51 pages • 1 hour read
The practice of naming had a fraught history for African Americans following the violence and erasure of the Middle Passage. For Kossola, slavery severed ties between millions of Black people and their African heritage. For many who were born in the Americas, common practices like selling loved ones separately often estranged people from their own parents, siblings, and spouses. Naming and renaming holds significance because it can strip people of their identities. Conversely, however, naming can hold the power of reaffirming one’s own identity and heritage. In Barracoon, Kossola’s life story demonstrates both destructive and reaffirming relationships to naming.
Kossola had multiple names, and slavery was the main cause of this. In Chapter 1, he tells Hurston:
My name is not Cudjo Lewis. It Kossula. When I gitter in Americky soil, Mr. Jim Meaher he try callee my name, but it too long, you unnerstand me, so I say, “Well, I yo’ property?” He say, “Yeah.” Den I say, “You callee me Cudjo. Dat do.” But in Afficky soil my mama she name me Kossula (49).
He explains that he changed his name to the one he’s known by in the US—”Cudjo Lewis”—for the ease of Jim Meaher and other white people who had difficulty pronouncing his African name. “Cudjo,” then, represents his bondage and his forced assimilation into a culture that didn’t understand him. Kossola tells Hurston that when he and his fellow countrymen first boarded the slave ship, “de Many-costs snatch our country cloth off us” (101). This stripping of his clothes is perhaps analogous to the way Kossola is, too, stripped of his name. Most enslaved African people were renamed in the process of their bondage, which is why many African Americans today bear traditionally European names (often of British origin). By losing “Oluale Kossola” and gaining “Cudjo Lewis,” Kossola had his heritage taken from him.
However, while Kossola was forcibly taken from Bantè, his captors couldn’t take Bantè out of Kossola. Once free, Kossola found pride in reestablishing the value of African names. When he tells Hurston about his wife, he gives both her African and American names—Abila/Seely. Likewise, he and his wife were intentional about giving each of their children both an African and an American name. Kossola says, “We been married ten months when we have our fist baby. We call him Yah-jimmy, just de same lak we was in de Afficky soil. For Americky we call him Aleck” (119). In doing this, all while raising his family in the newly established Africa Town, Alabama, Kossola reaffirmed his heritage and his culture. The significance of the African name is great for Kossola himself as well. When Hurston calls him “Kossola” he says, “Nobody don’t callee me my name from cross de water but you. You always callee me Kossula, jus’ lak I in de Affica soil!” (54). The joy he felt when Hurston called his name wasn’t only because she was saying his birth name but because she was affirming his identity and heritage.
Kossola’s name goes through multiple spellings. Within Barracoon, he’s referred to as “Kossola” by editor Deborah G. Plant, and as “Kossula” by Hurston. Internet searches of him yield the spelling “Kazoola” as well. These varied spellings reflect the challenge of transliterating a name that has origins in another culture and language, but they all convey roughly the same thing phonetically: his true name. Kossola’s birth name serves as an affirmation of his identity and his heritage. Referring to him as such discursively challenges the social mechanisms of slavery that actively estranged people from their families and from themselves.
While Hurston is credited as the author of Barracoon, the story is Kossola’s. The conditions of production for the text are unusual, in a way that often makes questions of authorship complex. Barracoon is largely a transcription of an oral account. In this sense, it’s an autobiography. However, Hurston structured the text and the overarching narrative and put it into written form. This makes Barracoon a truly collaborative text, with two authors. Other works bear similarities with Barracoon. A comparison with these other texts helps illuminate the unique aspects of Barracoon as well as common strategies in transcribed autobiographies.
First, Barracoon could be compared to a text like The History of Mary Prince, a West Indian Slave (1831), which is the autobiography of Mary Prince, a previously enslaved Caribbean woman. Prince’s book is considered a slave narrative. Most popular in England and the US, slave narratives were a popular genre of formerly enslaved people’s autobiography that circulated on the abolitionist circuit in the 18th and 19th centuries. These narratives typically followed a similar formula and structure, starting with the person’s birth and ending shortly after self-emancipation, and were always politically motivated toward the cause of abolition. While most slave narratives were written by previously enslaved persons, some were transcribed, as was Mary Prince’s story. The History of Mary Prince was transcribed by a white woman named Susanna Moodie, whose approach to transcribing was similar to Hurston’s. Both were intentional about faithfully representing their subject’s speech. Moodie aims to “retai[n], as far as was practicable, Mary’s exact expressions and peculiar phraseology” (The History of Mary Prince, iii). Likewise, Hurston says that Kossola “has been permitted to tell his story in his own way without the intrusion of interpretation” (34). While Moodie and Hurston both used this technique, Barracoon still differs substantially. It was written in the 1920 and 30s, long after the political imperatives and social context of the abolitionist movement. Hurston recorded Kossola’s story not as a propagandistic tool but as an anthropological exploration. Thus, the texts fundamentally differ in tone, correlating to many differences in experience for Prince and Kossola as well.
Barracoon consists of a narrative of the life of an enslaved person in a post-emancipation era. Likewise, Biografía de un cimarrón (Biography of a Maroon), published in 1966, tells the life story of former enslaved Cuban man Esteban Montejo, who dictated his story to Miguel Barnet. Like Kossola, Montejo was elderly at the time and one of the few people still living who had endured slavery. Barnet interviewed him extensively and did his best to represent Montejo’s style of speech, much like Moodie and Hurston. However, as the book’s title indicates, Montejo managed to self-emancipate and live for a time as a maroon (a fugitive from slavery, often living in a maroon community of other fugitives). Further, he was born in Cuba, whereas Kossola was born in Africa and never self-emancipated, being freed during the Civil War instead.
Barracoon is therefore in some ways comparable to the standard slave narrative, especially that of Mary Prince, while in other ways it belongs more among transcribed autobiographies of enslaved people post-emancipation. Regardless, it must be read among transcribed autobiographies for their unique conditions and the imperatives they place on the transcriber to represent the author’s speech. Such texts, like Barracoon, are truly unique as being simultaneously autobiographies and written by the hand of someone other than the speaker.
An important aspect of Hurston’s strategy for constructing Barracoon is that she prioritizes memory over history. Rather than writing her anthropological narrative according to formal historiography, Hurston favors a lens aimed at small and personal details that allows room for the subjective. In doing so, she centers the narrative of a marginalized person in a way that challenges how standard histories reinforce marginalization.
While history purports to be objective, memory is openly subjective. Hurston uses her introduction to provide historical context around the main narrative of Barracoon. However, her primary interest is in Kossola and his telling. Consequently, she’s willing to submit to the meandering and flaws in an elderly man’s memory. Fortunately for Hurston, Kossola has a good memory. He tells her, “I doan fuhgitee nothin. I ‘member everything since I de five year old” (60). While Kossola remembers well, the story of his life is filtered through his own perspective—of pain when Bantè is attacked, of confusion when he gets to the US, of anger when he’s hit by a train. While we accept and understand that memory is subjective, we can’t as easily accept that the opposite is true of history. Hurston writes of her composition of Barracoon, “The thought back of the act was to set down essential truth rather than fact of detail, which is so often misleading” (34). By “misleading,” she refers to “facts” and history are often affected by the subjective desires and interpretations of those recording them. By leaning on memory, Hurston avoids assuming some greater truth in history.
History focuses on large-scale events and powerful figures; memory focuses on the personal and attends to minute details. Hurston could have written Barracoon in such a way that Kossola’s life story was secondary, narrative fluff to an overarching story about the history of the illegal slave trade in the mid-19th century and the Civil War. Instead, she chose to prioritize elements that were more personally relevant to Kossola. Where a history would have focused only on major actors, Barracoon allows room for Kossola to, for example, list the names of each of his children. The Appendix describes games he likely played as a child and fun folktales he told Hurston. While history often covers great issues of war, Barracoon covers war too but in the form of memory. It focuses on Kossola’s perspective, his grief, and what he saw. In this way, Hurston keeps Barracoon always close to Kossola’s point of view, never veering off into the impersonal style of much traditional historical writing. Because Hurston composed Barracoon in a style that prioritized memory over history, she could “reject […] the objective-observer stance of Western scientific inquiry for a participant-observer stance” (23). Hurston made sure to fact-check, but Barracoon was ultimately more about Kossola than the history of the mid-century illegal slave trade.
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