This interview with Colin Dayan appeared in The Public Archive. Follow the link below for the complete interview.
Colin Dayan, the Robert Penn Warren Professor in the Humanities at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee, has written on the literature and literary histories of the United States, Haiti, and Jamaica; on law, ritual, and anthropology; on prisons, torture, and the nature of the person. Her first book was an introduction to and translation of René Depestre’s long poem Un arc-en-ciel pour l’occident chretien – a Rainbow for the Christian West (1977). She followed it with an innovative and counter-intuitive examination of Edgar Allen Poe, Fables of Mind: An inquiry into Poe’s Fiction (1987) and what is perhaps her best known work, Haiti, History, and the Gods (1998), a path-breaking study of Haiti’s ritual memories, literary histories, and subterranean archives. Recently, Dayan has published The Story of Cruel and Unusual (2007), an account of the Eighth Amendment and the rationalizations for “acceptable” torture, and The Law is a White Dog: How Legal Rituals Make and Unmake Persons (2011), on legal discourse and the life and death of the person. A frequent contributor to the Boston Review and other journals, Dayan was recently elected to the American Academy of Arts and Science. Dayan tweets at @mehdidog.
I spent the second semester of my junior year at Wesleyan University. It was a time when ‘girls’ at the so-called ‘seven sisters’ – I was at Smith – had a chance to go to colleges that up until then had been ‘for men only.’ It was a kind of trial before the idea of co-education became a reality. At Wesleyan, besides discovering a way to make my politics real, I discovered ‘negritude’ poetry in an extraordinary seminar with Professor Norman Shapiro. It was there that I first read Depestre’s Journal d’un animal marin (Journal of a sea animal). Shapiro loaned me Un arc-en-ciel pour l’occident chrétien (A Rainbow for the Christian West). I had never read anything like it. It changed my life.
As an honors student in English, I was preparing to write a thesis on Eliot and Pound. I returned to Smith my senior year with a new project: to translate Depestre’s “vodou mystery poem” and to write an introduction placing his poetry in the larger context of Haitian politics, religious practice and history. It was a tall order and at first the French department wasn’t quite ready to take it on, nor was English. Shapiro came to the rescue. He put me in touch with Professor Thomas Cassirer at the University of Massachusetts. I brought my proposal to him, he invited me to take his graduate course on Francophone poetry and poetics, and he agreed to advise the senior thesis. The administration at Smith then made me what they called a ‘Smith Scholar,’ gave me the year off to write and work with Cassirer as director, and Professors George Fayen in English and Jean Lambert in French. It was Lambert who wrote in the final report on my translation and introduction that I gave too much emphasis to the political and then added words I have never forgotten: “I believe that poetry can justify revolutions but revolutions cannot justify poetry.” It was an exciting time, of course: Jean Genet on the New Haven Green speaking in defense of Bobby Seale and the Chicago Seven, Vietnam, and SDS. Depestre was still in Cuba, so Roberto Márquez, the editor of Caliban: A Journal of New World Thought and Writing,at Hampshire College took letters back and forth between Depestre and me. I did not meet him until he moved to Paris in 1978. I went to his office at UNESCO with my book A Rainbow for the Christian West in hand.
You ask about the translation of his poetry. I traveled to Haiti for the first time as I worked on the book, met Aubelin Jolicoeur in the lobby of the Oloffson, discovered vodou and nothing was ever the same again. My experience of translating the “Epiphanies of the Vodou Gods” was especially thrilling. I grew up in the South during the worst excesses of white terror in the sixties—and Depestre’s epic poem really spoke to me: It told the story of the lwa—through their voices as “epiphanies” coming down—or up—to visit a judge’s parlor inAlabama. It was then that I discovered the force of the gods and the life of the spirit, and then that I knew that vodou was not just a discipline of faith, but an epistemology that joined thought to political action. It was nothing less than a practice of enlightenment through flesh and spirit. In my introduction, I attempted to reconsider Haitian poetics in light of the political and religious history that infused it, especially after the Haitian Revolution, the first successful revolution of slaves in the New World—what Aimé Césaire called “the first epic of the New World.”
I understand that Haiti, History, and the Gods actually began, in some respects, in Jamaica. What is the story behind the origins of the book? And can you describe some of the processes and queries that led to your innovative approach to research, to archives – and to your shaping of its narrative structure? What sorts of archives did you use?
Ah, Jamaica: I arrived in ‘Papa Eddie’ Seaga’s Kingston on an NEH in 1986. I had planned to spend the year writing a book called “History and Poetic Language in the Caribbean,” concentrating on the long poem and its revitalization by Carl Brouard, Aimé Césaire, René Depestre, Édouard Glissant, Kamau Brathwaite and Derek Walcott through the popular history and religious rituals that infused their poetic practice. My first stop was Kingston where I lived on Carnation Way, right down from the University of the West Indies, Mona, thanks to the help of Val Carnegie and Sidney Mintz. I went there to meetKamau Brathwaite whose poetry had thrilled me when I taught the first course on the Caribbean at Yale the year before. I never left Kingston. Not until Baby Doc Duvalier got that phone call from Seaga telling him to ‘step down,’ as a friend put it. Baby Doc was escorted out on a US Air Force C-141 Cargo plane to a five-star hotel in the French Alps. Then I returned to Port-au-Prince to cover the heady days of dechoukaj, though even then I had grave doubts about the provisional government, the Duvalier loyalists who remained, the ongoing attacks on vodou, and the initial assaults on the peasants by the combined forces of US AID and the Haitian military. But that’s another story.
Those months led to the writing of what would become Haiti, History, and the Gods. It was then that I became very interested in stories about Dessalines that I heard during the exciting days after Baby Doc’s departure. Two months after the Duvaliers fled, the statue of Christopher Columbus, a kneeling bronze statue long prominent on Harry S. Truman Boulevard in Port-au-Prince, was thrown into the sea. “A bas colon!” people shouted and there was talk of replacing it with Charlemagne Péralte or Jean-Jacques Dessalines. Dessalines was my muse, the impetus for my work: the fondateur so reviled by the West that no historian wrote about him except to denigrate him. I began work excavating what was written about Dessalines in the library of the Institut Saint-Louis de Gonzague in Port-au-Prince, with the amazing help of Frere Ernest. But my real work was on and through vodou, as always. It was there in the field that Ogou Desalin came to life for me and with him, a new way of apprehending Haitian history. In order to write the book as I envisioned it I had to destroy chronology. I wanted readers to come to the understanding of what we assume to be ‘historical’ in a new way. I felt that only then could the enormous achievement of Haitians in preserving their history be told. I wanted somehow to introduce history-making as something akin to and inseparable from ritual, its repetitions over time, its attention to details that wreck any totalizing view or smug assurance. Of course, I also wanted to question generic divisions such as fact and fiction; so I introducedMarie Chauvet’s little known masterpiece Fonds des nègres as a way of doing what I called “literary fieldwork.”
For the complete interview go to http://thepublicarchive.com/?p=3988