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IN THE EYE OF THE HURRICANE: ANTILLEAN
CHILDREN’S LITERATURE, POSTCOLONIALITY, AND THE
UNEASY REIMAGINING OF THE SELF

presented by
JILL M. GAETA

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IN THE EYE OF THE HURRICANE: ANTILLEAN CHILDREN’S LITERATURE,
POSTCOLONIALITY, AND THE UNEASY REIMAGINING OF THE SELF

By

Jill M. Gaeta

A DISSERTATION
Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulﬁllment of the requirements
for the degree of
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
Department of French, Classics, and Italian

2008

ABSTRACT

IN THE EYE OF THE HURRICANE: ANTILLEAN CHILDREN’S LITERATURE,
POSTCOLONIALITY, AND THE UNEASY REIMAGININ G OF THE SELF

By
Jill M. Gaeta

How might children’s literature, an agent of socialization, contribute to the
enduring presence of colonial discourses in French Antillean societies, or how might it
serve as a challenge to that presence? In this “postcolonial” landscape still pressured by
French cultural hegemony, examining the values and attitudes normalized through media,
in particular children’s books, is essential. Are Antillean children still inculturated with
colonial ideology, or are the dominant discourses being directed away from French
authority through these youths’ socialization? The relatively recent emergence, within
the past two decades, of a speciﬁcally Antillean body of children’s literature provides
insight into these questions; insight I attempt to develop in this work.

Its categorization as children’s literature, yet its inherent inclusion in the realm of
postcolonial studies, makes this body of literature a rich subject of study for
understanding the development of French Antillean discourse and subjectivity. Yet
scholars within both ﬁelds have tended to overlook the role children’s literature plays in
the constitution of francophone postcolonial identities. Because much of postcolonial
studies focus on the establishment of identity (re-deﬁning oneself and negotiating
between a pre/colonial past and a postcolonial present and future), it seems obvious that
how these societies’ children are socialized merits considerably more attention. My
research, which appeals to literary, sociological, and anthropological disciplines, carves a

new niche in postcolonial literary scholarship.

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iii.

My primary focus is to explore the recent emergence of Antillean children’s
literature while attempting to uncover 1) whether this literature represents an increasing
awareness of French hegemony, 2) how and if this literature challenges French authority,
and 3) how this literature may affect Antillean children’s perspectives, and thereby the
future of Antillean societies. Speciﬁc questions guiding my analysis revolve around how
representations of “race,” class, otherness, and memory/culture support, undermine, or re-
evaluate dominant discourses. Are ideas surrounding “race” as supported by colonial
discourse present in the literature, and if so, do they undermine said discourse, or do they
reﬂect the author’s integration? How might representations of class, as deﬁned by socio-
economic and/or national status, affect self-perception and future social policy? Do
representations of Others encourage children to embrace or reject established stereotypes,
and do they reject the idea of otherness as “bad”? How have authors begun to reshape
Antillean memory, and how have they incorporated that memory in deﬁning a cultural
identity in the present? Comparing and contrasting the various works, I attempt to
discover how, and whether, this literature seeks to alter individual and collective

perceptions of the discourses informing Antillean societies.

Copyright by
JILL M. GAETA
2008

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to acknowledge Dr. Anna Norris, Dr. Laurence Porter, and Dr. Safoi
Babana-Hampton for their invaluable guidance and support. I would also like to
acknowledge my family for their unwavering faith and Victor Torres-Velez, who has

been my rock during this process.

PREFACE

The eye of a hurricane is an illusion of calm, of being out of the storm. Yet in
reality, to be in the eye of a hurricane is to be at the very center of the storm, with
destructive chaos swirling all around. If you fall victim to the illusion, you will
inevitably fall victim to the storm. I see this as a metaphor for the current situation facing
the French Antilles. Centuries of slavery, colonization, and departmentalization, as well
as an assimilationist policy and continuing hegemonic pressures, have created an illusion
of French superiority — the eye of the hurricane. Those who fall victim to that illusion
often deny their heritage, even their “race,” and strive to become something colonial
ideology will never allow them to become. They are caught in a maelstrom where their
identity is in constant contradiction — the hurricane itself. This metaphor could also be
applied to those who ﬁght against French dominance. In this case, the illusion is the idea
that one could ever wholly separate him or herself from French inﬂuence, denying
France’s role in deﬁning Antillean social structures, subjectivities, and identities. Yet
because France is innately involved in the development of Antillean societies — beginning
with the island’s initial colonization, and the institution of the slave trade to the Americas
— it is questionable that one could ever entirely disassociate from France. Attempting to
do so leads to a similar maelstrom as experienced by those who embrace assimilation,
where identity resides in a state of contradiction and negotiation. The hurricane is,

essentially, a metaphor for this relative chaos that is Antillean identity, or identities.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES ................................................................................ viii
INTRODUCTION .................................................................................... 1
CHAPTER 1

READING “RACE” IN THE ANTILLEAN CHILD’S BOOK ............................... 24
CHAPTER 2

CLASS DIVISION AND ACCOUNTABILITY ............................................... 70
CHAPTER 3

UNDERSTANDING OTHERNESS ............................................................ 120
CHAPTER 4 ,

CULTURAL IDENTITY: RECONSTITUTING CREOLITE .............................. 167
CONCLUSION .................................................................................... 214
APPENDIX ......................................................................................... 227
BIBLIOGRAPHY ................................................................................. 237

vii

LIST OF FIGURES*

FIGURE 1: Mona and Sam, illustration by Alex Godard, La F orét de Coeur-Bouliki
(Paris, Albin Michel Jeunesse, 2002), p. 12 ................................................... 228

FIGURE 2: Mona and Sam in the cage together, illustration by Alex Godard, La F orét de
Coeur-Bouliki (Paris, Albin Michel Jeunesse, 2002), p. 28 .................................. 229

FIGURE 3: Katsi with his “normal” parents, illustration by Alex Godard, Le Petit
Hippoptamtam (Paris, Albin Michel Jeunesse, 2004), unpaged ............................. 230

FIGURE 4: The giraffe feeding Katsi, illustration by Alex Godard, Le Petit
Hippopotamtam (Paris, Albin Michel Jeunesse, 2004), unpaged ........................... 231

FIGURE 5: Katsi and the giraffe, illustration by Alex Godard, Le Petit Hippopotamtam
(Paris, Albin Michel Jeunesse, 2004), unpaged ................................................ 232

FIGURE 6: Maé and Yaya in the sea, illustration by Alex Godard, Maé et le Iamantin
(Paris, Albin Michel Jeunesse, 2000), unpaged ................................................ 233

FIGURE 7: “Ougga se jette sur Gorok”, illustration by Thierry Jwaluka Martel, Histoire
d ’Ougga chien créole (Pointe-a-Pitre, Editions Jasor, 2001), p. 108 ....................... 234

FIGURE 8: Idora in her apartment, illustration by Alex Godard, Idora (Belgium, Editions
du Seuil, 1997), unpaged ......................................................................... 235

FIGURE 9: The world is a theater, illustration by Alex Godard, Idora (Belgium, Editions
du Seuil, 1997), unpaged ......................................................................... 236

* Images in this dissertation are presented in color.

viii

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INTRODUCTION

How do we account for the enduring presence of colonial discourses in Antillean
societies? How do we explain the apparent impossibility of a single Antillean identity,
and the conﬂicting notions about what being Antillean or Creole means or Should mean?
In this “postcolonial” landscape still pressured by French cultural hegemony, one must
examine the values and attitudes normalized through media, particularly children’s
literature. Are Antillean children being inculturated with colonialist ideology? Or is
there an attempt to direct dominant discourses within these societies away from French
authority through the socialization of Antillean youths? The recent emergence of a
speciﬁcally Antillean body Of children’s literature may help us answer these questions.
Its belonging to the categories of both postcolonial and children’s literature makes it a
very rich subject of study in understanding the development Of discourse and subjectivity
in the French Antilles. In the past, however, postcolonial studies have overlooked the
fundamental role of children’s literature in the constitution of postcolonial identities,
which is surprising given its importance in inculcating values and beliefs. Because many
scholars of postcolonial studies focus on how postcolonial societies attempt to establish
an identity (re-deﬁning oneself and negotiating between a pre/colonial past and a
postcolonial present and future), it seems Obvious that the acculturation of these societies’
children merits considerably more attention. This project will serve as a step in closing
that scholarly gap.

The French Antilles comprise one of the most complex francophone postcolonial
regions in terms of culture and identity, underscoring the signiﬁcance of a body of

children’s literature created by and for Antilleans. I explore how this literature may

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affect Antillean children’s perceptions of self, others, and the world in which they live,
particularly in relation to several key elements inﬂuencing Antillean identities — “race,”
class and sociO-economic division, otherness, and the relationship between memory and
culture.

Children’s exposure to literary discourse during their formative years has
undeniable socializing effects. Because their senses of self and society are still in the
process of developing, they are more vulnerable tO ideological messages found in
literature and other media. According to Adams, children are born more or less “neutral”
and are greatly inﬂuenced by what they read, unconsciously absorbing lessons and
attitudes (107). Thus from picture books to young adult novels, children’s literature
possesses tremendous power in perpetuating or rejecting dominant social structures, and
plays a key role in a child’s ideological development and self-image. Such literature
facilitates the inculcation of values and beliefs representative of the society into which a
child is to be initiated. Much of contemporary children’s literature can therefore be
termed didactic, premised on Rousseau’s philosophy Of education: a process of growth,
adaptation and a modiﬁcation of the child’s nature for social ends (Adams). Through its
normalization of a society’s “common” values and perceptions, children’s literature
“trains” the child to become an acceptable member of that society. It is through their
reading and understanding of the literature that children are conditioned into ways of
seeing themselves and the world around them.

While initial forms of children’s literature in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and
nineteenth centuries included primarily cautionary tales, illustrating repercussions for

“bad behavior,” contemporary literature also plays a fundamental role in shaping

Evil;

children’s perspectives of self and Other’. Research has shown how representations of
certain social, cultural, and ethnic groups inﬂuence a child’s way of seeing. For example,
in her book Print and Prejudice, Zimet outlines two studies conducted to analyze the
psychological effects of ethnic and racial discourse on children. In the ﬁrst study (1947),
Kenneth and Mamie Clark gave a black doll and white doll to a group of black and white
American children who were then asked to choose the doll resembling them. All Of the
white children and 33% of the black children chose the white doll. According to Zimet,
this result shows a “reluctance in Black children to accept their own racial identity”
(109). In 1975 another study was conducted by Milner, examining differences in “self-
attitude” between West Indian and Asian immigrants in Britain. As in the previous study,
a group Of 300 children were given dolls and asked to choose which one resembled them.
While all white children chose the white doll, so did 24% Of Asians and 48% of West
Indians. This study went a step further by asking these same children if given the choice,
which doll would they choose to be? Again, all white children chose the white (1011 while
an astonishing 65% of Asians and 82% Of West Indians did as well. Zimet points out:
“The factors behind this rejection of racial self-identity in British immigrants are much
too complex to assign to any one cause, but Milner and others regard literature,
particularly children’s literature, as an important inﬂuence” (109). While there exist
numerous contributing factors to a child’s sense Of self, it is believed that literature plays

a central role in developing self-perception.

 

' One must acknowledge that the genre of children’s literature as it is studied today reﬂects
European forms of children’s literature. While these forms are employed by various postcolonial societies.
this is in direct correlation with colonization and the imposition of such literary structures on the colonized
populations. Such use may indicate one the one hand internalization of discourse proclaiming the
superiority of European literature, or on the other hand, an appropriation of this literature as a means of
empowerment.

Eb.

Zimet continues by commenting on the power of literature: “Even if literature is
only reﬂecting attitudes prevalent in our society, the authority of print can either
legitimize or challenge them” (109). One ﬁnds in literature the power to inﬂuence
dominant attitudes, whether by perpetuation or challenge. This assertion is particularly
relevant to the study of “postcolonial” Antillean children’s literature, where colonial
discourses continue to impede children’s development of self-worth and knowledge. In
postcolonial societies inculcating values, beliefs and ways Of seeing is more problematic
than in dominant, western countries. This is because children’s literature is typically
produced by the dominant culture, perpetuating that culture’s ideology. Because this
literature is considered a socializing force, aiding in the formation of an individual and
collective identity, the impact of colonialism on that literature and on what children are
exposed to cannot be ignored. Inevitably children in postcolonial societies like the
French Antilles regularly encounter books and other child-targeted media produced for
children of the dominant, i.e. French, culture. If left unchecked, these media have the
power to normalize dominant values for the colonized child, potentially normalizing a
speciﬁc subject position. This normalization could create in the child a sense of

inferiority and a desire to “become” one of the colonizers (Fanon, Damnés 16) 2.

 

2 Reading many of the autobiographical accounts written by Antillean authors (Chemin d ’e'cole by
Chamoiseau, La rue cases négres by Zobel, Le cwur c‘r rire et 81 pleurer by Condé, among others), one is
struck by the pivotal role education plays in the Antillean subject’s sense of self. After the abolition of
slavery in 1848, primary school became obligatory for all children, including Blacks. Condé tells us that
the inclusion of Blacks in the education system was intended to “aid” them in their emancipation (Bossale
47). In other words, former slaves were conditioned into a vision of the world reﬂecting French colonial
ideology. Secondary school was not available to Blacks until much later, and even then, only a few were
able to attend, creating an intellectual elite and thus division among black Antilleans. Today the education
system in the Antilles continues to be largely dictated by a French curriculum, contributing to the
perpetuation of colonial discourse and posing a formidable obstacle to the inculcation of a discourse
oppositional to the former.

 

 

.IIIII-

Examining some accepted theories on how children’s literature serves as a
socializing force is important. While I will be using a postcolonial framework in this
study, the literature’s speciﬁcity concerning the socialization and inculcation of
discourses in children makes theories of children’s literature indispensable.

In a book by the Council on Interracial Books for Children (CIBC), Human (and
Anti-Human) Values in Children’s books, the question is asked: “What happens to
children from the racial group depicted when they look in that mirror and see sameness,
ugliness, dependency on whites, lack of resistance, acceptance only on the basis Of an
endless willingness to suffer? What happens when they see something they can never
have — whiteness — embodied with superiority and desirability (9)?” How are children
affected by representations of “race” in children’s books? First, it is believed that values,
beliefs and ideas are successfully instilled when the child identiﬁes with the story’s
protagonist(s). Though this afﬁrmation is relevant, it is also potentially problematic. If a
black child is exposed to literature with only white protagonists s/he may come to
identify with the latter, potentially resulting in self-negation as s/he strives to attain what
is presented as good or normal (i.e. white), or s/he may feel alienated, inferior, and
dehumanized. In addition, the presence and/or absence of certain images can and will
impact a child’s perception of self and others. Zimet tells us: “The evidence of omission
and distortion of people Of colour and of different cultural and social class backgrounds is
unequivocal. The sense of rejection and alienation felt by the forgotten and denigrated
cannot be underestimated” (69-70). For the black child mentioned above, repeated
exposure to heroic white and viliﬁed black characters, or the absence Of black characters

altogether, can solidify feelings of inferiority, alienation, and self-negation. Theories

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such as these are signiﬁcantly relevant when considering the French Antilles. The
presence Of inferiority complexes, self-hatred, and assimilation is, as Fanon says, the
result of an absence of Black expression: “Dans la société antillaise, ou les mythes sont
les mémes que ceux de la société dijonnaise ou nicoise, 1e jeune Noir, s’identiﬁant au
civilisateur, fera du négre 1e bouc émissaire de sa vie morale” (Peau noire 155). Because
Antillean societies share a French collective vision, black children will come to blame
their “race” for their misery. However, images Of “race” or ethnicity are not the only
ones with which to be concerned: class, religion, gender, history and so on are also
important elements of society, their representations equally relevant to the development
of a child’s self-perception.

In considering the portrayal Of these social and cultural elements, we must
acknowledge the importance Of the authorial role. What language does the author use to
inﬂuence the ideological development of the child? How might the author’s unexamined
assumptions (values taken for granted or accepted unthinkingly)’, which may support or
contradict his original intent, affect his or her message? What position does the author
seem to take: is s/he supporting assimilation, or challenging colonial discourses, being
subversive by encouraging a set of ideas oppositional to the dominant? Can an author
writing in the dominant culture’s language, using the dominant culture’s literary

structures, be truly subversive?

 

3 Hollindale tells us in Ideology and the Children 's Book: “The values at stake are usually those
which are taken for granted by the writer, and reflect the writer’s integration in a society which
unthinkingly accepts them. In turn this means that children, unless they are helped to notice what is there,
will take them for granted too. Unexamined, passive values are widely shared values, and we should not
underestimate the powers of reinforcement vested in quiescent and unconscious ideology” (13). Thus when
examining the messages conveyed in children’s literature, one must take two approaches: 1) what is the
intended message and 2) is that the message ultimately communicated or is the intention undermined by the
author’s unexamined assumptions?

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Since I shall be addressing how speciﬁc beliefs and ideas are represented in
Antillean children’s literature, this dissertation might be classiﬁed as a study in
“international” and/or “multicultural” children’s literature’. This merits some discussion.
Current studies of “multicultural” children’s literature, though addressing fundamental
issues around ideas of culture and ethnicity, tend to overlook signiﬁcant cultural
differences between literature written by or about a non-white minority (in a
predominantly white society) and literature produced by a non-white “majority
population of an independent nation” (Ashcroﬁ et al. 19)’. Ashcroft points out as an
example the difference between texts written by or about black Americans, considered a
minority population, and texts written by black Africans or West Indians (19). Moreover,
several critics of “multicultura ” children’s literature (eg. Cai, Vandergrift, Zimet among
others) claim to varying degrees that there is a need for cultural “accuracy” or
“authenticity” in children’s books in order to “justly” represent non-white peoples”.
While derogatory stereotyping must clearly be avoided, I disagree with uniformly
representing or homogenizing a particular culture, and negating its subjects’ varying
experiences. This is especially true when speaking of literature produced in the French
Antilles, where cultural and ethnic plurality and diversity of individual experiences are
the very fabric Of society. Exposing children to a homogenized representation of

Antillean cultural experience, not to mention the meretricious artiﬁciality of such a

 

’ The area of “international” children’s literature refers to literature produced around the globe, but
is usually associated with cultures outside those of Western superpowers. “Multicultural” children’s
literature and theory is a broad categorization of literature dealing with questions of culture, ethnicity,
interracial relations, etc.

5 Ashcroft et al. is referring to postcolonial studies in his comparison of such literature, but the
same is true for studies of “international” and “multicultural” children’s literature.

6 According to “multicultural” theory, these representations are meant to foster cultural sensitivity
(in the majority population) and pride or self-awareness in the minority population.

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representation, threatens and undermines their ability to negotiate their own space and
identity.

The question of identity in francophone postcolonial societies is at best
complicated. One of the most efﬁcient colonial powers, France relied on the process of a
carefully limited assimilation to maintain its empire and the subordination of its subjects.
Through the installation of the French educational system, many colonized subjects were
brought up to think of themselves as French, minimizing the risks Of dissent (Young).
Joubert tells us that the teaching of and in the French language was instrumental in
“peacefully” conquering colonial subjects’ hearts and minds. Thus much of francophone
postcolonial writing has focused on political and cultural self-deﬁnition, while at the
same time expressing the assumption of remaining part Of French culture (Young). In the
French Antilles, however, the complexity of self-deﬁnition differs from that of other
ﬁancophone postcolonial regions such as West Africa or the Maghreb. Where peoples of
these latter regions experienced colonization on their own land, Antilleans experienced
dislocation, slavery, and alienation from their ancestral African ties. As Anne Malena
tells us: “The questions [regarding Antillean identity] have mostly revolved around how
to create roots for an uprooted people” (4). In addition, the Antilles remain dominated as
Départements d’Outre-Mer’, meaning that while they are no longer colonies, they remain
subjugated to French cultural hegemony.

According to Ashcroft, Griffiths and Tifﬁn, the Caribbean is comprised of a

variety of ethnic groups “all more or less in ancestral exile, and all still subject to the

 

7 In the years following World War II (1948-1974), several French colonies or territories were
given the option of independence or of becoming an official part of France as departments. Four colonies,
Martinique, Guadeloupe, La Guyane and La Réunion, voted for departmentalization, meaning they are
officially considered citizens of France with all associated rights and privileges.

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hegemonic pressures of their former European owners [. . .]” (144). This is clearly the
case in the Antilles where French assimilationist policy has proven successful. The
voluntary alignment with France, brought by a favorable vote for departmentalization in
the mid-20m century, is proof of such successl’. At that time a majority of Antilleans
could be considered what Michel Pécheux calls “Good” subjects, or subjects who “’ﬁeely
consent’ [. . .] to the discursive formation which determines them” (Ashcroft et. al 168).
They had internalized an identity afforded them by colonial discourse. The minority and
Opposing group of “Bad” subjects is described as those who reject entirely colonial
culture and discourse. Finally, subjects associated with “dis-identiﬁcation” are those who
recognize that while dominant discourses are inescapable, they can be transformed.

These various subjectivities are still present in Antillean societies, problematizing
attempts to re-deﬁne or construct a collective Antillean identity.

As with most postcolonial societies, literature in the Antilles has become a source
of self-discovery and deﬁnition. According to Malena, Antillean literature forms part of
a cultural discourse where questions of identity are presented as a process of perpetual
negotiation (3). While the presence of a “littérature d’assimilation”, or a literature
adopting the academic norms of metropolitan literature is clear, the majority Of
contemporary Antillean literature, as J oubert points out, attempts to recuperate the reality
of the histories informing Antillean society. It attempts to raise a national consciousness
and ﬁghts to establish or recover a collective memory suppressed by centuries of slavery,

oppression, and colonial discourse — key elements if Caribbean identity depends on the

 

’ According to Edouard Glissant, the belief strongly held by Antilleans that it would be impossible
to survive outside of the control of the Center (France) is a matter of ideology (see Picanco 71). While
clearly the maintenance of the Antilles could be seen as a ﬁnancial burden on France, the inculcation of
colonial ideology in the Antillean population lead to the negation of one’s potential autonomy.

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relationship of the self with locale, history, memories and other selves (Malena 3). Over
the past one hundred years, literature’s appropriation has led to large literary and cultural
movements aiding postcolonial subjects’ search for identity. These movements include
Négritude, Antillanité, and Créolité, which have served to question and inﬂuence how
postcolonial identities are formed.

The 19303 brought the ﬁrst, widespread movement addressing Black identity.
Négritude, as this movement came to be known, is largely attributed to authors Aime'
Césaire, Léon Gontran Damas and Léopold Senghor. Inspiring Black solidarity and a
return to an African heritage, Négritude rejected the identity imposed on Blacks by
colonial discourse, taking an important ﬁrst step in re-examining and re-deﬁning Black
identity. Ashcroft, Grifﬁths and Tifﬁn point out that Ne’gritude was “the most
pronounced assertion of the distinctive qualities of Black culture and identity” (20). It
gave Blacks the opportunity to sever in part the power of the white gaze and reject its
inﬂuence on their sense Of self. Yet its binary system Of belief, its failure to acknowledge
the inevitable appropriation of European culture, its tendency to adopt attitudes reﬂective
of European prejudice, and its specious universalization of a Black experience ultimately
undermined the movement. Moreover, a “return” to Africa proved, and continues to
prove, problematic for Antilleans. Through dispossession and displacement, slaves
brought to the Americas and the generations that followed experienced alienation from
their African heritage. This alienation meant that the Africa to which Antilleans would
return has become a myth, an imagined space. A return is both disappointing and,
ultimately, impossible. Various Antillean authors (Maryse Condé, for example, with her

novels Hérémakhonon and Moi, Tituba...sorciére noire de Salem) illustrate the

10

psychological impossibility of fully immersing oneself in a culture no longer one’s own.
An individual may physically return to the continent of their ancestors, but the emotional
and psychological alienation from Aﬁican culture(s) and politics creates a barrier,
preventing the “return” initially sought. Négritude’s attempt at recovering and embracing
one’s aﬁicam'té is repeatedly undermined by the cultural and political realities (or
differences) between the Antilles and Africa.

Négritude was largely based on “race,” yet the subsequent movement developed
by Edouard Glissant, Antillanité, sought cultural, economic and political unity within the
Antilles (Picanco). Though Glissant recognizes Négritude’s role in opposing white
oppression, he disputes the lack of cultural consideration and its focus on “race.”
Antillanité focuses less on racial composition and more on being “Antillean.” In his
Discours Antillais Glissant highlights issues he perceives as integral to the constitution of
Antillean identity: the recuperation of a collective memory for example. Such memory is
intrinsic to a society’s perception of the world and its comprehension of its place within it
(Picanco 56). It is the groundwork of a nation. For Glissant, this recuperation begins
with a re-examination of Antillean history. Luciano Picanco tells us: “Des tensions de
groupe découlent de l’acceptation d’une histoire subie, irnposée par le colonisateur, et de
la méconnaissance de la vraie histoire, effacée de la conscience collective” (51).
Antilleans have accepted a history imposed by the colonizer, erasing the truth Of misery,
revolt, and dehurnanization accompanying centuries of slavery and colonization. Glissant
addresses this problem by deﬁning a new historical space, beginning with the contact

between European and African histories (Picanco 51).

11

ltl

Glissant also insists on achieving “désaliénation coloniale” by rejecting illusions
created by the “arriéres pays,” or Aﬁica and Europe (Picanco 63). Antilleans must stop
looking outside for solutions or answers and into themselves, creating autonomy. In his
quest for Antillean unity and autonomy, Glissant openly opposed departmentalization.
He and Paul Niger developed le Front Antillo-Guyanais, which advocated for an end to
this status, and placed him among a new generation going beyond the literary to achieve
social transformation. In addition to promoting economic and political independence,
Glissant examined the Antilles’ relation to the world. In his the’orie de la relation,
“Glissant chcrche ainsi a saisir l’originalité du discours antillais par l’analyse des rapports
et des differences que cette partie du globe entretient avec d’autres parties du monde”
(Picanco 65). He seeks to deﬁne the originality of Antillean discourse in relation to other
parts Of the globe.

Within Glissant’s conception Of Antillanité, he addresses the notion of créolité.
The term I’étant, in opposition to I’étre, signiﬁes temporality, an existence in the here
and now, and that the present reality can be altered through (cultural) contact. This term
embodies adaptation, ﬂexibility, and change while the term l’étre signiﬁes ﬁxity and is
perceived as a constant. L ’étant and I’étre correlate with Glissant’s concepts Divers and
Méme respectively. The latter refers to expansion, homogenization, and the ideology
behind colonization. Divers, on the other hand, is the opposite of the ﬁction created by
the Méme. Picanco points out: “L’étant est l’essence de l’humain ct c’est ce que Glissant
appelle la créolisation” (69, emphasis added). Humanity’s essence is its diversity, which
should not be undermined by a desire to categorically deﬁne an individual, ethnic group,

society, and so forth. It seems that, for Glissant, créolité is the diversity Of cultures and

12

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ethnicities found in the Antilles. Créolisation is the process of those cultures and
ethnicities coming together to create a new cultural entity, not bound to preceding
peoples and histories.

Inspired by Glissant’s Discours Antillais, Martinican authors Jean Bemabe',
Patrick Chamoiseau, and Raphaél Conﬁant founded the most recent literary movement,
Créolité, in the 19803. In their well-known manifesto, “L’éloge de la Créolité,” these
three men deﬁne Créolite' as a “kaleidoscopic totality” (28), an existence within diversity
and the embrace Of inherent otherness. They argue that the differences comprising
Caribbean identity are to be celebrated and not marginalized or compromised by
discourses painting difference as a Sign Of inferiority. They also argue for the
incorporation of Creole as a national standard, characterizing Antillean writing. For these
Elogistes, the use of Creole language in Antillean literature (pure Creole or creolized
French) rejects the imposition of standardized, “pure” French, reﬂecting a cultural
combat (Schon 212). Because Creole language(s) can be deﬁned as hybrid, combining
aspects of African, French and other languages, the Elogistes’ push for its standardization
represents their call for uniﬁed diversity and a celebration Of difference.

Yet the concept of Créolité as deﬁned by Bemabé, Chamoiseau and Conﬁant has
met with considerable opposition. It would be difﬁcult to establish a national program of
Creole, as there exist several Creoles, not one’. Furthermore, creating a “nouvelle norme
créolisante” would institutionalize resistance and establish a negation of all differences
within Antillean society itself (Schonn 217). Attempting to unify Antilleans through the

standardization of their language leads to the very loss of the diversity that project claims

 

9 The idea that the Antilles should adopt Creole as the national language proves problematic in that
there exist various forms of the Creole language. Choosing one over the others would not promote the unity
sought in Créolité but would rather result in the alienation of a large portion of the population.

13

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to celebrate. As an ideology, this concept of Cre’olité is a utopian illusion based on a
Manichean logic. Its binarism, its preference of “indigenous” values in contradiction to
“French” values, and its opposition to the Occident places Créolite’ in close proximity to
its predecessor, Négritude.

On the other hand, Créolité is not without valid points. Consider, for example, the
Guadeloupean author Maryse Conde', who while critiquing Créolité also acknowledges its
assets"). In an interview with Francoise Pfaff, she recognizes that within diversity, there
exists a unity among Caribbean islands, the afﬁrmation of a personality neither African,
American, nor European, terms she credits to “L’e’loge de la Créolité” (109). She also
points out that Créolité allows writers to re-evaluate their relationship with the French
language. Yet she cautions against its becoming a sort of “cultural terrorism,” within
which writers become conﬁned. She also strongly protests its utopian ideals and the
permanent comparison Of the Antilles with France (Schon). For Condé, “to each his or
her own Créolite’” meaning everyone should have their own way of expressing
themselves in written literature (Condé, Pfaff 114). For non-writers in Antillean societies
Condé’s assertion is equally relevant; they too must develop their own créolité or way Of
expressing and identifying themselves within their society.

Conﬂicting visions of identity, as we see in comparing Négritude, Antillanité, and
Créolité, are visible in the works of Antillean authors. Because Antillean identity and
subjectivity, on both an individual and collective level, are still in the process Of
developing, studying this literature can reveal what informs that development. Yet
scholarship in this area has been uniquely focused on literature produced for an adult

readership. Indeed, children’s literature in the francophone postcolonial world has a

 

'0 I will further discuss Condé’s and others’ views on Créolité in Chapter four.

14

31‘

“III

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similar function to literature created for adults: it is an important source of empowerment
and self-discovery. Individually and collectively, much of this literature examines
colonialism’s effects and consequences. Ashcroft, Grifﬁths and Tifﬁn explain that
language is a medium of power, creating “truth” and “reality” (Empire). If postcolonial
societies are to dismantle false or unjust assumptions about their cultures, it becomes
necessary to appropriate the language perpetuating those assumptions. Through
appropriation of language and literary forms, postcolonial authors have attempted to
undermine colonial discourses while re-deﬁning an individual and collective identity.
Many of the issues addressed and explored in this literature are Of a social, cultural, and
political nature: it is within these realms of existence that colonialism has had some of its
deepest impacts. Postcolonial children’s literature reﬂects similar issues, yet takes on the
added responsibility of inculcating and normalizing beliefs surrounding those issues in
younger generations.

Given the social and cultural Signiﬁcance of children’s literature, the importance
of developing a speciﬁcally Antillean children’s literature is apparent. Normalizing
French metropolitan values, via continual exposure to literature written by and for the
dominant (i.e. French) culture, undermines efforts to challenge colonial discourses.
Moreover, failing to instill in Antillean children a sense of their heritage and past will
only contribute to what Ernest Pépin, Guadeloupean author and critic, considers the
degeneration of the Antilles. In his Lettre ouverte a Iajeunesse (2001), Pépin speaks
about the current situation involving Guadeloupean youth, but which is relevant to the

youth of all Antillean societies.

15

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A direct confrontation, this “letter” accuses the youth in Pépin’s country Of being
responsible for the decomposition of Guadeloupean society and its “grands principes,”
among which are: “La solidarité engendre’e par la conscience d’appartenir a une meme
histoire, a une méme ge'ographie et a un meme destin. [. . .] La preservation de l’identité et
son épanouissement dans l’expression collective” (11-12). He accuses Antillean youth of
being “débranche’s de tout ce qui compte,” referring to history, geography, family,
scholarly life, politics, culture, and so forth (26). In the young generations of Guadeloupe
he sees a lifestyle of escapism through apathy, assimilation (dressing like suburban
Americans and French), cultural amnesia, drugs, violence, irresponsibility, and
superﬁciality. Pépin accuses youths of these “crimes,” but highlights what is necessary
to counteract such destruction. He states the need and undertakes the task of reminding
Guadeloupean youth Of their heritage: “Quelle que soit la couleur de ta peau, tu viens
d’une société engendre’e a l’origine par la colonisation et l’esclavage” (28). He reminds
them of being heirs to resistance against colonialism, racism, collective marginalization
and ignorance as well as resistance for a viable society, to deﬁne and make radiant a
plural identity and for collective emancipation (30). In his Lettre ouverte, Pe'pin forces
children to face themselves and their responsibility. He calls on them to “return” and
take responsibility for their country’s future.

Pépin’s letter reveals an alarming situation, no doubt the product of perpetual
encounters with cultural hegemony. He illustrates the alienating effects colonial
discourse and policy have had on Antillean youths: the self-hatred turning youths away

from their culture and toward that of the hegemonic powers, or toward violence and

16

LII

apathy”. There is a need for Antillean children to witness positive representations of
their own societies and culture if such devastating effects are to be counteracted. Pe’pin’s
Lettre ouverte underscores the importance of an emerging body of children’s literature
created speciﬁcally for Antilleans.

Several Antillean authors who have actively engaged literature in social critique
and empowerment, such as Pépin, Condé, Pineau and others, have begun to acknowledge
the signiﬁcance of what their children read. In their works for children, these authors
attempt to shatter the oppressive social limitations born of colonialism, which have
informed the subordinate subject positions of the Antillean people. My dissertation will
focus on this attempt at liberation and on how these authors address, and potentially
affect, the ideological development of youth in their given societies. Several issues must
be addressed in such an undertaking. How has the experience Of oppression informed the
messages conveyed by Antillean authors Of children’s literature? How might this
literature interplay with the dominant culture (i.e. does it challenge colonial discourse or
does it promote assimilation)? In what ways do these authors attempt to inﬂuence a

”’2, class division, otherness, and

child’s identity formation in terms of “race
cultural/historical memory?

The social construct of race, perpetuated by colonial discourse and imposed on
the Antillean population, has long informed the dynamic Of Antillean societies.
Martinican author and psychiatrist Frantz Fanon explains that “race” plays a vital role in

Antillean subjects’ sense of self. He points out that racial categorization, or the

imposition of racial hierarchies, has led to inferiority complexes and assimilation. Many

 

It See Fanon, Peau noire, masques blancs and Damnés de la terre.
’2 I put “race” in quotations as 1 am referring to the socially constructed concept of race. That is,
the pseudo—scientiﬁc categorization of people by colonial discourse.

l7

black Antilleans have internalized notions that French, and thus “white,” culture is
superior, leading to self-negation and the attempt to obtain respect from the white world
by assirnilating to and adopting French values, attitudes, and behavior. If examining
children’s literature helps us understand how certain discourses are developed and
maintained, representations of “race” in Antillean children’s literature are important. Are
ideas surrounding “race” as supported by colonial discourse found in the literature? If so,
are these intentional representations meant to undermine said discourse, or do they reﬂect
the author’s unthinking acceptance of it? DO there exist representations conspicuously
contradicting the dominant discourse on “race”? Chapter one focuses on such
representations, particularly in relation to the theories of Fanon. I will look at how, and
whether, Antillean children’s literature encourages a discourse fostering complexes such
as those discussed here. Included in my discussion will be how certain texts represent
and/or reﬂect the black and white gaze, and the perception of each in relation to the other.
As Denis Williams says, how does one “racial group” qualify and diminish the self-image
of the other (Ashcroft et al. 146)?

As important as it is for adult readers and critics to understand the ideological
messages conveyed in the literature, exploring how these messages may impact the
emotional and psychological development Of Antillean children is ﬁrndamental. For
instance, understanding how children are exposed to the gaze of the other can reveal how
their self-perception is developed. Equally signiﬁcant are representations of how certain
racial or ethnic groups see themselves. Have the characters internalized constructed

notions of what is superior and inferior based on physical appearance? Exploring

18

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representations of “race” signiﬁcantly reveals an author’s perceptions and, more
importantly, how the child reader’s self-perception will be inﬂuenced.

Racial categorization and hierarchies have also inﬂuenced class structures in
Antillean societies. According to Robert Young, French colonial discourse on “race” has
simultaneously been integrated with cultural class distinctions based on the degree of
assimilation. However, class division in the Antilles is further complicated by the social
structures resulting from assimilation and continued French dominance. While
ideologically “race” is a determining factor in social status, the sociO-economic system,
reﬂecting a long history of elitism and capitalist policies, fosters yet another, more
concrete divide among Antillean peoples. Racial and socio—economic boundaries overlap
in the Antillean class system, creating complex, if not confusing social division. Because
chapter one focuses on racial division, chapter two takes a closer look at the economic
and political policies informing Antillean class structures, and how children’s literature
may play a role in inﬂuencing those structures. This chapter adopts an anthropological
and literary approach, examining Antillean social policy and how literature reﬂects and
challenges the attitudes behind it. I am interested in how authors present class division to
their readers, and how the latter is encouraged to understand their own role in a classicist
society. An important question to bear in mind is who constitutes the target readership
for these texts? The answer to that question highlights the literature’s potential social
function. Exposing Antillean children to the realities of class structure could greatly
inﬂuence how these structures develop, and perhaps evolve, in the future. Examining
representations of class in the literature provides some of the more concrete examples of

how Antillean authors may play a role in inﬂuencing the direction of Antillean societies.

19

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Inherent in both racial and class-based discourses is prejudice — prejudice against
those who are different from oneself. Otherness is an important, revealing element
informing Antillean societies and subjectivities. Stuart Hall implies with his term
“doubleness” that an Other is necessary to the Self, or that the deﬁnition of oneself hinges
on what he or she is not (“Old and New Identities”). For example, if one is white, one is
not Black or if one is French, one is not African. In Antillean societies, however, given
their diversity, attempting to deﬁne oneself within binary logic is problematic. Centuries
of cultural contact between Aﬁicans, Europeans, Amerindians, Indians, and so forth
problematize attempts to deﬁne oneself as completely one or the other. Moreover, basing
self-deﬁnition on the politics of otherness both reﬂects French hegemony, and risks
further racial and class stratiﬁcation. Chapter three focuses on how Antillean children’s
literature represents otherness, and on the intended or potential consequences. I look at
whether authors encourage binary division, cooperation, or tolerance. I examine also
how otherness of the self, reﬂecting the plurality of Antillean (and Caribbean) societies,
is addressed in the literature. If the literature dismantles negative stereotypes of Others,
dividing boundaries may be deconstructed as children learn to appreciate their societies’
plurality, and recognize their own prejudiced attitudes. On the other hand, if the
literature perpetuates binarism and negative stereotypes premised on difference, we may
better understand why social division persists.

The fourth and ﬁnal chapter explores the relationship between memory, French
hegemonic pressure, and cultural identity. Many of the issues discussed in chapters one
through three result from decades of social conditioning by the dominant power. Much

of this conditioning took place, and continues to take place, in the classroom. French

20

 

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History, coupled with a desire to forget slavery’s horrors, has prevented the Antillean
people from deﬁning their own, autonomous national and cultural identity. It has also
fostered disconnection between Antilleans and peoples of other Caribbean islands,
despite a shared past. I look at how Antillean authors have begun to reshape Antillean
memory, and how they incorporate that memory in the present. I examine whether these
authors encourage rupture with French discourses, or if they go further, reinstalling
Antilleans in the créolite' of the region. The concept of créolite' is widely debated,
however I am interested in how these particular authors deﬁne créolite’ in relation to the
past, and as a cultural identity in the present. I am interested in the potential
empowerment of young readers to resist French hegemony today by embracing a history
in which their ancestors played an active role.

The complex social, political, and cultural climate of the Antilles underscores the
importance of this dissertation, a study in both postcolonial and children’s literature.
Because studies on “international” children’s literature have failed to pay more deserved
attention to non-white majority populations, and theories of “multicultural” children’s
literature have yet to recognize the “authenticity” of varied cultural experiences, my
research will contribute to these areas of study. Oversights such as these in institutional
scholarship highlight the importance and necessity of examining a body of children’s
literature created by and for a non-westem, predominantly non-white society still subject
to hegemonic pressure. To avoid accusations of preserving colonial mentalities by
privileging white, western cultures, the ﬁelds of “international” and “multicultural”
children’s literature must include more fully examinations of literature produced by and

for oppressed, non-white, postcolonial societies. It is true that some such studies exist,

21

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yet they appear to be the rare exception and not the rule. Moreover, these studies tend to
focus on Anglophone, not Francophone societies (in Africa or the Caribbean for
example). My exploration Of children’s literature produced by a culturally complex,
ethnically diverse region, the French Antilles, provides a new perspective in
“international” and “multicultural” children’s literature.

Antillean children’s literature has been neglected as a subject worthy Of in-depth
analysis, not only by scholars of children’s literature but by those of postcolonial studies.
It is therefore not only in the former ﬁeld that this dissertation is Signiﬁcant: in
postcolonial studies as well, where the role of children’s literature has been overlooked,
my research carves new avenues Of exploration. It provides new ways of looking at
postcolonial subjectivities, identities, and the re- or self-deﬁnition of postcolonial
societies. Individually, the texts convey “lessons” pertaining to speciﬁc values, attitudes,
and behaviors, while collectively, this literature plays a ftmdamental role in shaping
individual and social perspectives. The authors may attempt to inﬂuence, perhaps alter
individual readers’ self-perception, and the collectivity’s perception of society. Are they
successful, however? One might interpret the emergence of this literature in recent years
as a response to a growing concern regarding Antillean youth, as outlined in Pépin’s
Lettre ouverte & lajeunesse. This emergence might also respond to a desire for cultural
and political independence, the seeds for which must be planted in future generations. In
this study I intend to examine how and whether Antillean authors Of children’s literature
take responsibility for the direction their societies take, helping their youths understand
and negotiate their position in a culturally complex, diverse region. I shall focus on how

these authors may inﬂuence the ideological development of Antillean youth, and it will

22

become

in the co

become clear that children’s literature plays an equally important role as adult literature

in the constitution Of identity in Antillean societies.

23

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CHAPTER 1
READING “RACE” IN THE ANTILLEAN CHILD’S BOOK

“Nous ne devenons ce que nous sommes que par la negation intime et radicale de
ce qu’on a fait de nous. " (Sartre, Damnés de la terre 25)

In his introduction to Fanon’s Damnés de la terre, Sartre suggests that self-
discovery and coming into being are dependant upon rejecting what has been imposed by
others. In French Antillean societies, however, the persistent imposition of colonial
ideology, under the guise of departmentalization, has inhibited Antilleans’ ability to
achieve this. As Martinican author and psychiatrist Frantz Fanon has argued, racial
discourse within this ideology has created a wealth of inferiority complexes through its
establishment of a racial hierarchy.1 The integration Of such a discourse in the Antillean
collectivity has inevitably affected individuals’ self-perception and subjectivity. Its
perpetuation has been facilitated by media (books, ﬁlms, television) that either privilege
the “white race” or portray non-whites as exotic or primitive.2 Children’s books are no
exception and, if we accept this literature’s signiﬁcant role in shaping a child’s social,
emotional, and psychological development, representations of “race” in these texts may
be considered among the most damaging or beneﬁcial. That is, the presence Of racial
discourse in children’s literature can perpetuate feelings of alienation and inferiority, or it
can challenge the ideology fostering such feelings. One might assume that the recent
emergence of a body of children’s literature created by and for Antilleans would

challenge the integration of colonial discourses, however this is not necessarily the case.

 

’ See particularly Peau noire, masques blancs in which he provides a detailed psychological
analysis of black Antilleans.

2 An excellent example of a children’s book promoting such values during the colonial era is
Tintin au Congo by Belgian author Hergé. We are also made aware of this dilemma in autobiographical
accounts such as La Rue cases négres (Zobel), Chemin d ’école (Charnoiseau), and Le Coeur a rire et a
pleurer (Condé). Other media such as travel books, like Antilles by Claude Bemabé et al. and written in
2000, promote exoticized imagery of the Antilles and the black population.

24

In this chapter I will examine two young adult novels and one picture book written by
Antillean authors Ernest Pepin, Gisele Pineau, and Alex Godard respectively. These three
texts represent varying perspectives and representations of “race,” illustrating to what
extent colonial ideology and racial discourse have inﬂuenced individual and social
thought, as well as identity formation in young Antilleans. We must therefore look not
only at how “race” is represented, but at what lies behind racial representations, such as
the intentions and/or reﬂections of the author’s subject position. We must determine to
whom the texts are directed, what “lessons,” if any, are presented, and whether they are
efﬁciently conveyed. What are the consequences of these representations and their
potentially conﬂicting messages for the Antillean child? That is, to what discourse(s) is
the child presented? Is there a common thread found in these texts that may suggest a
general movement in Antillean children’s literature? How are their similarities or
differences signiﬁcant? As this chapter will demonstrate, within Antillean children’s
literature one ﬁnds both challenges to as well as the perhaps unintended perpetuation of
colonial ideology, racial discourse, and assimilation. I intend to explore these
inconsistencies and their potential impact on Antillean children’s developing perception
of self and society.

Ruth F rankenberg3 tells us: “Race, like gender, is ‘real’ in the sense that it has
real, though changing, effects in the world and real, tangible, and complex impact on
individuals’ sense of self, experiences, and life chances” (11). “Race” must be

considered “real” because of its very real impact on an individual’s selﬂiood. In the

 

3 An associate professor at the University of California at Davis, Ruth Frankenberg’s inspiration
for her book White Women, Race Matters: The Social Construction of Whiteness stems from her own
experiences as a white feminist, and her developing understanding of different meanings of racism and
racist behaviors.

25

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Antilles, where “race” lies at the root of many social structures (for example class), this
reality of racial inﬂuence is undeniable. One of the most comprehensive analyses
examining the complexities of racial discourse in Antillean societies, though reﬂecting to
an extent patriarchal values", is Fanon’s Peau noire, masques blancs. His analysis Of the
relationship between Blacks and whites attempts to discover the various positions
adopted by black Antilleans with regard to the white world: “Nous essaierons de
découvrir les différentes positions qu’adopte le négre en face de la civilisation blanche”
(9). He forces those Antilleans imprisoned by their own internalization of values “germé
au sein de la situation coloniale” (24) to confront themselves. By presenting a critical
observation of how colonial racial discourse has distorted one’s identity, he attempts to
reveal the hidden mechanisms maintaining the oppression of Antillean populations. As
F anon argues, the imposition of racial, social and cultural hierarchies was what allowed
colonialism to thrive. For the French, preserving the illusion of superiority was intrinsic
to maintaining control over colonized peoples as well as support in metropolitan F rance5.
The media and educational system became necessary accomplices, fostering a fascination
with the exotic and forcing the colonized populations to face artiﬁcial, often degrading
representations, or stereotypes, of themselves? In her Civilisation du bossale, Condé
attributes the origin and perpetuation of these stereotypes to written accounts such as
those by captain John Adams, who described black Africans as a beautiful, homogenous
“race,” or Ca’da Mosto, who saw in these same peoples savagery, absurdity, ﬁlth and a

total lack of moral ﬁber (12). Over the centuries, these essentialized images Of Blacks

 

’ See his chapter discussing relationships between black women and white men.

5 See Images and Empires: Visuality in Colonial and Postcolonial Africa (Landau, Kaspin) for a
detailed exploration of colonial mentalities.

6 See “The Colonial and Postcolonial Francophone novel” (Lionnet) for further information on
colonized populations’ confrontation with their own degradation by colonial powers.

26

were perpetuated by written accounts of slave owners, travelers, and missionaries7. The
privileging of the white voice coupled with the silencing of black and other non-white
voices made possible the perpetuation of cruel and derogatory stereotypes.

Europeans’ internalization of an imagined hierarchy premised on such stereotypes
eventually served to justify the slave trade and a slew of Africans being forcefully and
brutally brought to the Americas. Importantly, whites in the Antilles perceived African
“bossales,” or slaves having arrived directly from Aﬁica, as superior to black Creoles,
slaves born in the colonies. Conde' explains: “L . .] les generations de colons précédents
ha’r’ssaient le ‘negre créole’. Nous l’avons dit, elles le jugeaient inférieur a l’Aﬁicain
bossale, doux et soumis et voyaient en lui qu’un ‘mauvais singe’, une ‘grotesque
caricature’ des Blancs dont i1 aurait appris les vices tout en développant ses instincts les
plus dangereux” (Bossale 48-49). The white population’s contempt for this “singerie”
may be explained by Homi Bhabha, who deﬁnes mimicry as the representation of
difference that is itself a process of disavowal. If the power Of the colonial state depends
on difference, mimicry becomes a threat as it disrupts the authority of colonial discourse
(159-60). In other words, if Europeans depended on an “inferior Other” (the black
Aﬁican) to validate their own superiority, the “Other’s” mimicry of European culture and
behavior would undermine that superiority. There exists, however, a paradox in that after
abolition French colonial discourse encouraged assimilation among former slaves.

Condé points out: “Lors de l’abolition de l’esclavage [. . .], la seule route proposée aux
noirs est celle précisément de l’imitation, en d’autres termes de la singerie!” (Bossale 49)

The educational system became a means of transitioning Blacks into the “civilized”

 

7 See for example the Journal de la campagne des iles de l'Amérique, qu ’c’zfait Monsieur D***
(T ronchoy) or The Memoirs of Pére Labat, 1693-1 738.

27

world
loser-i
a "PI
childr
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world, meaning they were expected to learn and accept French ideology. According to
Joseph Jos, education became an effective tool for a new social order and was promoted
as “preparation de la jeunesse a la vie morale, civile et politique” (61-62). All Antillean
children, including former slaves, between the ages of six and ten were required to attend
school, thus beginning the collective integration into French ideology. Black Antilleans
were essentially left with little to no choice, as they slipped ﬁ'om the bonds of physical
slavery to the ideological and cultural repression fostered through “education.”

Note, however, that the educational system to which black children were
subjected after slavery did nothing to re-evaluate the dominant racial discourse (Condé,
Bossale 48). Victor Schoelchers, whose ﬁght against slavery was admirable, insisted on
making Obligatory the education of all Antillean children, yet did not insist on including
within that education an examination of pre-slavery era history. Instead of encouraging
young black Antilleans to discover their Aﬁican heritage, to develop their own creativity
that had been repressed for centuries (Condé, Bossale 48), the educational system acted
as a new means of control and Oppression. French culture and social discourses were at
the core of this education, while Creole and Aﬁican cultures were portrayed as savage,
primitive, and ultimately inferior. We learn that primary school curricula consisted of

subjects such as morality, religion, reading, writing, French, history, geography, math,

 

’ Victor Schoelcher, a white French abolitionist, was long regarded as a hero in Antillean societies
for having put an end to slavery. Certainly his actions were admirable, as he vehemently opposed slavery,
fought against the death penalty, and in favor of women and children. He also contributed to the
development of a library in Martinique and a museum in Guadeloupe. Nevertheless, despite his “heroic”
and humanitarian actions, Schoelcher must still be acknowledged as representative of French ideology, as
he did not oppose racial prejudice and his support for the education of slaves stemmed from a belief in the
superiority of French culture. While during the nineteenth century Schoelcher clearly made a positive
impact on the lives of the oppressed, the fact that he remains a hero (a statue of him remains as an iconic
ﬁgure in Martinique) is problematic in that it reﬂects the degree to which French colonial ideology has
been absorbed into the Antillean collectivity. See Victor Schoelcher en son temps: Images et temoignages
(Schmidt), Civilisation du Bossale (Condé) and Karuke'ra (Rice-Maximin) for further information.

28

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ClE

Ill:

BO

singing, languages, and physical education (Jos 72)9. Because of this apparently
European agenda, generation after generation became victims of a fraudulent
assimilationist project. I say fraudulent because French colonial ideology would never
allow “true” assimilation among black subjects. Their “race” was an insurmountable
barrier, barring them from equality“). The pretense of assimilation seemed instead to be a
maneuver maintaining submission among the “inferior.” If the former slave population
accepted French culture and discourses as superior, preserving control in the region
would be easier.

The perpetuation Of a European agenda, and thus of the assimilationist project,
continued over the years. Joseph Jos tells us that the educational system (meaning
curriculum and pedagogical structure) in the Antilles has been the same as that in the
metropole since 1903 (149). In fact, from the time of departmentalization until 1973, the
Antilles and La Guyane were part of the Académie de Bordeaux, and were not considered
independent in terms of their educational administration. It wasn’t even until 1975 that
all Martinican children were required to attend secondary school regardless of gender,
class, or “race.” Of course, the previous discriminations proved to hinder rather than help
the intended progress, because grouping children with varied educational experiences did

not allow for an effective overall education. (Jos 365). In Guadeloupe, a seminar has

 

9 There were differences based on gender and class as well. For many years schools were divided
by sex. Girls, in addition to the regular curriculum, learned sewing. For working-class children (black and
white), special schools offered an “appropriate” education for their condition, meaning they were trained
for jobs as servants and other similar jobs.

'0 During colonization, Blacks could be trained or educated, but could not obtain professional
positions deemed socially superior, such as an architect or doctor. Instead they became masons or
veterinarians.

29

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been developed focusing on slavery and its effects. Yet it is not an integrated aspect of
the curriculum, which remains a reﬂection of metropolitan heritagel '.

How does an educational system, which reproduces colonial/racial discourse,
negatively impact a child? Let us examine Fanon’s analysis of colonial education, and its
socializing effects for children in the Antilles. He speaks of a collective catharsis
referring to each society’s means of releasing accumulated energies: “Dans toute société,
dans toute collectivité, existe, dOit exister un canal, une porte de sortie par OI‘I les energies
accumulées sous forme d’agressivité, puissent étre libérées” (118). He refers to
children’s games, psychodramas", and illustrations, noting that “chaque type de société
[exige], naturellement, une ‘forme de catharsis déterminée” (119). Stories and illustrated
magazines, comics, etc. portraying such characters as Tarzan, young explorers, and
Mickey Mouse are representative of the white world, written by whites and geared
toward white children. However, Fanon points out that in the Antilles and other
colonized societies, the young non-white populations devour these same stories and
illustrations”. He tells us: “Et le Loup, le Diable, 1e Mauvais Génie, 1e Mal, 1e Sauvage
sont toujours représentés par un negre ou un Indien, et comme il y a toujours
identiﬁcation avec le vainqueur, le petit négre se fait explorateur, aventurier, missionnaire
‘qui risque d’étre mangé par les méchants negres’ aussi facilement que le petit Blane”

(119). Because of their exposure to negative portrayals of Blacks and Indians, black

 

" For further and detailed information on this program see the website www.cducation.fr.

’2 Psychodrama, or “psychodrame” is deﬁned as group psychotherapy in the form of theatrical
improvisation based on real or imagined scenarios.

’3 We must also acknowledge the impact of such media on the non-white populations living in the
predominantly white societies that produce it. For instance, in the United States, there are numerous
children’s texts that vilify both Blacks and Native Americans, thus fostering a negative self-image.

30

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Antillean children eventually come to identify with the white heroes, and to accept the
viliﬁcation of the “black race.”

Games and stories, however, constitute only one aspect of this “catharsis
collective” imposed on Antillean societies. School, as suggested above, plays a
tremendous role in the young Antillean’s psychological development. The French
curriculum helps solidify the young black population’s identiﬁcation with whites, and the
negative perception of non-whites. Fanon points out: “Aux Antilles, le jeune Noir, qui a
l’école ne cesse de répéter ‘nos peres, les Gaulois’, s’identiﬁe a l’explorateur, au
civilisateur, au Blanc qui apporte la vérité aux sauvages, une vérité toute blanche. 11 y a
identiﬁcation, c’est-a-dire que le jeune Noir adopte subjectivement une attitude de Blane”
(120). The perpetual encounters in the classroom with French History, culture, and
literature concretize for the young black Antillean a speciﬁcally French reality with
which he inevitably identiﬁes. Coupled with the stories, illustrations, and games
discussed above, one may easily accept Fanon’s assertion that: “Peu a peu, on voit se
former et cristalliser chez le jeune Antillais une attitude, une habitude dc penser et de
voir, qui sont essentiellement blanches” (120). Antillean children’s continuous exposure
to media representing dominant French discourses has distorted their self-image.
Negating their “race,” culture, and ancestry, though not necessarily a choice, Antillean
children, as Fanon contends, have internalized an entirely French way of thinking, seeing
and being.

Given the signiﬁcant role “race” plays and has played in identity formation, it is
not surprising that references to racial discourse, either its perpetuation or subversion, are

inscribed in postcolonial Antillean children’s literature. Many authors of children’s

31

literature, as Jill P. May explains, write to help their audience(s) cope with similar
situations as those experienced by the protagonists (52). For protagonists who encounter
racist discourses, the author likely intends to provide readers with coping strategies
applicable to Similar experiences. May also states that literature contains implied
meanings within literary patterns that are “clues to the author’s purpose for writing, his
background, and his tone” (16). The messages are informed by the author’s subject
position. For Antillean authors, whose relationship with French culture and ideology may
differ, their attempts to assist young readers in coping with racist discourses may prove
problematic or empowering. Their representations of “race,” informed by this
relationship, will inevitably affect how readers perceive, and react to these issues. For
instance, in the ﬁrst text to be examined, Ernest Pépin’s” La coulée d ’or, the author’s
powerful references to assimilation and the resulting inferiority complexes clearly
establish his relationship with colonial racial discourse.

As F anon says, the black man suffers from not being white due to the white man’s
imposition of discrimination, and his elimination of the value and originality of the
former. In addition, the white man accuses Blacks of being parasites, and insists on
rapidly embracing the white world (79). Over time, as the media and the educational
system normalized these assertions, Antilleans ceased to perceive themselves as Blacks:
“l’Antillais ne se pense pas Noir; i1 se pense Antillais. Le negre vit en Aﬁique.
Subjectivement, intellectuellement, l’Antillais se comporte comme un Blane” (Fanon

120). The assimilation project left its mark on Antillean societies, where to be “black”

" Ernest Pépin was born September 25, 1950 in Lamentin, Guadeloupe. A former professor,
Pépin is currently the Conseil culture] de la Guadeloupe and a literary critic. La Coulée d ’or is his ﬁrst
Children’s book, written in 1995, followed by L ’Ecran rouge (1997), La Soufriére (2001), and Lettre
owerte a lajeunesse (2001, see introduction). 1 have chosen La Coulée d ’or for this study because of its
focus on racial issues as well as its being the most widely available of Pépin’s children’s books.

32

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lead-i

meant to be African, while to be Antillean was to be “white.” Yet as we Shall see in
Pépin’s work, many Antilleans who believed themselves to have escaped their
“blackness” are Often confronted with a troubling reality. Despite one’s efforts at
assimilation, at “becoming white,” many black Antilleans must eventually confront the
impossibility of escaping their “blackness.”

La coulée d ’or, a young adult novel, is an autobiographical account revealing
various realities of growing up in Guadeloupe. Pépin’s memories of childhood and his
adult understanding of racism and colonial ideology come together to inform the implied
author, Emest’s voice. The story does not subscribe to a “traditional” structure in that
there is no central problem to be addressed or “solved.” There is no series of events
leading to a climax, which then acts as a catalyst for resolution. Rather, its reﬂective
narrative and overlapping plot lines reﬂect the complexities of Antillean identities and
together constitute an effort of raising consciousness in the young Antillean mind. The
didactieism of Pépin’s work lies in his suggestive re-tellings of childhood experiences.
That is, the various portrayals and discussions of his experiences suggest a certain
perception, insinuating “ri t” and “wrong.” For instance, Pépin’s harsh criticism of M.
Raymond, his former music teacher and a black man who has rejected his “blackness”
attempting to attain “whiteness,” suggests to the reader that such behavior is
unacceptable.

Although the story is situated in the 19503, it is likely, given the continual
presence of racist discourses, that many Antillean youths will share on some level young
Emest’s experiences. As I have previously discussed, the ability to identify with a story’s

characters is important in informing a child’s self-perception as well as his perception of

33

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society and others. Thus for a black Antillean child to read about a young black “hero”
who experiences racism, classicism, etc., such a book has obvious potential value for
challenging dominant racial discourses. Representations of colonialism, white heroes and
wealth are no longer normalized.

To begin with, young Ernest is highly aware of the racial hierarchy dominating
his society, which is emphasized through his thoughts at church: “D’aprés tout ce que je
vois ni les Négres, ni les chabens, ni les mulatres, ni les Indiens, ni les batazindiens ne
peuvent pre'tendre aller au paradis” (42). In observing the various representations of
Christ, God, and other biblical ﬁgures, Ernest sees only whites, suggesting to him that
non-whites are unwelcome in Heaven. Yet he rejects any possibility of being admitted:
“Je n’ose irnaginer cela: moi tout seul au paradis, perdu dans un ocean de Blancs! Ah
Seigneur, l’enfer plutOt!” (42) Note that while he dismisses an afterlife among the
“superior” race, illustrating his perception of assimilation, he does not dismiss in itself
God or the idea that non-whites will be denied access to Heaven. Even for Ernest, who
rejects “becoming white,” colonial racial discourse has been normalized. He does not
accept imposed “inferiority,” however, and mentally “re-makes” Heaven in such a way
that individuals otherwise rejected would be unconditionally welcomed: “Et tandis que
j’appelle les souffrants, les disgraciés, les éelopés, les subissants et les gémissants dans le
monde de l’en-haut, une sorte d’extase illumine mon vouloir de justice. Je contemple
mon oeuvre. C ’est bell” (44). As Emest’s creation develops, so too does his desire for
justice, understood as equality, but not on the terms of becoming “white.” It is rather a

human equality, where difference (racial or cultural for example) does not dictate worth.

34

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Bk“

Oi e

What is interesting in this particular passage is the contradiction between the
protagonist’s apparent acceptance of a discourse reﬁrsing the moral or spiritual salvation
of his “race,” and his rejection Of “becoming white,” as so many Antilleans have done.
Indeed, his rebuff of admittance into a “whites-only” Heaven, his mental creation of an
impartial Heaven, and his desire for justice underscore his, and the author’s, vehement
dismissal of assimilation. The overlapping voices of real and implied author explain the
reconciliation between Emest’s acceptance of racial discourse and rejection of
assimilation. Though as a child Pépin may have accepted to some extent racist
discourses, his adult self does not accept that “whiteness” leads to salvation, happiness, or
both social and economic success. His numerous commentaries criticizing assimilationist
attitudes and behaviors illustrate this. We must also recognize that Pépin’s criticism
overpowers references to Emest’s ideological integration. Pépin’s position is
ﬁmdarnental in directing Antillean societies away from discourses fostering self-negation,
alienation, and inferiority complexes, as he impresses upon his young readership the
mistake of assimilation.

Among the text’s various black characters striving to become “white,” M.
Raymond is perhaps the clearest example of internalizing colonial racial discourse. In a
detailed commentary on racial hierarchies and power, we learn of M. Raymond’s past
and his “ascent” toward “whiteness.” Born into misery and to a mother who sought
companionship through numerous sexual relationships, Raymond imagined himself the
descendant Of a great noble African whose passage into slavery was a mistake. Fanon
tells us that economics is at the core of black Antilleans’ inferiority complexes (8), and

Condé sustains this argument in part in her Civilisation du Bossale. According to the

35

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latter, the economic disparity between black slaves and white masters led to negative self-
irnages as Blacks came to perceive their “race” as a malediction. She explains that in the
slave’s mind there existed a correlation between appearance and mediocrity, and thus
between the slave’s miserable appearance and the mediocrity of the black “race.” Condé
then asserts that this eventually led to proverbs (she does not specify any in particular), an
integral part of Caribbean life and culture, reﬂecting both the masters’ clichés and the
slaves’ negative self-perceptions. “Race” indeed became a malediction (Bossale 30-31).
M. Raymond embodies this argument, for in his mind, his poverty directly indicated his
shortcomings as a human being. Only by assimilating to the white capitalist world, by
“becoming white” in a sense, would he overcome his mediocrity.

When he managed to escape what he considered humiliating work with “les
équipes de ti-negres tout juste bons a enlever des pierres sur les terres de M. de la
Clementine [a white plantation owner]” (54), M. Raymond’s journey toward “whiteness”
took a concrete step forward. Disassoeiating himself from his fellow black workers,
Raymond saw them as worth no more than their degrading job. Through sacriﬁce,
devotion, and ruse, Raymond managed being appointed as “géreur,” a title fostering a
sense of arrogance, and the illusion of having transcended the prescribed social position
of black Antilleans: “[il] crut qu’il avait atteint la vallée dc miel ou l’estimable devient
l’estimé et OI‘I l’estirne, d’une grande enjambée de générosité reeonnaissante, traverse les
murailles mentales du racisme” (55). Pépin’s protagonist demonstrates a well-developed
understanding of how whites were perceived in Antillean societies, and what Blacks
hoped to gain through assimilation: esteem, respect, recognition. Yet his damning

remarks directed toward M. Raymond also repudiate this false reality: that is, the

36

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pretended superiority of whites, and Blacks’ ability to ever attain that “superiority.” He
tells the reader:
Comme tout le monde sait, les Grands-Blancs faisaient, défaisaient et
refaisaient la loi quand ils ne l’enjambaient pas telle une barriere trop
basse. Ils n’avaient piece consideration pour la négraille quémandeuse
répartie en domestiques, négres-savanes, gardiens d’animaux, coupeurs-
cannes, cabrouettiers. S’ils précautionnent avec les géreurs, les économes
et autres proﬁtants, ce n’était qu’un semblant de macaquerie. (55)
Harshly criticizing whites, or Békés, Pépin illustrates his belief that beneath every one of
their actions lies a motive reﬂecting hate, prejudice or ridicule. He insists that despite
any outward arniability between whites and Blacks, inequality persists. Even seemingly
“ﬁiendly” relations are either an illusion or the result of a cruel joke, which Pépin makes
clear to his readers through M. Raymond.

When the author, both real and implied, directly addresses M. Raymond, it is to
convince him of this illusion and cruelty: “Que non point Raymond! Que non point!
Piece pas! Jamais ne verra! Et méme si Mme de la Clementine te hele par ton prénom, ne
va pas croire l’heure venue de confondre la vie avec un bol de graisse” (55). Pepin tries
to dismantle the illusion Raymond has created, or rather fallen victim to. The latter’s
belief of having achieved equality is based in part on a fraudulent generosity. Though
Mme de la Clementine, wife of the plantation owner, has shown signs of hospitality,
there is no reason to “confondre la vie avec un bol de graisse,” or confuse reality with
illusion. On the contrary, we should expect that she will destroy the glass Raymond used,

or assume that the glass had initially been used for the cat or birds (5 5). Pépin provides

37

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other examples as well, stressing the falsity of Raymond’s relationship with the
Clémentines. For instance, he speaks of how M. de la Clémentine’s intentions in
bringing Raymond’s son to see a sickly yet important white man, M. des Rosieres, do not
reﬂect sincere generosity. Rather, Clémentine’s motivation stemmed from his desire to
humiliate the latter M. des Rosieres), and thereby the former (Raymond’s son), by
forcing him to tolerate the presence of a black boy in his bedroom: “cc n’e'tait, cher
Raymond, que pour humilier M. des Rosiéres! Ah comme [M. de la Clementine] a ti de
la rougeur suffocante de des Rosieres d’avoir a sUpporter dans sa chambre l’odeur du
négrillon!” (56) What Pepin tries to convey to M. Raymond, and therefore to the reader,
is the impossibility of gaining equality to the white man within the conﬁnes of colonial
discourse. He illustrates both the absurdity and the consequences of using assimilation. as
a means of earning respect from others and for one’s self.

The music teacher realizes these consequences when forced to confront reality.
M. de la Clementine publicly shames and humiliates his female black workers when,
drunk, he demands that those women with whom he has not had sexual relations raise
their hands. We are immediately reminded of the relationship between “race” and gender
within colonial ideology. Maryse Condé has acknowledged the sexual objectiﬁcation of
black women by white men, who expected to experience the myth of sexual
lasciviousness. Black women were and continue to be valued for their exoticism, and for
the myth of their sexual prowess (Paroles 36). Pépin makes this disturbingly clear in

Clémentine’s display of objectiﬁcation”. Among these women is Raymond’s partner,

 

'5 Pépin’s portrayal of black women’s degradation by a Béké reveals a reality experienced by
many black Caribbean women, but which has remained largely silenced. That is, Antillean literature has
traditionally either overlooked women’s experiences or they are presented in a patriarchal context, thus
reﬂecting the male domination of literary creation in the Antilles. Pepin, though he does not dwell on this

38

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l’Artémise—de-Raymond. In his fantasy of mutual respect and admiration, Raymond
enjoyed a false sense of security, believing Artémise to be free from Clémentine’s sexual
appetite. Yet when Artémise lowers her eyes instead of raising her hand, Raymond is so
shamed and humiliated that, from then on, he lives “a l’extréme pointe de la ﬂamme du
rhum” (58). This brutal prise de conscience concerning black/white relations triggers in
Raymond habits of loudly condemning the “Grands-Blancs,” and committing blasphemy
against God. More importantly, his adoption of these habits reﬂect what Pepin intends to
communicate to his reader. He emphasizes the illusion that is assimilation, and the
eventual and unavoidable self-destruction that will follow.

M. Raymond makes tangible the arguments of Fanon and Condé that economics
can be found at the root of inferiority complexes. Yet as Pépin continues exploring
racially-centered experiences in Guadeloupean society, the reader is made to understand
that there are other factors behind the desire to become “white.”

Where M. Raymond sought “whiteness” through attitude, behavior and economic
success, there are others who sought physical likeness. As Ernest describes his
relationship with an elderly mula‘tre, M. Mytril, Pepin comments on physical
characteristics as deﬁning elements in deciding one’s “pedigree.” We are told: “En ce
temps OI‘I tout le monde était si tellement regardant sur la qualité des cheveux, M. Myrtil
soignait les siens avec l’attention d’un boursicoteur qui surveille le cours de ses actions.
Les cheveux correspondaient a un pedigree” (84). Hair type signaled one’s position in
the white world, and thus within the social/racial hierarchy. The straighter, smoother

one’s hair, the closer to white s/he was. M. Myrtil, aware of this, took great care of his

 

particular event, does make an important step as a male author, forcing the reader to acknowledge the
injustices experienced by black women.

39

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prized possession to ensure his “status.” For those who did not possess smooth, “white”
hair, however, great efforts were made to obtain it. Pépin uses his relationship with M.
Myrtil as a jumping-off point to comment on black Antilleans’ efforts to whiten their
appearance.

He once again refers to the public humiliation and degradation of black women,
this time due speciﬁcally to their appearance: “‘Casque-en-fer’, hurlait-on aux jeunes
ﬁlles dont la tignasse se recroquevillait en un chiche omement. Et la honte voilait leur
regard pour toujours. . .” (84) Having been publicly shamed and demeaned because they
lacked the “superior” hair type, young black girls would adopt, often permanently,
distorted perspectives. Humiliation led to the internalization of a supposed inferiority,
which in turn led to desperate attempts at obtaining that one important characteristic:

Négresses brﬁlaient leurs cheveux au fer et trimbalaient avec elles une
Odeur de roussi. Avee 1e secours des produits américains, elles déﬁisaient,
décrépaient, se lamentaient on se réjouissaient selon 1e résultat. Elles
avaient beau faire, elles ressemblaient a une arme’e humiliée a laquelle on
avait impose 1e port obligatoire de perruques mal assorties (85).
This brief yet impressive anecdote shows the psychological effects of continually
confronting shame and disgrace, not because of personal fault but a shortcoming
determined by a racist discourse rooted in Antillean societies. Here, instead of
correlating economics and inferiority complexes, Pepin illustrates another of Fanon’s
arguments underscoring the power of words in developing a negative self-image”. In

addition, his critical description of these women, and their failure to achieve physical

 

’6 See Chapter 1, “Le Noire et le langage”, in Fanon’s Peau noire, mosques blancs.

40

“whiteness” can be interpreted as Pépin’s intent to discourage his readers from such
behavior”.

The ﬁnal passage I would like to discuss from La coulée d ’or, while addressing
“race,” does not focus on attempts of becoming “white,” as is typical of this text. Rather,
this passage underscores the “success” of colonial ideology’s integration in the Antillean
collectivity. That is, Pépin calls attention to black Antilleans’ own adoption of racist and
prejudiced attitudes. While I will return to this passage at length in chapter three, where I
discuss representations of otherness, I would like to point out here its signiﬁcance as a
reﬂection of racial discourse. Using his childhood friendship with a young Indian boy,
Pépin discusses the relationship between Blacks and Indians in the Antilles. F anon has
told us: “Un Antillais est blanc par l’inconscient collectif, par une grande partie de
l’inconscient personnel [. . .]” (156). As mentioned previously, Fanon argues that black
Antilleans see themselves as whites, a result of internalizing the latter’s ideology and
discourse on race. Pepin draws a striking parallel between whites/Blacks and
Blacks/Indians. He tells us: “Dans des temps anciens, mais pas trop lointains, les Negres
se plaignirent des couturnes que pratiquaient les Indiens a l’égard de leurs morts. Ils leur
offraient des repas 1e jour de la Toussaint et cela dérangeait les Negres déja peu enclins a
aimer les Indiens. Pour eux, ce n’était ni plus ni moins qu’une profanation du cimetiére”
(168-69). In short, Blacks saw the Indians’ practices as savage. The irony is undeniable;
this attitude is reminiscent of that held by white colonists with regard to Aﬁicans.
Equally reminiscent are the derogatory songs and expressions directed at the Antillean

Indian population. For example, Ernest recounts: “Vyé malaba la/ vyé malaba la / Mwen

 

'7 This assumption is premised on Pépin’s continual criticism throughout the text of those who
turn to assimilation for self-validation, and his criticism aimed directly at Antillean youth in his Lettre
ouverte a lajeunesse (see introduction).

41

a””’. This is a direct reﬂection of colonial sentiment

hay mal la / Mwen enmé ﬁmel 1
toward Aﬁicans, where black males were seen as vicious savages from whom the exotic
black women needed saving. Yet there is also the patriarchal, and equally colonial
distrust or wariness of the exotic female”: “Pwel a fanm zendyen ka koupé lolo aw!”20
The mimicry of whites’ racism against Blacks, reﬂecting patriarchy,
romanticism/exoticism and wariness, is clear, as is Pépin’s intent for his readership.

The words and images included in this passage of the text may seem
“inappropriate”2’ for a children’s book, but Ernest plainly communicates the author’s
message: “De pareils propos empuantissaient la bouche des Negres, eux-mémes méprisés
par les muléitres et les Blancs, et semaient la haine contre les Indiens créoles. Révolté par
tant d’injustice, je décidai de les aimer de toutes mes forces d’autant plus que mes parents
m’élevaient sans une miette de racisme” (170). Pépin emphasizes that Blacks, who have
for centuries endured racism, are in turn reproducing the hateful behavior. Emest’s
disgust at such injustice, and his decision to love Indians with all his might underscore
how wrong this racism is”. For children who are currently confronting these racial

conﬂicts, Emest’s dramatic position conveys what Pepin sees as the proper way of

behaving.

 

'8 “Indiens affreux / Je hais le male / J’aime la femelle” (169)

'9 See Carol Boyce Davies’ article, “’Woman Is A Nation...’ Women in Caribbean Oral
Literature,” for a detailed analysis of patriarchal proverbs and songs in the Caribbean.

2° “Les poils de la femme indienne te coupent le penis!” (169)

2’ The viciousness of this passage and the controversial subject matter could be considered by
some children’s literary theorists as inappropriate for young readers, either because of a belief that children
should be allowed to remain innocent or a belief that children are incapable of dealing with such complex
issues. Yet the reﬁrsal to expose children to harsh realities may in fact hinder their ability to deal with these
Issues.

22 There is also a problematic essentialization of Indians in this blanket statement of loving “all
Indians.” But the dramatic element could be construed as a more effective means of communicating the
author’s “lesson.”

42

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Throughout the book, and as we have seen in the various representations of “race”
discussed here, Pépin proves to be acutely aware of the social dynamics in Antillean
societies, and of the role colonial racial discourse has played in individuals’ self-
perception. His intended messages appear barely, if at all, hindered by unexamined
assumptions. On the contrary, his understanding of colonial ideology and the
consequences of its internalization is what motivates him. The speciﬁcity of his
criticism, the presence and adoption of said ideology in the Antilles, makes it clear that
Pépin speaks to a particular audience. In a 2004 interview, Pépin solidiﬁes this assertion:
“Et si j’ai un message fondarnental a lancer, premierement au niveau des Antillais, c’est
qu’il faut que nous commencions a prendre en charge, nous-memes, nos problemesz’.”
Also considering his attack on Antillean youths’ apathy and disconnection with their
heritage in Lettre ouverte a lajeunesse, one may assume that in his La Coulée d ’or Pépin
purposefully takes on the matter of racial and cultural assimilation. He clearly desires to
direct Antillean children away from the idea that “whiteness” is the key to success and
happiness — ﬁrst by illustrating the realities of “race” encountered daily, and second, by
suggesting the consequences of adhering to a euro-centric frame of mind.

However, the experiences found in Pépin’s text are speciﬁc to the Guadeloupean
context. Children living outside this geographical context may ﬁnd relating to these
experiences more difﬁcult. What of black Antillean children living abroad as
immigrants/exiles? Are their experiences with racism and colonial ideology the same?

Moreover, can an author born abroad, in France for example, provide black Antillean

 

2’ This interview was with Afrik.com and took place at the third festival Gospel et Racines in
Benin. www.afrik.com/article7507.html

43

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children with the tools to understand and cope with their potentially alienating
experiences as immigrants?

Author Gisele Pineau spent her childhood moving between France (her
birthplace), Guadeloupe, and Africa“, admitting that she and her family were
Négropolitains without knowing it (Sebbar 160). Yet many of her texts demonstrate
awareness for intolerance and prejudice. According to her short récit in Une Enfance
outre—mer, France became for her the land of exile. One might therefore expect her
young adult novel, Carai'bes sur Seine, to focus on the struggles and alienation faced by
her young Guadeloupean protagonist spending a year in the Parisian suburbs. Because
children’s literature in many cases serves to provide young readers with guidance, it is
logical that Pineau intends her text to assist young Antilleans facing these issues.
However, as we shall see, there exist underlying, contradicting messages that undermine
the text’s subversive efﬁcacy.

If authors of children’s literature write to help their audience cope with similar
situations (May 52), Pineau’s attempt to depict the experiences of a twelve-year-old
Antillean immigrant may pose a challenge since the author’s perspective is that of a
woman born and raised in France for the ﬁrst years of her life. The young reader,
according to May, wants and perhaps needs “a vicarious experience” in which characters
act and talk like the reader would. While Pineau has expressed feeling alienated upon

moving to Guadeloupe, can she effectively provide a vicarious experience to non-white

 

2’ Born in 1956 in Paris, Gisele Pineau is the fourth of six children. Her father left Guadeloupe in
1943 to join the military. She attended the Université de Paris X Nanterre for two years and then became a
psychiatric nurse in 1979, at which time she also married and returned to Guadeloupe. She returned to Paris
in 2000 where she currently works as both a writer and nurse. Her grandmother (Man Ya) played a
signiﬁcant role in her life, teaching her of Guadeloupe, and thus became a signiﬁcant ﬁgure in many of her
works. Pineau’s daily encounters with racism, intolerance, and other prejudices also fueled much of her
work.

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immigrants in metropolitan France, and more importantly, one that combats racist
discourses?

According to Schon, Pineau paints the suburbs as idyllic and without signiﬁcant
social or cultural conﬂicts: “Car, méme si [ce récit est destiné] a un public tres jeune,
l’absence de conﬂits et de situations sociales extremes traduisent [son] caractere
utopique” (264). While the text references racism, it is not presented as signiﬁcantly
affecting Lindy’s sense of self. The general lack of difﬁculties she faces — social,
emotional, or psychological — raises questions about Pineau’s intentions and/or her
unexamined assumptions.

Many narratives written by or about Antilleans and Africans coming to France
reveal feelings of alienation, belonging to an in—between space, or to neither one culture
nor the other”. While Fanon has argued that many Antilleans in some way see
themselves as white or attempt to become such, he also argues that many Blacks in
France feel “different”: “[. . .] le negre en France [. . .] se sentira different des autres”
(121). Despite one’s self-perception in the Antilles, coming to France brings inevitably
alienating experiences. For example, F anon claims many black students studying in
France feel alienated from themselves as they confront discourses associating
“blackness” with “savagery.” He tells us: “On refuse de [considérer les étudiants]
comme d’authentiques negres. Le négre c’est 1e sauvage, tandis que l’étudiant est un
évolué” (F anon 56). Students, because of their education, are not considered “authentic”

because they are not “savage.” Nor are they seen as “white,” stigmatizing them as

 

2’ See for example Le Coeur a rire et a pleurer (Condé), L 'Aventure ambigue (Kane). The ﬁrst is
an autobiographical account of Condé’s childhood, in which her experiences in France are both alienating
and eye-opening (to the exoticization of Blacks, her own selfhood, etc.). The second text provides insight
into the experiences of a young African attending school in France, and dealing with the fact that he can
never be fully accepted in French society, nor can he truly return to the culture he knew before.

45

different“. This contradictory space, where one is neither “black” nor “white,”
represents a challenge to identity faced by many individuals from colonized or formerly
colonized societies. In Carai'bes sur Seine, however, Lindy seems not to experience such
alienation, problematizing any intended attempt by Pineau to help young immigrant
children cope with prejudiced encounters.

The text begins with Lindy and her family leaving Guadeloupe because her father
had been ostracized by his brothers, and now seeks refuge in France. Associating his
problems with Guadeloupe, France becomes for him the land of promise, where success
and happiness are inevitable. Lindy, whose perception of France has been shaped by
television and other media, shares her father’s illusions. We see ﬁrst the image of France
presented to Antilleans, and second, the role media play in solidifying that image in the
Antillean collectivity”. Imagine Lindy and her father’s disappointment when France
failed to live up to its reputation: “La France que je voyais a la television, lorsque nous
vivions a la Guadeloupe, ne ressemblait en rien a Noisy-le-Gran ” (16-17). Her father,
devastated, confronts his “mistake”: “Papa semblait atterre'. On aurait dit qu’il avait recu
un grand coup de poing sur la téte ou bien qu’il venait de se réveiller en plein cauchemar”
(18). Reality catalyzes a nightmarish awareness, emphasizing many immigrants’

experiences with disillusion. He immediately wants to return to Guadeloupe, but Lindy’s

 

26 As we shall see a bit later in this chapter, many Antilleans coming to France had to cope with
being grouped among other Blacks, such as Aﬁ'icans. This contradicts the notion discussed earlier that
Antilleans saw themselves as “white” and that when one spoke of “Blacks” they referred to Africans.

27 The power of the media in constructing one’s perception of others is a recurring motif in this
text. For example, when Lindy becomes involved with an American boy as a “pen-pal,” we learn that, ﬁrst,
Lindy’s conception of American culture is entirely based on the television series “New York Police Blues”
(52). Andrew, the American boy, also proves to have been inﬂuenced by the media in constructing his
notions of France, which we shall see a bit later in my analysis when his concept of a “vraie Parisienne” is
revealed (149). It would seem that Pineau’s intentions in her various portrayals of cultural misconceptions
are to raise awareness with regard to media’s power in shaping perceptions of others. She underscores both
the inevitability as well as the danger of judging a culture/individuallsociety based entirely on what one
sees on television, in books or magazines, etc.

46

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mother refuses another sudden upheaval. Her father returns alone, promising to come for
his wife and children after settling the situation with his brothers.

Lindy and her father’s disappointment in the “real” France (though what is meant
by “real” is unclear), as well as the latter’s immediate return to Guadeloupe, evokes
Césaire’s Cahier (1 ’un retour au pays natal. Beverley Ormerod states that Césaire’s
work: “. . .ostensibly refers to a return to the poet’s own island of Martinique after years
in a state of exile in France. But as the poem unfolds, that state of exile is increasingly
identiﬁed with the inner experience of alienation, and the ‘return’ of the title becomes a
return to the poet’s true self through a rediscovery of his Aﬁican roots” (2). Césaire’s
movement between Martinique and France parallels that of Lindy’s family. Her father
embodies, both literally and metaphorically, self-discovery and a return to one’s roots.
Given Pineau’s criticism of France as the land of exile, it is logical that Lindy too

”28 of exile and self—discovery. Yet Lindy does not in fact

experiences her own “journey
follow her father’s example. Though she occasionally mentions returning to Guadeloupe,
the lack of inner or social conﬂict implies homesickness, not self-revelation. Examining
representations of Lindy’s experiences will reveal their failure to address fully alienation
and exile, particularly as it pertains to racial discourse. It will become clear that this text,

despite positive intentions, has the potential to further alienate immigrant children,

instead of helping them.

 

28 Elizabeth Wilson argues that much of women’s writing in the Francophone Caribbean takes the
form of “joumey-as-alienation,” with the acquirement of self-knowledge often leading to self-destruction
(45). This “journey” is often represented in the form of a physical, and thus psychological voyage. That is,
within this literature the character experiences a journey symbolizing her “journey” of alienation and/or
self-discovery. In this context, then, Lindy’s “journey” to France appears to promise a young girl’s
experience of self-discovery.

47

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To begin with, Lindy’s ﬁiendships in France are anything but reﬂective of
cultural and/or ideological differences. Her relationships with her two closest friends in
Paris provide a potential space within which to explore interracial relations, the impact of
birthplace and assimilation on identity, and so forth. Carola, Lindy’s “best” ﬁiend is
white, from Corsica, and lies extensively. Harnidou is a French-born Senegalese boy who
dreams of becoming a famous musician and whose mother clings to her African heritage.
The opportunity to explore varying viewpoints on what it means to be a Black or white
immigrant in France is clear. Yet the complexities of these characters’ identities and
interpersonal relationships remain overlooked, or at least underdeveloped. Instead, we
follow Lindy, Carola and Hamidou through their relatively “normal” life, where the
struggle for self-deﬁnition is largely absent or lacks worthy attention. For instance, Lindy
and Carola’s relationship is based on a “mysterious” connection and commonalities
between the two girls:
Nous sommes amies depuis le premier jour. Nous avons e'te' attirées l’une
par l’autre d’une maniere mystérieuse. Et nous nous sommes trouvées par
la suite de nombreux points communs. Nous venons toutes les deux d’une
ile. Nous habitons la meme ville. Nous avons exactement le meme sac a
dos. Nous aimons chanter. Et le plus extraordinaire, nous voulons devenir
hOtesses de l’air. (45)

This “mystery” and their having come from “other” places (Corsica and Guadeloupe)

underscore the mutual sense of exoticism and situate both girls, in a sense, as immigrants.

Pineau hints that for Blacks and whites, the opposite “race” holds exotic appeal,

explaining the “mysterious” connection between Lindy and Carola. In addition, the idea

48

that the two girls build a bond based on coming from islands points to their mutual sense
of not entirely belonging. Yet instead of focusing on these aspects of the ﬁiendship, the
author has chosen to portray Carola and Lindy in “typical” pre-teen situations: they shop,
share secrets, obsess over facial blemishes and discuss their various crushes. These
activities are relatable and speak to many children, drawing them into the story, important
in gaining readers’ attention. However, I take issue with the apparent imbalance between
these “innocent” aspects of childhood and those causing alienation and uncertainty,
which are equally real. Despite their initial “mysterious” connection, Lindy and Carola’s
bond throughout the text is based on having the same backpack, living in the same city,
liking to sing, and wanting to become airline attendants. That they are both “other,” and
might share similar feelings of alienation, is not acknowledged. Indeed, it is only Lindy
who is ever portrayed as “other” (though minimally) while Carola remains part of the
dominant (white) social group.

Lindy’s otherness is racially based, indicating the one area of social discord in
Carai'bes sur Seine. Yet this space of conﬂict, “race,” is only brought into the narrative
midway through the text. Lindy recalls how at the beginning of the school year, several
racist students questioned Carola about her friendship with a black girl: “‘Hé! Carola.
Qu’est—ce que tu fous avec cette Black?”’ (97). Carola’s response reveals a certain
mindset among even anti-racist Whites: “[Carola] leur avait répondu que j’étais sa
meilleure arnie et qu’elle détestait les racistes. Quand on s’était retrouvées chez moi,
Carola m’avait dit qu’elle s’en ﬁchait de ma couleur et qu’on n’avait a parler de ea” (97).
Despite Carola’s good intentions and her opposition to racism, her declaration of not

caring about Lindy’s color and that one need not speak of it reveals both consciousness of

49

racial difference and at the same time a position of “color-blindness” or “color-evasion”
(F rankenberg). First, her remark about not caring almost demonstrates a “superior”
attitude. It is not that Carola consciously believes herself superior to Lindy, as she most
certainly is trying to comfort and reassure her ﬁiend. Yet remarks such as these, typical
of Carola throughout the text, reﬂect an underlying ideology emphasizing difference, and
placing whites in a position of control. Here, it is Carola who “controls” the Situation,
deciding not to care about Lindy’s “race.” This decision also places Carola in a position
of “color-blindness.” According to Ruth F rankenbcrg, not acknowledging “race” while
emphasizing sameness is the “polite” language of “race” (142-44). She speaks
speciﬁcally of white women, who separate selfhood from “race” and insist that what is
“under the skin” is what truly matters (148). Yet as Frankenberg points out, within the
discursive repertoire of “color-blindness”:
[. . .] people of color are “good” only insofar as their “coloredness” can be
bracketed and ignored, and this bracketing is contingent on the ability or
the decision [. . .] of a “noncolored” — or white — self. Color-blindness,
despite the best intentions of its adherents, in this sense preserves the
power structure inherent in essentialist racism (147).
Examining Carola’s behavior within this context it can be argued that Carola decides that
Lindy’s “coloredness” is not important. She inadvertently perpetuates a hierarchy
premised on racial difference, undermining to an extent her own good intentions.
Moreover, the absence of Lindy’s response to these racial slurs reestablishes
Carola’s control over the situation, further solidifying the hierarchy. The potential

consequences of Lindy’s silence for the reader, in particular the young black reader, are

50

devastating. This silence takes away the reader’s voice, leaving him or her powerless
when facing racist discourses, and without tools to deal with similar situations. The
author, because she does not give voice to Lindy nor does she in any way contradict
Carola’s position, appears to either accept a racist ideology, or is unaware of the racist
implications in a point of view such as Carola’s.

The hierarchical relationship between Carola and Lindy (Carola as the voice of
opposition to racism and the archetype of “white sensitivity,” and Lindy as the mostly
silent, subordinate product of an ideologically constructed hierarchy) is seen throughout
the text. “Race” itself is conveyed in a manner consistent with the author’s integration,
only if partially, into colonial ideology, while experiences with alienation or internal exile
are largely absent. However, there is one signiﬁcant instance where Lindy is allowed an
emotional response to racism. When her correspondence with the American boy Andrew
abruptly ends, Lindy learns from his friend Tim, Carola’s correspondent, that his silence
is premised on the fact that: “SHE IS BLACK” (148). Tim tries to argue that Andrew is
not really racist, but had thought he was corresponding with a “vraie Parisienne” (149),
highlighting a constructed notion of nationality in which “race” obviously plays a part.
For Andrew, “[i]l avait en téte une France toute blanche” (149). Frankenberg, when
discussing a mother’s dismissal or forgiveness of racist remarks by her son’s Aunty Jean,
points out that within a racist discourse, “Adults may be found ‘not guilty’ by reason of
lack of intent” (146). Ignorance and goodness in other aspects of life are grounds for
forgiving someone else’s racist attitude, an argument clearly present in Tim’s defense of

his friend’s racist behavior.

51

cont

“item

As for Lindy, it is the ﬁrst time in the text that she expresses emotion when
confronted with racism: “J ’avais encore ri un bon coup de la bétise de Andrew et j’étais
rentrée a la maison, la téte basse et le pas long” (150) Outwardly laughing it off, She
feels the sting of Andrew’s ignorance. Nevertheless, Lindy remains quiet. She puts up a
brave ﬁont, unwilling to reveal the hurt he has caused her. For the reader, this refusal to
admit the effects of racism could be understood as the need to repress pain, or to absorb
the shock of painful and unjust judgments. These ideas hold dangerous implications, as
they promote the internalization of racist discourse. Additionally, Lindy’s undeveloped
response and Pineau’s failure to point out more fully the injustice of Lindy’s experience
blurs once again the author’s ideological position. While Lindy’s relationship with
Andrew, and its abrupt end, is the one reference to racism provoking a response, it is far
from empowering.

Carola and Lindy’s roles in colonial racial discourse tend to simplify our
interpretation of Pineau’s position. The character Hamidou occupies a more ambiguous
position, however, in which he is neither openly opposed nor subordinated to racism.
Given his Senegalese roots and being born in France, this ambiguity represents the very
ambiguity of his own identity. We might also acknowledge the parallel between
Hamidou’s situation and that of Pineau: they are second-generation immigrants in France.
This parallel complicates our interpretation of Pineau’s ideological position in this text,
and makes her point of view regarding racial discourse decidedly less clear.

Hamidou’s admiration of black singers is apparent: “Les murs de sa chambre
étaient recouverts de posters de chanteurs: Bob Marley, les Fugees, Michael Jackson, le

groupe I AM...” (94). Hamidou’s musical idols are Blacks ﬁ'om around the world,

52

indicating at the very least a positive perspective of his “race.” Or perhaps this
idolization reﬂects an essentialized conception of Blackness: he may accept a stereotype
that all Blacks are good at music, just as another stereotype, for example, claims that all
Asians are good at math. On the other hand, this essentialization may be construed as
strategic, and used as a means of empowerment”.

The maternal inﬂuence in Hamidou’s household implies a relationship between
Hamidou and his country of origin, even though he was born in France: “La mere de
Hamidou vivait en France depuis vingt ans. Elle n’avait jamais porté de vétements
achetés dans les magasins francais. Elle faisait tout venir du Se’négal. C’était sa ﬁerté”
(95). Despite having lived in France for nearly twenty years, Hamidou’s mother refuses
to become French, or “white,” a refusal embodied in her refusal to wear French clothing.
Her sharp criticism of Lindy’s mother for doing so reinforces her own position in relation
to her heritage and ancestry: “Dis plutOt qu’elle préfére s’habiller a l’occidentale! Elle
crache sur ses origines africaines. . .” (95). Yet despite the strength of his mother’s
convictions, Hamidou never defends or mentions his Senegalese heritage, indicating a
sort of “in-between” space. He is not ashamed of the “black race,” demonstrated by the
posters on his wall, nor does he maintain closeness with his ancestry, considering himself
French above all else.

Hamidou’s response to Lindy’s experience with Andrew is a single line of
comfort: “’T’occupe, il y a des igrrorants partout’” (152). This statement, while brief, is

signiﬁcant, illustrating his awareness of racism as well as the ignorance behind it. A

 

2’ Marginalized groups have used essentialization as a means of empowerment or to achieve
something. For example, the Black Panthers employed a sort of strategic essentialization when promoting
concepts such as negritude or pan-Africanism. By minimizing cultural and national differences, they were
more able to promote unity and notions of Black Pride.

53

att

pr:

song Hamidou had rapped to Lindy when she arrived in France is brought to the reader’s
attention, revealing Hamidou’s conception of life in France as a Black. Though its length
prevents me ﬁ'om citing it in full, I have included several key verses:

11 y a de tout ici

Des bons et des méchants
[. . .]

Moi je viens d ’Aﬁique
T oi des Antilles

Ici on est des Blacks
Point [I la ligne

C ’est pas méchant

F aut faire avec

[. . .]

T oi t’es une Black
Version originale

[...] (152-53)

In the ﬁrst two lines, Hamidou references different viewpoints on “race.” He does not
condemn all whites as inherently bad, recognizing that among the “bad,” there is some
“good.” In the following lines, “Moi je viens d’Aﬁique / Toi des Antilles,” the one
reference he makes to his ancestry, illustrates Hamidou’s awareness of origin. His roots
are African, Lindy’s are Antillean. Yet he is also aware of France’s negation of origin,
apparent when he says “[i]ci on est des Blacks.” He refers to pcOple’s categorization

based strictly on “race,” and the dismissal of culture and nationality. One is no longer

54

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Guadeloupean or Senegalese, but “Black.” F anon has said that there awaits a rude
awakening for black Antilleans arriving in France: “Or, c’est un negre. Cela, [l’Antillais]
s’en apereevra une fois en Europe, et quand on parlera de negres il saura qu’il s’agit de
lui aussi bien que du Sénégalais” (F anon 120-21). Fanon refers to an Antillean’s
perception of self as “white” and the discovery upon arrival in France that s/he too is
indeed a “Black.” Hamidou speaks of the erasure of cultural and ethnic or national
differences, while Fanon’s afﬁrmation underscores French mentalities toward “race.”

Skipping to the last two lines, (“Toi t’es une Black / Version originale”) Hamidou
correlates “authenticity” with coming directly from Aﬁica or the Antilles. Because
Lindy is from Guadeloupe, she has more direct ties with her heritage or ancestry,
implying something Hamidou has lost. This notion of “authenticity” contrasts with what
Fanon argues is whites’ perception of being an “authentic” Black. Where the white
French, or western, population associated “authenticity” with “savagery,” Hamidou
suggests that “authenticity” relates to one’s relationship with their ancestral ties. Yet
claiming that Lindy is an “authentic” Black based on a “close” relationship with her roots
is interesting and problematic. Nothing in Lindy’s character suggests a deep connection
with her African ancestry or her native Guadeloupe. Moreover, her being from
Guadeloupe undermines in itself her “authenticity” because Guadeloupean society is
generally well assimilated, as is outlined in Fanon’s psychological analyses and other
Guadeloupean writers’ accounts, such as that of Maryse Condé’o. On one hand, Hamidou
negates the colonial correlation between Africa (or the Antilles) with savagery. On the
other hand, he perpetuates an essentialization of “authentic” Aﬁicans or Antilleans,

equally colonial in nature.

 

3° See Condé’s autobiographical story Le Coeur (‘1 rire et (‘1 pleurer.

55

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Nevertheless, the two most problematic lines of Hamidou’s song are “C’est pas
méchant / Faut faire avec.” He excuses the French for perceiving immigrants only in
terms of their “race,” believing that the French have no hostile intent. One must simply
deal with their attitude. As with Tim, the white American defending his ﬁiend Andrew’s
racist behavior, Hamidou concedes that racism may be forgiven in the absence of ill
intent, or the presence of general goodness. This defeatist attitude parallels the absence
of Lindy’s voice in the face of racism, and contributes to the voicelessness and
disempowerment of non-white readers. This contribution is further solidiﬁed by
Harnidou’s mirroring of Carola: like her, he unwittingly helps maintain colonial racial
discourse(s).

Hamidou’s vague position — as seen in his awareness, negation, and dismissal of
racism — makes vague his didactic role as well, both in relation to Lindy and the
readership. Though he exhibits a certain amount of pride, self-awareness, and
consciousness of social dynamics, important in situating him as a “role model,” his
acceptance or dismissal of racism undermines his efﬁcacy at playing this role. The
author’s apparently positive intentions are betrayed by Hamidou’s internalization of
racial discourse. Clearly within Hamidou’s character there is a tension between his
Senegalese origin and his integration into French society, a situation quite probably
experienced by the author. Yet his didactic ineffrcacy brings into question the potential
counter-productivity of such a situation in terms of directing readers away from racist

discourses.

56

Pineau did not take full advantage of Hamidou’s status as a second-generation
immigrant to address more thoroughly experiences of racial and cultural alienation”. He
is presented as a well adjusted, popular, motivated kid who occasionally makes reference
to his Blackness, but who experiences no racially or culturally-centered prejudice.
Coupled with Lindy’s problematic response (or lack thereof) in the face of racism as well
as with Carola’s “color-blindness” and position of control, Hamidou’s attitude
emphasizes the author’s own problematic position with regard to “race.”

This problematic position resurfaces when Lindy’s father returns to France to help
move his family back to Guadeloupe. After experiencing the text’s one moment of
racially based pain (the relationship with Andrew), Lindy returns to her native land.
Recalling Ormerod’s discussion of Césaire — a long stay of exile and alienation in France
followed by a re-discovery of self and a “return” to one’s roots - and Elizabeth Wilson’s
notion of “journey,” it seems that structurally speaking Lindy has achieved this self-
awareness and is ready to “return.” She plainly asserts the impact her stay in France has
had on her: “ J ’étais arrivée noire ct je n’avais pas blanchi. A Noisy, j’étais devenue une
Black” (164). She implies that “race” has shaped her, because she arrived “noire” and
did not “blanchi” but rather became “Black.” The parallel drawn between this text and
the work of Césaire might lead us to assume that this statement refers to Negritude,
implying pride. Yet nowhere in the text does Lindy respond to situations in a manner

indicative of growing self-awareness or pride of this sort. Furthermore, the various

 

3’ Alec Hargreaves explains that there exist in France lingering neo-colonial reﬂexes, which affect
second-generation immigrants. Though most of these individuals see themselves as French, they often
continue to be stigmatized by many “native” French because of their culture and/or heritage, causing
inevitable experiences of alienation. While Hargreaves refers to Maghrebis in this particular essay, the
racism toward all non-white peoples inscribed in colonial discourse makes his statement relevant to other
non-white immigrants and their families.

57

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connotations associated with the word “Black” are generally derogatory in the text: racist
remarks about Carola spending time with a “Black” or “Blackette”; the use of “Black” as
an identiﬁer instead of “Guadeloupean” or “Senegalese”32; and Andrew’s disillusionment
at discovering that “SHE IS BLACK”. These particular situations makes it seems that
being “Black” is not a positive thing. Lindy’s assertion, rather than demonstrating self-
discovery, demonstrates integration in colonial discourse. If there is a “lesson” to be
found in Lindy’s sojourn in France, it is unclear, or at worst is undermined by an
unconscious subscription to racist discourses.

Given Pineau’s inattention to the potential, and probably inevitable, difﬁculties of
being a black immigrant in France, as well as the presence of underlying references to
colonial racial discourse, makes one wonder whether her “lessons” are more effective not
for black Antillean (or Aﬁican, Maghrebian, and other non-white) children of immigrant
families, but rather for white French children. The childhood activities she portrays
reﬂect a life free of signiﬁcant worries and focus on the more “innocent” aspects of
childhood. One could argue that by portraying Lindy as a “norm ” girl, adjusted to
French culture, Pineau diminishes her exoticism, and thereby the exoticism of other
immigrant children. The black child Lindy, as well as Hamidou, is really no different
than any of the white children. She shares their interests and concerns, and is subject to
many of the same social structures. The inclusion of racial conﬂict could be construed as

instructive, demonstrating to a young white readership the injustice of racism. Moreover,

Carola’s response to racism directed at Lindy speaks more to white children, suggesting

 

32 Again, this erasure of cultural and national differences could be understood in terms of strategic
essentialization. However, the contradicting connotations of “Blackness” elsewhere conveyed undermine
this possibility.

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the “proper” response to derogatory racial slurs, and encouraging them to “protect” their
black peers.

In Carai'bes sur Seine, it indeed appears that Pineau in large part adopts a French
perspective, despite the fact that many if not all her other texts reﬂect keen awareness of
social ills. It is true that while numerous elements of the text suggest Pineau’s
integration, at least to an extent, in colonial discourse, she does acknowledge racism’s
presence. However, analyzing this text has revealed that an apparent and probably
unaware adherence to colonial discourse has undermined Pineau’s potentially
empowering representations of racist experiences. Intentions and entertainment value
aside, this text holds potentially devastating consequences for the Antillean immigrant
reader, whose actual experience(s) may be negated or over-simpliﬁed, and whose sense
of self may be alienated by the text’s narrative.

As with La Coulée d ’or, Carai'bes sur Seine highlights the author’s perspective on
the relationship between racial discourse and identity. Though the latter text’s messages
are often betrayed by unexamined assumptions and/or inexperience, it contains
information vital for understanding identity formation among Antilleans. Pepin, whose
perspective in the text is informed by experiences in a speciﬁcally Antillean geographical
context, takes a more aggressive approach, illustrating to his young readers an inherent
presence of racism and the negative consequences of adhering to a racist ideology. His
messages are clear, his own ideas unquestioned. Pineau’s text, on the other hand, is
meant to represent the perspective of an Antillean abroad, living as an immigrant and
whose experiences with racist discourse differ from those had by individuals living in the

Antilles. Though her well-meaning intentions are often apparent, Pineau’s relationship

59

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with French ideology tends to negatively impact those intentions. Despite any intended
attempt to address racism’s injustice or the difﬁculties immigrants face in France,
Pineau’s having been born and living in France appear to inﬂuence how her messages are
conveyed: they become more or less ineffective.

Pepin and Pineau’s differing perspectives, and the inconsistent portrayals of
dealing with “race,” may in part explain the difficulty in establishing a collective
Antillean identity. Many of Pépin’s and Pineau’s readers will have experienced racism in
one form or another. How these texts’ protagonists deal with prejudice constitutes a
“lesson,” informing readers on how to deal with or understand their experiences.
Differences in portraying such “lessons” — challenging or accepting racist discourse, for
example — may foster confusion. The contradictory space where “Antillean identity”
resides is passed down unaltered to future generations. Yet also to be acknowledged is
that these two texts, Ia Coulée d ’or and Carai'bes sur Seine, are targeted for a pre-
teen/young adult readership, meaning that readers likely understand “race’s” stigmatizing
nature. In contrast, how might authors “instruct” the youngest readers, who are still
developing awareness of “race”? This next text serves just such a purpose: its intended
audience consists of children around ﬁve or six years old. The author, Alex Godard,
portrays “race” and culture with yet another, different perspective.

In many societies, picture books provide a child’s ﬁrst literary encounter. Penni
Cotton tells us: “The intended audiences for picture books are, by deﬁnition, relatively
inexperienced and need to learn how to think about their world and how to see and

understand themselves and others” (30). Jill May describes picture books as a training

ground for dealing with everyday experiences (40). These books provide a space

60

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allowing very young individuals to absorb cultural structures and norms that will inform
their personal and cultural identity. Through word and image, together creating layers of
meaning, a child is confronted with representations of a social and cultural reality,
sometimes achieved through fantasy and metaphor, which will affect how their
perceptions of self and others develop. Cotton also points out that despite these texts’
simplicity of word, picture books often convey important human issues and complex
ideas (27-28). Such is the case with Guadeloupean author Alex Godard’sz'3 La F o‘ret de
Coeur-Bouliki, which depicts the dream of a young white boy in love with his friend, a
young black girl. I have chosen this particular picture book because of its strong racial
undertones. The story, though entertaining and beautifully illustrated, represents to a
degree a perspective reﬂecting Fanon’s psychological analysis of Antilleans. The
sympathetic portrayal of an interracial relationship and approving references to anti-
colonialism are often overshadowed by the perpetuation of gender stereotypes, and the
privileging of the white male character’s voice. There exists a contradiction between
Godard’s intended message(s) and his unexamined assumptions.

We begin by examining the relationship between Sam and Mona, the two young
protagonists. Though representing an interracial couple (Sam is white and Mona is
black) attempts to overcome racial boundaries, the relationship’s relatively patriarchal
undertone puts it in proximity with colonial ideology, which emphasizes patriarchal

assumptions between gender and “race3’.” The ﬁrst image the reader encounters presents

 

’3 Alex Godard was born in 1965 on the island Marie-Galante (part of the Guadeloupe
archipelago). His father was a “marin” who had hoped his child would follow suite. Godard, however,
preferred drawing super heroes and even started a monthly comic, which was enjoyed by his friends.
Finally in 1984 Godard left for France where he attended the school B. Cohl to learn comic art and
illustration. He ﬁnally published his ﬁrst illustrated stories in 1990 and 1992. In subsequent chapters we
will explore more of Godard’s books for children.

3’ See my discussion regarding M. Raymond and M. de la Clementine in Pépin’s La Coulée d’or.

61

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Sam and Mona facing each other on an even level, implying equality between the two
characters”. Yet the text, told from Sam’s point of view’", positions Mona as an exotic,
black female: “Avee ses yeux de perles noires, Mona avait l’air d’une princesse” (8).
While in itself this statement seems to reﬂect only admiration, its articulation by a white
male about a black female reestablishes white men’s exoticization of black women.
When the pair ﬂees into the forest, they come upon a castle constructed of pink
marble, guarded by two crocodile statues. First, this transition into a fantasy world
degrades the interracial romance between Sam and Mona by negating its reality.
Moreover, stereotypes of gender and “race” are brought to the forefront of their
relationship. Mona, fearful of the statues, cautions Sam, warning him that where she
comes from, crocodiles capture their prey by remaining as still as can be. She then
mischievously suggests they throw stones to discover whether the crocodiles are in fact
made of stone. Mona’s comment here is her largest contribution in the story’s narrative,
and the author’s presentation of her as mischievous (“Mona me regarda l’air malicieux”
(12)) points to a sexist association of women with wickedness. Reinforcing Mona’s
sexist portrayal, the text’s accompanying illustration shows her standing behind Sam, her
hand on his shoulder (see Figure 1). He is the protector, putting himself between Mona
and the potentially dangerous crocodiles. Not only does this posture represent patriarchal
ideology where the helpless female must depend on males for protection, but because the

male is white and the female black readers confront the colonialist notion that white men

 

3’ As Cotton tells us, positioning and/or size in images may denote the status, emotions and
relationship between characters (57).

36 That the story is told from the point of view of a white male is both revealing and problematic.
In the ﬁrst place, it could be argued that Godard sees himself as “white” or accepts the racist notion that
proclaims the superiority of “whiteness.” In addition, the privileging of a white male voice and the near
total absence of the female character’s voice (a black female) perpetuates racial and gender-based
stereotypes as well as reveals a potential patriarchal frame of mind on the part of the author.

62

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must protect or “save” black women from “savagery,” either their own or that of black
men (here represented allegorically by the crocodiles).

The following scene shows that this protection extends from physical to moral.
The crocodile, who is indeed alive, explains that the castle is empty since its owners have
died and that the children should seize their chance to claim the castle and its riches as
their own. Sam, playing the role of reasoning, pulls Mona from temptation, her eyes
shining as the crocodile speaks: “Plus 1e crocodile parlait, plus les yeux dc Mona
brillaient. — Non!...Non merci! Ai-je dit en saisissant Mona par le bras” (14). Mona is
again presented with negative attributes associated with women in sexist discourse: in
this case greediness. Sam must save her from herself: he pulls her away into the forest
where he tries to assess their situation, continuing to play the white and male hero.

At this point in the narrative Mona disappears, returning only near the book’s end.
Sam, whose adventures during Mona’s absence will be discussed shortly, ﬁnds her
crouched and crying in the corner of a cage where he too has been imprisoned. Despite
their mutual fear, the image portrays Sam bravely standing, looking for a way out while
his beloved Mona remains sitting behind him, helpless. Their positioning, where Sam,
because he is standing, remains at a higher level than Mona, also points to inequality (see
Figure 2). Sam’s height and implied bravery indicates his superiority both as a male and
even more so as a white male. His role as protector is re-enforced when he frees them by
using a magical phrase: “LIBERTE GRI-GRIIII!” (28)

Sam then awakes from his dream, learns Mona is downstairs waiting to walk to
school, and ﬁnds clarity. Brushing his teeth, a ghostly apparition of Mona in his mirror,

Sam decides he is going to tell her how he feels: “Finalement, cette journée ne

63

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commencait pas si mal! Aujourd’hui, c’est décidé: je dirai a Mona que je l’aime. Que je
l’aime de tout mon coeur et que mon amour vaut bien plus qu’un chateau de marbre rose”
(35). This touching scene hints at the possibility of traversing racial boundaries with
love, leading us to the story’s ﬁnal illustration.

This illustration, with no accompanying words, shows Mona and Sam holding
hands, looking out at the vast, dense park through which they will walk. The idealized
image speaks for itself, and the reader understands what Godard wished to convey: the
possibility of a relationship unfettered by prejudice. Yet certain underlying, probably
unconscious values undermine this desire and instead the relationship perpetuates
patriarchal, colonial stereotypes. Sam is the white hero who 1) puts himself between
harm and his distressed, black female companion, 2) guides her away from temptation
thus saving her soul, and 3) takes on the role of responsibility in their relationship. Mona
on the other hand, speaks only three times in the narrative, nearly eliminating her voice as
both a female and a black individual. The illustrations consistently present her as weak,
ﬁightened, and helpless. This is not to speak of her absence throughout the book’s entire
middle section, which is what I wish to discuss here. Sam’s adventures sans Mona
solidify his position as a white hero and at the same time reveal an incongruous attempt at
promoting anti-colonialist values.

As we shall see, Sam’s encounters and experiences throughout this section of the
book appear to criticize attitudes, behaviors, and beliefs consistent with colonial and
imperial ideology. For instance, the moment Mona disappears from the text, Sam hears a
familiar voice calling him. Following this voice, he discovers a pair of pelicans playing

cards. One of the birds, a Monsieur De Bec-en-Sabot, is a marabout, referencing Aﬁican

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and Caribbean cultures. He offers Sam various services such as potions to grow taller, to
fall in love, or to forget”. He also proposes to make Sam rich for the small sum of ﬁve
hundred ﬁfty-ﬁve dollars and ﬁfty-ﬁve cents. Sam’s response: “Payer pour devenir
riche? C’était bizarre!” (18). This cultural reference to the marabout and his role in
society is important as far as transmitting and maintaining cultural knowledge among
younger generations. Yet Godard’s representation of the marabout and Sam’s
incredulous response reﬂects a negative perspective regarding this cultural aspect. At
ﬁrst glance, Bec-en-Sabot is seen as corrupt, his plausibility compromised by Sam’s
critical questioning.

The marabout makes an important and revealing point, however, when Sam
refuses these offers, wanting only to leave the forest: “Ah! la liberté! s'exclarna le
marabout. C’est une denrée bien rare de nos jours” (18). On one hand, this statement
illustrates Bec-en-Sabot’s (and thus Godard’s) awareness of colonial and imperial power.
Freedom’s “rarity” can be understood as one’s being “enslaved” by the various tools of
colonial/imperialist authority: the media, the economy, the educational system. On the
other hand, because it is also implied that freedom is something a person can “purchase,”
like potions to grow taller or to fall in love, the marabout is becomes a tool of that
authority. He can control an individual’s freedom. It begins to become evident here that
Godard, in this particular scene of the book, paints an ironic portrait, where oppressed

and oppressor switch identities. The supposedly “bad” African or Creole culture takes on

 

’7 This notion of “forgetting” is also important in Caribbean culture. Because of slavery, a desire
to forget the horrors and dehumanization associated with it, and the imposition of French History, there is a
lack of or gap in Antillean collective memory. The brief reference here seems intentional, and its being
directed at a white boy is somewhat ironic.

65

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the inherent corruption and greed of capitalist societies. As Sam’s experience with Bec-
en—Sabot continues, this irony becomes even more apparent.

The pelican-marabout gives Sam a necklace, supposedly to bring luck, and the
phrase “LIBERTE GRI-GRI,” which, as we have seen, Sam would later use to free Mona
and himself. The necklace, however, leads to circumstances alluding (again) to the
marabout’s corruption and his oppressive role. As soon as Sam puts it around his neck,
the bird calls loudly, bringing hunters who mercilessly chase the boy through the forest
with bows and arrows. The irony of the situation is apparent: the white “hero” becomes
the hunted in a scene reminiscent of the slave era, when slave escapees were brutally
pursued. Again, Sam and Bec-en—Sabot play roles opposite of those prescribed by
colonial ideology. Yet Sam’s betrayal can also be construed as further emphasizing the
falsity of the marabout and thus of African cultures. While it appears that Godard
intended to use the irony as a means of criticizing colonial/imperial power, the
sympathetic portrayal of Sam in the text as a whole undermines its efﬁcacy. While
Godard does not necessarily subscribe to the western world’s construction of Aﬁican and
Creole cultures, supported in his ironic portrayal of the relationship between western and
non-westem characters, there is nevertheless a presence of colonial ideology, rendering
this ironic representation more problematic than anything else. Godard’s unwitting
acceptance of racial discourse within that ideology is seen repeatedly, and this scene is no
exception.

Sam’s experience as the hunted does not end until the necklace breaks, nullifying
the marabout’s “black magic.” The ironic role reversal between Sam and Bec-en-Sabot

ends, and Sam takes on the role of a “hero” revered in Antillean history, Victor

66

Schoelcher”. After the hunters have disappeared, Sam ﬁnds a golden cage ﬁlled with
colorful birds, their voices silenced. These silent prisoners make a clear metaphorical
reference to oppression as well as to slavery. Godard again demonstrates awareness of
injustices confronted by non-white peoples who have been silenced and imprisoned,
either physically or ideologically. Yet the positioning of Sam outside the cage and his
role in the birds’ freedom are problematic, underscoring the author’s unexamined
assumptions. By ascribing the role of liberator to Sam, Godard encourages readers to
believe in the heroism of the “white race”: Sam, and thus the white male, has ultimate
power over the destinies of others. Sam’s intolerance of the birds’ imprisonment and his
role in their freedom mimic, in metaphorical form, Schoelcher’s own actions at the time
of abolition in the nineteenth century. This scene is signiﬁcant in that it maintains
Schoelcher’s heroism in the Antillean collectivity, and places the white male (once again)
in a dominant, powerful position.

However, in another ironic twist, Sam’s power is challenged by a ﬁgure evidently
representing racist, colonial ideology. A large harpy, considerably larger than Sam,
appears and says of the birds’ liberation: “- Qui a ouvert la cage de ces mise'rables
oiseaux bariolés?” (27) The harpy had imprisoned the “wretched colored birds,” and is
infuriated by their unexpected freedom. The illustration shows the harpy ﬁlling the entire
page, while Sam remains a tiny, hidden face in the bottom right hand corner. This bird
and his menacing position reﬂect the power and domination of western/colonial

superpowers. Despite Sam’s heroism in liberating the oppressed and silenced, he is

 

3” It is almost as though Godard presents the role reversal between the two characters as improper,
since Sam takes his “rightful” place as a hero, a role he emulates throughout the text with the exception of
the scene with Bec-en-Sabot. The power exchange is seen as a spell, which was broken with the necklace.
It seems this series of events contradicts Godard’s use of irony as a means of criticism, underscoring his
unexamined ideological position.

67

35

victimized by this overwhelming threat. He ﬁnds himself suddenly in the cage where the
birds had been, which may be interpreted as the victimization of white abolitionists who
contradicted social norms to bring “justice” to the “color ” populations. Sam
nevertheless prevails, as it is at this moment that he is reunited with Mona and succeeds
at freeing them both from their bondage. It seems Godard’s intent in this particular scene
was to; 1) illustrate the relationship between “good” and “evil” (Sam representing “good”
as he frees the birds and because of his “goodness,” he defeated the harpy), and 2)
associate “evil” with those who oppress and enslave. Yet while Godard acknowledges
colonialism’s injustice, the fact that Sam remains the hero, saving not only the birds but
himself and Mona as well, problematizes these “lessons.” The underlying presence of
colonial ideology and racial discourse undermines their true aversive potential for
educating children. The white male is the courageous, cunning, and intelligent rescuer
while the “others” remain helpless and completely dependant on his ability to free them.
Contradictions between Godard’s intentions and his unexamined assumptions
appear throughout the text. The “idealized” representation of an interracial relationship is
undermined by patriarchal imagery, the absence of the female voice, and the perpetuation
of “white” discourse regarding black women. Aﬁican and Creole cultures are
inadvertently degraded, despite their ironic portrayal with regard to western discourses.
Messages against oppression, enslavement, and colonialism conﬂict with the racial
discourse conveyed. For young readers, both black and white, who are learning how to
think about “race,” the potential consequences are serious. Instead of fostering a true

breakdown of oppressive racial/cultural discourses, this text tends to solidify them.

68

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As with the previous two texts discussed in this chapter (La Coulée d ’or,
Carai'bes sur Seine), La F orét de Coeur-Boulila' contributes to developing an Antillean
child’s sense of self with relation to his or her “race.” Yet as I have shown, the three
authors’ perspectives, informed by their respective ideological positions, differ,
sometimes signiﬁcantly. Together, their ideological diversity reﬂects the Antilles’
current situation. However, in terms of directing Antillean children away from a racial
discourse fostering feelings of alienation, inadequacy, and/or inferiority, these texts do
not constitute a collective effort. Pépin’s text was the only one vehemently opposing
Antilleans’ assimilation to French culture and ideology. The other two authors, Pineau
and Godard, did not seem able to challenge effectively colonial racial discourse, as their
own ideological stances, though to different degrees, prevented it. For children then,
self-deﬁnition may remain difﬁcult, as they confront on one hand rnilitantly anti-racist
discourse (Pépin) and on the other, a “utopian” existence devoid of true conﬂict (Pineau),
dismissing the reader’s own experiences of alienation, or a patriarchal and in essence
colonial portrayal of interracial and gender relations (Godard). The hope of developing a
discourse in Antillean societies fostering self-respect and a rejection of racist hierarchies,
the seed of which would need to be planted in future generations, appears dim, though
certainly not impossible. The subsequent chapters will examine various other discursive
elements of the literature that may affect a child’s perception of self, society, and others.
This will allow us to better judge or understand this literature’s ﬁrll potential in
challenging, perpetuating, or appropriating colonial ideology within the Antillean

collectivity.

69

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CHAPTER 2
CLASS DIVISION AND ACCOUNTABILITY

Colonialism and its supporting ideologies saturate individuals’ perspectives as
well as many of postcolonial societies’ dominating social structures. In the Antilles,
where a relationship of dominance and dependence with France persists, perspective and
social structure have combined, creating a system of socioeconomic stratiﬁcation
mirroring colonialism itself. The wealthy’s exploitation of the Antillean poor is highly
reminiscent of the colonizer exploiting the colonized.1 Class division and economically
based prejudice in these societies are visibly present. The wealthy maintain their
“superiority” by exerting power over those unable to defend themselves, or who live in
such desperate circumstances that they have no choice but to accept their own
exploitation. Ironically, this system mimics the relationship between the Antilles and
France, as the latter continues to exert over the former its cultural, political, and
economic power. While France and its imposed ideology continue to dominate, a cycle
of exploitation and prejudice will continue on both levels, unless those Antilleans who
will someday lead their societies and inﬂuence prevalent discourses are socialized to
challenge that ideology and the prejudice it fosters. Said has explained: “Opposition to a
dominant structure arises out of a perceived [. . .] awareness [. . .] that, for example, certain
of its policies are wrong” (Culture 240). Children’s literature, with its normalizing and
didactic effect, can help Antillean children understand what is “wrong” in their societies.
The awareness fostered through literature may encourage these youths to question the

dominant social structures perpetuating prejudice and inequalities. Guadeloupean authors

 

1It appears that the power struggle and exploitation fostered through colonialism has been
absorbed into the postcolonial Antillean social structures, which will be seen in my discussion of the past
and current social situations in the Antilles and France.

70

Maryse Condé and Gisele Pineau have written several young adult novels2 dealing with
the issues raised above, serving to inﬂuence young Antillean readers’ attitudes toward
class-conscious ideologies. Providing realistic representations of how Antillean societies
have adopted alienating and exploitative social systems, Condé and Pineau attempt to
develop awareness and compassion in Antillean youths. Addressing issues such as
prejudice against immigrants, the bourgeois role in stratiﬁcation, and the political role in
maintaining class division, these texts offer young readers insight into the ills plaguing
their societies. Important questions are raised: what could force a young Haitian girl to
leave her family and risk everything for an uncertain future? How do the attitudes and
lifestyle of a black bourgeois child help perpetuate socio-economic stratiﬁcation? How
does a “ghetto” child cope with the injustices of poverty and the domination of the upper
classes? Most importantly, how does exposing child readers to these scenarios challenge
current practices fostering inequality? How might raising awareness, if that is the
authors’ intent, improve society? Are the messages meant to affect the individual reader,
society as a whole, or both? Examining Condé’s and Pineau’s three young adult novels
will reveal the signiﬁcance of presenting socio-economic realities to Antillean children,
and how these authors make a statement about where they wish their societies to go.

In the previous chapter, we saw how “race” fosters feelings of inferiority and a
desire to assimilate, both culturally and physically, to metropolitan France. The
hierarchy correlating a person’s “superiority” with his or her appearance may be
internalized, leading to complicated and often contradictory senses of self. In the
literature, this internalization is seen in several characters, and the hierarchy, at times,

appears unwittingly perpetuated by several of the authors. For young readers, the

 

2Réves amers and Hugo le terrible by Condé; Case mensonge by Pineau

71

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presence of contradictory and sometimes racist representations in the books they read is
problematic. Children, through continual exposure to media advancing colonial and
racist discourses, are still in many respects socialized into a pattern of self-negation or
self-hatred. Michel Giraud, reiterating Fanon’s theories of Antillean children’s
socialization, tells us: “From early childhood, young Martinicans are invited by the strip
cartoons they read, the ﬁlms they watch and the stereotypes which prevail in their social
environment to accept this identiﬁcation” (78). They are invited to identify with the ideal
(the “white race”) in order to move up in the social hierarchy. As we saw in the previous
chapter, however, such attempts at “becoming white” are generally futile, as assimilation
is shown to mask, or even exacerbate social inequalities. At the same time, Giraud points
out that a black person may be called “white” if he possesses a recognized social position,
since money, education, and social success have a whitening effect (79). Yet this
assertion has a direct correlation with socio-economic status and colonialism. Social
success is limited to a select few privileged by the system, and who are given the
Opportunity, because of wealth and/or “race,” to access the type of education needed to
obtain a recognized social position. What of those individuals who are not only
stigmatized by their “race,” but also by their poverty? The emergence of a black
bourgeoisie in tandem with the educational system3 has further complicated (and
continues to complicate) the racial hierarchy, alienating the poor non-white population,
and fostering stark economic division that does not always correspond with racial

division.

 

3 Only those black children who were able to attend secondary school were able to transcend their
social position, as it instilled in them the proper “values” (metropolitan French values) and allowed them to
pursue more economically sound positions. Eventually, the educated black population became an elite
black bourgeoisie.

72

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The educational system in the Antilles fostered division along lines of “race” and
of economic class. For instance, schools designed speciﬁcally for the working class,
comprised primarily of Blacks but also of poor Whites and Mﬁlatres, promoted an
education “appropriate” to their status. Poor children, considered within society to be
“inferior” or “unworthy” of holding the more prestigious jobs, were educated for
positions perpetuating class inequalities and division. These children were prevented
from climbing socially because their experiences in the school system destined them to
remain in poverty. The Ouvroir pour lesjeunesﬁlles, for example, established in F ort-
de-France, provided young working class girls with tools to secure a position appropriate
to their station:

Destinées a embrasser plus tard les professions d’ouvrieres, de bonnes
d’enfants, de domestiques, les jeunes ﬁlles adrnises dans cet établissement
sont principalement affectées a des travaux d’aiguille, aux soins du
ménage, a la cuisine, a la buanderie, au repassage. Une heure seulement
[. . .] est consacrée a l’instruction religieuse et a la lecture. (Jos 83)
These girls were not taught geography, writing, math, and other such subjects. Instead
they were taught how to ﬁll positions reestablishing their social “inferiority” and
contributing to the reproduction of poverty and social stratiﬁcation. The problem here is
twofold: inequalities are fostered not only by economic status, but by gender as well.
Already disadvantaged by sexist discourses, the “inferiority” of the girls attending
schools such as the Ouvroir pour lesjeunesﬁlles is solidiﬁed. They are female, often
non-white, and, essentially, uneducated, putting them at the bottom of the social

hierarchy. The establishment of schools such as the Ouvroir pour lesjeunesﬁlles

73

illustrates in part how the complex system of hierarchies in Antillean societies is created
and maintained. We also see it in other sectors of society — plantations for example. On
plantations, children had difﬁculty accessing education because, despite the obligatory
elementary level education, the demand for child labor in this sector remained strong. In
addition, poverty prevented some parents from sending their children to secondary
schools, where they would have received an education allowing them to climb socially.
It is not ideology alone encouraging prejudiced discourses, but ideology in practice
within the social structures ~ structures where the population is given little opportunity to
break out of the constraints imposed on them. Whether the children are girls, needed for
child labor, or just extremely poor, the social structures, particularly the educational
system, reproduce a system of inequalities and discrimination.4

Michel S. Laguerre tells us: “L . .] the school legitinrises the values that sustain
power relations in society and produces the individuals to ﬁll the positions that sustain
those power positions” (14). In other words, the school system reproduces class
relations, as it “selects and ﬁlters the future leaders of society through rules of
admissions, rules of performances, rules of qualiﬁcations, and rules of etiquettes” (14).
The ideology fostering elitism is normalized through curriculum and administration,
made apparent with the establishment of the “ghetto” school. Poor children living in
either inner city slums or peripheral migrant neighborhoods attend a school built
speciﬁcally for them — the urban poor. As Laguerre points out, this practice is intended

to prevent these children of “inferior” status from disrupting or interfering with the

 

’For over one hundred years, discrimination in the educational system produced social division.
Not until 1975 were all Martinican children between eleven and eighteen required to attend secondary
school without discrimination. Unfortunately, the sudden grouping of children who had thus far received
different types, not to mention unequal quality of education, created more problems than it solved (Jos 365-
67)

74

education of bourgeois children (44). This systematic exclusion of poor children from
good schools explains in part why even today youths of the poorer classes remain
severely under-educated.

According to the Institut National de la Statistique et des Etudes Economiques
(INSEE), 44% of the Antillean population in 1999 between 16 and 29 were educated
(though it is not speciﬁed to what level), while nearly one half of the population 30 and
older had no diploma. According to the IN SEE, several factors determine the success
rate of young Antilleans in the educational system, such as language and parents’
education, yet it does not make a correlation between income and education: the “niveau
d’études du chef de ménage joue un rOle primordial, notarnment hors scolarité
obligatoire: plus le niveau atteint par les parents est élevé, plus les taux de scolarisation
des enfants sont élevés” (Parment 19). In addition, “les enfants issus d’un ménage
francophone (dont 1e chef est Francais ou Haitien de naissance) ont des taux supérieurs a
ceux des enfants issus d’un ménage non francophone (dont le chef est Surinarnais ou
Brésilien de naissance)” (Parment 19). Despite the INSEE’s failure to link education
with wealth or poverty, the reasons they do give for success and failure rates are easily
related to economic inequalities and cultural barriers. First, if the parents’ level of
education is indicative of a child’s success in school, or how far s/he will go, consider
that over the centuries many young Antilleans were denied an education beyond the
elementary level, as the parents lacked the ﬁnancial means to send their children to
secondary schools. Generation after generation would have been caught in a cycle of
poverty and lack of education. In addition, given that many immigrants to the Antilles

are poor, often forcing the children to attend “ghetto” schools, and given the euro-centric

75

 

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nature of the educational system (the ofﬁcial language and culture being French), it is
apparent that immigrants are immediately disadvantaged. In either case, without a solid
education, the possibility for gainful employment diminishes, and once again we see that
the poor are kept poor via social institutions.

The disparities in success in the school system are mirrored on a larger scale with
relation to the metropole. According to the French ministry of education, great efforts are
made to ensure that all citizens of France receive equal access to education: “11 s'agit de
permettre a tous les éleves l'acquisition des savoirs, la construction d'une culture
commune, l'e’ducation a la citoyenneté et la formation en vue dc l'insertion

”5 The education prioritaire was established to better guarantee that all

professionnelle.
youth beneﬁts from a solid education. Yet in general, Antilleans remain less scolarise’s
than those living in metropolitan France. Today, both in France and its departments
(DOM), children between 6 and 16 are required to attend school, yet the levels of success
with regard to the BAC are inconsistent between France and the Antilles. For instance, in
2005 the INSEE reported that 73.8% of students in Guadeloupe taking the general BAC
passed, while in France, that number was considerably higher, with a passing rate of
84.1%. Additionally, the number of students pursuing études supérieures was higher in
France than in the Antilles, with approximately seven out of ten Antilleans and eight out
often French youths between 19 and 24 continuing with higher education. These
numbers demonstrate how the educational system maintains inequalities, not only within

Antillean societies, but between the Antilles and France. By imposing a euro-centric

curriculum and by “forcing” many Antillean students to come to France for their higher

 

’This quote is found on the INSEE website in a section discussing the education prioritaire:
www.education.gouv.fr/syst/education_prioritaire.htrn

76

education (more opportunities are available), the Antilles are kept both subordinate and
dependent on their “former” colonizer.

It is important and even ironic, however, that both authors discussed in this
chapter spent a large portion of their lives outside the Antilles, and pursued an education
in France. Superﬁcially, these women’s paths exemplify that taken by many privileged
Antilleans, leading many of these individuals to adopt euro-centric perspectives. Yet
instead of embracing ideological assimilation, both women go on to criticize in many
ways the relationship between France and the Antilles, as well as the impact of that
relationship on Antillean social structures, which we see in their young adult novels.
Ironically, their privilege has allowed these women to see past the facade of French
“superiority.”6 In their texts to be discussed here, Condé and Pineau focus largely on
social inequalities, particularly in relation to economic class. It is therefore necessary to
ﬁrst discuss the conditions faced by the poor and their relationships with the wealthy, as
this contextual understanding aids in appreciating the authors’ intended “lessons” in their
works.

After abolition in 1848, three general waves of migrants from rural areas and
eventually immigrants from neighboring islands ﬂocked to the outskirts of urban cities,
such as Point-a-Pitre and F ort-de-France. These quickly developing peripheral
neighborhoods, which Nicolas Rey calls “villes spontanées” and Laguerre refers to as
“squatter settlements,” came to resemble an inundation of HLM type housing and shanty-
towns. These areas, having arisen from the illegal occupancy of public or private land,

are makeshift neighborhoods existing in the physical margins of the city, and are

 

6See Condé’s collection of autobiographical stories in Le Coeur a rire et a pleurer, and Une
Enfance outremer provides some insight into Pineau’s childhood.

77

breeding grounds for disease as well as a source of votes for greedy politicians (Laguerre
26-27). Inhabitants live in shacks built with any materials available and are either owned
or rented, depending on one’s economic ability. As these neighborhoods became
increasingly occupied, the government began to “modernize” them by providing basic
necessities such as nmning water and electricity. This improvement led to the
government’s attempt to “integrate” peripheral neighborhoods into the city landscape.
Yet, as Laguerre makes clear,
This integration effort is in conformity with the city’s strategy of helping
the squatter settlements as well as the slums to reproduce themselves as
functional units within the city, as marginal neighbourhoods, and as
dependent on the dominant sector of society. [. . .] Integration is a case of
engineering spatial inequality and reproducing poverty by design, however
unconscious it may be. (44)
Laguerre speaks here not only of peripheral neighborhoods, but also of inner-city slums,
which have existed considerably longer than “squatter settlements.” Slums are the
traditional centers of urban poverty, products of a history of dependent relationships
between the poor and the local bourgeoisie, and the exploitation of those living in these
areas has been a constant throughout time (Laguerre 29). Both inner-city slums and
peripheral neighborhoods exemplify how the poor are perpetually stigmatized and
trapped within the lower classes:
The slum or the squatter settlement reproduces poverty because the people
in its midst suffer from both unemployment and underemployment. [. . .]

[Bjecause the state either does not care much about the poor who live

78

there or does not translate its concern into a genuine and sustained effort

to eradicate the causes of the slum. [. . .] [B]ecause the state fails to help

them escape from the situation. (48)
In other words, the poor are kept poor by circumstances dictated by the dominant powers.

The rate of unemployment in the Antilles, particularly in comparison with

metropolitan France, further illustrates the maintenance of class stratiﬁcation. In 2004,
according to the INSEE, 22.4% of the active population in Martinique and 24.6% in
Guadeloupe were unemployed. Most profoundly touched in these numbers were those
under 30, with 39.8% and 43% unemployed in Martinique and Guadeloupe respectively.
This is in comparison with a 9.9% overall unemployment rate in metropolitan France,
while those between 20 and 24 experienced a 22% rate and for those between 25 and 29,
a 12.9% rate. The disparity between France and its Antillean departments extends further
into matters of salary and social assistance. In 1999, 15% of the salaried Antillo-Guyane
population was receiving the national minimum wage (le SMIC), while in France that
number was only 6%. Allocations familiales, in the same year, were distributed to 15%
of the population in Martinique and 17% in Guadeloupe, while to only 12% in France.
The Revenu Minimum d ’Insertion (RMI), or what might be referred to as welfare, was
distributed to approximately 11% of the population in Martinique, 12% in Guadeloupe,
and 2.3% in France. Essentially, these ﬁgures illustrate that conditions in the Antilles are
considerably less affluent than in the metropole. Jean-Paul Eluther argues that social
security fosters a perpetuation of this situation because unemployment beneﬁts are higher
than the wages of available jobs (52). First, this assumption places blame on the

Antillean population, labeling them as lazy or greedy. Moreover, many individuals who

79

remain unemployed are receiving the RMI, putting them in a precarious position that
almost inevitably prevents them from ever escaping their circumstances. Delile Diman-
Antenor points out: “Peu d’entrants, assez peu de sortants, mais beaucoup de
‘permanents’. Environ 85% des rmistes recensés a une date donne'e, le sont depuis plus
de six mois. [. . .] Une explication de cet état de fait se lit dans le parcours social des
bénéﬁciaires. L’origine modeste des rmistes antillais ne fait aucun doute, qu’ils viennent
de la terre ou du monde ouvrier” (26). Many of those accepting the RMI are of the
working, poorer classes to begin with, and as such tend to have lower qualiﬁcations
making them less “employable” as it were. “Six allocataires sur dix sont sortis du
systeme scolaire avec au plus le niveau de la quatrieme, en Guadeloupe (niveau VI).
Autant dire que leurs chances d’insertion par le marche' du travail sont maigres. [. . .]
Autre constat, peu de rmistes ont un niveau proche du bac ou supérieur. C’est la preuve,
a contrario, qu’un bon niveau de formation garantit bien contre la grande precarité”
(Dirnan-Antenor 27). The problem of unemployment and underemployment returns to
the fundamental question of education. The poor, systematically excluded from the
beneﬁts of higher education (with some exceptions), are destined for menial, low-paying,
and exploitative jobs. Should they lose their jobs, and receive the RMI, their chances of
social ascension are essentially eliminated.

The state, through its establishment of “ghetto schools” and its “integration” of
slums and peripheral neighborhoods, appears complacent with its role in the reproduction
of poverty. Though Eluther argues that social security may in some cases encourage
unemployment, and while the percentage of the Antillean population receiving social

assistance is greater than in France, there appears to be a lack of assistance to families

80

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and individuals living in poor urban areas. Rey describes a visit to several peripheral
neighborhoods in 1983, such as Canal Alaric, Cour Zamia, and Lacroix, where he
witnessed the misery experienced by the poor, especially of immigrant status, and their
neglect by the State:
[. . .] des habitants par manque de moyens ne se soignent pas et ils n’ont
pas non plus les moyens de réparer leur case tombant petit a petit en ruine.
A la cour Zamia, j’ai rencontré un vieillard, sourd et malade, qui habite
une telle maison. L’assistance sociale ne 1e prend pas sufﬁsamment en
charge et i1 ne mange pas tous les jours a sa faim. [. . .] J ’ai rencontré un
vieil homme qui avait été renversé par une voiture [. . .]; on l’a amputé
d’une jambe. Vivant dans un taudis (piece de 3 m sur 3 or‘r regne une Odeur
de putréfaction) et insufﬁsamment pris en charge par la Sécurité Sociale
[. . .], il a dﬁ perdre depuis sa deuxieme jambe, tant la gangrene qui la
rongeait semblait avancée. (169-70)
As Rey states, “l’Etat républicain francais” is not fulﬁlling its role or duty toward these
communities, obligating many of their inhabitants to survive in conditions that are
“extrémement pénibles” (170). Fred Reno explains that approximately one half of the
local budget in the Antilles is spent in social aid and personnel expenses, hinting at an
adequate amount of assistance, though he makes no mention of what percentage goes to
each of those two sectors (38). He does, however, acknowledge conﬂict between the
people and political actors (45), which may result from the government’s failure to assist
the urban poor in escaping their extreme hardship. Laguerre in fact blames the state’s

“aid” as a primary factor in perpetuating poverty, though not in the same manner as

81

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Eluther. He tells us: “State interventions through various allocations tend to maintain the
poor at the threshold of poverty” (48). We are reminded of the RMI, trapping many of
the poor or working class in a perpetual state of unemployment and poverty. While
“assistance” is provided, it is not nearly enough to help the poor escape their miserable
circumstances.

The “ghetto” indeed reﬂects exclusion: “Le ghetto est le reﬂet sur l’espace des
exclusions [. . .]” (Rey 143). According to Laguerre, “The urban space is divided up into
areas of inequality where the poor have access neither in their home nor in the
neighbourhoods to the resources that could encourage their upward mobility” (47).
People living in these areas are marginalized, living outside the metropolitan French
standards of “normal” or “civilized” society, a situation cemented by excluding the poor
ﬁom that society. Yet despite their marginalization by upper classes, within these urban
areas of poverty one frnds solidarity. Suspicious of thieves, “Babylones7,” and
government workers, inhabitants of these areas exercise a certain social code protecting
against those whose intentions may be dangerous. Scrutiny of unfamiliar faces and harsh
interrogations constitute a form of defense, both of oneself and of one’s space. In many
ways, inhabitants maintain more control over their neighborhoods than do the police,
whose presence is generally limited. Still, slums and peripheral neighborhoods tend to be
plagued by violence and drug trafﬁcking, and while the inhabitants of these areas band
together when confronted by outside threats, everyone is a potential danger: “Si l’on
s’entraide entre habitants pour se protéger contre ‘l’extérieur’, en revanche a l’intérieur

du quartier entre voisins on peut aller jusqu’a se tuer. [. . .] Le voisin qui empiete sur

 

7 “Babylones” refers to Babylonia of the Old Testament, which represents a system perpetuating
the state of submission among Blacks and other oppressed peoples in general (Rey 35).

82

notre espace privé en y disposant par exemple une tOle peut étre tué pour ca” (Rey 193).
Even neighbors pose a potential threat to one’s wellbeing. Living in these poverty
stricken urban zones clearly takes not only an economic and physical toll on inhabitants,
but a psychological one as well.

One may wonder how this cycle of dependence and reproduction of extreme
poverty may be counteracted, particularly through literature and even more so through
literature written by authors of the bourgeois milieu. How can reading a book have any
effect on something so concrete as class division or poverty? According to the Weberian
tradition, poverty reﬂects social domination, which can be solved through social reforms
and better integration of the poor into societies (Laguerre l 1). Many social scientists
who write about the poor hope to ﬁnd solutions such as creative urban policies by
identifying causal problems (Laguerre 7). Perhaps Marx’s stance on economic
inequality, however, remains the most relevant for this study of the relationship between
children’s literature and the Antillean urban poor: “[. . .] Marx argued that it is not enough
to philosophise about the issue; what matters is to transform the societal reality, or at the
very least, to explain the problem in such a way that policies for change can be put
forward and implemented” (Laguerre 10). Talking about poverty is not enough:
something must be done to enable a transformation. Given the socializing nature of
children’s literature, it becomes a valuable tool for such enablement. I have previously
discussed how children are greatly inﬂuenced by what they read, absorbing the various
lessons and attitudes portrayed in the texts (Adams 107). Furthermore, the authority of
print can either legitimize or challenge prevalent attitudes found in societies (Zimet 109).

Representing socio-economic stratiﬁcation to children in a comprehensible and relatable

83

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fashion will in some way affect young readers’ attitudes. It should be understood that
most readers of Condé and Pineau’s texts will be predominantly of the middle and upper
classes, since the literature is more readily available to these children. This is signiﬁcant
considering that the educational system’s structure destines these same children to be
those who make future social and political policy. How the authors portray socio-
economic stratiﬁcation may inﬂuence whether current inequalities facing the Antillean
poor will persist.

Jill May tells us: “Authors of realistic ﬁction want their readers to live through the
experiences in their books and see the problems another person or culture faces. [. . .]
Good authors hope that the narrator’s voice will haunt the reader enough to cause a
second reading [and a new] interpretation to the questions their stories pose” (137).
Some might argue that Condé’s and Pineau’s middle or upper class backgrounds hinder
their ability to “accurately” convey hardships faced by the poor, and instead their
messages will continue fostering the division they attempt to eliminate. Yet both authors
have shown themselves in other works to be aware of the injustices present in Antillean
societies and in the F rench-Antillean relationship. Moreover, because the target audience
consists mostly of upper class children, the authors’ privileged childhoods may enable
them to more effectively create relatable characters or “lessons,” which we see in their
young adult novels.

The ﬁrst text, Réves amers (2001) by Condé, provides young readers with a
detailed, often disturbing portrayal of life for a young, poverty-stricken Haitian girl,
Rose-Aimee, whose attempts to ﬁnd a better life end in tragedy. For Antillean children,

this story is important because Haitian immigrants in Guadeloupe as well as in

84

Martinique and French Guyana are often regarded with great disdain.8 Lydie Moudileno
tells us:
Decades of cultural, political, and economic repression have led to
successive waves of emigration towards North America and other
Caribbean islands, including the French D.O.M. [. . .] the images of
Haitians abroad takes on an increasingly negative tenor [as] media
representations ﬁx the Haitian people in the collective mind as illegal
immigrants, boat people, and bloodthirsty rulers, when they aren’t AIDS
carriers. (241)
Condé herself says: “In Guadeloupe, they are primarily low-paid migrant workers who
work in the sugarcane ﬁelds and in private gardens. Therefore, the local population
despises them” (“Pan-Africanism” 57). Condé’s exposing young readers to Rose-Aimé’s
story is intended to dissolve prejudice against these immigrants, and promote awareness
and tolerance as well as sympathy for the plight of those far less fortunate. As Condé
points out: “L . .] in the schools of Guadeloupe and Martinique, our kids sit next to the
children of Haitian immigrants without understanding them. In fact, they are ﬁlled with
contempt that they learned from their parents” (“Pan-Africanism” 58). For her, writing a
book such as Réves amers (initially published in 1988 as Haiti chérie) “would be a way
of ﬁghting prejudice at its roots” (“Pan-Africanism” 58). Prejudice is taught and
becomes a vicious cycle, which Condé attempts to thwart with her children’s book,

because it is the children who will either carry the legacy of prejudice, or dismantle it.

 

’Ironically, Antilleans’ attitudes toward Haitian immigrants are reminiscent of whites’ attitudes
toward Antilleans, both in France and abroad. They therefore reproduce that same pattern of prejudice and
discrimination that they themselves once experienced and still do on many levels. It is perhaps the success
of ideological assimilation that has allowed this disassociation between themselves and Haitians.

85

The narrative of Réves amers exposes young Antilleans to the hardships faced by
poor Haitians and to the role played by “race” and economics in social stratiﬁcation.
Marie-Jose N’Zengo-Tayo explains: “In Haiti Chérie, Condé uses the child protagonist as
a mouthpiece to question injustice in the world economy, social abuse, and economic
exploitation. As the young protagonist ‘discovers the ways of the world,’ she is struck by
its ‘miS/dis-functionment’ and exposes it” (96). This is true, but N’Zengo-Tayo does not
examine the text and its implications as an example of didactic children’s literature.
While Condé’s young adult novel has evident social messages, we must also explore how
and why these messages are important for enhancing the social sensitivity of a juvenile
audience. For instance, at the beginning of the text, when Rose-Aimee and her family are
introduced, the harsh and unimaginable conditions they live in weigh heavily on the
reader’s mind. This impression affects both adult and child equally, but for children, the
potential consequences of such an experience are more profound. They are more deeply
affected because they are less experienced. The reader is forced to acknowledge the
misery forcing rural inhabitants to ﬂee for cities or other Caribbean islands, even to the
United States. Rose-Aimée’s fate, being sent at thirteen years old to work as a domestic
servant, is inconceivable to a child from a family of comfortable means. Yet the child
reader must realize that this situation is not uncommon, which Condé emphasizes in the
similar stories of Rose-Aimée’s two sisters and brother - like her, her sisters worked as
servants, and her brother was sent to the Dominican Republic to work in the sugar cane
ﬁelds, and never returned. That Rose-Aimée’s only solace is the hope of receiving an

education is humbling.9 Within the text’s ﬁrst few pages, young Antillean readers are

 

9Due to the family’s poverty, neither Rose-Aimee nor her siblings are able to attend school,
reﬂecting the inequalities discussed previously with regard to economic impact on who receives an

86

drawn into Rose-Aime’e’s story, beginning a “journey” that may shape their attitudes and
ideas concerning both poverty, and the circumstances bringing Haitians to their countries.

Mme Zéphyr, Rose-Aimée’s employer, is a Mﬁlatresse whose views on “race”
and class are obvious: “Regardez—moi cette petite négresse, cette petite paresseuse qui
dort! Est-cc que tu crois que je t’ai prise a mon service pour dormir?” (25).10 Rose-
Aimee is repeatedly insulted and beaten by the woman she had once hoped would help
her improve her life-station. Yet despite her disappointment, she stays, realizing that
returning home would burden her parents, and hoping that if she is obedient her employer
will eventually respect her. The relationship between these two characters illustrates the
economic disparity and social relationship between classes. As Laguerre points out, three
sets of actors interact to maintain structural inequality: the exploiter group (the elite), the
exploited group (the masses), and the broker group (the “middlemen”) (7). Mme Zéphyr
and Rose-Aimee represent the exploiter and exploited groups respectively. AS such, the
child reader is encouraged to empathize with Rose-Aimee, while despising Mme Zéphyr,
whose cruel character embodies the prejudiced and exploitative elite. This distinction
makes an important step toward normalizing a more empathic point of view in readers.
In addition, Rose-Airnée’s display of immense strength of character while facing such
mistreatment encourages readers to admire those who struggle for the most basic rights,
such as respect.

Ironically, Rose-Aimée’s one moment of “weakness” — the one time she embraces

her child self and plays with other children in the sea — is what leads to further misery and

 

education and the quality of that education.

”’I'he relationship between Mme Zéphyr and Rose-Aimee represents the presence of racial
hierarchy, which explains the forrner’s exploitation of the latter. Rose-Aimee is seen as inferior not only
because she is poor, but because of her “race” as well.

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eventually death. For the ﬁrst time in her life Rose-Aimee feels like a child, at least in
the sense felt by children who have the luxury of a “childhood”: “Ah, que c’était bon de
crier, de courir dans tous les sens, de partager l’excitation de garcons et de ﬁlles de son
age! I] semblait a Rose-Aimee que depuis qu’elle avait quitté les siens, elle n’avait pas ri,
chanté, communique avec autrui” (34). Yet these brief moments of joy are not without a
price: she loses the money she was to deliver back to Mme Zéphyr. Fearing the
consequences of returning empty handed, Rose-Aimee decides to take her chances on the
streets, believing — perhaps naively — that she will ﬁnd better employment.

Rose—Aimée’s experiences on the streets, partially a result of her inability to
return to her parents, are eye opening for young readers. Through her eventual
realization of economic inequality’s brutality, Condé clariﬁes the message to young
readers: “Rose-Aimee savait déja que son pays était un des plus pauvres de la terre.
Cependant, elle ne se doutait pas que tant d’hommes et tant de femmes n’y possédaient
pas ce bien auquel tout homme devrait avoir droit: un toit au-dessus de sa téte” (42,
emphasis added). For those readers unaware of their privilege, taking for granted the
comfort of a home and family, this revelation is signiﬁcant. Antillean youths of the
upper classes must acknowledge their good fortune if they are to exhibit compassion in
their future choices that may impact the poor. Condé’s explicit statement saying that all
people have a right to a roof over their heads is openly didactic, intended to guide readers
toward such an acknowledgement.

When Rose-Aimee reunites with a friend, Lisa, they set plans in motion for a
better life. The two girls embrace the idea of the “American Dream,” believing that in

the United States children of any age may ﬁnd employment and that the simple act of

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touching American soil will bring happiness and success. Yet they make their “escape”
only after attempting one last time to remain in Haiti, which is what I shall discuss here.
Rose-Aimee ﬁnds work at a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant, again
exemplifying the exploitative and often cruel relationship between the classes. One of
the most unqualiﬁed applicants, Rose-Aimee is given the job precisely because of her
lower class status and lack of education. Her economic and social position prevents
Rose-Aimee from being able to defend herself, leaving her entirely at the mercy of her
employer. Her desperation to work and inability to ﬁght against potential injustices
beneﬁt the patron mr‘datre, which Rose-Aimee recognizes: “Curieusement, Rose-Aimee
s’apercevait, malgré son chagrin, que tous ces elements négatifs jouaient en sa faveur.
Elle le sentait, elle allait étre engagée précisément parce qu’elle était sans defense et
qu’on pouvait tout exiger d’elle” (53). Yet her determination to stay in Haiti forces her to
accept what she realizes will be a degrading experience. As with Rose-Aimée’s former
employer, Mme Zéphyr, the employer at Kentucky Fried Chicken, M. Modestin, also a
Mﬁlatre, expresses regularly his disdain for his young black workers: “Sale petit negre!
Est-cc pour rire que je t’ai engage? Lave-moi ce carreau” (5 7). These words, addressed
to a young black boy who is the sole provider for his family, Jean-Joseph, resonate with
the same condescending disgust found in Mme Zéphyr’s words for Rose-Aimee.ll A
pattern of behavior emerges, representing an unthinkable situation where children, who
should be free to be young and enjoy life, are physically exploited and mentally
demeaned by those who should be protecting them — adults. Of course, it is adults from

the upper classes, those with power and money, who are exhibiting such disgusting

 

llAgain, the exploitative relationships between the mulatre employer and the black children
represents the presence of racial hierarchy.

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comportment, which is important for readers to understand. If they do not wish to
become one day like the story’s “villains,” they must rethink their own attitudes on the
relationship between the rich and the poor.

Revealing the humanity and dignity of the poor, who suffer at the hands of the
wealthy, constitutes an important lesson, underscoring the need for compassion among
readers. Jean-Joseph’s refusal to continue tolerating M. Modestin’s abuse is one
example: “Non, Monsieur! Je ne suis pas un chien. Je suis pauvre, je n’ai rien, mais je ne
suis pas un chien” (59). Condé again clearly highlights an important message — poverty
does not equate with inferiority. Lower class status does not deprive one of his humanity
or right to be treated with respect. Nor does it entitle the wealthy to physically and
verbally degrade those who are without. For Rose-Aimee, Jean-Joseph’s display of
dignity and his refusal to remain victimized by M. Modestin is inspiring, leading her to
take a stand against her own exploitation:

A sa maniere, elle revivait le combat de Makandal, de Boukman qui
hurlait:

Bon Dieu, quifais le soleil,

Qui souléves la mer,

Quifais gronder l’orage,

Ecoute la liberté qui est dans nos coeurs!

Ah oui, redressons la téte pour défendre notre dignité!

Elle se mit debout ct, regardant monsieur Modestin, ﬁt simplement, jetant
sa serpilliere:

- Frottez vous-méme! (60)

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Rose-Aimee describes herself as possessed by her ancestors, who gained freedom from
their oppressors (the French), and as reliving their ﬁght.’2 This powerful reference
reminds readers of what Haiti endured, and what it gained through its ﬁght for freedom.
Because Condé is considered an indépendantiste, advocating the independence of the
Antilles from metropolitan France (see Blérald-Ndagano), her incorporation of this
historical reference as a source of empowerment may reveal her position with respect to
what Haiti has that the Antilles do not — freedom.l3 For Rose-Aimee, incarnating the
spirit that once freed her ancestors from colonial oppression allows her to rise up against
the present day repression of socio-economic inequalities.

Unfortunately, Rose-Aimée’s strength of character is not enough to erase
oppressing realities. Though She found empowerment against M. Modestin’s exploitative
attitude and behavior, Rose-Aimee remains trapped by her poverty and inability to return
home. Her decision to ﬂee for the United States places her among so many other
Haitians before her searching for a better life through immigration: “Lisa avait raison. Il
fallait partir pour Miami on, a n’en pas douter, la vie aurait un autre goﬁt” (62). The girls
ﬁnd a boat transporting several other Haitians, illegally, to Florida. Their experiences on
this boat and throughout the voyage contain numerous commentaries concerning the
injustices pushing Rose-Aimee, Lisa, and the other refugees, including men, women, and

even infants, to take this dangerous risk.

 

12In 1804, after nearly a decade of ﬁghting against the French colonizers who had broken their
promise of ending slavery in Haiti, the slaves’ revolution succeeded and Haiti gained its independence.

'3 Haiti’s “freedom” from France is tempered by the continual repressive forces that have
dominated Haiti, such as the United States, Haitian dictators such as Duvalier, etc. It seems, however, that
Condé gives merit here to their struggle to gain and maintain independence throughout time., and
juxtaposes it with the Antilles’ continued dependence on France.

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Displacement, whether by force or by “choice,” often reﬂects a larger social
problem that has led to certain members of the population being unable to live in their
own land. The devastation and injustice of leaving all that is familiar is made clear in
Réves amers:

Qui a fait le monde? On dit que c’est Dieu. Alors, pourquoi n’a-t-il pas
donné a toutes les creatures les moyens d’en savourer la beauté? Pourquoi
certains ne songent-ils qu ’61 se nourrir, se vétir, survivre, sans pouvoir
jamais relever la téte afrn d’admirer 1e feuillage des arbres, l’éclat des
ﬂeurs, la splendeur des rivieres? Son pays était un des plus beaux du
monde [. . .] et elle, elle devait le quitter! (73-74, emphasis added)
Pulling from and questioning her spiritual beliefs, Rose-Aimee wonders how God, who
should have the power to alleviate His people’s suffering, could allow such misery and
inequality to persist. Why may some enjoy all of life’s pleasures, while others struggle to
survive? What Condé puts into question, however, extends beyond spirituality and
religious beliefs. “Qui a fait le monde?” Though Rose-Aimee understands it to be God,
the contradiction between His benevolence (according to Christian doctrine) and the
world’s misery points to something more human: the dominance of the powerful and
wealthy over the poor and weaker masses, which lies at the center of the world’s social
inequalities and injustices. The situation created through these power struggles and the
exploitation of the poor is what has forced Rose-Aimee and the others to ﬂee for the
United States. For young readers, who have likely never known similar hardship, this
emotional passage conjures sympathy and forces the question of why there exists such

blatant inequality.

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In hiding at the Bahamas, several of the girls’ companions share stories about
other refugees being caught by police while attempting to ﬂee for America. An elderly
gentleman, Monsieur Saint-Aubin, shares his own story:

On nous a entassés dans des camions. On nous a fait descendre dans un
centre clOturé de barbelés, avec des soldats et des chiens. [. . .] Le soir, on
nous a fait entrer dans un grand batiment, sans lits, sans matelas, et nous
avons donni par terre. Pour tout repas, du sucre. [. . .] Alors, certains se
sont re'voltés et on leur a dit qu’ils avaient été vendus. Vendus par le
gouvemement. Vendus comme des esclaves! (75-76)
Saint-Aubin’s story is doubly signiﬁcant. It reveals the desperation behind a decision to
risk everything, and the potential consequences of being caught: being arrested, sent to a
concentration camp, deported back to Haiti. It also references the “failure” of the ﬁrst
Black colony, Haiti. On one hand, the failure of Saint-Aubin and the others represents
allegorically the country’s failure to achieve total independence and prosperity, while on
the other, the very fact that Saint-Aubin and the others feel the need to ﬂee Haiti
demonstrates the country’s failure as a prosperous and just society. It is the ﬁrst
Signiﬁcance, however, that is most relevant in relation to the author’s “lessons.” The
potential consequences of illegally immigrating raise questions in readers’ minds, a form
of reﬂection and a result much desired by Condé. Why do people of all ages ﬂee Haiti
(or any country) and face signiﬁcant odds to arrive and live in another country? The
conclusion one hopes young readers of this story will reach is found in the stark
inequalities leaving a majority of the people destitute, living in extreme poverty and

misery. Perhaps if young Antillean readers understand this, they will look on immigrants

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trying to make a better life for themselves with compassion, which may one day lead to
policies lessening the disparities between classes.

The most disturbing reality confronting young readers comes in the text’s ﬁnal
pages, when Rose-Aimee, Lisa, and the other refugees are forced into the sea. As their
boat nears the Florida coast, the captains order all on deck. The coast guard is
approaching, and to avoid arrest, the captains force their passengers to jump into a stormy
sea:

Et comme le groupe, interdit, demeurait immobile, chacun parcourant des

yeux l’immensité de l’océan, les hommes d’équipage se precipiterent en

avant, prenant au collet les hommes, les femmes, les enfants et les

poussant vers le bastingage. Monsieur Saint-Aubin dit encore:

- Mais nous ne savons pas nager. .. (79)
Moudileno tells us: “[. . .] the ﬁnal scene is reminiscent of the methods employed by
illegal slave traders in the nineteenth century who disposed of their shipment in a similar
manner when pursued by naval patrols. [. . .] As illegals, the [Haitian] passengers become
insigniﬁcant” (244). Considered only as cargo, the passengers are forfeited to the sea.
Their fates, including those of the infants and children, are tragically sealed by the greed
of men:

[La mer] para leur corps d’algues, ouvragées comme des ﬂeurs, suspendit

a leurs oreilles des boucles d’oreilles de varech. Elle chanta de sa voix

suave pour calmer les terreurs des enfants, de Rose-Aimee et de Lisa, et,

les yeux fermés, ils glisserent tous dans l’autre monde. Car la mort n’est

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pas une ﬁn. Elle ouvre sur un au-dela ou il n’est ni pauvres ni riches, ni

ignorants ni instruits, ni Noirs, ni mulatres, ni Blancs. . . (80)
Though the refugees die, their death is not truly the end, nor did they die in vain. The
sense of hope inscribed in this last scene implies that life continues after death under a
different form, free of the vices and inequalities present in human societies. Thus Rose-
Aimee and the others do in fact attain the better life they strived for. According to
Blérald-Ndagano, Condé portrays death not as a failure but as a step toward martyrdom
(176). In this case, death did not prevent the refugees from experiencing a better life but
rather facilitated it. It also promoted their station to that of martyrs, at least insofar as the
reader is concerned. Their tragic end sheds light on the social and political situations
leading to devastating situations such as this, and develops readers’ awareness.

Yet is death an appropriate means of conveying these truths to children, who are
the target audience of this book? This upsetting ending almost causes one to perceive
Réves amers as an anti-children’s book: it does not conform to some critics’ ideas on how
children’s literature should communicate with the young readership. According to
Carolyn T. Kingston, ending a children’s book with death may result in the loss of the
text’s signiﬁcance, as it may foster hopelessness or a fear of going against “acceptable”
behavior (10). Throughout Réves amers the child reader has been exposed to many cruel
experiences, yet they are all very real: being sent to work at thirteen; being denied an
education; being repeatedly insulted, beaten, and exploited by the upper classes; ﬂeeing a
life of misery and dying in the process. Rose-Aimee, in keeping with the accepted
deﬁnition of what constitutes a “heroine,” meets these obstacles with strength and

dignity. Yet what should we make of the tragic ending? Kingston insists on the need for

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a “happy ending” to make the “message” signiﬁcant. For instance, she tells us: “[In]
stories for children, the larger signiﬁcance of the tragic moments might have been lost by
presenting heroic efforts as useless. The hero’s will to resist is strengthened by
catastrophe in these stories and the end result is an underscoring of a kind of Steinbekian
faith in the dignity and durability of man under duress” (59)”. By allowing the hero in
tragic tales to prevail over catastrophe, the reader’s desire to resist will be re-enforced. If
the hero dies, his efforts will have been useless and the reader will be less inclined to
resist. While I agree to a point, it also seems that at times an upsetting ending is
necessary, particularly when the aim is to raise awareness for harsh social truths. In this
case, the reader should be shocked out of complacency. Condé, by allowing Rose-Aimee
to die, thus leaving young readers sad or angry, provokes reﬂection on the world’s
injustices. Why did these people, who sought only to escape their misery, have to die?
What would have needed to change in order to prevent their deaths?

This text, through its realistic portrayals of life for the Haitian masses and the
consequences of stark inequalities encourages appreciation among Antillean youths for
what their Caribbean neighbors have endured. As Moudileno says:

And it is ignorance that promotes disdain for the Haitians. The task of the
writer is to provide new generations with intellectual means to go beyond
ignorance and prejudice. [. . .] At the same time, young readers should
begin to see the diversity of social and economic conditions in the
Archipelago: they should recognize ‘brothers and sisters’ who have

similar cultural and linguistic practices as themselves, but also be aware of

 

” While Kingston is speaking here of several specific texts she analyzes in her book, the idea that
the character must live in order to inspire the reader is present throughout her text.

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their own privileged economic status and the suffering of their neighbors
(246).
Condé’s children’s book opens the eyes of young generations in the Antilles to a world
beyond their own. In doing so, she begins to carve a path that may one day lead the
readers of her text to make positive, inﬂuential decisions regarding the plight not only of
the poor but of the masses of immigrants who ﬂee from their suffering.

Condé wrote Réves amers from the perspective of the oppressed, embodied in
Rose-Aimee, allowing young readers to empathize with her experiences. Yet in another
of her children’s books, Hugo le terrible (1991), the implied narrator is a young boy
belonging to the black bourgeoisie of Guadeloupe. This text, as with the former,
addresses issues of socio-economic inequalities, and the relationship between classes.
Yet its being told from an upper class child’s perspective lends new signiﬁcance to the
text for Condé’s young readers. If, as I mentioned previously, the majority of readers
come from Antillean upper classes, this story’s messages will have more impact because
of readers’ ability to relate with the protagonist, Michel. Thirteen years old, Michel has
never experienced hardship. His culturally assimilated and well-employed parents have
created a life of comfort and security, including possession of a car, a hair salon, a
washing machine, and even a servant. Unaware of his privilege, Michel enjoys a life free
of signiﬁcant worry and full of pleasures such as reading Victor Hugo15 and Astérix. Yet

the approach of hurricane Hugo acts as a catalyst, upsetting all that Michel has taken for

granted.

 

’5 We will seethat the text’s title holds a double meaning, as it refers not only to the hurricane
Hugo that wreaks havoc, but also implies Michel’s eventual realization of the injustices caused, directly or
indirectly, by the domination of metropolitan France, symbolized here by his love for Hugo and Astérix.

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The relationship between Michel and his family’s servant, Gitane, represents an
evolving relationship between classes that eventually transcends the boundaries created
by structural inequality. Gitane, having immigrated with her husband and children ﬁ'om
la Dominique, represents the masses of poor immigrants living in the outskirts of cities
and thus the exploited group (see Laguerre). Michel and his family, by contrast,
represent the exploiter group, or those members of society largely responsible for the
perpetuation of poverty and prejudice. Though Gitane speaks little of her country to
Michel (the one family member with whom she feels the most comfortable), she says that
it is very poor and that life is difficult, explaining her family’s immigration to
Guadeloupe. Similarly to what we saw in Réves amers, immigration is presented as the
result of overwhelming hardship, and the desire or need to better one’s life.” Yet in this
text, instead of focusing on the life leading up to immigration, Condé focuses on life after
immigration, and even more so on how Guadeloupeans perceive immigrants as well as
the poor. Readers will share Michel’s experiences and revelations in an empathic manner,
meaning they will relate readily to Michel’s circumstances, and will be more susceptible
to the lessons conveyed.

As Ble’rald-Ndagano tells us, Condé has, in several of her texts such as
Hérémakhonon and La Vie sce'lérate, taken the opportunity to accuse the black
bourgeoisie. “Elle met l’accent sur l’exploitation de l’Antillais par l’Antillais” (293).
While in Hugo le terrible Gitane is an immigrant to the Antilles, it is apparent that Condé
accuses here too the behavior of the black upper classes. From the beginning of the text

readers witness Gitane’s mistreatment by her adult employers — Michel’s parents. As

 

16Also pointing to Réves amers is Michel’s memory of his brother’s trip to Haiti. This trip led
both boys to wonder about why so many Haitian citizens were so poor and why they emigrated to other
countries.

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many people prepare their homes and families for the impending storm, Gitane remains
in the service of Michel’s family. Her needs are ignored, or treated with disdain by
Michel’s mother and father: “Gitane était en pleurs et Papa la rudoyait. [. . .] Petite Mere
a dit: - [. . .] Aujourd’hui Gitane, tu arréteras ton travail a onze heures. Comme cela tu
pourras aller a la quincaillerie te procurer des clous et des feuilles de contreplaqué” (19-
21). The father’s response is one of condescending superiority, maintaining the distance
between classes and reminding Gitane of her inferior status. The mother, though she
allows Gitane to leave work early, also demands that she return the next day, embodying
as well the “role” of the upper classes. That is, she exerts her power over the employed,
maintaining her status as a bourgeois and Gitane’s as an inferior domestic. Yet the latter
makes no outward argument, nor does anyone question the parents’ refusal to
acknowledge Gitane’s needs because as Laguerre points out: “Domestic service [. . .] is a
form of socially tolerated exploitation” (94).

Even Michel, though he exhibits some compassion for Gitane’s situation, does not
question the social order. He does not question his mother’s insistence that Gitane
continue to work, nor does he recognize the inequality imposed on Gitane. It isn’t until
he hears Gitane herself speak out against her employers that Michel begins to understand:

Tous les memes! Est-cc qu’elle ne comprend pas que j’ai beaucoup de
choses a faire chez moi, moi aussi? Avec mon marl qui a mal aux reins et
personne pour nous aider a consolider le toit et les cloisons. Est-cc qu’elle
n’aurait pas pu me donner la matinee et une petite avance pour que je
puisse acheter des provisions? On se tue pour eux et ils vous traitent

comme des chiens. (67)

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Gitane’s exploitation is made explicit and her personal account of it underscores the
injustice she faces from the upper classes (“Tous les memes" referring to a generalization
of the Antillean bourgeoisie). Michel’s ignorance is suddenly and bluntly revealed. His
naive belief in Gitane’s happiness working for his family crumbles under the reality that
the latter has been treating her “de maniere égo’r‘ste” (68). It is perhaps hoped that by
exposing readers simultaneously to the realities of domestic servitude and exploitation,
they will begin to develop awareness for class structure and roles. After all, it is such
awareness that may lead these young readers to make more compassionate, and
responsible, choices concerning their societies in the future.

For Michel, the shame he feels for his parents’ treatment of Gitane provokes a
series of events leading to his eventual rupture with social conventions. First, he
accompanies Gitane to her neighborhood (a poor immigrant neighborhood, Gachette)
intending to help her prepare for the hurricane, representing his ﬁrst steps toward new
awareness and perspective. There he repeatedly confronts poverty such that it forces him
to acknowledge his own privilege. For instance, waiting in unbearable heat for the bus
with Gitane and many other individuals unable to afford the luxury of a car, Michel
realizes his good fortune to be able to travel in his parents’ air-conditioned vehicle. His
arrival at Gachette and his exposure to the extreme poverty there shakes him to the core.
This neighborhood, described by Condé similarly to how Rey and Laguerre have
described Antillean slums and peripheral neighborhoods, reeks of society’s neglect.
Narrow, winding streets ﬂanked by culverts containing dirty water and rubbish are lined
with wood shacks, covered in sheet metal and open to the sidewalks, hiding nothing from

passers by. This “ghetto’s” population consists primarily of immigrants from Haiti and

100

Dominique, imposing awareness on readers for what immigrants must endure. Upon
seeing this, Michel recalls a young Haitian boy in his elementary class that hardly spoke,
and to whom hardly anyone addressed a word. Michel is overcome by a sense of guilt,
realizing that this boy must have felt extremely lonely and unhappy, alienated by his
peers because of his “inferior” status as an immigrant.17 Finally, when Michel meets
Greg, Gitane’s husband, who attempts to re-enforce the roof of their shack, the latter
forces Michel to acknowledge his own naiveté regarding socio—economic stratiﬁcation.
Responding to Michel’s comment about Greg being physically unﬁt to be on the roof,
Greg utters a few simple words that shatter whatever illusions Michel may still have
harbored about certain social realities: “Qui va 1e faire pour moi?” (72) Both Michel and
the reader are made to see the alienation, in addition to the exploitation, of lower classes.
They are forced to recognize what they most likely take for granted, such as being able to
recuperate after being injured, or having a car and a comfortable home. Michel,
consumed by guilt and Shame, verbalizes this revelation, clarifying the message intended
for young readers:

“Pour la premiere fois, je comprenais a quel point j’étais un enfant gate et

combien les petites miseres dont je me plaignais étaient secondaires. Mes

parents travaillaient tous les deux et étaient en bonne santé. J’habitais une

maison comfortable et je ne manquais de rien. Je sentais la grande

 

l7Recall also that Haitians are despised by many Antilleans according to Condé (“Pan-
Aﬁ'icanism”) and Moudileno. This particular memory of Michel’s is likely something that many of
Condé’s young readers can relate to. It seems then that this small anecdote speaks directly to those students
who alienate their peers based purely on their status as an immigrant, or as a poor member or society. By
revealing the possible feelings of these alienated children, perhaps the students will be more likely to reach
out and break down the barriers that create such alienation.

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injustice du monde et je me demandais ce que je pouvais faire contre elle.

Que peut un garcon de treize ans ct derni pour changer le monde?” (75)
For children who relate to Michel, this self-deprecation cannot go unnoticed. They too,
through Michel’s revelation, are made to acknowledge their own fortune and to see the
misfortune of so many others. In addition, Michel is struck by the desire to change the
circumstances behind such inequalities, raising the question about how to change society.
As with Réves amers, where Rose-Aimée’s tragic end provokes reﬂection and raises
questions about how to change circumstances in order to avoid the repetition of Rose-
Aimée’s fate, Hugo le terrible provokes similar reflection. In this case, however, young
readers are purposely guided toward this reﬂection through Michel’s explicit questioning
of socio-economic stratiﬁcation and what he can do to change it.

The arrival of Hurricane Hugo just after Michel’s experiences in Gachette is
signiﬁcant in that it coincides with his developing sense of awareness for his role, as well
as that of his family, in the difﬁculties facing immigrants such as Gitane and other
poverty stricken Antilleans. The hurricane’s cataclysmic effects represent the complete
bouleversement of all that Michel had known. He describes the scene as a landscape of
nightmares, of ruin that likely resembled that left by American soldiers after the Vietnam
War. Everything that they (inhabitants of his neighborhood) had been proud of was now
destroyed. Just like the neighborhood, the complacency with which Michel viewed his
life and society was also destroyed. Yet out of the shambles, as his neighborhood begins
to rebuild itself, Michel too begins to reconstruct his life as well as his worldview. He is
no longer blind to the realities of class division, and begins to recognize more readily the

signs of his society’s inequalities. For instance, a few days after the storm Michel’s

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mother begins to complain about Gitane’s absence, despite the fact that poor sections of
town are more than likely completely demolished: “L . .] Petite Mere réchauffait et servait
en se plaignant de l’ingratitude de Gitane qui depuis Hugo n’avait plus donné signe de
vie” (113). While his mother proves unaffected by the devastation and is still ﬁrmly
rooted within the ideology fostering class division and prejudice, Michel is consumed
with guilt. In contrast to his mother, whose arrogance prevents her ﬁom considering
Gitane’s well being, Michel criticizes himself for not having gone to check on Gitane and
her family immediately following the hurricane. We see the beginning of his rupture
with the life and values he had before: no longer does he imitate without question his
parents’ attitudes. For readers, this harsh portrayal of Michel’s mother and the contrast
between the two perspectives provides them with guidelines, so to speak, as to what is
“right” and “wrong.” Michel is the altruistic, “good” character whereas the mother has
become the self-centered and egotistical “bad” character.

Michel’s altruism develops further when he disobeys his parents to answer a plea
heard on the radio for volunteers. Still concerned for Gitane and her family, Michel
sneaks out of the house to assist those who had been left homeless. Though his desperate
search to ﬁnd Gitane fails, he comes to realize that he has changed, and that the boy he
was no longer exists:

Je n’aurais pas pu expliquer clairement pourquoi je pleurais. Peut-étre a
cause de la punition injuste a mes yeux que mes parents m’avaient
inﬂigée. Peut-étre a cause d’Hugo et des bouleversements qu’il avait
apportés. A cause de lui, un certain garcon était mort en moi. Un garcon

qui ne remettait jamais rien en question, un garcon timide, respectueux,

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aveuglément obéissant. 11 me semblait que cette nuit-la marquait la ﬁn de
ma vie d’enfant et que [. . .] ce meme matin-la, je m’e’tais reveillé adulte.
(123)
Michel’s childish “innocence” has been demolished along with his neighborhood and
much of the rest of the city. The minute he took action in contradiction with his life
station (a bourgeois seeking to help the poor) Michel became, symbolically, an adult.
Hurricane Hugo both acted as a catalyst for and represented the evolution within Michel,
leaving in its wake a new, vivid awareness for certain social truths. He would no longer
follow without question the example set by his parents, who despite everything remain
very much grounded in their bourgeois perspective, which we see at the end of the text
when Gitane ﬁnally does resurface:
Hier, Gitane aussi est venue nous voir, 1e gros Georges entre les bras,
Patience et Gloria a la queue leu leu derriere elle. Sa maison du quartier
Gachette est completement détruite. Elle habite sous une tente pres de
l’aéroport. Elle ne pourra pas revenir chez nous tant qu’il n’y aura pas
d’école pour Patience et Gloria. Petite Mere a inutilement discuté avec
elle, puis l’a payee. Quant a moi, je l’ai longuement embrassée pour lui
dire au revoir. (127)
Again, the contrast between the attitudes of Michel and his mother represent the former’s
rupture with the conventions he had previously heeded. Whereas the mother shows no
compassion whatsoever for Gitane’s loss, trying instead to force her back to work
(exemplifying her attempt to maintain control and re-establish her superior position),

Michel acts with genuine kindness and ﬁiendship. This friendship is signiﬁcant because

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it transcends socially acceptable boundaries. Through his experiences and growing
awareness Michel breaks free of the ideological constraints imposed by his society.
Condé’s young readers, who have likely been able to relate to Michel’s circumstances
thus far, are here guided in what the “proper” behavior and attitude is. They are
encouraged to look beyond class and see the poor, as well as immigrants, as human
beings with lives and concerns equally signiﬁcant to those of the rich, and who are
equally if not more subject to hardships in life. Michel’s gesture of ﬁiendship and his
complete lack of prejudice or arrogance at the end of the text demonstrate what Condé
sees as the ideal. As the author she is writing with the intention to promote a certain way
of behaving, which is communicated through Michel. He represents what is “ri t” and
appropriate in terms of interpersonal relations across social boundaries, and comes to
signify what the future may hold, symbolized in his refusal to perpetuate his parents’
bourgeois attitude.

Condé demonstrates to her young, impressionable readership how lives are
affected by socio-economic stratiﬁcation by highlighting the privilege enjoyed by upper
classes and the stark contrast between the bourgeois lifestyle and that of the poor. By
employing the voice of a relatable bourgeois protagonist, she impresses upon them their
role and responsibility with respect to the economic struggles and structural inequalities
embedded in their societies. Moudileno, as established previously, has stressed that an
author of children’s literature has the task of providing new generations with the means
of moving past ignorance and prejudice (246). Condé herself, in speaking of Réves
amers, says that writing a children’s book is a way of ﬁghting prejudice at its roots

(“Pan-Aﬁicanism”). By educating children to look beyond socially constructed

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inequalities, and to appreciate their own role in these constructs, the ignorance fueling
prejudice will eventually diminish signiﬁcantly, if it is not entirely eliminated. This
position is reestablished in Hugo le terrible, which counters the prejudice passed on to
younger generations, as we see in the evolution of Michel’s relationship with his parents.
Condé speaks directly to children of the Antillean bourgeoisie, seeking to change their
perspective and therefore end the cycle of prejudice. As discussed earlier, the
signiﬁcance of Condé’s addressing the Antillean upper classes is tremendous, as these are
the individuals who will create policies and make decisions directly impacting their
societies and how they function in terms of class and socioeconomics. Condé
encourages, as with Réves amers, a more sympathetic and informed perspective,
providing young readers, the future generations of leaders, with tools to alter the
circumstances perpetuating social inequalities.

In terms of reproducing poverty, this text addresses that very issue. Many people
may acknowledge the injustice of economic inequality while at the same time
disassociating themselves from their own role in its perpetuation. Attitudes such as those
of Michel’s parents greatly contribute to the maintenance of class division and the
exploitation of the poor. Even Michel, who did not consider himself superior but who
was nevertheless integrated in a lifestyle and ideology normalizing class division, was
guilty of propagating the cycle of dependence between classes and the resulting social
and economic inequalities. Michel’s “escape” from that ideology, or rather his
experiences provoking that escape, serves as a wake up call to readers. Understanding
one’s own contribution to others’ misery through passive acceptance of the status quo is

an important ﬁrst step in changing societies and altering the class-conscious ideologies

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that permeate them. It is equally important for young readers to understand more fully
what those members of society living in abject poverty experience daily. Hugo le terrible
makes clear the bourgeoisie’s role in maintaining socio-economic stratiﬁcation, and
exposes stark, troubling contrasts between the living conditions of the wealthier and the
poor. Providing bourgeois readers with a more in-depth look at the poor sections of their
societies can foster compassion and awareness. In Réves amers, the text’s signiﬁcance
lay in its appeal to readers’ sensitivities, promoting a compassionate outlook on
immigration and on what immigrants must endure. Hugo le terrible draws readers’
attention to their own place in society and how that position may contribute to others’
misfortune.

Gisele Pineau’s young adult novel, Case mensonge (2004), also provides readers
with a realistic representation of poverty in Antillean societies, yet ﬁ'om the poor’s
perspective. A detailed portrait of the Antillean “ghetto,” this text both exempliﬁes
Rey’s and Laguerre’s description of peripheral neighborhoods, and encourages awareness
for the realities faced by the poor every day. The ghetto depicted in the text, Roucou, has
a bad reputation, is the incarnation of misery, has no lights at night, and no police.
Violence and drug trafﬁcking are commonplace, and families of eight live in two-room
shacks, while the majority of dwellings are either in ruins or lacking in basic comforts.
Roucou’s inhabitants have been abandoned — abandoned by the authorities, abandoned by
the world. Clearly, this portrayal intends to impress on the reader a reality faced by a
large number of people in his or her society. Yet making this reality more available to
young readers, the implied narrator, twelve-year-old Djinala, invites the readership into

her struggles with both society and family. Though upper class readers may not be able

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to relate speciﬁcally to Dj inala’s circumstances, the fact that the story is told in the ﬁrst
person makes her life and the issues she faces considerably more accessible. Moreover,
Dj inala gives voice to the poor: readers have no choice but to recognize their humanity
and the misery they suffer at the hands of upper classes and authorities.

The story revolves around two main issues —— the lottery system for housing, which
will be discussed, and Djinala’s discovery of who her “true” mother is. As events unfold,
Dj inala discovers that the woman she knew as her mother is actually her grandmother,
while the woman she knew as her sister is in fact her birth mother. Her grandmother,
Camille, had decided to raise Dj inala as her own to spare Laurence, the birth mother, the
humiliation and inevitable social rejection of being a mother at fourteen. While this
situation reveals certain social structures, Dj inala’s revelation, which takes place toward
the end of the text, occupies a relatively brief portion of the narrative. While I will
address this revelation a bit later, the more pressing issue related to young readers is the
situation facing Guadeloupe’s poor.

Life for Roucou’s inhabitants is difﬁcult and suspended in a waiting game: “Ici
tout le monde attend quelque chose et surtout demain, comme un bon morceau de ﬁ'uit a
pain. 11 y en a, c’est une allocation du gouvemement. D’autres, c’est un travail. Et la
majorité, c’est un logement neuf dans les irnmeubles en construction [...] que monsieur 1e
maire a promis aux ‘défavorisés’ pendant la derniere carnpagne électorale” (8). The
almost gloomy tone of this description reminds us of the misery facing poor Antilleans,
such as the lack of education and social aid, or the fears imposed by rumors of
renovations. Yet the hope the inhabitants harbor, as seen here, depends entirely on the

government. We see how the cycle of dependence, and the reproduction of poverty, is

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facilitated. Djinala, who observes the desperate situation of those living around her, is
herself waiting, along with her mother18 for a new home through the lottery system.
Interestingly, however, Camille perceives the other inhabitants of Roucou as lazy,
irresponsible, and preoccupied with drinking and dancing, which is the motivating factor
behind her desire to move. She has internalized an ideology correlating poverty with a
lack of morality or ethics. Camille’s attitude mimics the worst of the bourgeois attitude,
despite her own position as a member of the lower classes. She remains ignorant that she
and the other Rocuou inhabitants stay poor precisely because of the decisions and
perspectives of the upper classes, while she maintains the belief that the poor are poor
because they do not try hard enough. Her attitude recalls that of the colonized subject
who has internalized colonial ideology, and who looks to the colonizing culture as
superior while denigrating her own people. Through Camille we see that class relations
within Antillean societies are both a result and a reﬂection of colonial inﬂuence, and also
reﬂect on a smaller scale the relationship between the Antilles (the colonized) and France
(the colonizer). Yet for Camille, the question remains whether she will be able to escape
her station in life, and climb the social hierarchy. Ironically, the answer lies entirely in
government hands and its lottery system, which in reality does nothing to alleviate the
misery for many living in poverty.

The lottery system is presented more as a mechanism of maintaining control over
peripheral neighborhoods, such as Roucou, than as a true solution. By providing a
glimmer of hope, the government paciﬁes potential uprisings and maintains cultural

domination by normalizing metropolitan French standards of comfort in the minds of

 

’8 To avoid confusion throughout my analysis, Djinala’s “mother” will refer to Camille, while
Laurence will remain her sister.

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peripheral populations (Rey 205). In the text, the lottery system is the most prominent
mechanism serving this purpose, allowing the Roucou inhabitants to embrace the
comforts of metropolitan standards of living. Yet on the other hand, being chosen brings
for some feelings of uncertainty, communicating the consequences of having lived in
abject poverty for so long:
113 attendaient de voir pour croire. Parce que la chance n’avait pas souvent
croisé leur route. Ceux-la n’osaient pas s’approcher des irnmeubles, de
peur qu’ils ne disparaissent, tel un réve brisé par la sonnerie du réveille-
matin. Ils gardaient la lettre du maire pliée en quatre dans leur chemise ct
sursautaient au moindre bruit, comme si des méchants pouvaient surgir a
tout moment pour les déposséder. (62)
Reestablislring the fact that Antillean poor suffer a severe lack of social assistance,
Pineau provides readers with insight into how, even in the face of fortune, the poor have
been conditioned into “accepting” a life of extreme poverty and hardship. Just as Condé
attempts in Réves amers and Hugo le terrible to provoke reﬂection on the part of the
reader, Pineau too shows a desire to force acknowledgment among young readers for
their advantages in life. She accomplishes this by evoking sympathy and even shame.l9
This sense of shame is re-enforced as letters informing families of their fate in the lottery

system continue to be passed out.

 

’9 For centuries shame has been a major factor in the socialization of children (see Norbert Elias’s
The Civlizing Process). The association between certain attitudes or behaviors and a feeling of shame or
guilt guides children toward the “proper” attitude or behavior. We see evidence of this dating back at least
to the sixteenth century in writings such as those by Erasme and Rabelais, and which has continued over
the centuries in literature for children. Pineau’s evocation of shame, though not explicit or accusatory and
perhaps even unintentional, can be construed as an effective means of inculcating in her young readers
compassion for the Antillean poor and an awareness for their own tendency to take their comforts for

granted.

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Dj inala’s family consists of herself (the youngest of three), her older brother and
sister (both of whom will be leaving soon), and her mother. Dj inala’s closest friend in
Roucou, Mildred, lives with ﬁve brothers and sisters as well as both her parents in a two-
room shack. Yet it is Djinala and her mother, not Mildred and her family, who receive
housing through the lottery system. As Mildred’s mother, Olga, sees it: “On a donné les
appartements aux mieux lotisl” (67) Families in less desperate situations were chosen to
move into the new constructions, revealing the inefﬁcacy and injustice of a system that
ignores individual circumstances. Furthermore, the government’s lack of consideration
reestablishes the lottery system as a means of control, rather than as a genuine attempt at
alleviating the misery experienced by the poor. Young readers are led to understand both
the dependency of the poor on the authorities, as well as how these same authorities fail
the people of poor neighborhoods. It is important for these readers to see the government
and upper classes from the point of view of the oppressed so that they might come to look
on current social practices with a critical eye. As we shall see, Pineau provides plenty of
examples in the text that infer corruption or weaknesses among authorities in Antillean
societies, and strongly encourages readers’ adoption of a critical perspective.

For instance, in response to her rejection, Olga circulates the neighborhood
collecting signatures and openly accusing those who were chosen, such as Djinala and
her mother, of using dishonest means or witchcraft. Olga directs her anger at her fellow
inhabitants instead of at the real guilty party, the government. This reaction indicates an
unthinking acceptance of an ideology placing the upper classes in a superior position,
while laying blame on the lower classes for any social ills. In this sense, her mentality is

close to that of Camille, who blames the poor for their own misery. Yet Olga, who has

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been denied the possibility of climbing socially, lashes out and helps create an
atmosphere of anger, hatred, and resentment so strong that a threat of an uprising
becomes decidedly more real. It is only then that the outside world takes notice, again
proving how overlooked poor Antillean neighborhoods are.

In response to Roucou’s outrage, political ﬁgures seize the opportunity to further
their own agendas and gain public support. M. Réaudoir, the current mayor’s adversary,
becomes the spokesperson for Roucou’s disillusioned masses. It is interesting, however,
that he should choose this particular moment to embrace the poor and their cause. This
choice indicates an underlying desire to discredit the present government while
advocating his own rise to power: “Oui! Vous avez été trompés, messieurs et dames! [. . .]
Le maire a fait des preferences. Et si j’avais été a sa place. . .” (67). Even in their attempts
to gain some control over their circumstances, the inhabitants of Roucou continue to be
exploited, as their anger is manipulated for political gain. Pineau explicitly condemns
such behavior, speaking through the inhabitants: “Menteur! Voleur! vociféra un
dénommé Bulgou, un pére de dix enfants qui logeait dans une case bancale a la sortie de
Quartier Roucou. On n’attend rien de vous autres, les politiciens!” (68-69) Pineau’s
readership once again encounters a perspective where authority is an oppressive force,
and readers are made to understand that current governmental means of dealing with
class are impractical. As Réaudoir realizes his ignorance with respect to Roucou’s
situation (that months of bureaucratic red tape do not constitute a practical solution to the
inhabitants’ immediate needs), it is brought to the readers’ attention that perhaps new
solutions need to be created, provoking reﬂection on how they themselves might make

changes.

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Equally culpable in exploiting Roucou’s anger is the mayor himself, who
immediately attacks Réaudoir. He presents an array of charts and tables, illustrating how
all the “défavorisés” will receive new lodging: “Tout le monde aura un logement neuﬂ
scandait-il en frappant du poing sur la table. Je suis victime d’une cabale, orchestrée par
mes adversaires politiques” (85). Attempting to maintain public support, the mayor
makes grandiose promises that all families living in poverty will receive new housing.

He even goes so far as to knock on every door in Roucou, draped with a tri-color scarf
and trailed by his council.20 He promises every family a place on the next list, insisting
he is familiar with their personal circumstances. To begin with, these promises are
impossible to keep if he intends to continue using the lottery system, which supposedly
chooses families at random. One can assume that such promises are empty, serving only
to pacify the growing resentment in Roucou. As Laguerre has pointed out, peripheral
neighborhoods and slums are a source of votes for political ﬁgures (5), and it is clear here
that the mayor wishes to maintain their support by playing on their fears and emotions
with no intention of re—examining his current policies. For the mayor, the people living
in poverty in Roucou are game pieces to be manipulated so that in the end he comes out
on top. His compassion for the poor is insincere, as we see when he encounters Djinala
and Camille: “Lorsqu’il S’est présenté dans notre cour, il a jeté un regard lourd de dégoﬁt
aux carcasses de voitures avant de faire un grand sourire a manman” (86). He falsely
congratulates Djinala’s mother for having been chosen, wishing her a “bonne integration"

(86), acknowledging her current marginalized existence outside the boundaries of

 

2° The mayor’s decision to wear a scarf resembling the French flag indicates his assimilation to
France, and his internalization of colonial ideology. In addition, Pineau illustrates once again, through this
representation, how the Antilles have been affected by such ideology in terms of class division, and how
the social structure resembles the dependency relationship not only between classes within Antillean
societies, but between the Antilles and France.

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“normal” society. His refusal of the drinks Camille offers and his parting words in the
form of a campaign slogan solidiﬁes our impression of his villainous character. Pineau’s
representation of the mayor situates him as an exemplary embodiment of the exploiter
group as well as of corrupt government ofﬁcials. As in Condé’s two texts, Pineau creates
a stark contrast between “good” and “bad” characters. The “bad,” seen in such characters
as the mayor, illustrate to young readers what is wrong with their society. The “good”
are presented as those who are oppressed and who ﬁght against that oppression.
This scene between the mayor and Camille also illustrates how the regard of the
upper classes can have psychological impacts:
Elle s’est assise un moment sur son lit. Son regard ﬂottait dans la case
come a la recherche d’un objet dont elle aurait pu tirer quelque ﬁerté,
une pendule héritée de ses parents, un tableau de maitre, une cafetiere
électrique neuve, un buffet verni, des livres relies, un vase en cristal. ..
Elle semblait effrayée par ce qui l’entourait. Elle voyait soudain l’intérieur
de la case avec les yeux du maire et de ses conseillers, et il lui apparassait
dans sa brutale pauvreté. (87, my emphasis)
Camille, who has so far considered herself above Roucou’s other inhabitants, ﬁnds
herself humiliated when the mayor’s conduct reminds her of her inferior social position.
The emotion conveyed in Dj inala’s observation of her mother at this moment pulls the
young reader into the point of view of the poor, creating empathy. As with Pineau’s
descriptions of those who have been conditioned to accept an unequal social structure,
here she fosters a sense of shame in young readers. Perhaps the reader recalls moments

when he or she behaved similarly to the mayor, looking down on those less fortunate then

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themselves, or of behaving in an alienating or condescending manner. Demonstrating to
readers the potential consequences of such behavior (humiliation, shame, and a sense of
worthlessness), this scene forces them to reﬂect on their own attitudes regarding social
class and poverty.
For Roucou’s inhabitants, however, the attitudes and behaviors of the upper
classes prevail. The uprising is quashed and the anger subdued by political ploys:
Apres l’offensive du maire en place, les choses s’étaient tassées comme
par enchantement. F inalement, personne n’avait pris d’assaut les
appartements neufs. Les meetings organises par Olga avaient attire de
moins en moins de monde. Et les gens étaient retoumés a leurs
occupations en surveillant d’un oeil le nouveau chantier qui avait débuté
sur une ancienne plantation de bananiers. Tout était rentré dans l’ordre.
(90)
The government’s response to Roucou’s anger, or rather their refusal to ﬁnd a viable
solution, demonstrates the extent to which marginalized people living in peripheral
neighborhoods, or in slums, are neither taken seriously nor considered important enough
to be paid serious attention. Despite the validity of Roucou’s grievances, their situation is
manipulated and turned into a political tool. The only actual problem according to
authorities is the threat to their power. This unsettling end to the upheaval is reminiscent
of Condé’s endings to Réves amers and Hugo le terrible in that the social structure does
not change. It is instead made clear to young readers that current social practices in

Antillean societies perpetuate division between the classes, and foster a relationship of

115

dependency. They are again guided to reﬂect on their societies and on their own role in
how those societies function.

As for Dj inala, she experiences a sort of coming into being, not completely
unlike that of Michel in Hugo le terrible. Yet for Dj inala, instead of becoming aware of
her contributions to the exploitation of the poor, she comes to better understand herself.
The revelation of who her real mother is21 brings about reﬂection and a need to deﬁne
herself. She is confused about her identity, which can be interpreted not only as
confusion about her biological roots and the decision to hide the truth ﬁ'om her, but as her
conﬂict in being caught between her mother’s values and the reality of the Situation she
sees everyday in Roucou. Her compassion for her neighbors and ﬁiends is often
contradicted by Camille’s bitter perspective and sense of superiority. Yet in the end,
coinciding with the end of Roucou’s uprising, Dj inala ﬁnally ﬁnds resolution. She comes
to understand that a mother is not necessarily deﬁned by biology, nor is one’s identity.22
She is also able to ﬁnd a balance between her new, “better” life and her life in Roucou.
For instance, at the end of the text we see Djinala two years later and although she has
left the hardship of extreme poverty behind, she has not turned her back on the people
who remain there. She and Mildred remain close ﬁiends and she often joins in Roucou’s
regular festivities alongside her former neighbors. Even Camille has come to appreciate
to an extent the life she left behind. She and Olga make peace, and two years later a

photo of the two women remains in a place of honor in the new apartment. Perhaps

 

2' As Olga attempts to rile up the neglected inhabitants of Roucou, she lashes out at those who
were chosen for the new apartments. Because Camille is one of those individuals, Olga reveals in her
anger the story behind Camille’s move to Roucou — that Laurence is in fact the real mother of Djinala and
Camille wanted to start over in an area where they were unknown and where she would be able to pass
Djinala off as her own.

22In many ways, all of the novels discussed in this chapter challenge many myths or socially
accepted “norms” regarding families, “race,” and identity. This is important in challenging young readers
to re-evaluate their pre-conceived notions of what is and is not, or what should and should not be.

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Camille’s altered perspective is a result of her degrading experience with the mayor,
which forced her to see herself as those she detested — the poor and “trashy” inhabitants
of Roucou. Or perhaps having to deal with her daughter’s hurt and confusion is
responsible for the change. In either case, her transformation and, more importantly,
Djinala’s refusal to abandon or ignore where She comes from is signiﬁcant for young
readers. In this case, Pineau seems to speak more directly to the poor who have managed
to climb socially, as opposed to children born into the upper classes. She suggests that
even if one is able to escape absolute poverty, it is crucial not to adopt the attitudes
fostering socio-economic stratiﬁcation. It is necessary to remember where one comes
from, and not to turn one’s back on the past. In terms of upper class children, this
message could be understood as allegorical. She encourages upper class youths not to
forget that they share a history of exploitation, enslavement, and objectiﬁcation with their
poor compatriots of today. While it is uncertain that a child will grasp the subtlety of
allegory, her intentions seem clear, given her interest in Antillean history. She says,
while speaking of another of her texts for adults, Femmes des Antilles (1998): “I wanted
to let today’s Antilleans speak to express what is most profound, what is most remote, in
terms of history. It’s always the same process, which consists of learning to come to
terms with one’s past. As living human beings, [. . .] we cannot remain in the past” (RAL
183). This notion of understanding and coming to terms with the past while living in the
present is equally relevant for Case mensonge, where on one hand she portrays a poor
family able to better its circumstances without forgetting its past, and where on the other
she appeals to upper classes not to forget their past, encouraging class solidarity. The

text’s tendency to draw readers into the pain and anger experienced by the poor also

117

facilitates a more compassionate awareness in young readers for what the poor of their
societies must endure, and the manipulative power of authorities that leave the poor
essentially helpless. It is hoped that, for the sake of Antillean societies’ future, today’s
young readers will reﬂect on how society both is and how it should be, and that such
reﬂection will positively inﬂuence their choices and decisions.

Case mensonge, as with Réves amers and Hugo le terrible, provides a realistic,
touching representation of how socio-economic stratiﬁcation has affected the lives and
psychological as well as physical well-being of so many in Antillean societies. Yet none
of these stories allow society as a whole to change in the end. There is no dramatic
resolution to the gap between rich and poor, or between misery and comfort. According
to Stephens, “[e]ndings reafﬁrm what society regards as important issues and preferred
outcomes [. . .] even when [. . .] ‘good’ fails to win out, simply because readers formulate
their sense of the ending in those terms” (43). While clearly the perpetuation of
stratiﬁcation is not a desired outcome in real life, the provocation of reﬂection and
perhaps even an altered perspective are. By allowing only the circumstances of the
protagonist to change, the authors maintain a realistic portrayal while highlighting the
ignorance and exploitation so ingrained in socio-economic division. This realism is
important in inspiring readers to become active in their awareness, or to seek changes in
the current situation. As discussed previously, readers of Condé and Pineau’s text are
likely to be predominantly ﬁom upper classes, who have means of accessing the
literature. These children, in turn, are those who, precisely because of their upper class
status, will one day create, implement, and change policies currently in place. Condé and

Pineau attempt to convey social truths, fostering in these readers awareness and

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compassion — the most efficient way to inﬂuence how such decisions will affect Antillean
societies. Moreover, once children recognize the exploitative power structures
continuing to oppress the poor in Antillean societies, they will perhaps be able to also
challenge the Antilles’ continuing dependency on France. These texts, while focusing on
situations speciﬁc to Antillean societies, also reﬂect situations that have existed for
centuries between France and the Antilles. Antilleans in France are often regarded with
disdain, and not as French citizens. In addition, many white French men and women both
knowingly and unknowingly perpetuate social stratiﬁcation between themselves and
Antilleans, particularly black Antilleans, through their attitudes and behaviors. Finally,
the dominance of French political, economic, and cultural structures further maintain
social stratiﬁcation between the countries. A child’s awareness for the inequalities
addressed in the texts will hopeﬁrlly extend to the inequalities between the Antilles and
France, perhaps bringing an eventual end to the relationship of dependence.

In terms of Antillean children’s literature as a whole, the previous chapter
regarding “race” left open questions as to the potential of this literature to challenge
French hegemony and the enduring presence of colonial ideology. However, in the
works by Condé and Pineau just discussed, the criticism of such ideology is clear, as the
authors have attempted to cut short the prejudice and cycle of dependency ridden with
colonial mentality. In the chapters that follow, it will become clearer whether this
criticism is generally favored, or if in fact Antillean children’s literature simply

perpetuates conﬂicting and contradictory senses of Antillean selﬂrood.

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CHAPTER 3
UNDERSTANDING OTHERNESS
Edward Said has said of Orientalism that it “was ultimately a political vision of
reality whose structure promoted the difference between the familiar (Europe, the West,
“us”) and the strange (the Orient, the East, “them”)” (Orientalism 43). He speaks here of
western dominance over the East, and the ways in which that domination is maintained.
Promoting otherness, or the differences setting an individual or people apart from oneself,
is one such mechanism. Much of the power found in this notion lay in its tendency to
foster fear of what is different, or to solidify feelings of superiority and inferiority. Yet
otherness goes beyond the comparison of West and East. Fear of difference, as well as
fascination with the “exotic,” can be found in all societies, not the least among which are
postcolonial societies. In the French Antilles, where ethnic and cultural diversity as well
as métissage and a continuing relationship with France lay at the heart of the social
makeup, otherness is ingrained into the everyday. The question is whether these
societies’ perceptions of difference can be inﬂuenced so as to promote a tolerant and
cooperative environment? Literature has, as Said asserts, been a force in reinforcing
otherness and power structures. He says that literature, a supposedly neutral cultural
form, disguises its power by focusing on subordinate or dominated cultures and
interpreting them in the light of unchanging European and non-European essences
(Culture 191). That is, the cultures are represented as either European (the familiar) or as
non-European (Other and strange), thereby imposing on the reader this same binary sense
of what is “normal” and “abnormal.” Can there be a literature, however, that challenges

these ideas, and promotes instead both acknowledgment and acceptance of difference as

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“normal”? The didactic, normalizing nature of children’s literature provides a signiﬁcant
opportunity to foster such tolerance, or to perpetuate fear. In this chapter, I will focus on
representations of otherness in several Antillean children’s books, the presence of which
demonstrates that Antillean authors have recognized the importance of shaping their
children’s perceptions of difference. Indeed, understanding that difference is neither bad
nor to be feared is instrumental in diminishing prejudice and intolerance. Throughout
this chapter, I will address the representation of otherness in texts by writers such as Alex
Godard, Yves Pinguilly, Ernest Pepin, Gisele Pineau, Maryse Condé, and Patrick
Chamoiseau while attempting to answer several fundamental questions. First and
foremost, why is it important to think about how children, particularly Antillean children,
are exposed to difference? What types of difference are being represented (i.e. ethnic,
cultural, economic)? What might such representations reveal about the authors? I 8 there
a difference between how very young children and older adolescents are presented with
notions of otherness? Can it be said that these texts, and their creators, contribute to a
binary perception of self and other, or do they succeed in blurring the lines that dictate
what is “normal” or not? It is my intention in this chapter to explore how and why
various Antillean authors have chosen to include representations of otherness in their
children’s texts, and how that choice may affect both the individual child and society.
The spread of the Western world’s fascination with “Others” and the exotic can
be traced to the nineteenth century French Exhibitions, in which cultures, particularly
Aﬁican cultures, were put on display in an effort to introduce Europeans to an
“authentic” Africa. Catherine Hodeir observes that the Parisian public “had the

impression of being privy to an authentic African experience. The visitor’s attention to

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the African architecture on display was focused on its stylistic vagaries and novelty, its
exotic otherness” (241). Yet this “authentic” version of African life was in reality no
more than a performance, and an ideological rendering. Hodeir points out: “The model
of a sanitized African village actualized ideas in colonial hygiene and offered an
imagined African landscape for European visitors who might be discomﬁted by a real trip
to Aﬁica” (241 ). The organizers no doubt wished to promote a positive view of
colonialism, and in doing so promoted an artiﬁcial “authenticity” of an “other” culture,
provoking a near obsession with otherness, particularly the so-called exotic. In addition,
by constructing knowledge about “Others,” albeit doctored and stereotyped, these
Exhibitions contributed to the creation and maintenance of certain power relations. As
Isabel Santaolalla tells us: “L . .] power is exercised through the production itself of
knowledge about the Other” (10). In other words, the creation of the Other results in a
power imbalance favoring the creator, as it is through that creation (of the stereotype) that
they gain control.

As Homi Bhaba argues, stereotypes give “access to an ‘identity’ which is
predicated as much on mastery and pleasure as it is on anxiety and defence, for it is a
form of multiple and contradictory belief in its recognition of difference and disavowal of
it” (107). That is, the stereotype acknowledges difference, but “packages” it, so to speak,
in a way that renders it less threatening. Bhaba goes on to say that the stereotype is a
means by which to maintain an originality threatened by the differences of “race,”
culture, and so forth (107). Hence, an “origin ”identity can only be achieved in terms
of the Other. Yet how do another person or culture’s differences actually contribute to

the stability of one’s own (original) sense of self? Stuart Hall contends that identity

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“means, or connotes, the process of identiﬁcation of saying that this here is the same as
that, or we are the same together, in this respect. [It is] constructed through splitting.
Splitting between that which one is, and that which is the other” (“Old and New” 47-48).
In other words, the self is deﬁned by identiﬁcation with a group, culture, ethnicity that is
the “same” or “normal,” and by contrast with those that are “different” or “abnormal.”

Much of what distinguishes “same” from “different” lay in the ideologies
imposed on societies, a mindset typically inculcated today through media such as books,
articles, and television or ﬁlm. That is, the words and images form ideas in the social
collectivity of what is normal and familiar, and what is not. For instance, Said speaks of
a textual attitude, in which a person comes to relate what is found in a book with reality,
pointing out the authority of text in fostering stereotypes (Orientalism 93). When
conﬁonted in a text with “something relatively unknown and threatening and previously
distant” (93), a person can come to rely on the text’s depiction, which may very well be
biased, derogatory, or exoticized. Travel books are a perfect example of such authority:
“The idea [. . .] is that people, places, and experiences can always be described by a book,
so much so that the book (or text) acquires a greater authority, and use, even than the
actuality” (Said, Orientalism 93). The culture is diminished to an overly simpliﬁed and
“accessible” representation, thereby fostering a skewed perception among the readers.
Problems such as this can be and often are found as well in ﬁction for both adults and
children, especially if the author or publisher hails from a dominant (i.e. colonizing)
society. In these societies, such representations reinforce both the reader’s identiﬁcation
with his or her own (superior) culture, and the different or exotic nature of “other”

cultures. Yet in colonized or postcolonial societies, and even among “minority”

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populations in dominant societies, such representations may pose a signiﬁcant challenge
to individuals’ senses of self as well as to the society or group’s collective identity.
For example, Fanon recounts in Peau noire, mosques blancs his experiences of
being Objectiﬁed in the eyes of Whites:
‘Sale negre!’ ou simplement: ‘Tiens, un negre!’ [. . .] Enfermé dans cette
objectivité écrasante, j’implorai autrui. Son regard libérateur, glissant sur
mon corps devenu soudain nul d’aspérités, me rend une légereté que je
croyais perdue ct, m’absentant du monde, me rend au monde. Mais la-bas,
juste a contre-pente, je bute, et l’autre, par gestes, attitudes, regards, me
ﬁxe, dans le sens or‘I l’on ﬁxe une preparation par un colorant. Je
m’emportai, exigeai une explication... Rien n’y ﬁt. J ’explosai. Voici les
menus morceaux par un autre moi réunis. (88)
Seeing oneself through the eyes of the Other (the white man) is explained here as a
validation of self, though in this case it is not a validation of self-worth, but of one’s
inferiority. Fanon’s difference, as is observed and understood by the Whites he
encounters, is projected back on himself, fostering a self image mirroring that of those
whose impressions of him have been strongly inﬂuenced by exotic, and often degrading,
representations of non—white peoples. As Anne Malena says: “Seeing oneself through the
eyes of the other, one learns to perfect an image of oneself in constant dialogue with that

other” (53).1 Self-deﬁnition becomes in part a reﬂection of the Other’s gaze. The

 

lMalena goes on to discuss the presence and/or absence of visibility. That is, the image of oneself
(a speciﬁc ethnicity, class, and so on) in the everyday, such as in literature, is important to one’s sense of
self. The absence of such images, whether it is due to indifference, racism, or discrimination, makes it
difﬁcult to maintain a dialogue with others. She also speaks of language in the same terms. For instance,
she tells us: “By having to speak French in school, the language of the other, children are denied the very
support of the semiotic chain constitutive of their selves” (53). This argument is indeed relevant in

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experience F anon describes is exemplary of how signiﬁcant the notion of difference is in
social discourses. Familiarity and strangeness can play a tremendous role in deﬁning
oneself, or in being deﬁned, and such deﬁnition takes place not only in everyday
interactions with people, but in the books read and ﬁlms seen. Literature does indeed
normalize certain attitudes and beliefs speciﬁc to the culture in which the literature is
produced. In children’s literature, where ideas are conveyed with the speciﬁc intention of
normalizing them, and of socializing the child reader into a certain ideology,
representations of difference can have a strong impact on the child’s self-image as well as
on his or her perceptions of others. What happens, for example, when a young reader
ﬁnds himself confronting representations of his or her culture, ethnicity, or class that
reﬂect exoticism, or inferiority? Or what might be the consequences if the binary of
familiar/strange is consistently reinforced through word and image? Otherness is not an
“adult” concept, as it is taught to children who then grow up and perpetuate those same
ideas of what is strange or abnormal, and what is familiar and therefore normal by
teaching them to their own children. Children’s literature may then provide the tools to
either assist in this perpetuation, or to intervene. It is this question of literature’s role in
developing attitudes surrounding difference in the Antilles that is at the heart of this
chapter.

Like most children, those in the Antilles must confront differences between
people on many different levels. Yet in the Antilles these confrontations are made more
complex by a history of opposition between Aﬁican and European values, the inherent

diversity of culture and ethnicity, and me'tissage. As Maryse Condé tells us: “Ce postulat

 

Antillean societies, where not only are the majority of media consistently biased toward French or “white”
attitudes, but where French is the official and accepted language in schools and administration.

125

de base, Afrique contre Europe, est en réalité un postulat raciste hérité des premiers
temps coloniaux, et qui recouvre 1e suivant, Sauvagerie contre Civilisation” (Bossale 6).
Colonialism branded the Aﬁican continent and all its cultures and peoples as savage and
in desperate need of Europe’s “moral” instruction. By promoting the inferiority of
African peoples through their physical and cultrual differences (e.g. Exhibitions),
colonialists were able to remain at the top of their constructed hierarchies. This hierarchy
passed to the Americas with colonization and slavery, and continued to ﬂourish over time
as racist and intolerant ideologies were imposed on generation after generation. Now, as
Condé points out, many Antilleans feel they need to choose between Africa and Europe,
as though it were that simple (Bossale 6). The ideological stress of difference between
the two continents and their cultures has affected many Antilleans. Assimilation, a result
of the successful inculcation of colonial ideology, can problematize identiﬁcation with a
group and ideas of what is “other” as it fosters division among groups that are otherwise
Similar. For instance, colonial racial discourse has, as I have discussed in chapter one,
fostered various levels of inferiority complexes among the non-white Antillean
population. Those who have internalized this discourse perceive the “white race” as
superior, and make every attempt to achieve “whiteness” through cultural assimilation.
As a result, those individuals who have not ﬁrlly adopted the French way of thinking and
being become Others in the eyes of the assimilated, in spite of their physical similarities.
For children, the struggle to negotiate between their identiﬁcation with a particular ethnic
group and the negation of that identity through assimilated values can challenge their

sense of self.

126

Me'tissage as well has created situations in which some children do not belong to
one particular group, thus complicating their identiﬁcation with something that is “same.”
For example, a child whose father is white and mother is black could be considered to
belong to both or neither of these “races.” Either way, the child may face uncertainty as
to which group he should or can identify with, and may be left feeling alienated from
both himself and those around him. Complications found in assimilation and métissage
coupled with the everyday differences in cultural practices, physical appearance (not only
“race” but handicaps, gender, and so forth), and ideology create in the Antilles an urgent
need to assist the youth of these societies to understand, accept, and negotiate the
differences that both divide and unite them. Taking advantage of a convenient and
effective tool, children’s literature, several Antillean authors attempt to socialize in their
societies’ youth awareness, understanding, and tolerance for difference — not only that of
Others, but that of oneself as well.

For very young Antilleans, picture books provide a space in which they might
come to understand and embrace difference. Illustrations can extemalize and make
evident differences within societies, whether they are physical (i.e. ethnicity or gender),
or internal (i.e. culture, ideology). As I have established in previous chapters, picture
books are a “training ground for everyday experiences” (May 40), and in spite of the
apparent simplicity of the words, the combination of word and image can convey
important human and social issues. At the same time, the “intended audiences for picture
books are, by deﬁnition, relatively inexperienced and need to learn how to think about
their world and how to see and understand themselves and others” (Cotton 30).

Therefore, the complexity of the issues conveyed must also be accessible to young minds,

127

establishing a general but solid idea about a complicated topic such as otherness. In the
two picture books to be discussed here, Le Petit Hippopotamtam by Alex Godard and
Yves Pinguilly, and Maé et le lamantin by Alex Godard, we shall see that young readers
are drawn into stories of unconventional relationships, survival, and subversiveness, but
which communicate these messages through accessible characters and trigger images.2
The ﬁrst follows a young hippo who himself is “other” due to his abnormally small size,
and who forges a ﬁiendship with a giraffe. The latter text explores the unlikely
friendship between a young alienated girl and a manatee living in the mangrove. Both of
these picture books emphasize difference, while at the same time insist on the ability, if
not the need, to accept and embrace it.

In Le Petit Hippopotamtam, Katsi, the baby hippo, is born to loving parents who
believe he will one day grow into a big and beautiful hippopotamus like them. Yet as
time passes, Katsi remains small, never growing larger even at one year old: “A peine un
an apres sa naissance, de pres ou de loin, on voyait bien que Katsi n’était toujours pas
plus grand qu’une petite herbe de la brousse” (unpaged). By virtue of not changing, he is
becoming “other,” as he is different from the standard or “normal” hippo. The
illustrations consistently call attention to Katsi’s stature in relation with his parents, who
are by all accounts “normal,” thereby stressing the young hippo’s otherness in the
reader’s mind (see Figure 3). Also setting him apart, and which perhaps compensates in
a way for his size, Katsi proves to be an outstanding musician who uses his belly as a

”3

drum, earning him the nickname “Hippopotamtam. Despite his odd appearance,

Katsi’s talent draws many of the animals to him, demonstrating to the young reader that

 

ﬁrigger images are images that activate a reader’s response to the whole narrative (Cotton 30).
’Katsi’s nickname references African drums, which are often referred to as “tam tam,” thereby
calling attention to the African musical tradition.

128

differences, their own included, do not need to be perceived with negativity. Indeed,
Katsi’s otherness stems from both his smallness and his musical ability, as both are traits
not “normally” found among the hippo, or animal, populations. Nevertheless, Katsi
remains loved and appreciated by those around him, both in spite of and because of his
differences.

Acting as a catalyst triggering Katsi’s eventual growth, a devastating ﬁre leaves
the young hippo abandoned and helpless. On the one hand, because his size prevented
him from ﬂeeing with the other animals to escape the ﬂames, one might assume that
Godard and Pinguilly are presenting the hippo’s otherness as a Sign of weakness, or as a
hindrance to his own welfare. The images of a barren wasteland and a tiny hippopotamus
left to fend for himself provokes worry, sadness, and even fear in the reader’s mind. Yet
by fostering sympathy for Katsi, the authors draw the reader into a ﬂame of mind where
difference should not exclude one from receiving compassion or assistance. That is,
while it is Katsi’s physical limitations that have left him alone, the reader is led to “root”
for Katsi, to wish him assistance in his situation. His otherness does not prevent the
reader from perceiving him as a being with value and the right to live.

In addition, as Katsi’s otherness is deﬁned not only by his size but by his
musicality as well, the reader is encouraged to understand that differences, though there
may be some drawbacks, may also prove beneﬁcial. As Katsi’s life slips away, he turns
to his music in one desperate attempt to make his presence known to anyone who might
hear: “Et puis, sans force, pleurant, il s’allonga et se mit a tarntamer le plus fort possible”
(unpaged). Hearing this, a giraffe approaches and, seeing Katsi’s failing body, scoops

him up without hesitation: “Elle prit Katsi et l’installa sur son dos, un peu comme 1e font

129

les mamans dans les villages, avec leur bébé” (unpaged). The little hippo’s otherness, his
musical talent, has saved him, although the giraffe’s response must be equally
acknowledged. While Katsi’s drumming brought the giraffe to him, she made a choice to
help a being different from herself, an important lesson communicated to the young
readers. One’s willingness to assist another living creature in need Should not be limited
to the parameters of sameness.

As the relationship between the giraffe and Katsi develops, its signiﬁcance in
terms of promoting a positive conception of otherness becomes increasingly clear. It is a
relationship of cooperation and generosity, where the giraffe takes on a maternal role,
providing her young charge with affection and nourishment. Images such as that
depicting the giraffe feeding Katsi impresses this relationship on readers (see Figure 4).
Katsi’s diminutive stature hinders his ability to reach what available food there is, and he
must depend on this Other to help him. Without her, the young hippo would not survive,
emphasizing a need on the part of both individuals to be understanding, trusting, and
compassionate. Both must look beyond physical differences if they are to survive and
ﬁnd happiness, a lesson that can be related in particular to the diverse societies of the
French Antilles.

Cooperation among Others is vital to the health and existence not only of
individuals but of societies as well, which is made clear to the young readers when Katsi,
because of such a relationship, begins to grow. Little by little Katsi grows larger,
mirroring the developing relationship between himself and the giraffe. His physical
limitations or his “otherness” diminishes as the boundaries dividing what is different are

blurred and eventually eliminated. The irony of Katsi’s success at “norrnalness,”

130

facilitated by an Other, cannot be overlooked, as it is this very situation that embodies the
message of cooperation and tolerance.

When Katsi and his parents are ﬁnally reunited with the arrival of the rainy
season, the message of tolerance is made concrete for the young reader. Despite the
overwhelming joy of ﬁnding one another, Katsi and his parents are shown to represent
two perspectives with regard to otherness. The mother and father are overjoyed that their
son has achieved “normalcy,” but are shocked when Katsi conﬁdes that he must grow
even larger so that he might kiss the giraffe on her nose: “Mais pourquoi? Embrasser une
giraffe, ca ne se fait pas!” (unpaged) Adhering to social norms that dictate what is and is
not appropriate in terms of relationships, Katsi’s parents represent a point of view that
sees difference as inherently problematic. The idea of a hippopotamus and a giraffe
becoming close and one’s desire to kiss the other is unthinkable. Yet Katsi insists: “Si, ca
se fait: c’est elle qui m’a sauvé!” (unpaged) Not only does Katsi prove to be unaffected
by social conventions and what is or is not “normal,” he recognizes the role played by the
giraffe, the Other, in his survival, thereby placing her in a position of honor. That these
words are the last of the text is signiﬁcant, as is the image accompanying them of Katsi
and the giraffe together (see Figure 5), in that they reinforce what lesson young readers
are intended to absorb - that otherness is not to be feared and that on the contrary, it is to
be entirely embraced.

Similarly to Le Petit Hippopotamtam, Godard’s picture book Maé et le lamantin
emphasizes the need for understanding and compassion through a relationship between

an unlikely pair. A young girl, Mac, is upset by her relationship with her stepmother",

 

’The stepmother, whose name reﬂects her character, Piranhas, embodies the “evil stepmother”
present in many European fairy tales such as “Cinderella.” The absence, mental if not physical, of the

131

and forges a secret friendship with a manatee, Yaya. From the beginning Yaya is
described as different: “Lentement, tel un vaisseau, un étrange animal était sorti des eaux
troubles de la mangrove” (unpaged, emphasis added). In addition, he warns Mae not to
speak of him, or he will be in great danger, thereby calling attention to society’s fear of
the unknown. Both characters are in their own way rejected, yet their relationship, like
that between Katsi and the giraffe, represents the interdependence of all individuals, no
matter the differences, which we see as their ﬁiendship develops.

Yaya is Mae’s link with a different world, and she depends on him to protect and
guide her in the unfamiliar and at times overwhelming surroundings: “Mae découvrit
alors l’immensité bleue de la mer. De grosses vagues ﬁ'appaient avec fureur la barriere de
corail. Mae se serra contre son ami, pour se sentir moins petite” (unpaged). The
hierarchy established by humans over their environment is overturned, as Maé exhibits
no sense of superiority over the waters and its inhabitants. On the contrary, she looks to
Yaya, an Other deemed inferior by this hierarchy, for support, just as Katsi looked to the
giraffe for survival. In fact, even among the brilliant diversity of the reef dwellers, she is
herself “other.” Her human presence, “unnatur ”to the reef, is othering, which we see
in images illustrating sea inhabitants looking at Mae and Yaya together with curiosity
(see Figure 6). Her grace in the water, due largely if not entirely to Yaya, both extends
that otherness — it is not a “human” characteristic, thus setting her apart from other
humans unable to swim with equal capabilities — and bridges the gap between human and

animal. Mae’s ability to thrive in a different world because of her ﬁiendship with a being

 

father is also characteristic of this genre, indicating Godard’s incorporation of these literary structures.
Mae must endure her stepmother’s treatment and her father’s lack of support, which leaves her alienated
from her family and more open to unconventional relationships, such as with Yaya.

132

different from herself encourages young readers to embrace the possibilities that come
with breaking down conventional barriers between “normal” and “abnormal.”

When sudden panic grips the reef, the image of Maé and Yaya hiding, apparently,
from Squale-le-Terriﬁant, a shark whose intimidating dorsal scar marks him as a
formidable opponent, leads the reader to believe that the danger lay with Squale.
However, in truth; “le danger venait d’ailleurs. . .” (unpaged). As the reader turns the
page, s/he understands that it is not Squale but Maé’s own father who poses the real
threat: “Maé 1e comprit seulement lorsque 1e coup de harpon ﬁt disparaitre Yaya sous
l’eau. Elle apercut alors la pirogue et Sinahi, furieux d’avoir rate une si belle prise”
(unpaged). Yaya’s difference, and Sinahi’s inability to look beyond that difference,
creates in the latter a lack of understanding. His attitude mirrors an ethno-centric frame
of mind, where Yaya, with whom he cannot relate because of such difference, is simply a
commodity.

Godard plays on the sympathy of his readers here, and in the pages that follow,
fostering compassion for Yaya, and disapproval of Sinahi’s behavior. Yaya’s injury does
not kill him, but his spirit is deeply affected, the reason for which provokes empathy and,
most importantly, awareness:

“- 11 y a longtemps, un harpon a tué celle que j’aimais. Grace a toi, mon chagrin

s’est pen a pen apaisé, mais aujourd’hui, il n’y a plus de place ici pour les

lamantins.

- De place? 11 y en a plein! rétorqua Mae.

- Oui, la mangrove est grande,. .. mais les hommes ont le coeur si petit. . .”

(unpaged)

133

The smallness of men’s hearts, as is understood in Yaya’s criticism, indicates their
inability to coexist with beings different from themselves, whether it is animals or people.
Their greed and fear of the unfamiliar lead them to commit unjust and sometimes violent
acts against these Others, just as Sinahi has done. Despite the vastness of the mangrove,
perhaps allegorical for the world, the inability, or unwillingness, of man to look beyond
difference makes it a dangerous space to inhabit. When an Other is subject to a more
powerful being’s cruelty — fostered by their fear of the unknown — there are few places
that are safe. Yaya’s criticism of man, and his as well as his companion’s encounters
with a harpoon serve to enlighten young readers on the dangers of making judgments
based on difference alone. The readers, who have by now come to know Yaya as
intelligent and kind, are led to “root” for him, just as they are led to “root” for Katsi in Le
Petit Hippopotamtam. They are led to understand that Yaya’s difference does not entitle
Sinahi, or others, to kill him, and that instead he should live in peace and happiness.

When Yaya is attacked again, this time by Piranhas, his criticism of men is
solidiﬁed: “Ah! Un larnantin! De l’huile dc larnantin, hurla Piranhas, voila qui me rendra
la jeunesse! Harponne-le! Tue-1e! Comme Sinahi hésitait, elle s’empara du harpon”
(unpaged). The viciousness of Piranha’s expression, and her selﬁsh and ignorant motive,
reﬂect men’s greed and smallness of heart. Once again, Yaya is targeted and objectiﬁed
by his otherness. However, while Godard encourages strong disapproval of Piranhas and
Sinahi’s behavior, he allows redemption as well.

Moments after Piranhas’ attack on Yaya, Squale-le-Terriﬁant capsizes the small
boat; his ferocious jaws nearly engulﬁng the two adults, who had only just appeared as

large and imposing ﬁgures. The roles between human and animal, or between “normal”

134

and “abnormal,” are reversed, and the human parents are forced to re-evaluate their
previously established ideas. Indeed, this event acts as the catalyst that helps Sinahi and
Piranhas overcome their intolerance. Despite their behavior toward Yaya, the latter
chooses to save the human adults by luring Squale into the mangrove, putting his own life
in danger. His decision to help those who have mistreated him because of his difference
both portrays Yaya as superior (his “humanity” is greater than that of Sinahi or Piranhas),
and reiterates a message of cooperation. The experience alters the parents’ perspectives,
and ultimately brings the family togethers, which is demonstrated when they all look for
Yaya, and, when they ﬁnd him, help nurse him back to health: “ Nous allons prendre soin
de ton ami, aj outa Piranhas. Dans quelques jours, vous pourrez a nouveau vous promener
dans la mangrove” (unpaged). The Other’s bravery and selﬂessness brings about a prise
de conscience in the human adults; they realize that Yaya’s difference is not indicative of
disposability or expendability, and that the ﬁiendship between this being and their
daughter is a positive and “normal” relationship.

The friendships forged between Mae and Yaya, and between Katsi and the giraffe,
are unconventional, and are perceived at times by other characters in the stories as
“wrong” or socially unacceptable, particularly between the latter pair. Yet in both cases,
conventions are dismissed, and readers are shown how relationships can develop between
individuals or groups that are different, and how these relationships should be regarded in

a positive light. They are also encouraged to see these relationships as necessary both to

 

’ Immediately after Yaya disappears into the mangrove, Mae sings to bring him back. Although
the image conveys distance between the three family members (they sit away from one another and look in
different directions), Piranahas joins Maé in singing, and Sinahi tenderly brings both of them back to the
house. They are now a family.

135

 

 

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the self and to society°, as they exemplify cOOperation, tolerance, and interdependence.
Turning one’s back on another because of his or her differences can result in danger:
Katsi, Yaya, and Maé’s parents would have died if not for cooperation and compassion.
Sarah Mahurt has argued that in Caribbean picture books, there tends to be a theme of
survival that has grown from resistance to slavery and colonial oppression (278). This
signiﬁcant assertion supports a notion that Antillean authors are making an explicit effort
to rally their youths against the ideological oppression that persists today. By inculcating
values centered on survival, youths are better prepared to become part of a complex,
ideologically tumultuous society, while at the same time are equipped with means to
resist said oppression. ln Godard’s and Pinguilly’s texts, we do indeed see that element of
survival in the face of great odds. Survival is dependent on the ability to overcome
socially established boundaries and “acceptable” behavior, or in other words, to
overcome the politics of otherness.

In these picture books, there is little doubt that Godard and Pinguilly focus on
fostering tolerance, and challenge the divisions created by differences. The young
readers are consistently confronted by images that highlight difference (the obvious
dissirnilarities between a hippopotamus and a giraffe, and between a girl and a manatee),
and at the same time showcase the cooperation and interdependency of these different
beings. The words, reinforced by these images, demonstrate the need for such

relationships, and allow readers to understand that questioning social structures,

 

6The necessity of the Other to the self, in this respect, does not reﬂect Hall’s argument that one
needs an Other in order to deﬁne oneself. Rather, the child reader is expected to see that Others are an
integral and important part of life and society, and, as is shown in the relationships between the books’
protagonists, their presence fulﬁlls gaps that one single group or individual cannot ﬁll (i.e. Katsi’s inability
to get food because of his size is made less of a problem because of the giraffe’s large stature).

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particularly when those structures call for prejudice or intolerance, is acceptable and even
“norm .”

Rather than delve into the harsh and complex Antillean social realities, however,
these books inculcate a more basic value: respect for differences. As the readership
consists of small children who are essentially inexperienced with life and society, the
authors attempt to instill a strong base on which to build as the readers grow and become
aware of the realities around them. By helping shape the minds of the youngest
Antilleans, and by fostering in them a sense of equality among all who are different,
Antillean societies will face a brighter future in terms of intercultural and interracial
relationships: the inherent diversity in these societies means that compassion, tolerance,
and awareness are necessary in order to develop and thrive. Yet as these children become
older, how does literature reinforce or expand this awareness and tolerance for otherness?
In picture books such as those by Godard and Pinguilly, otherness is extemalized and
made obvious through the images. The “lesson” is conveyed clearly so as to impress it
on the inexperienced mind. Yet as these children grow, so does their understanding of
society and social inequalities, and their personal experiences with difference and the
prejudice it may foster increase in number. It makes sense, then, for authors of young
adult novels to include more directly applied representations of otherness. That is,
provide juvenile readers with representations that they can relate to their own experiences
with difference, either their own or that of “others.” Some texts might weave various
notions of otherness into the storyline, as in Pineau’s Les Coleres du volcan. Other texts
may make passing but pointed references to cultural otherness, as in Pépin’s La Coulée

d ’or. Still other texts might focus primarily on diversity and otherness, drawing attention

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speciﬁcally to those issues, such as in Condé’s La Planéte Orbis. In all cases, the texts
provide young readers with representations that allow them to make connections between
what they are reading, and what they experience every day. If, as Zimet points out, the
process of attitude change through reading is related to the ability to identify with the
characters (and their experiences) of a story, the author’s representation both of the
character and his or her responses in the face of difference reveal what change might take
place.

In Pépin’s La Coulée d ’or, much of the plotline focuses on racial relations, and
the impact of French ideology on the Antillean collectivity. The racist undertones of that
ideology certainly imply that ethnic otherness is a motif continually present in Pépin’s
work. The negative “otherness” of the black Antillean according to colonial discourse is
clearly illustrated, as is the desire to reject it. As I discussed in chapter one, much of the
text focuses on the degradation of the “black race” by colonial racial discourse, and on
how many black Antilleans attempt to cast off their otherness by achieving whiteness.
Those who do not conform physically or culturally to the French standard of “normal”
are looked down upon by not only Whites, but by assimilated Blacks and Muldtres as
well. Here, however, I would like to focus on one particular chapter in the text that
speciﬁcally focuses on the exoticization of an “other” culture and ethnicity, and which
clearly conveys how difference permeates one’s perspective.

Emest’s experiences with the Indian population in his neighborhood provide him,
as well as the reader, with insight into a “strange” and “exotic” culture. Initially Ernest
has a superﬁcial understanding, at best, of Indian cultures and customs, and outside of

their ceremonies he shows little interest: “Apres les f‘étes, je les oubliais car elles

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reprenaient l’apparence banale de tous les malheureux de la Guadeloupe” (167). What
attracts Ernest is not an actual interest in Indian culture, but the brilliant and exciting aura
of their celebrations and ceremonies: “J ’étais hanté par les ceremonies indiennes. Robert
m’en parlait souvent. Je voulais voir! Je voulais savoir! Je voulais comprendre!” (171)
His eagerness to learn and experience this culture is apparent, yet when the colorful
ceremonies become for him the “reality” of Indian culture, his perspective becomes a bit
problematic. Ernest seems to believe that by seeing or attending their ceremonies he
understands the complexities of their culture:
C’est a Saint-Francois que je découvris la réalité indienne. Elle chantait
avec des noms qui sonnaient comme deS poemes tarnouls. Je les apprenais
par coeur et je les récitais pour le plaisir de l’oreille. [. . .] Ces noms
interrninables se de'roulaient dans ma téte comme des rubans multicolores.
Je les peignais en jaune safran, en rouge sang, en vert colombo, en bleu
ciel et ils devenaient des noms cérémonieux, longs et brillants comme des
queues de paon. (167-68)
Consider Said’s explanation of how texts often ignore the complexities of a culture and
diminish it to its outward, exciting, and ultimately different customs. One might argue
that Pepin is contributing to misconceptions of Indian culture by allowing his protagonist
to indulge in this exoticization, thereby placing him among those criticized by Said.
Perhaps to some extent this is true, but as we shall see, the situation is not nearly so
simple.
Because of his Indian friend, Robert, Ernest is made aware of the racial and

cultural tension between Indians and Blacks in the Antilles. He is both surprised and

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confused to learn that in a place where there are many different ethnicities, Indians would
experience such harsh racism. Understanding the similar relationship between black,
white, and mulcitre Antilleans, Ernest criticizes Blacks’ attitude toward Indians,
expressing his disgust for its injustice and his pride at having been raised without “une
miette de racisme” (170). Though Ernest embraces an exoticized image of Indian
cultures, he does not accept that because of their differences Indians are inferior. At the
same time, however, his attendance at the Indian maliémin, a ceremony in honor of the
black Virgin (la Vierge noire), challenges Emest’s ideals. In spite of his anger at the
hypocritical treatment of Indians by Blacks, Ernest honors socially constructed
boundaries: “Je hélai la protection divine en demandant a Dieu de me pardonner l’offense
que je lui faisais d’étre la dans ce monde de statues a quatre bras et a trompes d’éléphant”
(176). Although he does not accept outward discrimination against the Indians, his
prayer for forgiveness demonstrates his own, perhaps unconscious, prejudice. He is
Christian, and believes his presence at the Indian ceremony to be a sin thereby implying
the sacrilege or “savagery” of the Indians’ beliefs. Emest’s apparent disapproval, at least
in terms of morality, is reinforced during the ceremony when he witnesses the sacriﬁce of
goats: “Une mort sans cri, sans pardon, qui s’éparpille en rosée de sang dans le rituel de
la cérémonie. Autant de cabris, autant dc cadavres! Les tétes sont rangées les unes a cOte’
des autres, sagement, stupidement, absurdement. Elles viendront hanter mes mauvais
réves. Secoué jusqu’a la nausée je me réfugie sous la veranda et j’essaie d’avaler mon
épouvante” (176). Horriﬁed by what he perceives to be a brutal and absurd massacre,
Ernest faces an acute difference between his own culture and that of his friend Robert.

His admiration of the latter’s culture does not extend beyond the brightly colored and

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melodic celebrations as he comes to realize the actual realities of it. Although Ernest is
able to rejoin the festivities, what he has experienced leaves a permanent mark. Pepin
acknowledges that the ceremony and the knowledge he gained from it became an
unforgettable part of his childhood: “[. . .] tout cela dans le tray de mon enfance et je ne
l’oublierai pas” (178).

On one hand, Pepin does challenge to some extent the exotic perception of Indian
culture. The sacriﬁcial ritual, for example, forces Ernest to see that the culture is more
than beautiful celebrations, and that there are aspects he may never understand or even
accept. On the other hand, Pepin does not counter Emest’s disapproval of Indian cultural
practices (his prayer for forgiveness, and his disgust at the rituals), which may be
problematic in terms of promoting a tolerant and cooperative frame of mind among his
young readers. That is not to say that Ernest must accept the sacriﬁce of goats as “right,”
but rather he should accept that the Indians’ culture is different from his own, and that in
their eyes, he too may partake in practices viewed as strange or even unacceptable. As
such, he should try to understand, even if he doesn’t agree. Unfortunately, although the
narrative is autobiographical, and Emest’s perceptions and interpretations of events result
from his inexperience, Pepin does not provide the critical reﬂection present elsewhere in
his text. That is, it is generally clear when Pepin wishes to discourage or encourage
certain ideas or attitudes, as his own adult voice overlaps that of Ernest to foster such
reﬂection. Yet that clarity is lacking here, where contradicting messages - the exotic
beauty and exciting nature of Indian ceremonies, the brutal reality of sacriﬁcial rituals,
the belief that these ceremonies are sacrilegious and even “savage” - make it difﬁcult to

ascertain whether Pepin himself is clear on what he wants to convey to his readers. He

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has effectively represented cultural differences, thereby fostering awareness. Yet at the
same time, he paints an unsavory picture of Indian practices with no mention of Emest’s
(potentially negative) otherness in the eyes of the Indians. Thus, while there is no doubt
he expresses strong disapproval of racism against the Indians by Blacks who are
themselves targets of racism, in terms of cultural difference his message is ambiguous.

Despite such ambiguity, it is more than likely that readers will relate to Emest’s
situation. He faces internal conﬂict: he detests racism against the Indians, but cannot
accept certain of their cultural practices, perceiving them as sacrilege. Given the ethnic
and cultural diversity of the Antilles, this is a situation that many Antillean children may
have to confront. Where Godard’s and Pinguilly’s picture books inculcate appreciation
of difference on a more general level, Pepin provides readers with an opportunity to
relate speciﬁcally with Emest’s experience. Whether that experience will aid readers in
acquiring cross-cultural tolerance remains uncertain. In addition, its contribution to an
exoticized conception of Indians and their cultural practices renders any potential
message in that vein decidedly less effective.

What problematizes Pépin’s depiction of cultural otherness in order to develop his
readership’s awareness is the lack of explicit reﬂection on how Emest’s experiences have
shaped his attitude and vice versa. There is also no exploration of the larger social
consequences of his attitude. Thus, while Pépin clearly advocates challenging the racist
discourses of colonial authority, his stance on the complications of cultural otherness
seems a bit less decisive. This is not the case, however, in Pineau’s young adult novel,
Les Coléres du volcan, where references to difference and the exotic are woven into the

storyline. Contrary to Pépin’s ambiguous representation of cross-cultural contact (at least

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in terms of its intended message), Pineau’s numerous representations of otherness on
various levels clearly constitute an “instructive” approach to the issue.

In an interview, Pineau tells Nadege Veldwachter: “In my novels, there are often
people who are marginalized, pushed aside, different. I am interested in difference and in
how we look at others — it brings me terribly close to my profession of psychiatric nurse”
(181). Les Coléres du volcan exempliﬁes her interest in exploring difference, as it
simultaneously reveals how differences and the exotic permeate Antillean societies, and
attempts to encourage tolerance in young readers.

The story follows a young girl, Cynthia, as she begins what will become one of
the most signiﬁcant school years in her educational career. Her ﬁiendship with the
elderly Pere Francis, a social misﬁt in his own right, immediately introduces young
readers to what will become the center of Pineau’s most visible message: looking beyond
and accepting differences to ﬁnd unity, both human and Caribbean.7 Although Cynthia
feels alienated from her family and peers, she acknowledges that with Pere Francis, an
“Other” in relation to herself, she feels “nonnal,” and accepted for who she is with no
expectations or disappointments. Each allows the other to be himself, and because of this
mutual acceptance and appreciation, their relationship thrives, which, in turn, represents
to readers how interactions between “Others” should be. As the story progresses,
Cynthia encounters numerous situations in which otherness, to some degree, plays a part.
For instance, a teacher at her school, who moved ﬁ'om metropolitan France, sees
Guadeloupe as an exotic paradise, and spends her days grading papers on the beach.

Though brief, this reference brings to mind the exoticization of “other” places,

 

7The idea of solidarity that coincides to some extent with Pineau’s exploration of otherness does
reﬂect a view of créolité, however we can also interpret it as a counter to the divisive nature of “otherness”
because it deﬂects an “us and them” mentality between Antilleans and people of other Caribbean islands.

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particularly when they offer a beauty entirely different from one’s familiar landscape.

For this teacher, Guadeloupe is paradise, and the political or ideological issues are of
little, if any, concern to her. Also referencing a sort of othering is Cynthia’s avoidance of
a girl based entirely on the latter’s wardrobe and appearance. Not unlike the dismissal of
“other” cultures or ethnicities, Cynthia rejects this girl because she does not approve of
the way she looks or dresses. Pineau is quick to counter this attitude by forcing her
protagonist to recognize that she had misjudged the girl, who proves to be a warm and
kind-hearted individual. Yet Cynthia’s most prominent encounter with otherness and
exoticization lay in her class trip to the neighboring island of Montserrat.

Readers are introduced to this island through Pere F rancis’s desire to see what this
“other” place is like: “Est-cc qu’il y avait les memes genre de negres, la-bas? Est-cc que
les plages déroulaient le meme sable? Est-cc que le volcan ‘la Soufriere’, qui portait le
meme nom que celui de Guadeloupe, couvait la méme ardeur et le meme feu?” (17)
These questions reﬂect the curiosity surrounding the different or strange, and at the same
time act as a jumping off point from which to explore the mechanisms behind otherness,
and the signiﬁcance of confronting those mechanisms. When Cynthia’s English teacher
announces a class trip to Montserrat to visit the students’ pen pals, he sets in motion a
series of events leading, ultimately, to such a confrontation.

First, however, let us look more closely at Cynthia’s new English teacher, John
Douglas, who proves to be a driving force in Pineau’s lessons on otherness. He
immediately challenges his students to look beyond the conﬁnes of their society and way
of life: “Eh bien! F rancky, commenca John Douglas, tu n’as pas envie de connaitre la

Carafbe? The Caribbean! Tu n’es pas curieux d’aller voir ces gens qui vivent autour de

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toi, you know... Tous ces peuples qui parlent des langues qui te sont étrangéres, english,
Spanish [sic]. . .” (23-24) At ﬁrst, it seems John’s promotion of “discovery,” a notion
intimately linked with that of “conquering,” reﬂects a colonialist frame of mind, and may
also reﬂect the author’s own position. To some extent this may be true: Guadeloupe’s
status as a department of France, the latter’s continued cultural, political, and economic
inﬂuence, and the author’s having spent much of her childhood in metropolitan France
may have in some way inﬂuenced Pineau’s own perspectives, unknown to her. However,
as the dialogue between John and his students continues, it becomes increasingly clear
that through the “discovery” of Guadeloupe’s neighboring islands, Pineau encourages a
sense of appreciation for and solidarity with the “other” islands of the Caribbean.

The students, at ﬁrst, feel no need to explore these islands: “Je pense que la
Carafbe est trop petite. Nous vivons déja sur une ile minuscule. Nous devons aller sur les
continents. L’Europe, l’Amérique. .. Paris, New York...” (25) Their view reﬂects
acculturation, assuming that only the Western or “superior” societies and cultures are
worth visiting. Yet John questions this desire, explaining that discovering what is around
oneself should precede exploring the far reaches of the planet. He also criticizes their
disinterest in and dismissal of any signiﬁcance in the Caribbean region: “C’est comme si
tu ne t’intéressais pas aux terriens, que tu n’accordais d’irnportance qu’aux
extraterrestres, aux aliens” (25). John references a fascination with the totally exotic
(“aliens”), and criticizes his students’ inability, or lack of desire, to see what is around
them. He also implies that these young Guadeloupeans need to understand and
appreciate their fellow Caribbeans before they can explore and understand the rest of the

world. While clearly one could interpret this dialogue as representing Pineau’s view on

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créolité, we must also acknowledge that through fostering awareness of “other”
Caribbean peoples and cultures, Pineau negates the politics of otherness: she rejects the
idea that one is deﬁned solely by what one is not. In encouraging a sense of solidarity,
Pineau implies an inevitable inter-connectedness among and between “other” peoples,
particularly in the Caribbean, just as we saw in Godard and Pinguilly’s picture books.

This sense of solidarity is verbalized by John toward the end of the text in
response to the eruption of Monterrat’s volcano, and his students concern for their new
ﬁiends: “Les peuples des Carafbes sont solides. Ils ne baissent jamais les bras. Ils
reconstruisent apres les cyclones, apres les tremblements de terre, apres les eruptions
volcaniques. . .” (110) John provides a pointed lesson in the strength of Caribbean
peoples, thereby encouraging both characters and readers to appreciate their own region.
Yet, his declaration primarily provides closure to the lessons learned by his students.
What I wish to explore here is precisely what in those lessons has led to the students’
growing awareness and sensitivity.

As I mentioned previously, John’s decision to orchestrate a trip to Montserrat sets
in motion his students’ eventual conﬁontation with otherness, and with their own
prejudiced perspectives. Pineau illustrates how the imagination plays a role in one’s
perceptions of Others through nearly all of the leading characters in the moments leading
up to and during the trip. For instance, Pere Francis, who is invited to join the class, and
his host “family,” a single woman named Stacy, exemplify mutual exoticization in that
each sees the other through a lens created in the imagination. Without “reality” to inform
their ideas, they rely on what they imagine the “other” to be. For Stacy, Pere Francis is a

real Frenchman, which, as a new experience, she ﬁnds exciting. Pere Francis, in turn,

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sees Stacy as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, far more beautiful than any
Guadeloupean, despite the fact that her face is hidden in shadows in the picture She sends
him. She is from the island he has dreamed his whole life of seeing, and he makes an
association between that dream and this woman. Pineau, however, does not immediately
question or challenge these illusory perspectives, but rather builds on them in depicting
her younger characters.

When the students arrive on the island, the level to which imagination has
solidiﬁed certain ideas, and therefore certain expectations, is revealed, and not in a
manner favorable to the Guadeloupean children. The reader follows Cynthia as she
meets her pen pal, Shirley, and her family, sees their home and place of business, and
admits (to the readers) that she was shocked: “A cause des lettres de Shirley, j’avais
imagine un somptueux salon de coiffure. En fait, il n’était pas plus grand que ma
chambre. Les casques étaient vétustes. Le plancher, incertain, était recouvert d’un lino
use” (70). Her expectations, based on her interpretations of Shirley’s letters, are
unfulﬁlled, and she ﬁnds herself disillusioned by reality. She fails to appreciate Shirley’s
poetic imagination. The new, exotic, exciting place she had expected to see does not
exist. For the young readers, her disenchantment, as well as that of the other classmates,
discourages assuming absolute knowledge about an “other” culture or society based on
limited and superﬁcial interactions, such as watching ﬁlms, reading books, or reading
letters, all of which can be misrepresentative or misunderstood. Whether Shirley had
misrepresented her reality, or Cynthia misunderstood Shirley’s words, what is important
is that one not make pre-judgments with so little understanding, and that one not confuse

material wealth with emotional warmth and moral value.

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Kateryna Olijnyk Longley tells us: “The moment of unmasking is the moment at
which the other is robbed of the allure of mystery and the desire which feeds upon the
play of the imagination is stopped in its tracks by the exposed ‘reality”’ (34). The
enticing mystery of Montserrat is no longer, and what the students had imagined, and
consequently expected, is shattered by the “reality” of Montserrat’s poverty and utterly
“un-exotic” lifestyle. As Longley contends, the exotic is the “alluring and potentially
entrapping aspect of otherness” (28). Thus, when that exoticism is gone, what remains is
still “other,” but without the appeal. For Cynthia and her classmates, the removal of that
appeal results in their adoption of an equally colonial perspective; rejecting that which
differs from their sense of “normal” or “proper.” Their complaints and unmitigated
expressions of disapproval for how the once exotic “Others” actually live illustrate the
effects of French dominance over the Antilles. Living in a society that has “beneﬁted”
from French cultural, political, and economic inﬂuence has led the students to both
perceive “other” cultures with the same imaginary exoticism found in Western colonial
discourses, and to reject standards of living that do not reﬂect their own. Clearly the
author’s porte-parole, John responds immediately and ﬁercely to his students’ behavior:
“Vous étes au-dessus des Caribéens ordinaires, c’est ca? Frenchies! I think so... indeed.
I’m sure of it... God! Qui vous a mis ca dans la téte?” (74-75) John’s words
contextualize their attitudes as assimilationist, and bring to the forefront problems of
inculcating French values in Antillean youths.’ According to Rice-Maximin, until very
recently terms such as “Congo” or “Moudongue” were used in the Antilles as insults to

refer to those considered to be “non-civilisés” or “non-assimilés,” indicating that the

 

”It is not unimportant that it is a “foreigner,” or non-“Frenchie” that realizes and calls attention to
this important fact, thereby underscoring how distanced the assimilated youths of the text are from the
social realities that surround them.

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general population had internalized the “superior” European values embedded in
Antillean societies, while considering Africans, and “other” people of African descent, to
be inferior (26). The students in Pineau’s text clearly embody this frame of mind,
considering themselves superior to the people of Montserrat. Yet, through John’s
vehement condemnation of his students’ behavior, Pineau denounces uninformed
judgments of “other” people that result in the self-centered, spoiled, euro-centric attitudes
exhibited by her young characters. The readers, who are led to feel ashamed of the
students’ disparaging remarks about their host families, as they too are vicariously
reprimanded through John’s lecture, are forced to examine their own attitudes and ideas
of Others, as well as of themselves.

It is Cynthia who verbalizes the lesson catalyzed by John’s criticism: “L . .] ce
séj our a Montserrat e'tait une e'tape qui nous ouvrait le monde. Notre regard avait change
et continuerait a changer. Nous nous rendions compte que la Guadeloupe n’était pas le
centre du monde et que nous ne connaissions rien. ll fallait voyager encore et encore,
regarder encore et encore, pour apprendre encore et encore...” (82) Pineau once again
emphasizes curiosity and the “discovery” of “other” cultures, and at the same time a less
self-centered and more open point of view. Perhaps we might better understand this
seeming contradiction if we consider Said’s assertion that “[the] more one is able to leave
one’s cultural home, the more easily is one able to judge it, and the whole world as well,
with the spiritual detachment and generosity necessary for true vision. The more easily,
too, does one assess oneself and alien cultures with the same combination of intimacy
and detachment” (Orientalism 259). Add to this Bernard Smith’s words regarding the

South Paciﬁc: “If we are to understand the Paciﬁc world we must also accept the reality

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of the objects out of which the concept of the Paciﬁc was constructed, together with the
reality both of those European minds that sought to understand it and those Paciﬁc minds
that found themselves at once the objects and victims of their understanding” (qtd by
Nandan 79). Both Said and Smith imply that in order to understand an “other” place, one
must accept how the concept of that place was constructed — the versions and visions
perpetuated by narratives of the European imagination. Travel can help one understand
these places if it is done with the right frame of mind and awareness. Because the
students in Pineau’s text continue to grow in terms of cross-cultural sensitivity and
awareness after their experience on Montserrat, it would appear that Pineau promotes this
very conception of traveling, and the idea that travel should lead to the appreciation of
“other” ways of life as well as to cooperation across national and cultural boundaries.
Cynthia’ s experiences and attitude after Montserrat demonstrate the desired
outcome to readers, reinforcing Pineau’s message of compassion, tolerance, and even
solidarity. For instance, in a conversation with a Haitian woman, Gina, Cynthia exhibits
empathy, and a desire to understand everything surrounding Gina’s life and devastating
history. As she learns, she develops a feeling of closeness with Gina: “Je me sentais
proche de Gina lorsqu’elle racontait Haiti, cette ile de la Carafbe qui avait connu la gloire
et la ruine. Meme si son creole était different du nOtre, je comprenais tout ce qu’elle
disait” (116). As Cynthia “discovers” a part of Haiti, she also begins to discover a sense
of solidarity, symbolized in her ability to understand all that Gina says, in spite of the
difference in language. It is signiﬁcant that the woman with whom she feels solidarity is
Haitian, as there has long been tension between Haitian immigrants and Antilleans (see

chapter two). The fact that she senses sameness between them indicates a dissolving

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prejudice against Haitian “others,” and conveys to young readers notions of common
humanity, and more speciﬁcally, a shared bond between peoples of the Antilles and Haiti.
Indeed, the lesson Cynthia learned on Montserrat stays with her, enabling her to reach
past differences to see this common humanity and the shared experiences or histories
among peoples of different societies, particularly in the Caribbean. Her experience with
Gina, one among many, exempliﬁes this, and encourages readers, once again, to develop
an interest in the world beyond their immediate surroundings and familiar lifestyle.

' Ironically, however, Cynthia’s decision to become a journalist, motivated by her
experiences on Montserrat and a sense of responsibility toward the smallest of countries
often forgotten or overlooked by the world, could be interpreted as a contradiction to
Pineau’s message against the exoticization of and discrimination against “Others,” as
could Cynthia’s decision to pursue journalistic studies in France. Journalism, whose
roots lie in the colonizing world, has often been a major contributor to the exoticization
and archetyping of “other” cultures and peoples, as it represents a “reality” of a situation
to otherwise unknowing observers. The supposed objectivity of journalistic reporting
makes it considerably more powerful as a purveyor of “truth” because it claims a certain
authority in providing undisputable “facts.” That Cynthia pursues her education in
journalism in France is equally problematic because the metropole is a major center of
“othering.” Her education in the mechanisms of exoticization or othering implicit in
(Western) journalism may hinder Cynthia’s “mission” of bringing cultural awareness to
the world. Yet the question I am most interested in here is whether Cynthia’s decision
will diminish the effectiveness of Pineau’s previously established lessons. That is, are

her young readers, who have thus far been invited to share Cynthia’s experiences and life

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lessons, going to be inspired to pursue a similar course of action, and if they do, does it
mean that they will be re-absorbed into the cycle of exoticization and otherness, in spite
of their good intentions? There is, of course, no “good” way to answer this question, but
if we are considering how Pineau’s young adult novel, as well as the other children’s
literature of the Antilles, may inﬂuence the future of Antillean societies, this somewhat
problematic ending to her story invites reﬂection.

Despite this potential obstacle, Pineau’s text provides a pointed and generally
effective message advocating the acceptance and appreciation of differences, and draws
attention to the dangers and injustices of allowing one’s imagination to dictate one’s
perceptions of otherwise unknown cultures and peoples. Whereas Pépin’s portrait of
Indian culture in La Coulée d ’or provides very little direction in terms of the attitudes he
wishes his readers to adopt, Pineau clearly establishes and reinforces her message
through her characters and their experiences.

Surpassing both Pineau and Pepin, however, in terms of “instructing” young
Antilleans on otherness, is Maryse Condé. Whereas the previous two authors focus, for
the most part, on the Other external to the self, and the contact between different people
and cultures, Condé expands her exploration of otherness to include that of and within the
self. In her young adult novel, La Planéte Orbis, we shall see that Condé is the most
comprehensive in guiding her readers through the various implications of otherness, and
providing empowering tools to change the current state of society, particularly within the
Antilles and the Caribbean. Her science ﬁction story, following a young sheltered
Guadeloupean boy through his adventures as an elected emissary on the planet Orbis, is

the perfect backdrop for encouraging cross-cultural communication and sensitivity, as

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well as awareness for oneself and Others. As the story progresses, the young protagonist,
Jose, loses his previous identity in a sense only to have it re-constructed through
revelations of social “reality” exposed to him through his experiences on Orbis.

For instance, immediately upon arrival, José is told he will no longer be referred
to by his name, but by an assigned number, TM 0590. Not only is he denied his
“individuality,” but the signiﬁcance of the numbers, the telephone code for Guadeloupe,
implies that he, and therefore the reader, is being drawn out of a self-centered perception
of the world, and into one that is more community-centered. In addition, José is forced to
conﬁont situations that challenge his ideas of “normal” or “proper”, such as being asked
to undress in front of his mentor, whom he hardly knows. His sensibilities, informed by
his society’s norms and conventions, are questioned as the mentor points out that men
have perverted the human body through their vice, desires, and concupiscence. Jose must
essentially acknowledge an “other” point of view concerning nudity and the human body,
foreshadowing the many lessons in diversity and otherness he will receive during his stay
on Orbis. It appears in these ﬁrst moments of his journey that Condé is preparing him,
and the reader, to releam ways of thinking and being. If the mission he and the other
children have been elected to carry out is to change the world, then they must ﬁrst learn
to look beyond what they “know.”

Condé begins by illustrating for her readers the ethnic diversity of the Caribbean,
from where the Elus have come, and brings to their attention how in spite of this
diversity, many Antilleans remain ignorant of it:

José n’avait jamais autant remarqué la diversité du peuple des Cara’r‘bes.

Les peaux offraient une palette de couleurs. Les cheveux étaient de toute

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nature. On comptait des chabins, des negres rouges, des mulatres, des

capresses. Plusieurs [. . .] ressemblaient a des Indiens [. . .], certains a des

Asiatiques. 11 y avait meme des blondinets aux yeux couleur d’eau de mer

(27-28).
In spite of how questionable it may seem, given the inevitable visibility of these
ethnicities in José’s society, his reaction is a telling reminder of how inﬂuential the
presence of French or colonial ideology has been. His previously assimilated and even
ethno-centric perspective blinded him in a sense to the diversity around him, of which he
is a part. Condé stresses this point, which at the same time insinuates her “message” to
readers, by negating any sort of racial hierarchy or categorizations through the children’s
equality as elected ofﬁcials. Monique Blérald-Ndagano tells us that lists of nouns
identifying persons of varied skin color such as that cited above is common in Condé’s
works, and serves to denounce societies “ruled” by color: “Par le jeu des contrastes, la
romanciere stigrnatise ce mode de pensée” (268). Moreover, by multiplying the
categories, Condé implies the absurdity of ranking them on a scale of social acceptability,
or of stigmatizing any one of them. Because racial categorization as determined through
colonial ideology has contributed and continues to contribute signiﬁcantly to the
othering, and thus the “inferiority”, of non-white peoples, Condé’s representation
communicates an important lesson to the young readers: Every person living in the
Caribbean is part of a diverse network, and should not discriminate against ethnic
“Others,” as they too can be considered “other.”

Condé develops this last point when Jose is forced to confront his own otherness

in the eyes of the Orbisians. When José is told that he may not see anyone while

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traveling through the Orbisian cities, and when it is explained why, he is obligated to face
an image of himself constructed through the gaze of the “Other”: “La couleur de vos
peaux, de vos cheveux, la forme de vos traits, risquent d’étonner ceux qui n’ont jamais vu
d’hurnains. Les enfants pourraient avoir peur et faire des réﬂexions en vous montrant du
doigt” (42). José’s sense of selfhood is destabilized as he sees himself through Orbisian
eyes, and the prior relationship between subject and object (Jose as subject, Orbis as
object) is turned upside down. He had never considered himself as “other,” which is both
ironic and revealing in terms of his “race” and position in a society plagued by racist
discourses. Now he must acknowledge the reciprocity of otherness. Compounding this
lesson, Jose is told by his mentor that “notre peuple lui aussi risque de vous déconcerter.
Petits, les garcons comme les ﬁlles vont nus” (42). Revisiting Jose’s previously
established negativity concerning nudity, Condé provides an opportunity for redemption,
making visible to the reader a lesson learned. After having confronted his own
“strangeness,” José is less inclined to degrade, at least vocally, the cultural practices of
Orbis. While he does not let go Of his personal views, he does not condemn the Orbisians
for theirs. Readers are therefore encouraged to put aside their prejudices, and to
understand that otherness and strangeness are not unidirectional, but multidirectional.
The superiority with which one sees oneself can be quickly and easily destroyed through
the regard of the supposed “Other.” This lesson, intended for Antillean youths, is
particularly signiﬁcant if we consider the sense of superiority felt by many Antilleans
with regard to other Caribbean islands or Africa. By making these youths aware that they

too are subject to the potentially negative regard of “outside” peoples and cultures,

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Condé fosters the blurring of ﬁxed and divisive perspectives, which may, in turn, lead to
a more tolerant and open Antillean (and global) community.

Condé expands this otherness of the self to include an otherness within the self,
which is demonstrated in her descriptions of the Orbisians themselves. Upsetting the
(Western) need to deﬁne through absolutes, the people of Orbis cannot be neatly
categorized: “. . .on ne pouvait determiner si c’était un noir, un blanc, un mulatre ou un
indien. Tout dépendaient de l’angle d’ou on 1e considérait” (11). Stuart Hall has stated
that the self can be deﬁned only in relation to what it is not (“Old and New” 47-48). Yet
in this case, there is no clear line between what the Orbisians are or are not (and we
should consider the textual focus on ethnicity to symbolize diversity in general). Does
this lack of precise deﬁnition problematize the Orbisians’ sense of self or identity, when
each individual clearly embodies various “opposing” selves? On the contrary, the
Orbisians’ multiplicity has provided them with a strength and stability far superior to that
of the humans they seek to help. We can read this in several ways, the ﬁrst of which
relates to seeing oneself through the eyes of the Other. When José confronted his image
as seen through the eyes of Orbisians, he was forced to acknowledge a different version
of himself. The narrowness of his previous perspective was thrust wide open, and he
realized that within him there exist several Josés, all of which are deﬁned by and
dependent on the regard of whoever is looking at him. This idea is made visible in the
Orbisians, which may in turn make the message more accessible to Condé’s readers. In
terms more speciﬁc to the Antilles or Caribbean, the internal multiplicity of the Orbisians
both reﬂects the ethnic and cultural métissage present in the region, and insists on the

inter-connectedness of the various Caribbean peOples. The superiority of the Orbisian

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civilization, coupled with this multiplicity, encourages readers to embrace the diversity,
or otherness, that constitutes their societies and themselves.
Understanding that otherness exists between and within all peoples and cultures is
intrinsic to developing openness and tolerance. As José and the other Elus discover, a
perspective reﬂecting these ideal traits is the primary means of altering a violently
conﬂicted world. Applying these abstract lessons of otherness to life includes co-
existing, adapting, and learning from one another, virtues demonstrated by the Orbisians
and taught to the Elus. Some readers may be inclined to liken this education to the French
assimilationist policy; however the only culture to be changed is that which fosters fear,
hatred, and intolerance, and which has produced violence and misery on Earth:
Aux quatre coins du globe, ce n’était que guerre sur guerre, pillage sur
pillage. A défaut d’armes, des adolescents prenaient des pierres dans leurs
mains. Les adultes leur répondaient a coups de mitraillettes. Des rivieres
de sang coulaient. Des monceaux de cadavres s’entassaient. Meme les
enfants étaient entrainés dans ces conﬂits. Ils devenaient des soldats et
mouraient avec leur ainés. [. . .] Les femmes fuyaient, leurs bébés dans les
bras. Les homes a peau blanche méprisaient ceux qui avaient une autre
couleur. Et ceux qui avaient une autre couleur ne s’entendaient pas pour
autant entre eux (61-62).

A world torn apart by its biases, arrogance, and fear of difference is the missionaries’

target. It is of course the reader who is the true “missionary,” and while the lessons in

accepting otherness and the role it plays in one’s sense of self are important, they must be

made to feel capable if they are to pass on that knowledge in an effort to rid their world

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of intolerance, and bring to it a sense of peace and unity. The last pages of Condé’s text
are intended to empower her young readers.

The Orbisians’ decision to use children for the mission is not at all unimportant,
and underscores Condé’s desire to impress on her readers their role in shaping the future.
The Orbisians feel that children are the only individuals whose hearts have not been
corrupted by materialism or greed, and would therefore be the only ones capable of
succeeding in their mission: “Ils sont seuls capables de réinventer la vie” (67). It is
important for the reader to believe that S/he possesses the power and ability to reinvent
the world, and if we consider once again the authority of text in solidifying or
normalizing ideas (Zimet), Condé’s assertion, via the Orbisians, contributes to that sense
of empowerment. Contributing to Condé’s message is the representation of Orbisian
leader, Wyriamu, who, in contrast to the imposing appearance of other Orbisians, is a
small, fragile, elderly man. Yet his inﬂuence and command of respect is tremendous,
which in turn leads the children, and readers, to understand that even the seemingly meek
can possess great power. Condé therefore counters any notion her readers might have
that children are powerless against the world, and tries to instill in them awareness of
their potential to change societies.

As Jose’s experiences on Orbis come to an end, we see that he has reached moral
maturity, and that where there used to be a sheltered, assimilated boy ignorant of the
realities of difference and their social/individual effects, there is now a boy whose open
and informed perspective has allowed him to break free of hegemonic pressures and to
partake in the betterment of his world. The young readers who have shared these

experiences, and who are the true recipients of Condé’s “re-education,” have also

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received the lessons in diversity and otherness. Her intriguing science-ﬁction story, and a
character with whom the reader can easily identify, effectively draws the young
readership into current social problems, and provides them with a space to better
understand the lessons she tries to convey. Condé clearly emphasizes the injustice of
dismissing a person or culture based on difference, and stresses the need to acknowledge
that nobody is exempt from otherness. She encourages her young readers to grow and
look beyond what they have accepted as “normal,” and to help create a stronger future by
inhabiting a space of awareness.

In contrast to Pepin and Pineau, Condé delves more deeply into the “problem” of
otherness, exploring not only the relationship between the protagonist and the Others s/he
encounters (from the point of view of the protagonist), but the reciprocity of that
relationship and the duality or multiplicity that constitutes the self. She therefore
provides her young audience with a more complete “lesson” in otherness, which is more
likely to effectively diminish self-centered or ethno-centric attitudes. While it is
imperative to guide youths, particularly in the Antilles where French domination has
distorted many children’s perspectives, toward understanding how their own views can
be prejudiced and inaccurate, it is equally important that they understand their own
otherness in the eyes of those they consider different. Otherwise, they may maintain a
belief that although they should not discriminate against “Others,” the latter is still the
“Other,” and therefore is “abnonnal.”

So far, the only author to truly address all facets of otherness and being or seeing
“other” is Maryse Condé. Granted, in the picture books discussed previously, Godard

and Pinguilly did present an otherness of the self. Hippopotamtam was clearly described

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and illustrated as “other,” as he remained abnormally small and possessed a unique, if not
also “abnormal,” musical talent. The relationship between he and the giraffe
demonstrated a mutual otherness, as both were viewed by the other as an “Other.” Maé
and Yaya were also presented as “other” when interacting with the Other’s world: Maé in
the ocean and Yaya among humans. However, their representations are geared toward a
much younger and inexperienced reader; they do not contain the same speciﬁcity with
regard to Antillean social issues as are found in the young adult novels. Pepin provides a
clearly unilateral perspective on Indian cultural practices, which makes sense if we
consider that the story is autobiographical in nature, but which fails to expose readers to
the possibility that their cultural practices, vicariously represented by the protagonist,
may be viewed as equally strange. Pineau also focuses primarily on the protagonists’
perspective regarding “Others,” and while she does bring attention to a history shared
among Caribbean peoples, she does not present the same complexities of otherness as
Condé does to her readers. Condé seems eager to inculcate in her older or adolescent
readers a thorough understanding of otherness as something inherently complicated, and
which goes beyond the appreciation of differences in other people or cultures.

This level of complexity and the desire to communicate it to young Antilleans is
not unique to Condé, however, as we see in the Martinican author Patrick Charnoiseau’s
collection of short stories, Emerveilles (1998). A founder of the Créolité movement,
Chamoiseau addresses a unity within the self of various Others in several of his tales.
Yet, while his view on Créolite' is certainly a valid, important lens through which to read
these tales, I am more interested here in how he encourages the child reader to understand

and accept the otherness that exists within him or herself, as Condé does with her

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representations of the Orbisians. Chamoiseau tells us in his Ré-OUVERTURE: “Les
peuples, les cultures, les races, les dieux, les traditions, les langues, les explications de
l’univers, sont aujourd’hui connectées entre elles, s’inﬂuencent, se relativesent, et se
changent mutuellement” (126). This connection between cultures, peoples, and so forth,
as well as the mutual changes and inﬂuences that it produces, implies the existence of
multiple selves in each individual. We might consider Derrida’s explanation that within
each self there exists a past and future self in relation to which the present self is deﬁned,
as the present self is neither the past nor future, and it can be deﬁned only by its relation
with what it is not (Toumayan 11). In this context, we can interpret that there exists a self
inﬂuenced and changed through its contact with “other” cultures, peoples, and traditions,
leading to the present self, which is no longer what it was before. There is also the
possibility, if not the inevitability, of future change, leading to another self, also different
ﬁ'om both the past and present selves. In addition, we can consider that through this
contact, elements of the differences encountered are retained, thereby implying that there
exist multiple Others within the self. Yet this diversity of the components of selﬂiood is
a complicated concept to try to convey to young, inexperienced readers. Further, what
would be the beneﬁt of helping Antillean youths understand this complex otherness
within the self? I have chosen to examine here one of Charnoiseau’s tales that
exempliﬁes his work, and which makes this complex idea accessible to young readers.
In “Mabouc l’ane-chien,” a dog famous for his herding abilities dreams of
becoming a donkey. Having confronted all manner of potential enemies to the herd,
Mabouc begins to feel that the world has nothing left to offer him, and departs for thirty-

three days and nights. Dming his fugue, he is unrecognizable, and ﬁnds himself at the

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mercy of those who would do him harm. Once returned home, Mabouc remains in a state
of hopelessness, and imagines transforming into something else, such as a goat, a sheep, a
cow, a snake -— anything other than what he was. His desire reﬂects a feeling of being
incomplete, limited, and oppressed, and foreshadows his eventual transformation,
physically and internally. This “original” self, in keeping with the idea of change
discussed above, is extemalized in Mabouc’s character, which will allow young readers
to comprehend more easily Chamoiseau’s message(s).

Mabouc’s decision to become a donkey, despite never having seen one before, is
surprising given the negative stereotypes and cliches associated with the animal, the
signiﬁcance of which I shall discuss shortly. Yet it is described as a result of Mabouc
doing what is within his power to transform himself. That is, physically transforming
into a donkey is more conceivable for a dog than transforming into a snake. At the same
time, though he nearly achieves total transformation, it is a process not without difficulty
or awkwardness: “Mabouc semblait n’avoir pas d’idéal, ses métamorphoses se tentaient
selon les aléas d’un vouloir sans systeme. En 1e regardant courir ou marcher parmi les
cabris et moutons, 1e maitre avait tantOt l’illusion de voir un elephant, ou tantOt un
chameau, ou encore une pintade, ou meme un crapaud innommé” (27). Chamoiseau
implies the impossibility of immediately and entirely casting off one’s previous self, as
that self will always be present, even if it is not who one currently is. In addition, by
entering into this transitional phase, Mabouc has upset the stability of his prior self or
identity, and has entered a space of difference through which his subjectivity will be
forever modiﬁed or altered. For young readers, these ideas are embodied in the awkward

moments where Mabouc is no longer a dog, but is also not entirely a donkey, helping

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them understand that becoming “other,” whether by choice, as in Mabouc’s case, or by
force, meaning through someone else’s eyes, is a complex situation that never truly
erases who one was before.

When Mabouc does ﬁnally “become” a donkey, his perception of life changes as
he embraces in its totality his subjectivity as a donkey. Nevertheless, he notices his
human’s troubling gaze: “Sous le décret de son regard, Mabouc se sentait devenir une
béte malfaisante, sortie toute rouge d’une vieille apocalypse, un vrai puits d’ignorance,
d’obscurité et de bétise” (28). There is a double signiﬁcance in Mabouc’s feelings. First,
the negative connotations associated with donkeys problematize his transformation:
Mabouc transitioned from a respected, loved animal to one that is seen as stubborn and
lazy. This change contradicts what many would consider empowering for young readers:
overcoming degrading, essentializing stereotypes to become loved and respected. What,
then, could Chamoiseau have intended to communicate? By transforming Mabouc into a
donkey, Chamoiseau highlights the power of the regard, and that of falling prey to the
unthinking dissemination of prejudiced beliefs. Additionally, the human’s negative
regard reﬂects the author’s own critical view of rejecting a part of one’s self. Let us not
forget that Créolité is premised on a uniﬁed diversity, implying that Creole identity
consists of many “selves.” Mabouc’s attempt to deﬁne himself as either/or contradicts
Chamoiseau’s theoretical perspective. Indeed, we see that Mabouc begins to struggle
with his identity as a donkey, and comes to understand that “i1 y perdait toujours une part
de sa conscience” (28). As a result, he occasionally reverts to being a dog, embraces the
power and cunning ability of a dog, then returns to being a donkey. Eventually, these

two parts of himself converge, as he begins to “jappebraire et a brairejapper, a mélanger

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l’herbe juteuse des savanes aux es de son écuelle, a se serrer les griffes pour qu’elles
laissent sur le sol des empreintes de sabots” (28). He is no longer deﬁned by one
particular state of being (dog vs. donkey), as both have become integral parts constituting
his selfhood, thereby illustrating his duality. Through contact with the Other, achieved
by his attempt/desire of becoming “other,” Mabouc emerges a different being, in all
senses of the word.

Not unimportantly, however, the destabilization and modiﬁcation of Mabouc’s
subjectivity has enriched him with a power exceeding that which he would have had as
simply one or the other creature: “Les prédateurs ne savaient plus quelles vices utiliser.
Les negres-a-méchouis parlerent de sorcellerie. Les prétres-koulis stopperent leurs
sacriﬁces. Les serpents préférent s’éloigner de ce dereglement du monde” (28). Just as
Condé’s Orbisians possessed great strength and stability in their multiplicity,
Chamoiseau’s Mabouc comes to possess those same traits through his new unstable yet
harmonious subjectivity, promoting a positive understanding of the multiplicity that
exists within the individual.

For children, Mabouc’s transformation makes an abstract, complicated concept
Signiﬁcantly more accessible. That is, they see the transition from one self to another
(dog to donkey), and the ﬁnal self within which both of the previous selves play off one
another to deﬁne that present self — a sort of donkey-dog that is at once neither and both
of the previous beings. This seemingly simple representation of otherness within the self
succeeds at communicating the complexity of the notion, exposing children to a
fundamental concept that, as Antilleans, they must inevitably eonﬁont. The inherent

diversity and interconnections of so many Others within Antillean societies make it

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important to help youths of those societies understand how they are personally affected
by and a part of that diversity and interconnection. As I stated previously when
discussing the work of Condé, Pineau, and Pepin, it is not enough to tell children not to
discriminate against Others. They must understand that they too are Others, and that
within them they carry the connections among various Others. Only then will be they be
able to truly appreciate why assuming an innate difference between themselves and
someone or something else is “inaccurate,” and, as such, why discriminating against
Others is wrong. Chamoiseau beautifully illustrates this lesson through Mabouc and his
ever-evolving transformation that does not leave behind any one identity, but rather
includes it somehow in his new identities.

Like most of the authors discussed in this chapter, Chamoiseau does not represent
every facet of otherness, only that which exists within the self. Should we look at these
seeming “inconsistencies” in what otherness is, or what parts of it should be addressed, as
problematic for Antillean youths? I contend that, on the contrary, these texts as a whole
provide young readers with a wide range of important lessons, and complement one
another. None of the authors, with one possible exception being Pépin’s ambiguous
message regarding cultural sensitivity, promote intolerance or an ethnocentric
perspective. Their works should therefore be seen as constituting a whole that strives to
push young Antilleans out of the dominant, colonially inﬂuenced perspective of Others,
and into a more open, accepting, and ultimately aware point of view. It is true that
individually, we might critique these texts as incomplete in targeting the individual and
social effects of otherness. However, together they work in harmony, providing a well-

rounded approach to socializing tolerance and appreciation for difference in Antillean

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youths, and therefore bringing about change in the Antillean collectivity. We have seen
in this chapter how, from picture books targeting the very young to young adult novels
targeting Older adolescents, Antillean children are encouraged to perceive themselves and
behave in or perceive their encounters with the “different,” “strange,” or “unacceptable.”
In stark contrast to the exoticized imagery of le bon sauvage promoted through events
such as Exhibitions or colonial era literature (for children and adults), and in
contradiction with the dominant French ideology present in Antillean societies, these
texts provide children with new ways of seeing their world, as well as their place within
it. They are shown a positive view of difference, and are pushed to become aware of and
cast off the negativity toward Others fostered by colonial inﬂuence. Indeed, the binary
opposition fostered in colonial discourse of same/different, familiar/strange, or
“norrnal”/“abnormal,” which allows prejudice and intolerance to thrive, is generally, and
decisively, rejected by the authors and their texts discussed in this chapter. The dividing
lines are effectively blurred, if we look at the ensemble of works and the lessons they
communicate to the young readership, thereby promoting a future of cooperation,

compassion, tolerance, and awareness.

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CHAPTER 4
CULTURAL IDENTITY: RECONSTITUTING CREOLITE

The internalization of colonial racial discourse, the adoption and normalization of
French social structures, the adherence to a politics of otherness ingrained in colonial
ideology -— all are issues stemming from Antilleans’ assimilation to imposed discourses.
But where does it all begin? Why has French dominance continued with little resistance
in Antillean societies? Chapters one and two highlighted the role played by the
educational system in fostering assimilation. Children are continuously exposed to
official French discourses, legitimized by the authority of the classroom and school texts.
Yet is there a particular aspect of the curriculum that facilitates more than any other the
normalization of French social discourse? One could argue that History is a central factor
in easing Antillean children into accepting French “superiority,” and therefore
assimilating with little or no Objection. What Fanon tells us is still relevant today': “Aux
Antilles, 1e jeune Noir, qui a l’e’cole ne cesse de répéter ‘nos peres, les Gaulois’,
s’identiﬁe [. . .] au Blane qui apporte la vérité aux sauvages, une vérité toute blanche”
(F anon, PNMB 120). Ignoring African history and denying an Antillean history allows
students to identify only with the French. They are forced to negate a part of themselves,
or to wonder what is their true cultural identity. Because history can help people
understand where they come from, and who they are today, access only to French History
problematizes cultural identity in the Antilles. Moreover, without a history of which they
are a part, Antillean children are perhaps unaware of their oppression. They are

continually fed a Eurocentric perspective, and know little or nothing of the strength and

 

lSee chapter one’s discussion on the Antillean educational system’s curriculum, both in the past
and present.

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resistance of their ancestors. Even if these children were to encounter “new” historical
stories, they need to be shown how to apply that knowledge in their present-day situation
for it to have positive effects. This chapter seeks to explore the role of children’s
literature in both the recuperation of Antillean historical memory, and the application of
that memory in resisting French hegemony and in deﬁning an Antillean cultural identity.

The idea of a collective Antillean identity is widely debated, to be sure, but I am
interested in how Antillean authors of children’s literature address the issue, and how
they incorporate historical memory. Do they attempt to deﬁne such an identity, or do
they encourage readers to discover it on their own, after having rejected the oppression of
French dominance? Do authors recuperate identiﬁcation with a Creole society? Do they
promote a balance between readers’ repressed créolité and French cultural inﬂuence? DO
they establish positive images of créolité oppositional to those found in History and
colonial discourse? There is indeed a connection between history and culture, which we
see in examining various children’s books by Jean-Jacques Vayssieres, Lucie Julia,
Maguy Bibrac, Patrick Chamoiseau, and Alex Godard. We shall explore how these
authors challenge the master historical narrative and the situation it has fostered. We
shall look at how their various approaches to memory and society reﬂect their position in
establishing Antillean cultural identity.

First, however, let us brieﬂy examine in more detail the cultural and individual
impact History has had on Antillean societies. Glissant explains that before being able to
construct or reconstruct an Antillean history, one must ask where that history begins, a
question which he sees as independent of European or Aﬁican histories. Luciano

Picanco rightly points out, with respect to Glissant’s perspective, that

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meme si [les Antilles] ont été crée'es a partir de l’apport d’une multiplicité

de peuples, elles sont devenues, par la mise en contact entre ces peuples,

une entité nouvelle et non pas un prolongement des peuples et des

histoires precedents. Le noir devient le noir plus le blanc plus l’indien

plus d’autres. Le blanc devient le blanc plus le noir plus l’indien plus

d’autres, et ainsi de suite. (55)
This métissage culture] results from the coming together of various cultures and
ethnicities to share a common reality and a common history independent of those ﬁ'om
before slavery and colonization. At the same time, Glissant acknowledges in his
Poe'tique de la Relation that this métissage is not in opposition with culture pure (Picanco
66). It is not the disappearance of individual cultures, but the belonging to a space where
multiple cultures inform the social fabric. Unfortunately, for Antilleans of Aﬁican
descent, French hegemony and the imposition of History have problematized their
participation in la Relation: “Toutefois, la participation dans la Relation ne peut se
concrétiser pour un peuple que s’il découvre sa place dans le monde” (Picanco 66). If the
Antillean people are to have a voice, and to participate, they must establish their own
place in the world — it is in essence self-discovery. Yet gradual assimilation via the
educational system, collective amnesia, and various other media promoting French
“superiority” have repressed such self-discovery, which we see in Antilleans’ struggle to
deﬁne a cultural identity in relation to a distorted past.

Creole culture as deﬁned by anthropologists Sidney W. Mintz and Richard Price

(The Birth of A ﬁ'ican-American Culture (1976)) includes the cross-cultural contact

brought about by slavery, and the mutual cultural inﬂuence among Aﬁican slaves and

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European colonizers: “All slaves must have found themselves accepting, albeit out of
necessity, countless ‘foreign’ cultural practices, and this implied a gradual remodeling of
their own traditional ways of doing many things” (47). Their respective cultures were
creolized as they created a new, speciﬁcally Creole cultural identity, marking the start of
a new history — one that because of displacement and cultural métissage cannot be
considered an extension of either African or European histories. However, in the French
Antilles, this type of Creole culture, and the establishment of an “Antillean history,” has
been repressed, while the imposition and normalization of French memory has left
Antilleans little choice but to adopt French perspectives, and to see themselves as
“French.” Consequently, they learn to see France as superior, and strive to become
“white,” unable to see themselves as part of a diverse region with a shared past. Yet
because Antilleans can never “truly” assimilate, as discussed in chapter one, the
imposition and acceptance of French discourses have led to feelings of alienation.
Assimilation arrests the possibility of an Antillean cultural identity, because it represses a
signiﬁcant part of who they are, of their créolité. Picanco explains: “La Martinique étant
une extension francaise, il ne reste plus au Martiniquais émigré que de mimcr la conduite
stére’otypée d’un vrai F rancais virtue] [. . .] Le Martiniquais, lui, est francais et ne l’est
pas tout a la fois” (47-48). This argument that Martinicans, or Antilleans, mimic the
archetype of “real” Frenchness is reminiscent of the “bad copies” discussed by Eric
Gable. Gable points out that in Aﬁica, the “bad copy” is “the native who wears your
suits, but the style is a little too ﬂamboyant, and you laugh at his imperfect attempts at
imitation. Yet you are often anxious because you are never quite sure whether he mimics

you to make ﬁm of you” (299). Conversely, “bad copies” have also “upset the enemies

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Of colonialism, for the ‘black man who wants to be white’ is proof positive of
colonialism’s pathological effect” (Gable 299). Gable underscores the fact that on both
sides of the argument, for and against colonialism, the “bad copy is Often an aesthetic
abomination — an embodiment of a troubling inauthenticity” (299). In the French
Antilles, French hegemony and the inferiorization of créolité have had a similar effect on
the population: Antilleans are French because “F renchness” has been thrust upon them,
but are not French in that they are, to an extent, “bad copies” within the scope of colonial
ideology.2 Without a movement toward reclaiming their créolité, and establishing a
“new” Antillean history, Antilleans will continue to be subject to this duality in which
they have little control over their self-deﬁnition.

Anne Malena argues that “Caribbean identity depends on the relations that the
Caribbean self establishes with a locale, history, memories, and other selves” (3).
Assimilation and hegemonic pressures manipulate this relationship, leaving Antilleans in
a perpetual state of negotiation and contradiction. As a result, their cultural identity
remains ill deﬁned. Perhaps the most effective way to alter that confusion is to target
Antillean children, challenging the efﬁcacy of French hegemony. Normalizing
alternative discourses may diminish the negative representations of Creole culture
inherent in colonial discourse. It may re-connect Antilleans with their region, allowing
them to realize their créolité, which, in keeping with Glissant’s deﬁnition, is informed by
a plurality of cultures and ethnicities. This chapter will focus ﬁrst on several texts that
challenge the master historical narrative by installing the Antillean voice in that narrative.

We will examine how these “new” histories contribute to a sense of empowerment, and

 

2Alain Brossat tells us: “Ce que nous devons travailler a reconnaitre et faire reconnaitre, dans sa
dimension pleine et entiere, en levant, au ﬁl du chemin, les pieges de la fausse identité: ‘Les Antilles. c’est
la France” (10).

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the re-creation of a speciﬁcally Antillean memory. We will then turn to several texts
illustrating the internal struggle between this empowerment and assimilation. These
latter works put the empowering narratives into action, thereby provoking readers’ re-
examination of their identity as members of a plural community with a shared history of
brutal displacement, exploitation, and struggles against oppression.

In previous chapters, I have discussed how children’s literature functions as a
socializing agent through the normalization of attitudes and beliefs, the inclusion and
exclusion of various peoples, the author’s choice of language or political position. In
historical ﬁction, these same inﬂuences operate because history is, after all, a story. But
as Michel-Rolph Trouillot says: “At best, history is a story about power, a story about
those who won” (5). How authors in dominated societies represent history in their books
can further legitimize the master historical narrative, legitimizing as well the superstrate’s
power, or it can provide children with different perspectives, recuperating parts of a past
that have been distorted or ignored, and mounting a subversive attack on the dominant
culture’s power. Given that Antillean societies remain subject to the dominance of
French History, these questions of why and how the authors I will be discussing re-write
or use history are central. Do they continue to normalize the historical discourse taught
in school, privileging the heroism of white French nationals? Or do they attempt to
normalize a new, speciﬁcally “Antillean” history, giving voice to those overlooked by the
master narrative? If the latter, how is memory recuperated or created? And of course,
why would that be important?

Micheline Rice-Maximin insists that History does not reﬂect the historical reality

of the Antillean islands. It reﬂects the colonizer’s perspective, and she attributes

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Antilleans’ persistent acceptance of this History to both a collective amnesia, and to
French hegemonic pressures, two inﬂuences which, it goes without saying, are intimately
linked. Rice-Maximin states:
La violence, la repression, les nombreux sacriﬁces, les trahisons, ont été
refoulées dans la mémoire collective, particulierement apres 1848.
L’acces a la citoyenneté, l’euphorie qui s’en suivit, le désir d’oublier tout
ce qui pouvait rappeler les humiliations et les souffrances du passé ont
contribué a un certain degré d’amnésie individuelle et collective dans la
mémoire populaire (20-21).
Yet she also calls attention to the increasing presence of speciﬁcally Antillean heroes,
such as Solitude, Delgrés, and Ignace, rooted in a local Antillean reality. Their
replacement of History’s non-Antillean heroes, such as Napoleon, represents what she
calls a “phénoméne de démythiﬁcation et de démystiﬁcation” (Rice-Maximin 22). Their
re-installation into Antillean historical memory signiﬁes a growing prise de conscience
among persons of color, and the creation of new myths, which contribute to establishing a
national identity.

Echoing Rice-Maximin, Luciano Picanco contends that the Antillean people is an
evolving people still forming an identity that must be addressed by writers and
theoreticians, and that must be discovered by Antilleans themselves. This discovery,
according to Picanco, depends on re-evaluating a common Antillean past, and
recognizing how ideological barriers imposed by a colonial system have repressed a
collective memory (55). The imposition of colonial History, and the gaps in memory it

has caused, have robbed the Antillean people of a collective voice, and a sense of

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national unity. This historical wound has, in turn, inhibited the establishment of a
collective Antillean identity. Glissant likewise argues that all writers in the Americas are
duty bound to reconstitute the past (Simasotchi-Brones 230), an argument adopted and
developed by the Elogistes of Créolité — Chamoiseau, Conﬁant, and Bernabe’: “Le
deuxieme objectif de l’esthétique de la Créolité est la mise au jour de la mémoire vraie,
c’est-a-dire continuer la lutte glissantienne pour transformer la chronique coloniale en
chronique martiniquaise” (Picanco 84). As Chamoiseau and Conﬁant tell us in their
Lettres Créoles, story-tellers give voice to the group, and act as “gardien[s] des
mémoires” (62). Rice-Maximin concurs: “Le conteur c’est une partie de la mémoire et de
l’histoire enregistrées et représentées devant ceux et celles qui étaient exclues [sic] de la
mémoire et de l’histoire oﬂicielles” (12-13). She goes on to establish the connection
between the traditional conteurs and today’s authors: “Le conteur a ainsi passe la parole
aux écrivains d’aujourd’hui qui ne cessent de se ressourcer a son heritage” (13) It is only
through the re-establishment of Antillean historical reality, and a collective Antillean
memory, that Antilleans today will be able to make sense of their present, and to reclaim
their own agency both as individuals and as a community.

It is fair to assume, however, that the writers, or story-tellers, about whom Rice-
Maximin, Picanco, and the others speak are those who produce literature for adults,
because while attention has been paid to the signiﬁcance of French dominance in the
educational system, little attention has been directed toward the literature produced for
Antillean youths. The educational system continues to adhere to the metropolitan
curriculum, and promotes a conception of history that neglects the social realities of the

slave and colonial eras, as well as the history that pre-dates slavery (i.e. pre-colonialist

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African history). We see evidence of this bias in narratives such as Chamoiseau’s
Chemin d ’école, in which he describes how views placing white Europeans as the
founders of History are inculcated in Antillean school children. Yet, given the
continually growing production of contemporary, mainstream Antillean children’s
literature, can these hegemonic pressures be challenged? While adult literature may act
to demystify, or demythify, the Antilles’ relationship with France and its past, children’s
literature tackles French hegemonic discourses at their point of inculcation. Through its
normalizing, socializing nature, literature that targets Antillean youths may provide a
counter-measure to History as it is promoted in the classroom. Attempting to instill
historical agency in those individuals who are still developing a sense of who they are
and where they come from is perhaps the most effective way to establish a collective
memory and a cultural identity.

As Stuart Hall tells us: “Cultural identities come from somewhere, have histories.
But, like everything which is historical, they undergo constant transformation. Far ﬁom
being eternally ﬁxed in some essentialised past, they are subject to the continuous ‘play’
of history, culture and power. [They] are the names we give to the different ways we are
positioned by, and position ourselves within, the narratives of the past” (CID 225).
Identity in relation to the past goes beyond mere recovery, as there is no ﬁxed, factual
past. It is constantly being re-invented, rediscovered, and retold as observers add their
visions to the historical story over time. Michel-Rolph Trouillot tells us that, in fact,
there can be no past without the present: “Indeed, the past is only past because there is a
present, just as I can point to something over there only because I am here. But nothing

is inherently over there or here. In that sense, the past has no content. The past — or,

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more accurately, pastness — is a position” (Trouillot 15). The past is informed by a
particular social or cultural position in the present, shaping historical narratives, and
deﬁning their purpose, which as Trouillot argues is what gives history its meaning:
“Historical representations [. . .] cannot be conceived only as vehicles for the transmission
of knowledge. They must establish some relation to that knowledge. [. . .] What we know
about slavery or about colonialism can — should, indeed — increase our ardor in the
struggles against discrimination and oppression across racial and national boundaries”
(Trouillot 149-50). History should empower individuals and cultures to engage as actors,
not only narrators in historicity. In the texts we shall discuss here, for example, renewing
cruel realities of slavery, and representing the many forms of resistance speaks from and
to the present-day oppression of French hegemony. History is told in a way that
eliminates victimized and viliﬁed Antillean, or Creole’, populations, and re-establishes
these same peoples as important actors in their own ﬁght for freedom. Readers are
encouraged to embrace a tradition of strength and resistance, making the purpose of
history, in this case, empowerment.

In Les F abuleuses aventures d ’Equiano, author and illustrator Jean-Jacques
Vayssieres shares the story of Olaudah Equiano, a slave whose success in gaining
freedom in the eighteenth century makes him a symbol of hope as he represents the
possibility of defeating slavery, but whose assimilation to English culture problematizes

his subversive potential in the present-day. The book’s introduction explains that

 

3The term “Creole” has been used in various contexts. It can refer to a white person born in the
Caribbean, to a black or mulatto person born in the Caribbean, or generally to anyone born in the
Caribbean. Creole has also been used to deﬁne Caribbean culture, built on the contact of various African
and European cultural practices, or to reference the idea of being “in-between” — in between cultures, in
between races, and so forth. I do not attempt to ascribe a speciﬁc meaning to the term here, but use it to
imply that the signiﬁcance of the literature discussed in this chapter extends beyond nationalistic
boundaries. The concept of créolité, as we shall see, is often depicted as a way of being, and does not
adhere to such boundaries, though the target audience is Antillean.

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Vayssiéres, originally commissioned to illustrate Equiano’s autobiography, became
impassioned with this ex-slave’s story: “Convaincu qu’il devait faire partager, par des
jeunes en particulier, cette nouvelle amitié, il s’est ﬁxé pour but de le ressusciter sous sa
plume et ses pinceaux” (2). Vayssieres’s picture book is the only text in this study based
on actual historical ﬁgures, and the author’s rewriting of Equiano’s history makes a
strong connection between past and present.

The book is divided into three sections, each chronicling different stages of
Equiano’s life, and the illustrations seem intended to lend an “authentic” feel to the story.
They are reminiscent of sketches, resemble snapshots, and include images of hand-
written letters and posters. For example, next to the account of Equiano’s arrival in
Barbados, a poster reads: “To be sold [. . .] A cargo of ninety-four prime, healthy negroes
[. . .]” (17).4 In addition, Vayssieres includes a portrait of Equiano, found in the Library
of Congress, at the end of the story, emphasizing its “truth.” Truth, of course, is open to
interpretation. Consider that Equiano’s autobiography is approximately 396 pages in
length, clearly too long for a child’s picture book. Vayssiéres’s choice of which events to
include and exclude reshapes the story of this historical ﬁgure. Images play an important
role in this respect, because they relay information not included in the text, and also
provide interpretations of certain events. For example, when the real Equiano arrives in
Virginia, he is ordered to fan his ailing master, and becomes fascinated by a clock, which
he sees as a magical item intended to spy on him and inform the master should he
misbehave. In Vayssieres’s text, this information is included in the form of a picture.

Equally intriguing, Equiano appears angry in this picture, whereas in his autobiography

 

4It is also important to note that despite the text’s being written in French, the wording in this
poster remains in English, furthering the “authenticity” of the image since Barbados, where Olaudah was
being sold, was an English-speaking colony.

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he was terriﬁed, and often wished for death. We can see how Vayssiéres uses imagery to
evoke certain ideas about Equiano’s character in readers’ minds. Equiano becomes a
strong character, foreshadowing his eventual involvement in abolition.

Vayssieres introduces a similar twist to the autobiographical narrative at the
beginning of the book, when Equiano encounters the slaveship off the coast of Aﬁ'ica.
The autobiography tells us that Equiano was ﬁlled with astonishment and terror. He
believed he had entered a world of bad spirits that would kill him, a belief solidiﬁed by
the strangers’ long hair, different complexions, and strange language. Yet in
Vayssiéres’s work, the white men are described merely as “curieux,” with skin that is
“bizarrement rosatre” (13). Their physical examination of Equiano’s body, which was
seen as absurd by the text’s character, had made the real person fear being eaten.
Equiano is not presented as the historical ﬁgure who fainted on deck from fear, but as a
person whose ability to adapt will enable him to survive the impending horrors with ease.
The only allusion made to fear is in “l’inquie’tude de ce qui les attendaient” (l3), and the
image of Africans chained together with frightened expressions. Comparing these
representations with the autobiography, we see that Vayssieres reinterprets history in a
way that normalizes the strength and tenacity of his readers’ ancestors.

When Equiano is sold to a British lieutenant, Henry Pascal, his life changes
forever, as he willingly integrates into English culture. The order of events in Vayssiéres
text and in Equiano’s autobiography differ, but both highlight the latter’s ﬁ'iendship with
an American, Richard Baker, his conversion to Christianity, and his many adventures on

the sea. Vayssieres’s exclusion of several signiﬁcant experiences leading to conversion is

not unimportant in terms of his readership. Equiano was fascinated by white customs,

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and after becoming friends with a young white girl, became painﬁilly aware of his
different complexion. He looked on the English as men superior to “them” (meaning
Africans), and in a desire to resemble and imitate the English, he took every opportunity
for “improvement.” When he was told he could not get into Heaven without being
baptized, he chose to convert and become a baptized member of the Church of England.
Because assimilation is one of the major dilemmas facing Antillean autonomy and a
collective identity, Vayssieres no doubt faced a difﬁcult decision in how to represent this
ﬁgure, who had obviously embraced the colonizer’s culture. Though he faithfully reports
Equiano’s willing integration, he excludes its most damning aspects, such as wishing, and
even attempting, to change his appearance. Instead, Equiano’s cultural assimilation is
portrayed simply as a strategic decision to gain freedom and success.

When Equiano is sold to a Quaker in Montserrat, Vayssieres evokes a prise de
conscience in his character regarding the true horrors of slavery in the Americas.
Vayssieres reworks the autobiography’s philosophical reﬂection and detailed description
of slavery’s abuses from which his character learns, and develops a stand of principled
resistance. Vayssieres evokes atrocities such as the iron muzzle, branding, being sold by
the pound, and being ﬂogged to the point of mutilation, but it is through a “vieux négre
creole” (31) that his character fully appreciates such cruelty. This man shares with
Equiano the policies perpetuating this cruelty, such as a slave owner’s right to kill a slave
for the slightest fault. In reality, the “vieux négre cre'ole” did not exist, at least not in the
capacity depicted by the author. There was an elderly man from whom Equiano heard
stories, but it was not he alone who informed Equiano’s knowledge of slave culture.

Vayssiéres’s reinvention of this history is not simply an alteration made to accommodate

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limited space. Such knowledge passed down orally by an elder preserves the tradition of
oral histories and the conteur, and therefore references créolité. This storyteller ﬁgure is
an important representation: it renews speciﬁc Creole traditions in young readers’ minds.

When Equiano does ﬁnally succeed in purchasing his freedom, we are led into the
second section of the book, where the events are generally faithful to the autobiography,
though abridged. Equiano remains in Montserrat for a while out of respect for the “ ' d”
master who had allowed his manumission, then heads to England. He seeks employment
with a doctor and learns to distill water, learns the French horn, dresses hair, and ﬁnally,
needing a larger income, returns to the sea. Already a seasoned sailor from his
experiences as a slave, Equiano goes on many adventures to Turkey, Italy, Jamaica,
Grenada, Honduras, and so forth. He is nearly kidnapped and again enslaved; he also
participates in a glory-seeking expedition to the North Pole. For young readers, this
black adventurer provides a signiﬁcant counter to the white adventure stories criticized
by F anon. Instead of normalizing white heroism, Vayssieres fosters pride in being
African-American.

It is at this point, aﬁer Equiano’s many adventures, that Vayssieres’s re-writing of
Equiano’s history departs dramatically from the autobiography. In this third and ﬁnal
section, the author has his character go to America, where he becomes an important
ﬁgure in the abolition movement. In actuality, Equiano remained in England, and though
he spent most of his time ﬁghting for his “injured countrymen,” he was not a part of the
militant American groups. The entire section is a conversation between Equiano, and
two presumably ﬁctitious characters, Major Charles Henry Sraight and Clement

Desnoisette. Through this conversation, it becomes clear that Vayssieres’s intention is to

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challenge the histories taught to Antillean children. Two perspectives are represented;
one held by Desnoisette, who applauds ﬁgures such as l’Abbé Gregoire, Condorcet, and
the group La Société des Amis des Noirs, and the other held by Equiano and Straight.
These latter two question the claim that those praised by Desnoisettes are heroic in their
ﬁght against slavery. Equiano criticizes ﬁgures such as Gregoire and Condorcet for their
lack of a precise understanding of slavery and its social conditions: “Vois-tu Clement, je
me méﬁe un peu de ces philosophes des Lumieres, honnétes gens s’il en fut, mais n’ayant
pas une exacte connaissance de la réalité de nos iles. Ce furent bien souvent de grands
marchands de discours mais de bien peu de poids face aux planteurs inﬂuents [. . .]” (56).
He also criticizes the Société, whose position against slavery is premised on their
assertion that Blacks are neither ready nor mature enough for freedom. Though
contextually different, here Vayssieres honors Equiano’s belief in the hypocrisy of
slavery, as the latter criticizes the colonizer’s claim that, for example, Blacks are not
intelligent enough to learn, while simultaneously refusing them an education.

When Desnoisette mentions the US. Declaration of Independence, which in
theory declares all men equal, Equiano responds, emphasizing how History has
manipulated truth: “Tu veux parler de l’article sur l’égalite’ des hommes? Jefferson fut, en
fait, un politicien prudent doublé d’un habile légiste. Relis le texte: les esclaves negres

3’
!

en sont exclus (5 7) History gloriﬁes Jefferson as a defender of human rights, ignoring
the “small” detail of how black Americans were excluded from such rights. These
references to traditionally accepted versions of History, and their negation through

Vayssiere’s characters, destabilize knowledge learned in schoolbooks, and provide young

readers with a critical viewpoint on familiar “historical” events. Vayssieres rejects

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illusions of the past (namely the white heroism in ﬁghting slavery) that have hindered
Antillean autonomy, and have fostered Antillean dependence on France.

At the end of the book, the Guadeloupean revolutionary Louis Delgres arrives
outside where the men are speaking. Nowhere does Equiano’s autobiography mention
Delgres, but Vayssieres wanted to associate Equiano with one of the most courageous
black abolitionist rebels. Delgres was an experienced military ofﬁcer, and a mulcitre,
who led a violent resistance movement in Guadeloupe against the reoccupation and
reinstitution of slavery. When trapped by the French, he and many of his men mined the
fort to which they had retreated, killing themselves along with many French soldiers who
had overrun their refuge. This is a tragic but symbolic move validating the heroism of
Guadeloupean ﬁgures. Given that History had ignored Delgres’s heroic actions against
the French for decades, Vayssieres’s reference is signiﬁcant. The author contributes to
the reinstallation of this ﬁgure in the Antillean collective memory.

Vayssieres’s representation of Equiano’s history has important present-day
implications. Based on his choice of which aspects of Equiano’s life and character to
include in his children’s story, he has created a hero who survived by overcoming an
oppressive system. Described as extremely able to adapt, passionate in his determination
against oppression, and always aware of his “Aﬁ'icanness,” Equiano embodies a Creole
subjectivity, at least insofar as the author wishes it to be. In reality, although he
recognized and strongly condemned the inhumanity of slavery, Equiano was a well-
assimilated man who accepted many of the discourses imposed by colonization. This
was not how the author represented him, however, and given the continuing struggle in

the Antilles against French dominance, we see the purpose of this children’s book. The

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present informs why, and therefore how, Vayssieres recreates Equiano’s person and
history. For Antillean youths, who must negotiate their own space in a society still
subject to French hegemony, this story has important potential consequences. Vayssiéres
represents a black historical ﬁgure in a way that instills pride, and counters the
normalization of “white” heroes. He stresses the ﬁgure’s symbolic signiﬁcance, while
eliminating or strategically altering problematic situations and qualities. He promotes a
view of Antillean, or Caribbean, ancestry as strong and digniﬁed. And ﬁnally, he refutes
the master historical narrative that has prevented a collective Antillean memory and
autonomous, national identity. Reading this book provides young readers with new
perspectives on their culture and history that may inspire resistance against present-day
oppression.

Vayssieres’s text provides us the most transparent insight into re-writing history
based on our ability to compare its representation of Equiano with Equiano’s own story
told in his autobiography. However, effective historical realism is not only applicable to
stories based on speciﬁc persons or events, as in Les F abuleuses aventures d ’Equiano.
Other texts can provide equally challenging opposition to master historical discourses.
Lucie Julia’s short story, Montrésor (‘1 Mantidou (1992), is one such example. Though
her characters are ﬁctitious, their situation is real -— the cruelty and oppression of slavery.
I should ﬁrst point out, however, that Julia uses both French and Creole to tell the story.
This multilingualism represents a challenge to French dominance, and the role of the
French language in constructing Antillean history. In an interview, Glissant says:
“L’histoire occidentale s’est faite sur la base de l’impérialisme linguistique. [. . .] Nous

entrons dans une période du monde or‘r l’irnpérialisme monolinguistique commence a étre

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combattu a fond. A l’heure actuelle, il faut se battre pour le plurilinguisme” (Brossat,
Maragnes 99-100). Julia both embraces this plurilinguisme, privileging neither one
language nor the other, and adds dimension to the historical signiﬁcance of her story. If
language imposition has complicated self-expression in colonized peoples, it is inevitable
that it has shaped to some extent historical narratives. Julia, by employing Creole,
reclaims a certain amount of control over how history is told, linguistically speaking, and
destabilizes French control over historical discourse.

Moreover, Julia inscribes aspects of the oral tradition — she begins her story with:
“Krik! Krak! I] y avait une fois, longtemps, longtemps, longtemps,. . .” (7)5, and ends it
with: “Je veux croire que vous l’avez bien comprise! Krik! Krak!” (59) As Vayssieres
did with his use of the “vieux negre créole,” Julia brings a part of Creole tradition into the
present-day, connecting past and present in readers’ minds. Moreover, her use of orality,
according to the Elogistes, establishes her as a conteur, and therefore as a purveyor of
Creole culture and memory. As an author of children’s literature, this role takes on
greater signiﬁcance in that not only is she giving voice to créolité, she is inscribing that
voice in Antillean youths who may embrace and develop it throughout their lives.

In her narrative, Julia attempts to re-write deﬁnitions of “heroism” and
“resistance” during the slave era, and contributes to an alternative Antillean history.
Attentive to the realities of slavery, she highlights its brutality, and encourages young
readers to appreciate what their ancestors endured. She shows them how resistance, in

modes other than revolution, was heroic. More importantly, she attempts to normalize a

 

"‘Krik! Krak!” is the equivalent in African or Creole oral traditions to the phrase “il y avait une
fois” in French fairy tales. The difference is the audience participation in the former — the second word,
“krak,” is the audience response to the storyteller’s “krik.” This is an interesting use of both in Julia’s text,
implying the mutual contribution of French and African structures in Antillean (oral) literary forms.

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discourse oppositional to those that have dictated who was heroic in the ﬁght against
slavery, thereby subtly challenging the current hegemonic powers.

The story revolves around a slave woman, Mantidou, and her young son,
Montrésor, who she refuses to allow to be sold into slavery. She tells anyone who will
listen: “Je pre'f‘ere le tuer, comme je tue un coq” (8). Even aﬁer the slave owner
announces that Montrésor’s ears will be cut off, and his name changed to “Zorey koupé”
(in an attempt to preserve his authority), Mantidou responds by laughing. Helpless
before her master’s physical authority, her only defense lay in her refusal to be
intimidated by it. Then, when Mantidou is informed that Montrésor will be branded and
put to work in the ﬁelds at age seven, she makes a drastic and devastating decision. She
leads her son to a steep cliff, and leaves him, telling everyone he is dead. Readers may at
ﬁrst question this action, but in truth, Mantidou frees her son: “Montrésor, heureux
comme un jeune cabri en liberté, se mit a descendre dans le gouffre qui deviendrait
désormais sa demeure” (27).6 Her sacriﬁce makes her character heroic. She resists
slavery the only way she can - not allowing her son to become a part of it, thus
undermining the slave owner’s authority.

How realistic is this? If we look at Equiano’s writings, for example, the cruelty of
slavery knew no limits. Stories like a small boy having his ears cut off, or being branded
by hot iron were only some of the tortures slaves endured. Rarely, however, do History
books go into such detail when discussing slavery. Usually it is simply characterized as

dehumanizing, humiliating, and oppressive. There is certainly discussion about policy,

 

6We should note also that Montrésor’s “escape” from slavery and his existence in the wilderness
makes vivid allusions to the legend of marrons, who embody the notion of resistance. I say legend because
although marrons did indeed live outside “established society,” they sometimes forged pacts with slave
owners, relinquishing new fugitive slaves to their white pursuers in return for being left alone.

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how slaves were forced to convert, the cruelty of slave owners and overseers, but the
speciﬁc, horrifying details are generally omitted. In this respect, Julia’s story, though
ﬁctional, ﬁlls an important gap in the memory of slavery. Resistance as well is shown in
a new light. History often attributes resistance to revolutionaries who rose in arms
against the owners, or the marrons, who ﬂed into the mountains. In this story, resistance
is more subtle, but reveals an important reality of how slaves survived and resisted on a
daily basis. For readers, these personal struggles highlight strength, tenacity, and
perseverance, similarly to the history of Equiano as represented by Vayssiéres.

From this point in the text, Julia emphasizes the relationship between religion and
resistance. Because everyone believes her son is dead, they do not question Mantidou
when she says her son’s spirit will return each night. When they are desperate to escape
the increasing cruelty of the slave owner, they join Mantidou in invoking Montrésor’s
spirit, creating a religious ﬁgure that serves their needs. Although readers know he is
neither dead, nor a supernatural entity, it is the people’s belief in him that is important.
They see his spirit as the embodiment of strength and knowledge with the ability to free
them. He becomes, in a sense, deiﬁed. Mintz and Trouillot tell us: “Almost all religions
include what some anthropologists call ‘transformative practices,’ that is, acts which,
when performed properly by humans, mobilize ‘supematural’ forces in order to affect
human life” (129). They further contend: “We believe that the religious orientation of
many or even most of the slaves played a part in their resistance to the horrors of slavery”
(138). In Julia’s text, the slaves attempt to “mobilize” Montrésor’s spirit to obtain
freedom, underscoring not only the importance of religion, but how it functioned in

tandem with slaves’ growing need for hope.

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When Montrésor ﬁnally speaks to his followers, the correlation between
resistance and revolution is once again challenged. He does not call on them to take up
arms, but encourages them to remain steadfast in their faith: “Ah! mes freres, mettez du
lait, des oeufs, i1 y a un jour oil il n’y aura plus d’esclaves (bis). Tenez bon, bon courage
et surtout faites tout ce que je vous dis de faire” (41). He establishes his authority by re-
establishing his position in the slaves’ minds as a supernatural entity. When he returns,
months later, he instructs his followers ﬁrst to demand pay from the slave owners, then
later to burn the ﬁelds. Unfortunately, his instructions do not result in ﬁeedom, and
instead, the slaves endure ﬂoggings, and even executions, among which is that of
Mantidou.7 It is at this moment that the reader can truly appreciate the power of religion
among slaves. Defeated by the slave owners, beaten, killed, and tortured, the slaves do
not abandon their belief in Montrésor, despite his unrealized prophecies and unfulﬁlled
promises: “Les esclaves étaient trop malades ou trop affaiblis pour parler et chanter. Ils
n’attendaient que la voix de l’esprit pour réagir” (51). Their unwavering faith in
Montrésor strengthens the slaves to mobilize and endure by giving them hope that things
will change. With the arrival of the abolition movement years later, the slaves in Julia’s
text succeed in receiving pay for their work, and though a small victory, it testiﬁes to the

validity of such hope. Montrésor’s heroism lay in his ability to inspire resistance on

 

7 This latter incident is signiﬁcant in itself, while lending credibility to Montrésor’s “failing"
leadership. Though tragic, Mantidou’s death should be seen as a testament to her strength, and to how
resistance leads to freedom. Despite her lack of physical strength, Mantidou summons the courage to reject
the commandeur’s cruelty: “[Elle] se leva péniblement et se tenant droite et ﬁere devant le ‘commandeur’
lui dit: ‘Commandeur’, si tu me fouettes aujourd’hui, c’est la demiere fois que tu fouetteras un negre” (49).
She is executed, but this should be seen as liberation. Her will to resist, strengthened by the belief in her
son, led her to death, and thus to freedom from physical bondage. It is not the conventional freedom we
often associate with escaping slavery, but Julia’s point in writing this text is to re-write the conventional,
and to present her young readers with alternative views on heroism, and now freedom.

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various levels; not so much physical resistance as resistance against the psychological
and spiritual oppression that often accompanied physical enslavement.

As with the detailed horrors of brutality, Julia expands what has long been the
deﬁnition of resistance and heroism. Though this story is ﬁctitious, its realism
concerning the everyday struggles and modes of survival or resistance makes it an
integral part of rewriting the past. Perhaps even more so, given there is no actual person
to base the story on. Julia has creative freedom, and she creates a story that speciﬁcally
ﬁts what she wants children to know about their history, exemplifying the kind of re-
writing discussed by Hall and Trouillot. The story’s meaning, or that of the history she
represents, lay in its purpose — to ﬁll gaps in Antillean memory, and to foster appreciation
for the individuals whose names will never be known, but who nevertheless were heroes.
Moreover, the focus on resistance, and the allusion to the heroism of “normal”
individuals speaks to the challenges faced by Antilleans today. Julia normalizes a “new”
view of history, while inviting readers to become inspired by her characters, and to
embrace a culture of strength and survival.

Like Vayssiéres, Julia establishes perspectives on a speciﬁc time period, and
stresses the tenacity and strength of her society’s ancestors. She questions how History
has depicted slavery, and attempts to re-write the ﬁght against its cruelties. Her purpose
is evident, just as it is in Vayssiere’s text: to provide young readers with a view of their
past that positions Antilleans as important actors in that ﬁght. She rejects the one-sided
history depicting slaves at the mercy of white Europeans, with whom their salvation

supposedly lay. By inscribing strength in her readers’ ancestors, and representing their

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role against slavery as important, she challenges the sense of inferiority fostered through
the master narrative.

These same traits are emphasized in Maguy Bibrac’s young adult novel, Histoire
d ’Ougga, chien creole (2001). More important, however, is the representation of
adopting these traits in the present-day. Unlike Julia and Vayssieres, Bibrac uses
allegory instead of historical realism: Her story centers around a puppy named Ougga,
believed to be the descendant of Motoun, the creole dogs’ heroic god, and provides
young readers with entertaining, yet instructive insight into a past of resistance and
survival. Some might argue that Bibrac’s use of allegory does not effectively contribute
to a collective memory - how are youths supposed to decipher the historical elements
from the imaginary, contemporary setting? The signiﬁcance of her narrative, however,
does not lie in its re-actualization of a particular time period, such as slavery, but in its
amalgamation of all historical instances involving oppression, and its resistance, as well
as in the author’s emphasis on embracing the past to successfully challenge oppression in
the present.

For instance, according to legend, Motoun was a dog able to speak with humans,
with whom he and others lived peacefully until armed men attacked and destroyed the
village. Though Motoun fought with extraordinary power, killing over two hundred men,
he was forced to retreat into the forest, where he was enveloped in light and lifted into the
sky. We can read this as an allusion to slavery and marronnage, but because Bibrac does
not ascribe historical speciﬁcity to the situation, readers are permitted to associate

Motoun and his experiences with oppression in all forms, as well as the will to resist.

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When Ougga is born, he strongly resembles Motoun, and is proclaimed the clan’s
hope for the future: “Il est albinos et c’est 1e portrait Vivant du Grand Motoun, notre dieu.
Mes amis, je suis sﬁr que ce petit va devenir un chien extraordinaire et que ses pouvoirs
seront immenses! Il deviendra tres puissant et c’est lui qui nous protégera de tous les
dangers qui nous guettent!” (12) It is expected that at his ﬁrst birthday, Ougga will
receive Motoun’s powers, and defeat any threat to his clan, or canicel.8

Prior to this, however, Ougga must undergo an apprentissage, and survive the
many tests Motoun will put him through until his ﬁrst birthday. If he makes it, “il
deviendra le chien le plus fort du monde!” (13) He and his family are sent to the city
where Ougga is forced to adapt and survive in harsh circumstances. Dodging cars,
avoiding people with unkind intentions, and searching for food toughens Ougga to the
point that he confronts a much larger dog that stole his food. He loses, but is motivated
to continue surviving in order to return one day, and defeat the dog that had humiliated
him. Ougga’s experiences allegorize a history of persistent oppression, while the
inspiration provoked by those experiences to grow stronger and defeat current oppressive
forces speaks to Antillean societies’ present-day situation. Whether they associate trials
and tribulations with a past as represented by Vayssieres and Julia, or with their own life
experiences, Bibrac encourages readers to see them as a necessary step toward

empowerment. It is a learning process from which one should draw strength and

 

8The images in the text depict Ougga as being light in color (see Figure 7). He is described as a
clear gray, but because the images portray him as nearly white, they might undermine the empowering
potential by, perhaps unintentionally, promoting racial hierarchies. On the other hand, white animals in
legend are often of supematural origin, which strengthens Ougga’s character and underscores his divine
ancestry. We read that: “In many prophecies, the birth of rare animals represents a rebirth for humanity, the
sacred animals being harbingers of peace, as foretold by the ancients” (“Animals and Prophecy”). In this
respect, Ougga’s signiﬁcance goes far beyond racial hierarchies, as he embodies both hope for the future,
and the relationship between past (the ancients who foretold his coming), and the present. He symbolizes a
“rebirth” for the Antillean people, who must reclaim their history, culture, and agency.

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inspiration. This process exists not only on an individual level, but on a collective one as
well, the latter of which is found in the collectivity’s past. We therefore understand why
the re-creation of Antillean memory is important. If readers are never challenged to
question History as presented by the dominant culture, they will never be challenged to
resist that culture’s dominance. There will be nothing from which to become inspired.
Although Bibrac does not re-write history like Vayssieres or Julia, she emphasizes the
need to recognize and re—examine the past, and to draw on it in resisting present-day
oppression.

When Ougga is called back to the canicel for his birthday, he learns for the ﬁrst
time of Gorok, a large, vicious dog killing everything in its path. He is described as “le
diable en personne” (91).9 Ougga rushes to confront Gorok as soon as he turns one and
his powers show signs of developing. Unfortunately he fails and is severely injured,
while another dog is killed, and his sister is taken prisoner. Ougga had not been ready,
but his failure was also a learning experience, as had been his struggles in the city. He
would not make the same mistake again, as we will see. First, however, because Ougga’s
injuries are beyond the dogs’ capabilities to heal, he is left with a human family.

With these humans, Ougga experiences a life of comfort, and eventually begins to

question whether he would return to the clan. Bibrac is here allegorizing a major obstacle

 

9 Though Gorok is brindle, his darkness, in comparison with Ougga’s lightness (see Figure 7), may
again raise issues of racial hierarchies. Is there a correlation between Ougga’s goodness and light color,
and between Gorok’s evilness and darkness? Perhaps, but if we consider a French “mythological” ﬁgure
(she is believed to have existed), we might see beyond the binary of light/dark, and see instead the
opposition between the Antilles and France. This figure, La Béte du Gévaudan, was an elusive, dark, wolf-
like creature that, in the eighteenth century, terrorized the former province of Gévaudan in south-central
France, in the Margeride Mountains, killing over one hundred people. Her story bears striking resemblance
to that of Gorok, who terrorized and indiscriminately killed creatures living in the mountains. If we
consider the confrontation between Ougga and Gorok as representing legends of historically oppressed
peoples (Native Americans, Africans, Creoles, etc.) and of France respectively, Ougga’s success is more a
subversive rejection of French hegemony than it is a preservation of racist hierarchies.

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to Antillean autonomy - assimilation and departmentalization. Ougga’s initial failure
could be interpreted as that moment in 1946 when the Antilles willingly became a
department of France. It is this sort of assimilation that has allowed French dominance to
continue, re-establishing the point made earlier about the relationship between history,
assimilation, and resistance. If Bibrac were to simply retell history adopted to the present
day, and hope young readers comprehend her message, the story would be over, with
Ougga left negotiating between his comfortable life and his duty to his clan. This is
because the Antilles remain today in this contradictory space between the comfort of
assimilation and the search for cultural identity.

The story does not end here, however, and Ougga, enraged at learning of his
sister’s capture, chooses to return. This time, however, Ougga does not rely on the
knowledge alone that he should have Motoun’s powers, and this time invokes the latter’s
spirit: “Oh, MOTOUN, Dieu des Chiens! Oh, MOTOUN, mon pere! Aide-moi, je t’en
supplie. . . Oh, Grand Albinos! Donne-moi le pouvoir qui tue!” (135) Clearly there is a
reference to magico—religious beliefs, similar to what we saw in Montrésor a Mantidou.
At the same time, however, Ougga’s invocation of an “historical” ﬁgure’s ﬁghting spirit
and power underscores Bibrac’s message concerning how past and present interconnect.
A contemporary individual invokes the past, empowering him to ﬁght successfully
against present-day oppression. We can ascribe various historical meanings to the
personages and interactions between Ougga, Motoun, and Gorok, but essentially Bibrac
seeks to re-inscribe the ﬁghting spirit of the past in today’s youths. She encourages them
to see that knong about a past is ﬁne and good, but it is invoking that past, embracing

it, and letting themselves be deﬁned by it that leads to success, as it did for Ougga.

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In addition to her unique approach in engaging young Antilleans with their
history, Bibrac also makes a correlation between the text’s messages, and cultural, or
Creole identity. The dogs in her book are chiens créoles, a concept addressed in the
text’s post-face, written by veterinarian Maurice Hodebar:

“Que l’on parle d’eux de maniere scientiﬁque ou de facon plus romancée
comme dans l’histoire d’OUGGA, i1 nous semble important de souligner
les qualités exceptionnelles de ce chien: sa ténacité face a l’adversité
(malnutrition, maladies), et surtout une opiniatreté qui semble lui étre
presque naturelle et qui lui a permis de se fondre sans difﬁculte’s dans un
environnement a priori hostile” (150).
Hodebar underscores these dogs’ exceptionalness, praising their tenacity and unrelenting
nature as innate qualities permitting them to survive in the harshest of conditions. If
Ougga and the others allegorize the Antillean people, Bibrac’s praise is not only for the
animals — educating readers about dogs is clearly one purpose given the veterinarian’s
contribution - but for the resilience of Antilleans as well. She applauds, on both fronts,
the survival of a group who has faced and continues to face enormous and oppressive
obstacles. Hodebar reestablishes Bibrac’s position, leaving readers with a highly
positive, inspiring description of Creole dogs — they are physically capable, well adapted
to their milieu and to man, resistant, tenacious, and intelligent. The author’s description
of and praise for such qualities in what are speciﬁcally Creole beings provides a
deﬁnition of créolité as well — the dogs are Creole precisely because they embody these
traits. In applying this deﬁnition to the narrative, we see the link between créolité and the

past. For instance, Ougga’s experiences in the city allegorized a history of persistent

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oppression, which he overcame by his tenacity, adaptability, and intelligence — his
créolité. Yet these traits were not only already present, they were developed as his
experience grew. As such, créolité both deﬁnes and is deﬁned by Antillean histories of
oppression and resistance. When Ougga questions whether he wants to pursue a life of
resistance when residing with the humans, that créolité is threatened, just as it has been
threatened by assimilation and departmentalization. He begins to lose sight of who he is
— the descendant of a hero — as he enjoys the comfort and ease of being dependent on
someone else. Finally, his invocation of Motoun (the past), and success over Gorok
(oppression), re-establishes Ougga as strong, tenacious, and adaptable. Bibrac implies
that cultural identity resides in recognizing and embracing the past.

Of course, we know that the past is constantly being created and re-created,
reﬂecting and serving the needs of the present. As we have seen in all three texts, the
past is presented in a way that is empowering to young readers. It is something to be
proud of, a place where oppressed peoples resist and survive under the harshest
circumstances. Young readers are also shown that sometimes the oppressed were able to
achieve extraordinary success in spite of those circumstances. Thus, according to
Bibrac’s deﬁnition, all of these individuals embody créolité. If the narratives are meant
to foster readers’ pride in their ancestors, and empower them to resist present-day
oppression, then this embodiment is highly signiﬁcant. The authors not only promote a
history oppositional to the master narrative, but a cultural identity rooted in the past;
more speciﬁcally, a past deﬁned by survival and resistance. In other words, memory
shapes identity. The normalization of French historical perspective, or memory, in

Antillean children has greatly complicated their self-deﬁnition. They often come to think

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of themselves as French, accepting French history and memory as their own, thereby
negating, unintentionally, a part of their cultural identity. Books such as those by
Vayssieres, Julia, and Bibrac serve to reconnect Antillean youths with that past. No
longer are they positioned within historical narratives by those more powerful. These
texts allow Antilleans to position themselves within those narratives, reclaiming agency
and empowering readers.

However, while these texts challenge dominant discourses, children need to
understand what to do with that information. Clearly fostering a sense of pride in one’s
ancestry and “forgotten” history enables readers to resist present-day oppression. The
next step is to show them how to incorporate that awareness in their personal and
collective identities. History and colonial discourse have fostered inferiority complexes,
and the desire to become as French as possible. Through their empowering historical
narratives, Vayssieres, Julia, and Bibrac lay the foundation on which authors Patrick
Chamoiseau and Alex Godard build to solidify a message against assimilation, self-
negation, and passive acceptance of French dominance.

Patrick Chamoiseau10 provides children with a tale embodying uniﬁed diversity.
He allegorizes merging cultures and/or ethnicities in the creation of a plural yet uniﬁed
body in his children’s tale, “Bouboule téte-a-crapaud” (1998). His characters become
one while retaining individual qualities of who they were prior to their union. This union

emphasizes the need to recognize and embrace the part of oneself denied through

 

l0The theory of Créolité as established by the lilogistes is widely criticized as both homogenizing
and potentially alienating. This theory seeks unity through diversity, supposedly achieved by standardizing
Creole as the national language. However, the imposition of a single language amounts to no less than
linguistic colonization, something the Elogistes criticize with respect to French. The presence of various
Creole languages means that choosing one would alienate those who do not speak it, undermining any
attempt at unity. Moreover, the theory of Créolité seeks to deﬁne Creole societies as entirely separate from
France, promoting the binary logic it claims to reject (the “kaleidoscopic totality” inherent in créolité).

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colonization, and, presently, departmentalization. As we shall see, Chamoiseau
challenges assimilation and the inculcation of French discourses, while promoting a
cultural identity embracing the many parts of a whole.

It is the story of Bouboule, a boy whose joy in life is based entirely on his red
belly, which he associates with France (he compares it to a beautiful French apple). He is
the epitome of an assimilated Antillean who has internalized colonial discourse: “Ce qui
provenait de France était (pensait-on par ici) mieux que tout ce qui pouvait exister au
pays” (41). Rejecting his society as inferior, Bouboule looks to France as the source of
all that is good. His attitude develops into narcissism, and he consequently spends most
of the time admiring his belly in a pond near the ruins of an old plantation, oblivious to
what surrounds him. What happens to Bouboule encourages readers to reclaim the part
of themselves repressed by imposed discourses (such as History). Chamoiseau also
emphasizes that Antillean, or Creole, identity is based on accepting the cultural and
ethnic plurality that lay at the foundation of Caribbean societies.

Bouboule’s self-admiration sends waves across the pond, disturbing an old, ugly
frog, the meaning of which is subtle but signiﬁcant.11 Bouboule’s presence in and
oblivion to the old plantation reﬂects, again, his assimilation, while the old frog
represents the “forgotten” origins of Creole culture and history. He is “ugly” precisely
because that is how discourses promoting assimilation portray him. Importantly,
Crapaud, ugly as he is, and in spite of his vehement protestation, remains unseen by
Bouboule, until he leaps on to his head. Crapaud can only make his presence known

through drastic action, because his protests are not enough to gain the attention of

 

llThe frog is a common ﬁgure in Antillean tales, and represents the Antillean peasant (Rice-
Maximin).

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someone so large, powerful, and self-absorbed. Chamoiseau allegorically represents the
current relationship between France and the Antilles. Antilleans may speak out against
their societies’ dominated status, but only through action will things change. Authors
such as those previously discussed attempt to challenge the dominance of French
discourses, and normalize a view of the past that positions Antilleans as important actors,
not as those who are acted upon. Moreover, these narratives force Antillean youths to
confront a painful, yet courageous past, which the master historical discourse prevents
them ﬁ'om doing. Crapaud’s move, then, signiﬁes not only the empowerment of the
marginalized, but represents the forced confrontation between assimilated children and
the Creole part of themselves they had until then been taught to reject.

The result of this confrontation illustrates how Chamoiseau intends readers to
conceive of themselves. Although Crapaud initially intended to force Bouboule out of
his territory, he changes his mind when he glimpses himself in the pond’s reﬂection for
the ﬁrst time: “Crapaud hideux [. . .] ne se contemplait jamais dans l’eau-miroir du
marigot. Il évitait d’ailleurs tous les miroirs. Il ne se promenait que les jours de pluie
sombre, ou aux heures de soleil ot‘r les ombres s’estompent. Cela lui évitait d’avoir a
contempler son proﬁl allongé pres de lui” (43). If Crapaud represents the repressed part
of Antillean cultural identity, his own self-rejection is important. The attitudes
positioning French culture and discourse as superior have become normalized, even
among those not fully assimilated (i.e. have not economically or socially beneﬁted from
assimilation). Crapaud may despise Bouboule’s happiness and red belly (therefore

disliking the latter’s “Frenchness”), but he does not like himself any better. It is therefore

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signiﬁcant that only after attaching himself to the “enemy’s” head that he sees himself in

a new light:
“Or, surprise, Bouboule en se penchant toutes les trois minutes au-dessus
de la mare, obligea Crapaud a se voir. A se voir lié a Bouboule. A se voir
faisant partie de ce splendide ventre rouge qui, vraiment, était un comble
de beauté. Crapaud se sentit soudain partie prenante de cette beauté. Il
perdit sept cents ans d’amerturne et un reste d’aigreur. Alors, i1 décida de
ne plus quitter le crane de Bouboule” (43).

At ﬁrst it appears problematic that Chamoiseau should allow Crapaud to see the belly as

truly beautiful, because that detail validates the formerly implied superiority. However,

we shall see that Chamoiseau emphasizes ﬁnding balance, while rejecting the correlations

F rance/beauty and Creole/ugly.

As time passes, Bouboule “se de'sola d’étre devenu si laid,” while Crapaud “se
réjouissait d’étre devenu si beau” (43). Each becomes the opposite of what they were:
Bouboule becomes angry, offensive, and jealous; Crapaud becomes amiable,
philosophical, sensitive, tolerant, and open. The former is appalled by how Crapaud has
tarnished his perfection, yet Crapaud sees their union as complementary to himself. If
Crapaud represents créolité, Bouboule’s disgust at his presence represents the moment
when the illusion of “true” assimilation is shattered. Chamoiseau allegorically illustrates
the painful process through which Antilleans become aware that they are not “French.”
Whether that process is provoked by rejection (as in Pépin’s Coulee d’or), or through
education (as in the historical narratives discussed previously), Antilleans must

acknowledge that their cultural identity resides elsewhere then in a strictly French

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context. Bouboule’s failed attempts to remove Crapaud, signifying Antilleans’ attempt to
forget their past, or reject the Creole part of themselves, represents an imposed prise de
conscience. Yet what of Crapaud, and the problematic realization that he is more
attractive when associated with Bouboule? Is Chamoiseau undermining his message to
children by implying that Antilleans need France in order to see themselves positively?

The answer lay in the two characters’ eventual acclimation, where each plays a
mutually enhancing role in forming their collective identity: “L’un prit conscience que
toute beauté suppose l’acceptation d’une part de laideur; l’autre, que toute laideur initie
aux presences secretes de la beauté” (44). Bouboule understands that no matter how
beautiﬁrl his belly seems, ugliness is inherently present, even if subtle. Because he has
represented the internalization of colonial discourse by praising all things French as
superior, this revelation is signiﬁcant. The ugliness of assimilation lay in necessarily
denying a part of one’s cultural identity in favor of another. The presence of Crapaud,
who represents that repressed identity, illustrates the impossibility of completeness with
such self-negation. Bouboule’s evolution from narcissism to dejection to a sense of
equilibrium indicates that the process of self-awareness is complete. He is no longer
blinded by assimilation, and through forced confrontation, he accepts the part of his
culture he had rejected.

Crapaud on the other hand comes to understand that underneath his ugliness there
is beauty. Because he represents not only repressed cultural identity but also the
inferiority complexes associated with colonial discourse, his developed self-appreciation
signiﬁes an important renewal and validation of créolité. However, his new sense of self-

worth does not so much reﬂect association with Bouboule (France) as Bouboule’s role in

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allowing Crapaud to see himself. Prior to his union with Bouboule, Crapaud rejected
himself, and remained unseen and ignored. When he jumped onto Bouboule’s head, he
was able to truly see himself for the ﬁrst time. This motif speaks to Antilleans who have
internalized an inferior self-image, or who dislike French dominance but have
nevertheless accepted it as “normal.” Chamoiseau implies that these individuals do not
see themselves, and are therefore incomplete. Consider ﬁrst that individuals who have
internalized a sense of inferiority see themselves through the oppressor’s eyes, and their

9,

“inferiority” is merely a projection of this “other’s viewpoint. Their self-image is
deﬁned by how others see them, not their own self-awareness. Consider as well what
Glissant has argued to be the reason for one’s inability to participate in la Relation, or the
presence of multiple cultures in a uniﬁed space: a lack of self-discovery. If Antilleans of
Aﬁican descent continue to “accept” French dominance, they will be unable to recover
and deﬁne their own culture as a part of this plural society, and it will remain hidden
beneath the hegemonic pressure of French culture. Confrontation, as Chamoiseau argues
in this tale, permits Antilleans to reclaim their agency, helping them realize the value of
their créolité. While Crapaud’s change in behavior might seem to validate French
superiority, it in actuality represents another process of self-awareness, and the re—
invigoration of Antilleans’ créolité.

Crapaud and Bouboule’s union is doubly signiﬁcant: it draws attention to
problems of assimilation and colonial discourse, and promotes Charnoiseau’s theory of
Créolité. Clearly the characters go through a process of demystiﬁcation. Their paths to

self-awareness converge, and they realize that who they had been was but a shadow of

who they truly are or who they could be. Together, they represent enlightenment, and

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encourage readers to question their position in society. Are they self-absorbed, like
Bouboule, looking to France for self-validation? Are they miserable and self-loathing,
like Crapaud, desiring change but too passive to achieve it? The physical merge between
Bouboule and Crapaud represents that space in which balance is found. One sees the
illusion of superiority, while the other attains self-worth. Moreover, their equilibrium
represents necessarily accepting the plurality of Caribbean societies. We know that
Chamoiseau advocates a single Creole culture and identity, in which diversity is
celebrated as a unifying element, and in spite of the opposition to Chamoiseau’s theories
(their homogenizing, binary nature), his tale exempliﬁes such unity. He emphasizes the
strength and fulﬁllment found in discovering, and embracing multiplicity: “On les écouta
avec respect et dévouement, tant il est vrai qu’ils avaient quitté les joliesses d’une simple
condition, on les horreurs d’une désespérance, pour atteindre ces profondeurs humaines
or‘r l’ombre et la lumiere (ernmaillote’es ensemble) générent des coeurs vivants” (44).
Both Bouboule and Crapaud are better off in all respects because they no longer reject a
part of themselves. Embracing who they are, both the “beautiful” and the “ugly,” makes
them strong. More importantly, they ﬁnd fulﬁllment in their union, and revitalize what
has been long forgotten, the pond, or allegorically, the origins and plurality of Creole
culture: “Imaginons qu’ils furent inséparables. Qu’ils devinrent plus qu’amis. Que 1e
bonheur de l’un fut relié a la presence de l’autre, et qu’ils transformerent ce petit marigot
triste en un carrefour de vies” (44). This is important for Antillean children in particular,
because their societies are even more “stagnant” and in need of “rejuvenation” due to

their political, economic, and social dependency on France. Seeing that Bouboule and

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Crapaud are happier and stronger, and breathe life into what was otherwise miserable and
pathetic may make readers more accepting of their own plural self and society.
Chamoiseau uses a great deal of metaphor and allegory in this tale, raising
questions about its suitability for children. He conveys important messages through his
characters and their actions, but are they lost on readers whose ability to interpret
metaphor is less developed? Chamoiseau extemalizes all of the messages — the “ugly”
frog associated with a stagnant pond on an old plantation; the correlation between
Bouboule’s red belly, France, and narcissism; the permanent union of two obviously
different creatures, and so forth. He therefore allows children to make connections
without having to deeply analyze meaning. Even if readers understand only that two
beings, different in appearance and attitude, come together to live a more fulﬁlling life,
Chamoiseau has planted the seeds of accepting plurality. “Bouboule-téte-a-crapaud” is
an extension of the historical narratives that provide a base on which to re-evaluate the
Antilles’ current social situation. He challenges French hegemony by encouraging
readers to accept who they are and where they come from, and to appreciate the
multiplicity informing Antillean cultural identity. Moreover, he allegorically re-
incorporates Antilleans into the créolité of the Caribbean region. If Bouboule represents
Antillean assimilation, his union with Crapaud indicates recognition of a shared history

and cultural identity with the Caribbean region. He is, in a sense, creolized.12

 

12One of the criticisms against Chamoiseau’s theories on créolité is that he constantly seeks
comparison with France, indicating a binary that undermines his claim of embracing all cultures informing
the Caribbean. Yet his tale for children does not reject France outright, but rather insists that in all beauty,
or the assumed superiority of France, there is ugliness, and vice versa. He rejects the effect French
dominance has had on Antilleans’ self-image and cultural identity. Furthermore, the criticism that within
Chamoiseau’s theories diversity is negated through unity is also applicable to this tale. Though Bouboule
and Crapaud become one, they nevertheless preserve their original selves. They are merely enhanced
versions of those selves, working together as a united front, earning respect and enjoying a sense of
completeness. So while in practice Chamoiseau’s theories prove questionable, his tale successfully

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Chamoiseau goes a step beyond Vayssieres, Julia, and Bibrac by stressing the
consequences of French hegemony, and the need to resist it in order to ﬁnd a sense of
completeness. Tales like his balance the historical narratives discussed previously: the
latter normalize alternative histories, directly countering hegemonic pressure, while
Chamoiseau tackles hegemony by exposing it. He forces readers to see how they are
negating a part of themselves, and pushes them to reclaim that part in order to feel
complete.

In a similar vein, Guadeloupean author Alex Godard pushes readers to
acknowledge the effects of French dominance, and to break free of the subordinate
subjectivity it imposes. His picture book, Idora (1997), focuses on the relationship
between France and the Antilles, and on normalizing the plurality of Antillean cultural
identity. He renews ideas of heritage, while empowering readers to resist French
hegemony. His book brings together the signiﬁcance of memory with the need to reclaim
one’s agency as an actor in one’s life stories.

It tells the story of Idora, a giraffe, who lives among various other animals in a
stylized Parisian context, illustrated through architecture, the river and quays, the Eiffel
tower, and so on. Importantly, these animals are primarily found in Africa: giraffes,
elephants, rhinoceros, zebra, and ostriches. Equally important is the variety of animals,
allegorizing the various African peoples brought to the Americas, as opposed to
homogenizing them as belonging to a single culture or identity. There is a clear reference

to cross-cultural contact since the colonization of the Caribbean region. Godard’s

 

presents those theories as logical, positive, and necessary. It is that success which is important, because it
normalizes the attitudes and perspectives associated with Chamoiseau’s theories in children’s minds.
Despite the continuing dialogues on créolité among adults, children will accept what Chamoiseau claims as
ideal in the literature he creates for them.

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representation of this relationship, and how both “sides” have come together, echoes the
theory of Mintz and Price, according to which peoples of Aﬁica and Europe founded a
new, Creole culture. Note that his representation of “origin” differs from that of
Chamoiseau, who associates Crapaud, representative of origin, with an old plantation.
Instead, Godard asserts his theory that Creole culture and history is entirely independent
of African roots, as well as from France. The origin of Creole culture, for him, lay in the
history of survival during slavery, whereas for Godard, it lay in the cross-cultural
relationship between Aﬁican and European peoples.

The images juxtaposing African and European elements normalize this
relationship in children’s minds. For instance, the ﬁrst image in the text shows Idora
sitting in her apartment at a table, listening to the radio, and looking out her window at
the river. Her pet cat is sleeping on a nearby chair (see Figure 8). The African animal, a
giraffe, is removed from what we consider a “natural” environment, and is placed in a
seemingly “abnormal” setting. Giraffes do not live in apartments, nor do they listen to
radios or have pet cats. Another image shows Idora answering her door to Mme
Bossanova, an elephant, who stands on her back legs, like a human, and who is carrying a
letter. Again, the situation deﬁes what we might consider a “normal” environment for
these animals. Yet Idora and the others have adapted, or perhaps as some might say, they
have become “domesticated.” This “domestication” makes an important reference to
Caribbean histories, and the evolution of cultural identities. The displacement of Aﬁican
peoples through slavery resulted in their removal from familiar landscapes. As time
passed, Antilleans in particular became increasingly assimilated as France imposed its

ideas and attitudes on the population. Considering the motives behind the mission

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civilisatrice, Antilleans’ assimilation could be read in colonial terms as their
“domestication.” Some might argue that because Godard’s characters are well integrated
in their surroundings, he supports an assimilationist viewpoint. Although several of
Godard’s texts have raised questions regarding assimilation and integration in colonial
discourse (i.e. La Fo‘ret de Coeur-Bouliki), I would argue here that this is not the case.
The animals retain their “Africanness,” in spite of the European context, reminding
readers that no matter how “French” they think they are, they cannot deny the part of
themselves that derives from an Aﬁican heritage. Moreover, as we shall see in the
storyline, Idora’s integration is necessary to making the author’s point. In actuality, like
the other authors, Godard seeks to restore a part of cultural identity repressed through
years of ideological conditioning, and to empower readers as actors in their life stories.

Idora’s residence in Paris, rather than being seen as literal, should be read as
representative of French inﬂuence, just as the animals represent various Aﬁican peoples.
The author certainly references feeling exiled as an immigrant, but this is a limited
interpretation. When considering the story in its entirety, Godard clearly allegorizes the
situation facing Antilleans today.

Idora, who generally represents the Antilles, spends much of her time dreaming
about things she would like to have, such as no longer being alone, having children, and
seeing the ocean. Her ambitions may seem simple, but they symbolize the basic desires
prevented by colonization and departmentalization. For example, many Antilleans desire
ﬁeedom from French dominance. This goal is ambitious because there are large
obstacles to overcome, but the desire itself is simple. Unforttmately, Idora, like so many

Antilleans, remains passive and doesn’t take the initiative to realize her dreams. She

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allows society, circumstance, and other inﬂuences to dictate her fate. When Mme
Bossanova tells Idora the apartment building has been sold, and they must move, Idora
worries that she is ﬁnancially unable to do so. Yet instead of strategizing, she goes to the
river: “Pour apaiser ses inquiétudes, elle descend contempler 1e ﬂeuve, tandis que les
pe'niches l’entrainent au loin vers de nouveaux réves” (unpaged). At this point, the author
interjects a signiﬁcant assertion: “Tu vois, Sindbad, le monde est un grand theatre. [I
suffrt de savoir regarder” (unpaged). The signiﬁcance is twofold. In comparing the
world with the theater, Godard implies a lack of “authenticity,” or that everything is
rehearsed, calculated, and directed by unseen forces. It is therefore important to know
how to “watch,” or be discerning, a key lesson for Antillean children. The imposition of
French discourses over time has quietly manipulated Antillean societies, which continue
to be controlled by “unseen” powers (i.e. France). Being able to recognize this hidden
inﬂuence is an essential prelude to empowerment.

At the same time, because it is Idora who speaks the words in the text, Godard
implies passivity and distance. The two page spread framed by a theater curtain with
Idora and her cat Sindbad positioned as audience members creates a barrier between
herself and the rest of the world (see Figure 9). She observes life, but does not participate
in it. The comfort she ﬁnds in this spectatorship illustrates why her dreams remain only
dreams. She appears afraid or unwilling to take the necessary risks to realize them,
allegorizing common fears among Antilleans concerning independence. For example,
their status as a department of France is economically beneﬁcial, and independence may
lead to hardship. Or if there are Antilleans who continue to see France as culturally

superior, severing those ties might, in their minds, eliminate much of their “worth.”

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Mostly, the fear in seeking independence stems from a conditioning that has long enabled
France to maintain its dominance.

Idora remains in her building while everyone else leaves. The image of her
looking out the window in a building inundated by the sea evokes a sense of complete
isolation, and the feeling of being forgotten. This feeling escalates in the spring: not only
does her cat disappear, but a building is erected, blocking Idora’s view of the river — her
connection with the rest of the world. Her inability to “escape,” whether due to fear,
unwillingness, or a sense of helplessness, has trapped her completely, just as assimilation
has “trapped” Antilleans. A prisoner through her own doing, Idora begins to fade:
“Comme ses plantes vertes sans lumiere, Idora sent ses forces l’abandonner. Qu’est-ce
qui pourrait lui redonner le goﬁt de vivre?” (unpaged) The accompanying image of
Idora sitting at her table, hugging her dying plant, head down and eyes closed, with no
view outside, is dark and somber, evoking hopelessness. Readers are forced to empathize
with and hope for change in Idora’s situation. The text’s efﬁcacy depends in part on
fostering this state of mind, which catalyzes that change. If readers are not shown the
consequences of allowing oneself to be controlled by external forces, they will never see
the need to challenge them.

Reaching a breaking point after nearly succumbing to her desolation, Idora
suddenly decides to take matters into her own hands. She leaves her house and enters a
world described as “un gigantesque tourbillon” (unpaged). She passes the river without
stopping, because “il est devenu bien trop petit pour noyer son chagrin” (unpaged), and
heads straight to the train station where she buys a one-way ticket south to the sea.

Godard acknowledges that taking control and actively participating in life can be

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ﬁightening, symbolized by the whirlpool. Idora takes a risk in confronting that
whirlpool, but she survives. The river, where she once took comfort in watching others
experience life, is no longer adequate. Her situation had become so desperate that her
only choice was to die or become an empowered actor in her own life. Standing on the
sidelines is no longer an option for Idora. This reaction speaks strongly to the Antilleans’
present-day situation. Godard allegorically shows readers that if they fail to resist the
ideological, psychological oppression inherent in hegemony, remaining silent observers,
they will face a choice similar to that of Idora. If they allow it, their cultural identity will
suffocate under the hegemonic pressures of France, or will thrive and be renewed only if
they claim ownership of it.
As Idora travels south, she begins to dream again: she ﬁnds she is no longer
alone, but has a family. In following one dream, she ﬁnds another, illustrating to readers
the power of actively pursuing desires. Though Godard acknowledges the fear involved
in taking control, he does not accept it as a reason to remain passive. Instead, he
highlights the positive:
Idora a longtemps révé d’une vie différente et aujourd’hui, c’est la grande
aventure. Plus question d’étre triste! Le jour qui s’éveille sera le premier
de sa nouvelle vie. Elle est dans l’express qui l’emmene voir la mer! [. . .]
Le monde est rempli d’espoir. .. Alors, Idora respire profondément son
bonheur. (unpaged)

Idora’s decision to pursue the life she had dreamed of, and the resulting sense of

adventure and fulﬁllment speaks strongly to Antillean children. Godard emphasizes that

satisfaction in life can be achieved only if the individual, or society, takes responsibility.

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Though Idora’s empowerment may relate to readers’ personal ambitions, it also speaks to
Antilleans’ present-day social and political situation. The prevalence of assimilation, and
fear of the risks posed by independence, has allowed French dominance to persist, in
spite of growing sentiment against it. If Idora initially represents the passivity of
Antilleans, her “daring” move to go south toward the sea represents a ﬁght for political
and ideological freedom. She dares to pursue her dreams, and to seek individual
independence, while leaving behind her passive life. She reclaims her agency, intrinsic in
ﬁghting for ﬁ'eedom. Similarly to Maguy Bibrac, Godard does not relay things as they
are, but challenges readers to see the possibilities in the unsatisfactory present situation of
dependency, empowering them to enable positive change. If Idora can break ﬁ'ee of her
repressed subjectivity to pursue what she had until then only dreamed of, then Antilleans
can challenge and overcome the oppression inherent in French hegemony. This
liberation can be achieved, however, only if Antilleans as a collectivity can make the
decision to achieve it.

At this inrportant point, the writings of all the authors discussed in this chapter
converge. Antilleans must collectively choose to reject French hegemonic pressures, and
to reexamine and redeﬁne their cultural identity. To do this, they must be empowered,
and given tools of self-defmition not controlled by hegemonic discourse. One of the
most important steps toward this goal is to intervene in Antillean youths’ ideological
conditioning, which has been facilitated by teaching schoolchildren a history they were
not a part of, while telling them they were. The learned idea of “nos peres les Gaulois”
highlighted in texts such as Chamoiseau’s Chemin d ’école or F anon’s Peau noire,

mosques blancs illustrates how Antillean children are introduced to and taught to accept

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assimilation. Unless they are provided with alternatives, asking these children to deﬁne
themselves in terms other then as purely French is problematic at best. If they are not
“French,” who are they? If they have been taught that créolité, or the part of them
repressed by French discourses, is “bad,” why would they want to deﬁne themselves as
anything but French? Authors like Vayssiéres, Julia, and Bibrac tackle both issues with
entertaining yet signiﬁcant narratives. They provide new visions of History, while
correlating créolité with strength, tenacity, and intelligence. They begin to build in
young Antilleans’ minds a new attitude toward Creole societies, and their own cultural
identity.

Chamoiseau and Godard then urge readers beyond attitude, and encourage action.
They emphasize the preservation and acceptance of one’s origins, yet differ as to what
“origin” refers. Chamoiseau, in keeping with the theory of Créolité, deﬁnes the
Antilleans’ origins as the plantation. Similarly to Glissant, Chamoiseau sees Antillean
history as originating at the moment of colonization and cultural contact. The uniﬁed
diversity his theory celebrates is premised on the idea that Creole culture was born and
developed out of slavery and the need to survive — slaves of various backgrounds came
together to inform a new, uniﬁed, albeit diverse and often subversive culture. Godard, on
the other hand, judging from his representations of African animals in a European
context, sees Antilleans’ origins as still tied to Africa. Creole culture, in this case, is the
blending of Aﬁican and European cultures, and not a subversive counter-culture. Both
authors, however, insist on the need to embrace plurality as inherent in a complete
Antillean or Creole identity. These authors attempt to alter how Antillean youths see

themselves and their position in society by encouraging action, although in different

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ways. One insists on actively reclaiming a part of the Antillean self repressed by French
hegemony - the Creole culture born out of the most severe oppression. The other
emphasizes the imperative to become an actor in one’s life, to cast off the passivity
fostered by assimilation. Only action, not desires, will catalyze change, which both
authors suggest is necessary in Antillean societies.

The ﬁve texts discussed in this chapter work together to illustrate how Antillean
children’s literature actively seeks to counter hegemonic discourses still present in
Antillean societies. The ﬁrst three texts challenge historical discourse directly by
rewriting it, and reinstalling the Antillean voice. The latter texts show youths how to
employ that voice, and to apply their developing self-awareness to social critique. It is as
though the texts were working in harmony to dismantle the power of French hegemony,
reclaim Antillean agency, and reposition the Antilles in their region’s créolité. Does this
literary “harmony” imply, however, that the authors promote a single Creole identity?
Does the fact that they urge Antillean children away from hegemony and toward créolité
mean they all see Antillean cultural identity in the same way? Some authors are explicit
as to what they believe such an identity is — Chamoiseau is a perfect example, as we have
seen above. He has a precise idea of what créolité is and what role it should play in
Antillean societies today. We might also argue, with respect to Vayssieres, Julia, and
Bibrac, that rewriting historical narratives for the purpose of empowerment, and
reversing the damage of imposed History, serves to deﬁne cultural identity, but in less
speciﬁc terms than are seen in Chamoiseau’s tale. They seek to reclaim a lost element
constituting Antillean identities, créolité, and their consistent portrayal of it as strength

and tenacity shapes how youths should be encouraged to see that part of themselves. By

211

 

correlating these positive qualities with Creole peoples, these authors normalize for
Antillean children a positive view of their cultural identity, and counter the negativity
imposed on it by French discourses. Godard also contributes to the deﬁnition of an
Antillean identity, but only in terms of cross-cultural inﬂuence operating between Aﬁican
and European peoples. Beyond that, he encourages readers to no longer accept an
identity that has been deﬁned and imposed by others, such as the French. He incites p-
readers to reexamine and take control of their self-deﬁnition, and to reject a position of a
subject that is never an actor in their life stories. Whether these authors promote a single

Antillean, Creole identity depends on how speciﬁc one wishes to be. There are indeed

 

differences among the authors, most notably between Chamoiseau and Godard
concerning créolité. Yet the common presence of resilience, adaptation, and assertion
highlight a common view of what Antillean culture is at its foundation, which translates
into a vision of Antillean identity. Most importantly, the ﬁve texts discussed in this
chapter constitute, together, an important message for Antillean youth: to embrace what
has always been made “inferior” by French culture and History. The authors attack the
inculcation of speciﬁcally French discourses, while normalizing a speciﬁcally Antillean
memory, worldview, and social discourse. These alternative views help neutralize the
effects France, colonialism, and assimilation have had on Antillean self-deﬁnition. If
children draw inspiration from these texts, and the author’s intention to empower them
succeeds, these children will grow up to shape a new set of discourses informing
Antillean societies. The normalization of Antillean histories and the integration of the
Antilles in the region’s créolité will persist and pass down to future generations. Perhaps

one day these children will take part in deﬁning a collective Antillean identity,

212

independent of French authority and dominance. Texts like those discussed here

illustrate the possibility of such a deﬁnition.

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CONCLUSION

Criticizing the lack of “traditions anticolonialistes” in the Antilles, and the
assumption that the question of colonialism has been settled once and for all, Alain
Brossat declares: “C’est maintenant ou jamais qu’il faut poser le probleme dans sa
dimension cardinale; celui du droit de ce peuple a réaliser son identité nationale, sociale,
culturelle, a vivre par lui-meme et pour lui-meme, libre, indépendant” (14-15). Brossat’s
call to action, to question and renounce France’s authority over Antillean societies,
responds to a perpetual apathy, where Antillean people seem content to accept their
“Frenchness,” while continuing to feel exiled in their own countries. Colonial dominance
in Antillean societies, which Brossat contends is still fully present and camouﬂaged
beneath the idea of assimilation, has prevented Antillean peoples from claiming their own
identity on various levels. He argues that “Le redéploirnent de la domination coloniale
projette les masses de ce pays hors de toute identité, les atteint au coeur méme de leur
étre, au-dela d’une ﬁgure simple et brutale de l’exploitation, de l’oppression coloniale.
Jamais domination coloniale n’a rendu un peuple plus étranger a lui-meme” (16). Such
inhibiting effects on Antilleans’ agency requires, according to both Brossat and Daniel
Maragnes, a drastic realization of self-worth leading to a meaningful, determined
movement away from French domination. Yet realizing self-worth after centuries of
colonial dominance will itself likely require a movement normalizing that worth before a
further movement against French domination can take place. We read: “Dans un pays
colonial [. . .] les masses ne peuvent mobiliser leur énergie historique, s’élancer de
l’avant, au-dela de leur misére, de la méconnaissance d’elles-mémes et du monde ou les

conﬁne le colonialisme, que si elles sont armées de la certitude de lutter pour leur propre

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destin, du dessein de faire triompher leur identité historique, sociale, culturelle” (Brossat
19). However, this “certitude” depends on a certainty that one’s historical, social, and
cultural identities are valid and worth ﬁghting for. Achieving such certainty is
problematic because it relies on self-realization, which is difﬁcult to obtain in societies
dominated by hegemonic discourses. Emancipation movements depend on a certainty of
self-worth, yet self-worth depends on self-realization and the ability to distance oneself
from hegemonic pressure. Assimilation has nearly eliminated the possibility for an
effective and complete rupture with France and its historico-cultural irnpositions through
various mechanisms, which we shall explore shortly. How, therefore, might Antilleans
begin to foster a sense of self-worth and persuade themselves that Antillean culture and
identity do not reside within France’s power? How can one foster the attitude necessary,
as argued by Brossat, to initiate a larger movement away from neocolonial authority?

If social mobilization depends on acknowledging the validity of Antillean cultural
structures and histories, it then also depends on cutting into the hold assimilation has had
on Antilleans’ self-awareness and self-deﬁnition. There must be a catalyst triggering a
new awareness that can eventually develop into a larger movement against French
colonial dominance. The emergence of a body of literature targeting Antillean youth,
which has been the subject of this study, demonstrates a prime possibility for attaining
this awareness. Because children are impressionable, learning how to see and think about
their societies as well as themselves, the discourses and ideologies they are presented
with are important. In Antillean societies, such exposure may determine whether these
children carry on legacies of assimilation or grow up to challenge colonial domination.

Antillean “postcolonial” children’s literature provides a space within which a movement

215

away from French hegemonic powers may be initiated, as it offers an opportunity to
normalize values oppositional to those perpetuated by colonialism. One of the primary
goals of this study has been to examine didactic literature for children in that capacity,
determining whether it reﬂects that trend, and evaluating its potential in establishing
Antillean historical, social, and cultural identities.

There are, according to Maragnes, various strategies of assimilation in Antillean
societies, which, when compared against the discourses represented in Antillean
children’s literature, reveals how the latter factors into the relationship between France
and its “departments.” I will discuss two of these strategies, le mosque and I’énigme
scolaire, in an effort to answer the important question of whether Antillean
“postcolonial” children’s literature participates (effectively) in an anti-colonialist, anti-
assinrilation movement. Does the literature, whether it claims to resist colonial ideas or
not, reinforce these strategies described by Maragnes?

Le masque distorts reality and creates a favorable illusion of colonial power
(Maragnes 58). The imposition of institutions that promote colonization as having
contributed favorably to Antillean societies — fostering economic prosperity and the
illusion of self-govemment -— masks the oppressive truths inherent in colonialism.
Antillean peoples are led by this well-designed ruse to embrace assimilation, believing it
can only beneﬁt their ﬁnancial and social situations. Maragnes argues:

L’assimilation est le moteur du systeme idéologique de la société coloniale
aux Antilles. Par elle, se modiﬁent le regard et la conscience des étres, le
nom des choses. Mais elle ne saurait se re'aliser. Son travail est efﬁcace

dans la mesure meme ou elle demeure une promesse jamais tenue. [. . .]

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[E]lle affrrme a la fois l’identité des Antilles et de la France, dans le meme
temps qu’elle proclame leur difference. (59)

Despite what colonial power claims, assimilation is both a mechanism for maintaining
dominance and an assertion of hierarchy between France and the Antilles. The idea that
assimilation beneﬁts the Antillean people is itself a major strategy in its propagation, and
a signiﬁcant example of how colonialism manipulates its role in domination. To
challenge the masking strategy of assimilation requires destroying the mask:
“Démasquer, c’est briser le masque; plus pre'cise'ment peut-étre, déﬁgurer le masque: lui
6ter sa force de semblant” (Maragnes 58). Only by revealing the falsity of the mask, and
the truth it conceals, will take away its power to dominate Antillean and other colonized
peoples. Yet the question remains, how does one destroy, disﬁgure, or remove the mask?

If children’s literature normalizes ideas, attitudes, and values, breaking the mask
might mean normalizing views of Antillean societies oppositional to those created within
assimilation. It might mean overtly criticizing assimilated perspectives, or promoting
pride in an Antillean culture and history independent of colonialist versions. Many texts
that have been discussed in this study illustrate to varying degrees a desire to reveal the
inherent negativity of assimilation: La Coulée d ’or by Ernest Pepin, La Case mensonge
and Les Cole‘res du volcan by Gisele Pineau, and Idora by Alex Godard are some
examples. These texts point out openly or via metaphor the contradictory effects
assimilation has had on Antillean identity — granting an assumed superiority over
“others,” internalizing inferiority complexes, submitting to French culture and social
structures. The authors shed light on the truth behind the mask, while chipping away at

the latter. On the other hand, some texts fail effectively to “remove” the mask, as

217

subversive discourses are overshadowed or undermined by the presence of discourses
enmeshed in assinrilationist ideology. The most notable example is La F orét de Coeur-
Bouliki by Alex Godard, where racial and gender hierarchies, reﬂecting colonialist
thought, greatly damage the author’s anticolonial messages. In this case, the mask
remains ﬁrmly in place because Godard, perhaps unwittingly, perpetuates an assimilated
perspective — white males are heroic, and the saviors of non-whites, particularly women.
Gisele Pineau’s Caraibes sur Seine is another example, though more subtle. In this latter
text, colonial perspectives on “race” prevail in that the power to decide human value
resides with white characters. Pineau’s efforts to combat racist discourses are
undermined by the inability to fully remove the mask, or to fully recognize the nuances of
racism. Contradictions such as these, which exist not only between authors but within
authors, problematize the normalization of anti-assimilationist values and attitudes,
hindering the mask’s disﬁguration but reﬂecting its solid positioning in Antillean
societies.

Contributing to assimilation’s masking strategy is the celebration of French
heroism in History, which helps create an illusion of French superiority and a desire to
belong to that heroic culture. Hidden beneath History’s imposition is the negation of an
Antillean history, and the denial of Antillean voices in the historical narrative. History’s
oppressive nature is masked, and its de-masking requires normalizing new, alternative
histories that showcase French brutality. At the same time, this question of historical
discourse overlaps with Maragnes’s discussion of I ’énigme scolaire — the role of the

educational system in assimilation.

218

As discussed repeatedly throughout this study, the educational system has played
an integral part in assimilating Antillean populations. L ’e’nigme scolaire is, according to
Maragnes, the second strategy of assimilation, which he describes as: “[une] réplique
exacte de la structure scolaire francaise, l’Ecole antillaise fonctionne a l’assirnilation”
(59). By its very nature, the school system maintains power and control, producing
knowledge that privileges French authority. Whether through curriculum or
administration, the uniquely French educational system prevents Antilleans from
realizing or even questioning their position in society. History, 3 central component of
the curriculum, produces knowledge about France, the Antilles, and the relationship
between the two that fosters pride in being “French.” The relatively recent publication of
several Antillean children’s books that rewrite historical narratives illustrates an effort to
redirect knowledge production in Antillean youths. These texts — Les F abuleuses
aventures d ’Equiano by Jean-Jacques Vayssiéres, Montrésor (‘1 Mantidou by Lucie Julia,
and Histoire d ’Ougga, chien créole by Maguy Bibrac — both disﬁgure colonialism’s
mask by highlighting France’s brutal role in Antillean history, and contribute to new
knowledge production by reinstalling Antillean actors in that history. By challenging the
assimilating knowledge learned in a colonial educational system, these authors challenge
assimilation itself.

Maragnes goes beyond curricular knowledge production, however, stressing the
relationship between Creole, the educational system, and ideological domination.
Because Creole was forbidden in school and continually depicted as representing
inferiority, children eventually adopted critical judgment not only of the act of speaking

Creole, but of the social space within which it was spoken — at home, for example, where

219

the children’s mother and father often spoke the language. The school system, by
imposing and normalizing a negative view on an Antillean local reality (the Creole
language), fostered French dominance by turning young Antilleans against their own
heritage. Even today French is the ofﬁcial language in schools, and the use of Creole,
regarded only for its “vertus pédagogiques,” is less a reﬂection of changing perspective
than of “l’assujettissement continu aux nonnes de distribution des codes linguistiques”
(Maragnes 60-61). Given Maragnes’s focus on language as a primary function of
assimilation within the educational system, how can a body of literature, which is mostly
written in French, challenge the énigme scolaire? Lucie Julia’s use of Creole in
Montrésor c‘z Mantidou legitimizes its value beyond a pedagogical tool in the assimilating
process. She rejects the linguistic colonization that has facilitated Antilleans’
assimilation. Yet Julia is also the only author to privilege Creole in her story, while the
others, though some may integrate Creole words, write strictly in French. Does this
language choice reﬂect the authors’ assimilation? Does it imply that despite whatever
messages the authors convey, their being written in French will ultimately undermine
their subversive potential, and perpetuate linguistic colonization?

The answer depends on one’s position with respect to how language ﬁrnctions in a
“postcolonial” society. From Maragnes’s perspective, the use of French reﬂects an
ongoing rejection of Creole, and the énigme scolaire’s continual success. Proponents of
the Créolité movement would also argue that the use of Creole is paramount to achieving
a cultural identity independent of France. It is interesting, however, that Chamoiseau, a
founder of Créolité, writes his children’s tales in French as well. In spite of arguing for a

linguistically Creole literature, and attempting to produce such works, the general

220

population was not interested in “écrits en ‘langue locale’” (Blérald-Ndagano 190).
Other authors, such as Maryse Condé, believe in literary freedom, expressing “un certain
réalisme langagier, c’est-a-dire cette volonté de rendre réel par le langage” (Blérald-
Ndagano 192). Condé explains: “A chacun sa créolité, c’est-a-dire a chacun son rapport
avec le mate'riel oral et son rapport avec la tradition, et a chacun sa facon de l’exprimer
dans la littérature écrite” (Pfaff 165). Language itself does not determine Antillean
realities, nor does it deﬁne Antillean identity. In this context, it is the author’s subject
and how he conveys it that matters, and that determines the créolité or antillanité of the
literature. Maragnes’s point is, however, no less valid in light of these latter arguments,
as he rightfully points out the simultaneous degradation of Creole with assimilation.
Establishing a strong Creole voice, as Julia does, constitutes an important step away from
such degradation. The integration of Creole words and expressions in various other
authors’ works is equally important in subverting French linguistic colonization.
However, when asking whether the use of French in Antillean children’s literature is
counter-productive in challenging assimilation, we must ﬁrst consider Condé’s deﬁnition
of créolité: “Je crois que la créolité d’un individu se déﬁnit par autre chose: son rapport
au monde, sa presence au monde, son rapport a beaucoup de choses plutot que son
rapport a une seule chose qui est la dimension linguistique” (qtd. by Blérald-Ndagano
190). While language is a part of being Creole, the more important elements reside in
one’s relationship with Antillean societies, the world, and so forth. By this logic, it is
how authors engage discourses and represent Antillean realities in their children’s books

that bear more signiﬁcance in challenging assimilation than the language they use.

221

 

On the other hand, the varying degrees with which Creole is, or is not,
incorporated across the texts can be seen as another space of contradiction passed on to
children. If their books are written predominantly in French, how do children negotiate
between the degradation of Creole in the classroom, and the texts’ anticolonial messages?
Couldn’t one argue that, in spite of how language is believed to play a part in identity, the
use of French validates the educational system’s inferiorization of the Creole language,
and thus of créolité? This validation could seriously undermine the texts’ potential to
challenge assimilation. When considered next to the empowering historical narratives
reclaiming an Antillean history and cultural identity, language has a potentially
neutralizing effect. Authors such as Vayssieres and Bibrac, who write only in French,
offer powerful histories intended to reestablish the Antillean voice. Yet one could argue
that the use of French, if seen as legitimizing the inferiority of Creole, negates the
authors’ positive messages, and neutralizes the empowering potential.

Between revealing discursive representations, historical rewritings, and language,
the body of literature examined in this study sheds light on where Antillean societies may
be headed with respect to assimilation and Antillean identity. On one hand, a majority, if
not all, of the authors show interest in challenging colonial discourses. Yet the presence
of contradictions similar to those already informing Antillean societies implies that the
literature may contribute to maintaining that contradictory space. For instance,
contradictions within a speciﬁc author’s body of works reﬂect how competing ideologies
have complicated Antilleans’ sense of self and society. Consider the works of Alex
Godard: he offers children a strong message against assimilation and various colonial

discourses in texts such as Idora, Maé et Ie lamantin, and Le Petit Hippoppotamtam, but

222

 

his text La F orét de Coeur-Bouliki perpetuates colonial attitudes on “race” and gender.
Gisele Pineau’s works generally reveal troubling realities of Antillean societies, and the
relationship between the Antilles and France. Yet her text Carai‘bes sur Seine is
problematic in its representation of racial relations. Ernest Pépin vehemently rejects
assimilation in his La Coule'e d ’or, but in the same text he creates a puzzling depiction of
Hindu culture reminiscent of colonial exoticization. Then there is the lack of consistency
in message between authors, whether they promote discourses on opposite sides of the
spectrum, or that are simply different, creating potential confusion. For example,
Chamoiseau represents créolité in “Bouboule-téte-a-crapau ” as having roots in slavery,
where it was developed as a subversive counter-culture, while in Godard’s Idora, it
remains attached to African roots. Both authors subvert hegemony, but represent
different points of view on Antillean cultural identity.

Contradictions such as these raise important questions about the literature’s
efficacy against French domination. However, on many levels the literature also takes a
clear step away from colonial authority. Though authors may stumble over unexamined
assumptions, many characters and plotlines break with the French or colonial standard.
Most of the heroes are black Antilleans, or represent black Antilleans (Crapaud in
“Bouboule-téte-a-crapaud” for example), challenging the normalization of white heroism,
as Fanon discusses in Peau noire, mosques blancs (again, a clear exception being Sam in
La Forét de Coeur-Bouliki). Many stories are set in a Caribbean geographical context,
contesting the focus on France as the cultural, moral, and political center. Authors draw
attention to the readers’ own countries, validating the Antilles’ worth as important sites of

action. The exceptions, Carai'bes sur Seine, Le Petit Hippopotamtam, and Idora,

223

 

represent respectively the Parisian banlieues (an important reference to immigration and
poverty, although overshadowed by the story’s problematic, underlying messages),
Aﬁica (highlighting Antilleans’ pre-slavery heritage), and a hybrid location bringing
Paris and Aﬁica together (though not Caribbean, a clear reference to the region’s
hybridity or créolité). Finally, many stories illustrate young Antilleans overcoming
obstacles, or coming to terms with their identity — racial, national, cultural, and so forth.
The obstacles themselves are less important than that protagonists overcome them,
because their success, coupled with their being black and of Caribbean origin, paints a
strong image in the reader’s mind.

This body of “postcolonial” Antillean children’s literature both reﬂects a difﬁcult
and contradictory situation in the Antilles, and, in very general terms, subverts French
hegemony. Brossat has argued that in order for the Antillean people to effectively
challenge French domination, they must be armed with the certainty of ﬁghting for their
own destiny and identity. Yet this certainty can only come from a realization that a
destiny and identity independent of France are important and deserved. There must be an
awareness of one’s worth, both as individual and society. This study has explored a body
of literature that might act as a catalyst for that awareness, normalizing anticolonial
values and attitudes while fostering a sense of pride in being Antillean. Could this
literature provide a space to cultivate the attitudes necessary to move into a larger social
movement against French dominance? Many Antillean authors of children’s literature
are aware that colonial oppression persists, and imply their wish to aid youth in resisting
such oppression. Yet the contradictions in the literature pose potential problems to the

success of their efforts, and raise questions about literature’s role in deﬁning a collective

224

 

Ems-n; - ..

Antillean identity. How can a body of literature whose messages at times subvert and at
others promote colonial discourse effectively foster the kind of awareness needed
collectively to challenge colonialist oppression? At the same time, we cannot deny that
much of this literature does challenge powerful colonial discourses, and will likely have a
positive effect on young readers’ self-image. Perhaps we should not try to conﬁne the
literature to a binary of successful/unsuccessﬁrl, and instead accept its signiﬁcance as a
reﬂection of Antillean societies today, but also as an important step toward Antillean
autonomy.

Still, there is much to be explored in this area of study, and while this project has
served as a starting point, numerous further issues should, indeed must, be examined in
order to truly understand the implications and potential of Antillean children’s literature.
Future studies might include a more detailed examination of the various discourses
discussed here. As more books become available, one will better be able to gauge any
trend in the authors’ messages, with “race” for example: will the same confusion
represented by the texts discussed in chapter one continue to dominate, or will there be a
shift toward a more clear-cut afﬁrmation of an autonomous Antillean identity? There is
also the important issue of gender, a signiﬁcant space of discussion in not only Antillean
but in Aﬁican and other Aﬁican Diasporic societies as well. Do authors promote
patriarchal gender roles, or do they question them? For instance, a short story by Patrick
Chamoiseau, “Kosto et ses deux enfants,” provides an interesting reevaluation of
dominant gender roles and family structures in the Antilles: a father is left to care for his
two children and must accept his parental role. This story offers insight into a potentially

shifting discourse surrounding gender.

225

Moreover, this study serves as a stepping-stone, bridging gaps in postcolonial and
literary scholarship, and inviting further exploration of postcolonial francophone
children’s literature. This exploration, if it is to truly make inroads in these areas of
scholarship, must extend beyond the French Antilles. Comparative approaches can
reveal how different societies involve their children in the postcolonial experience. Do
similar challenges to French colonial discourses appear in the literature of other
postcolonial societies: are they more (or less) resolved by the messages conveyed? Can

we even claim that other francophone postcolonial societies have a strong body of

 

children’s literature created by and for their own peoples? Some interesting comparisons
might include the Antilles and Haiti, which have very different histories and current
socio-political situations, but which both have a strong body of children’s literature. One
might also consider comparing Antillean, Haitian, or Aﬁican children’s literature with
that of metropolitan France, particularly that which represents francophone peoples.
How are French children encouraged to see Aﬁican or Caribbean cultures and people,
and how are Aﬁican and Caribbean children encouraged to see themselves? Is there a
signiﬁcant difference in how these children are presented with cultures and cultural
identities, and what might that mean for future F rench/Francophone relationships?

There are tremendous opportunities for important scholarship in the ﬁeld of
postcolonial children’s literature. It is my hope that this study makes such opportunities
apparent, and that scholars in both postcolonial studies and children’s literature will
recognize the signiﬁcance of such literature. Such heightened awareness could lead to a
closer look at how social discourses and identity are inﬂuenced in francophone

postcolonial societies.

226

 

APPENDIX

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230

 

Figure 4: The giraffe feeding Katsi, illustration by Alex Godard, Le Petit Hippopotamtam (Paris, Albin
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