"White Liberalism" in Invisible Man

Though our discussion of the "white liberal" phenomenon has mostly occurred during the Native Son section of this class, I feel that Invisible Man offers an even more thought-provoking and nuanced spin on the archetype. Mary and Jan might have SOME good intentions, but are crippled by their ignorance of racial barriers with the oppressed, fearful Bigger Thomas, and their general self-indulgent attitudes for acting all buddy-buddy with a black person. In Invisible Man, the narrator mostly explores the dynamic while working with white people, whether it be chauffeuring Mr, Norton, his discussion with Mr. Emerson, or the passive-aggressive revisionist racism of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood especially goes to show what happens when the tenets of white liberalism are formed into a constructed ideology, which has a sound concluding vision but very poor methods of interracial interaction that result in racist erasure.

Norton's ignorance is from the upper-class educator perspective; he is shielded from the realities of the black world around his campus and is utterly shocked to find the surrounding areas of his campus different from what he promotes inside. Like the others, he thinks himself a friend of the "black people", yet comes across with more of a savior complex than a true ally towards the civil rights of another race. "I felt even as a young man that your people were somehow closely connected with my destiny" he explains to the narrator, on the topic of his educational interest (41). Lines like "Yes, you are my fate, young man" are utterly patronizing and pressuring for the timid narrator, who simply wants to get this interaction over with before anything goes wrong (which is unsuccessful of course) (42). If Norton were a true believer in racial justice that had a good picture of what the African-American community needed, he would not refer to an uneducated black man as a "defective cog" (45), nor would he react so strongly and inappropriately to Trueblood's story. Norton is initially disgusted and appalled, not believing that a member of the race he tries to help could do something so "monstrous" (49). After he speaks with Trueblood and hears in grave detail what exactly went down, his action of giving him a hundred-dollar bill seems much less a gesture of help rather than an exchange for a tabloid commodity: compensation for a good shock. Perhaps his intentions are somewhat justified—after all, what would one do in that situation—yet his incredulity that something like this can happen shows just how unseeing Norton is of the big picture compared to his elevated self-worth for his “activism” in the black community.  

Emerson’s white liberalism is a bit less obvious and harmful to the narrator than the other two, but nonetheless definitely exists. Though at first Emerson seems to be speaking conversationally with the narrator, he feels the need to name drop the “Club Calamus”, a trendy Harlem rendezvous that Emerson clearly prides himself in going to, especially in front of a black guy. Like Stefon from SNL with self-congratulating racist undertones (“Harlem’s hottest club is…”). Later on, he also mentions his “friends are jazz musicians” and that he “knows the conditions” under which the narrator lives, which harken some serious Jan and Mary flashbacks about knowing the plight of the black man and what not (188). The true kicker of the conversation is when Emerson asks the narrator to “speak with utter frankness” towards him, in a fairly unnecessary and discomfiting tangent:

What I mean is, do you believe it possible for us, the two of us, to throw off the mask of custom and manners that insulate man from man, and converse in naked honesty and frankness?

Though Emerson wants to speak with the narrator on normal terms, the way to do so is not to make so painfully obvious your racial differences, but to keep speaking like a normal person. I found this to be one of the most cringe-worthy scenes in the whole book, because the narrator clearly wants to figure out this important message and move on, but Emerson hinders him with babble about being equals and forgetting race when it doesn’t need to be an issue at all! The message eventually gets through to the narrator, but not without some frustration with Emerson’s white liberal self-indulgence and pandering.

And of course, one cannot talk about uncomfortable race relations without referring to the Brotherhood at some point. The narrator’s time with the Brotherhood is so expansive that it’s hard to even pick which incidents to talk about. Their motives are initially hazy when the narrator is grabbed after his eviction speech for the seeming wrong reasons. The first scene in Brother Jack’s lair is loaded with aggressive white liberalism, such as the strong reaction to the narrator being asked to sing a spiritual. Without him getting a word in edgewise, Brother Jack goes nuclear on the drunkard for even suggesting that the narrator would sing a spiritual, and removes him from the premises. This ridiculous reaction to a fairly innocuous bit of racism and generalization shows Jack’s motives are not listening to the black community and incorporating them into his Brotherhood vision, but instead making blatantly obvious what he thinks is best for the race. Jack relentlessly tries to make members of the Brotherhood forget their differences, and having a black man sing a spiritual is out of that vision. The lady that approaches him afterwards relishes in resisting the temptation to hear him sing. “I would never ask one of our colored brothers to sing, even though I love to hear them. That would be a very backward thing.” (314). The narrator is completely puzzled by this, because after all, what is exactly wrong with asking a black person to sing? Sure, the guy that asked him was obviously out of line and thought of black people as jukeboxes, but her and Jack’s reactions are so uncalled for and demonstrate just how blind the white liberal ideology can be. The problem is the guy, not the fact that the narrator was asked to sing! However, the most harmful instances of the Brotherhood in this sense are with Brother Tarp’s leg chain and the death of Tod Clifton. Brother Wrestrum completely meddles with the narrator’s standing in the Brotherhood for receiving Brother Tarp’s leg chain. “I don’t think we ought to dramatize our differences” Wrestrum reasons for his outrage (392). Though it is clear that the narrator wants to keep it as a symbol for himself and the oppression he’s fighting against, Wrestrum exposes the true colors of the Brotherhood: racist revisionism and hiding the truth of history instead of utilizing it for social change. Wrestrum’s testament to the Brotherhood totally jeopardizes the narrator’s position, over such a completely petty circumstance. Finally, their treatment of Clifton’s death is nothing short of sickening. They call their youth organizer a “traitorous merchant of vile instruments of anti-Negro, anti-minority racist bigotry” for selling these stupid Sambo dolls for some cash, when he was gunned down by the police for not having a license (466)! Their real concern is dissociating themselves from anything that could hurt their organization, rather than tackling issues that matter (such as murder by racist police). This is white liberalism taken to its most harmful extent, trying to erase the race card from all given situations and project a different false reality, no matter how contradictory it may be to their original message.

The narrator ends up realizing this on his own later in the novel, and sums up this racist treatment he’s been facing from these white figures:

And now I looked around a corner of my mind and saw Jack and Norton and Emerson merge into one single white figure. They were very much the same, each attempting to force his picture of reality upon me and neither giving a hoot in hell for how things looked to me. I was simply a material, a natural resource to be used. I had switched from the arrogant absurdity of Norton and Emerson to that of Jack and the Brotherhood, and it all came out the same—except now I recognize my invisibility. (508)

The Vicious Cycle of Black Education as Portrayed by Invisible Man

The narrator of Invisible Man—at least initially—is a budding member of the educated black class, or “conscientious elite” on the black respectability wheel (shout-out to Mr. Sutton). In the context of 1920’s America, that seemed a great place to be for any black man who grew up poor. But as he does repeatedly throughout the novel, Ellison pulls the rug out from under readers to expose just how cutthroat and fragile the obtainment and maintenance of power for black people really is, especially in the education system. The main insights of this dynamic we get in Invisible Man are that of the budding scholar (the Narrator), and the longtime power-holder (Bledsoe). Through these two figures, we come to understand the self-destructive cycle of black education; with the little success that the African-American community gets comes a pressing need to maintain that prestige, which turns successful black people against the lower, poorer classes for “dragging them down”, and creates a mutual dislike from the lower classes and an even lower reputation for the race as a whole, ending in even fewer black successes.

The first picture—in the Narrator’s own depiction at least—we get of our protagonist is one that “schools” his way to privilege coming out of high school. He will deliver a speech and be presented with a scholarship to a University by the school officials, but only once he finishes a disgusting Battle Royal, and with a bloody mouth at that. Though it is clear that the white educators think very little of him, he still goes along with all of their scheme, and still believes that they are doing what’s best for him. Because in the case of the Narrator, the way he succeeded was by believing in the oppressive system that allowed him extensive education. But as he soon learns from Bledsoe, (and his grandpa!) the way to maintain this power is to play along with the system, but never to believe in it, and vanquish anything that could possibly harm it. After the Narrator comes back from his escapade with Mr Norton, Bledsoe is absolutely furious to both his unawareness of gaming the system and the threat he poses to Bledsoe and the whole college. “You’re black and living in the south, did you forget to lie!” Bledsoe exclaims, “the only way to please a white man is to tell him a lie!” (139). Bledsoe is intimately familiar with how fragile his power really is, and the Narrator’s incompetency with the system is promptly rewarded with expulsion from the college. The Narrator’s college experience and encounter with Bledsoe inform the beginning of this cycle.

Ellison also shows the class conflict within African-American elite and working/poor class. For one, the Narrator holds serious contempt for lower class black people, such as Trueblood, the Vet, and even his own grandparents at one point. After him and Norton exit from the Golden Day, he becomes intensely apologetic for everything they had seen:

I wanted to stop the car and talk with Mr. Norton, to beg his pardon for what he had seen; to plead and show him tears, unashamed tears like those of a child before his parent; to denounce all we’d seen and heard; to assure him that far from being like any of the people we had seen, I hated them, that I believed in the principles of the Founder with all my heart and soul (…) (99)

Clearly, the Narrator in this instance is completely caught in the cycle; his need to maintain success makes him want to grovel in front of this white donor, and show just how much he hates unhinged black people unlike himself. Bledsoe holds this cutthroat mentality as well, to an even farther extreme:

“I’ve made my place (...) and I’ll have every Negro in the country hanging on tree limbs if it means staying where I am” (143).

This is just a small glimpse into the cycle Invisible Man eludes to. Thanks to the whitewashing system of education, one can see how much cyclical harm can be inflicted on the black community, literally turning them against each other and preventing further access to power. What Ellison demonstrates is not a race combining to “wear the mask” of invisibility for the greater good, but only individuals coming to wear it in power in increasingly fewer numbers. 

The Natural Symbols of Native Son

Let me preface with this; I'm a sucker for symbolism. I feel I've done a touch too many assignments on the topic during my academic career, but with so many books just brimming with it, how can one resist!

Native Son is, in my view, a very dichotomous book with various binary forces converging all at once. White and black, rich and poor, man and woman, communism and capitalism, life and death, fear and control, the list goes on. For a book driven by simplified, powerful forces such as these, symbolism becomes all the more effective in conveying its themes. Often times in this particular novel, one will find these allusions in the environment Wright creates for Bigger, going along with the naturalism we've discussed of him. So let's take a look!

One of Wright's favorite symbols in Native Son is the simplest of them all; color. Repeatedly, Wright barrages readers with decidedly black and white imagery, objects, and scenes to represent the racial root of Bigger's problems and anxieties. Especially in book two, where his fear reaches several climaxes, Wright unnecessarily (?) adds increasing figures that are either black or white. Take the first couple pages of Flight. He sees Mary's "black purse", looks at his blade with its "dried ridges of black blood", grips a pamphlet in his "black fingers" which at the bottom has a "black and white picture of a hammer and curving knife" as well as a "white hand clasping a black hand" (98). All of that is on the SAME PAGE, the second page of book two! Maybe I'm as paranoid as Bigger, but I don't think I'd always describe a purse, blood, my fingers, and a picture with their respective color in such quick succession of one another. The list goes on; the Dalton's snowy Chicago estate looms "white and silent" (116). As he puts Mary's corpse into the furnace, he sees a "white cat" staring back at him (91).He sees Mrs Dalton the day after the murder "dressed in white, her pale face as it had been when she was standing in the darkness", with "eyes almost as white as her face and her hair and her dress" (127, 128). It goes along with his perception of white people as a "force", creeping closer to Bigger's inevitable demise (114). Perhaps Bigger puts it best for showing how this form of  symbolism gets to the origin of his dilemmas:

"(...) she would not want to hear him tell of how drunk her daughter had been. After all, he was black and she was white. He was poor and she was rich." (128).

In tandem with these tinted reminders of Bigger's racial struggle and conflict, several scenes in the novel either predestine the protagonist or take on new symbolic meaning. The first scene of Native Son  starts us off with some solid foreshadowing. In a stressful opening, Bigger Thomas and Family wake up to a nasty rat invading their dingy household. In sum, Bigger chases around the rat with a skillet until the rat, with all escape holes covered up by Bigger,  bares "long yellow fangs" out of fear, with his "belly quivering", until Bigger smashes it with a shoe. This quite obviously mirrors the ending episode of Book Two, with Bigger as the rat, and the massive encroaching white police force, or even just white society in general as Bigger. Both are backed into inescapable corners, and out of crushing fear and desperation, react with violence. Even the disgusted monikers the Thomas family give the rat ("Gee, he's a big bastard", "sonofabitch could cut your throat") later remind us of the brutish negative remarks given by the white members of Bigger's trial towards him in Book Three.

My other favorite example would have to be the case of the furnace. It's very brief, but in Bigger's interactions with the furnace, it seems to have a curse-like effect on him, possibly as a consequence of his guilt. For one, after he puts Mary there, almost every time he comes down to the furnace with others, he always thinks about killing them. He hatches the idea of murdering the white cat that sees him pouring Dalton's body into the furnace before he remembers that "cats can't talk" (91). He even thinks about murdering Peggy when she comes down with him the next morning, though she never even looks into the furnace. When Mr. Dalton comes down into the basement and finds out that Mary did not in fact go to school yesterday, the awkward silence between them is filled with mention that "the furnace droned" in the background, and again when he explains Jan exploits to Britten, and as both are immediately after Bigger lies to someone, it seems that the ghost of Mary Dalton is beckoning for attention at the site of her cremation (165, 166). Finally, a bit after he delivers the ransom note, he approaches the furnace and his body is overtaken with dread:

"A strange sensation enveloped him. Something tingled in his stomach and on his scalp. His knees wobbled, giving way. He stumbled to the wall and leaned against it weakly. A wave of numbness spread fanwise from his stomach over his entire body, including his head and eyes, making his mouth gap. Strength ebbed from him. He sank to his knees and pressed his fingers to the floor to keep from tumbling over. And organic sense of dread seized him. His teeth chattered and he felt sweat sliding down his armpits and back. He groaned, holding as still as possible, His vision was blurred; but gradually it cleared. Again he saw the furnace. Then he realized he had been on the verge of collapse. Soon the glare and drone of the fire came to his eyes and ears." (185)

So yeah. I think I'll just let that paragraph speak for itself. The description evokes a dominating force guilt and anguish, coming back to bite him for his horrible crime, just when he thought he could game the system. This particular passage really won me over to the powers of symbolism in this book. But hey, call me on my comprehensive B.S if you think I'm a whackjob for all this. Or agree with me, that's always fine too.

I'm Back Babies

A new era has begun. An ancient, infamous blog awakens from its summer slumber, hungry for some hot, sharp, scathing literary commentary from yours truly. ARE YOU READY???

Also, feel free to read my previous works from previous Classic Mitchell Class #123 "History as Fiction", even if they make no sense to you. I made a big research paper about how Kim Jong-Un is responsible for Michael Jordan's NBA Dynasty in the 1990's, and controls his entire life since. Trust me, I have sources. 

Remember to hit that like button and comments section below to support my channel! Subscribe for more Literature Let's Reacts in the future. You won't be disappointed. 

- Sims

My Semester Project ft. Michael Jordan, Dennis Rodman, and Kim Jong-Un

Ethan Simmons

History as Fiction

Mitchell 3

April 27, 2016

Introduction

Michael Jordan’s basketball career is perhaps the most decorated and illustrious of any. However, it is undeniably ridden with some degree of mystery and unpredictability. Just after winning three consecutive championships, he suddenly retires and plays baseball for the White Sox. He returns only a year and half later with a slightly retooled team and wins three more rings, seemingly without skipping a beat. Later, when he is 40 years old and the general manager of the Washington Wizards, he tries to aid the sorry team he constructed by suiting up himself. The last decade of his career has been managing the Charlotte basketball team, in which he has selected some of the worst draft busts of all time. What’s the explanation for all of this? How do I intend to fill these obvious holes in Jordan’s historical narrative? Simple, it’s the basketball-crazed Kim dynasty pulling the strings. Kim Jong-Un and his family are shrouded in a deep blanket of censorship-controlled mystique, and they only seem to pop up in the cultural multiplex once in a blue moon due to their isolation from the rest of the world. What we have found is some serious evidence of Kim Jong-Un’s Jordan fandom. This seems to answer a question all by itself. How have North Korea and the United States remained unprovoked by each other for so long? Basically, Jordan was sacrificed in the late 90s to the child Kim Jong-Un in order to keep the peace, as an extension of tension-resolution from the Korean War. And of course, the Bad Boy and North Korea visitor Dennis Rodman is the middleman of this operation, tying the two worlds together even tighter. I hope to tell a story that is entertaining but strangely convincing, deeply rooted in the past but carrying all the way to the present. Enjoy.

The Last Call

Jordan woke up, hearing the phone ring. Not the house phone obviously, that would be too risky. He had a special phone for these sorts of things. Jordan had thankfully fallen asleep in his office where the device was located. He wasn’t expecting the call, though they were much more frequent as of late. He had fallen asleep watching some game tape. That was also becoming a more frequent occurrence.

“Good morning Mike. I hope you slept well. You looked a little uncomfortable.” Jordan wondered how he forgot there was a live camera attached to the rotary phone. He thought about when he first installed it. It was supposed to look inconspicuous in the late 1980s.

“I’m fine, a little crook in my neck. How’d you sleep, Dave?” Michael twiddled with the phone line.

“I didn’t. New developments Mike. We have work to do.”

The world-worn ex-commissioner had found surprising new life in the government intelligence agency. Operation AIR was his inherited brainchild. Stern’s personality was better equipped for the position anyway; he had always liked pulling the strings on his projects to fit his vision of fairness. Admittedly, this was undesirable for an executive of a multi-billion dollar competitive sports league, where playing by the rules dictated the future of fans and franchises.  

“Mike, in short, the rooster has rustled the nest. We might need to send you in.”

Jordan racked his brain to decipher this ancient code. They had him memorize some key phrases for phone conversation, in case they needed to discuss uber-classified plans while being wiretapped. However, the success of Operation AIR (up to this point) had rendered them completely nil. Besides, Michael was still a quite groggy from his displaced slumber.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Stern?”

Jordan heard the line close. A moment later, he heard his pocketed phone twinkle with a Messenger notification.

“Sry Mike. Don’t want higher ups 2 hear us. Did u forget the codes???”

Michael picked his phone up and began tapping away.

“Yeah sry about that. Is this convo safe tho?”

“Wer fine Mike. I havent registered this phone yet. This app delets the txts after u send them 2! V handy.”

“Ok Dave. Gimme the skinny.”

“Kim has gon rouge. He refuses to pick up his calls or communicate in any other way. He’s been isolated in his palace for almost a week now. 1 of our informants said he’s ‘planning something huge’, whatever that means. However, he is still loyal 2 the Kim Dynasty, so he won’t give further details.”

“Sounds interesting, but how does this concern me?” Michael added an inquisitive emoticon to get the point across.

“We might need 2 send u in. If we do, we’ll give u backup. Someone pretty familiar, 2 u and 2 the environemtn.”

“Stern I don’t need any surprises for this stuff. Who is my backup?”

“The Roam!”

“Stern, I don’t remember these codenames. What’s that supposed to be?”

“The Worm*. Sorry Mike. No codename, just Dennis Rodman. I h8 autocorrect. He’ll come to ur house when the time is appropriate. You’ll have som catching up 2 do. GL and Ttyl Air J.”

Michael closed the app and reopened it. As Dave had said, all the texts had disappeared. That was enough middle-aged texting for today. He thought about Rodman. They did have quite a bit of catch up to do. Jordan closed his phone and went back to sleep.

Rodman trotted towards the door of Jordan’s mansion. Some government official had picked him up several hours ago in Philly. He didn’t ask many questions and practically slept the whole way through. Jordan heard the door open and climbed upstairs to greet his guest.

“Ever heard of knocking, Dennis?”

“Got any acid reflux meds? Had a contest yesterday, not feeling so hot.”

Jordan weakly smiled. Some people never change. 

“I think the maid has some in the cabinet across the kitchen counter. What kind of contest was this?”

“Hot-wings, Mike! I eat as much as I can, meet women, and get cash. Just a little burning in the chest afterwards.”

Michael felt a few questions tug at the back of mind, but suddenly remembered they have a job to do, whatever that meant. He raised his voice to carry on conversation with his cabinet-sifting cohort.

“Alright Dennis. You know what you’re here for?”

“Eh, yeah. It’s about Kim right? That’s all I picked up though. I wasn’t listening too hard. But I was kind of shocked that you had anything to do with any of it.”

His smoker’s drawl had a lighthearted tone, but Michael noticed his surprised inflection. Come to think of it, Jordan hadn’t explained his situation to anyone for a very long time. He told Phil and Pippen first, then a few members of the Dream Team, and his very first pick as “GM”, poor Kwame Brown. Jordan tried to put that away from his mind. Right now, he needed to get Rodman invested and on his side, just like he did two decades ago in Chicago. Even if he didn’t like it, he needed to know the full story.

            “Dennis, what do you know about Kim Jong-Un?” Rodman walked back into the foyer with medication in his palm.

            “A lot of things Mike. He’s a great guy. Fun-loving. Amazing leader. And he loves basketball just like you and me. He’s pretty good actually.”

            “I don’t know about the first part, but that last thing, that’s exactly right. Kim Jong-Un loves basketball. Did he ever tell you about me?”

            Rodman crinkled his face, like someone had played the wrong heartstring and the note came out sour. Jordan was glad he had caught his attention.

            “No. Why would he? He’s only seen Olympic ball from what I know. He said I was the best basketball player he’d ever come in contact with.”

            “Rodman, that’s mostly true. You’re the only American basketball player to have ever met him in person, which is why you’re here and why I need your help. The government, the Kim Dynasty, and the NBA go way back. Think over 60 years here. You following me?

            Rodman nodded.

            “From what I know, the aftermath of the Korean War included a secret peacetime pact between Kim Il-Sung and the FBI. They promised to ‘heed to the whims’ of the next rulers of North Korea as long as the socialist state would never attempt a war involving the United States. Obviously, the treaty was faulty and has had its ups and downs, but in terms of what could have happened between two nuclear-weapon possessing countries with opposite ideals, Operation AIR has worked extraordinarily well. Kim Jong-Il was granted a massive American-held bank account, and among other things, access to international media. As you can imagine, the curious young Kim Jong-Un partook in these resources and discovered us in the NBA. In 1990, just days after we lost to your Pistons in the playoffs for the third year in a row, Stern gave me my first call. He told me about this experimental government program that needed my help, which would maintain peacetime with our greatest international threat in North Korea. If I chose to accept, the U.S would provide me the best trainers, equipment, and unbelievable marketing to ensure long-term success. However, the deal would surrender complete, lifetime control of my career to the Kim dynasty, specifically to the basketball-obsessed child Kim Jong-Un. I toiled for weeks on this Dennis, but I decided that winning was far too important to me. It seemed inevitable with what they promised. So here I am.”

            Rodman was silent. Jordan couldn’t read the expression behind his thick sunglasses. Suddenly, bellowing, wheezing laughter.

            “All those years, all those championships, and you’re a fraud? You had a little Asian guy ordering your ass around for the ENTIRE time? That’s funny shit Mike…”

            Wasn’t

            “Whatever. We got ours I guess. Three chips to take home. But Kim man, what the hell…”

            Dennis momentarily stopped his chuckling, looked up, and took his shades off.

            “So…you said 1990 right, for when you started in? That first retirement…that was Kim’s request.”

            Michael raised his eyebrows and nodded assuredly. He expected this type of banter even if it was a bit more undercutting than he preferred. Rodman certainly wasn’t done.

            “And the White Sox stint? The Return and our threepeat? The Wizards…whatever that was? All of that was North Korea up your ass, huh?”

            “Sure was, Worm. That and more. All those draft picks, for Washington and Charlotte that I made? I had nothing to do with any of them. I hear he went to a few draft combines but was too scared to talk to me. All of horrible draft decisions tainted my reputation for sure, but if that’s the cost of peace then I should be willing to pay it.”

            “You and I both know you ain’t doing this shit for peace. It was always about winning, and you took the easy way out. I commend you for it actually. My background was tough, nothing came to me easy. If I had that same chance I’d take it in a heartbeat. But you probably don’t care about the fuckin’ Hornets or whatever they are now, even if Kim made you the GM...”

            “Rodman, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the teams I’m managing, but I do care a little about the kids. Adam Morrison at number 3? Kwame Brown picked number 1? Decent players put way over their heads all cause some spoiled dictator who doesn’t know a pick and roll from a flex offense thought they would be ‘loyal to the team.’ And it all gets blamed on me, Rod! They’ll be living with broken dreams and unfulfilled potential for the rest of their lives. I wish I could help, but they probably still hate me for setting them up for failure, drafting them beyond what they were.”

            “Hold up, Mike. These ‘colossal failures’ are also millionaires. Not everyone is a competitor like you and I. Poor, tortured Michael, with his 6 rings and billions of dollars, giving some underperforming teenage athletes shitloads of money. Get over yourself Jordan. I did that a long time ago.”

            Michael sighed and tried to heed to his directions. He did shy away a little too far into his own head sometimes. He had never known what it was like not to succeed, and he would try detach himself from failures anyway. Not that it made this process any less frustrating, but Rodman’s words did comfort his worries quite a bit.

            “You’re right Dennis. I’ll try that. We have some work to do now.”

            “Okay then. What now Mike? What’s our assignment?”

            “I have a jet. How’s dinner and a flight to North Korea sound?”

            “I’m down. Long as the food isn’t too heavy. I like to save my stomach for competition.”

            Michael searched for even a shred of sarcasm in his face or voice and found none. He may be strange, but he could get the job done Mike supposed. Just like old times, really.  

            Rodman was a heavy sleeper. After consuming his airplane salad and glass of wine he was out cold for the 14 hour trip. Michael went over the directions Stern had sent before the trip. According to David, Kim was quite thrilled to hear of his idol’s arrival, but hung up as soon as discussion wavered towards his ongoing erraticism and seclusion. Stern relayed locations of Jong-Un’s agreed landing spot to Jordan’s pilots. Jordan went over the instructions, thinking about how to “coax information pertaining to Kim’s personal activities without giving away government involvement or jeopardizing the elevated status you hold in his mind” as the directions said. A tall order. He’d try his best though. They landed at around 7:00AM in North Korea’s time zone in Northern Pyongyang. Michael nudged Rodman awake before talking to the pilots.

            “Instructions say to stay here unless asked directly by an official. You guys know this plane better than I do though. Food in the fridge and guns below it. Watch your back and don’t retaliate until absolutely necessary.”

            Although his tone reflected urgency, to the pilots Michael seemed remarkably relaxed. He accepted the pressure and let his adrenaline release, imagining the scenario as some kind of clutch moment in an old basketball game. Jordan thought that always seemed to make things work out.

            “Wake up Rod. We’re here.”

            Rodman nudged around and then gathered himself instantly, startled like a rodent on the highway.

            “Why has the plane landed?! Did we crash?”

            “Dennis, we’re here. Pyongyang, North Korea. You just slept for 14 hours straight. We should get moving, your pal is waiting.”

            Michael told the pilot to open the hatch. At the bottom of the deployed stairway was the commissioned guide for the new visitors. Jordan and Rodman walked down, turned their heads to end of the runway, and gawked. Hundreds of soldiers formed a tremendous path all the way to Jong-Un’s Ryongsong Residence.

            “Didn’t get this last time, that’s for sure!” Rodman quipped, running down the stairway and attempting to high-five the soldiers’ saluting hands. Jordan tiptoed down the jet, wobbling his head and face to assure the reality of what he was seeing. Sure enough, the tunnel of men was still there, and their leader was at the other end.
            For what seemed to him an eternity, Jordan silently treaded through the forest of motionless officers, deeply unsettled. He was used to the deification, the worship of fans, just as much as he knew to relish the boiling hatred of an opposing arena, but so many people watching him, completely ambivalent and uninterested, rattled him with unfamiliarity. Bronze sculptures of previous national leaders scraped the skyline of the distance. When he finally reached the outlet, Kim Jong-Un and Dennis Rodman were performing an intricate fist-bump ritual. The world’s most mysterious friendship had obviously not skipped a beat. Once Jordan came into his sights, Jong-Un’s smile lit up as he displayed a gratuitous bow for his visitor. The entire tunnel behind them closed up with hundreds of bows simultaneously.

            “Michael Jordan. My idol and muse. Welcome to my home number 23.”

            Jordan stared. Then he bowed.

            Jordan tried to trail behind the pair of international brethren as much as he could. He desperately wanted to regain his composure, which he wasn’t very used to losing, making it all the worse. His cohorts suddenly stopped at a corner of the hallway.

            Beyond the juncture was a humongous glass case, a trove of memorabilia from the Jordan-era Chicago Bulls. Game worn jerseys, sweat rags, used court shoes, even a championship ring from a former teammate.

            “Your friends in America have granted me these precious items upon my request, Mr. Jordan. The sector used to be my playroom as a child.”

            Sure enough, at the end of the case was an older television set and a crayon drawing of Jordan signed ‘Pak Un’, Kim’s alias he used as a young student in Switzerland.

            “I’m glad you’ve seen this now Michael. It is so very important to me. You two are my very favorite Americans.”

            Michael finally found his ability to speak.

            “I don’t know what to say…it is…truly amazing. Incredibly thorough. I guess I’m flattered, Jong-un.”

            “You can call me Kim, Michael. We are friends now. But we have always been acquainted in a sense, haven’t we?”

            Kim again flashed a boyish smile, rife with self-satisfaction and pride. They continued down the hall.

            “I have been toiling away for some time now. It is good to have a break and have conversation with nice gentlemen like you.”

            “We appreciate it Kim. What is this project you’re speaking of?” Jordan saw Dennis nod. Hopefully that meant he was sounding innocent enough.

            “Jordan, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but did you push off?”

            “Wait, what?”

            “Did you push off? In the 1998 Finals. You were playing the Utah Jazz. Bryon Russell was guarding you. Did you push off of him before you hit the game-winning shot?”

            “Yeah Mike, did ya?”

Rodman chimed in, chuckling to himself.  Jordan thought of which answer would best upheld Jong-Un’s lofty perceptions.

“Of course not, Kim. I thought it was a clean crossover.”

“It didn’t look like it to me. Strong move, just not very clean like you said. An unusually dirty move for someone so practiced as you.”

Michael didn’t know how to respond, so he just kept silent. He wondered about where exactly the dictator was taking them, and how blunt his obvious topic-change was. Some natural light shined in across the hallway. Just as the group stepped towards it, a thunderous shaking and numerous screams emanated from the main square just outside. While the retired athletes gained their footing from the quake, Kim sprinted down the hall, peered out the window, and pulled out a Bulls-themed walkie-talkie from his vest. He muttered a fast command into the device and stood as tall as he could muster near the end of the hall.

“What’s wrong Kim?” Dennis said. “What the hell was that?”

“Nothing of your concern Rodman. You can follow me.”

Jordan began walking behind them for a split-second, but as soon as his step sounded the Supreme Leader jerked completely around.

“I didn’t say you could come with us Michael. Please stay here.”

“Why? It must be dangerous for me to stay here. Is this all part of your plans, Kim?” he thought of the screams he heard from the square.

“Please. It is imperative that you remain calm, turn around, and exit the building until further notice.”

But Michael didn’t know his way out. He didn’t trust anything or anyone at the moment. So he made the mistake of attempting to view the commotion against his guide’s will. Footsteps, then from behind, he felt a prick in his back and 50,000 volts surge through his body. The last he saw was a couple of armed officers before he blacked out.

Jordan awoke in complete darkness. The windows had been shut, and the overhanging lights shut down. He had an awful headache and a piercing pain on the spot of his back that he landed. He clicked his phone alive and turned on the flashlight function. Jordan navigated to the nearest staircase and walked down as far as he could go. He found a door at the bottom and pushed it open.

The sunlight poured into the dingy stairwell and onto Michael’s bruised-up face. As his eyes readjusted to the glare, he stepped out of the building and into the square. He soon saw hundreds of citizens, lined up at the edges of the square on all floors, staring at him, but also glaring at the 50 foot tall draped object in the center. An intercom blared in the distance. It was Rodman.

“Sorry about that Jordan. I hope your head is OK. We were waiting so you could see the unveiling of Kim’s plans you care so much about. Well here they are.”

The object was riveted on a large base. A 20 foot wide crater nearby looked to be the source of the earlier noise. Did a piece from his plans create that mark? Was it a misfiring weapon? Jong-Un took the intercom.

“Yes, Jordan. It appears you’ve arrived just in time. My plans, my construction, it will change how your nation sees us forever! No longer will inaction endure!”

Before Jordan could respond, the entire assembly launched into the North Korean national anthem, including Rodman. The drapes were pulled off by men at the ground level as they sang. A saber of reflecting light blinded Jordan as Kim continued to shout through the speakers.

“Let it not just be a beacon of power, but one of North Korean grace and justice! One that so beautifully represents you, my dear friend. Let the world know the Heavenly Light of Michael Jordan!”

Jordan stepped back into the shade. The towering bronze figure was him. 1998 Finals. Game 6. Last shot. Indeed, he was pushing off.

Supreme Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea Kim Jong-Un felt a weight lift off his shoulders. His project was finally finished, decades in the making. Perhaps it would’ve gone more smoothly if that darned ball didn’t slip off, but Jordan now knew what he was up against. Now he had time on his side. He could keep it for himself, and he would enjoy the grandeur. Or he could gift it to the United States. That intrigued him far more. Who’s to say what he could do? Maybe he would gift it like the Tower of Eiffel. Or maybe, just maybe, it would be like a Horse from Troy. Who’s to say, he thought. I’m to say.

Annotated Bibliography

Hall, Allan. “Kim Jong Un’s Swiss school days revealed.” Sunday Times. Daily Mail. 25 December 2011. Web. 20 April 2016.

Although I used it fairly briefly in my own story, the image of child Kim Jong-Un is a nuanced one, and this article had plenty to say about his development and educational experience in Switzerland. I used the mentions of him being good at basketball but also having a lackluster school efforts in my narrative, which all contributed in forming the personality of my created Kim Jong-Un.

Higgins, Andrew. “Who Will Succeed Kim Jong Il?” Washington Post. The Washington Post Company. 19 July 2009. Web. April 12 2016.

Contains bevy of insight as to Kim Jong-Un’s personal life. Talks explicitly about his (very real) massive interest in Michael Jordan and basketball, which plays a central part in my metanarrative of the Kim dynasty and Jordan’s basketball exploits.

“Michael Jordan Committed to Charlotte Bobcats.” ESPN. ESPN. 2 November 2012. Web. 25 April 2016.

Goes over Michael Jordan’s dubious draft history as well as his frustrations with the franchise. I used both of those facets to flesh out the pact set up by Project AIR and how exactly it has affected the life of post-playing career Jordan.

“Pyongyang/North Korea.” Lonely Planet. Lonely Planet. n.d. Web. 22 April 2016.

This was my main geographic and informational source for North Korea itself. Talks about the bronze statues of Kim Il-Sung and Kim Jong-Il as well as the positioning of the Kim dynasty residence in Pyongyang. `

Lee's Time In Russia + some thoughts on my last blog post

Hey! Libra was pretty sweet! Lively characters and plenty of intense conspiracy stuff. In my previous blog post, I talked a little about the beginning threads of Libra in comparison to the unassuming Lee documentary we watched, and I sort of chastised the doc for not entertaining nearly as many theories as DeLillo could in the first few chapters. As it turned out, the book did an awesome job on balancing the additional narratives for the vast majority of the time, though the end was a little underwhelming. I was expecting some kind of mind-blowing, flashy orchestration from DeLillo to conclude the "plot-plot", but he settled for something far more balanced. Specifically, having Lee both guilty of shooting at the president but simultaneously failing at it (he kind of sliced the president's neck and kills Connally, but Raymo delivers JFK's fatal headshot) is both ingenious and a cop-out of sorts, to me at least. It sort of satisfies both dominant narratives but doesn't go either way like I expected it to. I give it a combined rating of "coolame", more provocative than "nicehh" but less controversial than "rawful", if you know what I mean.

Now for something completely different!

Kind of a throwback here, but do y'all remember the Russia chapters? Those were a big curiosity coming into Libra, as they are easily the most mysterious and undocumented sections of Oswald's life. During that time in the novel, we are still warming up to Lee and trying to determine his specific motivations, so chapters In Moscow and In Minsk become a critical juncture for character and plot development. After retreading through Libra, I'd say that Oswald's time in Russia confirms his obsession with becoming a historically important figure takes precedence over his seemingly Marxist values when assessing his actions.

At the beginning of In Moscow, we are introduced to Lee's "Historic Diary", which is exactly as arrogant as it sounds. The priority of Oswald during his stay at Moscow seems to be documentation for his future famous self, artificially trying to establish himself as a historic figure. Every quote, including the title, is absolutely real for this Historic Diary. The chapter also has us witness the first Lee breakdown if you will, easily the saddest form of his personality where he feels like a "zero in the system." His episode is fueled by the "blankness" of response when he tries to get a passport (150). Although the fear is somewhat justified, the fact that this nervous breakdown occurs multiple times in the rest of the novel and is his lowest point in terms of happiness suggests that being noticed and recognized is his absolute priority. This motivation seems to permeate throughout his life, like when he takes a Russian language test "just to get noticed" and does extremely poorly (163). Overall, the vibe from the Russian sections implies that his Marxist/Russian interests are more a vehicle to fame rather than a pure interest. It's a tough subject to argue, just because Oswald is so erratic and seems to have plans for both sides of the pure motives vs. fame hungry depictions. Personally though, these chapters convinced me that becoming a historical figure is much more significant in his mind.

Impressions of the Doc and Libra's Swaggy Beginnings

I like watching the Frontline documentary before this novel, because Libra has absolutely picked up where it left off.

Not necessarily in the plot department but in the CONSPIRACY department, because I was desperately breathing for some concrete conflicting evidence after the rather dry account of Oswald's life. Don't get me wrong, the doc was very good for summarizing the life and works of our buddy Lee and catching us up to speed with the vaguer aspects of his narrative sections in Libra, but the different historical tangents for which there could have been a conspiracy departure never really elaborated as far as I wanted. And I mean, I'm a conspiracy buff (COUGH Lizardmen killed JFK COUGH), but I also heard agreement from my peers, one in particular saying "it could have been Oswald, the mafia, the KGB, the CIA, or something Cuban that assassinated JFK. Simple!" So yeah, a bit blue-balling with the unresolved conspiratorial threads. 

I'm loving Libra for it's dedication and entertainment of these themes. Totally a breath of fresh air after so much confusion and doubt to the previous theories! Best of all, Libra has been perfectly (and sometimes chillingly) intertwining the real events with some serious conspiracy suggestions. I was legitimately shocked on page 58, when Nicholas Branch was rattling off all the extremely coincidental, but very real deaths that occurred surrounding the case. I had to pick my jaw up off the ground when I looked this stuff up and it was all factual, and yet I'd never heard of it in my life! There's an excellent mind-blowing effect in foreboding the deaths of characters we just met only pages ago, dropping readers so quickly back to history and fact that a scintillating sinking feeling occurs upon reading it. That's a good conspiracy and it's what I came to see, gosh-diddly-darn it!!

That said, it seems like we're only scratching the surface at the moment; most of the conspiracies have just been splayed out to observe and ponder upon, rather than enacted quite yet. It's an admittedly enjoyable purgatory in the conspiracy novel, entertaining the plausible theories and gauging just how awry these plans might go in the course of Libra. Delillo is off to a good start.