In Search of Soul. Alejandro Nava

any presumption that black and Hispanic peoples naturally possess more “soul” than other groups. Assumptions of this kind are commonly called essentialisms in academic circles, meaning that they mistake historically contingent, cultural factors for genetic, racial, and biological factors.⁸ In North America the roots of this idea run deep, at least as far back as the nineteenth century, when some writers, influenced by European romanticism, began to see non-European cultures cultures as exotic, tropical alternatives to the cold glaciers of American Puritan culture, on the one hand, and as substitutes for the developing creeds of science, industrial capitalism, and materialism in North American life on the other.⁹ In these portraits, black and Hispanic lives were studies in the most vibrant kind of spirituality, bursting with sun-colored pigments: the red hues of emotional intensity, the dark blue pigments of anguish, the rainbows of hope and faith. In contrast to a world of black and white, these cultures gave us iridescent and polychromatic canvases, splashed with colors so variegated that they seemed like newly discovered works of impressionism. In certain ways this attitude—that blacks and Hispanics were aesthetically and spiritually advanced—represented progress over degrading notions of white supremacy and racism, but in other ways it left many of the pillars of prejudice intact, especially the presumption that these groups remained intellectually and morally deficient in spite of their admirable religious and artistic qualities.

      I think otherwise, and so if there is sympathy on behalf of African American and Hispanic conceptions of soul in my study, it diverges widely from claims that would turn soul into an innate or ontological quality of certain ethnic groups (romantic racialism is another label given this tendency).¹⁰ My interest is, instead, with the grammar of soul in these cultures, in the specific construction of this concept as it relates to the body of beliefs, values, and aesthetics of their traditions. I assume, then, that this concept is historically and socially acquired, and that religion, specifically biblical traditions, played a formative, yeast-like role in helping it rise and ripen. Understood this way, as a grammar or discourse, the concept of soul that developed in the twentieth century was a particular language and argot used by black and brown communities as a means of reclaiming the value and dignity of their embattled traditions. It was a language of dissent and prophecy, a countercultural trope allied with struggles for justice and equality (deeply indebted, in turn, to Jewish, Christian, and Islamic traditions).¹¹

      Because of the foundational influence of Christianity on these traditions, part I begins with a consideration of the idea of the soul in the Bible, with a special emphasis on literary approaches. Instead of a historical critical approach, I lean on literary and spiritual modes of exegesis, for the simple reason that these approaches are typically more effective in uncovering the contemporary meaning of these texts. While historical criticism assumes an existential distance and is usually more interested in the original purpose of a text than in present-day readings, I am advocating an existential engagement as the best way of approaching the soul of any text, religious or secular. Historical criticism is helpful in probing the skeleton of a text, but not its beating heart and soul, not its flesh and blood. We are better served by an approach that assumes a willingness to open ourselves “to something that deserves to be called their authority, whether we attribute that authority solely to the power of the human imagination or to a transcendent source of illumination.”¹² In granting these texts authority in these ways, we acknowledge the possibility that these narratives may influence, challenge, and change us, that they may be, as Franz Kafka said, “ice-axes to break the sea frozen inside us.”¹³

      If one wonders about the specific logic that governs my choice of themes—from biblical texts to modern literature and hip-hop—I would say that the key characters in this study have a special, often intense, preoccupation with the question of “soul,” a fluency with the rules and diction of this concept. Though the flair for “soul” in Federico García Lorca, Ralph Ellison, and hip-hop is a product of contemporary predicaments and themes (especially influenced by cultural nationalisms), these artists remain marked by the Bible’s seismic impact. In the quaking and quivering lines of their sketches of “soul”—resembling the trembling effect of the bass on hip-hop speakers—one can still detect numerous aftershocks from the biblical explosion. These mysterious palpitations and yearnings are the subject of part I.

      With the ancient roots of this concept excavated and explored, I shift attention to profane views in part II, considering how “soul” picks up modern nuances and becomes synonymous with the elegance of cultural and artistic achievements, especially in music. When turning to Lorca and Ellison, in particular, I consider the place of religion, music, folklore, and the vernacular in their portraits of soul (the subjects of chapters 4–5). For Lorca, gypsy ballads, deep song, and flamenco were the purest stuff of soul, the kind of art that was incubated in the heat of historical struggles among Spain’s disenfranchised and hunted populations, especially gypsies, Moors, and Jews. In his poetry one can hear the stirring melodies and rhythms of these soundscapes, the exclamations and cries, the jubilations and ecstasies, all echoing to make it acoustically rich. As one of Lorca’s friends once mentioned, he played with words and images as if they were musical instruments, giving the impression that he was always strumming the chords of a guitar or piano while he brought his poetry to life.¹⁴ About Ellison, a trained musician, the same can be said regarding black American culture: the blues and jazz echo in his mind and bounce off the walls and canyons of his novels. They are fundamental to his construction of soul as the tragic-comic attitude toward life.

      Finally, running up to the present, I don’t think that the soul of our age can be written about without considering the creative influence of the hip-hop generation on the spiritual geography of the twenty-first century. The way Ellison and Lorca once found inspiration in the folk music of their times, countless artists have found inspiration in the street ballads and vernacular eloquence of hip-hop. Whether in circles of literature, music, or cultural studies, hip-hop vibes have become the sound of the contemporary generation, leaving an indelible record of urban problems, conflicts, and innovations on the minds of countless artists and listeners throughout the world. In considering the soul’s fundamental kinship with music, hip-hop introduces certain themes and insights on the soul of the modern world that we ignore at our peril (the subject of chapters 6–7).

      SOUL AND HIP-HOP

      In many ways, the fundamental concerns of this study can be traced back to my earliest fascination with religion and hip-hop. My first introduction to the magic of words came from the profane tongues of rappers. Though I was drawn to a wide variety of musical genres in childhood, from Spanish music to soul and funk, the beats and rhymes of hip-hop had a magnetic appeal more than any other. Though the poetry was usually raw, bitter, and hard, it also had a sweet, smooth, honeyed influence on my ears. It was addictive and made me crave the taste and melody of words. Maybe it was the swagger of the poetry—garbled but eloquent—or the ability of the MC to form fluent patterns out of a bedlam of bass beats and ghetto noises; whatever it was, I was an early convert.

      With this enthusiasm for poetic style and idiomatic verve, mixed with a curiosity about religious questions, I eventually found myself in graduate school in Chicago, and this was one of the most elevating educational experiences of my life. Ideas and books nourished my sense of wonder in these years, swelling and raising it to new heights. At the same time, though, my education got a jolt from living on Chicago’s south side: Instead of elevating, I would say that it was grounding, as I began to notice with greater and greater alarm the scope of the poverty and violence only a stone’s throw from the University of Chicago’s Hyde Park campus. While my mind burrowed deep in books and libraries, my eyes and ears started to pick up on many of the battlegrounds on the south side, and the result was a schooling in ghetto life. When tempted to lose myself in books (the quixotic temptation that can addle one’s brain, as the case of Don Quixote proves), the pounding bass and gritty realism of hip-hop brought me back to hard truths and reminded me, á la Sancho Panza, or Hamlet’s dictum to Horatio, that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in intellectual life. In effect, the music forced me to scrutinize my education for its capacity, and sometimes failure, to spotlight the trials and tribulations of our world.

      By some nice happenstance, the years of my graduate education, the 1990s, coincided with rap’s most explosive growth and artistic inventiveness.