Their Eyes Were Watching God (thoughts)

I read Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching Godas part of my Black History month extravaganza (ok-I’m slightly exaggerating-I read 6 books this month on the topic). Fortunately for me, it also counts as my last 1% Well Read Challenge book (we’ll talk about that later this week!).

I was very nervous about starting this one, because I knew it was written in dialect. And I don’t have a very good track record with dialect books…I gave up on The Color Purple and the two Faulkner novels I picked up within the first five pages. I managed to drag myself through Rob Roy, but I didn’t enjoy it all that much. I’m sure there are other examples, but I’ll leave it at that. If you too, are one of the afflicted, know this: I not only completed Their Eyes Were Watching God, I loved reading it. First of all, the dialect is written in a way that’s pretty easy to understand-I read a little bit of it out loud to get my mind in pattern and then it just flowed. Also, while the dialogue is all in dialect, the narrative portions are written in standard English. So you get little breaks.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I can talk about why I loved it so much. Except for the first and last chapters, which frame the story, the book is a first person narrative. Janie Crawford, a southern black woman born during Reconstruction, tells the story of her life to her neighbour and thus the reader. It’s her story of growing from a girl into a woman, of coming to terms with life and who she is, and a story of love and marriage. I loved its universality: reading this book made me feel like I was sitting on the porch with Janie, getting life advice from a mentor. I’d love to have Janie as a mentor: she’s beautiful, strong, and intelligent. Most of all, she’s true to herself.

The other thing I really liked about the story is that Janie’s life is a pretty ordinary one. She’s not beaten by any of her husbands, there are no Klu Klux Klan raids…Hurston doesn’t depend on flashy drama. Instead, the racism is more of a backdrop-at least by whites. Much more front-and-center is the racism within the black community between those with lighter skin and those with darker skin. Anyway, I think there’s something very powerful about showing what ordinary life could have been like. All of the characters are black, and except for a little towards end, there isn’t really much acknowledgement of whites at all. I think that’s one of the book’s strengths.

That being said, while most of the book focuses on everyday life, there is a hurricane. I won’t say a lot about it, but reading those passages inevitably made me think of Hurricane Katrina. And it made me cry a little. Just thought I’d warn people, although I definitely wouldn’t avoid the book over it. (And I’m a notorious crybaby when it comes to books and movies.)

Also, I’d like to point out that the book deals with Big Things. The way that all of our lives deal with Big Things-they come up in the course of Janie’s story, and both she and the omniscient narrator discuss them. It’s interesting to compare the two actually.

The final thing that made me love the book was Hurston’s writing. The narrative voice is beautiful-lyrical, profound, just wonderful. And the dialect’s internal rhythm obviously took a great writer. (Just check out the ridiculous amount of ‘notable passages’ I’ve typed out!)

I’ve found it oddly difficult to write this post-I loved the book, but trying to put the reasons why into words is another matter altogether. Let’s just say, you should read it. And I wish I’d have read it earlier! I plan on buying my own copy, so I can visit with Janie whenever I want.

Notable Passages
Janie’s first dream was dead, so she became a woman.

“He can’t help bein’ sorta bossy. Some folks needs thrones, and ruling-chairs and crowns tuh make they influence felt. He don’t. He’s got uh throne in de seat of his pants.”

But here come Bootsie, and Teadi and Big ‘oman down the street makign out they are pretty by the way they walk. They have got that fresh, new taste about them like young mustard greens in the spring, and the young men on the porch are just bound to tell them about it and buy them some treats.

All next day in the house and store she thought resisting thoughts about Tea Cake. She even ridiculed him in her mind and was a little ashamed of the association. But every hour or two the battle had to be fought all over again. She couldn’t make him look just like any other man to her. He looked like the love thoughts of women. He could be a bee to a blossom-a pear tree blossom in the spring. He seemed to be crushing scent out of the world with his footsteps. Crushing aromatic herbs with every step he took. Spices hung about him. He was a glace from God.

“Ah done lived Grandma’s way, now Ah means tuh live mine.”
“What you mean by dat, Janie?”
“She was borned in slavery time when folks, dat is black folks, didn’t sit down anytime dey felt lak it. So sittin’ on porches lak de white madam looked lak uh mighty fine thing tuh her. Dat’s whut she wanted for me-don’t keer whut it cost. Git up on uh high chair and sit dere. She didn’t have time tuh think whut tuh do after you got up on de stool uh do nothin’. De object wuz tuh git dere. So Ah got up on de high stool lak she told me, but Pheoby, Ah done nearly languished tuh death up dere. Ah felt like de world wuz cryin’ extry and Ah ain’t read de common news yet.”

Anyone who looked more white folkish than herself was better than she was in her criteria, therefore it was right that they should be cruel to her at times, just as she was cruel to those more negroid than herself in direct ratio to their negroness. Like the pecking-order in the chicken yard. Insensate cruelty to those you can whip, and groveling submission to those you can’t. One having set up her idols and built altars to them it was inevitable that she would worship there. It was inevitable that she should accept any inconsistency and cruelty from her deity as all good worshippers do from theirs. All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they could not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.

The wind came back with triple fury, and put out the light for the last time. They say in company with the others in other shanties, their eyes trainging against crude walls and their souls asking if He meant to measure their puny might against His. They seemed to be staring at the dark, but their eyes were watching God.

“Dey gointuh make ‘miration ’cause mah love didn’t work lak they love, if dey ever had any. Then you must tell ’em day love ain’t somethin’ lak uh grindstone dat’s de same thing everywhere and do de same thing tuh everything it touch. Love is lak de sea. It’s uh movin’ thing, but still and all, it takes it shape from de shore it meets, and it’s different with every shore.”