"The Tragedy of Three Forks" and Dialect

Paul Laurence Dunbar’s “The Tragedy of Three Forks” appears in his 1898 short story collection The Strength of Gideon. The story’s narrative involves a woman burning down the house of a rival and blaming the arson on African Americans. The white press runs with the assumption that African Americans committed the crime, captures a group, and lynches them. Thomas L. Morgan speaks about this story, and others, in relation to “White Determinism” and the genre of Naturalism that took off around the turn of the twentieth century. For this post, though, I want to not the aspects of dialect that appear in the story.

 
When most people read Dunbar, they read his dialect poetry. The reason for this, as mentioned in earlier posts, comes from the fact that anthologies typically contain them. Along with this, the dialect poems lead some to view Dunbar as an accomadationist who reminisces about the bygone days of the Old South. This assumption cannot be further from the truth when reading Dunbar’s work as whole. Scholars such as Gene Andrew Jarrett, Nadia Nurhussein, and others have worked to dismiss this characterization of Dunbar and his work. In this post, I would like to add to those voices by showing, briefly, how dialect works in “The Tragedy of Three Forks.” 
 
Taking place in Central Kentucky, the story begins on a dark, stormy night. The narrator describes the scene, mentioning an unidentified girl can be seen in the night: “It was hardly a night on which a girl should be out. And yet one was out, scudding before the storm, with clenched teeth and wild eyes, wrapped head and shoulders in a great blanket shawl, and looking, as she sped along like a restless, dark ghost” (269). Notice that the narrator does not mention whether or not the girl scurrying through the storm is white or African American. She only appears covered in a blanket and resembling a “dark ghost.” When the girl speaks for the first time, certain assumptions may be brought to the forefront of readers’ minds. She says, 
 
“‘Tain’t the first time, ’tain’t the first time she’s tried to take me down in comp’ny, but—” and the sob gave way to the dry, sharp note in her voice, “I’ll fix her, if it kills me. She thinks I ain’t her ekals, does she ? ‘Cause her pap’s got money, an’ has good crops on his lan’, an’ my pap ain’t never had no luck, but I’ll show ‘er, I’ll show ‘er that good luck can’t alius last. Pleg-take ‘er, she’s jealous, ’cause I’m better lookin’ than she is, an’ pearter in every way, so she tries to make me little in the eyes of people. Well, you’ll find out what it is to be pore—to have nothin’, Seliny Williams, if you live.” (270)
 
The girl’s speech provides readers with an idea about her identity. She says that the rival “thinks I ain’t her ekals” which signifies a distinction of class, and quite possibly race. However, we still do not get any idea about whether or not the girl is African American or white until later in the story.
 
The indeterminability regarding the girl’s race from the beginning of the story works to disrupt the narrative in the same way that the newspaper “scarehead” does later in the text. Readers, based on local color and regionalism of the period, may perceive that the girl is African American. However, Dunbar shatters this conception because she is white and burns the house of her rival out of anger. She goes along with the town people’s conjecture that African Americans set the fire and allows the lynchings to continue. 
 
There is a lot more in regards to this story that could be discussed, but I think that challenging Dunbar’s use of dialect, and the way he deploys it in this story, serves an important purpose. We need to realize that Dunbar worked within a tradition that wrote in dialect. The “Hoosier Poet” James Whitcomb Riley became an inspiration to Dunbar, and that influence can be seen in the early dialect poems from Dunbar where he works to replicate Whitcomb’s dialect. As well, Dunbar can be seen, at eighteen, writing in a German dialect. His poem “Lager Beer” appears in the inaugural issue of the Dayton Tattler that Dunbar started in 1890. 
 
What does all of this mean? Quite simply, it means that we do not need to pigeonhole Dunbar and his dialect poetry or writings. His writing does not just reflect the lives of Southern African Americans. His work shows various regions, races, and classes in the United States at the turn of the century. The essentialist views of Dunbar started by Howells has partly led to this emphasis on Dunbar’s dialect. This view needs to be refocused, and by looking at the entirety of Dunbar’s work, we can do that. What are your thoughts on Dunbar’s dialect? What other authors from that period do we need to think about in regards to dialect and the role dialect plays? Let me know in the comments below. 
 
Dunbar, Paul Laurence. “The Tragedy of Three Forks.” The Strength of Gideon. New York: Dodd, Mead, & Company, 1898. 267-283. Print. 

"Who Dat Say Chicken in Dis Crowd"

When most people think about the works of Paul Laurence Dunbar they immediately go straight to his poetry. This is due, partly, to the fact that Dunbar’s poetry typically appears in anthologies while his other works in varying genres remain on the periphery, mentioned in the note about Dunbar’s life but ultimately left out of the anthology itself. This practice makes sense, especially when considering the scope of anthologies and the limited space to provide numerous, long works by authors. However, we should consider Dunbar’s entire body of work when thinking about him as an artist because if we focus on one aspect we severely limit our understanding not only of Dunbar but of African American and American literature and culture at the turn of the twentieth century.

Considering all of this, I want to take the time today to write about one of Dunbar’s songs that he wrote for Clorindy: The Origin of the Cakewalk with Will Marion Cook in 1898. Clorindy “was the first all-Negro musical-comedy piece,” as Maurice Peress notes, “with an original score—written, composed, directed, conducted, choreographed, and orchestrated—by African Americans on Broadway.” The show starred Ernest Hogan and around forty singers and dancers. Henry T. Sampson points out that after Hogan left the show it became part of Bert Williams and George Walker’s Senegambian Carnival, taking Clorindy around the nation from Cincinnati to Washington D.C. Performances of Clorindy continued throughout the first decades of the twentieth century as Sampson shows when he quotes a review of a February 1914 performance at the Lafayette Theatre in New York City. The review stated, “Will Marian Cook’s musical comedy, Clorindy or the Origin of the Cake Walk, is scoring a big success . . . with a big cast headed by Allie Gilman, the funniest tramp comedian on stage today, and Will Cook.”       

Looking at perhaps the most popular song from Clorindy, “Who Dat Say Chicken in Dis Crowd,” we should think about how the song does not pander, even though it appears as if it does on the surface, to white perceptions of African Americans during a time of coon and minstrel shows; instead, it should be read as a strategic affront to the white audiences who perceived that Clorindy reinforced their preconceived notions of African Americans as servile workers who would rather maintain the past instead of working towards changing the present. This assumption, at least in regard to the song, comes from the chorus. Thinking about any type of music, a listener recalls the chorus before any other part of the song, at least most of the time. With this in mind, the chorus of “Who Dat Say Chicken in Dis Crowd” appears to say that the singers adhere to the conditions they find themselves in.

Who dat say chicken in dis crowd?
Speak de word agin’ and speak it loud

Blame de lan’ let white folks rule it

I’se a lookin’ for a pullet
Who dat say chicken in did crowd? (Emphasis added)

The third line in the first chorus is important. The singer acquiesces to the white folks and says they can rule the land while he looks for a pullet (baby chicken or a hen). In the second chorus the third and fourth lines change to “What’s de use of all did talkin’/ Let me hyeah a hen a-squawkin’.” Here, the singer stops questions why the gathered group should be discussing anything and comments that he would rather hear “a hen a-squawkin’.”

In both choruses, the singer appears to be playing in to the notions that African Americans felt comfortable in their roles in society and that they did not have the ability to speak on any matter regarding their place because of their inferior status in the eyes of whites. The choruses imagine a white audience listening, and the verses, which may be overlooked by some audience members, tell a completely different story.

The first verse speaks about “a great assemblage of the cullud population,” including speakers from Georgia and Tennessee. They met to “discuss the situation and the rumors in the air.” These lines create an image that whites would be scared of during the period. Notice that “a great assemblage” gathers. An assemblage carries strong connotations of a planned meeting to discuss matters of importance and to enact change. As well, the meeting included speakers from different states, indicating the networks of connections within the community. They met to talk about the problems facing them and what to do in regard to their mistreatment. Thinking about audience, African Americans, rather than whites, would possibly pick up on the importance of these lines. Even though this cannot be said with certainty, the structure of the song bears this out. At the end of the first verse “a roostah in a bahn ya’d flew up whah those folks could see” and the people gathered started to “cry” the chorus. The rooster acts as a warning sign that danger, in the form of whites, approach the gathered group of people. Thus, when warned, the people begin to put on the mask that the whites expect to see.

In the second verse, a preacher speaks to the crowd about how they should act. He tells them how “to be respected an become a mighty nation.” The key word here, of course, is “nation,” a word that carries strong connotations just as “assemblage” does in the first verse. The preacher does not speak about how to assimilate; he speaks about how to become set apart. Continuing, he tells the congregated people that they must act right, not lying or stealing “pullets.” At this point, the preacher stops and “an aged deacon” takes over. The deacon, in many ways, serves as the switch in the second verse just as the rooster does in the first. The deacon placates the whites that may overhear the meeting and sings the second chorus which questions why the crowd has even been meeting in the first place.

The discussion of “Who Dat Say Chicken in Dis Crowd” has been oversimplified. I did not go into detail about the audiences and how Dunbar and Cook navigate them during the course of the song. What I hoped to show with this brief explication is how we should, and need to, read poetry by Dunbar and how such readings can be used when examining other forms of art such as Hip-Hop. Along with the song discussed above, think about audience in regards to Dunbar’s “An Ante-Bellum Sermon” and “We Wear the Mask.” James Smethurst argues that we must read Dunbar’s dialect poems in relation to masking, not as sentimental longings for the past but as masked critiques of racist systems. Writing about “The Party,” Smethurst draws a direct connection between the minstrel tradition and masking stating, “Dunbar suggests a new way of reading African American minstrelsy and other forms of African American popular culture as well as his own work.” “Who Day Say Chicken in Dis Crowd,” like Dunbar’s dialect poems demands such as reading.

Peress, Maurice. Dvorák to Duke Ellington: A Conductor Explores America’s Music and Its African American Roots, Oxford University Press, 2004.

Sampson, Henry T. Blacks in Blackface: A Sourcebook on Early Black Musical Shows, Scarecrow Press, 2013.

Smethurst, James. The African American Roots of Modernism: From Reconstruction to the Harlem Renaissance, University of North Carolina Press, 2011.

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Paul Laurence Dunbar NEH Summer Institute

Paul Laurence Dunbar’s Grave at Woodland Cemetery in Dayton

For the past three weeks, I have had the privilege of taking part in an NEH Summer Institute entitled “Paul Laurence Dunbar & American Literary History.” Before beginning the institute, my only knowledge of Dunbar came from the Norton Anthology of African American Literature and a couple of other sources. There, all that appears from Dunbar are a few poems, most notably “We Wear the Mask.” Even though the headnote speaks about Dunbar’s prodigious output during his life, I did not fully realize its enormity until recently.

Most people tend to focus on Dunbar’s poetry, and even within that genre his dialect poetry. This could partly come from William Dean Howells’s initial review of Dunbar’s Majors and Minors , from children and community members reciting his poems, from the selections in literary anthologies, and from other factors. Dunbar’s dialect poetry only constitutes about one third of his entire poetic output, and his poetry collections do not even begin to make up his entire oeuvre. The focus on dialect poetry leads some to classify Dunbar as an accomidationist, lamenting the loss of the Southern past that relegated African Americans to servitude and slavery. This reputation caused him struggles during his life and well afterwards. However, a closer look at Dunbar highlights that he had a keen eye for pushing back against such representations, sometimes overtly but more than often subtly. We have to keep in mind that Dunbar had to navigate multiple audiences at once, specifically black and white audiences, in his writing.


Overall, Dunbar’s work includes four collections of short stories, four novels, musical lyrics, and numerous essays. Dunbar produced all of this, essentially, in the short span of roughly ten years. His second collection of poetry Majors and Minors appeared in 1896. Most of his work (short stories, poetry, novels, etc.) came after this collection. Within ten years, on February 9, 1906, at the age of 33, Dunbar died of tuberculosis. His legacy, however, continues to this day as the names of schools and community centers, in the classroom, and in the community as a whole through recitation. 

The next couple of posts will focus on some of the aspects of Dunbar’s work that I learned about over the past few weeks. For one, I will explore his song “Who Dat Say Chicken in Dis Crowd?” and how Dunbar navigates the varying audiences he wrote for (specifically white and black). Another post will look Dunbar’s prose, zeroing in on his use of dialect to disrupt characters’ identities. The final post will talk briefly of the Hampton collections of Dunbar’s work that included photographs in relation E.W. Kemble’s illustrations from the short story collections. 

To help me think about these posts, I am interested in your responses to some of the following questions. Where did you encounter Dunbar initially? What works are you familiar with, if any, from Dunbar? Let me know about these things in the comments below.

Dunbar’s clothes at the Paul Laurence Dunbar House

Welcome

For the past year, I have been writing for the Ernest J. Gaines Center’s blog. Today, I begin anew with my own personal blog. In many ways, this blog will contain some of the same type of posts that I placed on the center’s blog. However, while that blog mainly focused on literature, and specifically how that literature related to Ernest J. Gaines and his own work, Interminable Rambling will explore culture writ large, with a focus on literature, music, films, etc. I will maintain, to the best of my ability, two posts a week: Tuesday and Thursday.

I am excited to start this new venue for my thoughts and ramblings. Make sure to stay tuned August 4 for the first official post on Interminable Rambling. Until then, I will leave this here for you as a clue to what the first post will be about.