Provincial: Adjective: of or concerning the regions outside the capital city of a country, especially when regarded as unsophisticated or narrow-minded.
“Toni Morrison is far too talented,” the critic professed, “to remain only a marvelous recorder of the black side of provincial American life.” I have long shared my complete adherence to the church of Toni Morrison, my devotion to her bending of language, and awe of her dedication to speak — and live — among the village which produced her. A village created over water, or perhaps on banks of distant lands, nevertheless resting between two bodies of water, on land saturated by blood. People, of various hues and different tongues (that, through time, became copious medley) whose living secured hers, and language predated her bend.
There, with her village, snuggled up by the fire — whether at kitchen tables, front porches, church pews — Morrison downloaded an ancestral language bend, making it entirely her own, and developed a canon all our own. While around the fire if you will, as grandfathers shared tales of times gone by and grandmothers’ stories of getting by today, there was a world of regard, unsaturated by the eyes of those who thought not to sit with their own village or create their own understanding. Though the villagers couldn’t make these people disappear, their stories could place them in a proper place: outside of view, beyond the perimeter, away from the true business of the village. From their place on the outside these watchers place their cupped hands to ears hoping to hear some of that blues and gospel, that glory on this side of heaven, things of the soul which kept an unfree people, free indeed.
In this place, the sight of remembrance, reverence, and honor, one bears, not only witness, but allegiance to the others around the fire; and, most importantly, the ones before who paid the price for the fire. Not only does the heat warm, heal and cleanse, but so do the stories, fables, and testimonies shared by those around. Things reworked, stories refurbished to scare new-age children, testimonies refrained to meet current saints where they are, and without mention by name, recast the villain, or outsiders, and deal with it accordingly. Morrison kept these stories. Letting them saturate soul, mediate within the marrow; her mind reworked and redeveloped this village literature, placed powerful flare under it, and sat with the people who gave her the language as they read it together.
Powerfully, she knew nothing needed to be explained to the villagers amongst her, for they had produced her and placed the language on her bones and tongue. Even still, when Sara Blackburn of The New York Times reviewed Sula (1973), she found the novel to be “frozen, stylized.” In her review, which I do not care to quote beyond what I have, Blackburn discredits the fervent urgency of Black womanhood and friendship as somehow a narrowing cavern for a great American writer such as Morrison to dwell amongst. There, of course, to Blackburn — and anyone of sense — was simply no denying the power of Morrison’s pen and sentence structure. Still, Black women, existing in complex and beautiful dichotomy, surrounded by a community that refused to cast them away, regardless of perceived transgression or offense, was incomprehensible for the critic. The village does not disregard or throw away, even as they harshly judge; even if the church had thought to close its doors, the God in all of them prevented this divorce. There is no denying that which comes from it: villagers are marked and tracked, no matter how far they try to stretch themselves beyond its fire.
So, it is no surprise, then, that Blackburn felt something was missing, for she, like many, are standing beyond the bounds of the fire, with cupped ears hoping to hear revelation. There is a desire, on behalf of those with cupped ears, brought by centuries of identity crisis, to understand these village people: how do they survive, what causes their dance, how can they withstand our horror? Perhaps, this explains why they need something, or everything, explained to them. It is almost as if one can hear, at the site of the fire, those screaming beyond its limits: “how did you make that fire? We thought we took everything from you.” Yet, these villagers, pleased by their own doings and happenings, concerned by the births and deaths of their own, are largely unfocused on those who cannot get in. Here, though, I find myself, with much consternation, processing what happens when they, with cupped hands, break through the veil and find themselves amid those villagers, people who they of course think they’re better than, but nevertheless want to devour and become.
At this place, in mixed company, the folklore begins to mutate. Things become masked and that which never needed to be explained, must now be, in order to include those who otherwise aren’t welcome, wanted, or respected. Villagers begin to do what they otherwise had not and become distracted; their gaze has shifted from their own happenings to this strange visitor. Could this meeting be fruitful? Perhaps. These outsiders, of course, bring an inheritance, but I still do not know what this does for the villagers, who though their stories are temporarily masked, remain largely unconcerned with incorporating that with this. Why would they want to? They see how desperate, depleted, and hungry for their own stories these people are; how thirsty they are to destroy the village, its people, and most importantly the fire because it outshines, out warms, out cooks anything beyond its limit.
Yet, inside the village there have always been those inhabitants willing to meet the outsider, to dwell with them, to pass on their language and story, in a hope of mutual understanding. There are always interpreters who translate their village language for outsiders, done earnestly, though to no avail. In practice, it eventually destroys the interpreter because they have nothing left, their fire depleted, disregarded, told it was less than even as they watched the outsider return beyond the fires limit, village language in tow. So long as there are outsiders like Blackburn clamoring to peek above the open gate, there are interpreters willing to bring them in; that person was never Toni Morrison.
There is an understanding between those who refuse to interpret or explain it — the secret to the fire staying lit, the music enduring, the dance triumphant — as it’s an almost masturbatory experience for those with cupped hands. “Oh yes, please retell to me what I did to you. Let me hear how I raped, pillaged, and tried to destroy you. I need to hear, again, how my power mutated to meet the moment. Recast to me what it feels like when I bind your flesh, imprison, redline, try and disregard you.” Explaining anything can be depleting and only empowers the outsiders with a language they didn’t wield and a fire that will never warm, heal, or cleanse them in the same way. Even still, I am very interested in interpreters; my interest is just that, a desire to observe and come to understand, not a need to cast a moral judgment on them. This is another important thing about the village: there must be trust and an imperturbable commitment to not abandon, or disregard; that is evil, and easy, much like the outsiders. Each villager feels the fire in different ways, hears the stories and views the witnesses in various factions; however, they are situated in the same village, carried by the same underlying testimony.
There are too many people inside the village who’ve heard these stories and felt the fire differently that have yet to tell their story. I am interested solely in them. We have an understanding. Shoot it straight, no need to cut corners or put language behind a facial expression. Forget trying to pretend; we are here, together. Everyone inside the village knows what the outsiders have done, the lengths their depravity and thirst for land and story, purpose, and our power stretches. This evil — the things done to the villagers — is less interesting than how they survived it; created, anyways; danced, anyways; lived, anyways. Again, this evil, like all else in the village, mustn’t be cast away. There is value inside each within the village, there must be: that is the only way to survive, and pass on what was created over water. There is no need for them to interpret this to one another, we understand.
These outsiders are there, waiting to be dealt with; and, I suppose, someone will need to deal with their despair. Alas, it isn’t anyone in the village. One mustn’t forget they’re there because they’ve forced themselves into every crevice, like mercury. Those sitting somewhere in, or near freedom, have no interest in proving what everyone already knows is viscerally true. These villagers are the moral inhabitants of the world; to believe otherwise is folly. Those 20 or 30 some odd Negros landed outside Jamestown, Virginia, whistled their solemn song back across the Atlantic to let others know: Prepare. These people are despicable, we must endure to eventually destroy.
For these reasons life beyond the village seems largely uninteresting to me: yes, it is the place of cataclysmic, unnatural power, but at what cost? Beneath, above, surrounding that power is destruction, evil, unthought dependency on mismemory, and total disregard for the open door: the invitation to come in, but only if one not only rids themselves of that power and understands: no one is explaining it to you. Villages have no choice but to have an open gate. Too many have left and entered the outside, a place that considers the intricate, exciting, interesting world of the village provincial. There is only one gate, however. Through the front. This exposure must be evaluated, questions must be asked: for what reasons have you been taught to hate yourself? How much did you explain? Did you give up the secret to the always lit fire? The outside, a place committed to a destructive power, corrupts, and distorts, thus the only way it survives is by creating distraction. Asking what is already known, though it is pretended otherwise. These answers only go to write books claiming them as fiction, as heresy, as if they don’t matter and didn’t happen. This distraction is the point and purpose.
In their watching and cupped ears, these outsiders can only assess superficial, anecdotal, information. Standing beyond village gates an outsider can count the number of villagers, perhaps document their distinctions; create sciences, anthropologies, and other modes for understanding how these villagers do what they do. However, in all this supposed study, anything of consequence is left unaddressed by the outsiders. Since they don’t understand the village language, it is said they do not have any. If they don’t understand village naming histories, or tradition, then a book is written that these are uncivilized people. Once villagers get wind of these falsehoods spreading around the outside, they can hardly believe it. Some, as to be expected, however, become simultaneously mournful, enraged, and distracted. Spending the rest of their lives, not focused on the village, but proving to the outsiders: yes, we do have a language; yes, we are civilized; yes, we are worth attention. Again, unnecessary depletion of energy, trying to prove what is already proven: the village is soul, and at its core, is fire.
Therefore, isn’t outside the provincial place? It is away from the center, away from the fire, its only way to get close is through violence, which is common, evil, normal. The seductive nature of hatred and violence can only extend so far. At any moment, one can lose the thirst and commit to different living. This seduction lures some villagers away from the fire, into the depths of outside, wherein they learn ways to hate village life: hate its complex simplicity, commitment to regard, its fervent capacity for understanding. There is freedom inside the village: you can exist. And, though there may be disdain or dislike, even horrifying and shameful things, that which also happens outside, there isn’t disregard. It is, again, easy to throw away those of variance, people who exist wholly as intended, but natural within the village construction.
After all, village origins predate commonality. The original inhibitors spoke various tongues, worshiped according to their own tradition, and only through their forced convergence between two oceans had they lit a mutual surviving fire, placed up the village walls and sat to tell testimony. These village aboriginals, if you will, could not afford to disregard their fellow villagers. They could, of course, loath one another or how they moved through the village, how they worshiped or loved. There was no choice, however, but to get on with one another; their survival is mutual, contractual: your survival ensures mine, and vice versa. The village is comfortingly intoxicating. Anyone on the outside surely wants in, but they aren’t willing to give up what truly keeps them out.
