By Isabel Hayler Hughes
In Apex Hides the Hurt, Colson Whitehead exposes the role of boundaries in the context of race, history and identity. This essay considers how Whitehead works to reinforce or destabilise these demarcations. I will first question the significance of demarcations constructed on the basis of the visible and how this perpetuates the imposition of surface-level solutions to the deep-rooted issue of structural racism. This will precede a discussion of capitalist institutions, adding “insult to injury” in their attempts at superficial diversification, and the barrier this creates to the expression and respect of collective and individual identity generated by this commodification (Whitehead 89). I will also consider the commodification of the protagonist himself, and how his own exploitation relates to the concept of a post-racial America, which I will then complicate further with an evaluation of the role of colonial legacy in the naming of the town. Whitehead also uses his protagonist’s position to bring into question the boundaries of identity. I will discuss how this influences the protagonist’s actions, namely his compartmentalisation of history in the process of naming the town.
As a central theme of the novel, Whitehead challenges the boundaries of what is visible in the context of identity. Stephanie Li argues that “[m]etaphors of race in African American literature have generally been characterised through visual terms;” however, Whitehead transgresses this norm by demonstrating that the concept of race, and the implications of racism, go beyond what can be observed at a superficial level (68). Whitehead employs Apex bandages as a metaphor for surface-level solutions to discrimination, and explains that the “deep psychic wounds of history and the more recent gashes ripped by the present,” can supposedly be “erased” by one “multicultural adhesive bandage” (Whitehead 90). Whitehead’s use of sticking plasters as a solution is laughable as it is designed for minor injuries. This satire serves to demonstrate that bandages are clearly inadequate for remedying the “deep” wounds and “gashes” caused by years of racism. This superficiality exemplifies the novelist’s suggestion that race exceeds the visible; it is instead a construct that is rooted in lived experience and history. Dorothy E. Roberts illustrates the concept of race being socially constructed in her assertion that “race is a political system that governs people by sorting them into social groupings based on invented biological demarcations” (2). Here, the twenty devised hues of Apex bandages are rendered obsolete, as they are purely designed to cater to “biological demarcations” (Roberts 2). Instead, Roberts suggests that society has created boundaries founded upon physical characteristics which humans have decided signify race. However, these boundary lines are intangible, as there is not enough biological difference between humans to constitute different races: there “is only one human race” (Roberts 2). Paradoxically, Whitehead draws attention to the intangibility of race in the novel by contrasting it with tangible barriers in the form of Apex bandages. The ridiculous inadequacy of categorisation based on visible characteristics is symbolised by the fact that the diversity of skin tone cannot be captured in twenty shades. Whitehead employs these flimsy barriers to the wounds of history as visual reminders that no human’s experience can be fully encapsulated in one visible category named “race.”
Furthermore, in an ironic attempt to showcase diversity, Apex bandages ultimately discriminate between people based on skin tone. The packaging of twenty hues into boxes, establishes rigid borders. The company’s sticking-plaster solution to racism is to mix the colours and package them as variety packs for “integrated elementary schools” (Whitehead 89). The adjective “integrated” is relatively archaic, suggesting that segregation is in the recent past, and thus still in the protagonist’s consciousness. Despite this, the protagonist reveals the laziness of capitalist institutions in terms of political correctness and accurate representation, as the colour range “didn’t have to be perfect, just not too insulting” (Whitehead 89). This lack of respect for diversity very much adds “insult to injury” rather than acting as a remedy (Whitehead 89). In refusing to leave the boundaries of their corporate “zone of comfort,” the company profits from the superficial solution to the problem caused by the system of which they are a component (Whitehead 89).
Whitehead’s presentation of sticking plasters as barriers between historical racism and the present, in turn, reveals the commodification of race. Superficially suturing the wounds of racism leads to box-ticking solutions to the need for diversity at a corporate level. For example, the protagonist is the only Black man working for the company, which can be interpreted as a tokenistic demonstration of diversity. Li furthers this notion, claiming that “the superficial diversification of many political and corporate institutions” worsens rather than destabilises “oppressive racial hierarchies” (69). As discussed, race extends beyond colour, with “injury and trauma,” offering “a new model of conceptualizing racial difference” (Li 69). Whitehead’s use of the band-aid as a colourful, “multicultural” (90), physical commodity symbolises this “superficial diversification” of both capitalist institutions, and the demographic to whom the product is distributed; this fuels the suggestion that race was manufactured as a concept to serve capitalist pursuits (Li 69). Historically, this fabrication of race is rooted in the sixteenth century, when enslaved Africans began to be considered the property of their masters (Roberts 5). Whitehead nods to the legacy of this commodifying attitude, as the protagonist markets skin colour by compacting the nuances of identity “into a convenient package” (Whitehead 7), which serves as a contemporary manifestation of the manufactured nature of race for which Roberts argues (6). Whitehead then suggests that constructing neat boundaries between historic and present trauma causes further exploitation of certain identities for capitalist interest.
This exploitation also relates to the commodification of the protagonist, who appears to be both complicit in the erasure of history and a slave to capitalist production himself. Whitehead implements his protagonist as a “bridge” between “social naming and corporate naming” (Whitehead, “Interview with Colson Whitehead”). However, the main character struggles to overcome a barrier within his own identity; ironically, his job is to conjure names for objects, yet he himself remains unnamed throughout the novel. The protagonist’s lack of name implies a disposability that is intrinsic to capitalist culture, as he is a slave to his employer. For example, Whitehead asserts “he was available, so he went,” suggesting that the protagonist has become an object of exploitation (Whitehead 8). Li exemplifies this objectification, asserting that he “passively allow[s] his race to fuel the colour-blind fantasies of others” (70). I argue that the protagonist’s lack of regard for his own identity seeps into his mindset when naming the town, which is steeped in African-American history. This ahistorical, “colour-blind” approach arguably anticipates the fantasy of a post-racial America that was prevalent during Obama’s campaign, which began around two years after the novel’s publication (Li 70). The protagonist’s proposition of the name “New Prospera” erases the boundaries of history, with the capitalist aim of reproducing it anew (Whitehead 106). He believes that “New Prospera” will bring a “world of opportunities” to the town, thus reinforcing the capitalist sentiment while ignoring the town’s historical significance (Whitehead 106). Here, a parallel can be drawn with colonialism, as the pursuit of opportunities in the “new world” results in the disregard of colonised people’s identities and rights.
The protagonist’s compartmentalisation of history in the naming process for the town reveals its commodification. This disregard for history is illustrated in the fact that despite his acknowledgement that there “was heritage and history involved” and “a family and clan to think about,” he ultimately treats it in the same way as the products he markets (Whitehead 31). This inconsideration reveals a lack of delineation between heritage and commodity, which is furthered by the bartender’s assertion that “this was a coloured town once” that was “founded by free black men” (Whitehead 25). Winthrop’s subsequent construction of his factory usurped this cultural identity, instead commercialising the town as a site of consumerism rather than history. Here, the bartender attempts to re-establish the boundaries between identity and commodification that have been violated, emphasising that Winthrop “came here after,” when he arrived “with his factory and put [the town] on the map” (Whitehead 25). This instance serves as an allegory for colonialist endeavours, as colonisers “discovered,” exploited, and placed the communities established by the original settlers on the map. This allusion is furthered by the protagonist’s claim that the names he manufactures “represent a territory within himself and he would bring back specimens to the old world” (Whitehead 35). In this phrase, the novelist creates a semantic field of occupation with nouns such as “territory,” and “specimen,” which have undeniable colonial connotations. Just as colonisers would cross physical borders to occupy territories, this metaphor illustrates his complicity in the capitalist venture into the commodification of history.
Alternatively, the protagonist consistently inhabits a form of no-man’s-land, falling between boundaries of identity, as well as living in limbo spaces. He exists in a liminal space as an “anonymous” Black man who has climbed “the ranks of white-dominated institutions” (Li 70). Whitehead illustrates this experience through the protagonist’s prestigious college education, which enables him to cross demarcations imposed by education, class, and race. By sporting the college brand, he learns that “some names are keys and open doors” where there would otherwise have been barriers (Whitehead 69). This explains his conviction that names and marketing can change the reception of a person, place, or product, and bring them all to the level of a commodity.
In this essay I evaluate Whitehead’s depiction of the influence of boundaries on the intersections between race, history and capitalist venture. The novelist emphasises how the capitalist tendency to commodify race worsens the inadequacy of superficial barriers as solutions to the profound issue of racism. As Jennifer Reese describes, the novel is a “blurry satire,” and Whitehead took a risk by employing an object so mundane as the band-aid as a metaphor for this. Reese’s analysis is arguably a superficial reading in itself, as Whitehead clarifies that his work “is not really about [bandages]” (Whitehead, “Interview with Colson Whitehead”). Whitehead’s allegory evokes discomfort or confusion for some readers because it arises in the face of a hard truth, which reinforces its significance. Whitehead’s choice to commodify racial history and marginalised identities exemplifies the novel’s self-awareness; it demonstrates how superficial attempts at diversification ultimately maintain rather than destabilise the barrier of structural racism.
Works Cited
Whitehead, Colson. Interviewed by Time Out New York. “Interview with Colson Whitehead.” Alma Books. 2007. https://web.archive.org/web/20070712064320/http://www.almabooks.co.uk/Apex/ApexInterview/ApexInterview.html
Li, Stephanie. “Hiding the Invisible Hurt of Race.” Signifying without Specifying: Racial Discourse in the Age of Obama, pp. 68-99. Project MUSE. https://muse.jhu.edu/book/14172
Reese, Jennifer. “Apex Hides the Hurt.” Entertainment Weekly. 22 March 2006. https://ew.com/article/2006/03/22/apex-hides-hurt/
Roberts, Dorothy E. Fatal Invention. New Press, 2011.
Whitehead, Colson. Apex Hides the Hurt. Anchor Books, 2006