When I was in graduate school, I took a literature course called “Black Subjectivity.” As a student looking for clear-cut answers and definitions, I found the course’s title (and some of the readings) puzzling: What is “subjectivity,” what does it mean to talk about Black subjectivity, and why don’t any authors seem to agree on the answers to these questions? Looking back, I think my confusion was kind of the point of the course.
T.S. (Thomas Sigismund) Stribling’s 1933 Pulitzer winner, The Store, was not included on the “Black Subjectivity” syllabus. And yet, I thought often of that course, and the concept of subjectivity as I was reading it. Generally speaking, the novel addresses the upheavals the town of Florence, Alabama, confronted in the years following the Civil War. It identifies many different kinds of transitions — social, political, economic, and otherwise — but the one that really stands out to me is the changing relationships between white and Black folks. The former group is comprised of landowners with dwindling fortunes, middle-class opportunists who think they can improve their station under the new social order, and poor, uneducated whites who resent doing the work enslaved Black people used to do. The Black characters reveal a generational divide between older folks (parents, grandparents) who remember slavery and worry about having their freedom, such as it is, revoked, and younger folks who want education and think they can hold white people accountable to laws and business contracts. Understandably, both groups of Black characters distrust the white characters and attempt to keep their distance from them.
The author tells much of his story through the perspective of Colonel Miltiades Vaiden, a scoundrel of a white man who worked as an overseer before the war, was a KKK leader after the war, and gets this book going by attempting to recover an old debt through what can only be described as an act of economic vigilantism. At first, I was so put-off by Vaiden’s character that I really wondered if I was going to be able to make it to the end of this book. The Black characters, the white female characters, Miltiades’s nephew Jerry — any one of these would have made a more sympathetic protagonist.
However, around page 300 (3/5ths of the way through), I decided that Miltiades was the perfect center for this book about the transforming South. Ultimately, Stribling wants to condemn the romantic myths that (still) spread about the pre-War South, where plantations are serene, beautiful economic engines and benevolent whites enslave Black laborers — but only because the Lord in his wisdom expected them to. In fact, I was frequently surprised by the author’s attention to what we today understand as “systems” or “structures” of racism, as when he discusses the different rules that apply to white and Black people who have broken the law. If even Miltiades, a former overseer and Klansman, who fought and lost a brother in the Civil War, can grow to understand that “there [is] a plane of life outside of personal service to white persons which Negroes might occupy,” then a 20th/21st century reader should be able to push even farther. Returning to that class I took on “Black Subjectivity,” a modern-day white reader should be able to make the leap from accepting that people of color are, well, people, to heeding the call to identify and dismantle structures that have historically limited their opportunities.
I ended up admiring the author and book more than I expected to. Its characters are not always sympathetic, but they are distinct and memorable, and like I have tried to say, the book’s messages about race and discrimination are surprisingly progressive for a 1930s Pulitzer winner. That said, I would stop short of issuing a glowing recommendation to other readers. If, like me, you are wanting to read all the prize winners, then yeah, you are obliged to work this one through. But there are lots of other books that address the same era, preach the same gospel, and do so with even more authority because they are written by authors of color. (Charles Chesnutt’s classic, The Marrow of Tradition, might be a place to start.) There are also other books that show more restraint with racist terminology (the N-word, etc.) and “dialect.” Though I think Stribling’s “heart is in the right place,” or whatever, I think his desire to shock the (white) reader with scenes of real/realist hatred and violence have as much potential to traumatize as educate.