Matria Redux: Caribbean Women Novelize the Past

INTRODUCTION

Ex Matria

This book formulates the postcolonial-psychoanalytic feminist theory of matria, an imagined maternal space and time, through reading fictions of history written by and about Caribbean women. Tracing the trajectory of the Caribbean woman’s historical novel in four periods—slavery, colonialism, revolution, and decolonization—Matria Redux evidences the formation of a pan-Caribbean generation of women writers, of varying discursive racial(ized) realities, depicting similar matria constructs and maternal motifs such as mother-daughter bonds, genealogies, nonhistory, voice(lessness), herstory, trauma, return, and ritual. Put briefly, I read the Caribbean woman’s historical novel as Dorrit Cohn does in the sense that first and foremost, the noun novel is that to which the adjective historical applies; this means that while history unequivocally informs or foregrounds the work, the text nevertheless maintains its status as fiction (162). Thus, to mark the rise of the Caribbean woman’s historical novel, this comparative study applies the postcolonial-psychoanalytic feminist concept of matria to works from across the region, published in English between 1980 and 2010.

Although pairing postcolonial feminism with Caribbean women’s writing is conventional, using psychoanalysis is not.¹ As Ranjana Khanna in Dark Continents: Psychoanalysis and Colonialism convincingly argues, psychoanalysis is a colonial discipline (6) with serious political implications.² Operating as a civilizing mission … [i]t brought into the world an idea of being that was dependent on colonial political and ontological relations, and through its disciplinary practices, formalized and perpetuated an idea of uncivilized, primitive, concealed, and timeless colonized peoples (6). European colonialism, Khanna maintains, situated itself, with fascination, in opposition to its repressed, concealed, and mysterious, ‘dark continents’: colonial Africa, women, and the primitive (6). Matria Redux does not defend traditional psychoanalytic theories of either race and gender or the family but rather shows how radical mother-daughter countertexts can speak back to Freudian concepts and thus provoke new possibilities for psychoanalysis, Caribbean literary studies, and postcolonial feminist theory. Like Whitney Bly Edwards, I suggest that psychoanalysis provides a fruitful area of possibility for reading Caribbean literature and that certain texts, especially those exploring maternal themes, are well-suited to [such] applications (314). My work therefore advances matria as a distinct postcolonial-psychoanalytic feminist theory capable of rearticulating the Caribbean daughter’s symbolic and/or literal break with the mother not [just] in some utopian future or mythical … past but in a present … reality (Davies 173) that encompasses different diasporas and (is)lands of the archipelago.

Matria Redux also acknowledges that using American-European scholarship on gender, which often assumes that Caribbean feminist theory and action derives from it (McDonald 52), warrants clarification. A significant part of postcolonial feminist intervention after all entails challenging Western ideology, for instance the notion of universal womanhood (Paravisini-Gebert, Decolonizing Feminism 7; Baksh-Soodeen 75). My approach to matria, however, shows that assessing and reevaluating the specific historical and material heterogeneities of Caribbean women’s lives expands the narrow, Western limits/terms of feminist discourse (Boyce Davies and Savory Fido 17). As Patricia Mohammed argues, feminist perspectives, from both within and outside of the region, are critical in interrogat[ing] the past and in expressing new challenges and opportunities to establish boundaries of identity and difference (Towards Indigenous Feminist Theorizing 28). Thus, my work brings canonical conceptualizations of the region (e.g., Édouard Glissant) and psychoanalytic theories (Sigmund Freud, Luce Irigaray, and Julia Kristeva) into conversation with recent postcolonial feminist criticism—Simone A. James Alexander, Carol Bailey, Vivian Nun Halloran, Kelli Lyon Johnson, Brinda Mehta, Marisel C. Moreno, Sofía Muñoz-Valdivieso, and April Shemak—on the specific literary texts and historical periods under study.

Matria Redux reveals the (post)colonial and psychoanalytic assumptions underpinning previous feminist literary criticism on matria (Sandra Gilbert, Shari Benstock, Madeline Cámara Betancourt, Kelli Lyon Johnson) so as to decolonize the term, by reconceptualizing matria as an imagined maternal space and time that (re)unites Caribbean mothers with daughters. The tripartite introduction that follows therefore opens with the section, Matri(a)lineage, which revisits Freud’s theory of mothers and daughters in the Oedipal complex and traces matria’s feminist psychoanalytic and (post)colonial feminist literary roots. The following section, Mother-(Is)lands: Daughters Fictionalize the Past, explicates matria as a Caribbean maternal space and time, in relation to historical fiction and history. Lastly, Volcanic Daughters: Matria Redux provides an overview of the book’s structure and the pre- and postmillennium novels selected for close reading.

MATRI(A)LINEAGE

According to traditional Freudian psychoanalysis, a daughter’s first object of love and desire is her mother (Freud, Female Sexuality 21). She must, however, symbolically leave her ‘Oedipal prime’ … an attachment to the mother that leads to both an identification with the mother and a desire for her (Oliver 2) and transition into ‘Oedipal two’ … [which] changes the girl’s love object to the father and to the law (Oliver 2). In Female Sexuality, Freud notes that a daughter’s initial attachment to her mother is intense and passionate and that this attachment lasts much longer than he originally thought (21). The shift from the mother (matria) to the Father (patria) depends on the castration complex, which entails two things: that the girl has the task of giving up what was originally her leading genital zone—the clitoris—in favour of a new zone—the vagina (Female Sexuality 21), and that the daughter, realizing her mother does not possess a penis, breaks her maternal bond in favor of the Father.³ Unlike with the Oedipus complex, however, the mother does not strictly become the daughter’s rival, although hostility between mother and daughter occurs (Freud, Female Sexuality 24, 27).

If the daughter wants to enter into the symbolic patriarchal order, the law of the Father, she must reject the mother: "The analytic situation indeed shows that it is the penis which, becoming the major referent in this operation of separation, gives full meaning to the lack or to the desire which constitutes the subject during his or her insertion into the order of language (Kristeva 23). In short, the daughter experiences the castration complex as a realization that she and her mother lack a penis and that power resides in the penis-Father. The girl acknowledges … the superiority of the male and her own inferiority, writes Freud (Female Sexuality 24). He adds that the realization that the mother did not give her a proper penis—that is to say, brought her into the world as female, leads the daughter to resent, reproach, and turn away from her mother (Female Sexuality 27). As Luce Irigaray rightfully observes, Freud defines female sexuality only in relation and in opposition to the masculine: [T]he female Oedipus complex is woman’s entry into a system of values that is not hers, and in which she can ‘appear’ and circulate only when enveloped in the needs/desires/fantasies of others, namely, men" (The Irigaray Reader 136). Lack or silence defines the feminine, not the masculine, yet how can we accept the idea that woman’s entire sexual development is governed by her lack of, and thus by her longing for, jealousy of, and demand for, the male organ? asks Irigaray (The Irigaray Reader 119). One of the only ways for a daughter to successfully reconcile with the alleged absent female phallus (Freud, Fetishism 155) and to rejoin her mother, according to Freud’s theory, is to become a mother, ideally to a son (Kristeva 29).

Although Freud lists other reasons for why the daughter rejects her mother beyond not possessing the only proper genital—not enough milk during the period of breastfeeding, that she had to share her mother’s love with others, that the mother never fulfilled the girl’s expectations of love, and/or lastly, that the mother aroused her sexually but then forbade it (Female Sexuality 27)—he also notes that they are inexhaustive and insufficient. He concedes that not all women give up their pre-Oedipus phase, that is their attachment to their mother, not completely anyway (Female Sexuality 22), and it is the postcolonial, feminist potential of this relation that Matria Redux takes up. As a theoretical concept, matria is both anti-Oedipal and anticolonial. The daughter’s return to the maternal past can, to a degree, be likened to a return to the pre-Oedipal, prepatriarchal mother: both constitute searches for an alternative feminist relation between mothers and daughters. Caribbean women’s writing therefore echoes Irigaray’s critique of not only the submission, subordination, and exploitation of the ‘feminine’ (127) in the patriarchal world but also the expressed need to replace the Freudian penis and the daughter’s so-called penis envy with the desire for the mother. A rejection of the mother-daughter split, defined in Freudian terms, therefore contributes substantially to the Caribbean matrias discussed in this work.

Notably, the earliest references to matria can be found in Western feminist literary theory influenced by psychoanalysis. The publication of Sandra M. Gilbert’s article in PMLA (1984) on the nineteenth-century English poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning is the leading example. Focusing on Barrett Browning’s poetic engagement with and commitment to Italy’s political unification, Gilbert writes that she longs for a mother country or ‘sisterland to Paradise,’ in which women and men can live together free of the rigid interventions and interdictions of the father (205). Barrett Browning imagines Italy as a particular matria with the potential to be a land of free women, a female aesthetic utopia (Gilbert 197). Defined as a psychic, imaginative maternal space, matria first reveals and then challenges the patria, the Fatherland.

Gilbert concretizes the psychoanalytic aspects of matria in her references to Freud. She writes: "In resurrecting the matria, moreover, these women fantasized resurrecting and restoring both the madre, the forgotten impossible dead mother, and the matrice, the originary womb or matrix, the mother-matter whose very memory, says Freud, is ‘lost in a past so dim … so hard to resuscitate that it [seems to have] undergone some specially inexorable repression’ (195). Matria relies on a palimpsest and a paradox: recollecting a forgotten and repressed matrilineage to create an alternative feminist society. In his late works, Freud admits that the mother-daughter relationship and woman’s sexuality, and by corollary woman’s history, have been neither adequately understood nor recognized. He writes: Our insight into this early, pre-Oedipus phase in girls comes to us as a surprise, like the discovery, in another field, of the Minoan-Mycenaean civilization behind the civilization of Greece (Female Sexuality" 22). The possibility for reimagining mother-daughter relations creates a distinct connection between the maternal, history, and psychoanalysis and creates an opportunity for the Caribbean woman’s historical novel to undermine patriarchal family/history from a postcolonial feminist perspective; the genre signals that a dialectical shift from patria to matria can and must occur for the female subject to emerge.

Importantly, for my work, Gilbert marks matria’s connection to the Caribbean, albeit tangentially. She alludes that Barrett Browning’s heroines, as allegories for Italy, resemble Bertha Mason Rochester—the infamously rebellious Creole woman in Charlotte Brontë’s novel Jane Eyre (1847)—large, heated, dark, [and] passionate (Gilbert 197). Allegedly suffering from madness, Bertha is forcibly brought from Jamaica to England by her husband, Rochester. Rochester imprisons Bertha in his attic. The novel’s climax occurs when Bertha maims and blinds Rochester in one eye before she sets fire to his estate and then dies by suicide. In her early seminal work The Madwoman in the Attic, cowritten with Susan Gubar, Gilbert argues that Bertha is Jane Eyre’s—the poor, orphan English heroine’s—alter ego, her dark double (360). They also suggest that Bertha symbolically castrates her husband (368), making the sightless Rochester an Oedipal figure. Curiously, however, Gilbert and Gubar do not mention that shortly after his marriage to Jane Eyre, Rochester’s sight returns, and Jane fulfills her Freudian psycho-sexual promise, ostensibly avoiding penis envy, by giving birth to a son (Brontë 421).

Meanwhile, Gilbert’s later work on matria develops the similarities between Barrett Browning’s titular protagonist Aurora Leigh and Brontë’s Bertha (206). Both, according to Gilbert, share a desire for the destruction of patriarchy (207). Problematically, the historical context of slavery and colonialism is overlooked by Gilbert (and Gubar) in both comparisons. For instance, Gilbert refers neither to the fact that in Brontë’s novel Bertha is the daughter of slaveowners (272) nor to Barrett Browning’s personal connection to slavery—being the daughter of a Jamaican plantation owner and an abolitionist penning such poems as The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point (1846). Relevant to this discussion of a postcolonial feminist matria, however, is that Bertha is appropriated as the Caribbean woman, defined as the defiant dark continent of female sexuality, to quote Freud (The Question of Lay Analysis 43), a clothed hyena (Brontë 298) and the madly creative side to, or the fantasy of, the repressed white English/Creole woman/writer.

Matria Redux addresses the racial politics that have been largely absent in previous theoretical discussions of matria. Hence, postcolonial feminist rewrites of Jane Eyre such as Jean Rhys’s historical novel Wide Sargasso Sea are critical. Published in 1966, Wide Sargasso Sea’s setting is Jamaica, shortly after emancipation in 1834. The Creole Bertha, not the Englishwoman Jane Eyre, is the main protagonist: Bertha has a backstory, a Caribbean home, and a mother prior to her marriage to and confinement by the unnamed husband, i.e., Rochester. The reader thus reperceives Bertha’s fragmented, alienated and victimized (O’Callaghan 103) psyche/body in both Brontë’s and Rhys’s novels as a result of colonization and patriarchy. Bertha’s incendiary act at the end of the novel solidifies her defiance. As Gilbert claims, the destruction of the patriarchy and a daughter’s desire to resurrect the lost and wounded mother are necessary for envisioning matria (207). While Rhys’s text reinforces the appropriateness of a postcolonial-psychoanalytic feminist perspective when analyzing the loss of the mother and mother-land in the Caribbean women’s writing studied here, her work still omits much of the slave past and the enslaved female’s perspective.

As if she were describing Bertha Mason’s literal imprisonment at Thornfield Hall, Shari Benstock—referencing Gilbert’s work to contextualize the expatriation and exile of American modernist women artists and writers in Paris—concludes "that matria is not the underside of patria or a shadowy lost civilization, but rather an ‘internal exclusion’ by and through which patria is defined. Patria can exist only by excluding, banishing matria; matria is always expatriated (25). Indeed, matria is not only that which is repressed, rejected, colonized, written over, subjected, erased, silenced (Benstock 25) but also the excluded other within the law that ensures the law’s operation (26). Such thinking resonates with Irigaray’s critique of psychoanalysis because in it, the/a woman fulfills a twofold function—as the mute outside that sustains all systematicity; as a maternal and still silent ground that nourishes all foundations" (Speculum 365). Collectively, these thoughts indicate that matria is that which is both prior to and excluded from patriarchal language and law.

The matrias that Gilbert identified in Englishwomen’s depictions of Italy and that Benstock noted in American women’s writing from Paris are also recognizable in Caribbean women’s historical fiction from the 1980s onward. This decade ushered in postcolonial feminist responses to the region’s histories of slavery and indentureship, colonialism and independence movements, dictatorships and revolutions, and globalization and migrations. Influenced by and influencing this intellectual tradition, the post-1980 Caribbean author is not necessarily imagining another space as her matria, for instance another nation like Italy or France; the Caribbean woman writer, especially in the diaspora, is primarily concerned with actively reimagining the Caribbean mother-land. For instance, in Michelle Cliff’s novels Abeng (1984) and No Telephone to Heaven (1987)—in which the mixed-race protagonist, Clare Savage, evokes Bertha in both Jane Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea—the landscape of her island, Jamaica, is female (Caliban’s Daughter 45). Since so many historical novels engender the nation, psychoanalytic considerations of the family—given the primacy of the mother—must also be taken into account.

In his postcolonial-psychoanalytic work on the Caribbean family Black Skin, White Masks (1952), Frantz Fanon, for instance, not only infamously mocks Mayotte Capécia’s early novel Je suis Martiniquaise (1948) (I Am a Martinican Woman) for encouraging anti-Blackness, but he also keeps the patriarchal Freudian family more or less intact. For this reason, in her study on French Caribbean literature, The Imaginary Caribbean and Caribbean Imaginary (2003), Michèle Praeger persuasively argues that the filial must be read in relation to gender and race politics. Praeger problematizes the fact that in Fanon’s work, the traditional actors are in place: the Father, the Mother, and the Son. For good measure, the Father is white and the Mother and Son are black. To this triad the analysts add the black father, only to withdraw him immediately, along with the black daughter (20).⁴ In this scenario, the Mother castrates the Black father and favors her Black son. The Mother, meanwhile, grooms her daughter to be a future m/Mother (Praeger 20). Although the mother-daughter dyad receives little scholarly attention, the mother nevertheless trains her daughter to mimic her (so that the daughter has become what her mother used to be [Praeger 27]). In such literature, the Black Mother (doubly associated with lack and silence) becomes a scapegoat for both familial difficulties and sociopolitical ones (Praeger 28). As an allegory for the region, the traitorous Black Mother—and by corollary her daughter-becoming-Mother—must be rejected. The corrective power of the woman writer’s imagination (Dash, In Search of the Lost Body 334) therefore exposes the problematic logic of such patriarchal-colonial thinking, and instead of relegating the familial and symbolic m/Mother, seeks to redefine her.

Desires to be one again with the mother (Hall 236) thus often manifest in a mother-island fusion. The land and one’s mothers … are co-joined, write Ann R. Morris and Margaret M. Dunn (219). [T]he land … [is] redolent of my grandmother(s) and mother, observes Cliff (Caliban’s Daughter 46). Or, as the eponymous protagonist waxes romantic in Jamaica Kincaid’s novel Annie John, I took her to an island, where we lived together (58). Emphasizing a spiritual dimension in the quest for mother-land, Edwidge Danticat’s Breath, Eyes, Memory (1994) sees the daughter returning to Haiti to bury her mother; standing in a cane-field, Granmè Ifé reassures Sophie that if she listens, she will hear her deceased mother telling a story, and at the end of the tale when her mother asks, "‘Ou libere?’ Are you free, my daughter? … Now … you will know how to answer (163). The postcolonial feminist novel proposes matria by bringing the spiritual, the land, and the ancestral mother together. Here, matria manifests as Ginen, an Afra-Caribbean mythic place, where all the women in my family hoped to eventually meet one another, at the very end of each of our journeys" (Danticat, Breath, Eyes, Memory 121). As a postcolonial-psychoanalytic feminist theory, matria complicates Stuart Hall’s description of the Caribbean writer’s connection to the past, which he likens to the child’s relation to the mother … always-already ‘after the break’ (226). Caribbean women’s historical fictions fully realize, echoed by Hall’s later concession, that the same violent ‘break’ that subjects Caribbean writers to an ‘endless desire to return to lost origins’ also blesses them with an ‘infinitely renewable source of desire, memory, myth, search, [and] discovery’ (Rody 110) that is directly tied to the mother. Such maternal loss and/or recovery can also, however, be read in terms of Freud’s conception of melancholia.

Freud’s identification of the psychic experiences caused by loss in Mourning and Melancholia resonates with both the maternal and the colonial past, thus proving productive for reconceiving matria. Khanna explains that colonial melancholy [is] an affective state caused by the inability to assimilate a loss, and the consequent nagging return of the thing lost into psychic life (16–17). The parallels with the maternal are striking. For one, the inability to assimilate the lost object, which we can call the mother, results in silence, a phantom that haunts speech (24), much like the pre-Oedipal maternal. In Speculum of the Other Woman, Irigaray makes a similar argument but fails to read the maternal as melancholia in relation to colonialism. Khanna, not making the maternal connection, notes that an inability to assimilate loss has political implications for colonialism; it points to the failure of any nationalism/colonialism to absorb the other—Indigenous person, slave, indentured servant, woman—entirely.

The remainder of melancholia that Khanna describes as inaccessible[,] … unknown, inassimilable, interruptive, and present might rightly be labeled the maternal (24). The fact that the maternal cannot be entirely absorbed, however, attests to its subversive power. In a literary context, this translates to daughters who cannot or will not let go of the mother or their mothers’ histories: Somewhere in the shadows of her own psyche her mother country endures, despite the pseudo-oedipal wrenching she has undergone, Gilbert contends (201). Matria Redux, however, acknowledges that "matria need not leave home to be exiled and expatriated; indeed, the effects of this outsidership within the definitional confines are most painfully felt at home, when the separation from language, body, identity, creativity, passion, and love … [has] been so thoroughly internalized" (Benstock 26). Perhaps, precisely because many authors, like Cliff, live(d) in the diaspora, the unknown or repressed Caribbean maternal past preoccupies this literature; thus, the region remains the primary matria, despite variances and ambivalences.

The discussion so far has shown both the shortcomings and strengths of earlier references to women writing matria, including its link to psychoanalysis and the region, which now leads me to examine the more recent application of matria to works set in the Spanish-speaking Caribbean. For instance, writing on Julia Alvarez’s historical novel In the Name of Salomé (2000), Kelli Lyon Johnson articulates that the exiled daughter-protagonist Camila has spent her life searching for her mother, Salomé, and her homeland, the Dominican Republic. "The home she has constructed in her mind is what we might call a matria—not a patria—a mother/land in the territory of her memory" (Johnson, Julia Alvarez 33–34). Madeline Cámara Betancourt, in Cuban Women Writers: Imagining a Matria (2008), likewise illustrates that the concept suits both Cuban women’s writing and feminist psychoanalytic perspectives, such as those of Julia Kristeva and Luce Irigaray. She argues that only "a subversive women’s discourse can rewrite the Matria. Its liberating aspect creates a different ordering from that of the Law of the Father that applies in the male imaginary of the Patria" (9). Although both studies only partially explore matria as a theoretical concept, they do underscore the importance of language in constructing different Caribbean realities.

Both feminist psychoanalysts and postcolonial thinkers contend that language plays a crucial role in countering (M)aster discourses. In fact, matria as a postcolonial feminist alternative to the Latin word patria, can, as Gilbert suggests, revive the mother tongue (209). Resonating with Freud’s belief about the pre-Oedipal, within matria speech constitutes a different, mystically potent language, a mother tongue (Gilbert 198). Benstock elaborates that "the dream of matria is realizable through motherland and mother langue (26). Cámara Betancourt, however, reminds the reader that matria does not always entail a literal revival of the mother’s tongue on the writer’s part (144). For example, the Cuban woman writer can render what remains in her of Cuban identity into the English language (144). Within this study, bearing in mind colonial history, reader expectations, and current publishing practices—American publishers finding writing in English more profitable than translations (Paravisini-Gebert, Caribbean Literature in Spanish" 700), and Caribbean writers having more opportunities in terms of audience and financial gain with American presses (Maes-Jelinek and Ledent 185)⁵—English functions as a mother tongue and/or as the dominant vehicle in which to express one’s Caribbean identity. Caribbean women’s writing proposes an alternative language when the maternal past is recuperated, however, and as such constitutes a mode of resistance to dominant power structures, as Edwards suggests (321). The genre further seek[s] to give a language to the intrasubjective and corporeal experiences left mute by culture in the past (Kristeva 19), for example, Freud’s incomplete view of women.

As a literary concept, matria indicates a relation not only to psychoanalysis and feminist theory but also to regional movements that have historically downplayed women’s textual and political contributions such as Négritude, Antillanité, and Créolité. For example, Glissant’s pioneering work Le discours antillais (1981) (Caribbean Discourse) fails to consider gender; yet, his theorization of nonhistory, which addresses peoples once reputed to be without history (64), is particularly meaningful for Caribbean women’s lives. Matria Redux therefore argues that because, generally speaking, racial politics are a blind spot in psychoanalytic studies and gender politics are a blind spot in postcolonial studies, it is necessary to refashion and combine these theories. Caribbean women’s fictions of history further alert us to the disparaging of the mother in both postcolonial and psychoanalytic discourses: literal and symbolic matricides, as well as the daughter’s separation from the mother, her mother-land, and her mother-tongue, all loom as moments of crisis throughout Caribbean women’s historical fiction, thus making a vision for matria vital.

Women’s postcolonial fictions envisioning matria therefore emphasize the region’s shared maternal histories, claim the importance of the maternal to any theory of the Caribbean, and restructure the mother-daughter relation. Such acts also shift the emphasis away from a traditional colonial, patriarchal psychoanalytic reading of the family/History. Irigaray elaborates:

If we are not to be accomplices in the murder of the mother … [we must] assert that there is a genealogy of women. There is a genealogy of women within our family: on our mothers’ side we have mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers, and daughters. Given our exile in the family of the father-husband, we tend to forget this genealogy of women, and we are often persuaded to deny it. Let us try to situate ourselves within this female genealogy so as to conquer and keep our identity. Nor let us forget that we already have a history, that certain women have, even if it was culturally difficult, left their mark on history and that all too often we do not know them. (The Irigaray Reader 44)

Hence, a tradition of postcolonial women writers, crafting nuanced responses or counternarratives to canonical colonial and Caribbean scholarship in the form of mother-daughter plots and matria constructs, emerged in the 1980s.⁶ Analyzing women’s historical novels from a postcolonial-psychoanalytic feminist perspective that is attentive to materiality and historicity thus discloses the Caribbean woman writer’s desire to create a matri(a)lineage through novelizing her complex and pluralistic maternal past.

MOTHER-(IS)LANDS: DAUGHTERS FICTIONALIZE THE PAST

Matria Redux argues that although the post-1980 Caribbean woman’s historical novel has roots in early Afra-Caribbean writing—Marie Vieux-Chauvet’s La danse sur le volcan (1957) (Dance on the Volcano), Sylvia Wynter’s The Hills of Hebron (1962), Merle Hodge’s Crick Crack, Monkey (1970), and Simone Schwarz-Bart’s Pluie et vent sur Télumée Miracle (1972) (The Bridge of Beyond)—Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea (1966) has influenced scholarship the most; see, for example, Caroline Rody’s The Daughter’s Return: African-American and Caribbean Women’s Fictions of History (2001) or Véronique Maisier’s Violence in Caribbean Literature: Stories of Stones and Blood (2015). While recognizing Rhys’s contribution to the genre is necessary, this book demonstrates that it only partially relays the maternal literary heritage of the Caribbean woman’s historical novel. This section therefore outlines the challenges, such as restrictive genre parameters, male-dominated notions of history, and the exclusion of memory and mothering, that Caribbean women historical novelists and scholars have faced and sought to overcome.

My scholarship therefore belongs to and builds on the body of twenty-first-century literary criticism (e.g., Francis, Halloran, Harford Vargas, King, Machado Sáez, Mehta, Rody) on Caribbean women’s historical fiction. Rody’s focus on mother-daughter plots in African American and Caribbean women’s fictions of history (1970–1990) and her argument that a certain Caribbean romance with maternal history (10) characterizes the genre critically inform this study’s concept of matria. The centrality of gender and sexuality, as noted by Donette Francis, Rosamond S. King, and Elena Machado Sáez, likewise influences my consideration of mother-daughter bonds and matria. Meanwhile, the book’s organizational structure—slavery, colonialism, revolution, and decolonization—is guided by Vivian Nun Halloran’s nuanced exploration of the slave past through the lens of postmodernism, Brinda Mehta’s examinations of indentured servitude and colonialism, Jennifer Harford Vargas’s insightful work on dictatorships, and Elena Machado Sáez’s complex study of anticolonial dictatorship and revolutionary novels as shaping diasporic identity in the context of globalization/multiculturalism—a context that delocalizes and dehistoricizes the region and its writers; King’s and Francis’s consideration of how phallocentric histories of slavery, colonialism, and empire configure the postcolonial subject/citizen further elucidates the timeframes and texts under study. A distinct resistance to upholding a teleological march from slavery to independence marked by epochal moments of revolution and resistance embodied … by the male heroic figure (Francis 3) can also be detected when women’s lives and voices are taken into account.

My inclusion of both island and diasporic writers-texts also echoes recent comparative approaches to the region (Francis, Harford Vargas, King, Moreno) that seek to map the dialogic relation between these literatures and locations, without privileging one over another. For instance, King’s examination of the Cariglobal seeks to dispel the common belief that the island home represents a more authentic version of Caribbeanness while the diaspora offers more intellectual-creative-political freedom (6), or, as Machado Sáez puts it, seeing diaspora as offering a utopic alternative to the nation-state (192). Harford Vargas, meanwhile, articulates how the violence of US imperialism affects Caribbean women’s lives in strikingly similar ways, both abroad and domestically. She uses the term ‘Greater Cuba’ to move beyond the Cold War rhetoric that ossifies a strict binary between Cubans on the island and Cubans in exile, instead foregrounding … Cuban cultural production on and off the island (Forms of Dictatorship 150). Marisel Moreno’s comparison of Puerto Rican women’s writing from the island and from the diaspora (Family Matters) breaks new ground, while Donette Francis convincingly shows how analyzing [s]exual citizenship disrupts the boundaries between the public and the private while also unsettling the borders between nation and diaspora. Connecting female citizenship both inside and outside the region challenges the dichotomy that posits diaspora as an empowering ‘elsewhere’ of sexual liberation versus home as a space of sexual oppression (4). I am, however, mindful of Machado Sáez’s concern that the focus on mobility and hybridity as endemic aspects of Caribbeanness often leads to the conflation of the diaspora with the Caribbean island nation. The localities and contexts differentiating writing from the diaspora versus writing from the islands are suppressed, ignored, or elided; the risk is that diasporic writing comes to stand in for local island writing (14). Matria Redux’s analysis of contiguous and contingent, intimately linked … and mutually constitutive (Francis 4) mother-daughter plots in Caribbean women’s historical fiction thus aims to add another layer or dimension to the relation between island and diaspora.

For this reason, genre studies citing European (M)aster narratives, preoccupied with men’s experiences of sweeping historical events as well as a desire to create a national consciousness (Watson 69) that by and large excludes women, prove inappropriate. For example, analyses such as Georg Lukács’s 1937 study of Walter Scott’s Waverley (1814)⁷ do not accurately reflect Caribbean women’s historical novels, which employ fantastical elements, counter the official historical record, and/or include the author’s lifetime (Halloran 16). Similarly, an exclusive focus on men’s novels, such as in Paschal B. Kyiiripuo Kyoore’s The African and Caribbean Historical Novel in French: A Quest for Identity (1999), neglects women’s contributions and perpetuates a false notion that male authors—H. G. de Lisser, Edgar Mittelholzer, V. S. Naipaul, and Wilson Harris—are the genre’s pioneers (Wilson-Tagoe 285).⁸ Although Caribbean men’s historical novels decolonize authority and often centralize the ex-centrics, the marginalized, the peripheral figures (Hutcheon 114) of history, these works nonetheless rarely challenge patriarchal traditions. Often, female characters remain outliers, stereotypes, and/or incompletely realized.

The persistence of a male-dominated discourse that believes writing about ‘His/story’ is ‘a male prerogative’