Invisible Man

A couple years ago, I began to read what would become one of the most dreaded, yet inspirational books I've ever read--Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison. When I think of the South, especially the old South, images of cruelty and injustice are often present. Just like in the book, the people of the South had moments of epiphany in which they realized how important visibility and a civil rights were. They stood up against the government and fought long and hard for a right to have an opinion and be heard. So when I think of the old South, I essentially think of perseverance, hardships, colors, and bloodshed...
In regards to Invisible Man, the narrator remains nameless throughout the entire book, perhaps because he isn't sure of his own identity. Just like many other African-Americans, he is forced to learn where he "belongs" in society; that is, if he even belongs at all. And so begins his eternal spiral literally to hell. Ironically enough, where he lives is extremely well lit, even to the point he dares to compare it to Broadway. But isn't "light" supposed to be pure and refer to heaven? Apparently not. Everything he does is wrong, everything he thinks is criticized. At the turn of every page came another gruesome scene of violence--a fight he had with his own race and plenty of times he was abused by white-folk. Slowly but surely, the narrator realized that no matter what he did to make himself "visible" in a world which considered him nothing more than a walking shadow, he was essentially always going to be something so simple as an invisible man. Multiple times he was chastised by his own "brothers"--those he looked up to, preached for, stood up for; those of the infamous "Brotherhood." All in all, the narrator concludes that he has always been an "invisible man" and so retreats into an underground basement where society can't see him, he can't see society, and the only things that enlighten him are the lightbulbs that shine ever so bright.