Warn't no use......It just hit the beach with a thud.
Posted on 01/04/2011 5:24:19 PM PST by Borges
Saying they want to publish a version that won't be banned from some schools because of its language, two scholars are editing Mark Twain's classic Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to eliminate uses of the "N" word and replace it with "slave," Publishers Weekly writes.
The edition, from NewSouth Books, will also shorten an offensive reference to Native Americans.
As PW says, "for decades, [Huckleberry Finn] has been disappearing from grade school curricula across the country, relegated to optional reading lists, or banned outright, appearing again and again on lists of the nation's most challenged books, and all for its repeated use of a single, singularly offensive word."
One of the scholars, Alan Gribben of Auburn University, tells PW that "this is not an effort to render Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn colorblind. ... Race matters in these books. It's a matter of how you express that in the 21st century." (The edited Huck Finn will be included in a volume with Tom Sawyer.)
News of the new edition of Huck Finn has sparked quite a bit of comment on Twitter, where "Huckleberry Finn" is a trending topic as this moment. So far, the consensus of the crowd seems to be that it's not a good idea. One interesting comment from that thread:
"Learning the 'N' word from Huckleberry Finn taught me not to use it bc it was improper, so.. why the change?" The new edition, PW says, is due to be published by February. Huckleberry Finn was first published in 1884.
“... I have no race prejudices, and I think I have no color prejudices nor caste prejudices nor creed prejudices. Indeed I know it... All that I care to know is that a man is a human being – that is enough for me...”
– Mark Twain
A True Story, Repeated Word for Word as I Heard It
Mark Twain, 1874.
It was summer time, and twilight. We were sitting on the porch of the farm-house, on the summit of the hill, and “Aunt Rachel” was sitting respectfully below our level, on the steps, – for she was our servant, and colored. She was of mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated. She was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. She was under fire, now, as usual when the day was done. That is to say, she was being chaffed without mercy, and was enjoying it. She would let off peal after peal of laughter, and then sit with her face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she could no longer get breath enough to express. At such a moment as this a thought occurred to me, and I said:
“Aunt Rachel, how is it that you’ve lived sixty years and never had any trouble?”
She stopped quaking. She paused, and there was a moment of silence. She turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile in her voice: –
“Misto C –, is you in ‘arnest?”
It surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my speech, too. I said: –
“Why, I thought – that is, I meant – why, you can’t have had any trouble. I’ve never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there wasn’t a laugh in it.”
She faced fairly around, now, and was full of earnestness.
“Has I had any trouble? Misto C –, I’s gwyne to tell you, den I leave it to you. I was bawn down ‘mongst de slaves; I knows all ‘bout slavery, ‘cause I been one of ‘em my own se’f. Well, sah, my ole man – dat’s my husban’ – he was lovin’ an’ kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo’ own wife. An’ we had chil’en – seven chil’en – an’ we loved dem chil’en jist de same as you loves you’ chil’en. Dey was black, but de Lord can’t make no chil’en so black but what dey mother loves ’em an’ wouldn’t give ‘em up, no, not for anything dat’s in dis whole world.
“Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo’ginny, but my mother she was raised in Maryland; an’ my souls! She was turrible when she’d git started! My lan’! But she’d make de fur fly! When she’d git into dem tantrums, she always had one word dat she said. She’d straighten herse’f up an’ put her fists in her hips an’ say, ‘I want you to understan’ dat I wasn’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ ‘Ca’se, you see, dat’s what folks dat’s bawn in Maryland calls deyselves, an’ dey’s proud of it. Well, dat was her word. I don’t ever forgit it, beca’se she said it so much, an’ beca’se she said it one day when my little Henry tore his wris’ awful, an’ most busted his head, right up at de top of his forehead, an’ de niggers didn’t fly aroun’ fas’ enough to ’tend to him. An’ when dey talk’ back at her, she up an’ she says, ‘Look-a-heah!’ she says, ‘I want you niggers to understan’ dat I wasn’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ an’ den she clar’ dat kitchen an’ bandage’ up de chile herse’f. So I says dat word, too, when I’s riled.
“Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she’s broke, an’ she got to sell all de niggers on de place. An’ when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oction in Richmon’, oh de good gracious! I know what dat mean!”
Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now she towered above us, black against the stars.
“Dey put chains on us an’ put us on a stan’ as high as dis po’ch, – twenty foot high, – an’ all de people stood aroun’, crowds an’ crowds. An’ dey’d come up dah an’ look at us all roun’, an’ squeeze our arm, an’ make us git up an’ walk, an’ den say, ‘Dis one too ole,’ or ‘Dis one lame,’ or ‘Dis one don’t ‘mount to much.’ An’ dey sole my ole man, an’ took him away, an’ dey begin to sell my chil’en an’ take dem away, an’ I begin to cry; an’ de man say, ‘Shet up yo’ dam blubberin’,’ an’ hit me on de mouf wid his han’. An’ when de las’ one was gone but my little Henry, I grab’ him clost up to my breas’ so, an’ I ris up an’ says, ‘You shan’t take him away,’ I says; ‘I’ll kill de man dat fetches him!’ I says. But my little Henry whisper an’ say, ‘I gwyne to run away, an’ den I work an’ buy yo’ freedom.’ Oh, bless de chile, he always so good! But dey got him – dey got him, de men did; but I took and tear de clo’es mos’ off of ’em, an’ beat ’em over de head wid my chain; an’ dey give it to me, too, but I didn’t mine dat.
“Well, dah was my ole man gone, an’ all my chil’en, all my seven chil’en – an’ six of ‘em I hadn’t set eyes on ag’in to dis day, an’ dat’s twenty-two year ago las’ Easter. De man dat bought me b’long’ in Newbern, an’ he took me dah. Well, bymeby de years roll on an’ de waw come. My marster he was a Confedrit colonel, an’ I was his family’s cook. So when de Unions took dat town, dey all run away an’ lef’ me all by myse’f wid de other niggers in dat mons’us big house. So de big Union officers move in dah, an’ dey ask me would I cook for dem. ‘Lord bless you,’ says I, ‘dat’s what I’s for.’
“Dey wa’n’t no small-fry officers, mine you, dey was de biggest dey is; an’ de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun’! De Gen’l he tole me to boss dat kitchen; an’ he say, ‘If anybody come meddlin’ wid you, you jist make ’em walk chalk; don’t you be afeard,’ he say; ‘you’s ‘mong frens, now.’
“Well, I thinks to myse’f, if my little Henry ever got a chance to run away, he’d make to de Norf, o’ course. So one day I comes in dah whah de big officers was, in de parlor, an’ I drops a kurtchy, so, an’ I up an’ tole ‘em ‘bout my Henry, dey a-listenin’ to my troubles jist de same as if I was white folks; an’ I says, ‘What I come for is beca’se if he got away and got up Norf whah you gemmen comes from, you might ‘a’ seen him, maybe, an’ could tell me so as I could fine him ag’in; he was very little, an’ he had a sk-yar on his lef’ wris’, an’ at de top of his forehead.’ Den dey look mournful, an’ de Gen’l say, ‘How long sence you los’ him?’ an’ I say, ‘Thirteen year.’ Den de Gen’l say, ‘He wouldn’t be little no mo’, now – he’s a man!’
“I never thought o’ dat befo’! He was only dat little feller to me, yit. I never thought ‘bout him growin’ up an’ bein’ big. But I see it den. None o’ de gemmen had run across him, so dey couldn’t do nothin’ for me. But all dat time, do’ I didn’t know it, my Henry was run off to de Norf, years an’ years, an’ he was a barber, too, an’ worked for hisse’f. An’ bymeby, when de waw come, he ups an’ he says, ‘I’s done barberin’,’ he says; ’I‘s gwyne to fine my ole mammy, less’n she’s dead.’ So he sole out an’ went to whah dey was recruitin’, an’ hired hisse’f out to de colonel for his servant; en’ den he went all froo de battles everywhah, huntin’ for his ole mammy; yes indeedy, he’d hire to fust one officer an’ den another, tell he’d ransacked de whole Souf; but you see I didn’t know nufffin ‘bout dis. How was I gwyne to know it?
“Well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de sojers dah at Newbern was always havin’ balls an’ carryin’ on. Dey had ‘em in my kitchen, heaps o’ times, ‘ca’se it was so big. Mine you, I was down on sich doin’s; beca’se my place was wid de officers, an’ it rasp’ me to have dem common sojers cavortin’ roun’ my kitchen like dat. But I alway’ stood aroun’ an’ kep’ things straight, I did; an’ sometimes dey’d git my dander up, an’ den I’d make ‘em clar dat kitchen, mine I tell you!
“Well, one night – it was a Friday night – dey comes a whole plattoon f’m a nigger ridgment dat was on guard at de house, – de house was head-quarters, you know, – an’ den I was jist a-bilin’! Mad? I was jist a-boomin’! I swelled aroun’, an’ swelled aroun’; I jist was a-itchin’ for ‘em to do somefin for to start me. An’ dey was a-waltzin’ an a-dancin’! my! but dey was havin’ a time! an’ I jist a-swellin’ an’ a-swellin’ up! Pooty soon, ‘long comes sich a spruce young nigger a-sailin’ down de room wid a yeller wench roun’ de wais’; an’ roun’ an’ roun’ an’ roun’ dey went, enough to make a body drunk to look at ‘em; an’ when dey got abreas’ o’ me, dey went to kin’ o’ balancin’ aroun’, fust on one leg an’ den on t’other, an’ smilin’ at my big red turban, an’ makin’ fun, an’ I ups an’ says, ‘Git along wid you! – rubbage!’ De young man’s face kin’ o’ changed, all of a sudden, for ’bout a second, but den he went to smilin’ ag’in, same as he was befo’. Well, ‘bout dis time, in comes some niggers dat played music an’ b’long’ to de ban’, an’ dey never could git along widout puttin’ on airs. An’ de very fust air dey put on dat night, I lit into ‘em! Dey laughed, an’ dat made me wuss. De res’ o’ de niggers got to laughin’, an’ den my soul alive but I was hot! My eye was jist ablazin’! I jist straightened myself up, so, – jist as I is now, plum to de ceilin’, mos’, – an’ I digs my fists into my hips, an’ I says, ‘Look-a-heah!’ I says, ‘I want you niggers to understan’ dat I wa’n’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ an’ den I see dat young man stan’ astarin’ an’ stiff, lookin’ kin’ o’ up at de ceilin’ like he fo’got somefin, an’ couldn’t ’member it no mo’. Well, I jist march’ on dem niggers, – so, lookin’ like a gen’l, – an’ dey jist cave’ away befo’ me an’ out at de do’. An’ as dis young man was a-goin’ out, I heah him say to another nigger, ‘Jim,’ he says, ‘you go ‘long an’ tell de cap’n I be on han’ ‘bout eight o’clock in de mawnin’; dey’s somefin on my mine,’ he says; ’I don’t sleep no mo’ dis night. You go ‘long,’ he says, ‘an’ leave me by my own se’f.’
“Dis was ‘bout one o’clock in de mawnin’. Well, ‘bout seven, I was up an’ on han’, gittin’ de officers’ breakfast. I was a-stoopin’ down by de stove, – jist so, same as if yo’ foot was de stove, – an’ I’d opened de stove do’ wid my right han’, – so, pushin’ it back, jist as I pushes yo’ foot, – an’ I’d jist got de pan o’ hot biscuits in my han’ an’ was ‘bout to raise up, when I see a black face come aroun’ under mine, an’ de eyes a-lookin’ up into mine, jist as I’s a-lookin’ up clost under yo’ face now; an’ I jist stopped right dah, an’ never budged! jist gazed, an’ gazed, so; an’ de pan begin to tremble, an’ all of a sudden I knowed! De pan drop’ on de flo’ an’ I grab his lef’ han’ an’ shove back his sleeve, – jist so, as I’s doin’ to you, – an’ den I goes for his forehead an’ push de hair back, so, an’ ‘Boy!’ I says, ‘if you an’t my Henry, what is you doin’ wid dis welt on yo’ wris’ an’ dat sk-yar on yo’ forehead? De Lord God ob heaven be praise’, I got my own ag’in!’
“Oh, no, Misto C –, I hadn’t had no trouble. An’ no joy!”
Jim is the most sympathetic character in the whole novel. It’s unfortunate that this great book has been attacked because of the presence of one word. I don’t think Mark Twain would mind, though, if the word edited out. So, all in all, if the book gets read, as it should, then this outcome is fine.
The passage I had written about was about the African mistress and how she was depicted as very primal in Conrad's book. Why did I get a B? Because what I wrote was "racist" towards black women. It wasn't that perhaps Conrad's viewpoint was "racist," but MINE apparently was, even though the entire paper focused on Conrad's depiction of the woman and was illustrated with quote after quote from the actual work.
After 30 minutes of back and forth argument, she could not point to a single phrase I had written where I had interjected my personal feelings towards black women. She couldn't have, because I hadn't written any. My entire paper focused on Conrad's description of the woman, not my feelings about her. She still refused to bump the grade up. Not only could she not point to an instance of my "racism," but I realized as we were discussing the book that she didn't even know the freaking book. At all. My guess was she'd never been able to bring herself to even read it.
That was probably the point that I started to become a conservative.
Warn't no use......It just hit the beach with a thud.
I suspect the problem here is that we failed to PURGE the Northern Democrats after the War.
Maybe we should crank it up for a few months and do what we oughta' done.
Hey, liberal weenies have re-written the holy Bible to remove all reference to men (the “M” word), so why not go after Mark Twain’s work. Disgusting.
Selective sensitivity.
We're talking about public school teachers union member here. Affirmative-action is their middle name. Most of them are functional illiterates.
There aren't two brain cells among the lot of them.
"Hold it! Next man makes a move, the African-American gets it! "
And in Mark Twain’s Library of Wit and Humor there is the story of the negro barber and why he does not go to church.
Then the Wop and Dago stories, then the Mick stories.
I find it incredibly ironic that with all the swearing and vulgarity you find in the media, where the f bomb is dropped almost every second, that liberals are saying “Injun” and “nigger” are offensive. Selective vulgarity? You can call somebody the f word up and down till your blue in the face — I can’t help think of Russell Brand on G W Bush — but don’t dare say he is a nigger or an Injun. There is something black and white, inherently wrong with the liberal mindset. PC comforts them with some sort of fuzzy pseudo morality designed not to offend people and yet they think offensive vulgarity is perfectly fine, that it makes them less bourgeois and more radically free from society’s convention. Fuzzy thinking at its best.
I met a young man in the Army waiting on my turn at the phone ~ we were there about 15 minutes. He was from a cotton plantation somewhere in the South ~ and we were in Fort McClellan. Asked him why he was in the Army, and he told me he'd turned 18 and enlisted before they could draft him, and there he was, in just about the best pressed set of fatigues I'd ever seen, not a wrinkle on him, and this was after a hard day working in temperatures in the low 100s and humidity in the 90s ~ make a Sa'ami fall over faint, but I tried never to let anyone know that ~ but it could happen ~ and did, so he'd enlisted ~ and I asked "what for" meaning "specialty", what MOS, and he calmly and cooly said to me I ain't never afore had two pairs of pants to my name, and here I have 6, and a fine light wool uniform, and socks ~ you people wear socks all the time or something?"
That was a breath of fresh air from back home ~ just like the Coal Miner's kids in the neighborhood ~ boots in the winter? They were happy to have old shoes ~ and socks ~ socks?
I thought my mother could humble me with her tales of the Great Depression, but this was 1967 ~ and he coulda' humbled her.
If Mark Twain tells you that he took that one down word for word he most certainly did. That woman humbled him before God ~ he was privileged to hear her testimony on a mother's love.
If they rewrote it in hip hop they could keep all the n-words - they’d probably have to add a bunch.
This is asinine. On the flip side your original copies will go up in value.
Yep and in the hallways blacks call each other the n-word and listen to blacks saying it every other word in songs and ‘comedy’ routines.
Sticks and stone may break my bones...
Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll be sure to download the original version.
Good evening, Sheriff. Sorry about the "Up yours, person of color."
I hope this apple pie will in some small way say thank you.
Of course, you'll have the good taste not to mention that I spoke to you.
This action is offensive to the max.
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