Thinking about Sound: the Auditory and Tactile in "Kissed by Lightning"

American Quarterly's latest issue considers the idea of sound in American Studies. A thick and groundbreaking issue, the contributors open up a previously marginalized arena of American Studies to make us all think and discourse on the nature of sound and its relevance to American culture. With the Native American Film & Performance Forum now underway with a showing of Shelley Niro's Kissed by Lightning, I found myself considering the auditory features of the film. Below is an excerpt of my response to the film:

Shelley Niro’s Kissed By Lightning explores the relationship between the tactile and auditory. Three central themes provide the foundation for the tactile: Mavis cannot touch her dead husband Jesse, though he constitutes her memories throughout the film; her paintings represent the product of her hands –with texture, life, and color, her art can be touched; finally, there is Mavis’ physical-emotional relationship with Bug which stabilizes the narrative. But with  each theme the viewer relies on music to weave the plot together as the film cuts between memories of Jesse, Hyenwatha, and the Mohawk peoples of the past. Mavis’ memories of Jesse would be diminished without the sharp sounds of the violin to link the two characters; indeed it is sound that evokes her feelings of sadness and grief. The paintings function in the same way: while beautiful and a clear illustration of Mavis’ skill, their ability to depict Mohawk myths/legends only develops because of the use of “traditional” Mohawk music (e.g. drums, chanting). In other words, memory –that is, the past –needs music to connect the stories; music serves as a clear reminder that ‘the past’ is not simply visual, as viewers imagine it, but also auditory –one can hear the past. In fact, it seems Mavis can only see the past and paint it because she hears it in her husband’s stories and music.

The encounter between Mavis, Bug, and the African American singers lends itself to examination. Although a multicultural gathering, it reveals a set of assumptions on the part of the singers: there were “real” or “authentic” Mohawk people, that the Mohawk are “all gone,” and that contemporary Mohawk peoples know “traditional” Mohawk music and are always in touch with their musical “roots.” Interestingly, Mavis and Bug do little to correct any of these conceptions, except to say that they are indeed Mohawk. Their acknowledgement of identity comes with a brief silence that seemingly allows the thoughts to simmer with the singers: indigenous peoples are not “all gone.” But again it is music that defines the moment. After asking to hear a “traditional” Mohawk song, Mavis sings “Where is my Home?” a song written by Niro herself. The song defies stereotypes of chanting and it does not require drums or even dancing. Furthermore, it counteracts an older stereotype that white people make music, Native people make noise. Instead of connecting viewers to the past, as the camera focuses solely on Mavis, it highlights the transitory nature of the film, specifically the geographical and emotional transitions between Bug and Mavis. Other transitions take place as well: Zeus increasingly becomes more like his father, developing as a musician; Mavis’ paintings begin as images on canvas to legitimated “art” as they are displayed in a gallery, and the relationship between Josephine and Mavis. 

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As an aside, a huge thank you to all who showed up in support of our series of events. It bodes well for future events and, more generally, the future of indigenous discourse at UMF.

A Fine Ending to a Crazy Week

Sleep deprived and under the burden of allergies (or is it a sinus infection? we'll see...), I'm struggling to keep it all together and keep up with these posts. But it's nothing some Carole King and red wine can't cure, or home-made squash soup (oh the wonders of being home for the weekend!). In class on Thursday Gustavo told us he is editing a book, teaching two classes, directing six independent studies, practicing his own music, and then I lost track. How do these professors manage it all? I know sleep deprivation must be involved, but have they also find a hole in the space-time continuum that allows them to get all their work done. I don't feel lazy per se, but I wonder whether they ever feel like their drowning in work the way I do, as if they're never caught up.

The last work I read this week came by chance; returning Gary Snyder's Turtle Island to the library this morning, I decided to open it up (after a week of staring at it on my desk) while waiting for a paper to print. "What Happened Here Before" is magnificent and epic (not in scale, but in subject). Snyder tackles the long history of earth and condenses without missing or omitting. It left me renewed after Oroonoko, a tedious novella by Aphra Behn.

We're reading Yekl for Multicultural Literature and Film. It comes at an interesting time as Palestine seeks recognition from the UN. How ironic that they must have peace to be a full member, though the UN was created to help create peace, now they say Palestinians must do it themselves.

Last night I dined with some friends at a local restaurant, The Homestead, and we ended up sitting next to visiting writer Nikky Finney's table as she ate with some faculty and students. If you're a literature geek, you can appreciate sitting near a literary celebrity. I've yet to read too much of her work (if there is such a thing as too much), but the experience of being near greatness is always invigorating.

Alexie & Friends

Again, it's been too long. I keep promising to recommit myself, but the rhythm of the semester hasn't come together yet. Everything still feels choppy, though this is only our first full week. Myles and I are still working out the infamous balancing act of time together/time apart/time for work/time for fun. I never feel like I'm winning the battle, especially with the work overload, but we'll see.

I won't make excuses for not posting, but I can say, when it's hot and summer-like, I have no inspiration. I loathe the heat and humidity and lately my room feels something akin to a sweat lodge. When the sun is out, I just want to bask in it and revel in the fleeting vestiges of summer, usually with a glass of chardonnay and some crab meat and crackers. Autumn and winter give me time to contemplate, cooped-up in my haven, watching the snow fall on bare maples.

It always disappoints me when I can't seem to get through my fun reading book. Indeed, I haven't even chosen an author to become enamored with; last year it was Bukowski; the year before, Vonnegut, etc. I think a trip to the library is in order. I'm shying away from the Beats only because it's so trendy right now and I don't want to be mistaken for a hipster. But, I'm thinking Sontag or maybe Paglia. I've read some of their stuff but I need more!

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So, part of this blog is going to be devoted to textual analysis and reflection. I'm taking a class with Michael Johnson (whom I secretly call Mikey J, a trend that seems to be catching on for all those enamored with his soft tone and wonderful bits of insight): Multicultural Literature and Film. In addition to the course, we've added a second component that acts as an independent study. This week: Sherman Alexie's The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven.

Alexie creates tragic characters, trapped by their own histories and tells us firmly: rez life, Indian life is cyclical.  Alcoholism, escape from the rez, the fleeting moments of basketball heroism never change. The world of Thomas Builds-a-Fire and Victor Joseph is awkwardly post-assimilationist: the Indians are already infected with alcoholism, live in HUD homes, are intermittently employed, sometimes for the BIA. Simultaneously, these Spokane Indians are rebels: Victor's father protested the Vietnam war, heard Jimi Hendrix play "The Star-Spangled Banner" (at once patriotically American and dissident), and Thomas Builds-a-Fire criticizes the Tribal Council and gets convicted by the local BIA for his story-telling.

The point of view shifts throughout book too, but we're never quite there, wherever we are. Readers becomes Indians at a distance: witnesses to "crimes of an epic scale." The perspective torments us as we struggle to unravel the hyperbole from realism and slowly discover that we can't. History, wedded to tales of modern rez life, leaves characters indifferent to atrocity and agony, unable to move out their indigence. To change would make these Spokane Indians participants and protagonists in their own drama. But, if "to do is to be" (Sartre), then Victor and Thomas and Julian and all the other characters can't do, because then they might be, be real people, be Americans, be Indians, be defined and confined by identity. Alexie's stories grimly inform us: Native Americans must be stuck in the in-between.