Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon is not just a novel; it’s a profound exploration of identity, heritage, and the intricate tapestry of African American life. This masterpiece, often studied and celebrated, delves into the life of Macon “Milkman” Dead III, charting his complex journey from detached apathy to self-discovery. For readers seeking a rich narrative that intertwines family saga with mythological undertones, Song of Solomon remains a compelling and endlessly rewarding read.
At its heart, Song of Solomon is a coming-of-age story, but one that transcends typical genre boundaries. It unfolds as a multi-layered family saga, with Milkman Dead as its central figure – Morrison’s first male protagonist. Unlike her earlier works such as The Bluest Eye and Sula, which foregrounded female experiences, Song of Solomon initially appears to shift focus to masculinity and Black manhood. However, Morrison masterfully uses this male lens to illuminate the powerful, often overlooked, roles and experiences of women within the narrative.
The women in Song of Solomon are unforgettable. They are portrayed as figures often left behind, tethered to domesticity and societal expectations, bearing the weight of survival. While men in the novel are frequently associated with the desire for flight and escape – both literally and metaphorically – women embody groundedness, resilience, and a deep connection to the earth and family roots. We witness their strength in the face of abandonment, their susceptibility to heartbreak, and the consuming nature of their love for the men in their lives. These women often seek in men a sense of stability, a representation of “home” in a world that often denies them security.
“You can’t own a human being. You can’t lose what you don’t own. Suppose you did own him. Could you really love somebody who was absolutely nobody without you? You really want somebody like that? Somebody who falls apart when you walk out the door? You don’t, do you? And neither does he. You’re turning over your whole life to him. Your whole life, girl. And if it means so little to you that you can just give it away, hand it to him, then why should it mean any more to him? He can’t value you more than you value yourself.”
This powerful quote encapsulates a central theme regarding the women in Song of Solomon: the danger of losing oneself in the pursuit of male validation. Many female characters in the novel have, to varying degrees, stifled their own identities and voices, seeking self-definition through their relationships with men. This silencing often manifests in destructive or painful ways. Interestingly, the women who achieve a measure of independence are often those marginalized by societal norms, suggesting a complex relationship between societal acceptance and female autonomy within the novel’s world.
Lena, for instance, initially appears trapped in a similar pattern of silenced identity. Growing up under the patriarchal dominance of her father and brother, she and her sister Corinthians are often unheard. However, Lena’s journey is one of awakening. She finds her voice through confrontation, realizing the extent to which she has been silenced and rejecting the imposed patriarchal order. Her powerful monologue to Milkman, her brother, marks a turning point:
“What do you know about somebody not being good enough for somebody else? You’ve been laughing at us all your life. Corinthians. Mama. Me. Using us, ordering us, and judging us: how we cook your food; how we keep your house. Who are you to approve or disapprove anybody or anything? I was breathing air in the world thirteen years before your lungs were even formed. Corinthians, twelve but now you know what’s best for the very woman who wiped the dribble from your chin because you were too young to know how to spit. Our girlhood was spent like a found nickel on you. When you slept, we were quiet; when you were hungry, we cooked; when you wanted to play, we entertained you; and when you got grown enough to know the difference between a woman and a two-toned Ford, everything in this house stopped for you. Where do you get the right to decide our lives? I’ll tell you where. From that hog’s gut that hangs down between your legs. I didn’t go to college because of him. Because I was afraid of what he might do to Mama. You think because you hit him once that we all believe you were protecting her. Taking her side. It’s a lie. You were taking over, letting us know you had the right to tell her and all of us what to do. Well, let me tell you something, baby brother: you will need more than that. I don’t make roses anymore, and you have pissed your last in this house. Now get out of my room.”
This fiery speech signifies Lena’s reclamation of self. She moves from being an echo of male dominance to a self-aware individual demanding autonomy. Lena’s transformation is a powerful example of female agency emerging from oppression.
In stark contrast to the other women, Pilate Dead stands as a beacon of independence and self-possession throughout Song of Solomon. She embodies a distinctive identity, expressing herself through song, unconventional living, and direct, wise counsel. Pilate’s unwavering sense of self stems from her internal validation, independent of male or societal approval. Lacking a conventional, documented history, Pilate creates her own narrative, carrying her history with her literally – her name, written by her father, is kept in an earring, a constant tangible link to her past. This self-created history and acceptance of her unique circumstances, including her lack of a navel, empowers her. She embodies self-birth and self-reliance.
“Pilate can’t teach you a thing you can use in this world. Maybe the next, but not this one.”
This quote, while seemingly dismissive, highlights Pilate’s unique position. She operates outside societal norms, possessing a wisdom that transcends conventional worldly success. Her lessons are not about material gain but about deeper truths of self-knowledge and connection to heritage.
Morrison dedicated Song of Solomon to her father, acknowledging his profound influence. She revealed that she could only write this novel after his death, suggesting that his absence liberated her to explore themes of fatherhood, legacy, and the complex relationship between fathers and children. The novel’s epitaph, “The fathers may soar / And the children may know their names,” underscores the lasting impact of paternal actions on subsequent generations and the formation of identity. Morrison reflected on her father’s belief in her potential, and how adulthood, perhaps triggered by the loss of parents, involves recognizing and embracing that potential within oneself.
“What difference does it make if the thing you scared of is real or not?”
This question resonates deeply within the novel. Song of Solomon explores the power of both tangible and intangible fears, myths, and histories in shaping individual and collective identities. Morrison intricately weaves together family history, African American folklore, and classical mythology to create a rich and layered narrative. Readers are actively engaged, invited to piece together fragments of story, symbolism, and cultural references to construct a meaningful understanding. The novel demands attentiveness, rewarding multiple readings and encouraging a deeper engagement with its complexities. Not every nuance will be immediately apparent, and that is part of the novel’s enduring appeal.
The opening scene of Song of Solomon immediately captivates and sets the stage for the novel’s exploration of flight and identity. Robert Smith’s dramatic leap from Mercy Hospital, proclaiming his intention to fly, becomes a symbolic act that resonates throughout the narrative. His fall coincides with the birth of Milkman Dead, the first Black child born at the hospital, linking themes of aspiration, failure, and new beginnings from the outset.
Milkman’s early life is marked by a profound sense of detachment. Discovering at age four the impossibility of human flight, he loses interest in the world around him and in himself. Nurtured by the women in his life – his mother Ruth, his aunt Pilate, and his sisters Lena and Corinthians – and adored by his cousin Hagar, Milkman grows into a privileged yet emotionally stunted young man. He remains self-absorbed, aimless, and incapable of reciprocating the love and care offered to him.
“He ain’t a house, he’s a man, and whatever he need, don’t none of you got it.”
This quote, spoken by Pilate, encapsulates Milkman’s fundamental lack. Despite material comfort and familial love, he lacks self-understanding and a sense of purpose. His journey is driven by a quest to fill this void.
Milkman’s relationship with his father, Macon Dead Jr., is fraught with tension and resentment. A pivotal moment occurs when Milkman physically retaliates against his father for abusing Ruth. This act marks a significant shift in Milkman’s development – a loss of childhood innocence and a step into a more complex adulthood. He realizes his father is not the formidable, unassailable figure he once seemed.
“He himself did nothing. Except for the one time he had hit his father, he had never acted independently, and that act, his only one, had brought unwanted knowledge too, as well as some responsibility for that knowledge.”
This introspection highlights Milkman’s passivity and the limited nature of his agency. His act of violence, while assertive, is reactive rather than proactive, and it burdens him with a new awareness of his father’s vulnerability and his own potential for action.
At thirty-two, feeling stifled and restless, Milkman seeks escape. His father’s mention of potentially hidden gold belonging to Pilate ignites a quest for material wealth that ultimately transforms into a deeper search for self and heritage. Accompanied by his friend Guitar Bains, Milkman embarks on a journey to find this supposed treasure, a journey that leads him away from his Michigan home and into the American South. Guitar, driven by his involvement with the Seven Days, a vigilante group seeking to avenge racial injustices, is also motivated by the promise of gold to fund their activities.
The initial robbery of Pilate’s home yields no gold, only rocks and a skeleton – later revealed to be Milkman’s grandfather. Disappointed but undeterred, Milkman, believing the gold might be located near his father’s childhood farm in Pennsylvania, continues his southward journey, promising Guitar a share of any discovery. Before leaving, he abruptly ends his relationship with Hagar, his devoted cousin, triggering a descent into madness and repeated attempts on Milkman’s life. Hagar’s unrequited love and emotional turmoil tragically consume her, likely leading to her demise.
“He meant that if you take a life, then you own it. You responsible for it. You can’t get rid of nobody by killing them. They still there, and they yours now.”
This quote, reflecting Guitar’s philosophy, foreshadows the escalating violence and the interconnectedness of actions and consequences within the narrative. It also underscores the theme of responsibility and the lasting impact of violence, both physical and emotional.
Milkman’s pursuit of gold ultimately leads him not to material riches, but to a far more valuable treasure: his family history. In Montour County, he encounters Circe, an elderly midwife who reveals crucial details about his lineage, including his grandfather Macon’s original name, Jake, and his marriage to a Native American woman named Sing. Encouraged by these revelations, Milkman journeys further south to Shalimar, Virginia, his ancestral home. Unbeknownst to him, Guitar, suspecting betrayal over the gold, is relentlessly tracking him.
In Shalimar, despite initial discomfort with the unfamiliar small-town environment, Milkman begins to connect with his roots. He uncovers the story of his great-grandfather, Solomon, the mythical flying African who escaped slavery by flying back to Africa. This discovery profoundly impacts Milkman, providing him with a sense of belonging, purpose, and a connection to a powerful ancestral legacy. He undergoes a significant transformation, evolving into a more compassionate and responsible individual.
“Don’t nobody have to die if they don’t want to.”
This seemingly simple statement, uttered by Pilate, carries immense weight. It speaks to the power of choice, self-determination, and the rejection of predetermined fates. It encapsulates a central theme of agency and the potential for self-liberation that Milkman ultimately embodies.
Returning to Michigan after surviving Guitar’s assassination attempt, Milkman carries newfound knowledge and self-awareness. He shares his discoveries with his father and Pilate, but finds that the deep-seated emotional wounds within his family remain. Tragically, he learns of Hagar’s death. In a final act of devotion and closure, Milkman accompanies Pilate back to Shalimar to bury Jake’s bones at Solomon’s Leap, the site of his ancestor’s legendary flight. In a devastating climax, Pilate is killed by a bullet intended for Milkman, fired by Guitar. Heartbroken but transformed, Milkman, in a final confrontation with Guitar, leaps towards him, embracing his newfound ability to “fly” – not literally, but metaphorically, signifying his embrace of his identity, heritage, and the freedom he has gained through self-discovery.
Song of Solomon is a complex, richly textured novel that rewards careful reading and repeated encounters. Its exploration of identity, family, history, and the enduring power of myth makes it a cornerstone of American literature and a testament to Toni Morrison’s unparalleled storytelling genius.
