When a white writer portrays a black character, racial stereotypes and literary patterns almost always reveal their power. The portraits of blacks take forms that are by now archetypal: the mammy, Stepin Fetchit, the buck, the unspoiled primitive, the member of the oppressed black proletariat…. Such forms come all too easily to white writers; but “modern realism,” as Erich Auerbach called it, comes hard. Thus, white writers can seldom present a “tragically conceived life” of a black character and set that life solidly in a black culture. In portraying blacks, white writers tend toward the sentimental, the satiric, and the didactic rather than “objective seriousness, which seeks to penetrate to the depths of the passions and entanglements of a human life, but without itself becoming moved, or at least without betraying that it is moved” (Auerbach, 457 and 490). Although William Faulkner often tumbles – and sometimes leaps – into those pitfalls, occasionally he avoids them altogether. When he does so, however, readers find his work particularly hard to understand. His story “That Evening Sun” is a case in point.

This article uses the World Congress on Evangelism held in Berlin in 1966 to explore the cultural dimensions of US leadership in the world of global evangelism post-World War II. It shows how a close alliance with technology and business, as well as traditional anticommunism and belief in Western civilization, spurred US evangelicals to assume global leadership. A closer examination of the cultural and spiritual atmosphere of the congress reveals, however, that beneath the apparent American leadership tensions emerged around race and social issues, expressed forcefully by new theological and political voices from the developing world. These tensions were negotiated through common practices and behaviours, such as during prayer sessions, dinner conversations, and discussions groups, and allowed a genuine transnational evangelical community to arise.

Over the past two decades Jacksonian historiography has been enriched by the publication of a large number of scholarly articles and monographs. Legislative voting in the states and in Congress has been analysed, the social composition of the two major parties has been studied, the mechanics of the political system have been scrutinized and political ideas have been reexamined. The present article will be concerned with ideology, the belief system of the Jacksonian Democratic party. It will deal specifically with the Jacksonian conception of equality. Surprisingly, this is a facet of Democratic ideology to which relatively little attention has been paid.

In The American Political Tradition, published in 1948, Richard Hofstadter presented what is perhaps the standard view of Jacksonian equality. He cited Andrew Jackson's Bank Veto Message of 1832. Jackson here affirmed that

Distinctions in society will always exist under every just government. Equality of talents, of education, or of wealth cannot be produced by human institutions. In the full enjoyment of the gifts of Heaven and the fruits of superior industry, economy, and virtue, every man is equally entitled to protection by law.

Hofstadter concluded that this was “certainly … not the philosophy of a radical leveling movement that proposes to uproot property or to reconstruct society along drastically different lines.”

This article traces the postbellum development and dissemination of the notion of “negro superstition.” By the end of Reconstruction, many whites across the nation, both liberal and conservative, shared in the belief that credulity was the keystone of African American culture. The formulation of superstition as innate racial trait served the conjoined causes of sectional reconciliation and white supremacy, eroding white support for black citizenship. As liberal estimations of black Christianity declined and conservative depictions of African American magical beliefs proliferated, “voodoo” gained traction as a potent imaginary, shorthand for racial atavism, unreason, and dangerous sexuality.

Recently, revisionist scholars of the “new Western history” have challenged the frontier thesis of Frederick Jackson Turner who, in 1893, canonized a view of the American West as wild and uncivilized, an area penetrated, conquered and subdued by the rugged individual fighter. These historians point out that highly developed Indian civilizations existed in the West, that “cultural convergence” not conquest was the historical reality, and that women played a prominent role in the over-all story. What has gone unnoticed by these revisionist scholars, however, was an earlier attempt by a Victorian woman artist to re-write the myth of the West in her own time, a re-telling much like the new Western scholars of today.

On the morning of 4 August 1892, between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m., Abby Durfee Borden and Andrew Jackson Borden were murdered with an axe in their home in Fall River, Massachusetts. Why did the case spark so much interest at the time? Why did throngs of people literally block the street gawking at the Borden residence? Why did the country’s leading newspaper devour and report the daily happenings in this small New England town? Why, a century later, are ‘‘whodunit?’’ novels, plays, and films still being made about this gruesome double murder?

This article explores the gendered potential and limitations of eastern bloc immigration to the United States under Eisenhower and his Secretary of State, John Foster Dulles. When Dulles endorsed the romantic marriage of Czechoslovakian Olympic gold medalist Olga Fikotova to fellow Olympic winner – and American – Harold Connolly in 1957, he engineered a cultural-diplomacy coup that complimented the president's New Look brinkmanship abroad. Feminine, heteronormative, Protestant, and a world champion, Fikotova initially seemed an ideal Cold War immigrant. When she and her new husband arrived on American shores amid media fanfare, though, she exercised her newfound freedom of speech to criticize American social problems and advocate women's equality.

Nineteenth-century exslave narratives allow us to understand the way in which freedmen, freedwomen, and runaways experienced and enjoyed liberty. In such narratives, liberty, naturally enough, it seems, is the opposite of slavery. Once free, one was no longer a slave. Yet we should view this understanding of slavery and freedom as a problem in itself, as a rhetorical and time-bound use of the notions of enslavement and liberty. This article argues that an early exslave narrativist, John Jea, articulated a dichotomous, unrealistic, yet characteristically American, notion of the relationship between slavery and freedom: that anyone who is not a slave is free. Expressed in evangelical Protestantism, liberal individualism, and laissez-faire economics, this notion was a staple of nineteenth-century American ideology. It is no longer a convincing notion, since it obscures not only the variety of the experience of slaves, freemen, and freewomen, but also the forms of bondage that accompanied slavery and survived it. As a man of the nineteenth century, Jea seems never to have comprehended the ways that he remained unfree once he was manumitted. As a black man and exslave, Jea might have been one of those most sensitive to the persistence of bondage after slavery, but he was not. Surely this suggests how convincing, yet how false, was new thought about slavery and freedom in the early nineteenth century.

This article examines how contemporary Cuban American artists have experimented with visual languages of trauma to construct an intergenerational memory about the losses of exile and migration. It considers the work of artist Alberto Rey, and his layering of individual loss onto other, traumatic episodes in the history of the Cuban diaspora. In the series Las Balsas (The Rafts, 1995–99), Rey explores the impact of the balsero (rafter) crisis of 1994 by transforming objects left behind by Cuban rafters on their sometimes ill-fated journeys to the United States into commemorative relics. By playing on a memory of absence and the misplacement of objects found along the migration route of the Florida Straits, Rey's visual language transmits the memory of grief across time, space and generational divides. Rey's visual strategies are part of an “extended memory” tied to the aesthetics of disappearance and remembrance in contemporary Cuban American art. His use of objects as powerful memory texts that serve to bring fragmented autobiographical, family and intergenerational testimonies of loss together suggests how visual artists can provide us with more collective, participatory and redemptive models of memory work.

Since its reclamation in the 1970s, Edward S. Curtis's project to exhaustively photograph and describe American Indian cultures in the early twentieth century has invited shifting critical assessments. Complicating earlier arguments that it represents a nostalgic and inauthentic drama of a “vanishing” race, in which Indians functioned merely as props, recent scholars seek to recover his sitters’ agency or contemporary artists’ acts of reclamation. This article contributes to those efforts, but by exploring the temporal ambiguities inherent in the notion – then common among ethnographic photographers – of “preserving” a people for future viewers. It thus examines a photograph that Curtis contributed in 1913 to the Modern Historic Records Association, a short-lived organization that intended to assemble time capsules and archival vaults for historians in the distant future. Focussing on this single photograph – “The Oath – Apsaroke” (1908) – also allows us to track the way that Curtis's images could break free from his book project and resonate unpredictably across multiple domains, such as debates over the existence and meaning of Indian oaths.

In the late summer of 1996 Iraqi troops moved into the Kurdish “safe haven” in Northern Iraq, thereby triggering a crisis of national security for the United States. Unsurprisingly, this incident led to speculation in the media about the nature of President Clinton's response. Would he be able to meet this test of his leadership? What form would any military action take? Would it be strong enough, or would it be an overreaction? In the event, the president ordered two cruise missile strikes against Iraqi defence installations and substantially extended the no-fly zone in Southern Iraq set up after the Gulf War. These actions were the subject of debate in the United States Senate and, after some partisan wrangling, and a few rumbles of complaint about inadequate consultation, a non-binding resolution endorsing the missile strikes was approved by a vote of 96–1. But, as was noted by the press, “none of this really mattered because such ‘sense of the Senate’ resolutions have no binding effect and are largely ignored, even inside the Beltway.”

What was striking about this incident was that throughout the crisis the United States Congress was little more than a bystander. Inevitably all eyes turned to the president. It was he and not the national legislature that became the focus of public and media attention. Does he have the mettle needed? What will he do, and will his actions be sufficient to deal with the situation? These were the sort of questions being debated on the talk shows and in the press. To put it bluntly, at this moment, there was little interest in what the legislature might say or do, the mighty Congress, at this point at least, was reduced to a role comparable, dare it be said, to that of the British House of Commons. The situation called for leadership and decisive action and no one was under any illusion that the legislature could provide either, only the president was in a position to meet these needs. When it comes to the making of foreign policy, and particularly when crises of national security arise, the president, it seems, is inevitably, the main player, the senior partner.

Worker correspondence was a form of found poetry employed by radical left writers during the 1930s. Readers' letters to publications such as New Masses and the Daily Worker were reworked with end stops and presented as free verse. This essay examines the practice of worker correspondence as a form of readymade, a consciously avant-gardist collision of politics and “high” culture. This examination is put forward as a reflection on current thinking on the literary left of the Depression decade and – along the way – suggests points of contact with the Objectivist poetics of George Oppen, Louis Zukofsky and Charles Reznikoff.

This article explores how contemporary US black poetics evidences the entanglement of the history of lyric with the history of race. Through readings of the work of Claudia Rankine, Evie Shockley, Tyehimba Jess and Terrance Hayes, I make the case that this poetics situates American lyric within the violence of Reconstruction to imagine how Black Reconstruction may be enacted in cultural form. My contention is that this poetics makes lyric “unfit for history” and thus exposes the racialization processes embedded in poetry's modern life forms. I show how this poetics does not simply recuperate lyric subjectivity but presents a different model of subjectivity altogether, one that is rooted in a fugitive idea of blackness. I locate this lyric from the publication of Shockley's the new black (2011), as a reckoning with the failures of representation that were pronounced in the colour-blind politics of the Obama era and chart it to Hayes's engagement with Trumpian politics in his sonnet sequence American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin (2018). I argue that this contemporary poetics, which makes its argument through a destabilization of genre, unravels the racialization processes embedded in the form of reading poetry that Virginia Jackson refers to as “lyricization.”