It’s a type of forgetting the origin of [Amazing Grace] that then passes as a remembering: Newton’s salvation, which is not the salvation of the enslaved, but Newton’s own salvation—he’s caught in a storm and he survives it. Maybe he participated in the throwing overboard of enslaved people, but he survived the storm. So it’s both that memory and forgetting as they’re sutured. (my emphasis added)
What Exceeds the Hold?
For me, Sharpe is one of the main authors today with whom to think about the performativity of memory; about who and what memory is for; about memory’s mediations and representations; and, about visual culture and performance spaces, more broadly. In this passage Sharpe is critiquing Obama’s singing of Amazing Grace at the Rev. Pinkney funeral; Obama’s willful or perhaps apathetic neglect for the complexity of the song, both about memory and forgetting as “sutured” in the Black experience. Trauma and redemption are here together as resistant to any easy digestion by those who may want to expedite the post-slavery or post-racial moment in spaces of memory. But, importantly, this resistant form to facile incorporation does not make it any less difficult to bear the attempts to have it appropriated.
Another part of this interview I’ll paste here at length is about Sharpe reading Frank Wilderson on Baldwin and the making of Black suffering “visible, hearable and understandable to white people:”
Wilderson writes it’s “a painful essay in which Baldwin explains how he experienced, through beginning and ending his ‘friendship’ with Mailer, those moments when Blackness inspires White emancipatory dreams and how it feels to suddenly realize the impossibility of the inverse.” He goes on to write that “Baldwin’s condemnation of discourses that utilize exploitation and alienation’s grammar of suffering is unflinching: ‘I am afraid that most of the white people I have ever known impressed me as being in the grip of a weird nostalgia, dreaming of a vanished state of security and order, against which dream, unfailingly and unconsciously, they tested and very often lost their lives,'” etc. and he goes on to quote Baldwin saying, “There is a difference,’ he writes, ‘between Norman and myself in that I think he still imagines that he has something to save, whereas I have never had anything to lose.'”  I was thinking about this in terms of the language of what it means to suffer and tying that language of what it means to suffer to a refusal to continually try to make Black suffering visible, hearable, and understandable to white people. (my emphasis added)
So, to pick up with the previous quote above, Sharpe is talking about a compounded suffering. That is, if I follow correctly, a suffering of an alienation complicated by forced visibility, which is in many ways a central theme of her previous and highly necessary book, Monstrous Intimacies. The suture is non-representable. The coercion necessary to make something ontological into something visible is related to the truncated memory we read about in the previous. Sharpe is concerned with the toll exacted by the trauma of bearing these representations, as if this is all that white people would need to come to their senses.
Her next book, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being, will be out soon.
(via Katherine McKittrick; and the entire issue in which the interview appears looks highly rewarding.)