1 / Birth of an Ancestor
But perhaps you will understand when I say ⊠that while one can do nothing about choosing oneâs relatives, one can, as artist, choose oneâs âancestors.â
âRALPH ELLISON, COLLECTED ESSAYS
In one famous episode in the history of American letters, during the summer of 1945 an aspiring writer with an unlikely name holed up in a barn in Vermontâto escape New York, improve his health, and gain inspiration. Though Ralph Waldo Ellison had planned to continue writing about a fictional Tuskegee airman-turned-POW, he found himself unable to ignore a nagging inner voice. This strange voice interrupted his novel-in-progress, diverting Ellisonâs attention with the provocative assertion, âI am an invisible man.â1 Six decades later, the line has become inseparable from Ellisonâs achievement as a novelist, and his incisive commentary on the American âracial divide.â
Thanks to the success of Invisible Man, many readers are familiar with its origins and plotline, and with the arc of Ellisonâs entire career as a novelist: Ellisonâs wrestling with the manuscript over the course of several years, until its publication in 1952; the bookâs immediate critical and popular success, including its selection for a National Book Award; and Ellisonâs unsuccessful struggle to produce a sequel.2 At the same time, the attention given this landmark novel has eclipsed another aspect of Ellisonâs career: his essays on race in/and America.3 By ignoring the impulse to reduce Ellison to Invisible Manâand examining his entire body of work, both fiction and nonfictionâwe can begin to recognize the power of this work for the theorizing of race and identity in contemporary America. However, any study of Ellisonâs critical perspective remains incomplete without the inclusion of another oft-overlooked dimension of Ellisonâs life: his intellectual and personal relationship with fellow American author Kenneth Burke.
Burke is an unlikely figure to link with Ellisonâand not simply because his origins (geographic, generational, and racial) contrasted sharply with Ellisonâs own. Biography aside, Burke is simply not known for his writings on issues of race.4 Despite this seeming divergence of interests, Ellison found much in Burkeâs work that spoke to the significance of race in American culture; thus, although Ellison did not place the label on Burke, it is clear that the latter served as one of Ellisonâs most important âancestors.â5 This term, borrowed from Ellisonâs essay âThe World and the Jug,â indicates a specific type of relationship for a young artist. Unlike ârelatives,â who populate an artistâs environment or whose connection is cemented by the fact of birth, âancestorsâ are persons an artist seeks outâthose whose achievements represent a standard the artist strives to reach.6 It is clear from Ellisonâs writings that Burke played a key ancestral role for Ellison; their relationship arose not from a common background, but from an overlap of sensibilities, a shared perspective on the nature of language, identity, and social reality. As I argue over the next three chapters, it is this perspective, originally derived from Burkeâs work, that Ellison playfully altered and embodied in the now-famous voice of Invisible Manâs narrator.
In November 1945, three months after this voice announced itself to Ellison, he sat with pen and paper, filling eleven legal-sized pages with a letter to Burkeâeven sketching a rough caricature of Burke in the left margin. Ellisonâs intention had been to craft a letter of thanks; his summer retreat had been made possible by a grant from the Julius Rosenwald Fund, which Ellison had received at Burkeâs recommendation.7 However, the letter grew beyond its intended task, toward a broader consideration of Ellisonâs relationship to Burke: âI started once before right after I received the Rosenwald Fellowship with the intention of thanking you for having recommended me. But when I had begun it occurred to me that the whole business was a little bit ridiculous; I was about to thank you for a minor favor while leaving the major debt unmentioned. For I realized then that my real debt to you lies in the many things Iâve learned (and continue to learn) from your work.â This debt, Ellison continued, could never be fully repaid, but charged his writing with a special responsibility: to match, in quality, the work that inspired it. Perhaps, Ellison mused, the nascent Invisible Man would express the gratitude his letter could not: âI am writing a novel now and perhaps if it is worthwhile it will be my most effective means of saying thanks. Anything else seems to me inadequate and unimaginative.â8
Indicating Ellisonâs regard for Burkeâs opinion, the letter also sought Burkeâs advice. Ellison outlined, in broad strokes, the nature and tone of the novel-in-progress: âIâve deliberately written in the first person, couched much of it in highly intellectualized concepts, and proceeded across a tight rope stretched between the comic and the tragic; but withal I donât know where Iâm going.â The central obstacle to the bookâs success, Ellison wrote, lay well beyond its pages: âIn our culture the blacks have learned to laugh at what brings tears to white eyes and vice versa, and that makes it hard as hell for a Negro writer to call his shots.â Since Burke represented a source of artistic inspirationâand had written extensively on problems of meaning and perspectiveâEllison hoped Burke would have an answer to a vital question: âHow will a Negro writer who writes out of his full awareness of the complexity of western personality, and who presents the violence of American culture in psychological terms rather than physical onesâhow will such a writer be able to break through the stereotype-armored minds of white Americans so that they can receive his message?â9
With this question, Ellison invited Burke to join him in a dialogue on issues of race in Americaâto focus their shared perspective upon the American racial hierarchy. Instead, Ellisonâs question hung in the air between them; although Burke would later reply to some of the points raised by Ellison, the opportunity represented by this letter was, tragically, missed.
Yet, it is my contention that this episode marks not the end of the story, but its beginning. If we interrogate this strained exchange more closely, we discover a vital link between the Burke-Ellison friendship and the changing conception of race in American culture. The relationship between these two men sheds new light not only upon these central figuresâ lives and thought, but alsoâmore cruciallyâupon the American racial drama that contextualized and shaped their lives and thought.
Race matters have always played a decisive role in American society; as Matthew Jacobson persuasively argues, âRace and races are American history.â10 Yet, Ellisonâs question to Burke was posed at an important moment in the history of the American conception of race. The early to mid-1940s represent not only the preâcivil rights era, but the solidification of the binaristic view of race: race as a question of black and white.11 In their struggles to connect, Burke and Ellison reflect the consequences of this Manichean division between black and white Americans. Though their friendship was marked by the mystery of race, there remain unexplored possibilities in their relationshipâresources that could have allowed them to jointly grapple with this division. By attending to the Burke-Ellison friendship, we can thus reflect upon the construction of the American âracial divideââand help combat its malign magic. Read in this way, the story of the Burke-Ellison friendship is as relevant now as when Ellison crafted his letter to Burke.
To do justice to the complex story of this relationship, however, we cannot begin in 1945, with Ellisonâs missive to Burke. Instead, we must trace the trajectories that brought both men to this point, reembedding their biographies, their perspectives, and their relationship within the curve (or boomerang) of American historyâand, most especially, American attitudes toward and discourse surrounding race.
Burkeâs Pittsburghian Origins
On 5 May, 1897, the âsmoky infernoâ of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, welcomed the arrival of Kenneth Duva Burke, the son of James Burke and Lillyan May Duva Burke.12 The âsteel cityâ of Kennethâs birth was hailed as the nationâs foremost producer of steel and iron, though this achievement was not without detrimental effect. The steel industry spurred automation and corporate expansion, but undermined other types of economic activity; it produced many new jobs for unskilled workers, but devalued the abilities of skilled craftsmen.13 These economic developments further exacerbated the tensions rising in the city (and the nation) around issues of race.
However, these tensions, like their causes, were complex. In the America of Burkeâs birth, anxieties over race were not solely centered upon black Americans. In the waning years of the nineteenth century, for example, not only had Congress acted to curtail the rights of Native Americans, it had also created a law banning Chinese immigration into the country.14 Yet, indicating widespread antiblack sentiment, the end of the nineteenth century marked a significant shift in the social and legal status of black Americans.
In 1896, less than a year before Burke was born, the Supreme Court in Plessy v. Ferguson had affirmed the constitutionality of race-based segregation. By establishing the âseparate but equalâ standard for public accommodationâarguing that animosity toward black Americans was natural, and immune to legislative actionâthe decision sanctioned the âJim Crowâ laws adopted by legislatures across the South.15 Although these states had passed segregationist laws prior to the decision, afterward they institutionalized Plessy v. Ferguson with a decided thoroughness. Jim Crow laws decreed that black Americans had to attend separate schools, ride in separate railway cars, eat in separate sections of restaurants, swear on separate Bibles, convalesce in separate hospitals, and rest in separate cemeteries. There was, in essence, no part of public life left untouched by these laws.16
In response to Jim Crow and the bleak economic and agricultural conditions in the South, the dawn of the twentieth century found an increasing number of black Americans seeking better lives in the North. The âGreat Migrationâ resulted in the relocation of 5 million black Americans from the Southâwith the heaviest migration occurring just after World War I.17 Because of the rapid expansion of Pittsburghâs heavy industry, however, steady migration to the city began at an earlier date.18 âBetween 1870 and 1900 the rate of population growth for black Pittsburgh was greater than during any other period ⊠making the Pittsburgh black community the sixth largest in the nationâ19âwith its population doubling between 1890 and 1900.20
However, reflecting the complexities of race during this period, tensions in Pittsburgh were not simply a result of black Americansâ quest to seek new opportunities in the North. Between the last decades of the nineteenth century and World War I, millions of immigrants, largely from eastern and southern Europe, swelled the population of the United States butâunlike previous immigrants from England, Germany, and Irelandâsettled in the urban, industrialized areas of the Northeast.21 The âsteel cityâ proved as attractive to these immigrants as to black Americans fleeing the South: by 1900, Pittsburgh contained the sixth-largest Polish and Italian communities in the nation.22
Upon their arrival, Poles, Italians, and black migrants all sought jobs calling for unskilled or semiskilled laborâyet, given the antiblack sentiment common in Pittsburghâs steel industry and building trades, they rarely vied for the same jobs. As open positions were overwhelmingly awarded to immigrants, black Americans were forced to work as laborers, or in service and transportation.23 Though southern and eastern Europeans thus benefited from antiblack racism, in Pittsburgh relations between black Americans and immigrants bore little resemblance to the segregated ideal of Jim Crow.
Complete segregation was made impossible in 1875, when Pittsburgh closed its black schoolsâmaking it âone of the few large cities with a desegregated [educational] system.â24 Further, the black community was n...