In
Transnational America, Inderpal Grewal reiterates what Kim and Parreñas also illustrate--that the U.S. and non-Western countries (India, Korea, the Philippines), are constructed in oppositional binaries, each defined by the other. To travel in space becomes to travel in time, as India, in this case, is constructed as a backward, traditional, primitive place unenlightened by the neoliberal feminism that would enable women to conspicuously consume whatever materials they desire. Two of Grewal's primary concerns in the text are to show
globalization to be the politicized, value-laden term that it is and to explain how it is often used in ways that makes it seem innocuous and inevitable. She has a similar mission for the term
cosmopolitanism. Variations of both of these terms are frequently used in popular discourse to explain "progress" and "development," to describe movement through time as an inevitable march toward the neoliberal, democratic end that Fukuyama imagines. Grewal's mission is to illustrate that notions of cosmopolitianism and globalization, that even the fact of the existence of the terms themselves, are dependent on the colonial and post-colonial nature of the relationship between the West and the non-West.
I was interested in the ways in which Grewal shows Ghosh, Mukherjee, and Divakaruni to be complicit in racist/neocolonialist myths about South Asia and the South Asian diasporas. I read all of Divakaruni's novels and stories when I was in high school. I was attempting to be what Grewal describes as a "world citizen," which "emerged as the consumer of multicultural, immigrant, and postcolonial novels through a neoliberalized difference in many regions." (79) I wish I could go back and know what I was thinking then as I read her words. My first semester at Alabama, I took a Victorian literature course entitled "Imagining British India." For the course, we were supposed to pretend to be imperial British subjects living on the island, with no knowledge of India save for what we read of it in the newspapers and novels of the day (which we read for class). The images of India as fragmented, backward, primitive, etc. presented in British press and literature in the 19th century are eerily similar to Grewal's description of contemporary portrayals today. As a high schooler, I consumed the novels "about" India because that was my way to access a distant land. Of course we have film and internet, now, but literature remains a powerful way to imagine access to the way other people live and feel. Much like Lee's descriptions of self-congratulatory white adoptive families, Grewal's "global citizens" are ignorant to the ways in which, as Massey would say, their access limits the access of others. By allowing so few diasporic voices to infiltrate culture stages, and especially voices that might challenge popular myths like the American Dream, we limit the possibilities of what a place or a people can be. Chimamanda Ngoza Adichie discusses this in her TED talk, "The Danger of a Single Story"; when we only allow one voice from a group to represent the experiences of that entire group, we believe that one voice to be true, and we cannot imagine that there is a diversity of experiences within that group. This limiting of voices also puts unfair pressure on novels, which are, after all, decidedly not non-fiction. When readers and writers place pressure on "ethnic" novels to do exclusively anthropological work rather than artistic, aesthetic work that will also reveal some version of the author's perspective of truth, we create an under-class of novels which are not measured by the artistic/aesthetic criteria of novel-hood that apply when a novel is not under extra pressure to teach its audience about an entire people or a place. What I am trying to say is that I think the U.S. publishing industry, and white male readers here, generally consume novels by immigrant writers, or writers of color, or white women, with different expectations than they bring to novels written by white men; one does not read Steven King or Tom Clancy to learn something about white men, or American society, because whiteness, masculinity, and U.S. citizenship are all dominant discourses and are therefore invisible. By the same token, one would not read Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni expecting a story of zombies or werewolves; there is an expectation of domestic realism, or exoticized magic realism, that still portrays cultural truths, for writing by immigrant writers in the United States. I am not at all saying that many, many writers don't write in completely divergent ways, but the immigrant or international writers who land major book deals and produce bestsellers in the U.S. generally follow this model.
I was also interested in Grewal's discussion of women's/human rights. The discourses on human rights and women's rights and the revamped "white man's burden" continue to pervade our political discourse today. The almost-intervention in Syria, the war in Iraq, and, most notably, the war in Afghanistan have all been justified by the need to spread human rights, and specifically women's rights. In order for this human rights/women's rights discourse to still function, Mohanty's monolithic image of the oppressed non-Western woman must be reiterated. What better stage to do this work than in literature? I was interested in Grewal's discussion of the ways in which the narratives of human rights are used to support totalitarian regimes as when she quotes Ilumoka as writing "at worst, human rights laws could become tools to punish subalterns." (128) Grewal frequently invokes Spivak, and she also problematizes the idea of citizenship, with the transnational argument that we are all influenced by each other, whether we leave our homelands or not.