Читать книгу Dixie Be Damned - Neal Shirley - Страница 5

This book is the product of several years of loving labor and two lifetimes’ worth of conversations and reflections. It was written in the spaces between. Between debates over interpretation and research; between assemblies, marches, and riots; between work shifts and too little sleep; between bouts of crisis and caring for those we love; between fights and healing; between prison visits and noise demos; between the world we live in and the anger we feel toward that world. We are neither professional authors or academics, nor professionals of any other kind; in all of these endeavors we take solace in the creative power of experimentation and the slowly acquired knowledge that comes with it. This book has been no different.

Dixie Be Damned is not a “people’s history” of the South or a compilation of politically removed academic articles about rebellions in the region. This is an experiment in reading and writing history from the perspective of two anarchists who grew up in this region. We wanted to see if sharing these stories would help illuminate why the past feels so inextricably present when we find ourselves in conflict with forces that would have us forget our histories.

While this project has been deeply researched, edited, and toiled over, it is anything but objective. Objectivity is a myth, designed to attract readers with the allure of a linear and clean narrative that presents itself as an authoritative and authentic past. This objectivity protects the status quo by presenting it as natural and inevitable. Yet it has not been easy for historians to craft a story of the South that accomplishes this task of sanitizing our past. When a storyteller’s reverence for the Old South and “southern heritage” cannot avoid the obvious stains of racism and misogyny, the story switches to a carefully crafted narrative of progress—one that omits any thread of liberatory violence or conflict that challenges the social peace.

We fully admit that we too are storytellers. We wrote this book not to present Truth to the reader but to highlight those moments of revolt in which we have found inspiration and courage, from which we draw the possibility for a different historical understanding, and consequently a different understanding of our current struggles. The selected narratives that emerge in these pages are not an attempt to paint the entire history of this vast region in one new, singular light—that would be a dogmatic, futile, and ultimately authoritarian project. It is always the danger of writing history that, in the inevitable selection of certain episodes that highlight a specific perspective, one risks imposing a vulgar and one-dimensional view of the world. We are open to the possibility that the “historical project” is an inherently authoritarian endeavor but remain committed to digesting and learning from the many revolts and struggles that have been hidden from us. We grow tired of reading the historical analyses of those whose desires differ so starkly from our own.

We are indeed partisans, but of revolt and freedom, not of a specific cause or group or ideology per se, and we have no intention of deifying the protagonists of this book. Like our comrades today, the rebels and insurrectionaries in these pages were not heroes or villains but humans, and while we choose to focus on their liberatory practices in this text, we would remind the reader that many of the people within held attitudes that we would now find contemptuous. In many of the struggles we discuss, from slave rebellions to wildcats and prison riots, terrible things were done by people with whom we would likely have claimed affinity. For us, the center of gravity in this text is not the character of the individuals involved but the moments of rebellion and rupture, and what we can learn from them.

Writing and Reading This Book

Each of this book’s seven chapters highlights a unique conflict or tension in a specific region and time period of the American South. These episodes were chosen both spontaneously and strategically. In part they represent to us a set of dynamics and responses to conditions that illuminate larger transitions in history that we found relevant to the anarchist project, as well as the broader desire to read history unconstrained from professionalism and political platforms. Mostly, though, these episodes were chosen because they found us. Our writing process was not solely spent researching in historical archives and online databases: this project was a part of our lives long before we began writing three years ago. The methodology of our research fought with the alchemy of our memories; we might come across a story in a book, but it is the ways in which it weaved itself with our own experience and knowledge of place that brought it to these pages.

We’d like to share one example of the kind of family stories that motivated this book: One of our great-great-great grandfathers, Hugh Sprinkle, was an established moonshiner and distributor before the Civil War in Yadkin County, North Carolina. When conscription came to the Yadkin Valley—the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains—Hugh Sprinkle, along with many other non-slaveholding small farmers, chose to go underground rather than fight for the Confederacy. They left their families, friends, and homes, and hoped to return at the end of the war. Hugh and his friends holed up together in the Deep Creek Quaker meeting house, a one-room log structure, before they moved on to the next safe house. Within days, they were tracked down by the Home Guard, who discovered their hiding spot after a local gave the deserters out. When the Guard came to apprehend them, a shootout ensued, at the end of which two of Sprinkle’s friends and two Guardsmen were dead. The Home Guard arrested Sprinkle and put him on trial for the shooting, at which point he was forced to choose between going to war for the Confederacy or hanging. Between two deaths, he chose the battlefield. Against all odds, and partly because he became a prisoner of war within his first year of service, he survived the war. He returned home in the summer of 1865 after being forced to pledge his allegiance to the Union and lived out the remainder of his life on their small farm in the valley. Our ancestors would continue to make shine, some above ground and some underground, facing repression and imprisonment into the early twentieth century.

This is not the story of a proud Confederate veteran returning to a wife and daughter who would go on to found a local chapter of the Daughters of the Confederacy; this is the brutal reality of our ancestors, in all their shame and pride. Hugh was lucky to survive and continue making whiskey with his family, savvily using their grain crops in a world before federal alcohol regulation. Maybe Hugh didn’t have the courage of the others who kept resisting after being captured. But a deeper reading of his capture at Harpers Ferry—the river town in West Virginia that John Brown’s raid attempted to seize a decade prior—by the Yankees can be interpreted as a desperate act of resistance, a statement that he would rather rot in a prisoner of war camp than continue to sacrifice on the battlefield for slavers and planters.

In this one moment, in the midst of a shootout between deserters and guards over 150 years ago, there are multiple overlapping conflicts that reveal historical forces whose legacies we are still reckoning with today: the development of whiteness as a subjectivity through the creation of a policing force, conflict over the legitimacy of violence to defend or refuse an identity, collaboration with the state to avoid punishment, and the enclosure of commons through the hunting down of individuals that refuse to integrate into the war to save slavery.

Beyond any one specific story, the memories and experiences that fueled this writing are diffuse and myriad: listening to our families tell the same stories while sifting through selections of our great aunt’s southern history books; walking into a tiny bookshop on Jekyll Island when we were covered in sand and mosquito bites; seeing yarrow in abandoned fields, wondering if they were descendants of the same flowers that were used to stop the bleeding of fugitives and deserters; watching from the windows of the restaurants where we work, as tobacco mills get refurbished into mixed-use lofts and tech start-ups, while we serve food to the architects of this “new” South; listening to the sound of catfish frying on a grandparent’s back porch; watching parents fight over their rival college football teams, with signs in the yard that say “a house divided”; our pain and confusion about a grandmother never talking about growing up in a segregated town because she was white and didn’t have to; falling asleep to the sound of gunshots on the battlelines of gentrification in our neighborhoods; defacing Confederate monuments; being made fun of for having too much or not enough of a southern accent; watching parents dance in drunken tears to “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” until two in the morning; hearing a mother say the words “General Sherman” with no less vitriol than had her grandmother; spending hours with elders who were in the riots and battles of the sixties, and hearing their wisdom of when to pick up the guns and when to put them down.

It is difficult to navigate between the double bind of myth and reality when passing down history. This is a particular problem for the historian or storyteller who wants to highlight the moments when actors and events appeared to shake and break with the common order of the day. We often hear elders talk about the savagery of the past while simultaneously alluding to the idea that “times were simpler” back then. In our work we have tried to reject the myth of a simple and peaceful past in order to see an image of the past in all its dangerous contours, and this practice has been informed by our own intimate relationship to this complicated history.

The remnants of these memories do not have to be mummified by nostalgia or fetishized as artifact. They are partial scabs constantly threatening to be torn open, and when they do, it us up to us as to how we handle the blood. These memories become alive when brought into a historical context. They are made richer through their contexts—through stories that challenge us to a deeper understanding of the world we live in and where we come from. We read them not simply so that we can know our conditions, but so that we can find strength when we need it most.

On this note, in our research it became clear that, if we wanted, it would be more than easy to add to the countless volumes of scholarship around the suffering of southerners—there are thousands of photos and stories of wrongdoing begging to see the light of day. But that is decidedly not our project. Instead we hoped to produce a text that breaks through the narrative of victimization that has characterized the typical southern history book, a text that conjures strength rather than pity.

Structure and Terminology

Each chapter is connected to the next by an interlude that “zooms out” to briefly summarize broader dynamics of struggle and development in the region. It is our hope that this pairing of a microscopic view on the actors and events with a more macroscopic perspective of the interludes will enable readers to connect the major transitions in time, terrain, resistance, and recuperation. We’ve also chosen footnotes over endnotes, so that the anecdotes and broader observations therein can provide useful context simultaneously with a reading of the main text.

Claiming to cover three hundred years of history in one book sounds brazen at best, arrogant at worst. We know it seems like a lot of time, but we also find ourselves in situations that make it feel like not much has really changed in these three hundred years. When Black, Brown, and white youth and families come together to protest the death of a young Latino teenager at the hands of the police, it is, broadly speaking, the same forces that repress these riots as did in the sixties, on the roads around the plantations, and on “the dividing line” between colonial Virginia and North Carolina. Rather than write a detached history of revolt in days gone by, we wanted to—however incompletely—demonstrate the direct connection between the struggles against slavery and plantation society of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with the street battles and prison riots of the twenty-first. Very popular books like Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow have thoroughly demonstrated this historical connection, but it is a connection typically drawn from the position of the victim rather than the deliberate insurrectionary. Within this framing—a centralization of the victim of history—readers are left without a deeper understanding of what could actually destroy the prison society we are ensnared in. There is no social-democratic light at the end of this tunnel. We have to dig ourselves out, and it will be messy, complicated, and violent.

We are undoubtedly writing against the grain of a traditional ethnographic history, while also learning how to navigate those archives and libraries where our history is locked up. Even so, the broader writing of this book was directly influenced by several strains of thought: Specifically, we’ve been influenced by the theoretical traditions of autonomous Marxism, postcolonial theory, communization theory, historical materialism, and insurrectionary anarchism. As we have borrowed terms and trends, we hope it is to better push an analysis that is neither overly optimistic about the redemptive power of the struggles of the past nor overly cynical about a totalitarian future. Some of our influences manifest subtly while, other times, we overtly use specific terminology, which we introduce below to help readers better situate those ideas before meeting them in the chapters.

On the Theory of Primitive Accumulation

In her seminal history Caliban and the Witch, Silvia Federici writes about the centuries of resistance to enclosures and empire and the witch-hunts that ensued across the Atlantic world. Her work is foundational for us in a few aspects, specifically in the way she reclaims the term primitive accumulation from the annals of orthodox Marxism.

Primitive accumulation is the term that Marx uses in Capital Vol. 1, to characterize the historical process upon which the development of capitalist relations was premised. It is a useful term, for it provides a common denominator through which we can conceptualize the changes that the advent of capitalism produced in economic and social relations. But its importance lies, above all, in the fact that “primitive accumulation” is treated by Marx as a foundational process, revealing the structural conditions for the existence of capitalist society. This enables us to read the past as something which survives into the present.1

Federici uses the theory of primitive accumulation to understand the vast array of processes that lead to the development of a capitalist society by highlighting the witch-hunts as a vital, often overlooked enclosure. Women were “disciplined” away from reproductive freedom and autonomy in their communities in order to force their transition to reproductive laborers for a burgeoning industrial society. Autonomous Marxists like Silvia Federici and Peter Linebaugh, alongside the tradition of Caribbean Marxists like Eric Williams and C.L.R. James, have insisted that slavery and colonialism across the Atlantic, from European colonizers and slave traders to planters in the Americas and industrial capitalists in Europe and the Northeast, all were part of enclosing and disciplining populations to accept and produce a new society based on a racialized and gendered division of labor.

This book also characterizes the forces of primitive accumulation in this way so as to contextualize a resistance to those forces that continues to the present. In viewing history as an ongoing process in conflict that survives into today, we attempt to weave together the ruptures that broke out in response to the changing political, economic, ecological, and social terrain. We believe, alongside the work of many autonomous Marxists who have written extensively on the subject, that there was not one discrete period of transition into a capitalist democracy, but that the entire maintenance of capital and empire relies on continually finding, exploiting, and destroying the commons. This is a process that continues today in the South—whether through resource extraction like coal and hydrofracking, the construction of penal colonies in resource deserts, or the continued enclosure of women’s access to reproductive freedom.

On Biopolitics, From the Spectacle of Lynching to Life Without Parole

Since the late-seventeenth century, when the first laws were passed in Virginia to differentiate the fugitive indentured Anglo from the fugitive enslaved African, each subsequent generation has been constituted through this legacy, with the intention of maintaining whiteness as a nonracialized, privileged identity. This has been written on the nonwhite body in numerous languages—of law and punishment, labor and discipline, science and reason, culture and taboo.

With regard to this racialized subjectivity and regimes of punishment, our writing is also influenced by historian and theorist Michel Foucault, who theorized the historical shift in the state’s tactics of control and punishment from the spectacle of public death to the later management of populations. He used the term “biopolitics” to distinguish between the regimes of death that characterized antiquity’s power (the slaveholder) to the contemporary regime of self-management and surveillance (the law-abiding citizen), where the state works from within the body of its subjects (biopower) amplifying the conditions of state and capital control accumulated by previous means.

Too often the haunting images of spectacular violence associated with southern history have brought with them the assumption that modern forms of control either do not work or even exist in the South. Anyone in this region who has visited a state prison, gone through public education, exerted self-control in front of a surveillance camera, or visited a museum dedicated to the Civil Rights era, however, has interacted with these mechanisms. Lest there be any confusion on this point: regardless of technological infrastructure, southerners today are no less constituted by evolving techniques of surveillance and management than metropolitan New Yorkers.

State and extralegal violence continue to reinforce the foundations of a racialized division of subjectivity, and should not be underestimated in their power to choose whose lives are literally disposable. The southern states contain the largest prison populations in the country; meaning that we live in a region that incarcerates the most Black men per capita in the world today. This turn toward the carceral state as a solution for economically “surplus” populations has its obvious roots in the histories of slavery and the early development of capitalism and the state.

Today we often see white, Black, and Brown liberals decry the property violence and self-defense tactics used by multiracial, disaffected youth who stand up when their peers are murdered by police. Liberals instead demand better education and job opportunities to keep youth safe from police and prisons. Those decriers forget that education and work are both the ancestors of prison and its logical descendants. Those who complain of the “school-to-prison pipeline,” for instance, forget that with regard to the invention of mass compulsory public education there has never been anything but a school-to-prison pipeline. In general, we hope that the history in these pages might make the totality of apparatuses that we face—school, nuclear family, prison, economy, state, race, gender—a little more apparent.

On Messianic Time and the Insurrectionary Rupture

Behind the curtain of much of the writing in this book is also the notion of “messianic time,” as used particularly in the later writings of Walter Benjamin. Our interpretation here is influenced by Benjamin’s political theology and philosophy of history. Writing much of this material during the Nazi takeover of Europe, and reflecting back bitterly on the failures of progressivism and Social Democracy to stem the tide of fascism, Benjamin’s “historical materialism” broke with both rational Marxism and Enlightenment history. The urgency of Benjamin’s writing on history and time is infectious and opaque, with the messiah referred to in the term “messianic” not as some higher force but as a precarious power we all possess or can conjure. For Benjamin, the revolutionary did not have to go through any series of transitions as a worker or self-conscious individual to revolt, and there was no waiting for the congruence of material conditions; every moment held the potential for the time of this world to end and another to interfere and begin. We invoke his historical theory not as scholars of his work but as comrades with shared enemies.

Messianic time can be seen as a window. It could appear as the window of escape for the deserter or fugitive, or the shattering of a window by youth in the streets, or the break of time that happens when women in factories decide they’re fed up and stop working. A “messianic cessation of happening” or “revolutionary chance” is any moment that bursts through to stop the time of work, social peace, and control.2 Every act of desertion, refusal, and attack in these histories, whether by individuals or groups, can be read as a moment when a slave becomes free, a worker stops reproducing herself as a worker, or a prisoner ceases to be an object of discipline.

The moment of refusal is the historical subject’s conscious coming to being. This is not to say that historical actors were not aware of their situations before rebelling, but that through the experience of breaking with the current of productive time, they found a possibility or experienced a moment of freedom that was worth the sacrifices it would take to break with their conditions. Anyone who has found their bodies in the physical tumult of revolt can understand this sense of temporal rupture, this idea that “time stops.” We use fluid concepts like the messianic moment or the revolutionary rupture to talk about the break of linear time that occurs during acts of refusal, sabotage, or transgression.

While it is safe to say that any term can become religious or ideological, it is our expressed desire to not overly reshape the already distorted figures of our past. This might be where we take our greatest liberties, in the spirit of historical materialism rather than ideology. We believe the subjects in this book made tiger leaps through history, not simply to secure a better future for themselves or their families, but for their ancestors whose memories were in danger. We, too, write for our ancestors—to redeem their past as our own, to hold a séance to invite them into our present terrain and help guide us to make our own ruptures. In particular this concept of messianic time appeals to us in opposition to the progressivism that suffocates so much of southern history, through distorting acts of resistance and delegitimizing conflictual narratives in order to align them within a vision of the future as a path of conciliatory and gradual reform.

This idea of a messianic break with time also points directly to the insurrectionary rupture sought by much of contemporary anarchist practice, and in particular to those individuals who refuse to wait for the correct “objective conditions” before acting. Just as a riot, land seizure, or occupation might be an opening move in an insurrectionary situation, an insurrection can in turn become an opening move in a larger revolutionary moment. Whether or not this happens, we see these opening moves, not as “necessary phases” that subjects must pass through but as breaks or ruptures with the existent world, as fundamentally changing experiences that seek to render impossible the return to normality.

On the Illusion of Peace and Other Enemies

Counterposed with this insurrectionary rupture is social peace, a vague term that we sometimes use in this book to describe the assemblage of conditions and dynamics that exist to maintain the illusion of a functioning, democratic, or egalitarian society. In a southern context this has roots in the mythology of the peaceful plantation, commune-like, where slaves and masters worked together to create wealth for the nascent nation. In the riots of the 1960s, it was the perversion of an imagined peaceful transition of Civil Rights integration, social welfare, and equality that was the real threat that rioters posed for both the newly constituted Left and national security. The idea that a discrete granting of rights was not enough to satiate the demands of urban youth or women in prison was infuriating to those organizations and institutions that sought to route others’ rage into their own gain. These are the defenders of what we call the social peace.

Related to our use of this term is our use of “the Left,” an admittedly overbroad and fluid term referring to the set of actors, institutions, and political interests that seek to preserve and guide the structures of capital and state toward their own ends, usually through the reform of a system in order to incorporate their own political base. In this sense the Left is characterized as the loyal opposition, those organizations and leaders that aim to “politicize” or “institutionalize” revolt into manageable and controllable forms, so that such revolt can be digested and spit back out as various reforms or cosmetic changes. This nexus of institutions has played a particular role in the South, ideologically pairing technological and industrial modernization with democratization and civil rights.

We understand that we’re using this term in a way that may be unfamiliar to many readers.3 We also acknowledge that “the Left” is by no means monolithic or homogenous. It has changed throughout history as its strategies and structure have shifted from the parties and organizations of Reconstruction and Radical Republicanism to the trade union management of the mid-twentieth century to the nonprofits and horizontal networks of the twenty-first. Likewise, this set of institutions and interests has, at any given point in time, reflected a wide degree of ideological difference and internal conflict, presenting itself as revolutionary and reformist, nationalist and internationalist in scope. Nevertheless, certain identifiable patterns exist throughout, from an emphasis on modernity, rights, progress, and industry on the one hand to a reliance on bureaucracies, political parties, civil society, legalized protest, and the federal government on the other. In all its forms the Left—whether that of Quaker activists, Democratic politicians, Communist Party members, trade union militants, or twenty-first-century community organizers—continues to play a crucial role in containing and managing revolt. Even the most “revolutionary” of these forces have always sought to position themselves as mediators and representatives of the dispossessed, turning angry mobs into controllable constituencies and numbing our capacities for self-organization and social conflict. As such we draw attention to this Left as an obstacle and an enemy, something entirely distinct from the kinds of rebellion and struggle we wish to see. Not surprisingly, the Left has also tended to present the history of this region in certain ways, which we hope to identify and depart from in this book.

Toward a History of the Present

To our knowledge, none of the protagonists in this book called themselves anarchists; few in fact subscribed explicitly to any known political label. Most of them, particularly from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries, left behind no words of their own, leaving the record of their deeds written only in the language of their enemies. As authors, this has sometimes left us in a bind, as we seek to present the actions in as honest a light as possible but find it difficult or impossible to present the rebels in their own words. We think it is just as profane and anachronistic to assume these protagonists were fighting for anarchy as for an industrial democracy, and we have no desire to “claim the dead” for our own. This is not a history of anarchists, but rather a history of revolt written by anarchists, who see in the complicated and contradictory dynamics of struggle multiple threads of antiauthoritarian possibility.

If we write history, we write it with confidence in the autonomy of those who rebelled, with the assertion that these people acted on their own behalf, with means they knew and innovated through need, and with their own ways of finding joy and fighting for freedom in an unlivable world. There is no single narrative that can encapsulate rebellion against oppression, no single revolutionary subject that can seize the reins of history to deliver us from our misery, no politician that can save us from this hell. There are many other stories of revolt yet to be liberated from archives or recirculated from a grandmother’s mouth, but we can only find them if we stop needing them to be legitimized by anyone other than ourselves.

In that spirit, this project started a long time ago as a single ’zine, cautiously testing the waters of research and historical writing. Since then it has grown and evolved as a collaborative project with more ideas and curiosity than resources and time, but it has been a joy all the while. With every new experience gained in the streets and meetings and occupied spaces of the last few years, we’ve been forced to reflect anew on the material herein. As such, Dixie Be Damned aspires to be a history of the present. We hope that this book will resonate with others both of and beyond this region, perhaps inspire similar efforts by comrades in other parts of the world, and above all contribute in some small way to struggles here in our homeland. We are part of a long arc of revolt and defiance in this land that we love—let’s fight as fiercely as if our ancestors were watching over us, guiding our hands and our hearts forward. They are.

A Home in Your Heart

Is a Weapon in Your Hand.

s. & n.

Endnotes

1 Silvia Federici, Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body, and Primitive Accumulation (Brooklyn, NY: Autonomedia, 2004), 12 (our italics).

2 Walter Benjamin, “Theses on the Philosophy of History” in Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt (New York: Schocken Books, 1969): 263.

3 We recognize that until recently most antiauthoritarians made some approximation of the distinctions we are making simply through the use of adjectives—the authoritarian Left, the liberal Left, the bureaucratic Left—while still considering themselves to be a part of some larger Left. Along with many others from different post-Left and insurrectionary circles, we are choosing to abandon this language as a whole because, to us, it reaffirms a position within the binary of state politics in which our modes of struggle remain legible to and representative of the state we’re trying to destroy.