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Chapter 1

Ethnography and the New Negro Imagination

In 1925, after having won second prize in an Opportunity magazine contest for her short story “Drenched in Light,” the intrepid Zora Neale Hurston made her way from Eatonville, Florida, to the crowded streets of New York City in search, like so many other Southern migrants, of education and opportunity. Soon after her arrival in the city, she enrolled at Barnard College, where she studied anthropology with Franz Boas. It did not take long for Hurston to become a vital member of Harlem’s social and literary scene, even as she gained credentials as an anthropologist. In 1927, and again in 1934 after having been awarded a Guggenheim fellowship to study folklore, she took the education and cultural capital that she had accumulated in New York with her on her fieldwork in the South. She was intent on documenting the particular contributions of Southern Blacks to American society, but consequently, she found that the return to the South demanded that she negotiate the spaces—both real and rhetorical—between the familiar and the strange, the insides and the outside of a culture that she knew so well yet learned to value only once she moved away and saw it through the eyes of a stranger.

Hurston, like so many of her New Negro peers, would build a career at the borders of American interracial and cross-cultural encounters. Inventing the New Negro: Narrative, Culture, and Ethnography represents one attempt to examine the geographical locations identified by, and socially mediated gazes used by, Black intellectuals in the early decades of the twentieth century. These writers and artists adopted and adapted anthropology, folklore, and sociological discourses to name and create a cohesive, collective, and modern Black identity. I refer to the texts they produced as “sites of culture” in order to underscore the attempts of writers like Hurston to create counter-narratives to American society’s racist discourse on blackness by mapping African American culture across particular geographical spaces, while viewing it from their socially mediated “sights,” or perspectives.

For Hurston, making visible the process of collecting folklore and writing culture was the counter-narrative, the alternative to totalizing, simplistic, and dehumanizing representations of blackness found in so much of popular American culture. This is a project she will continue to develop in her second ethnography, Tell My Horse (1938), but even in Mules and Men (1935) she felt compelled to dissect the complicated work of collecting, transcribing, and translating cultures. She writes, for example:

Folk-lore is not as easy to collect as it sounds. The best source is where there are the least outside influences and these people, being usually under-privileged, are the shyest. They are the most reluctant at times to reveal that which the soul lives by. And the Negro, in spite of his open-faced laughter, his seeming acquiescence, is particularly evasive. You see we are a polite people and we do not say to our questioner, “Get out of here!” We smile and tell him or her something that satisfies the white person because, knowing so little about us, he doesn’t know what he is missing. The Indian resists curiosity by a stony silence. The Negro offers a feather-bed resistance. That is, we let the probe enter, but it never comes out. It gets smothered under a lot of laughter and pleasantries.

The theory behind our tactics: “The white man is always trying to know into somebody else’s business. All right, I’ll set something outside the door of my mind for him to play with and handle. He can read my writing but he sho’ can’t read my mind.”¹

Hurston’s shift from third-person (“they”) to first-person plural (“we”) takes place at the precise moment when the subject of evasiveness—the “featherbed of resistance”—arises. It underscores her duality as both the looker and a subject under scrutiny, as does her slippage from writing about listening to folktales, to writing about her audience reading her narrative. By linking her text so closely with a community that is never willing to completely expose itself to scrutiny, Hurston subtly challenges the assumption that one can attain complete, unmediated access to this culture by reading the ethnographic narrative. “He can read my writing but he sho’ can’t read my mind,” she insists and the reader wonders if the speaker is the informant or the ethnographer.

The answer, of course, is that Hurston is both native informant, by virtue of her racial identity and place of origin, and ethnographer, by virtue of her training. This duality, resulting in a subject I call the native ethnographer, is common to all New Negro writers who delved into anthropology and ethnography, even those not as intimately familiar with Southern culture and mores as Hurston. Thus, the focus of any critique of this body of literature is always, inescapably, on narrative, positionality, and the relation between the two. New Negro artists and writers looked to ethnography for strategies for representing their cultural identity and combating racist preconceptions at the same time that they maintained a firm grasp of themselves as culture-workers and creative individuals. Therefore, even as I foreground the influential role played by ethnography in African American artistic expression, I caution against ethnographic readings of literary texts that look for signs of authenticity and bind the narrative by expectations of the “real.” As Hurston’s commentary suggests, such expectations—even in supposedly straightforward ethnographies—are bound to be confounded.²

The Spy-Glass of Anthropology and the Black Modernist Gaze

By examining the New Negroes’ strategies for self-examination, I am suggesting a new way to think about their modernity. One aspect of New Negro modernity is the insistence on a way of seeing that dislocates ways of knowing especially visible in their literature’s engagement with anthropology. Their writing shows how a culture can be perceived in multiple, sometimes conflicting, ways, inviting, like Ludwig Wittgenstein’s duck-rabbit, the possibility of the “dawning of a [different] aspect” each time an object is encountered. Wittgenstein writes, “If you search in a figure (1) for another figure (2), and then you find it, you see (1) in a new way. Not only can you give a new kind of description of it, but noticing the second figure was a new visual experience.”³ New Negro literature is equally disorienting (or, more accurately, multiply oriented) in that its creators produce multiple, fluid, and dynamic portraits of African America, depictions that resist absolutist thinking about the other. Thus, even as they respond to and challenge stereotypical representations of African Americans as subhuman and inferior, they resist questions of truth and illusion, authenticity and falsity, and turn our attention to a redefinition of truth as multiply unfolding and composed of a constellation of interconnected concepts and experiences.

New Negroes were modernists because of their willingness to grapple with the uncertainty of knowing and to use this in self-reflection. In this way, Black modernism echoes the larger sense of instability and uncertainty in the face of multiple and rapid social change that characterized U.S. society in the interwar years. Although Houston Baker distinguishes Black modernist preoccupations from “high” modernist unease, common ground can be found in both groups’ narrative explorations of modern instability that center on the gaze.⁴ Baker identifies high modernist preoccupations as centering around a kind of “civilization and its discontents” that not only excludes the contributions of African American modernists but also situates Black people as the polar opposite of a “civilization” in decline and mourned for by Elliot, Joyce, Fitzgerald, and the rest. While I agree with his contention that Black modernists had concerns that differed from those of some of their Anglo-American peers, my point here is that they jumped right into the discursive fray and challenged on its own terms the colonizing gaze that would render them unspeakably and monstrously other.

One example of this modern and modernist unease has been examined by Mitchell Breitwieser.⁵ Breitwieser cites as evidence of the trauma brought about by shifting racial and social hierarchies various instances in which F. Scott Fitzgerald proposes and then rapidly shuts down the possibility of Negro subjectivity, figured through the image of a “fugitive” gaze (23). Fitzgerald describes one such incident when Nick and Gatsby, riding in Gatsby’s car, witness another vehicle: “As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.”⁶ Breitwieser offers a number of insightful observations about this scene, including the foreclosed possibility of cross-racial identification as the pair of socially ambitious, upwardly mobile White men pass by and then rebuff a group of equally ambitious African Americans whom they dismiss as upstarts. What I want to focus on here, however, is the significance he reads into the series of looks and counterlooks that pass between them. Breitwieser states:

Deprived of a look that supplied a way of being seen to which we have grown accustomed and with which we have merged ourselves, we are suddenly captured in another look that does not see us as we are—or rather, that does not see us as we wish to be seen, but sees instead what we have secretly feared to be the case about ourselves, squalid, peculiar attributes and motives over which dead love had urged us not to worry, but now, incited by this novel gaze, escape the restraint of a reassuring normality, insist upon themselves, itch at us. (19)

The gaze, from the perspective of Anglo-American modernism, is an attribute that connotes consciousness and the powers to reason, universalize, and objectify that which the viewer surveys. The modernist anxiety arises when Gatsby and Nick become aware of an other, presumed to lack these attributes, witnessing their activities. They experience something very similar to what W. E. B. Du Bois labeled double-consciousness, the awareness that another’s perception of one’s self differs radically from one’s own selfunderstanding. Nick and Gatsby immediately displace the anxiety and confusion that it generates by reasserting their dominance by objectifying the “Negroes,” invoking the minstrel image of rolling eyes, and equating them with food, capable of being consumed but never having the power or capacity to “consume” another.

While the Anglo-modernist gaze in this instance is characterized by its dislocation and anxious restoration of a previous sense of order, we see in New Negro ethnography and ethnography-inspired writing an engagement with modernity that insists on displacement and resists the reassertion of racial and social hierarchies exemplified by Gatsby and Nick’s colonizing looks. I do not mean to elide the differences between the modernist’s will to not see and modern anthropology’s establishment of a tradition of gazing on the other from a position of objectivity and with a commitment to ideas of cultural relativism. But what links these different ways of looking (one racist and one progressive) is the colonizing impulse to construct and contain through observation and narration. What I argue is that New Negro writers interrogate and ultimately critique the colonizing gaze on the racialized subject, intersecting and shifting the presuppositions of both literary modernism and modernist anthropology by making their narratives as much about epistemology as they are about objectivity.

In Mules and Men, Hurston never positions herself as an all-seeing and transcendent anthropologist. Instead her mentor, Franz Boas, suggests in his preface to this collection of folklore that she garners her authority from her likeness to her informants, who are assumed to be open to and available for examination. Hurston’s visibility in the narrative is reinforced by the dual roles she performed as both social scientist and raced individual. Boas validates this duality in the preface when he writes, “the great merit of Miss Hurston’s work [is] that she entered into the homely life of the southern Negro as one of them and was fully accepted as such by the companions of her childhood” (x). Boas expected that sharing racial and cultural traits with Eatonville’s inhabitants would facilitate Hurston’s identification with “the folk” and her participation in communal rituals, presumably making more “authentic” her representation of Black folk life. He also expected and assumed that she would maintain her objectivity and scientific detachment, another precondition of producing a cultural portrait that would be regarded as authentic.

Hurston seconds these assumptions in her introduction to the collection and then later undercuts them. She states, for example, “I didn’t go back there [to Eatonville] so that the home folks could make admiration over me because I had been up North to college and come back with a diploma and a Chevrolet. I knew they were not going to pay either one of these items too much mind. I was just Lucy Hurston’s daughter, Zora” (3). Nonetheless several chapters later, kinship ties prove useless when she has to explain away her difference, signified in one case by her “shiny gray Chevrolet,” by concocting a story about being a bootlegger (66). In other venues, Hurston’s accounts of her work’s reception suggest that this duality is in fact a double bind. One example can be found in an anecdote she recounts in her autobiography, Dust Tracks on a Road (1942), in a chapter devoted to research. In it, her patron requests that she entertain visitors with folktales and songs: “There she was sitting up there at the table over capon, caviar and gleaming silver, eager to hear every word on every phase of life on a saw-mill job. ‘I must tell the tales, sing the songs, do the dances, and repeat the raucous sayings and doings of the Negro farthest down.’”⁷ Hurston’s stature as social scientist diminishes—although esteem in her storytelling prowess may escalate—as she launches into a performance of race and culture designed to reaffirm the dominant culture’s sense of itself as superior. The chapter proceeds with tales of her misadventures in the field, and snatches of folktales and songs accumulated during her years spent studying the folk of Polk County, Florida (177–205). The image of Charlotte Osgood Mason enjoying capon and caviar as Hurston regales her with stories of chain gangs and knife fights offers an unsettling portrait of the native ethnographer assuming the guise of the native informant and distorting it to the point of ridiculousness. Hurston does not question or problematize this moment in the autobiography. Yet in her ethnographic texts, her physical, Western, gendered, intrusive body is insistently present in the field, and her equally problematic self is evident at home, forcing the reader to question at all times the autonomy and authenticity of the self being represented at any given moment. In the previous example, for instance, Hurston appears to perform for Mason an image expressly designed to meet the dominating patron’s desires for exotic entertainment.

Hurston was not unaware of the complexity of her situation. In fact, she is unique among her contemporaries in the extent to which she theorizes specularity, linking ways of seeing to ways of knowing, and calling into question absolutist claims to authenticity, truth, and meaning. She links perception and knowledge in her introduction to Mules and Men:

When I pitched headforemost into the world I landed in the crib of negroism. From the earliest rocking of my cradle, I had known about the capers Brer Rabbit is apt to cut and what the Squinch Owl says from the house top. But it was fitting me like a tight chemise. I couldn’t see it for wearing it. It was only when I was off in college, away from my native surroundings, that I could see myself like somebody else and stand off and look at my garment. Then I had to have the spy-glass of Anthropology to look through that. (3)

On one hand, Hurston narrates what Joanne Passaro has called “the epistemology of distance,” suggesting that social distance and greater degrees of “otherness” between ethnographer and informants are necessary to ensure the appropriate level of objectivity.⁸ Hurston makes clear her inability to appreciate and even see the distinctiveness of her culture until she acquires a geographical, educational, social, and perhaps emotional distance from her home. On the other hand, her notion of culture shifts from a description of it as a kind of material environment to one as a garment, something layered onto yet also difficult to separate from her physical being because it fits so “tightly.” The idea of culture as garment implicitly challenges the more commonly held belief that race and culture were synonymous. In its place, Hurston suggests that culture is something acquired through proximity to a particular environment; and she sets the stage for a consideration of the sophistication and beauty of African American culture that would contest widely held assumptions of racial inferiority. Living a culture, Hurston suggests, is a markedly different experience from seeing and thereby claiming to know it. During her Southern girlhood, she suggests, she lived Negro culture unreflexively. It took leaving that culture for her to recognize its unique attributes and its value. Anthropological methods provided Hurston with the tools with which to experience the double-consciousness that characterizes the modernist gaze-“see[ing] myself like somebody else”—and to experience that condition as self-awareness as opposed to the lack of self-knowledge that Du Bois ascribes to the African American’s doubled-consciousness in The Souls of Black Folk. And finally, Hurston inscribes Black communities’ orally conveyed tales and songs in order to allow them to present their own notions of social reality. Yet Hurston equates proximity, sight, and insight in a letter to Langston Hughes, dated March 8, 1928, in which she describes with excitement the success of her fieldwork: “I am getting inside of Negro art and lore. I am beginning to see really and when you join me I shall point things out and see if you see them as I do.”⁹ As in the previous example, seeing and knowing are virtually synonymous. But in contrast to her statements in Mules and Men, here Hurston stresses the importance of “getting inside” Negro culture in order to be able to see it clearly.

Not only does Hurston consistently equate looking and knowledge; she also links language and knowledge in her narratives. The John-Massa stories recorded in Mules and Men, for example, illustrate this point. John, described by Hurston as “the great human culture hero in Negro folk-lore,” is a trickster figure whose opposition to authority figures such as the master, God, and the Devil make him a cultural hero to the people who invented him (253). John, like Hurston, does not often make explicit his strategies of resistance, but he relies on duplicity and verbal dexterity to cover for his oppositional behaviors and consciousness. The John stories function as personal and collective allegories, resonating with the situations of African-descended peoples who transform displacement and disempowerment into a tenacious will to survive, and even thrive, in a hostile environment through sheer creativity and (self-) invention.

Described as “de first colored man what was brought to dis country,” who “doesn’t know nothin’ mo’ than you told him,” John, in one folktale, is taken by his master around the house and told fantastical names for the objects that fill it (85). The master tells him, for example, that the fireplace is a “flame Vaperator,” the stairs are his “jacob ladder,” and the bed is the “flowery-bed-of-ease,” and so on. The tale of an individual stripped of knowledge and language alludes to slavery and the erasure of an African cultural heritage. It reminds us, Robert Hemenway argues, “that whoever attempts to control language, the naming process, attempts to control our understanding of who we are, our definition of reality.”¹⁰ This allegory of language acquisition, power, and control takes a hairpin turn when John sets fire to the master’s barn and attempts to explain the sequence of events that have led to the disaster. First he speaks in sentences that string together the master’s neologisms with astonishing facility; second, the master is completely incapable of understanding him when the language game goes beyond the pointing and naming he has instigated; and lastly John drops the pretense and uses direct, plainspoken language that has a more immediate and forceful impact than the more rarified language of the master. This tale speaks to African Americans’ acquisition, mastery, and negotiation of foreign languages and cultures upon enslavement. It can also be read as a self-referential narrative that celebrates Hurston, the native ethnographer’s polyvocality, and her ability to slip between, around, and within multiple modes of narration.

Hurston’s ethnography enacts a paradoxical Black modernist gaze that looks at Black culture and looks back at the dominant culture with which the anthropologist is identified. Shamoon Zamir argues that W. E. B. Du Bois, another subject of this study, merits “a place in the history of American literary modernism … not because the work transcends the particulars of race. It deserves this kind of reassessment precisely because [they] can use the history of race in America as an entrance into issues of modernity.”¹¹ Like Du Bois (and Hurston), other ethnographically inclined New Negroes consistently questioned the ways and means of knowing. Their work may not often conform to the formalistic experimentalism of high modernism, but their immersion into the murky terrain of knowledge and knowledge production is an intrinsic part of the modernist project. Working with and through ethnographic conventions-indeed, by transforming ethnographic paradigms—these artists and intellectuals carve open spaces from which Black people’s experiences and desires seep out, refusing the social scientist and the larger society’s attempts at cultural acquisition, mastery, and containment.¹²

Encounters in the Field: Anthropological Methods and Literary Symbols

Ethnographic literature of the Harlem Renaissance shares many of the defining characteristics of ethnography, a genre that depends on a method, namely fieldwork, to produce a narrative that simultaneously invents and documents a culture. New Negro encounters with the ethnographic imagination resulted in, for example, literature that attends to the Black intellectual’s travel to, participation in, and observation of folk communities. Although most of the artists I focus on were closely identified with the Harlem Renaissance, it is important to note that their interest in ethnography, anthropology, and folklore took them to places outside of New York City, such as the rural South and the Caribbean, and that such locations played a central role in their creative work. The trope of travel to bounded, symbolic sites of Black culture (for example, the South and Haiti) is indebted to an ethnographic method, established by anthropologist Bronislaw Malinowski, which privileges the immersion of the participant-observer in the “field.”¹³ Sterling Brown, who, by virtue of his youth and residence in the South during the twenties, is least identified with the Harlem Renaissance, articulates the centrality of traveling to the South to his poetry in a 1974 interview in which he declared, “when they were down there [in Harlem] flirting with Carl Van Vechten, I was down south talking to Big Boy.”¹⁴ The point I want to make is that each of the writers examined in this book spent time down South (or in other culturally identified spaces) talking to their own trusted informants, and went on to incorporate those fieldwork-like journeys into their fiction, essays, anthologies, and theories of blackness.

New Negro ethnographic literature, produced after fieldwork and/or folklore collecting endeavors, was not exclusively ethnographic. While some of the texts I discuss were produced explicitly to describe the defining attributes of cultures perceived as exotic or primitive, others describe in fictional or nonfiction forms the contact between ethnographer-like observers and peoples indigenous to a location, and still other texts present themselves as nothing more than works of art (whether dance, fiction, or poetry) and only the works’ symbolism hold the signs of their ethnographic origins. Narratives of ethnographic encounters allowed Black intellectuals to explore “native” encounters not only with ethnographers but also with other figures who represent literate, dominant society. These representations offer their authors the chance to stage the complex dynamics between center and periphery in narratives that may feature not only anthropologists but also Black teachers, community leaders, and other members of the professional classes who often returned to and interacted with their communities as liminal figures, participant-observers who are modeled, at least in part, on the fieldworker so central to the ethnographic method.

This book is also about generic encounters between ethnography and other, primarily literary, genres and the cultural productions that emerge as a result. Ethnographic literature (a form related to but distinct from ethnography) is typically understood as conforming to the formal constraints of literary realism, offering empirical representations of a community’s social, economic, and political life.¹⁵ Without diminishing the intellectual and artistic merit of such works, I focus primarily on texts that are not explicitly ethnographic in intent, but that use ethnography to trouble or expand the conventional limits of particular artistic forms (such as Sterling Brown’s poetry and Katherine Dunham’s choreography), or that use literary form and conventions to problematize and render more complex the conceptual frames of ethnography (such as Hurston’s Tell My Horse and Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk). Many of these authors systematically wrote against the grain of ethnographic conventions that insisted on a “scientific” presentation of folkloric materials at the same time that they challenged literary conventions. Their work compels us to question equally what attributes of a narrative cause it to merit the labels, “ethnographic” or “literary” because these authors refused to be limited by convention or orthodoxy.

Hurston, for example, was thrilled at the possibility that literature and folklore could not only interact, but also intermingle. She wrote to Langston Hughes, for example, about her efforts to promote his poetry in the Florida communities to which she traveled:

In every town I hold 1 or 2 story-telling contests, and at each I begin by telling them who you are and all, then I read poems from “Fine Clothes.” Boy! They eat it up. Two or three of them are too subtle and they don’t get it … but the others they just eat up. You are being quoted in R. R. camps, phosphate mines, Turpentine stills, etc.… So you see they are making it so much a part of themselves they go to improvising on it.¹⁶

Hurston pushed the boundaries more than others in that she was able to imagine a world not only in which literate society developed the capacity to appreciate and appropriate folk communities, but also in which folk communities could appropriate and appreciate “mainstream” art and culture and use it to their own ends. While she represents an extreme in the array of authors I examine in this book, she is not unique because they all consider the fertile possibilities of creative and conceptual cross-fertilization between ethnography and other genres. For the most part, I restrict my focus primarily to figures that have produced a wide and deep narrative body on the multiple experiences of encountering ethnography, including narratives by the dancer-choreographer Katherine Dunham, who also wrote about the paradoxes and peculiarities of fieldwork.

Genres such as fiction and memoir may enable the kind of self-reflection that I view as a central and inherent element of this tradition. But I find equally compelling texts that combine ethnography with a range of other genres because generic hybridity is a mode of representation central to the Black modernist imagination. By juxtaposing radically different narratives within the same text, African American intellectuals developed a critical strategy for writing about the multiple factors that contributed to representations of “other” cultures. The hybrid narrative in and of itself is a theoretical site in which knowledge production can be queried and staged. Juxtaposing different modes of representation compels the reader to question how we know what we know. Zora Neale Hurston and W. E. B. Du Bois will be emblematic of this rhetorical stance because they, more than the other authors in this study, use different forms of address within the same texts to open up a space of critical inquiry about the social position of the knower.¹⁷

In Inventing the New Negro, I focus on the art and/or ethnographies produced by Katherine Dunham, Zora Neale Hurston, W. E. B. Du Bois, James Weldon Johnson, and Sterling Brown. The ethnographic novel has traditionally held an appeal for marginalized individuals, habitually excluded from academic positions and seeking a wider audience for their work; and ethnography has always been influenced by literature.¹⁸ By focusing on these individuals, I am able to examine the processes by which artists and intellectuals used ethnography to self-reflexively assume the roles of translators and explicators of African American and African Diasporic folk cultures to Western audiences.

A large number of Renaissance-era writers, because of the movement’s focus on cross-cultural translation, saw in ethnography, which entered its “classical period” at the turn of the twentieth century, both a mode that facilitated this representational endeavor and a discursive framework that brought into relief the vexed interplay between dominant and marginalized groups.¹⁹ New Negro writers provide complex portraits of ethnography as instrument of colonialism and heroic venture.²⁰ On the one hand, they seized hold of ethnography’s claim to be able to translate seemingly incomprehensible actions into “meaningful” behavior.²¹ On the other hand, all of these writers, to varying degrees, recognized the epistemological constraints of an academic discipline rooted, as anthropology was, in conditions of colonial conquest and domination.

Du Bois, Johnson, Brown, Dunham, and Hurston wrote during a time when White Americans’ fascination with African and African-derived cultures provided a receptive climate and ready audience for the work of writers and ethnographers who documented and explicated the language, culture, religion, and philosophy of “primitive” Black cultures.²² They did so at a point when anthropologists began to rework the discipline, institutionalizing and encoding its methods and procedures so as to distance itself from a previous generation who, as David Levering Lewis notes, “located Negroes somewhere on the frontier between the great apes and hominids” and provided the ideological rationale for racial subjugation.²³ Black intellectuals found that appropriating the authority of science in the service of battling these stereotypical notions was far from simple. In fact, those who worked overtly as folklorists and ethnographers had to repeatedly assert their suitability for the job. Du Bois struggled, for example, to find a professional placement that matched the prestige of his academic training and impressiveness of his accomplishments. And Hurston repeatedly stressed that her work was scientifically sound, not only to satisfy her own ambitions but also to answer the doubts of her professors, mentors, and grant administrators, who often expressed concern that she lacked the discipline to succeed as an anthropologist.²⁴

Although these writers worked in a number of genres and fields outside of the social sciences, including dance, education, and politics, they used ethnography in some of their most important works of fiction and nonfiction because it provided a clear, powerful, and socially accepted language with which to observe and document a folk culture that many Americans were convinced was populated by dark and primitive others. As W. E. B. Du Bois writes in “Of the Quest of the Golden Fleece,” one of the chapters focusing on Dougherty County, Georgia, in The Souls of Black Folk, “And yet how little we really know of these millions, of their daily lives and longings, of their homely joys and sorrows, of their real shortcomings and the meaning of their crimes! All this we can only learn by intimate contact with the masses, and not by wholesale arguments covering millions separate in time and space, and differing widely in training and culture.”²⁵

In his biography of Du Bois, Lewis notes that the culture and institutions of the rural South “were as mysterious to most early twentieth-century readers as Livingstone’s Africa” (285). So Du Bois is prominent among the many African American writers who assumed the responsibility of explicating a culture and landscape viewed by their audience as mysterious, foreign, exotic, or strange. These efforts to affirm the value of African American culture took place within a climate in which perceptions of racial difference were intertwined with assumptions of White racial superiority and Black inferiority and that saw little significance in class or regional differences among African Americans. The social consequences of the migration of thousands of Blacks from the rural South to New York City between 1894 and 1915 made such biases all the more acute, fueling the efforts of Black intellectuals, anthropologist Franz Boas, and other racially progressive individuals to develop a persuasive, scientific, and activist response to the totalizing and absolutist discourses of race and racism.²⁶

Du Bois’s image of the Black intellectual lifting the veil and moving back and forth across a racial divide is useful in imagining what most hoped to achieve in their representations of poor and working-class Black cultures to White America. It provides a visual analogue to the ethnographic project, which emphasized, particularly after the 1920s and 1930s, the movement between cultures. In the 1920s, ethnographers were increasingly expected to employ their skills as “trained onlooker[s]” to record and explain the “characteristic behaviors” and rituals of a particular group (Clifford 31). This purportedly objective perspective carried far more weight for readers of ethnographic accounts than did the views of indigenous people on their own lives, much less their opinions about “first world” nations. The materiality of the veil indicates the acceptance of the notion that Black and White societies were clearly distinct from each other, and could be contained and framed by the ethnographer’s gaze. Du Bois’s shifting position behind, above, and across the veil signifies his ability to see both Black and White worlds with an insight that is unique to the Black subject, and perhaps even more presciently, to the Black or native ethnographer. The veil can function as a metaphor for the native ethnographers’ privileged perspective, but their doubled-consciousness also offered them the ideal vantage point from which to survey, critique, and complicate the terms used to categorize humans and the societies they lived in.

Even as New Negro intellectuals appropriated new anthropological theories of race and culture to further their anti-racist agendas, they often revealed a wariness of and confrontation with the discipline’s own absolutist assumptions. They recognized, for example, that scientific detachment could be not only the root of authority for the marginalized subject but also a source of conflict because the scientific imperative encouraged a separation between ethnographers and the subjects of their study.²⁷ Their narratives illustrate the inherent tensions in the notion that “the scientific position of speech is that of an observer fixed on the edge of a space, looking in and/or down upon what is other.”²⁸ Contemporary theorists and cultural critics have recognized that empiricism can result in epistemic violence because “in trying to become ‘objective,’ Western culture made ‘objects of things and people when it distanced itself from them, thereby losing ‘touch’ with them.” “This dichotomy,” Gloria Anzaldua has argued, “is the root of all violence.”²⁹ New Negro intellectuals may have adopted and adapted anthropology to challenge the dichotomy of White humanity and non-Whites’ presumed subhumanity, but they found the discipline lacking because of its continued reification of a Western subject/non-Western object dichotomy under a different guise.³⁰ They saw literature and art as performing the same work as anthropology, adding rhetorical fuel to the fire of rehabilitating the image of Blacks; nonetheless, their engagement with the social sciences was not uncritical and even as they applied social science methods and theories, they continued to identify and challenge practices—including their own—that risked maintaining the subordination of Black peoples.

The paradoxes, ironies, conflicts, and tensions experienced by native ethnographers of the Harlem Renaissance are typical for anthropologists who share the same identities as the subjects of their study. Kath Weston employs the term “virtual anthropologist” to describe such individuals. Weston argues that academia continues to presume the virtual anthropologist’s familiarity and identification with the cultural, racial, and gendered others upon which anthropology is predicated, rendering them incapable of assuming the full authority of the scientist who is imagined as white and male in his “ideal” form.³¹ She argues that despite this supposition, the virtual anthropologist offers a subject position that problematizes and even collapses the subject/object dichotomy on which conventional ethnographies rely by continually questioning the terms that are used to define her.³² Certainly, this questioning stance can be discerned in the work of these first- and second- generation modern ethnographers whose works are characterized by a dialectical exchange between themselves and the communities they enter, and their queries into the tensions and contradictions between their rhetoric and actions. The deconstruction of binaristic logic, we will see, is a central aim of many of these texts. Rational/irrational, civilized/primitive, modern/traditional, and cosmopolitan/tribal are all oppositions that these writers investigate for their racial, cultural, and even political significance.

The difference between the native ethnographers’ relatively privileged social positions and the subjugation experienced by so many of the “folk” they set out to celebrate could be as much of a source of unease as was their status in the view of the dominant culture. Ethnographic discourse may have had its rhetorical place, but it also had its pitfalls because it emphasized the Black intellectual’s position of superiority and detachment in relation to people who suffered the same political disenfranchisement as they and to whom they thus felt politically and culturally allied. African American documenters of Black culture were in the position to demonstrate both detachment from the culture and an authentic identification with it. A shared racial identity provided them with easier access to their subjects, and gave them an affinity with the experiences and feelings of those they observed, apparently allowing them to render folk culture more realistically and truthfully to their audience. At the same time, class, regional, and national differences could result in mutual incomprehension and distrust. Detached observation pushed and pulled against racial, political, and cultural solidarity in much of their writing, and the native ethnographer’s simultaneous position as both outsider and insider to Black cultures imbue the texts with a strong measure of self-consciousness, ambivalence, and irony.

Anthropologist James Clifford calls participant-observation “shorthand for a continuous tacking between the ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ of events: on the one hand grasping the sense of specific occurrences and gestures empathetically, on the other stepping back to situate these meanings in wider contexts” (34). This stance, which he deems inevitably ironic, proved both cumbersome and enabling for the writers I examine in this study. They shuttle continually between the inside and outside of the cultures they observed. Their resistance to an ethnographic authority based solely on scientific detachment and an absolute assurance of the boundaries between the observer and the observed anticipates poststructuralist critiques of such anthropological conventions, making these individuals—who are to this day frequently dismissed as amateur or failed anthropologists—innovators in the field.³³

The ethnography—produced explicitly by Hurston, Dunham, and Du Bois and implicitly by Johnson and Brown-which is characterized by its blurring of inside and outside and its writer’s mobile subject position, has found fuller articulation in the work of contemporary theorists such as George Marcus and James Clifford. Their works’ openness to confronting the politics and poetics of representation anticipates the postmodern era’s “crisis of representation.”³⁴ The native ethnographer privileged the blurring of boundaries between social categories and challenged the belief that one could possess absolute knowledge of a world tenuously holding onto its sense of internal order and meaning. While the writers I examine found the presence of chaos and excess unsettling, they also implicitly recognized such epistemological instability as inevitable conditions of the modern world.

In this chapter, I have argued for the literary and discursive innovation made possible by the New Negro encounter with the social sciences. In the second chapter, I explore the historical and disciplinary conditions from which this literary school emerged. The reliance of U.S. racial discourse on sociological and anthropological narratives, and the racially progressive interventions made by disciplinary forefathers, Boas and Du Bois, all prove pivotal to understanding the choices made and challenges faced by New Negro intellectuals.

In the third chapter, I interrogate the ethnographic distance and simultaneous closeness with the subject that Renaissance figure struggled with in their art by focusing on W. E. B. Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk. In it I argue that if Du Bois’s image of the veil in The Souls of Black Folk is a potent figure for racial divisions and inequality, then the act of raising the veil signals the ethnographer’s skill in cross-cultural transit and translation. In taking on such a project, however, Du Bois struggles with binaries often employed to explain Black/White difference, including subject/object, high culture/low culture, and modernity/tradition—binaries that habitually place African Americans in the position of inferiority. Souls disrupts these binaries, however, through its author’s use of a liminal language to capture his liminal status as native ethnographer. Du Bois moves, in other words, between the detached, empirical language of sociology and the invested, emotional rhetoric of a subject who shares a bond with and the fate of his fellow African Americans. Du Bois’s situatedness, the ways in which he finds himself enmeshed between languages, communities, indeed even identities, enables him to interrogate the terms used to identify him.

Like liminality, hybridity is a central and focalizing concept in this chapter, for I argue that Du Bois employs a generic hybridity, merging different genres into a single and singular text, in order to explore different ways of viewing, and hence knowing, Black culture. For example, he uses fiction—the short story “Of the Coming of John”—to stage and theorize his ambivalence about the Negro intellectual’s relations with the folk he means to represent. This story’s presentation near the end of a series of sociological, philosophical, and autobiographical essays compels the reader to think anew about the relations between and locations of author and subjects, factors that inform the shaping of the narratives that precede the story. Ultimately, I argue that Du Bois is a central figure whose role in the intersection of Harlem Renaissance literature and anthropology has been overlooked and inadequately analyzed. Ethnography, the narrative mode and method shared by sociologists and anthropologists, proves the link between Du Bois and Boas. These two figures’ great influence can be seen in their combined work on cultural relativism and pluralism. But it is also Du Bois’s willingness to depart from social science conventions that made a mark on the next generation of authors.

That questioning is immediately evident in Chapter 4, which focuses on James Weldon Johnson’s use and critique of fieldwork as a model for the “talented tenth’s” engagement with folk communities. Johnson metaphorizes the protagonist’s travels through the South as a kind of anthropological exercise in participant-observation. He condemns the protagonist’s detached analysis of folk communities as indicative of his alienation and imperialistic motives, characteristics that disqualify him from assuming the category of race leader to which he aspires.

Chapter 5 demonstrates how another author uses fieldwork as a trope for the encounter between dominant and marginalized groups. My reading of Sterling Brown’s poetry situates it in relation to his statements vis-à-vis the differences between sociological narratives and true literature. Brown argued that literature transcends the sociological because of its capacity to convey characters’ humanity and individuality. Nonetheless, I insist on the importance of considering that the store of images he draws from is indebted at least in part to the ethnographic imagination and his folklore collecting expeditions. Brown explicitly and implicitly reinscribes the notion of the rural South as cultural center for Black America. He privileges the field, the South, as locus of African American culture. Yet he resists isolating Black culture in that location by emphasizing travel and migration, resisting the depiction of Black culture as static, pre-modern, and fixed in the Southern landscape. Brown’s blues poems, and the figure of the Southern road, meditate on the influences of place and travel in the production of African American culture.

The sixth and seventh chapters, on Katherine Dunham’s Island Possessed and Zora Neale Hurston’s Tell My Horse, respectively, move away from male writers’ depictions of Southern Black culture to female anthropologists’ analyses of Jamaican and Haitian cultures. As the gender shift alters the terms and implications of the ethnographer’s embodiment, so does the change from regional to international travel alter the meaning of the ethnographer’s “native” status. Hurston and Dunham’s texts fall more clearly than any other texts I discuss under the rubric of ethnography. Although neither narrative is typically considered part of the Harlem Renaissance canon (particularly Dunham’s memoir/ethnography which was published in 1969), both authors conducted their fieldwork in the mid-thirties at the tail end of the Renaissance period and were heavily influenced by and helped to inform modernist notions of cross-cultural translation. Both Hurston and Dunham wrote selfreflexive ethnographies that place the ethnographer and her colonialist enterprise under as much if not more scrutiny as the cultures that they observed. In this sense, their texts clear the space to interrogate how social science methods and discourse endow cultural patterns and social behaviors with meaning.

Dunham’s writing in the memoirist mode, one might argue, facilitates the kind of self-reflection that I view as a central element of this tradition. Although Hurston employs a strikingly different kind of narration, selfreflection proves to be a central element in her narrative as well. Typical readings of Tell My Horse diminish the significance of the travel narrative and social commentary that frame the Vodou ethnography because of its impressionistic, ethnocentric, and amateurish tone. I insist, however, that a reading of the “frame” is absolutely necessary because it deconstructs the ethnographic project through proximity. The text lays bare the yoking of imperialist and ethnographic ventures through its multiple modes of representation (travelogue, memoir, ethnography), opening the narrative and its author up to the reader’s scrutiny. It is, in other words, another example of the kind of generic hybridity that Du Bois employed in Souls and that underscores for readers the social position of the “knower.”

By turning to Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God in the eighth and final chapter, I investigate the diasporic relations in this text in relation to the center-periphery model of exchange presented by ethnography. In comparison to Tell My Horse, which heavily emphasizes transnational politics and imperialist encounters between Americans and Haitians, Their Eyes, written during Hurston’s stay in Haiti, minimizes colonizer-colonized dynamics and instead foregrounds the shared social and political concerns of African Diasporic communities (specifically Haiti, Harlem, and Eatonville). Their Eyes has typically been understood in local/regional terms, but I place it within a global context of African Diaspora writing.

In contrast to scholars who argue that the narrative’s turn to the rural South and to the Caribbean displaces African Americans’ increasing movement to urban, Northern centers in the twenties, I argue that Hurston sought to explore through metaphor and symbolism the social and political concerns of African Americans in the North, South, and throughout the Caribbean. In other words, where some might argue that Hurston was stuck in the proverbial village at precisely the moment when significant numbers of African Americans were striking out for the city, I counter with the notion that Hurston found in the village many of the same conflicts, desires, and aspirations as her more urban-identified peers around the Diaspora. By symbolically associating her protagonist, Janie, with the Haitian lwa (goddess) Ezili, Hurston was able to explore those elements that enabled or hindered a collective self-expression and self-determination, the very characteristics that Alain Locke identified with the modern, urban New Negro.³⁵ Haitian Vodou provided Hurston with the ideal vehicle to voice African Diasporic peoples’ (especially women’s) views on their social status and experiences, demonstrating that “primitive” peoples and their traditions had something to say about the modern world.

Renaissance writers accepted social science discourse, assuming a stance in their fiction, memoirs, and ethnographies that questions an intellectual legacy of objectifying cultural and racial others in ways that are both indebted to the disciplines of sociology and anthropology and that break with the disciplines’ methods of writing culture. For example, while modern anthropologists were trained to guard against their own subjective interpretations of other cultures by immersing themselves in the subject’s milieu through participant-observation fieldwork, the New Negro writers I investigate represent their encounters in the “field” as full of ambivalence and conflict. In other words, they depict fieldwork as a power-inflected site of social conflict and negotiation as opposed to a setting in which to view “primitive” cultures in their natural settings. Where Franz Boas recognized that the social sciences could be used to critique and radically rethink the status quo, the African American writers I discuss wrote into their narratives their perception that the ethnographic endeavor could also reflect rather than transcend the status quo. Their writing and reflections reveal their awareness of the social and political reform that could be achieved through the practice of a progressive anthropology, what Walter Jackson calls an “applied anthropology.”³⁶ Yet they also reveal their awareness of ethnography’s inherently political nature, casting doubt on the orthodoxy of their time, which contended that anthropology could and should be a “politically neutral quest for objective knowledge and truth about the human condition.”³⁷

A paradigmatic example of how this neutrality was maintained can be seen in the juxtaposition of Bronislaw Malinowski’s ethnography Argonauts of the Western Pacific, published in 1922, which according to James Clifford creates “the fashioned wholes of a self and of a culture,”³⁸ and his diaries published in 1967, which take advantage of the genre’s “tendency toward selfscrutiny” to reflect on his self-doubt and sexual fantasies about and exasperation with the inhabitants of the Trobriand Islands, whom he viewed as brutes.³⁹ The important point here is that Malinowski considered it an imperative to keep private reflection and interpersonal conflict from his ethnographic depiction because to meld the two would disrupt his representation of the culture (and his relationship to it) as whole. In their overtly ethnographic narratives, New Negro ethnographers/writers move habitually between introspection and representation of the other, between subjective analysis and clinical detachment.⁴⁰ In doing so, they highlight the possibility of scientific objectivity to slip into objectification, anticipating by decades the kinds of questions about knowledge production being asked by current anthropologists. In critiquing the ethnographic framework within which they worked, they confront the classist, racist, and cultural biases of the dominant society and challenge their readers to imagine a different set of relations between the powerful and the oppressed.