I’ve been going to Elephant Bar for years. It’s the Applebee’s of pseudo-Asian food of indeterminate origin: satisfying, unspectacular, and full of families on Saturday nights. I can’t count how many times I’ve enjoyed the plain teriyaki chicken and rice dish alongside an embarrassingly fruity cocktail, chatting with friends over the noise of crying children. For whatever reason—okay, an obvious one being that there are very few places to eat in Cupertino– I keep coming back.
So it was with great surprise that, on my last visit, I stopped, looked around, and said, “Holy shit. This place is an Orientalist wonderland.”
I can’t really say why I never noticed that before. Note that this realization came after three years spent getting a graduate degree in history, in a department where Edward Said is mentioned in everyday conversation (not to mention he’s painted on the front of our freaking bookstore!) and that, particularly in my exams semester, British empire was a huge focus and whatever hypersensitivity to empire nostalgia I already had during this time was undoubtedly heightened.
The giant elephant in the front of the restaurant: well, that’s unavoidable. The animal skin prints that sweep parts of the décor—zebra, giraffe, tiger—aren’t exactly subtle either. The turn-of-the-century, slow-sweeping fans brushing back and forth along the ceiling are a nice touch. They always remind me of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland. On this particular visit, however, I also finally noticed the late 19th-century-style European trunks with travel stickers reading “Zanzibar” and “Timbuktu” that serve as ambient decoration over some of the booths.
Tie all these pan-African and –Indian elements together with Elephant Bar’s commitment to serving pan-(East)Asian-infused cuisine and you have—tah dah!—an Orientalist wonderland, just like I said. It’s a campy, Disneyish mixture of the exotic with cavalier disregard for specific geographies. The trunks definitively indicate that the overarching tie-in to this mish-mash of “the Rest” (see: Niall Ferguson, below) is the pan-British Empire.
Elephant Bar is by no means the only establishment to capitalize on our collective British imperial nostalgia. There’s this colonial African-themed wedding that made headlines last year for its callous obliviousness, down to hiring black servants to fill the colonial-era black-servant-costumes. And in Victoria, British Columbia for a graduate conference about (aptly) race, I got the chance to visit the landmark Fairmont Empress hotel in downtown Victoria. Now, Victoria is a beautiful remnant of British hegemony, in some ways Britishier than Britain, still celebrating tea time and replete with Queen Victoria statue and British colonial buildings and even slightly, slightly British accents. Inside the Empress, past the gorgeous tea room that’s a must-do for tourists, across from the Authentic Native Art store, there is the absolute centerpiece of Orientalist fantasy—the Bengal Lounge.
Its name emblazoned across a gong-like hanging sign. Slow-sweeping British-in-India style fans brushing the ceiling. A complete tiger skin plastered over the fireplace. It was a place of great diversion for me and my fellow conferencers, at the same time that it was, of course, slightly horrifying. Orientalist and nostalgic to the very core.
What’s most striking to me about the brand of imperial nostalgia exemplified by Elephant Bar and the Bengal Lounge and other such places isn’t that it’s pervasive or offensive or wrong. It’s that it’s so, well, nostalgic.
I recognize and welcome it even as I conscientiously object to it. There’s something warm and familiar about the trappings of British society in the tropical jungles of India and Africa– the giant, sticker-laden trunks, the loose cotton dresses, the pith helmets. That’s because, culturally, this setting is interwoven into some of our most beloved literature and film classics and thus into our collective historical fantasy. As hard as I try, I can’t help but associate good memories with this setting, even though I never lived it, even though I recognize it as a dark time/phenomenon in the history of human and global interaction.
In The Secret Garden, Mary has spent her whole childhood in India, born to Britisher parents in the Empire’s Crown Jewel. Her neglectful socialite parents are lost in a cholera outbreak in their colonial home early on in the book, which is the reason Mary is sent to live with a distant relation on the Yorkshire moors (where she discovers the titular landscaping).
In The Jungle Book—well, in almost any Rudyard Kipling book—we’re in deepest India. More notably for my childhood, the 1994 Disney live-action “reimagining” of the story casts a 20-year-old Mowgli against a British colonial presence which involves him falling in love with a British officer’s daughter (Lena Headey) and becoming the love rival of another officer (Cary Elwes). Notably, Indian native Mowgli is played by Chinese-American actor Jason Scott Lee.
In Disney’s Tarzan, we’re in 19th-century Africa, where a white man orphaned by jungle cats and raised by apes is discovered by a British professor’s daughter, who he subsequently falls in love with. Tarzan is wild, raised in the primitive African jungle setting, and their romance holds undertones of the savage meeting the “civilized man.
In The Mummy, we’re in 1920s Egypt, at the time in a state of limbo regarding independence from Britain (achieved in 1922 but conditional until 1936). Swashbuckling American adventurer O’Connell and half-Egyptian love interest Evie unleash a mummy’s curse and enlist the help of memorable characters like WWI RAF veteran Winston, now a tottering hard-drinking regular at a Cairo bar, who puts his adorable pilot’s cap and goggles back on to fly them in his biplane over the dunes to the mummy’s lost city. Notably, the major Egyptian characters are played by an Israeli (Oded Fehr), a South African (Arnold Vosloo), an Indian (Erick Avari), an Irish American (Kevin J. O’Connor), and a Venezuelan (Patricia Velazquez). Non-major Egyptian characters either perish from pressurized salt booby traps or join the boils-ridden “Imhotep”-chanting mob.
In Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom, the second installment of the 1980s trilogy (let’s discount Crystal Skull, shall we?), we visit colonial India alongside the intrepid American archaeologist-adventurer. Plenty of people have already complained about the problematic racial representations in this film—mostly the centerpiece of barbaric Indian devil-worshipers who serve as the villains. It’s the 1930s, but we don’t see too many Britishers, so not a huge representation of imperial nostalgia. But definitely Orientalist.
In the Adventureland area in Disneyland, next to the Indiana Jones ride (which creates a new story for the franchise vaguely reminiscent but wholly separate from Temple of Doom), the Jungle Cruise takes you down a simulated Zambezi or Congo or somesuch to see exotic African animals and a few savage natives (all animatronic of course), proctored by humorous guides in khaki shorts. The Bazaar sells kitschy souvenirs like rain sticks and plush monkeys and safari gear. Aladdin’s Dinner Show sits next to the Enchanted Tiki Room. The former Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse now belongs to Tarzan.
In Heart of Darkness, the reader is struck with the same fear and wonder as the narrator Marlowe as his riverboat plunges deeper and deeper into darkest Africa, as he represents a structured British civilization slowly slipping away. Strange sounds reverberate from the trees at night; mute savages lay dying in groves; animalistic fury seems to sit just beneath the surface of every native worker. Terror and madness only await the British man who ventures that deep into the continent. This terror and madness is recast into the Vietnamese jungles for Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, and, maybe a little bit (but with more of a dry heat), into Iraq for Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker.
What does it all boil down to? Well, I suppose that British imperial nostalgia is burrowed into my very being. I was raised on the stuff, indoctrinated by 19th-century British authors and the 20th-century filmmakers who adapted their stories and the theme parks and theme restaurants who used their accoutrements as décor. I am guilty of British imperial nostalgia, even as I am critical of British empire.
This brings us to the very obvious point that, even as one is critical of empire, one cannot reject everything that occurred under empire. These were people’s lives—these were people’s lived experiences—these were generations of people, centuries of culture, centuries of innovation and production and literature and art and philosophy and knowledge.
Now don’t go all Niall Ferguson on me. Just because you accept that the cultural remnants of British empire are not completely without value (depending, of course, on how they are executed—most new recreations of empire are inherently problematic, but we’re obviously not going to disavow The Jungle Book) does not mean you promote and defend the very idea of British empire, nor promote and defend its modern-day inheritors (for Ferguson, American empire). As Ferguson so astutely points out in Empire, British empire brought plenty of “good” things to the world: liberty, Common Law, Protestantism, the English language, and team sports. Where would we be without these things? We’d probably be fine. But at the same time we don’t know what we would be. That’s the unavoidable, tragic, true point. It happened. And it forever altered the trajectory of global history. And it gave us a past to be nostalgic about, willingly or not.
I feel like, regardless of how I try to rationalize it, my British imperial nostalgia will continue to be tempered by a guilt that will, ultimately, result in an extreme ambivalence. So I won’t be boycotting Elephant Bar just yet. Empire is problematic. But empire happened.
I subscribe to a Google alert for “racism.” It was actually just a test run for my job– I hadn’t used Google alerts before so wanted to try it, and as far as buzz words go “racism” is the gift that keeps on giving– but anyway, it’s been like four months and I haven’t turned it off.
Yesterday, after four months of almost daily reminders of the ongoing debate in Europe over racism in football, this came up. I don’t know much about European football, so I couldn’t comment on it much before, but I DO know Agatha Christie.
I think it’s a really interesting point that John Barnes brings up. Britain’s imperial, racist history can be easily found in its rich body of literature, so much of which we still know and love today. It’s the same in American literature: I regularly encounter the N-word in the pre-1960 books I read (most recently, in Henry Miller and William Faulkner) and even when it’s used by black characters or used in what might be an “authentic” manner of capturing period dialogue, it’s really uncomfortable and a constant reminder of what used to be okay, what used to be normal. (Being white.)
Kipling and Christie, as Barnes points out, both make up part of the British cultural landscape which has been complicit in horrific imperial violence and possessing of uncouth racist attitudes. They both represent a complacency of white superiority, British global supremacy, cultural chauvinism. But in that, they aren’t always so different from other writers. And the two served very different functions in British culture.
Rudyard Kipling was the poet of empire, an Anglo-Indian who celebrated British imperialism, and a Nobel Prize winner. His writing—most obviously, “The White Man’s Burden,” the poster poem for the civilizing mission—was almost activist in its stance towards the Empire, actively pro-, practically propaganda.
Take up the White Man’s burden–
Send forth the best ye breed–
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives’ need;
To wait in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild–
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half-devil and half-child.
Oh-ho and that shit is just the first stanza. When I first came across this poem in an upper-division undergraduate class on the American Gilded Age (can’t remember, but was probably a tie-in to American empire), naïve and un-historically-informed as I was, I honestly assumed it was a work of satire, a criticism of empire as evidenced by its over-the-top, gushing profuseness. I was made to stand corrected. He’s serious as a heart attack. In effect, he’s saying, “God, it’s really hard being a white guy because we have to go all the way to these inhospitable tropical places, subdue the peoples, and then we have the responsibility to civilize them too! But in the end it’s okay, because we are so brave and selfless for doing it. Aaaaaaaand that’s the British Empire.” (musical tag!)
Agatha Christie, meanwhile, was not an active promoter of empire. Her treatment of race was more implicit—a complacent white superiority as well as a staunchly hobbit-like British xenophobia towards all non-British nationals—these attitudes formed the setting for her stories but were not the focus. People point most often to Ten Little N*****s, which was the original title for her famously creepy And Then There Were None. The titular minorities have no bearing on the story whatsoever except that whoever the killer is (no spoilers) keeps removing a single toy figure from the dining room each time someone else is knocked off—in the original story they were little black dolls, were then changed to Indians—the title was duly changed to Ten Little Indians (not quite as offensive) but eventually that was changed to its present And Then There Were None, the last line of the corresponding children’s poem about the N-words/Indians. (God, how disturbing would that be if there was an actual children’s poem of the N-word version! Don’t know if I want to find out.)
But it’s evident in a number of her other books as well (and she has a ridiculous catalogue which I have steadily devoured for the past 15 years but still haven’t even made a dent in). I remember a Greek character, married to a wallflower British sister, who, while charming and pleasant in speech, had a kind a furtiveness to his manner that marked him as permanently untrustworthy to the main characters (not to mention his swarthy complexion!). I can’t count how many times one of the regular witnesses who Poirot/Miss Marple/&tc interview says something to the effect of, “Well, he’s a foreigner, you know” to explain away some defect, some indefinable lack of character. And of course, there are those exotic journeys that form the basis for Murder on the Orient Express and Death on the Nile which invariably have native servants as background characters, who are invariably not-quite-trustworthy, not-quite-human. (Of course, her portrayal of the British servant class isn’t all that much better—you can trust them, at least, but they’re really stupid.)
Agatha Christie’s oeuvre, as a whole, serves the function of what Edward Said describes in Culture and Imperialism: a complacent understanding of a world dominated by British imperialism, not unlike Fanny Price’s uncle and his Antiguan estate in Mansfield Park, which Said uses as evidence of empire as background, something taken for granted but simultaneously reinforced. Christie’s work also touches on empire, albeit much later in its lifetime; but, like so much literature, her work is racism as background, xenophobia as background. She wasn’t promoting it, per se, so much as refracting the cultural setting back into the mainstream and, thus, contributing to its longevity. Like most authors, really; she just wrote a whole damn lot. From short story “The Pearl of Price”:
“What is honesty?” demanded the Frenchman. “It is a nuance, a convention. In different countries it means different things. An Arab is not ashamed of stealing. He is not ashamed of lying. With him it is from whom he steals and to whom he lies that matters.”
“That is the point of view- yes,” agreed Carver.
“Which shows the superiority of the West over the East,” said Blundell. “When these poor creatures get education-“
So ultimately this all comes down to the age-old question of how much harm works of art and literature from different eras, eras with worldviews out-of-sync with our own to the point of offensiveness, can do to our present. I’m against the erasure of the past, so simply banning or limiting the circulation of important cultural works is out of the question. They just need to be accompanied by an education, an understanding of the historical context and how that has changed then to now. ‘Cause I swear, sometimes reading enough Agatha Christie, immersing myself in her universe, I’ll be nodding along, oh yes, he’s Turkish, he’s a scoundrel for sure.
You know who else Agatha Christie didn’t like? Hippies. But that’s another story for another time.
Here’s a good roundup of Agatha Christie moments, chiefly Orientalist. My lack of familiarity with the titles is further testament to her prolific-ness.
I have been to Hawaii before, and I hope to go again, not too long from now. There’s a lot of reasons. I mean, it’s beautiful, for one thing. It’s the picture of an island paradise. Its picture should be next to “island paradise” in the dictionary. It’s kind of ridiculous—palm trees, waterfalls, warm water, white beaches, green mountains, gentle breezes, the whole nine yards. The other thing is, plate lunches. I coincidentally had one the other day, at the L&L on Homestead and Lawrence Expressway in Santa Clara, in the strip mall across from the Kaiser, made up of BBQ chicken, rice, and macaroni salad. It was perfection.
The last thing about Hawaii is more complicated.
Sarah Vowell starts off her popular history, Unfamiliar Fishes, with plate lunches, which was part of what drew me into the book. “Why is there a glop of macaroni salad next to the Japanese chicken in my plate lunch?” she asks in the first sentence. Ah yes—immediately inviting her readers to grasp the deeper implications of cultural mixing (and behind that, imperialism, colonization and globalization) found in the entirely quotidian experience of local fast food. I liked this book right away.
I also like Sarah Vowell. I knew she wrote popular histories, including The Wordy Shipmates (about Puritans) and Assassination Vacation (about U.S. presidents who got assassinated). I knew that she was the voice of Violet in Pixar’s The Incredibles (I truly believe Pixar is pure goodness, sent from heaven in the shape of children’s films). I have seen her do segments on “The Daily Show.” So, all in all she seems pretty freaking awesome. Her writing is, not surprisingly, a mix of serious scholarship and Daily Show-esque humor, reminiscent of America: The Book. (My favorite of her many historical zings: calling Jonathan Edwards’ “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” a “slasher sermon.”)
During my childhood my parents and I used to take tropical vacations in Mexico, but would often entertain the notion of going to Hawaii instead (and yes, I know what ridiculous privilege I grew up with). I was against it, because my mental picture of Hawaii was like this resort outpost of America, paved over in concrete and built up with hotels and filled with daily luaus aimed at fat Ohioans in aloha shirts. I thought, Hawaii isn’t a real cultural destination, the way Mexico is. This was my view until in high school I finally went to Hawaii. I was wrong about the culture. I was right about the fat Ohioans in aloha shirts.
I finally realized Hawaii did have a culture, a history, that lived outside of America and Sheratons, in 2003 when we visited the Big Island. I was 17 and two things stick out in my memory. First, visiting the bay where part of Waterworld was supposedly filmed (of all the things to make a place a destination, right?), just north of Kona. A local – Hawaiian – family was having a barbecue nearby. Two little kids, playing roughly, were laughingly reprimanded by one of the men: “You kids want to be like the white man? Killing everything you see?”
Two, sitting in a parking lot in a Hilo shopping center, on the other side of the island. A few locals – white – male – were having a chat, having run into each other on the way to the store. They were discussing local elections. They referred to “the Japanese” (meaning, Japanese Hawaiians) in some way that surprised me—something like, “the Japanese voted for him” or “the Japanese got a lot of seats this year.” “The Japanese” as a group, “the Japanese” as other. (I immediately disliked them.)
These are insignificant events on their own, and the place from which they come seems obvious now, but they were my first indication that there was anything underneath the surface of Hawaii’s glossy exterior, or its unquestioned inclusion in the U.S. 50. I think this occurs to very few tourists. Instead hordes of sunburned mainlanders experience the islands as an American resort (now Disney has one too) and the extent of their cultural appreciation is a luau outside the hotel lobby. And their kids, Hunter and Tanner, will experience it the same way. (Big Island, 2007, some young middle American boys playing football with their burly blond dad in our hotel pool—I mostly remember because of their next-generation names and the forlorn little brunet boy nearby, whose father couldn’t elicit a similarly healthy enthusiasm for sports from his son.)
Despite my experience with Hawaii, and my epiphany that “Hawaii has history too!”, and my intense interest in imperialism (only recently, however, of the American variety), it actually took Sarah Vowell’s book to get me extremely enthused about Hawaiian history.
The gist of Unfamiliar Fishes is this. Hawaii’s main islands were ruled as separate kingdoms up until the early 19th century, when King Kamehameha I “united” the islands through a series of bloody wars. (Vowell brings up the theory that it was Captain Cook’s arrival to the “Sandwich Isles” in the late 18th century that disrupted the previous way of life. Indeed, though I’m skeptical of such simplistically divergent narratives, when the Americans arrived half a century later, certain court Hawaiians wore Western clothes.) Some crazy New England Protestant missionaries were sent to the islands in the 1820s, where they, as per usual, tried to Christianize and civilize the Hawaiians. Schools were built, old laws were discarded, God was adopted. (And, though Vowell doesn’t spend a lot of time talking about this, diseases decimated, particularly after Manifest Destiny and the Gold Rush made sea passage from the mainland quicker and more efficiently pathogen-transporting.) Though the monarchy survived until the 1890s, the missionaries and their descendants increasingly got wrapped up in local government, and during the Civil War non-Hawaiian sugar planters bought up large tracts of land, as per usual 100% legally (as if that means anything). With the growth of the plantation economy, foreign laborers flooded in, including Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Portuguese, and later Filipino (partly accounting for Hawaii’s current demography). In 1893 there was a coup against Hawaii’s last monarch, Queen Liliuokalani, led by white missionary descendants. Some ass named Sanford Dole ruled the Republic of Hawaii for those last few years before it was annexed to the U.S. in the orgy of worldwide imperialism and violence that was 1898.
Vowell makes frequent reference throughout the book to all of the places where you can still tangibly see this history. Kamehameha’s statue, the old schoolhouse that privileged missionary kids attended (still a high school—Obama went there), an old Hawaiian religious site abandoned after the abandonment of kapu, the Iao Valley where one of the bloodiest inter-island battles was fought. There’s so much to see! Besides Pearl Harbor! It makes me really want to go back armed with what slightly greater degree of historical understanding I now have.
(A super-brief anecdote to illustrate Hawaii’s American retreat island status—Disneyland for adults—in 2002 when I went to a luau at a hotel on Kaanapali Beach on Maui, my parents and I ended up sitting at the same table as my middle school band teacher, Mr. Guzman, and his wife. Side note: His wife was super loud.)
My most recent research paper focused on the American liberal project in the League of Nations mandates of the Middle East, specifically the American University of Beirut in Lebanon, which has its roots in the missionary project (founded as the Syrian Protestant College in 1866 by American missionary Daniel Bliss). To the extent that I’m fascinated by the British and French imperial projects, the American is like a whole ‘nother animal—empire for the new century (millennium), coded empire, empire as liberation. I’m super fascinated by the goings on of the Spanish-American War, shit McKinley and TR and Taft said (and did), the annexations of Hawaii and the Philippines. WTF America! (A research inquiry.)*
Anyway. End of the day, Vowell’s book is a super quick and digestible and entertaining (though also upsetting) account of Hawaii in the nineteenth century, as it went from self-ruling set of kingdoms to American territory. It’s part of a much larger story, but I think it’s a very worthwhile read for – well, anyone. You might not even think you’re interested in Hawaii, but you will be. Try and see. And maybe you, too, will be inspired to write a too-long blog post about it and all its attendant themes and your tangential personal experiences. From this side I can say, it was worth it.**
“When Yale’s Timothy Dwight delivered the founding sermon at Asa Thurston and Hiram Bingham’s alma mater, Andover Theological Seminary… Dwight preached that, ‘Come over to Macedonia, and help us,’ is audibly resounded from the four ends of the earth… The nations of the East, and the islands of the sea, already wait for his law.’
“Acts 16:9 is the meddler’s motto, simultaneously selfless and self-serving, generous but stuck-up. Into every generation of Americans is born a new crop of buttinskys sniffing out the latest Macedonia that may or may not want their help.
“For the Thurstons and their brethren, it was Hawaii.” (82)
*WTF America?: Empire and Expansion in America’s Long Twentieth Century. Best dissertation title ever.
**Next related to-read: Hawaii’s Story by Hawaii’s Queen, by Liliuokalani (1898). Would especially love to read about her trip to England (including a train ride across America) to attend Queen Victoria’s jubilee. Also, where she got the ideas for her songs.