,

shall not perish from the earth.”

With these words—

inspiring, articulate, immortal–

Our elected President

 summed up America’s Civil War,

A massive effort to keep

America’s democracy

  Alive!

Yet today—161 years later—

America elects a convicted felon,

One who cares NOT

About America, NOT about democracy,

But only about himself.   

One whose words are Laughable,

Mean, Bumbling, immoral.

One who surrounds himself NOT

With experts dedicated

to the American people,

But with loyalists,

Dedicated ONLY to him,

With very minimal

Legitimate qualifications

For their governmental assignments.

After all these years, can our Founding Fathers

Still roll over in their graves?

Poetry from Michael Todd Steffen

Your Last Video

There’s our Jo Jo, in the video she

took of herself preparing a recipe for

braised beef neck bone and seasoned turnips

only a week or so before the accident

that devastated us. For the longest time

I couldn’t bring myself to watch the clip,

sorely aware that hand, pinching the salt,

busy with the knife and onion, now lay cold

in cherrywood in the Wisconsin earth.

The oaks through winter aptly wore no green.

Wind ushered cloudy skies. I’d forgotten

about it altogether. Then one day

there it was in my files, jo jo_s julia

hovering out on a new PC’s large screen,

her voice chirping on to my astonishment.

Stir the vinegar briskly, adding oil,

a drop or two—oops, three… Strange how cooking

draws out the intensity in her, the swallowed

husky voice, her look’s aimed fire.

Why doesn’t Jo Jo smile? her mom frowned.

That isn’t my little girl. True to the mother

that somehow may never be consoled.

She was determined to succeed at everything,

shadow and pith, the hairbrush in her mirror

to the subtleties in settlement depositions—

vying for partnership in the firm.

Clyde her husband didn’t grasp every hand

extended from the sleeves of their tailored suits.

Her driver’s heavy foot was notorious.

Either you slow down, I once barked at her

from my squirming passenger seat,

or stop the damn car and let me out.

I’ll walk, I told her. Kill yourself if you want to.

I told her that. I didn’t mean it that way

of course, and how I deal with having said it

is with admiration for her persistence that could

make me say a thing because I meant it

beyond how out of line it was. Courage,

I often wonder, or restraint from offending,

which is the greater virtue? Honesty or kindness—

wholly ignoring the context of that morning

as though it were all fate for a type

of personality, all her will. And nothing to do with

the unseen ice on the road into the curve.

Poetry from Duane Vorhees

SIMPLE MATH

Left knee to queen’s bishop six:

the renowned Polish ploy to save the connubial chess.

And the Copernican does hypothesize

his private junction of X’s, Y’s:

Marriage is an intersection of curves;

ergo, we mate with the which who’s most available

at some point, A, where both wes’re most vulnerable.

Zen Mack Sennet monks tell this Pollack koan deep in the abbot’s office.

It ends with this punchline proverb:

“Within the novice virgin, nine mobths after she’s hit

with the-old-man-on-the-mountain’s holy stick,

           wisdom is born.”

And the white bride glides down the stainless aisle

past pews of naked delicatessen racks

like a boiled swollen sausage

as she synchronizes her calendar and stopwatch.

“So now who says that this Kamasutra’s Polish Position is back/to/back?”

And the new kielbasa mama splits into a smile.

“I guess I took too serious what he only poked at me in fun.”

SOUL’S ADVICE

“Stop hiding,” urged Soul. “Get close.”

In love and hope I strode unclothed

to your home — you rushed doors closed.

Disarmed unmasked raw revealed —

And all hope of love shrinks, reviled.

“Bewail,” Soul whispers. “Reveil.”

DESCENSUS INFEROS

Our day closes with roses and gold

and soon we’ll night

by a river of silver ores

beneath a banner

of christmastree stars

and we’ll exchange us presents,

tinsel medallions and

lovingcups of liquid chromium,

and one well will fill another

while, beyond the where-we-are,

your world still worlds its way.

Our tomorrow too will resurrect

in a flamingo and salmon dawn

and then

eventually

end again

in honey and

blood-oranges.

SYMBIONTS

An oxpecker and its rhino.

Lovers in an inexplicable bird cage,

opposites caught despite themselves

in an intimate unity of self and other

becoming other and remaining self.

Strong talons in-digging tough hides

hunting for those hidden ticks

that neverend neverend

However many these lovers may be

they are as trinitarian as time —

a divine Now invisibly linked

to the Not Yet Now to Now No More

becoming self remaining other.

EGONOMICS

This I between my left I

and my right, Is divided from themselves

by the selves I am not,

by the identity of their opposites.

The well of self is narrow and deep,

the sky of soul is wide

and deeper,

and they are joined by a shallow rain.

This is how the All coheres.

The now is the what between hull and coral.

Nothingness is just another existence,

a choir that accompanies my dances.

Among my many ises,

in order to anticipate my pasts, I can see all the futures that used to be.

The present is another sequence of wases and willbes,

a passage between being well and killed,

one way from sleep to sleep,

a blurred and fading journal

of my vacations and my trials,

of webs and webs of sometimes.

The past has many paths.

Life is a flood of poetry: a line of thin rain

followed by lines of sunlight

and lines of more rain.

I live within the caesura of my skin

but my plural bodies wear

too many faces,

store too many heads.

So, I am this uncertain shadow,

a stranger to myself,

the corpse between my mes,

a confused collection

of doubtful witnesses

and contradictory laws.

(Or, rather,

though my molecules stay in flux

I’m almost always myself

even though I’m not the one I once

was

and not the one I’ll be.)

I endlessly create myself.

I lodge inside the impersonator I call my body,

I forge this counterfeit worldly disguise.

I never go home with the I I left with.

My mind is the smithy of all idols.

The symbols it imposes are blankly neutral

at the first before they become the crowds of gods.

I’ve clothed these naked signs with universal aspirations —

for justice/mercy, foreordained free will,

for blending all-power to my desires.

The wise magi

found a god

in a feedbox;

so I can locate mine any where

and then I can exist slowly

like mountains, seas, and stars.

I am lived by beings (my genes)

who incarcerate my existence.

Though the rituals of seduction are usually mutual,

generation nevertheless begins as corruption.

To proliferate this me

I need poetry and conception:

I need your body of verses

and I need your erogenous one

to unfold and spread like morning lilies

while starlings sing their Sumerian songs.

Then the urgency of the mind

meets the wisdom of the flesh,

the cavalry in my entrails

encounters the fanatic in your womb.

In the organ dialectic

the Old I disappears into a new text.

Thoughts hide inside words and words within thought.

Wordthought erects evolution,

poetry engineers environment.

And yet, the poet precedes the poem

and is yet the product of the page,

as the poem also precedes the poet

in the merger of image emotion and happenstance.

My language speaks itself

but as a mirror that must reverse.

It fixes and flatters, divulges deceives displays detects distorts,

memorializes my veneration of self-lies,

encourages my construction of shadow.

This is why

I confuse reflection with appearance (honesty with vanity).

The All comes in many fashions, styles, and designs.

My cradle is my casket, I that corpse between my mes.

Everyone lives with death, one of many infinities,

though both death and life are empty phantoms.

Death lives even before birth,

and our final death is not life’s only one —

and not even its worst.

But this instant is my only eternity. So,

dispose of my corpse as you will, w

ith coals or shovels.

The I between my left and my right

will unite at last!

But after immortality, what?

Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh

A plantation girl brought me a cup of water
And I told her without restraint about my excitement
My daughter, like a fish, says meow and is looking for a husband My wife is like a pearl looking for someones neck and thread
My son was killed during another war
My brother was shot according to laws that don’t exist
Where are the plantations from? I thought and looked around Insane saliva flowed from my lips
I looked at my so called hands
I saw that I did not have a cup of water in my hands. I have nothing at all except a sick stomach
One of my comrades in misfortune advised me to drink less cold water
He said: “You never know, you’ll still catch a cold, you won’t be able to work, and you will be thrown into the ravine exhausted”
I pulled a holey hat over my ears, took a shovel and began to dig a Siberian winter forest
Someone at a distance chopped spruce and dragged them to the barn (in general, thats what we were ordered to)
I began to dig a hole with all my might and then lay down in it and fell asleep as if I had never been there
Finally, I crossed myself three times with a healthy mental finger

reprint by Exist otherwise
***
a little woman told about how she was mutilated and
I sat nearby and was silent as if I were a rapist
I wondered how quickly kafka can turn into a beetle
I wondered how fast a beetle could move during a fuck

like this I sat and stared madly at the little woman in lust someone
came up to me and advised me to control myself

I replied that I like men more and left

on the way, I met a cat that was attacked by an insatiable male where
did I go? no one knows this

when I got home, I masturbated and called a prostitute guy to tell him about his life well,
then I fucked him and let him go

the sky exploded outside the window
the sun watched as the prostitute guy stood naked near the closet I stood
against the wall and pretended to be a closet

***
Skulls crack in a race under the soles
Now I know what it’s like to be a god

Now I know what it’s like to be the god of death
The crunch of nothingness is heard in the auricle
***sounds in the darkness are unknownlike hungry puppies eyes are darting around

the river burst here
now we divide the silence in half and eat in silence

nobody knows what we are thinking
honestly speaking I don’t even know who you are and who I am

we are all drowned
and through our cries the flower of music grows
reprint by 

FEED THE HOLY***
The only thing worse than death is loving someone other than you
Or than me
Or
The only thing worse than death is not loving you
?

***
і want to kiss the flower but it is poisoned
a trampled sunbeam told me about this

the poisoned flower wants to kiss me
the clot of night grows blacker inside my torn chest

***
My favorite war
I dreamed of being killed by an air bomb
I never wanted someone else to die instead of me

There’s nothing left to fear
Outside the windows of big cities there is still a war going on
And in small towns there are now not even windows

I want fuck with scientists
A nuclear bomb must be born inside me
The war around me must be undermined from within

***
war is homeland
war is home
war is land

war is cotton candy
war is a kite
war is an airborne kiss

air bomb
my heart explodes
my body is torn to pieces

і had the courage to be afraid when
a stranger with the face of death
knocked on the window

***
I am writing a letter asking for a chocolate bar
Crunch in the mouth
Pleasant bitterness in the mouth

I read your answer and my jaw tightens
You do not love me
Bitter taste in the mouth

I throw chocolate dreams out of my head
I can never get you out of my head