Reconstruction Vol. 13, No. 2
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Prisms and Refractions: Portrayals of Domestic Laborers in Ann Petry’s The Street and Alice Childress’ Like One of the Family: Conversations From a Domestic’s Life / Claudia May
Keywords: Black women, domestic workers, agency, resistance, prism, refraction, and discrimination.
<1> When describing the process of refraction, scholar James Trefil offers the following explanation: “What happens to wavefronts of light when they cross a boundary between different media is the subject of Snell’s law, which is named for Willebrord Snell” (365). Trefil notes that in 1621 the “Dutch mathematician and physicist . . . discovered the simple law that governs the path of a refracted ray” (367, 365). He further asserts that this “[t]otal internal reflection . . . happens when the refracted ray strikes a surface at more than a critical angle to the perpendicular” (365). In summarizing Snell’s findings, Trefil contends that the light beam bends at an angle when it travels across the border “between two media” (365). Scholar and theater critic Margaret B. Wilkerson engages with this process of refraction in her introduction to the edited anthology 9 Plays by Black Women (1986) when she maintains that: “Black women are a prism through which the searing rays of race, class and sex are first focused, then refracted” (xiii). How can the relationship between a prism and the refraction of rays enable an interpretation of black female domestic laborers’ experiences? To answer this question this study examines Ann Petry’s The Street (1946) and Alice Childress’ Like One of the Family: Conversations From a Domestic’s Life (1956).
<2> At its core, this discussion explores how black female laborers in fiction embody the process of refraction when they confront racial, gender, and class inequities. First, this analysis examines how domestic workers Lutie Johnson of The Street and Mildred Johnson of Like One of the Family: Conversations From a Domestic’s Life can be held up as the subjects, the “prism” (Wilkerson xiii), through which “the searing rays” (Wilkerson xiii) — a euphemism for forms of discrimination — are illuminated. Second, it argues that these protagonists offer observations that align with the process of refraction when they present an opinion about, reject, or introduce a “critical angle” (Trefil 365) that objects to the prejudicial philosophies and beliefs they and others encounter. Lutie and Mildred ‘bend’ the ethos that equates their low socio‐economic status, race, gender, and line of work with a lack of intellect or critical consciousness when they show their agency by assessing how discrimination shadows their everyday life. As commentators, they critique those who perpetuate prejudice. They lambaste those who assume they are oblivious to, or accepting of, the biases they encounter. The pursuit of self‐determination drives their outlook and underscores their opposition to the injustices they come up against.
Bending “the searing rays” of socio‐economic inequities
<3> In The Street, Ann Petry unravels how her protagonist, Lutie Johnson, a one‐time live‐in domestic, sometime clerical worker, and aspiring singer, strives not to be diminished by the low paid work she is forced to endure. When Lutie accepts the position as a live‐in‐maid for a wealthy white family based in Lyme, Connecticut, she treats her appointment as a “purely temporary one” (28) — one that enables her to “ear[n] the money for Jim [her husband] and Bub [her son] to live on” (28). The irony is that, though Lutie considers this line of work “temporary” (28), the opportunities available to her, as a black woman, to find employment outside this arena or secure a lucrative job are, at best, slim. No matter how hard she tries, Lutie cannot break free from “the “searing rays” (Wilkerson xiii) of socio‐economic disparities that ensure numerous working‐class black women are confined to low‐paying jobs. As the third person narrator divulges, the ‘opportunity’ to work as a live‐in‐domestic “was the only job” Lutie could secure at the time (28; emphasis added). She earns only “Seventy dollars” a month (28‐29). The salary she receives is significant considering that “[b]y 1946 weekly wages for domestics were about $30 in the North (60 cents to $1 per hour, compared to the slavemarket rates of a fifth that amount)” (Jones Labor 258). She is far removed from the wealth of her employers because she is cut off from having any influence over setting her rate of pay. Her limited bargaining power means that she is not indispensable. Lutie acknowledges that the Chandlers can secure new help whenever they want. Later, she implies that, though the Chandlers value her skills as a domestic, they are unwilling to increase her salary and pay her well.
<4> In contrast with the romanticized Mammy figure who is often positioned as a domestic laborer who esteems the family for whom she works above her own (White 60; Wallace‐Sanders 8; Christian 2), Lutie neither treats the Chandler family as more important than her own nor considers domestic work as the only employment she is equipped for or destined to take on. Though at times enamored with the material trappings surrounding the Chandler family, Lutie refuses to see herself and her family as not having any value just because they cannot match the wealth and lifestyle of her employers. Instead, she emulates the procedure of refraction by turning attention not on the trait of servitude she is supposed to embody but on the Chandlers’ self‐absorbed preoccupations. When Lutie leaves her position as a live‐in domestic and receives a letter from her former employer Mrs. Chandler, Lutie repudiates her lament that they “haven’t had a decent thing to eat since [she has] left. And Little Henry [Mrs. Chandler’s son] misses [her] so much he’s almost sick —” (55). By framing Mrs. Chandler’s plea in italics, Petry accents the self‐centered focus of the Chandler family. Lutie is neither moved by nor cares about the feelings of her employer. Their approval makes no difference to her. As Petry notes, “[s]he had more problems than Mrs. Chandler and Little Henry had and they could always find somebody to solve theirs if they paid enough” (55). By not fixing her identity to the Chandler home and the Chandlers’ needs, Lutie resists the “ideological offensive aimed at degrading Negro women, as [being] part and parcel of the... ‘kitchen'"(Jones “An End” 81). Like the Mammy figures in slave narratives, Lutie is “not at all content with her lot” (Christian 5). And by prizing herself and her family above the Chandlers’ needs, Lutie resists adopting a mindset of inferiority. Her keen intellect discredits those ideologies that fail to acknowledge her strengths as a critical thinker. This is apparent when she reads about the death of an unidentified man.
<5> Lutie zeroes in on the prevalence of discrimination when she critiques how a newspaper reports the death of a poor, young black man. Rather than see “a dead Negro who had attempted to hold up a store” (199) — a man who wore “ragged shoes” (199) and was “thin” (199) his body “starved” (199) — the reporter draws a “picture” (199) of a man “he already had in his mind, a huge, brawny, blustering, ignorant, criminally disposed black man who [ran] amok with a knife on a spring afternoon in Harlem and who had in turn been knifed” (199; emphasis added). This journalist projects a racial profile on to the young man that not only confines him to a raced, monolithic, identity, but which criminalizes him and other black people as a deviant, “a threat, or an animal, or a curse, or a blight, or a joke” (199). The journalist who ‘reports’ the circumstances leading up to the death of this black man probes the man’s life as if he were a thing to be manipulated for the purposes of selling a good story. In contrast, Lutie’s commentary stands at “a critical angle to the perpendicular” (Trefil 365) of the racist tenets and practices she comes up against because she refuses to see or define herself or this young man through the lens of those who disparage her or regard him as an irrelevant, but convenient, story. Rather than allow their shared experiences of being financially vulnerable to render her mute, Lutie presents a nuanced interpretation of the circumstances surrounding the adversities this unnamed male figure encounters. It is through Lutie’s eyes and words that readers learn that the man who is described as a ‘burly Negro”’ (199) is actually a “boy [who] was so thin — painfully thin — ” (198). He is killed because he cannot afford to buy bread; he does not steal it because he is black, but because he is starving. Lutie keeps “thinking about him walking through the city barefooted” (198). But Lutie is not so caught up in empathy that she cannot spotlight how the social standing of individuals can influence how the lives of men like the “boy” (199) who is killed are interpreted. According to Lutie, how individuals remember this young man, and others like him, “depended on where you sat […]. If you looked at them from inside the framework of a fat weekly salary, and you thought of colored people as naturally criminal, then you didn’t really see what any Negro looked like. You couldn’t, because the Negro was never an individual” (199). In contrast, Lutie sets out a different opinion that embraces the unnamed black man as an “individual” (199), a ‘whole’ human being. Though Lutie does not always have compassion for those who suffer economic hardship, in this scene, her skill as an astute interpreter of social ills and her compassion for a man whose life is blighted by poverty add to her characterization as a complex individual.
<6> When Lutie reads about the dead man, whom the press demonizes, her experiences of dealing with racial injustice, sexism, and class discrimination bind her with his story. Just as the black male character in this newspaper report struggled with financial hardship, Lutie, endeavors to sustain her family financially. Like the dead man, Lutie endures the condescending beliefs of her employers, who do not see her but read her identity through the lens of their class, race, and gender biases. The Chandlers, the wealthy, white employers for whom Lutie once worked, along with their friends, “looked at her and didn’t see her, but saw instead a wench with no morals” (199). They and their friends scrutinize and judge Lutie. They treat her as if she were a slave paraded in a market. Similarly, the journalist’s appraisal of a black man’s life follows the culture of a slave auction, for he fails to grapple with the humanity of the individual who stands at the center of his front‐page story. Neither Lutie nor the man who is killed is truly seen. Though the white people they meet, or don’t know, reduce the complexity of their humanity to type, Lutie offers an alternative view to those of the Chandlers and their friends. She recalls how her grandmother warned her from an early age to be wary of predatory white men. When the female friends of Mrs. Chandler charge that she cannot be trusted with men because she is a black woman, Lutie proclaims in her thoughts “that she had a big handsome husband of her own; [and] that she didn’t want any of their thin unhappy husbands” (41). Rather than follow the example of the Chandlers’ friends who render her husband Jim invisible, Lutie spotlights the beauty, strength, and allure of her husband. Similarly, Lutie ‘sees’ herself, her selves, even when others do not.
<7> So as not to reduce Lutie to a victim of her financial circumstances, Petry takes pains to stress how she pursues her agency. Again, the refraction process, when treated as a symbol of Lutie’s tenacity to improve her socio‐economic condition, proves useful here. As Lutie tries to land a job as a singer, she “strik[es] [the] surface” (Trefil 365) of, and moves at a different angle to, the views and practices that assume that she should occupy low‐paid service or clerical jobs. Her determination to find work outside such forms of employment reflects her resolve not to be pigeonholed as a worker whose one purpose is to serve. And yet, her inability to secure a stable financial future for herself and her family illustrates that her sheer willpower, hard work, and mettle fail to change the course of discrimination she confronts. This becomes more evident to her when her efforts to make a living as a singer are thwarted. Junto, a wealthy white businessman who enjoys considerable financial power in Harlem, tries to hold Lutie to ransom by offering to give her the two hundred dollars she needs to pay a lawyer who will defend her son Bub (who is arrested for stealing mail from neighbors’ letterboxes). Unbeknown to Lutie, Jones, the superintendent of the building where she lives, frames Bub for this crime because she spurns his advances. His infatuation with her fuels his need for revenge when he assumes she has entered into a relationship with Junto. Like Lutie, Junto is unaware of this back story. His only concern, his only desire, is that Lutie sleep with him. He wants to possess her. He in turn will supposedly give her the funds she needs to free her son. In time, he promises to help her forge a career as a singer in his clubs. Other characters, male and female, white and black, treat Lutie as a sexual object and try to take advantage of her precarious financial situation. Though Lutie rebuffs any notion that she is without agency or is fair game for anyone who preys on her sexually, she is also the “prism” (Wilkerson xiii) through which these violations of her personhood are played out. At the same time, Lutie ‘bends’ the forms of discrimination she encounters when she does not allow these attitudes and practices to suppress the high value she places on her sense of self.
<8> In numerous scenes, Lutie shows pluck, courage, and steadfastness. And yet, Petry also explores how her protagonist can be so overwhelmed by injustice that, even though she stands up to those who try to undermine her pursuit of self‐determination, she learns that she cannot impede their ability to frustrate her ambitions or stop them from sabotaging her efforts to improve her socio‐economic condition. Lutie becomes even more aware of the constraints placed on her life when she faces the prospect of spending time in prison if she is caught for murdering the musician Boots Smith, an employer of Junto. It is Boots who recognizes Lutie’s singing talent. And it is Boots who gives her the opportunity to audition for a spot as a singer in his band. But when Junto takes an interest in Lutie, Boots resents that his boss can use him to vie for the attention of Lutie. Unaware of the power‐play being waged between these two men, Lutie snubs Junto’s proposal. Vexed by her slight, Junto accuses Boots of persuading Lutie not to accept his proposition that she prostitute herself by sleeping with him in exchange for his giving her the money she needs to pay her son Bub’s lawyer fees. Caught up in this unexpected scenario, Boots seizes the opportunity “to trick Junto” (423). Boots is confident that “Lutie [will] sleep with Junto, but he [vows that he is] going to have her first” (423). The memory of a former lover entering into an affair with a white man fans his decision to sexually violate Lutie. He promises to himself that “this time a white man can have a black man’s leavings” (423). Enraged, Lutie grabs “a heavy iron candlestick” and strikes Boots repeatedly with it. With each blow to his body, Lutie hits back at those who have objectified, mistreated, toyed with, or manipulated her. Boots becomes “a handy, anonymous figure — a figure which her angry resentment transformed into everything she had hated, everything that had served to frustrate her” (429) As it dawns on Lutie that she killed a man, she decides to leave Bub in the social care system because she believes that “the best thing that could happen to Bub would be for him never to know that his mother was a murderer” (433). Burdened by this awareness, Lutie purchases a one‐way ticket to Chicago. As she boards this train and sits by a window, she traces circles on the glass. The circles she creates converge in the design of a grid (May 23). When Lutie looks at this mesh, she is reminded, consciously and subconsciously, that she is locked into a cycle of abuse and imprisoned by injustice (May 23). In this instance, her critical views and her pursuit of self‐determination fail to liberate her from the mistreatment she suffers at the hands of all those who have assaulted her physically and psychologically. Lutie is trapped. She is ‘bent’, encircled, and ‘burned’ by “the searing rays” (Wilkerson xiii) of racial, economic, and sexual imbalances that harass her, even as she remains a vehicle for prejudices to filter through. Still, her critical consciousness remains untouched. Her economic status and the unwanted sexual advances she endures have not impoverished her mind. Lutie shows herself to be a domestic laborer, sometime singer, and white‐collar worker who is not so consumed by the kitchen that she cannot comment on the social injustices she witnesses, and experiences, inside and outside this arena. The same could be said of the central character, Mildred Johnson, in Alice Childress’ Like One of the Family: Conversations From a Domestic’s Life.
The refraction process, dignity, and subverting one‐dimensional representations of black female identity
<9> As a social commentator, Mildred Johnson, who is a domestic day worker, subverts “the searing rays” (Wilkerson xiii) of prejudice she faces when she rebukes those who treat her as a compliant, unthinking, domestic laborer. Mildred is single. She lives and works in New York. She is thirty‐two and does not have children. Mildred is “thoroughly independent. She never tells of accepting cast‐aways or service pans; she is proud of her health and gumption and of the fact that she makes enough money to buy things she wants (and indeed to buy many things for other people)” (Harris Mammies 112). Alice Childress notes that she based her character on her “aunt Lorraine who was a domestic worker all of her life, a wonderful woman who refused to exchange dignity for pay” (Harris Mammies 111). Perhaps, like aunt Lorraine, Mildred chastises those who devalue her worth and beauty as a black woman. She berates those who condone prejudice. She refuses to conform to the low expectations of those who dismiss her activist principles. Mildred articulates a narrative that is steeped in self‐realization and underscored by her readiness to resist those who try to demean her or treat her as if she is nothing more than hired help whose sole purpose is to serve. Through her conversations with Marge, (her best friend and fellow domestic), Mildred documents her “exploits” (Harris Mammies 112) as she explains how she deals with a situation in the home of a white female employer for whom she works a day or more, or weeks (Harris Mammies 112). In this, and other households, Mildred “has not allowed herself to become so settled in her work that she silently acquiesces in whatever her mistresses say and do” (Harris Mammies 112). Her identity is not so tied to her job or to the opinions and behavior of her employers that she permits their biases to define her. To borrow the terminology of Angela Davis, Mildred possesses “a profound consciousness of resistance” (117), and she displays this resistance whenever she encounters those who try to belittle her. Rather than present herself as the ever‐happy, all‐loving Mammy figure (White 60; Wallace‐Sanders 8; Christian 2), Mildred positions herself as an astute thinker who backs up her stance with words and action.
<10> Throughout her monologues, Mildred undermines formulaic paradigms that attempt to fix her, or those with whom she interacts, to a one‐dimensional identity. Childress also resists presenting her character as a firebrand critic who is devoid of compassion and unable to see the value of those whom she meets in her place of work. To this end, Mildred does not disparage all her employers. She is fond of “Mrs. L . . .” and shares with her close friend Marge that she is “sorry [Mrs. L . . .] moved [to another part of the country] because [she] really liked workin’ at [her] place” (72). She even volunteers to write Mrs. L . . . a letter of recommendation when she relocates to California. Here Mildred inverts the employer/employee relationship when she places herself in the role of an authority figure who can attest to the credibility and worthiness of an employer. So confident is Mildred in her own power of persuasion that she does not doubt her ability to influence her former employer’s future domestics, who, upon reading her letter, will work for Mrs. L . . . (72). Nor does it occur to her that Mrs. L . . . would be uncomfortable with, or offended by, such an endorsement. In spite of her fondness for Mrs. L . . ., Mildred does not call her employer by her first name. The social standing of Mrs. L . . ., along with the raced codes of employee etiquette that are observed within the workplace and wider society, means Mrs. L . . . always can call Mildred by her first name. Mildred may be bold, but she cannot fully dismantle the social codes governing her relationship with her employer, which begs the question raised by Angela Davis: “Does it automatically follow that women in general, regardless of their class and race, can be fundamentally defined by their domestic functions?” (201). Mildred’s response would be “no.” At the same time, Childress’ decision not to mention the name of Mildred’s employers while announcing the names of black figures in her literary work serves a number of purposes. First, the employers who are identified by the first letter in their last name could represent any number of individuals who hire domestics. The ellipsis that comes after this first letter emphasizes this point further. Though specific incidents underscore the narrative of each employer, Childress stresses that, as a group, they enjoy a social standing, racial identity, and economic power that ensure that domestic laborers are kept in low‐paid work. In contrast, by featuring the name of Mildred and her friends, Childress discredits praxes and takes issue with practices that treat black women and men as stock figures. The individuality of each character is upheld and given pride of place in Mildred’s testimonies, and her agency and convictions remain intact.
<11> Mildred’s critical faculties are not confined to observing the inequities that she encounters on the homefront. In the monologue, “Dance with me Henry”, Mildred documents how men ignore her at a social gathering. Instead of probing the ways in which black women do not enjoy the same attention as their white female counterparts, Childress broadens this perspective, or perhaps speaks in code through signification. She accomplishes this by not mentioning the race of those who go to an event Mildred attends, nor does she identify the race of the women whom many of the men seem to prefer to ask to dance. From this standpoint, Mildred’s insights can contribute to an understanding of how the social dynamics, mores, and preferences underlying an event can shape interactions between individuals. To this end, Childress gives ample space for Mildred to express her opinions and feelings. She affirms her observations and validates them as important. Mildred remembers that she “looked good in [her] new dress and shoes and everything” (168). She “know[s] how to laugh and talk and be sociable . . . but after the record changer dropped six or seven tunes it suddenly came home to [her] that nobody had asked [her] to dance” (168). Rather than go on the defensive, Mildred states she “would be mighty small to get mad about a man preferrin’ another woman” (168). Also, when Mildred announces that no one asks her to dance and details the gender hierarchy that many observe at this event, her analysis aligns with those of the progressive left-wing campaigner Louise Thompson, who, as Eric S. McDuffie points out, “identified Communist Party social events as a key site of interracial sexual tension, emphasizing how black women often felt like ‘wallflowers’ at social events because no one asked them to dance” (Sojourning 119; Thompson 25‐27; emphasis added). Thompson’s observations are significant because Alice Childress also forged links with Communist Party of America (CP) members and left‐wing activists and artists, and their writings and perspectives influenced her work (Washington 183‐204). With this in mind, rather than view herself as a “wallflowe[r]” (McDuffie Sojourning 119; Thompson 25‐27) Mildred neither underrates her own beauty nor reins in her convictions.
<12> Mildred also tempers any notion that other women are more desirable than her and instead chastises a man who stands in front of a group of women, and then assesses which one he wants to ask to dance with him. Mildred charges that it is as if “he was gonna buy somebody” (169). By italicizing the word ‘buy’, Childress highlights that Mildred resents the commodification of gender that calls women to submit to an ethos that gives men permission to “march around pickin’ and choosin’ who they think is best to dance with while we gotta sit there waitin’ for whatever comes by?” (170). By ending this statement with a question, Mildred conveys her dissatisfaction with the gender dynamics ruling the interactions between men and women. Underlying her observations are the passive ways in which women who are desired by certain men fail to rally around those, like Mildred, whom some men ignore. And the issue of what criteria are used to assess the femininity and appeal of women also come into play here. Such yardsticks not only pitch women against one another, but also call them to behave in a manner that undermines their individuality. As Mildred notes, a woman proves she is “womanlike and modest” (170) when she waits for a man to ask her to dance. However, she stresses this ethos is “also somethin’ for the birds!” (170). That Mildred does not attempt to break this social more speaks to how difficult it is to usurp such gendered codes. But, by giving this story the title ‘Dance with me, Henry’, Childress enables her protagonist to be forthright enough to express that she can ask a man to dance even when she observes social codes of conduct.
<13> As a conduit of the assertions expressed by Claudia Jones, who was the highest‐ranked (CP) African American female leader during the postwar era, Louise Thompson, and other progressive black female leaders, Mildred denounces those who “neglect” (Jones “An End” 60) to engage her intellect, her allure, and activist beliefs. As she does so, she not only shows self‐esteem but affirms Mary Helen Washington’s contention that Childress gives a literary voice to Caludia Jones’ concerns about the race, gender, and class struggles black women come up against; concerns, she maintains, that creative and political writers and activists of the left more often than not failed to engage with in their writings and activism (Washington 196). Though the men Mildred meets at this gathering may neglect to affirm her, she does not feel so “neglected” (Washington 196; Jones “An End” 60) that she devalues her effectiveness as a critic. Mildred fires off a letter to Henry, the individual who invited her to this meeting, “and tell[s] him what he can do with [the] five tickets” for a future event he is planning (170). Childress treats her refusal to attend future social events organized by this particular group as a political act. Mildred will not permit others to erode her self‐worth nor does she permit those whom she encounters to quell her activist beliefs. Still, Mildred does not deny her need for emotional and physical intimacy and writes a letter to her boyfriend Eddie to tell him how much she misses him. She is aware of her need for partnership and love. She also places a premium on self‐love. She neither conforms to the asexual trait attached to the black female domestic, who can be viewed as an incarnation of the idealized Mammy figure (Collins 84; Harris “Mirror” 166), nor does she deny herself the pleasure that comes with the mutual intimacy, affection, and support that her partner Eddie offers.
<14> Injustice does not shadow Mildred’s every waking moment. She cultivates a social life that, at times, is untainted by discrimination. She is not without friends or family nor is she lacking a sense of community or a social network or a sense of humor. In “Good Reason for a Good Time”, Mildred has a “ball” (73) with her friends Jim and Mabel and joins them and others in “Mabel’s backyard” (73). Though this area “is about as big as a postage stamp” (73), they still enjoy each other’s company and are not impeded from doing so by this apparent lack of space or their lower socio‐economic status. Mildred is a community‐minded character. She values those with whom she socializes in her neighborhood. In this, Childress offers an oasis from the hardships Mildred and other fictional and non‐fictional domestic laborers experience inside and outside the workplace, when she stresses that a domestic worker can laugh, dance, and enjoy herself. Although such examples in literary and non‐literary works are fleeting, they function as a reminder that, while addressing the injustices domestic workers confront is important, featuring other facets of their lives that do not correlate agency with affliction is worth pursuing.
Conclusion
<15> In her essay “The Novel as Social Criticism”, Petry considers the role fiction can play in addressing societal injustices. She argues that “[b]eing a product of the twentieth century (Hitler, atomic energy, Hiroshima, Buchenwald, Mussolini, USSR) I find it difficult to subscribe to the ideas that art exists for art’s sake. It seems to me that all truly great art is propaganda” (33), and therefore this feature of “great art” (Petry “The Novel” 33) ought not to be treated with suspicion or discredited as having no artistic merit or vilified for its political sensibilities. She continues that “[t]he Novel, like all other forms of art, will always reflect the political, economic, and social structure of the period in which it was created” (Petry “The Novel” 33). Similarly immersed in the “political, economic and social structure” of 1940s’ [and 1950s’] America” (Petry “The Novel” 33), the works of fiction making up this study mine the interlocking connections between race, class, and gender as they pertain to the lives of black, blue‐collar, female domestic laborers. Just as rays — a euphemism for the practices and praxes of discrimination — filtered through the “prism . . . of race, class and sex are first focused, then refracted” (Wilkerson xiii) and within this process fail to follow a set path so, too, do Childress and Petry offer a multilayered portrayal of the life of a female domestic worker — one that does not conform to praxes that cement black women to identities that overlook their intelligence and agency. As the title of Alice Childress’ fiction suggests, female characters who work on the domestic front represent the life “of a domestic” (1956; emphasis added). They, to appropriate the terminology of Alain Locke, neither express a “common consciousness” nor are they bound by a “common condition” (1999 7) that nullifies the intricacies of their outlook or identity as domestic workers, as black women. In the main, Lutie Johnson and Mildred Johnson expose and critique the conduct of those who condone the marginalization of black people. They are articulate, astute, and savvy. They are critical thinkers, skilled women, and hard workers. They grapple with intolerance. Their testimonies confirm that the prejudices they face are not isolated incidents but are part of a wider spectrum of class, race, and gender disparities that hound the lives of the disfranchised. While Petry and Childress expose the challenging working conditions domestics and other blue‐collar workers endured during the 1940s and 1950s, they do not treat laborers purely as victims. Instead, they unpack how two black women show their fortitude when they choose not to be blinded or diminished by “the searing rays” (Wilkerson xiii) of discrimination they encounter.
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