Corregidora essay with articles to use.
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Joanne Lipson Freed
Gendered Narratives of Trauma and Revision in
Gayl Jones’s Corregidora
In�Gayl�Jones’s�novel�Corregidora,�the�legacy�of�slavery’s�sexual�commodification�andvictimization�is�reproduced�in�the�relationships�between�black�men�and�women in�the�middle�of�the�twentieth�century.�For�the�characters�in�Jones’s�text,�the�past�of slavery�remains�alive�in�the�present�in�many�ways,�and�the�recurrence�of�this�past exemplifies�the�process�of�traumatic�repetition.�Corregidora foregrounds�the�traumatic inheritance�of�women,�but�the�ambiguous�and�less�visible�trauma�of�the�novel’s�men is�also�essential�to�understanding�the�visions�of�both�past�and�future that�the�novel provides.�Although�the�language�of�trauma�illuminates�the�way�that�characters�in�the novel�experience�the�past,�its�implicit�gendering�marginalizes�men’s�sexual�victimiza- tion�during�slavery�and�the�trauma�that�results�from�it.�This�component�of�men’s traumatic�inheritance�is�essential�to�the�model�of�revision�and�recovery that�the�novel ultimately�offers.�Indeed,�although�Corregidora demonstrates�that�the�intrusive�past of�trauma�can�have�devastating�effects�on�individual�lives,�it�also�suggests�that�by blurring�the�lines�between�history�and�the�present,�trauma�allows�histories of�oppres- sion�and�victimization�to�be�rewritten.�Ursa�and�her�husband�Mutt�are�not�doomed to�repeat�the�past,�but�the�future�they�create�for�themselves�reflects,�rather�than transcends,�the�legacy�of�slavery’s�gendered�violence.�Moreover,�although�Jones’s�novel suggests�that�narration�has�the�power�to�revise�the�past,�it�also�makes�clear�the risks inherent�in�it:�Those�who�witness�traumatic�narratives�in�Corregidora are�often�inter- pellated�by�them�as�either�the�victims�of�the�perpetrators�of�violence�and�violation. By�accounting�for�the�gendered�legacies�that�Jones’s�characters�inherit,�readers can begin�to�understand�what�is�at�stake�in�their�own�act�of�witnessing.
In�psychological�terms,�trauma�is�an�acute�and�intensely�painful�experience,as�well�as�the�mental�and�emotional�after-effects�of�that�experience,�which�can completely�refigure�the�trauma�sufferer’s�relationship�with�the�surrounding�world. One�defining�characteristic�of�trauma�is�the�uncontrollable�recurrence�of�events too�horrible�either�to�be�fully�experienced�by�the�survivor�at�the�time�those�events occur,�or�to�be�incorporated�into�his�or�her�memory�of�the�past.�As�Cathy�Caruth explains,�“the�[traumatic]�event�is�not�assimilated�or�experienced�fully�at�the�time,�but only�belatedly,�in�its�repeated�possession of�the�one�who�experiences�it”�(Introduction 4;�original�emphasis).�This�uncontrollable�resurgence�of�past�pain�is�overcome�only when�the�trauma�sufferer�is�able�to�integrate�the�traumatic�event�into�a�narrative that�he�or�she�can�control.�Thus,�as�Bessel�van�der�Kolk�and�Onno�van�der�Hart describe,�the�ability�to�narrate�the�traumatic�past�as past becomes�the�hallmark�of recovery:�“[T]he�story�can�be�told,�the�person�can�look�back�at�what�happened; he�has�given�it�a�place�in�his�history,�his�autobiography,�and�thereby�in�the�whole�of his�personality”�(176).�To�the�extent�that�traumatic�recurrence�defines�the�survivor’s experience�of�the�present,�however,�the�healing�that�ends�the�past’s�intrusions�can also�be�experienced�as�a�failure�to�commemorate�adequately�the�traumatizing�event or�a�betrayal�of�the�memory�of�other�survivors�and�victims�(Caruth,�Preface�vii).
409 African American Review 44.3 (Fall 2011): 409-420 © 2011 Joanne Lipson Freed
Extending�this�conception�of�individual�trauma,�we�can�understand�suffering�or violence�inflicted�on�an�entire�community�as�giving�rise�to�a�collective�trauma.�As�Kai Erikson�suggests,�collective�or�communal�trauma�entails�not�merely�a�community composed�of�individual�trauma�sufferers,�but�a�community�whose�very�nature�is transformed�as�a�consequence�of�the�traumatic�event.�In�such�instances,�“traumatic experiences�work�their�way�so�thoroughly�into�the�grain�of�the�affected�community that�they�come�to�supply�its�prevailing�mood�and�temper,�dominate�its�imagery�and its�sense�of�self,�[and]�govern�the�way�its�members�relate�to�one�another”�(Erikson 190).�Focusing�in�particular�on�the�ways�that�slavery�continues�to�structure�the experiences�of�African�Americans,�Ron�Eyerman�extends�the�definition�of�collective trauma�further�by�suggesting�that�it�can�be�passed�down�from�generation�to�generation. Eyerman�understands�the�trauma�of�slavery�to�be�incorporated�into�the�collective memory�of�the�African�American�community�such�that�individuals�traumatized�by its�effects�need�not�have�experienced�the�traumatic�events�themselves.�In�place�of direct�experience,�Eyerman�suggests�that�subsequent�representations�of�the�traumatic past�preserve�it�as�a�part�of�the�collective�memory,�and�he�points�in�particular�to�the power�of�the�media�to�substitute�for�first-hand�knowledge�of�slavery’s�abuses. Significantly,�Eyerman�also�suggests�that�changes�take�place�in�the�transmission�of traumatic�memory�from�one�generation�to�the�next:�“Because�of�its�distance�from�the event�and�because�its�social�circumstances�have�altered�with�time,�each�succeeding generation�reinterprets�and�represents�the�collective�memory�around�that�event according�to�its�needs�and�means”�(15).�In�this�context,�transforming�the�narrative of�the�traumatic�past�is�not�necessarily�a�step�towards�recovery,�but�rather�the means�by�which�trauma�itself�can�be�perpetuated.
Conceptualizing�slavery’s�systematic�abuses�as�an�instance�of�collective�trauma suggests�the�convergence�of�two�usually�distinct�representations�of�trauma:�the political�and�the�personal.�Exemplifying�a�prevalent�tendency�in�both�popular�and professional�understandings�of�trauma,�Deborah�Horvitz�draws�a�gendered�distinc- tion�between�political�trauma�and�personal�trauma.�In�the�context�of�persecutions�or genocides�targeting�a�specific�group�or�community,�she�conceives�of�trauma�as�cul- tural�or�political,�the�result�of�systematic�violence�carried�out�by�the�dominant�society against�a�perceived�threat.�Horvitz�cites�slavery�as�one�example�of�this�political form�of�trauma.�By�contrast,�she�understands�individual�or�personal�trauma�to�be “sadomasochistic�violence�against�a�designated victim,�who�is�personally�known�by�her assailant;�victims�of�domestic�abuse�and�incest�are�examples”�(11).�As�the�gendering of�Horvitz’s�own�language�suggests,�this�model�of�individual�trauma�is�understood primarily�in�terms�of�sexual�victimization�and�is�overwhelmingly�feminized.�Horvitz reminds�us�that�the�boundary�between�political�trauma,�which�is�seen�as�implicitly masculine,�and�personal�trauma,�which�is�feminized�and�sexualized,�is�hardly�absolute; nevertheless,�this�distinction�is�reinforced�by�dominant�cultural�representations�of “shell-shock”�and�rape�as�the�two�quintessential,�gender-specific�instances�of�trauma.1
Horvitz’s�designation�of�slavery�as�political�trauma�suggests�the�way�that�slavery’s atrocities�are�distinguished�and�prioritized�along�gendered�lines.�When�slavery�is framed�in�the�collective�or�political�context�as�the�deprivation�of�fundamental�rights— many�of�which�were�at�the�time�legally�circumscribed�for�women�of�all�races—the definitions�of�slavery�and�the�trauma�it�inflicts�are�implicitly�masculinized.�By�con- trast,�accounts�of�the�trauma�experienced�by�slave�women�in�particular�are�sexualized, identified�with�the�unchecked�threat�of�rape�and�sexual�abuse�by�white�masters�and others.�These�gendered�discourses�of�slavery�reinforce�the�notion�that,�whereas black�women�were�primarily�sexual�victims,�black�men�were�most�wronged�by�their political�and�social�disenfranchisement;�such�distinctions�efface�the�systematic�sexual victimization�of�both�black�women�and men under�slavery�as�a�defining�component of�its�traumatic�legacy.�If,�however,�we�are�alert�to�what�Maurice�Wallace�describes as�“an�erotics�of�slavery�which,�forsaking�gender�difference,�places�the�enslaved biological�male�and�the�enslaved�biological�female�equally�within�the�reach�of�the
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master’s wanton�hand,”�the�range�interrelated�forms�of�domination�experienced�by men�and�women�become�visible�in�a�new�way�(87).
Although�readings�of�Corregidora overwhelmingly�center�around�women’s�histories of�sexual�abuse,�an�understanding�of�the�silenced�narratives�of�black�men’s�sexual victimization�helps�illuminate�this�novel’s�tangled�and�ambiguous�representation�of slavery’s�traumatic�legacy.�Unlike�Ursa�Corregidora�and�the�other�women�in�her�family, who�actively�embrace�the�task�of�memorializing�their�sexual�exploitation�through�the traumatic�narratives�they�pass�down,�men�like�Tad�and�Mutt�reject�the�importance of�the�past�and�attempt�to�distinguish�themselves�from�male�relatives�who�lived through�slavery.�Instead,�by�producing�narratives�that�depict�themselves�and�their forefathers�as�the�owners�of�material�and�sexual�property,�the�men�in�Jones’s�novel attempt�to�counteract�slavery’s�logic�of�commodification.�This�discourse�of�ownership, which�fills�the�silence�left�by�the�men’s�unspoken�stories�of�sexual�victimization,�is their�traumatic�legacy,�and�as�such�it�is�intimately�interrelated�with�the�women’s�legacy of�sexualized�commodification.�These�traumatic�memories,�both�reenacted�and repressed,�constitute�the�legacy�of�slavery�that�Ursa�and�Mutt�together�inherit�and�revise.
For�the�Corregidora�women,�the�sexual�exploitation�of�slavery�is�repeated�andreproduced�in�the�present�through�their�traumatic�narratives.�For�four�genera- tions,�the�identities�of�these�women�have�been�founded�on�the�rape�and�forced prostitution�of�Ursa’s�great-grandmother,�and�subsequently�her�grandmother, by�Simon�Corregidora,�a�Portuguese�plantation�owner�and�whoremaster�in�late- nineteenth-century�Brazil.�Gram�and�Great�Gram�are�consumed�by�the�memory�of Old�Man�Corregidora’s�violations;�since�all�official�records�were�destroyed�after emancipation,�they�take�upon�themselves�the�responsibility�of�preserving�an�account of�slavery’s�abuses.�Significantly,�the�Corregidora�women�acknowledge�and�even embrace�their�role�in�reproducing�the�trauma�of�slavery;�as�Madhu�Dubey�describes, the�women�“mythicize�their�oppressive�history,�and�are�thus�unable�to�perceive�it has�history,�or�to�imagine�a�future�untainted�by�the�slavery�creed”�(Black Women 78). Their�investment�in�the�traumatic�past�seems�suggestive�of�the�process�that�Horvitz describes,�in�which�“powerlessness�becomes�eroticized,�then�entrenched�within�the victim’s�self-identity”�(21).2 Indeed,�the�fact�that�both�Ursa�and�her�mother�Irene choose�to�keep�the�last�name�Corregidora�rather�than�taking�their�husbands’�names, reflects�the�continuing�centrality�of�Simon�Corregidora’s�abuses�in�the�women’s self-definition.
Following�Eyerman’s�model�of�collective�trauma,�Ursa�and�Irene,�who�did�not experience�slavery,�inherit�the�memory�of�Gram’s�and�Great�Gram’s�sexual�victim- ization;�in�this�instance,�the�source�of�the�younger�women’s�trauma�is�the�narrative that�Gram�and�Great�Gram�provide�of�the�traumatic�events�they�experienced.�From childhood,�Ursa�is�inundated�with�graphic�descriptions�of�Corregidora’s�abuses;�these powerful�memories�overwhelm�Great�Gram,�leading�her�to�blur�the�line�between past�and�present�by�acting�out�Corregidora’s�incestuous�sexuality�on�Ursa:
Great Gram sat in the rocker. I was on her lap. She told the same story over and over again. She had her hands around my waist, and I had my back to her. . . . Once when she was talking, she started rubbing my thighs with her hands, and I could feel the sweat on my legs. Then she caught herself, and stopped, and held my waist again. (Jones�11;�original�emphasis)
Great�Gram’s�account�of�her�own�molestation�brings�it�to�life�in�the�present�as�she begins�to�touch�Ursa�with�the�same�sexualized�possessiveness�with�which�Old�Man Corregidora�touched�her.�And�although�Great�Gram�catches�herself�physically,�she nevertheless�continues�to�compulsively�repeat�the�story�of�Corregidora’s�violations. Thus,�although�Ursa�did�not�directly�experience�the�sexual�victimization�that�took place�during�slavery,�Great�Gram’s�narration�of�the�traumatic�past�reproduces�it�and
gENdEREd NARRAtIVEs oF tRAuMA ANd REVIsIoN IN gAyL JoNEs’s CoRREgIdoRA 411
makes�Ursa�in�turn�a�victim�of�sexual�abuse.�Gram�and�Great�Gram�are�committed to�the�continuance�of�this�traumatic�memory,�and�they�enjoin�Ursa, like�her�mother before�her,�to�“make�generations”�and�pass�the�family�legacy�of�sexual�trauma�on�to her�own�daughter�(Jones�22).
For�much�of�the�novel,�Ursa’s�identity�as�a�Corregidora�woman�defines�her�to�the exclusion�of�other�identities.�Inundated�since�childhood�with�Gram’s�and�Great�Gram’s accounts�of�slavery,�Ursa�is�unable�to�create�a�narrative�of�her�own�that�differs�from the�legacy�of�sexual�victimization�she�has�inherited.�Thus,�although�her�mind�is�filled
with�powerful�memories,�she�maintains�they�are�“[a]lways�their�memories,�but�never my�own”�(Jones�100).�To�a�certain�extent,�Ursa�rebels�against�her�family�legacy�by leaving�home�to�become�a�blues�singer,�but�when�she�marries�Mutt�Thomas�and becomes�pregnant�she�begins�to�carry�out�their�generational�mandate.�Ursa�even sees�her�singing,�which�is�intensely�personal�and�sexual,�as�her�way�of�acting�out�her family’s�traumatic�narrative:�“They squeezed Corregidora into me and I sung back in return” (Jones�103;�original�emphasis).�Ursa�strives�to�sing�a�“new�world�song”�that�would “touch�my�life�and theirs,”�but�without�any�account�of�her�own�or�her�mother’s experience�of�life�after�slavery,�her�songs�can�only�reproduce�the�pain�of�Gram’s�and Great�Gram’s�sexual�exploitation�(Jones�59).3�Indeed,�Ursa’s�songs,�which�form�the basis�of�her�relationship�with�Mutt,�trigger�a�possessiveness�in�him�that�ultimately echoes�the�sexual�domination�and�commodification�that�are�the�Corregidora�women’s legacy.
Ursa’s�relationships�with�men�are�haunted�by�the�memory�of�Old�Man Corregidora:�In�several�instances,�Ursa�allows�for�misunderstandings�that�substitute Corregidora�in�the�place�of�either�her�first�husband,�Mutt,�or�her�second�husband, Tadpole.�As�Ursa�recovers�from�a�miscarriage�and�emergency�hysterectomy,�the�result of�being�pushed�down�a�flight�of�stairs�by�Mutt,�Tadpole�is�with�her�in�the�hospital and�allows�the�staff�to�mistake�him�for�Ursa’s�husband.�Because�Ursa�has�not taken Mutt’s�last�name,�the�doctor’s�error�transforms�both�men�into�the�slavemaster:�“�‘He thought�you�were�Mutt,’�I�said�quietly.�‘I�mean,�my�husband.�He�thought�you�were Mr.�Corregidora’�”�(Jones�19).�A�similar�slippage�occurs�when�Tad,�who�has�just�been told�of�Ursa’s�now-unfulfillable�obligation�to�make�generations,�observes�of�Mutt, “I�guess�you�hate�him�then,�don’t�you.”�Ursa,�in�response,�interposes�Corregidora, saying�“I�never�knew�the�bastard”�(Jones�10).�Even�after�realizing�her�mistake,�Ursa allows�it�to�continue,�going�on�to�describe�Corregidora’s�photograph�to�Tad.�These substitutions�cause�the�traumatic�past�of�slavery�to�repeat�itself:�not�only�does�the long-dead�Simon�Corregidora�intrude�into�the�present,�but�the�men�who�are�Ursa’s lovers�are�interpellated�by�his�image,�foreshadowing�their�complicity�in�the�repro- duction�of�slavery’s�objectifying�sexual�logic.
Although�Ursa�reacts�negatively�to�her�neighbor�Cat’s�expressions�of�same-sex desire,�the�interactions�between�them�demonstrate�that�like�Ursa’s�heterosexual�rela- tionships,�her�relationships�with�women�are�equally�determined�by�the�legacy�of slavery.�As�Great�Gram�describes,�both�Corregidora�and�his�wife�exerted�sexual�claims over�her,�and�the�violence�and�coerciveness�of�these�relationships�is�reproduced�in�the sexual�or�sexualized�relationships�between�women�that�Jones�depicts.�The�interactions between�Cat�and�her�adolescent�lover�Jeffy�reflect�the�same�history�of�violence�that inflects�Ursa’s�heterosexual�relationships:�When�Jeffy�makes�sexual�advances�toward Ursa,�Cat�threatens�to�give�Jeffy�“a�fist�to�fuck”�(Jones�47).�Throughout�the�novel�Ursa
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The revised narrative that Mutt and Ursa
create together is predicated on embracing violence
as an essential component of their intimacy.
insistently�refuses�to�acknowledge�the�possibility�of�same-sex�desire�or�pleasure offered�by�Cat,�and�later�by�Jeffy.�But�she�nevertheless�repeats�Cat’s�sexualized�threat when�she�confronts�a�sexual�rival,�the�young�woman�Tad�has�taken�to�bed�in�her�place. The�language�of�brute�force�and�sexual�victimization�inflects�her�relationships�with women�as�well�as�with�men,�again�reflecting�the�way�the�traumatic�past�of�slavery intrudes�into�and�is�reproduced�in�Ursa’s�present.
Just�as�Ursa’s�traumatic�legacy�places�those�around�her�in�roles�defined�by�slavery, she�understands�her�own�sexuality�in�terms�of�Gram’s�and�Great�Gram’s�procreative injunction�that�replicates�the�commodification�of�“a�slave-breeder’s�way�of�thinking” (Jones�22).�Ursa’s�conception�of�her�own�sexuality�is�so�powerfully�linked�to�the�idea of�reproduction�that�she�is�unable�to�engage�in�sex�or�experience�pleasure�after�her hysterectomy.�Although�Tad�attempts�to�convince�her�that�“[a]s�long�as�a�woman�got a�hole,�she�can�fuck,”�his�logic�requires�Ursa�to�redefine�her�sexuality�as�a�woman who�can�no�longer�make�generations,�which�she�is�incapable�of�doing�(Jones�82). As�Elizabeth�Goldberg�convincingly�argues,�the�impossibility�of�conception�leaves Ursa�unable�to�derive�pleasure�from—and�at�times�unable�to�engage�in—penetrative sex�with�Tad.4 Like�her�daughter,�Ursa’s�mother�Irene�reproduces�slavery’s�commod- ification in�her�own�failed�relationship�with�her�husband�Martin.�Irene�refuses�to understand�her�attraction�to�Martin�outside�of�the�terms�of�her�family’s�procreative injunction,�and�in�place�of�affection�or�sexual�pleasure�she�imagines�her�body�striving to�become�pregnant�with�a�daughter:
It�was�like�we�got�along�real�well,�like�I�wouldn’t�even�believe�you�could�get�along�that�well with�a�man.�But�then�I�know�it�was�something�my�body�wanted,�just�something�my�body wanted.�Naw.�It�just�seem�like�I�just�keep�telling�myself�that,�and�it’s�got�to�be�something else.�It’s�always�something�else,�but�it’s�easier�if�it’s�just�that.�(Jones�116)
In�this�moment,�and�throughout�the�telling�of�her�story,�Irene�resists�creating�a�nar- rative�of�her�own�that�can�account�for�her�affectionate�bond�with�Martin,�and�con- tinues�to�privilege�the�logic�of�commodification�that�instrumentalizes�both�her�own and�Martin’s�sexuality.�Martin,�who�soon�recognizes�his�role�in�Irene’s�reproductive mandate,�feels�used�by�her�and�leaves�her�to�raise�their�daughter�alone�in�the�image of�her�family’s�traumatic�past.
Like�the�Corregidora�women,�the�men�in�Jones’s�novel�are�also�affected�by�thesexual�trauma�of�slavery,�but�unlike�the�women,�they�repress�the�memory�of black�men’s�sexual�victimization�during�slavery�and�resist�understanding�themselves as�inheritors�of�this�legacy.�Covering�over�their�silence�about�male�sexuality,�the�men’s narratives�focus�instead�on�the�ways�that�their�ancestors’�rights�as�property�holders were�impinged,�and�sharply�contrast�the�experiences�of�their�male�progenitors�with their�own.�When�Ursa�first�tells�Mutt�about�Corregidora,�he�shares�the�story�of�his great-grandfather,�a�blacksmith�whose�wife�was�repossessed�into�slavery�in�payment of�his�debts.�Mutt�denies�the�relevance�of�his�great-grandfather’s�experience�of�slavery, maintaining�that�“[w]hichever�way�you�look�at�it,�we�ain’t�them”�(Jones�151).�But despite�this�denial,�Mutt�repeatedly�returns�to�his�great-grandfather’s�example�to inform�his�relationship�with�Ursa.�When�he�becomes�jealous�of�her�job�as�a�blues singer,�he�threatens�to�auction�her�off�to�men�in�the�audience�but�decides�not�to “on�account�of�my�great-granddaddy.�Seeing�as�how�he�went�through�all�that�for�his woman,�he�wouldn’t�have�appreciated�me�selling�you�off”�(Jones�160).�Despite�the distinction�Mutt�draws�between�his�great-grandfather’s�circumstances�and�his�own, Mutt’s�jealousy�of�Ursa’s�commercialized�sexuality�as�a�cabaret�singer�demonstrates that�he�too�sees�his�wife�as�a�commodity�that�he�is�at�risk�of�losing.�By�acting�out this�jealousy,�Mutt�affirms�the�continued�effect�of�slavery’s�logic,�which�transforms his�wife’s�sexualized�body�into�property.
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Thus,�rather�than�allowing�him�to�break�with�the�past,�Mutt’s�refusal�of�slavery’s legacy�of�commodification�leads�him�to�repeat�it�through�his�relentless�objectifica- tion�of�Ursa.�His�sexual�language�reproduces�the�language�of�ownership,�and�he unknowingly�repeats�to�Ursa�a�phrase�that�Corregidora�used�to�describe�Great Gram,�who�was�both�his�lover�and�his�property:�“Your�pussy’s�a�little�gold�piece, ain’t�it,�Urs?�My�little�gold�piece”�(Jones�60).�Insisting�on�his�status�as�the�owner�of Ursa’s�body,�Mutt�attempts�to�assert�his�freedom�from�the�legacy�of�slavery�by affirming�his�masculine�privilege.�But�by�framing�himself�as�owning�rather�than owned,�Mutt�nevertheless�continues�the�sexualized�commodification�that�is�the Corregidora�women’s�traumatic�inheritance�as�well�as�his�own.��Mutt’s�and�Ursa’s sexual�encounters�thus�implicate�them�both�in�the�reproduction�of�slavery’s�objecti- fying�logic:�“It’s�my�ass,�ain’t�it?�When�I�screwed�you�last�night�and�asked�you�whose ass�it�was,�you�said�it�was�mine”�(Jones�164).�Despite�Mutt’s�desire�to�distinguish himself�from�his�grandfather,�whose�wife�was�taken�from�him�as�property,�Mutt reproduces�slavery’s�logic�by�asserting�his�absolute�ownership�of�Ursa’s�body.
Like�Mutt,�Tad�too�insists�on�the�discontinuity�between�the�past�of�slavery�and his�life�in�the�present.�Tad’s�grandmother�was�a�white�orphan�who�was�taken�in�as�a young�child�by�the�man�who�would�become�her�husband.�Like�Mutt,�Tad�recounts this�story�in�response�to�Ursa’s�account�of�her�family�history,�making�an�explicit connection�between�his�narrative�and�hers�that�frames�them�both�as�legacies�of slavery.�But�by�emphasizing�his�lack�of�physical�resemblance�to�his�light-skinned mother,�Tad�distances�himself�from�this�history.�Unlike�Ursa�and�the�women�of�her family,�who�claim�that�their�traumatic�narratives�preserve�the�past�in�the�absence�of official�records,�Tad�argues�that�the�destruction�of�such�records�demonstrates�the futility�of�memory.�He�recounts�that�his�father�was�a�soldier�who�stayed�in�France after�the�war,�allowing�his�mother�to�be�cheated�out�of�the�land�his�father�had painstakingly�accumulated�to�pass�on�to�subsequent�generations:�“When�Mama�went into�the�courthouse�to�claim�the�land,�somebody�had�tore�one�of�the�pages�out�of the�book.�Tha’s�one�reason�I�got�away�from�up�there”�(Jones�78).�Rather�than memorializing�the�loss�of�the�land�that�would�have�been�his�inheritance,�Tad�distances himself�both�physically�and�emotionally,�maintaining�that�“they�ain’t�nothing�you�can do�when�they�tear�the�pages�out�of�the�book�and�they�ain’t�no�record�of�it”�(Jones�78).
Like�Mutt,�Tad�attempts�to�understand�himself�and�his�family’s�past�in�terms�of the�male�privilege�of�ownership�that�counteracts�the�historical�status�of�black�men as�property.�His�grandfather’s�simultaneously�paternal�and�sexual�claim�over�the young�woman�who�becomes�his�wife�both�repeats�and�reverses�the�power�relations of�slavery:�The�convergence�of�the�sexual�and�paternal�in�the�relationship�between Tad’s�grandfather�and�his�grandmother�parallels�the�logic�of�the�slave�system,�which justified�systematic�sexual�exploitation�through�a�discourse�of�paternalistic�responsi- bility.�Compellingly,�Tad’s�black�grandfather�assumes�the�ownership�role�occupied by�the�slavemaster,�successfully�claiming�the�body�and�the�sexuality�of�his�white grandmother.�Even�as�racial�power�structures�are�challenged�or�overturned�by�the grandfather’s�marriage,�however,�gendered�ones�are�reinforced,�and�Tad’s�grandfather’s incestuous�desire�for�his�young�adopted�daughter�resonates�with�Corregidora’s�abuse of�Gram,�who�was�his�own�biological�daughter.�Like�Mutt,�Tad�asserts�the�masculine privilege�of�his�progenitors�by�identifying�them�as�property�owners,�in�the�case�of his�grandfather�by�emphasizing�his�claim�over�his�grandmother,�and�in�the�case�of his�father�by�focusing�on�his�accumulation�of�land.�But�in�making�this�claim,�which challenges�the�legacy�of�slavery’s�legal�and�social�disenfranchisement,�Tad�also�repro- duces�slavery’s�commodifying�logic�that�transforms�black�women�into�sexual�property.
Thus�despite�his�claim�to�have�left�this�past�behind,�Tad�understands�the�failure of�his�relationship�with�Ursa�in�terms�that�echo�his�deprivation�of�the�property�that was�his�rightful�inheritance.�When�Ursa�is�unable�to�enjoy�sex�with�him,�Tad�sees himself�as�unfairly�deprived�of�the�sexually�satisfying�woman�he�believed�he�was
gENdEREd NARRAtIVEs oF tRAuMA ANd REVIsIoN IN gAyL JoNEs’s CoRREgIdoRA 415
getting�when�he�married�her.�As�Dubey�succinctly�puts�it,�“any�woman�who�is�out- side�the�reproductive�system�is�no�longer�a�woman”�to�Tad,�who�understands�Ursa’s unexpected�deficiency�as�a�denial�of�what�was�rightfully�his�(Black Women 76).�“You don’t�even�know�what�to�do�with�a�real man,”�Tad�maintains,�asserting�his�right�to turn�to�another�woman�for�the�pleasure�to�which�he�feels�entitled�(Jones�88).�Ursa’s unresponsiveness�threatens�to�undermine�Tad’s�masculine�identity,�which�is�based�on his�ability�to�claim�ownership�and�control�of�her�sexualized�body,�and�his�affair�with�the young�woman�he�employs�to�sing�in�Ursa’s�place�reasserts�his�masculine�prerogative.
By�constructing�narratives�of�their�forefathers�as�owners�rather�than�as�property, Mutt�and�Tad�not�only�reproduce�the�legacy�of�commodification�experienced�by�the Corregidora�women,�but�also�repress�the�narratives�of�black�men’s�sexual�victimiza- tion�under�slavery�that�powerfully�inform�their�own�traumatic�past.�In�the�accounts of�the�past�that�Mutt�and�Tad�provide,�slavery’s�most�profound�effect�on�black�men was�its�circumscription�of�their�ability�to�claim�and�possess�property,�but�the�stories told�by�Gram�and�Great�Gram�reinscribe�the�threat�of�castration�into�the�men’s narrative,�and�in�doing�so�suggest�the�ways�that�men’s�and�women’s�traumatic�legacies are�linked:
There was a woman over on the next plantation. The master shipped her husband out of bed and got in the bed with her and just as soon as he was getting ready to go in her she cut off his thing with a razor she had hid under the pillow and he bled to death, and the next day they came and got her and her husband. They cut off her husband’s penis and they stuffed it in her mouth, and then they hanged her. They let him bleed to death. They made her watch and then they hanged her. (Jones�67;�original�emphasis)
This�horrific�account�reveals�a�silence�in�the�men’s�narratives�of�slavery�and�suggests the�way�that�the�forms�of�sexual�victimization�suffered�by�men�and�women�were profoundly�interrelated.�Both�husband�and�wife�are�the�property�of�the�slavemaster, subject�to�his�whims�and�proclivities,�and�both�are�punished�for�resisting�them.�In�this grisly�scene,�the�severing�of�the�man’s�penis�from�his�body�literally�objectifies�his sexuality,�and�in�doing�so�causes�his�death.�The�woman’s�desire�for�her�husband,�an assertion�of�their�humanity�and�sexual�agency�which�leads�to�the�husband’s�castration, is�punitively�and�perversely�reenacted�in�her�death.�Great�Gram’s�description�of�the way�events�such�as�these�were�transformed�into�“sex�circuses”�for�white�onlookers serves�to�emphasize�the�way�in�which�the�sexual�violence�inflicted�upon�men�and women�during�slavery�was�both�a�cause�and�a�consequence�of�their�commodification (Jones�125).
This�episode�is�narrated�in�Ursa’s�voice�as�a�part�of�the�traumatic�memory�she�has inherited�from�Gram�and�Great�Gram,�and�its�inclusion�highlights�the�absence�of such�stories�from�Mutt’s�and�Tad’s�accounts�of�slavery.�Since�men�and�women�alike were�subject�to�sexual�victimization�during�slavery,�as�this�story�graphically�illustrates, the�conspicuous�silence�around�sexual�trauma�in�the�men’s�narratives�suggests�a conscious�or�unconscious�repression�of�this�aspect�of�their�collective�memory. Indeed,�the�acknowledgment�of�past�sexual�victimization�stands�at�odds�with�the masculine�identities�that�both�Mutt�and�Tad�are�invested�in�constructing�and�enacting for�both�their�male�progenitors�and�themselves.�In�much�the�same�way�that�contem- porary�discourses�of�trauma�marginalize�men’s�experiences�of�sexual�victimization, Mutt�and�Tad�cannot�accommodate�such�narratives;�by�focusing�on�the�deprivation of�property�and�effacing�the�threat�of�castration,�the�men�in�Jones’s�novel�affirm their�masculinity�through�the�language�of�ownership.�But�as�an�implicit�reaction against�the�legacy�of�sexual�victimization,�the�domineering�and�sexually�possessive masculinity�they�enact�demonstrates�the�continuing�power�of�this�repressed�traumatic memory�in�the�present.�Indeed,�if�as�van�der�Kolk�and�van�der�Hart�suggest, “the compulsion�to�repeat�the�trauma�is�a�function�of�repression�itself,”�the�men’s�silence surrounding�their�own�legacy�of�sexual�objectification�and�victimization�makes that traumatic�past�all�the�more�likely�to�intrude�into�and�repeat�itself�in�the�present�(166).
416 AFRICAN AMERICAN REVIEW
Contemplating�her�failed�relationship�with�Mutt,�Ursa�seems�to�understand�the way�that�their�gendered�legacies�of�slavery�interconnect.�Identifying�herself�with slave�women�that�were�“[h]ard�because�you�have�to�be,”�Ursa�wonders:�“Maybe�it’s just�a�man�can’t�stand�to�have�a�woman�as�hard�as�he�is.�If�he�couldn’t�support�her�in money�he’d�be�wanting�to�support�her�in�spirit”�(Jones�40).�The�masculine�identity that�Mutt�enacts,�which�is�predicated�on�his�virility�and�his�being�“harder”�than�his woman,�is�an�attempt�to�respond�to�the�memory�of�a�past�in�which�a�black�man’s masculine�prowess�was�not�enough�to�protect�either�himself�or�his�woman�from victimization�and�commodification.�But�as�Ursa�describes�it,�the�hardness�that threatens�Mutt’s�masculinity�is�part of�women’s�own�legacy�of�slavery,�necessitated by�the�instrumentalization�of�their�bodies�and�sexualities�that�made�them�“hard because�you�have�to�be.”�Imagining�the�intimacy�shared�by�slave�men�and�women, which�is�significantly�absent�from�the�traumatic�narratives�she�has�received,�Ursa visualizes�“tender-eyed�women�and�hands tender�behind�tobacco�calluses�with�their men.�Hurt�you�into�tenderness�finally”�(Jones�41).�In�these�terms,�which�envision the�coexistence�of�hardness�and�pain�with intimacy�and�pleasure,�Ursa�begins�to rescript�a�new�narrative�of�the�traumatic�past�of�slavery�that�allows�for�her�eventual reunion�with�Mutt.
Throughout�the�novel,�Ursa�acknowledges,�along�with�pain,�the�possibility�of love�or�pleasure�that�Great�Gram�insistently�refuses�in�her�narrative.�When�she�is first�recovering�from�her�hysterectomy,�Ursa�insists�that�a�man�who�loved�her�would never�have�hurt�her�as�Mutt�did,�but�later,�when�she�reflects�on�their�relationship, she�admits�that�she�always�experienced�their�love�as�“pleasure�somehow�greater�than the�pain”�(Jones�50).�This�is�precisely�the�possibility�that�Great�Gram�and�Gram�deny in�the�narrative�of�victimization�that�they�pass�down�to�the�subsequent�generations of�women.�Both�Ursa�and�her�mother�speculate�about�the�embodied�experience that�Gram�and�Great�Gram�omit�from�their�narratives:�“They were with him. What did they feel? You know how they talk about hate and desire. Two humps on the same camel? Yes. Hate and desire both riding them”�(Jones�102;�original�emphasis).�Ursa�and�Irene�consider but�never�articulate�the�question�that�Martin�does�dare�to�ask:�“How�much�was�hate for�Corregidora�and�how�much�was�love”�(Jones�131).�In�doing�so,�Ursa�begins�to revise�the�narrative�she�has�inherited�and�consider�new�possibilities�for�her�own experience�of�love�and�desire.
Imagining�the�possibility�of�pleasure�within�the�traumatic�past�she�has�inherited, Ursa�also�reconsiders�the�possibility�of�an�enduring�relationship�with�Mutt�in�which pleasure�and�pain�coexist.�When�he�seeks�her�out,�more�than�twenty�years�after�the incidents�that�begin�the�novel,�they�reunite�despite�Ursa’s�certainty�that�she�still�hates him�and�holds�him�responsible�for�her�sterility.�For�Mutt,�too,�returning�to�Ursa revises�the�ambivalence�of�his�grandfather:�after�his�wife�was�repossessed�into�slavery, he�ate�onions�to�keep�people�away�and�peppermint�to�attract�them,�unable�to�act�in�a meaningful�way�on�either�his�fear�or�desire.�Mutt�explains,�“I�tried�it�but�it�didn’t�do nothing�but�make�me�sick”�(Jones�184).�He�reunites�with�Ursa�despite�the�risk�that he�will�be�hurt�again,�and�in�doing�so�rewrites�his�grandfather’s�narrative�of�failed ownership�by�inscribing�his�continued�desire�for�the�woman�he�loves.�Like�Ursa, Mutt�transforms�the�traumatic�narrative�he�has�inherited�by�returning�and�embracing the�possibility�of�pleasure�that�coexists�with�pain.
The�terms�of�Mutt’s�and�Ursa’s�reconciliation,�which�revise�the�traumatic�narra- tives�they�have�received,�suggest�the�possibility�that�they�have�begun�to�control�the intrusive�past�and�started�the�process�of�healing.�By�acknowledging�the�possibility of�intimacy�and�pleasure�in�sexual�relationships�that�are�haunted�by�domination�and commodification,�both�Ursa�and�Mutt�complicate�the�legacies�of�slavery�they�have inherited�and�assert�the�distinction�between�past�and�present.�In�the�sexual�encounter that�concludes�the�novel,�Ursa�claims�and�enacts�the�ambivalent�hatred�and�desire that�Great�Gram�has�silenced�in�her�traumatic�narrative.�After�slavery�in�Brazil�ended, both�Gram�and�Great�Gram�stayed�with�Corregidora,�and�Great�Gram�fled�to�the
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United�States�only�after�doing�something�that�made�him�want�to�kill�her.�Even�after returning�to�rescue�her�daughter,�Great�Gram�never�explains�her�actions,�leaving Gram�to�wonder:�“What is it a woman can do to a man that make him hate her so bad he wont to kill her one minute and keep thinking about her and can’t get her out of his mind the next?”�(Jones�173;�original�emphasis)�When�she�is�reunited�with�Mutt,�Ursa�is�able to�imagine�and�confront�the�possibility�that�is�repressed�in�the�traumatic�narrative she�has�inherited.�Acknowledging�that�much�of�her�troubled�relationship�with�Mutt remains�unchanged,�Ursa�alters�the�power�dynamics�of�their�intimacy�by�fellating him�for�the�first�time:
[I]n�a�split�second�of�hate�and�love�I�knew�what�it�was,�and�I�think�he�might�have�known too.�A�moment�of�pleasure�and�excruciating�pain�at�the�same�time,�a�moment�of�broken skin�but�not�sexlessness,�a�moment�just�before�sexlessness,�a�moment�that�stops�just�before sexlessness,�a�moment�that�stops�before�it�breaks�the�skin:�“I�could�kill�you.”�(Jones�184)
By�embracing�the�coexistence�of�pleasure�and�pain�in�their�sexual�encounter,�Ursa alters�the�Corregidora�narrative�to�reflect�the�nature�of�her�relationship�with�Mutt. Claiming�for�herself�the�power�to�wound,�as�well�as�the�agency�to�choose�not�to, Ursa�reimagines�her�sexuality�in�terms�that�relegate�her�family’s�traumatic�memory�to the�past,�but�which�nevertheless�acknowledge�the�legacy�of�violence�that�continues to�haunt�her�present.
This�scene,�which�hinges�on�Ursa’s�discovery�of�her�power�to�castrate,�is�partic- ularly�troubling�when�it�is�understood�in�isolation�as�either�sexually�subjugating or violently�empowering�her.�Suggesting�that�Ursa’s�encounter�with�Mutt�continues slav- ery’s�legacy�of�sexual�domination,�Goldberg�sees�Ursa’s�initiation�of�oral�sex�as�a continued�denial�of�her�own�desire�and�pleasure,�and�Bruce�Simon�asserts�that�it�is the�“literal�return�of�the�history�of�slavery”�rather�than�a�revision�of�that�traumatic past�(102).�By�contrast,�in�Horvitz’s�view,�the�threat�of�violence�in�Ursa’s�act�reflects her�desire�for�revenge�and�empowers�Ursa�by�placing�her�briefly�in�the�position�of inflicting�rather�than�suffering�abuse.�Even�duCille’s�reading,�which�unsettles�any simple�dichotomy�between�empowerment�and�submission,�fails�to�acknowledge sexual�violence�as�a�traumatic�legacy�that�is�shared�by�both�black�women�and men. Significantly,�Mutt�also�realizes�that�the�threat�of�castration�coexists�with�his�experi- ence�of�pleasure;�this�realization�inscribes�a�uniquely�male�vulnerability�into�his position�of�masculine�power�and�privilege.�The�possibility�of�castration,�as�yet repressed�in�the�men’s�traumatic�narratives,�is�repeated�with�a�difference�in�Mutt’s and�Ursa’s�encounter.�The�sexual�desire�that�exposes�Mutt�to�the�possibility�of�dan- ger�and�death�is�also�the�source�of�unprecedented�pleasure.
The�novel’s�final�scene�thus�figures�the�revision�of�slavery’s�traumatic�legacy�as a�shared�endeavor,�what�Stephanie�Li�perhaps�too�strongly�calls��“a�joint�epiphany between�women�and�men”�(147).�Significantly,�however,�the�revised�narrative�that Mutt�and�Ursa�create�together�is�predicated�on�embracing�violence�as�an�essential component�of�their�intimacy,�a�fact�that�the�novel’s�final�lines�reinforce:�“I�don’t want�a�kind�of�woman�that�hurt�you,”�Mutt�repeatedly�insists,�to�which�Ursa�replies, “Then�you�don’t�want�me”�(Jones�185).�Ursa’s�narration�then�figures�the�reciprocal violence�that�continues�to�define�their�relationship:�“He�shook�me�till�I�fell�against him�crying.�‘I�don’t�want�a�kind�of�man�that’ll�hurt�me�neither,’�I�said.�He�held�me tight”�(Jones�185).�Neither�Mutt�nor�Ursa�can�claim�that�they�will�not�hurt�one another,�and�Mutt’s�shaking�necessarily�precedes�their�final�embrace.�Nevertheless, Mutt�and�Ursa�assert�the�possibility�of�their�own�intimacy�and�pleasure,�revising together�the�forms�of�sexuality�produced�by�slavery�in�which�they�are�both�implicated. In�doing�so�they�confront�and�take�control�of�the�repressed�memories�of�black�men’s and�women’s�sexual�victimization�and�imagine�a�future�that�is�different�from,�if�not unmarked�by,�the�past.�By�telling�their�own�stories�(or�in�Ursa’s�terms,�singing�a�new kind�of�song),�they�may�begin�to�differentiate�the�past�of�slavery�from�the�present, but�they�can�never�leave�the�past�entirely�behind.
418 AFRICAN AMERICAN REVIEW
As�Jones’s�novel�suggests,�the�intrusive�past�of�trauma�is�the�cause�of�suffering,but�it�also�opens�the�possibility�of�a�radical�and�potentially�transformative intervention�into�the�past.�The�pain�of�the�trauma�sufferer�does�more�than�simply recall�the�events�of�the�past;�it�brings�those�events�to�life�in�the�present.�Thus,�in�the formulation�provided�by�Cathy�Caruth,�trauma�sufferers�“become�themselves�the symptom�of�a�history�that�they�cannot�entirely�possess”�(Introduction�5).�The�very literalness�of�trauma’s�recurrences,�which�unsettles�the�boundaries�of�history,�makes it�possible�to�act�on�the�past�as�it�is�brought�alive�in�the�present�and�enables�an intervention�that�goes�beyond�retrospection.�Through�the�survivor’s�narrative, which�integrates�the�traumatic�events�into�his�or�her�memory�of�the�past,�those events�are�reinterpreted�and�rescripted.�Thus,�both�for�the�trauma�sufferers,�to�whom the�distinction�between�past�and�present�does�not�meaningfully�exist,�and�for�the witnesses�who�receive�and�acknowledge�their�traumatic�narratives,�the�past�is�made available�for�transformative�and�potentially�recuperative�re-narration.
When�the�distinction�between�past�and�present�is�called�into�question,�so�too�are any�straightforward�distinctions�between�true�and�false�representations�of�the�events that�are�being�constantly�re-experienced�by�the�trauma�sufferer.�In�this�sense,�“what trauma�has�to�tell�us—the�historical�and�personal�truth�it�transmits—is�intricately bound�up�with�its�refusal�of�historical�boundaries”�(Caruth,�Introduction�8).�This refusal,�although�problematic�for�historical�and�juridical�projects,�bestows�fictional narratives�with�a�particular�power�to�transform—rather�than�simply�re-imagine—the past.5 The�revisions�of�slavery’s�legacy�enacted�by�Jones’s�characters�thus�represent something�far�more�powerful�than�a�speculative�project�of�retrospection.�If�we�take the�claims�of�trauma�theory�seriously,�in�creating�their�own�narrative�Ursa�and�Mutt— and�by�extension�Jones�herself—transform�the�past�itself,�inscribing�the�possibility of�intimacy�and�pleasure�not�only�into�the�memory of�slavery,�but�the�very�reality of�it. The�possibility�that�literature�might�not�merely�address�the�historical�wrongs�of slavery�but�actively�ameliorate�them�is�an�appealing�possibility�indeed,�for�it�empowers not�only�the�author�of�such�fictions�but�also�the�readers�and�critics�who�act�as�wit- nesses�for�the�text’s�traumatic�narrative.�Mirroring�the�clinical�scenario,�in�which�the therapist�as�listener�becomes�a�necessary�partner�in�the�process�of�healing,�the�reader of�a�text�like�Corregidora receives�the�outward�address�of�trauma’s�deferred�narrative, thereby�enabling�it�to�be�relived�and�revised.�By�opening�up�individuals,�communities, and�history�itself�to�the�possibility�of�transformation,�and�by�placing�narrative�pro- duction�and�reception�at�the�center�of�the�process�of�healing�it�envisions,�trauma theory�suggests�a�radical�claim�not�only�about�the�power�of�a�novel�such�as�Corregidora, but�also�about�the�role�played�by�its�readers.
Trauma�theory’s�centering�of�narrative�in�its�vision�of�recovery�offers�the�possi- bility�that�a�“new�world�song”�like�Ursa’s�or�a�novel�like�Jones’s�could,�together�with their�audiences,�begin�to�heal�the�enduring�psychic�wounds�of�slavery�(Jones�59). But�in�conceiving�of�slavery’s�legacy�as�a�collective�trauma,�Corregidora also�reveals�the complicity�of�narrative�in�the�reproduction�of�that�trauma.�For�if�the�experience�of collective�trauma�can�extend�across�generations,�as�Eyerman�suggests,�representations of�the�traumatic�past�become�the�means�not�only�of�controlling�the�intrusions�of traumatic�memories,�but�also�of�passing�them�on�to�others.�Addressing�a�contem- porary�context,�Eyerman�points�to�the�effects�of�the�media�in�the�transmission�of traumatic�legacies�from�one�generation�to�the�next,�but�in�Jones’s�novel,�oral�narrative assumes�the�ambiguous�role�of�transferring�as�well�as�transforming�the�traumatic past�of�slavery.
Indeed,�the�traumatic�narratives�in�Corregidora hold�both�the�promise�of�healing and the�threat�of�traumatizing�those�who�bear�witness.�Ursa,�a�captive�audience�of Great�Gram’s�account�of�Corregidora’s�abuse,�identifies�the�role�of�Great�Gram’s storytelling�in�preserving�her�traumatic�past:�“It was as if the words were helping her, as if the words repeated again and again could be a substitute for memory, were somehow more than the
gENdEREd NARRAtIVEs oF tRAuMA ANd REVIsIoN IN gAyL JoNEs’s CoRREgIdoRA 419
memory. As if it were only the words that kept her anger”�(Jones�11;�original�emphasis). Ursa’s�description�of�Great�Gram’s�compulsion�to�narrate�the�traumatic�past�suggests that�this�repetition�both�alleviates�her�suffering�(the�words�“helping�her”)�and�per- petuates�it�(the�words�keeping�her�anger).�And�whether�or�not�Great�Gram�is�healed by�the�process�of�narrating�the�past,�Ursa�is�certainly�traumatized�by�listening�to�it and�experiencing�its�reproduction.�Despite�Ursa’s�desire�to�sing�blues�songs�that reflect�her�own�experience�rather�than�the�narrative�of�Corregidora’s�victimization that�she�has�received,�she�is�never�able�to�create�the�new�song�she�imagines.�In�the novel’s�final�pages�Ursa�describes�the�song�of�her�life�to�her�mother,�who�listens with�“the�quiet�kind�of�listening�one�has�when�they�already�know,�or�maybe�when it’s�a�song�they’ve�sung�themselves,�but�with�different�lyrics”�(Jones�182).�Describing her�mother’s�familiarity�with�her�song,�Ursa�implicitly�compares�her�own�life�story to�that�of�her�mother,�who�continues�to�refuse�the�possibility�of�desire�or�intimacy and�writes�to�Ursa�of�“having�left�a�certain�world�behind�her”�(Ibid.).�Rather�than suggesting�that�Ursa�has�escaped�her�family’s�traumatic�narrative,�this�comparison with�Irene�seems�to�affirm�its�continued�influence.
Thus,�to�the�extent�that�Corregidora suggests�the�relevance�of�trauma�theory�to formulations�of�African�American�identity,�Jones’s�novel�also�problematizes�the empowering�relationship�trauma�theory�posits�between�narrative�and�recovery.�For Mutt�and�Ursa,�revising�family�histories�and�searching�for�new�songs�does�enable the�reinscription�of�intimacy�and�pleasure�into�slavery’s�gendered�legacy�of�sexual commodification.�But�although�they�may�expand�and�revise�the�roles�they�inherit, the�possibilities�they�embrace�have�still�been�scripted�by�the�past.�As�with�the�pain they�know,�the�repressed�pleasure�that�Mutt�and�Ursa�discover,�is�a�part�of�slavery’s past,�and�the�intimacy�they�share�is�predicated�on�and�haunted�by�the�threat�of�vio- lence.�The�forms�of�power�and�vulnerability�that�Ursa�and�Mutt�are�able�to�experi- ence�together�continue�to�reflect�the�gendered�legacies�they�have�inherited,�as�the asymmetry�of�the�novel’s�final�scene�suggests.�Moreover,�as�the�novel�demonstrates, traumatic�narratives�hold�the�power�to�reproduce�trauma�as�well�as�to�heal�it,�and the�act�of�witnessing,�the�text�reminds�us,�is�also�a�dangerous�one.�Witnesses�in Corregidora risk�becoming�victims�of�the�abuse�of�the�past,�as�the�young�Ursa�does, or�they�risk�consuming�dehumanizing�events�as�entertainment,�like�the�white�gawkers Great�Gram�describes.�Rather�than�embracing�the�production�and�reception�of�nar- rative�as�the�means�of�transforming�an�oppressive�past,�then,�Corregidora offers�a more�ambivalent�vision:�In�blurring�the�lines�between�past�and�present,�the�novel gives�writers�and�readers�some�power�over�history,�but�in�doing�so�it�renders�them responsible�for�the�legacies�of�injustice�that�they�can�never�entirely�leave�behind.
1. In tracing the history of trauma as a scientific field of inquiry, Judith Lewis Herman reveals how it
has always been informed by prevailing notions of gender. Identifying the contexts that periodically
brought the study of trauma to the fore, she describes how the first investigations of hysteria affirmed its
status as a female phenomenon whereas subsequent concern with “combat neurosis” reflected an invest-
ment in soldiers’ manly comportment. Although Herman’s contemporary examples are consciously more
inclusive, she also identifies the Vietnam War and the feminist movement as energizing and enabling
research into P.T.S.D. and domestic abuse, respectively. See Herman, Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath
of Violence—from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror (New York: HarperCollins, 1992).
2. Horvitz’s reading of Corregidora, which places it alongside the narrative of childhood sexual abuse in
Dorothy Allison’s Bastard Out of Carolina, centers on the sadomasochism that becomes incorporated into the
identities and desires of female survivors of sexual abuse. Although Horvitz’s formulation does place these
individual experiences of sexual trauma in the context of race and class respectively, it fails to adequately
address the specific question of slavery’s legacy and the traumatic repetition that transmits it from generation
to generation.
3. Dubey, among others, draws on the cultural tradition of the blues to elaborate Ursa’s ability to preserve
and transform her matrilineal inheritance. Although Dubey emphasizes the role of Ursa’s “blues voice” in
Notes
420 AFRICAN AMERICAN REVIEW
allowing her to revise the narratives she has received, I am most interested here in the legacies of the past
that Ursa’s singing reproduces, which Dubey also acknowledges (“Gayl Jones” 264).
4. In her reading of Corregidora, Goldberg convincingly elaborates Ursa’s reproductive or “uterine”
sexuality, which after her hysterectomy precludes her possibility of clitoral pleasure in her sexual encounters
with Tad.
5. In the introduction to her volume, Caruth raises the contentious issue of holding individuals legally
responsible for abuse brought to light through recovered traumatic memory. Similarly, Dominick LaCapra
points to the difficulty of constructing a history of the Holocaust when the traumatic nature of survivors’
memories undermines the epistemological frameworks on which history depends. The challenges that
trauma’s uncontained past poses for legal and historical endeavors suggests important concerns that literary
engagements of trauma theory risk effacing. See LaCapra, Writing Trauma, Writing History (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins UP, 2001).
Caruth, Cathy. Introduction. Caruth, Trauma 3-12.
—-. Preface. Caruth, Trauma vii-ix.
—-, ed. Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1995.
Dubey, Madhu. Black Women Novelists and the Nationalist Aesthetic. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1994.
—-. “Gayl Jones and the Matrilineal Metaphor of Tradition.” Signs 20.2 (Winter 1995): 245-67.
duCille, Ann. “Phallus(ies) of Interpretation: Toward Engendering the Black Critical ‘I’.” Callaloo 16.3
(Summer 1993): 559-73.
Erikson, Kai. “Notes on Trauma and Community.” Caruth, Trauma 183-99.
Eyerman, Ron. Cultural Trauma: Slavery and the Formation of African American Identity. New York:
Cambridge UP, 2001.
Goldberg, Elizabeth Swanson. “Living the Legacy: Pain, Desire, and Narrative Time in Gayl Jones’
Corregidora.” Callaloo 26.2 (Spring 2003): 446-72.
Horvitz, Deborah. Literary Trauma: Sadism, Memory, and Sexual Violence in American Women’s Fiction.
Albany: SUNY P, 2000.
Jones, Gayl. Corregidora. Boston: Beacon, 1975.
Li, Stephanie. “Love and the Trauma of Resistance in Gayl Jones’s Corregidora.” Callaloo 29.1 (Winter
2006): 131-50.
Simon, Bruce. “Traumatic Repetition: Gayl Jones’s Corregidora.” Race Consciousness: African American
Studies for the New Century. Eds. Judith Jackson Fossett and Jeffrey A. Tucker. New York: New York
UP, 1997. 93-112.
van der Kolk, Bessel A., and Onno van der Hart. “The Intrusive Past: The Flexibility of Memory and the
Engraving of Trauma.” Caruth, Trauma 158-82.
Wallace, Maurice O. Constructing the Black Masculine: Identity and Ideality in African American Men’s
Literature and Culture, 1775-1995. Durham: Duke UP, 2002.
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