Is there a Postcolonial Scotland?

This post starts from a couple of places. First, Marc Gunn's blog, where he writes about the differences between Scottish and Irish Celtic music in the context of his experience with each:

"It’s like the Irish songs were seeped in hundreds of years of oppression and Scotland broke free from that feeling. Oh wait! They did!"

Now, reading this from where I am now, analyzing a series of historial fantasy/fiction that dramatizes the  definitive defeat of the Highland clans and the aftermath of that conflict seen through the lens of a fictional Highlander and various 20th Century characters, it struck me that this conclusion was a bit too... easy, perhaps?  So I posted a couple of responses on Facebook:

You might say that the English crushed the opposition more definitively in Scotland in the 18th C, so there wasn't the festering subversive element as in Ireland. The clans didn't really survive as such. The Irish didn't have the obvious social/political structure in place, so it wasn't as easy to rout out. And even in the 18th C, Scotland was more influenced by Protestantism. In Ireland, the English Protestant landowners formed a superstructure on top of the native Irish--with more integration in Ulster. You might say that the religious question was already native to Scotland, so it wasn't an imposition from without as in Ireland.

And specifically with reference to music:

Also - I would venture that the complex stories are there in Scottish ballads, but those aren't the songs we remember as being quintessentially Scottish. I think the songs we remember as quintessentially Scottish are the ones with bagpipes and brogues. Many of the songs that we think of as *Irish* actually appear among the ballads collected by Frances James Child in the Nineteenth Century in England and Scotland!

So really, it's more complex in terms of folk-tradition.  Why is there this connection?  What was the folk culture exchange between Ireland and Scotland?  I'm sure someone has written on this subject.  And politically, I'm not sure I feel comfortable with the idea of Scotland more easily accepting its position relative to England.

Now, on this blog, I have posts that ask postcolonial questions.  But I am not really asking them of Scotland, but of the novels--which are 20th and 21st Century American novels. Not British.  Not Scottish.  So really, the novels don't tell us anything at all about Scotland, only about the perception of Scotland that the novel represents.  A historical novel has the potential to act as a piece of historical commentary, arguing more effectively than any textbook or essay that the reader should view the past from a certain perspective.  Films do this, too.  Consider Gone with the Wind, for example--because it's an easy one, and both a film and a novel.  It definitely presents a very specific view of the South from before and after the Civil War. The problematic character of Scarlett O'Hara might make each work's sympathies harder to sort out.  By contrast, the reader's lot in the Outlander novels is cast irrevocably with Jamie's sympathies and experiences, even if sometimes tempered by Claire's 20th Century hindsight.

Scotland was never a colony.  Ireland was.  America was.  Scotland and England have shared monarchs, dynasties, land mass,  religious movements.  As an English major and History minor, I never learned about Scotland as separate from England.  The one reference to Scottish history I will never forget was my history professor Dr. Schlunz, who said that James I looked around at Parliament and said, "I know what you are!  You're a bunch of goddamned Presbytarians!"  Irish history, I learned through studying Yeats and largely under the tutelage of Dr. Mary FitzGerald (and to a degree, O'Flaherty's Irish Pub).  But there was no "in" for me in Scottish literature--Burns?  Not someone I ever liked, in part because I had no real interest in the 18th Century, and no real interest in Scotch Gaelic.  I studied French, Latin and Greek, and considered Irish, but I wanted my English literature in English.  I didn't give Old English any serious attention until grad school, and didn't really have the patience for Chaucer's Middle English.  So only through some Celtic music, like "Culloden's Harvest" by Deanta, which I enjoyed but didn't investigate, and now through the Outlander books, do I get a sense of Scottish history.  (And I've read a few bona fide history articles, though not a lot.)

America was a colony.  So it makes sense that I grew up feeling a hefty sense of righteous indignation toward Imperialists--England, and especially Spain, which was vilified in all textbooks of the 1980s and early 90s, to my knowledge.  I have an affinity for postcolonial criticism and literature--Marxism notwithstanding.  I like the idea of a center and a periphery, and an exchange between the two--that the colonizer is influenced by the colonial subject.  I like the idea that by exercising power over others, the colonizer is debased.  I like subtle subversion of colonial power.  I do not think we would be better off had the Spanish not wiped out the Aztecs, nor if Christianity had not spread.  I am definitely an imperfect postcolonialist.  I do think that England caused immeasurable, lasting global political harm with its Empire.  But...  Scotland was not a colony.  So when I look for that postcolonial sentiments in Outlander, it is to satisfy my own righteous indignation at the atrocities committed in Scotland, by the English, in acts that were similar to the oppression/suppression under colonization, but not technically colonization.

Scotland has nationalism, but not postcolonialism.  The clans--who would offer resistance to English rule--were well-organized, and easily stamped out.  Robert Burns may have actually been fairly typical of the non-Highland response to the Jacobite rising, if you consider his version of the Anti-Jacobite/anti-war "Ye Jacobites by Name":

YE Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name,
Your fautes I will proclaim,
Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear.	5
What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law?
What is Right and what is Wrang by the law?
What is Right, and what is Wrang?
A short sword, and a lang,
A weak arm and a strang, for to draw.	10
What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife famed afar?
What makes heroic strife?
To whet th’ assassin’s knife,
Or hunt a Parent’s life, wi’ bluidy war?	15
Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state,
Then let your schemes alone in the state.
Then let your schemes alone,
Adore the rising sun,
And leave a man undone, to his fate.

It might be summed up as "don't rock the boat," or "why can't we be friends?" And perhaps the Jacobites were to blame.  (Come to think of it, Bono from U2 might be the Irish equivalent of Robert Burns in "Ye Jacobites by Name."  Turn that one over for a moment!)  But it seems that there was an element of identity at stake--personal identity, religious identity (for the Catholics), and national identity.

Because it is the clans and the plaids--and the symbols of the past that was so definitively cut off by Culloden--that signify Scottish Nationalism today.  When you look to representations of Irish Nationalism in popular culture, they're not always pretty--Patriot Games, for example.  (Also see Patriot Games and "The Patriot Game.")  But the examples are contemporary.  When we look for movies that celebrate Scotland--and Patriot Games in no way celebrates Ireland, by the way.  I would look to The Secret of Roan Inish or The Field or The Commitments or even The Quiet Man--when we look for celebrations of Scotland, we get Braveheart or Brave.  One historical, one fantasy--both idealizations of a far, far distant past.  Postcolonial, post-British Nationalist Scotland is, in fact, pre-British Scotland.  As in Outlander.

I think that American audiences, and maybe contemporary audiences, want to see oppression opposed.  And so I look for postcolonial perspectives (for so they are called) imposed onto 18th Century Scotland by the author--to ignite my righteous indignation and to satisfy my innate sense of justice.  And sometimes, I find them.

Voyager: A Faith in Documents (A Literacy Moment)

Perhaps this will be easier if I just say it--this has been a hard post.  It has been a hard post to think about, a hard post to write, and mostly a hard post to think about writing.  And I think that's because there's a lot going on in Voyager Ch. 7, and it all begs to be analyzed.  So I guess I'll just begin at the beginning and stretch this out a little bit more...

First of all, Chapter 7 announces its literacy theme in its title:  "A Faith in Documents."  One of the reasons that Voyager feels preoccupied with literacy is because at the beginning, in 1960s Scotland, the action centers on finding what happened to the historical Jamie Fraser.  Roger Wakefield, being a historian like Frank Randall, knows and follows all of the usual channels.  It is Roger who possesses the unflappable "faith in documents."  Brianna mostly has faith in Jamie (having accepted him), and Claire has very, very little.  But that's all part of the narrative moment.

The chapter is replete with reading material.  First a letter:

He picked up the thick manila envelope and held it for a moment, weighing it. Then he ripped the flap recklessly with his thumb, and yanked out a sheaf of photocopied pages.
     The cover letter, on heavy university stationery, fluttered out. (95)

Which Claire reads:

“‘ Dear Dr. Wakefield,’” I read. “‘ This is in reply to your inquiry regarding the execution of Jacobite officers by the Duke of Cumberland’s troops following the Battle of Culloden. The main source of the quote in my book to which you refer, was the private journal of one Lord Melton, in command of an infantry regiment under Cumberland at the time of Culloden. I have enclosed photocopies of the relevant pages of the journal; as you will see, the story of the survivor, one James Fraser, is an odd and touching one. Fraser is not an important historical character, and not in line with the thrust of my own work, but I have often thought of investigating further, in hopes of determining his eventual fate. Should you find that he did survive the journey to his own estate, I should be happy if you would inform me. I have always rather hoped that he did, though his situation as described by Melton makes the possibility seem unlikely. Sincerely yours, Eric Linklater.’”
     The paper rattled in my hand, and I set it down, very carefully, on the desk.

This is interesting for a couple of reasons.  First, it is evidence of the community of scholars and researchers who are linked together by common pursuit and willing to help one another.  Dr. Linklater is a very collegial sort, in the true academic sense of the word.

Second, it illustrates the research process, and highlights the use of primary sources to answer questions.  It is not simply enough to read books by historians, because historians necessarily write with a filter of what seems most significant to the story they wish to tell.  In this case, Jamie Fraser was not historically significant.  What is interesting about this is that the member of the Fraser regiment who survived Culloden was actually, in real-world-outside-of-the-novel history, important enough to make it into historical accounts just by virtue of having been a survivor (see "Massacre of Wounded Officers" on this page for the "remarkable escape of one of their number, Alexander or John Fraser, commonly called MacIver").  Roger contacts Dr. Linklater after reading the book that Linklater wrote about Culloden in order to find out whether the sources he used in his book gave any account of Jamie Fraser.  And as it turns out, they did.

The third thing that strikes me as interesting might simply strike me as interesting--from the perspective of a would-be or had-been humanities scholar.  Since most scholarly activity in the humanities deals with perceptions--how we understand the events at Culloden, how those events were recorded, how what was left out of the accounts has shaped our understanding, and what happens when we add those left out bits back in... You know, exactly what the documentaries do with the Bible.  That's a prime popular culture example:  The Gospel of Judas; The Gospel of Mary Magdalen; The Gnostic Gospels; why they were left out, by whom, and what they might mean if we integrate them into the canon. At any rate, because scholarly activity deals so much in perception, humanities scholars spend their lives arguing that perceptions are real, and the other part of their lives feeling self-conscious that their work has little real meaning or influence ("poetry changes nothing" vs. poets as the "unacknowledged legislators").  Here, in Voyager, scholarly activity has real meaning.  The work that Roger is doing--the information he is uncovering--will shape not only the perception of the past held by a handful of people (and notably Claire); it has the potential to shape the past itself (well, maybe.  See my posts on time travel for a sense of just how complex that question is...)  Claire's decision whether to return to the past hinges on what Roger can find out about the fate of Jamie Fraser.  It is perhaps an enviable position for a humanities scholar--to know he is significant.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

Historical Fiction in Dialogue with History and Fiction

I have always like the idea of having texts "talk" to one another.  When I was an undergrad, I was excited to see the ways in which The Chronicles of Narnia, which I had read a hundred times, echoed the literature I was reading.  I liked the idea of "reading backwards"--reading contemporary allusions first, and discovering the originals, almost as commentary on the later works.  It was a perspective thing.  Later, I taught an Intro to Lit course using parallel ancient Greek and later British and American works--not really my best course concept (a bit sophomoric)--and also a course on "retellings."  So while this is nothing new--for me, or perhaps for anyone, I still like the idea of teaching contemporary texts alongside their historical counterparts. (I also like having a few "revealing" novels to illustrate historical social movements as the basis for British literature survey courses, but while related, that's sort of different.)

Today I am thinking about the way survey courses integrate background material and even literary criticism.  I have not met too many undergraduates (translate: none) who relish reading journal articles about literary works, and lecturing on the historical period is not my favorite way to pass the time.  It's too much work for too little return, and really? there has to be a better way to get students to get a sense of a historical period.

Take historical fiction, for example.  Writers of good historical fiction do their homework--they have to!  They immerse the reader in the historical period, and even when they take liberties, those liberties can be interesting topics for discussion, as in my reactionary moments posts on the Outlander novels.  They tell us something about history, but they might tell us more about our own historical moment and how we regard the past.  That they do so in the guise of fiction is perhaps a boon, since though there is the tendency to view historical fiction as historical, there is more of a tendency to view historical nonfiction as TRUTH.  And in truth, that's a bit of a gamble sometimes, especially when the critical method falls into certain ideological categories.  So regarding historical fiction as a type of literary criticism can actually give a healthy perspective on how we regard criticism--with some skepticism.  This in turn teaches critical thinking and active reading.

In addition to Outlander, which I think could serve to jump-start a course on 18th Century literature and history, Steampunk provides some good material to use when looking back on the 19th Century.  Consider Gail Carriger's Parasol Protectorate.  Nothing but fun there.  It shatters, in a way, the notion that the Victorians were nothing-but-stuffy while playing up that stuffiness at the same time.  Most Steampunk novels that I've read include little bits of commentary about how Victorians regarded class and objects.  This is one of the best, from Carriger's Soulless:

Everything was perfectly clean and chosen with utter precision, each object occupying the space it had been given with immense dignity. (83)

Also consider:

Miss Tarabotti could not help but compare it to the Duchess of Snodgrove's palatial residence.  Here there was more real affluence and grandeur, the kind that did not need to display itself openly--it simply was. (82)

In a book I decided not to read after downloading a sample, I noted the distinction between antique white-and-blue china, and the mass-produced variety that social climbing households acquired to imitate the upper crust.  These few fictional moments replace at least three intolerably dull, overtheorized and overwrought articles I had to read in grad school.  Having read the latter, I can recognize the former.  But wouldn't it be fun to tell students--see?  This is a commentary on a real fact of Victorian social climbing.  This kind of thing comes to a head in expat Henry James's 20thC novel The Spoils of Poynton, which, when we read it, will seem even more dull and Henry James-ish by comparison.