Thus far, we’ve read multiple accounts on what it means to define one’s identity in relation to race, history, and the social implications that follow. Of all of these, Ralph Ellison, Franz Fanon, and Zora Neale Hurston magnetically drew my attention to the contrast between silence and sound, along with the influence both of these can have on the speaker’s ability to act. While Fanon feels stifled by the burden of silence, and Hurston feels free through her soulful relationship with music, Ellison bridges the gap between the two, emphasizing the bittersweet “blue” beauty of both silence and sound. These moments, found at times in the brief tension between the notes of a song, or in the hum of quiet contemplation, allow the narrator to explore his identity and empower him into action.

One of the more significant themes in Ellison’s Invisible Man is this responsibility to separate oneself from those things that inhibit action, follow what you believe in to make change, and inspire others to do the same. “I believe in nothing if not action”(Ellison, 13) the narrator reminds us, whenever he feels the need to explain why his narrative has taken a particular turn, and one of the first experiences he shares with us is his listening to Louis Armstrong. Explaining how Armstrong “made poetry out of being invisible” and how “my own grasp of invisibility aids me to understand his music”(8), the narrator dives into a beautiful description of how the notes flow, transcending time, and moving the listener to not only hear, but feel the sound. He and Armstrong are both made invisible by society, but they can communicate a feeling that is imperceptible to most listeners who only hear the obvious notes. The narrator describes how “the unheard sounds came through…and waited patiently for the other voices to speak…I not only entered the music, but descended, like Dante, into its depths”(9). This powerful silence in between the notes of sound may not be detectable by everyone, but once it has woken the narrator, it serves as somewhat of an anthem for what he believes he must do. 

Although Fanon likewise explores this significance and weight of sound, he ultimately feels overwhelmed by its burden, while Ellison finds a way to tame and use it. Both Fanon and Ellison’s narrator reject the humility they feel pressured to accept like amputated victims of social circumstance, but Fanon ends his essay on a dejected note: “the disemboweled silence fell back upon me…without responsibility, straddling Nothingness and Infinity, I began to weep” (Fanon). The narrator in Invisible Man however, contemplates the meaning of silence, emptiness, and invisibility in a different light. Drawing parallels between the imperceptible notes of Armstrong’s music, and the silence that followed in the hour he spent quietly contemplating, the narrator concludes that “it was a strangely satisfying experience for an invisible man to hear the silence of sound. I had discovered unrecognized compulsions of my being”(Ellison, 13). Unlike Fanon’s surrender to the heavy silence, the narrator embraces it and uses it to gain strength. 

Similarly, Hurston explores the power music can have on those conscious enough to pick up on it’s nuances, though unlike Ellison’s narrator, she doesn’t utilize this awareness to take action. Recounting a moment in time where she sat at a jazz ensemble performance, Hurston takes us on a musical journey similar to that of the narrator’s in Invisible Man. Using breathtaking imagery, she illustrates the soulful highs and lows, the tension in the silence between the notes, and the transcendental experience that results. In disbelief, she explains her white neighbor’s response: “the great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt…He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored” (Hurston). Ellison’s narrator experiences music in a similar manner, but he takes the experience a step further by allowing it to light a fire in him, inspiring him to take action as a result. He states: “there is a certain acoustical deadness in my hole, and when I have music I want to feel its vibration, not only with my ear but with my whole body”(Ellison, 8). While “at first [he] was afraid; this familiar music had demanded action”(12) that he felt he might not be capable of, his belief in action proves much stronger than his fear. 

In the end, Ellison’s narrator embraces his exploration of both silence and sound. Although silence may at times be overwhelming just like Armstrong’s soulful music can be almost unbearably blue, the narrator, feeling a passionate responsibility to be the voice of the unheard and the invisible, decides to swallow his fear and take action.