Magical Realism in Latino/a Literature

             Although the origins of magical realism are still debated by scholars and authors alike, it has become clear in recent years that the genre is firmly established in Latin America and its conventions are continually used in fiction originating from this part of the world. While magical realism defies narrow definition in addition to narrow origin, its broader conventions are generally agreed upon. According to scholars Lois Zamora and Wendy Faris, magical realist works are typified by the use of supernatural elements that are “admitted, accepted, and integrated into the rationality and materiality of literary realism,” a technique that renders the magical elements both “normative and normalizing” (Zamora and Faris 3). Perhaps no region of the world seems to delight in this integration between the magic and reality as does Latin America, so it is no surprise that Latino authors in the United States would also readily adopt the genre for their own works. This does not mean that Latinos are merely copying the styles of other Latin American writers, however; on the contrary, Latinos have adapted the genre to suit their own unique purposes. In the Latino works Bless Me, Ultima, Dreaming in Cuban, and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Magical Realist elements are used to emphasize the way that individual Latinos/as are inextricably connected to more than just themselves.

Rudolfo Anaya’s novel Bless Me, Ultima tells the story of one such individual, the Mexican-American boy Antonio Marez (Tony). The novel itself fits into Zamora and Faris’s definition of magical realism in that ancient myth, traditional healing, and witchcraft are all accepted parts of life and are seen as plausible components of life in New Mexico. As a child informally apprenticed to the curandera (faith healer) Ultima, Tony is in a prime position to see how magic is used in the everyday and thus how magic connects him as an individual to other people. This is particularly evident when he helps Ultima to heal his uncle Lucas, whom she agrees to help after issuing a warning that “when anybody … tampers with the fate of a man that sometimes a chain of events is set into motion over which no one will have ultimate control” (Anaya 85). This warning demonstrates Ultima’s understanding of the interconnectedness of people, a knowledge that is put to use when she mystically transfers Tony’s strength to Lucas in order to break the curse on him (Anaya 99-102). Professor Vernon Lattin notes in his article on Bless Me, Ultima that Tony comes believe in “a sense of mythic wholeness” whereby he is spiritually connected to all life (638). Theresa Kanoza takes this notion a step further when she notes that by recognizing the interconnectedness of life Tony is coming to understand that his own struggle between ancient beliefs and Catholicism are, in fact, reconcilable and that he does not have to abide by dichotomies (165). Ultimately, then, Tony’s magical connection to his uncle shows him that he is connected to all living things and that he is not alone.

Christina Garcia’s Dreaming in Cuban, which chronicles the lives of several generations of the Cuban del Pino family, takes a more subtle approach to the magical realist genre than Bless Me, Ultima, but it has clearly magical realist elements nonetheless. One such element is the reoccurring presence of the ghost of Jorge del Pino throughout the novel. Lois Zamora argues that ghosts in much of magical realist fiction are by their very in-between nature, representative of the rejection of dichotomies of all kinds – including the perceived dichotomies between “past and present, [and] individual and community” (498). The ghost of the character of Jorge del Pino, then, serves to remind other characters that they are connected to each other. This is especially true in the characters of Celia and her daughter Lourdes, who find it difficult to move past their own long-harbored antipathy (rooted in mental illness and political disagreements) to accept their connection to each other. At one point Jorge appears to his daughter Lourdes and encourages her to return to Cuba and make amends with Celia for her own sake and on his behalf, effectively working to help Lourdes overcome her isolation and enabling her to renew her connection to her family, however tenuously (Garcia 196-7). The fact that a ghost exists serves to illustrate the transience of all boundaries, and the ghost’s actions result in the renewed relationship between Lourdes and her mother Celia, showing each that they are connected to others beyond themselves.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, a 2007 book by Junot Diaz, is comprised of several genres of which magical realism is only one. Although magical realist elements are accompanied by references to science fiction, fantasy, comics, and Dominican history, they nevertheless convey important meanings about interconnectedness. In her article on the historical and “nerdy” components of Oscar Wao, Monica Hanna proposes that the book’s self-conscious use of magical realism enables the work to present “an amplification of Dominican and United States historical reality,” which she suggests is cyclical (516). The effect of this attention given to the cyclical nature of history, then, is that the story being told – that of the overweight outcast Oscar de Leon and his ultimate death in the pursuit of love – is linked to the larger movements of history. One of the clearest ways in which Diaz is able to draw the connection between Oscar and Dominicans in general is through fukú, a word that refers to a curse affecting a family or a people. Fukú, the book’s narrator Yunior explains, “came first from Africa, carried in the screams of the enslaved … was the death bane of the Tainos [and] was a demon drawn into Creation through the nightmare door of that was the Antilles” (Diaz 1). By linking Oscar’s murder to fukú, Yunior is placing Oscar’s life in the context of a larger story about slavery, genocide, and colonization. This sense that Oscar is connected to many others who suffered similar fates due to fukú is evident more concretely in his own cyclical family history. Yunior traces the de Leon family curse back to Oscar’s grandfather Abelard and “the Bad Thing he said about Trujillo” that resulted in Abelard’s imprisonment and torture, the disappearance of his eldest daughters, and the near-fatal beating of Oscar’s mother Hypatia (Diaz 211). Oscar is affected by the family fukú in much the same way as his mother is – by being drug to a cane field in the Dominican Republic and beaten. Both mother and son survive and are witness to another magical realist event: the appearance of the mystical Golden Mongoose, a guardian angel-like spirit that guides them back to life (Diaz 149, 301). Yunior suggests that, like the fukú, the Mongoose appears throughout history, so Oscar’s visions of the spirit serve to connect him to a larger context (Diaz 151 n18). Both the Mongoose and fukú link the lonely, seemingly isolated Oscar to a much larger sweep of history.

The many connections that Anaya, García, and Díaz draw between individual characters and the rest of humanity are made through their adept use of magical realist elements. Alejo Carpentier, an early theorist on magical realism, notes that “[Latin] America is far from using up its wealth of mythologies,” and the creativity of these three authors demonstrates that this is the case even in the context of the United States during the twentieth century (88).  Yet another literary theorist, Luis Leal, proposes that magic realists work to “intuit the imperceptible subtleties of the external world, the multifarious world in which we live” (123). This belief that diversity plays a key role in determining when magical realism is employed suggests that one reason that Latino writers would chose to use the genre is that they aim to illuminate such diversity with the Latino culture and within America. Bless Me, Ultima, utilizes magic realism to show how one boy is able to forge connections to other people and to nature itself. Dreaming in Cuban employs the genre to illustrate the importance of family relationships and their maintenance in the face of distance and disagreement.  The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao incorporates magical realist elements in an effort to explain the horrors of the Trujillo regime and the lasting effects of European colonization in the Americas by drawing parallels to the life of one person. Ultimately, then, these works of Latino literature utilize magical realism in order to better describe Latino life, but also to demonstrate the place of individual Latinos – and by extension, all Latinos – in an American and in a global context.

Bibliography

Anaya, Rudolfo. Bless Me, Ultima. New York: Warner Books, 1994. Print.

Carpentier, Alejo. “On the Marvelous Real in America.” Magical Realism: Theory, History, and Community. Zamora and Faris, eds. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. 75-88. Print.

Díaz, Junot. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. New York: Riverhead Books, 2008. Print.

García, Christina. Dreaming in Cuban. New York: Ballantine Books, 1992. Print.

Hanna, Monica. “‘Reassembling the Fragments’: Battling Historiographies, Caribbean Discourse, and Nerd Genres in Junot Diaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.” Callaloo 33.2 (2010): 498-520. Academic Search Premier. Web. 12 Apr. 2012.  

Kanoza, Theresa M. “The Golden Carp and Moby Dick: Rudolfo Anaya’s Multi-Culturalism.” MELUS 24.2 (1999): 159-171. Academic Search Premier. Web. 12 Apr. 2012.

Lattin, Vernon E. “The Quest for Mythic Vision in Contemporary Native American and Chicano Fiction.” American Literature 50.4 (1979): 625-640. Academic Search Premier. Web. 12 Apr. 2012.

Leal, Luis. “Magical Realism in Spanish American Literature.” Magical Realism: Theory, History, and Community. Lois Parkinson Zamora and Wendy B. Faris, eds. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. 119-124. Print.

Zamora, Lois Parkinson and Wendy B. Faris. Introduction. Magical Realism: Theory, History, and Community. Zamora and Faris, eds. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. 1-11. Print.

Zamora, Lois Parkinson. “Magical Romance/Magic Realism: Ghosts in U.S. and Latin American Fiction.” Magical Realism: Theory, History, and Community. Zamora and Faris, eds. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005.497-550. Print. 

Either We're Nobodies, or We're Nations

         I liked The Brief Wondrous Life of OscarWao the first time I read it, but I must admit that I formed a much deeper connection to it the second time around. Perhaps that’s because I know more about the Dominican Republic and Haiti, or because I understand more of the cultural references that pepper the book in the form of footnotes. Ultimately, though, I think my love of this book is tied to my appreciation for the way Junot Díaz is able to effectively tie a whole universe to the life of one overweight “GhettoNerd.” Díaz hints at this aspect of his book through its two epigraphs, one from the comic book The Fantastic Four, and one from Caribbean poet Derek Walcott’s poem “The Schooner Flight.” Although the sources of the quotes are very different, Díaz uses the questions they raise in much the same way. Walcott’s poem reflects on the speaker’s mixed heritage and ends with the statement “either I’m nobody, or I’m a nation.” In true comic book form, the other epigraph recounts the question of a supervillian who destroys entire worlds and defends his destruction by asking the rhetorical question “Of what import are brief, nameless lives … to Galactus??”  The answer in Galactus’s mind is obviously “they are brief, nameless lives and I am a destroyer of worlds, so of course they are of no importance” but the answer that The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao gives is “brief, nameless lives are everything.”  Coupled with Walcott’s suggestion that individuals contain entire nations, the novel works to demonstrate just how important individuals are.

       

        Díaz’s book tells the story of Oscar de Leon, an overweight, unlucky-in-love Dominican-American who is largely neglected by everyone but his sister Lola. Although Oscar is a social outcast, his connection to other people and places is illustrated throughout the book. The major way that Díaz explores the connection between Oscar and the rest of the world is through Fukú, a term for a sort of inescapable curse that moves through both families and nations. Oscar is a victim of Fukú, but his mother, grandparents, and the entire nation of the Dominican Republic are affected by it too, which demonstrates the way that one person can be connected to history in a broader sense than might appear. There are other ways in which Oscar is connected to movements larger then himself – in his love of reading that links him to writers, in his many unrequited loves that link him to other people in all walks of life, and so on. Ultimately the title of the book says it all – Oscar’s life, while his brief and unrecognized, is wondrous. He is part of something more, and it seems to me that Díaz is suggesting that all of us are.

Latino/a takes on Magic Realism

Magic Realism is a genre that has come to be predominantly associated with Latin American literature. As such, it is unsurprising that Latino/a writers would feel the influence of the genre and would incorporate elements into their writings. This is certainly the case with Dreaming in Cuban, though it has a presence in Bodega Dreams as well, even if it is less clear. Magic Realism, in the Latino contexts described in Bodega Dreams and Dreaming in Cuban give added but subtle emphasis to the stories of individuals.

Dreaming in Cuban begins with the spirit of Jorge del Pino appearing to his wife, Celia – a Magic Realist scene if there ever was one. True to the genre, Celia does not doubt that this could happen, and she accepts it as reality to the point where she even tells her daughters about it (they don’t question it, either). Other occurrences throughout the book have a Magic Realist feel as well, such as the ability of Celia and her granddaughter Pilar to communicate mentally across distances, or the continued reappearance of Jorge’s ghost to his daughter Lourdes. While the instances of Santería are never directly connected to healing, the practice itself introduces mythical and mystical elements that are frequently used in Magic Realist works (i.e., the magic elements of a story happen through the existence of gods, traditional rituals, etc.). What I find interesting about Dreaming in Cuban is that these elements of magic are not of an epic nature as is often the case in other Magic Realist works; the events that happen shape a family, not a nation, and the family itself does not have any real impact on the world. The magic, then, is personal.

Bodega Dreams is a bit of an outlier in a class where so many of the texts have had such clear Magic Realist influences, but there are influences nonetheless. Fairly early on in the book, for instance, Bodega arranges the sacrifice of a goose to Chango on his behalf, a traditional ceremony carried over from the Caribbean involving ritualistic killing, the pouring of water, and other elements. Adding to the elements of mysticism there, the woman making the sacrifice has a rather prophetic dream of Bodega’s former love’s arrival and the chaos that ensues. There are also a few other mystical elements in the book that, if not verifiably miraculous, are at least believed to be so by certain characters. The “anointed” status of the young preacher Roberto Vega, for instance, comes from a more Christian sense of the divine rather than an indigenous sense, but his character does have the ability to speak powerfully and the congregation is convinced that he is particularly blessed by God. In both the case of Bodega’s sacrifice and Roberto’s anointing, the magic or mysticism is associated with specific (albeit influential) people. Again, there is no sense that magic pervades or affects the Barrio society at large, but rather a sense that such magic is intensely personal.

As with many other works that have been examined in the course of Latino Literature, Bodega Dreams and Dreaming in Cuban display elements of Magic Realism. Whereas Latin American works in the genre tend to be broad – even epic – in scope, Latino/a takes on it tend to be more subtle and sparse. Ultimately, however, elements from the genre, no matter how personal in their focus, are no less effective in aiding the expression of a book’s meaning. 

Beautifully Flawed

Not one of the books we have read in this Latino Literature course thus far has failed to have some sort of strong female character, and Christina Garcia’s novel Dreaming in Cuban is no exception. While each woman in each book has a particular role and thus cannot really be compared to the others, the women of Dreaming in Cuban seem particularly unique. Because the book is narrated almost entirely by women, the women themselves (three generations worth) come across as much more three-dimensional. In earlier books there are distinctly strong female characters, but in Dreaming in Cuban there are women who are strong and wise, but also traumatized, lost, angry, and mentally ill – in short, they are each wonderful and flawed like any other human being.

I love that Garcia reveals all her characters’ quirks and flaws right from the very beginning, as she does with the matriarch Celia in the novel’s first sentence:

Celia del Pino, equipped with binoculars and wearing her best housedress and pearl drop earrings, sits in her wicker swing guarding the north coast of Cuba. (3)

Brilliant! The image of an old woman scouring the night sky for potential attacks whist dressed to the nines is comical and endearing, but also demonstrates Celia’s somewhat blind commitment to the Revolution. Her daughters and granddaughters also demonstrate a host of mixed qualities. Lourdes is ambitious and wounded, but still somewhat paranoid. Felicia is sweet to her son but murderously unstable. The artistic Pilar is bewitching (in a creepy way) as a baby, but defiant and passionate when she gets older. The twins Luz and Milagro are cynical but surprisingly self-sufficient. These women are not infallible pillars of faith or wisdom, they are not particularly good mothers, and they have not made major contributions to the world. They are flawed, sometimes deeply so.

            I suppose what I mean when I say that I like it that the characters have flaws is that I like it that these characters are so well fleshed out and real, for all the book’s magical realist elements. Furthermore, their flaws, while visibly present and concerning, do not define who they are as people. Their better qualities, hidden or lost as they might be at times, are always present. I noticed their better aspects through their names. Lourdes, for instance, is named for a place in France where the Virgin Mary appeared to a young girl, which hints at how she is visited by the ghost of her father. Luz and Milagro stand for light and miracles, respectively, and represent some of the hope for future generations. Felicia (“felicity”) means “happiness” and shows how her character clings to moments of joy. Celia comes from a Latin root for “sky” or “heaven,” which in some ways suggests her airy daydreams and spiritual connection to others. Finally, Pilar means what it sounds like: pillar. As apparently fickle as Pilar is, she nevertheless acts as a unifier in the family and continues to keep some sort of connection with her grandmother and Cuba as well as with her home in New York. All these things demonstrate how there are multiple sides to the del Pino women. 

Relating to Bodega Dreams

Like many others, I read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel The Great Gatsby in high school. I liked the book for its insights into the elite world of the Roaring Twenties as well as for its style, but as a somewhat cynical teenager, I was most intrigued with the way that the book critiqued the notion that anyone from any circumstances can make a success of themself in America. The failure of the American Dream – or at least the admission that the American Dream comes with several caveats – is a subject that is tackled anew by Ernesto Quiñonez in his 2000 novel Bodega Dreams. Inspired by Pedro Pietri’s poem Puerto Rican Obituary and using The Great Gatsby as a template, Quiñonez tells the story of Willie Bodega’s rise to wealth and power in Spanish Harlem.

            Although these three works – Gatsby, Obituary, and Bodega – have many thematic and plot elements in common, I find that the Puerto Rican works have affected me much more than Gatsby ever did in high school. As a wealthy, white, Midwesterner, it seems like I would find more to relate to in Fitzgerald’s work than in Quiñonez’s, but it is hard to relate to characters who exist in a setting that is 90 years past. As for being able to relate to Puerto Ricans from New York City (“Nuyoricans”), well, that’s what makes the Bodega Dreams so powerful: I don’t really have much in common with the characters, but I am all the more affected by the story because of it. Bodega Dreams depicts a situation that is not all that far removed from what I know is possible in today’s America, replacing bootlegging with drug dealing and urban opulence with urban poverty. With the epigraphs from Puerto Rican Obituary reinforcing the message that people too often come short of their attempts at creating a comfortable living for themselves, Bodega Dreams succeeds in depicting a part of American life that is often forgotten. 

Mingled Identities

           When I look at myself in the mirror, I see the elements of my German, Swiss, and Polish heritage in my rounded face and largish nose. I realize there is nothing that distinguishes my features as very different from the descendants of other white Europeans, anything that sets me visibly apart from the Anglo mainstream of which I am for all intents and purposes a part. While in the early days of America Germans were viewed as undesirable immigrants (Benjamin Franklin in particular disliked them), the distinctions between my ancestors and the English-descended have, in most cases, vanished. The last generation I know of that spoke any form of German was that of my great-grandparents on my mother’s side. Standard American English, with the praised Midwestern accent, has replaced it.

            While the social distinctions have disappeared and my family has been privileged to receive all the benefits of being white citizens, I think of the trace elements of my heritage that set me apart from the mainstream, if ever so slightly. I recall learning that not all my friends eat sauerkraut as often as my family does, or that hiding a pickle ornament on the Christmas tree is not a tradition of many. I notice, too, that my family is linked into the Mennonite church, and that the family business of farming is linked to this. My own pacifist stance is linked to this as well, as is my appreciation for four-part a cappela hymn singing. I realize that having access to a Mennonite institution for higher education that celebrates and nurtures these aspects of my identity is a privilege as well.

            But my identity is linked to far more than just my appearance and the lingering traditions of my ethnic background. I have Germany, Switzerland, and Prussia in me, but I have Canada and America in me too. Different ethnicities, even ones that are no longer singled out in mainstream culture, merge with faith and gender identity. Growing up on a farm, traveling the globe, my love of reading, my friends – these things, too, make me who I am. It is only in the combinations of these elements, and the elements that will be added yet, that I am made who I am.  

The Poetry of David Hernandez

David Hernandez

As I was reading through David Hernandez’s poems in The Wind Shifts anthology of recent Latino/a poetry, one of the first things that struck me was that many of the elements that I have come to think of as typical in Southwest Latino/a literature were not present very often. Sure, there were mentions of California, a poem about the speaker’s inability to speak Spanish, and an allusion to a coyote (specifically Wile E.), but most of his poems seemed to focus on events that are, well, normal. Menial labor, sex, mourning, hospitals, and even traffic are all valid topics in Hernandez’s poems. There are poems that present more unusual circumstances (finding a dead possum underneath a porch, a fight between old men in at nursing home buffet, musings on the butterfly effect, what it’s like to be the wife of a taxidermist), but even these circumstances seems strangely relatable.

While Hernandez does not explicitly write about political and social matters, this does not mean that he is unaware of them, only that he wishes to talk about a wide variety of topics that aren’t always specific to the Latino/a community. As Francisco Aragon notes in the introduction to the anthology, Latino/a poets are not limited to being overtly political, but are free to explore “language and aesthetics”  and any topic they desire (1). Hernandez’s poems are a good instance of this: he uses simple, elegant language to mimic the speech patterns of English in order to describe moments in the daily life of people within and without the Latino/a community, effectively giving him a wide audience.

Perhaps it is the way that Hernandez is able to use such simple language so powerfully that makes me like his poems so much - many of my other favorite poets take similar approaches to demonstrating that just because language is simple doesn’t mean it is ineffective. Take the beginning of the poem below:

Man on an Island

By island I mean this narrow stretch of lawn

dividing the road, a boulder here and here,

little trees with trunks as thick as broom handles.

By man I mean the one pushing the mower

with a red bandana wound around his head,

his face enameled in sweat.   

"ThreeThink" by David Hernandez

Hernandez’s presents a metaphor and then immediately proceeds to break it down piece by piece, painting an image of a man “surrounded / not by water but by tar” with cars driving by like sharks. By the end of the poem the speaker’s suggestion that the man could send off a message in a bottle (the quintessential man-stranded-on-an-island approach to rescue) seems like a logical move for someone who is so isolated in the plain sight of a bustling city. (149)

            Another poem in which Hernandez takes something easily recognizable and makes it wholly new is “Wile E. Coyote Achieves Nirvana,” in which the oft-foiled cartoon predator realizes that his attachment to earthly desires is causing him to suffer. In the cartoons it’s hard not to have at least some sympathy for the Coyote despite his ineptitude and fanaticism, and it is this sympathy that is expounded upon it the poem. Hernandez takes us into the mind of the Coyote, imagining what it must be like to be reborn after another each ridiculous death. It wasn’t long before I was envisioning myself and the rest of humanity running around as hapless cartoon creatures, each unable to stop chasing the impossible. When “the bulb of enlightenment / blazes over [the Coyote’s] head,” and he realizes that “craving equals suffering,” I was relieved and saddened (144). One of the hazards of identifying with a cartoon scavenger is that when said cartoon scavenger gives up his life’s goal you start imagining what it would be like to lose your desires and motivations. And all this from a poem about a Loony Toons character who happens to be a creature that is now associated not only with the mangy animal, but human traffickers!

"Flower" by David Hernandez

            Hernandez’s ability to imbue seemingly whimsical events with thought-provoking ideas does not mean that he is incapable of writing poems that are more overtly emotional. Take “Dear Spanish,” for instance. The speaker of this poem is quite literally addressing the Spanish language, expressing remorse for “kicking [it] in the shin in kindergarten” and asking to be blessed with the ability to speak it so that he can say goodbye to his grandfather who is leaving to retire in Chile (150). Ultimately, the speaker is unable to make that last connection to his family and is forced to reflect on how he is blocked from communicating in either English or Spanish, instead turning to “a language built on silence / where every word is swallowed instead of said” (150). The poem isn’t so much tragic as it is sad, but it is certainly heart-wrenching.

Naturally, the wealth of poems that David Hernandez has published means that trying to find common elements in all of them is somewhat futile. However, in what I have read of his work I find that he doesn’t bash you over the head with the messages he is getting across, nor does he aim to get a reaction by shocking you with overly dramatic images. Rather, Hernandez takes an approach that allows him to gradually reveal new and intriguing ways of thinking about life in general. The aspects of life in question may be grounded in a Latino/a framework (as evidenced in his poems that mention language, South American countries, Southwestern imagery, or class status), but they may also be much broader in scope. In my mind, Hernandez is acknowledging the unique aspects of a variety of cultures while seeking to remind his readers that there are a great many aspects of life that merit a closer look, regardless of their origin.

Other Poems I Liked

American Water 

Museum Guard

Lisa

Beginning at the End

Remember It Wrong 

The Taxicab Incident, Driving Towards the Sun, The Goldfish 

Additional Information

David Hernandez is currently a professor at University of California, Irvine. In addition to this he has also worked as a web designer and artist, and has published three volumes of poetry (Hoodwinked, Always Danger, and A House Waiting for Music) and two young adult novels (Suckerpunch, and No More Us for You) which have been well received. In 2011 he received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship for Poetry. More of his biography, poems, publications,and art can be found at his website here. 

Bibliography 

Hernandez, David. The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry. Ed. Francisco Aragón. Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, 2007. 142-150. Print.

“Poetry.” David Hernandez, n.d. Web. 22 Feb. 2012. <http://www.davidahernandez.com/poetry.html>

Images Bibliography

“The Official David Hernandez Website.” David Hernandez, n.d. Web. 22 Feb. 2012. <http://www.davidahernandez.com>

Why Creative Nonfiction is Awesome

In my post from last week, I mentioned Luis Alberto Urrea’s 2004 book The Devil’s Highway. The book is a work of creative nonfiction, a genre that takes the results of journalistic research and presents them in a literary way. As this was my first encounter with the genre, I spent the first chapter or so of the book rather confused, despite my love of both history and literature. My historical sensibilities reacted to the stories as too dramatic or untrustworthy while at the same time as my literary sensibilities were annoyed by the streams of information that did not yet connect to the stories. Ultimately, however, I found myself appreciating the style and content of the book. I’d even say that I liked and enjoyed it – inasmuch as anyone can like or enjoy hearing about poverty, organized crime, exploitation, warped systems of justice, ignorant bureaucracies, misinformed people, and slow, torturous death by heat and thirst.

            There’s a saying that “fiction is a lie that tells the truth.”  Being that The Devil’s Highway tells the story the death of 14 men attempting to cross the Sonoran Desert, it is easy to see the unworldly setting and horrifying events can come off as over dramatized or overemotional. Not because horrible things don’t happen, but because gruesome deaths are so frequent a subject in many forms of fiction - crime shows, thriller novels, horror movies, violent video games, and so on. While the events described in The Devil’s Highway do seem as if they were they could only exist in a fictional realm, Urrea manages to balance out the seemingly over-dramatic with harsh but effective reminders that the events are indeed real.  

            At first I felt like it was too factual, but soon enough characters came along to illustrate the situation and give faces to concepts – no longer just “the illegal immigrant” or “the coyote” or “the Border Guard,” but very human people. Stories developed and Urrea’s poet-nature displayed itself and I got drawn in. As the stories developed, however, I was always prevented from viewing it as fiction. Any time something seemed outlandish or overly sentimental, Urrea would pull back and describe the broader context in all its researched glory to remind the reader that what he is describing is real, and that it goes beyond the crossing attempt of 26 and the death of 14 or them to a much larger picture. But after descriptions of the broader systems that influence migration, Urrea returns to the characters lest his readers forget that these policies do affect lives, and that those lives matter. Urrea’s way of dealing with creative nonfiction ensures that the history does not forget its purpose and relevance, while the story is shown to go beyond the imagined into the real and something we can do something about. It’s an admirable blend of nonfiction and literary techniques that I think brings two very needed elements together for a much better overall understanding of the situation. 

Little Picture/Big Picture

     I’m not sure that I can talk about Ana Castillo’s recent novel The Guardians without discussing The Devil’s Highway, another recent book on a similar topic by Luis Alberto Urrea. Both books – Castillo’s novel and Urrea’s nonfiction – directly discuss the perils of immigrating to the United States via the Southwest border. Castillo sets her work in New Mexico, and tells the story of a family torn apart by the economic, social, and political boundaries that make immigration so difficult for Latino/as. Urrea, however, recounts the story of the death of 14 men who died in their attempt to cross through the Arizonian desert known as the Devil’s Highway. Urrea creates a work of creative nonfiction whereby he presents the results of his investigative research while illustrating what he knows with short vignettes about the lives of everyone involved in the incident (the immigrants, coyotes, Border Patrol officers, consuls, and so on).

     Given that The Guardians has distinct and developed characters (four of whom are the book’s narrators), I expected to feel more attached to it than to The Devil’s Highway, but I discovered the opposite was true. The determined and strong Tía Regina is an intriguing figure, yes, and her nephew Gabriel (Gabo) is a tragic one, but I can’t say I formed a strong attachment to either of them or to the other two main characters Miguel and Milton. The disappearance of Regina’s brother and Gabo’s father Rafael during his attempt to cross into the US illegally is tragic, but despite the searching and shock they go through I had difficulty relating to their struggle. It was not until I began reading The Devil’s Highway that I realized that what was missing from the story was knowledge of the broader picture.

     This is understandable because Guardians is narrated by characters with a limited viewpoints and knowledge. Castillo does try to inform her readers through the character of Miguel, a high school history teacher, but this and the brief flashbacks into the characters’ personal histories did not illuminate much. For instance, the reason why Regina’s family migrated to the US is implied (poverty), but it is never described. The knowledge of Rafa’s disappearance trying to cross the border makes Regina cry and Gabo turn all the more to his devout Catholic faith, but their inner emotion are not expressed, and their ties to Rafael are never accompanied by any real description of a relationship.

     Luckily, The Devil’s Highway put some of this in perspective by giving the bigger picture of systematic poverty, skewed immigration policies, and bureaucratic inanity. The book has a huge cast of immigrants, citizens, smugglers, politicians, and officers, and there isn't room to describe everyone's background – but when Urrea describes something, he does so so poetically that even the smallest bit of information draws you in emotionally. Although Urrea manages to give a broader, more factual, and more emotional "big picture" account of border crossing, but when paired with Castillo’s "little picture" account of the daily life of those left behind, as uncompelling as it might be at times, makes both works better. 

A Bit of a Rant on Ignorance and Fear

The documentary 9500 Liberty records the events surrounding the passing of an immigration law in Virginia’s Prince William County that required police to check the immigration status of anyone they had “probable cause” to suspect had entered the country illegally (which could be determined by skin color and language, leading to unavoidable racial profiling of non-whites). The supposed rationale for passing the bill was outlined by blogger Greg Letiecq and was advocated primarily by people who had vaguely-formed beliefs that the influx of Hispanic immigrants meant that their communities were threatened by increases in crime, drunk driving, a bad job market, and – worst of all – the Spanish language.

            I must admit that I spent a lot of my time watching this film feeling my blood boil for so many reasons I can’t list them all here. Bigotry, racism, intolerance, ulterior motives (like getting reelected), and anger all played into the introduction and passing of the law. In my mind these components can be reduced to two things: ignorance and fear. Although the two work independently, the combination of the two is powerful and cyclical: the more you are unaware of the complexities of a situation, the more likely you are to make generalizations and stereotypes, which in turn makes it much easier to take a concern or worry and apply it to a broader context that leads into full-blown fear.

            My perspective as an outsider (and also as a white, higher-educated, liberal, young person) means that I saw much of the arguments for the immigration law in a more critical context. Much of the testimonies struck me as not just uninformed or ruled by emotion, but completely ludicrous - case in point, the woman who claimed that “illegals” were responsible for 9/11, or Letiecq’s comments on how the law was the will of God, or insistence that slavery was a needed aspect of US society because it needed something to overcome. Not all arguments were so clearly twisted, though: assertions that immigrants take jobs, drain money, commit crimes, and so on all seem as if they could be proved. That they aren’t proved but that people continue to believe these assertions speaks to the way fear operates.

            What perhaps boggles me the most (besides the fact that such a law was passed at all) is that things are so vague for so many people involved. The “Help Save Manassas” group isn’t particularly clear on what they are saving Manassas from – they seem to think that immigrants who entered the US illegally are the greatest cause of decay in… what, exactly? Protecting the community from crime is one thing, but protecting it from Spanish is strange. What exactly is it that people fear about Spanish? That they won’t be able to communicate? That they are forced to admit that the world does not operate exclusively in English and that they might need to learn to speak another language themselves? That because their notion of American identity is tied up with language, that this identity is being undermined? There are so many questions I have about how fear operates on such comparatively less important questions such as these. I hope that the (eventual) removal of “probable cause” from the law has begun to force people to realize that there are larger and far more relevant issues surrounding immigration. I hope, too, that it won’t take the division of a community and ostracization of a people to realize this in the future. 

Seeing the Invisible

One of my favorite works of literature is a comic book series called Y: The Last Man, which depicts a universe in which every male organism on earth has died, with the exception of one man named Yorick (as in “Alas, poor Yorick”) and his pet monkey. Yes, it’s strange and even somewhat goofy despite the severity of the situation – but it makes a very interesting point about how entire groups of people can be disregarded. In the case of Y, the plot is not so much about how much men are disregarded as it is a commentary on how much of the world men control or influence. After the “gendercide” takes place, the comic makes some sobering notes: worldwide, 85% of the world’s political representatives are gone, as are 99% of the world’s landowners, 99% of construction and electrical workers, and 100% of the Catholic priesthood, Muslim imams, and Orthodox Jewish rabbis. Interestingly, 51% of the world’s agricultural force is alive. One -  understandable – response to these statistics is to say “wow, we really need men to have a functioning, happy planet, ” but another important response is “wow, why aren’t women better represented in these areas?”

Similar thoughts went through my head as I watched A Day Without A Mexican, a 2004 film about what would happen everyone in California of Latino/a descent suddenly disappeared. The situation is somewhat comical at first, as people struggle to cope without the people who play a major part in the economic and social life of the state, but things become desperate fast. As with Y, there are two survivors – a woman named Lila Rodreguez and a young girl – and a list of sobering statistics: Latino/as make up 1/3 of the state’s population, contribute 100 billion dollars to the state’s economy, take only 3 billion in social services, make up 60% of the construction workers in the state, and half of the border patrol, among many other things.

The disappearance of the Latino/as raises many questions about where they went and how they got there, but it also raises awareness of their important role – and the inequality of the roles they fill in comparison to the non-Latino/as. Eventually, Californians learn their lesson: as they begin to treat the missing Latino/as as fully human by acknowledging their presence in ways they did not when Latino/as were physically present. Although this makes a pretty clear statement about how underappreciated Latino/as are, I think it also points out some inequities worth paying attention to. It is very important that the US population as a whole learns to appreciate and dignify the contributions being made by a group of people too often invisible – but it is also very important that we realize how segregated our society can be, and how much we need to note how we can work alongside others from all different groups in every level of society.

Bless Me, Ultima and Magical Realism

    Rudolfo Anaya's novel  Bless Me, Ultima belongs to one of my favorite genres: magical realism. Magic does not exist in reality, so tying realism to magic seems oxymoronic, but the genre manages to link the two aspects through detailed descriptions of life that just happens to involve the supernatural. For instance, in Bless Me, Ultima the characters view witchcraft as a reality that is never questioned, just taken in stride. Similarly, spirit animals, mythical creatures, and ancient gods are all accepted as real by the characters.

    Bless Me, Ultima tells the story of Antonio Márez, a young boy growing up in New Mexico during World War II. Magical realism is clear throughout the book as Antonio seeks to reconcile his Catholic faith with the mystical events he witnesses and the traditional magic that seems to accomplish what the Church cannot. Although the fantastical images in the novel are clearly part of the genre, I found it different in many ways from much of what I associate with magical realism. Magical realism seems to delight in epic stories that span many people and many generations. Ultima, however, is limited: Antonio is the sole narrator, the plot takes place over the course of a few years, and the action is confined to a few small towns.

     I did not expect this smaller scope, I think now that it serves particularly useful in adding to the book's ability to impact the reader. Antonio's daily routines – doing chores, helping the curandera (traditional healer) Ultima find plants for her medicines, going to school, playing with friends – build an image of a fully human and three-dimensional young boy. This in turn means that the conflicts in the book are more keenly felt. The trauma Antonio feels when he witnesses death, his internal struggle to define who he is, and his joy at discovering new things all become more important than the mystical elements involved. This, I think, means that Anaya does a very good job in conveying the emotions and experiences of Chicanos in the United States to a wider audience.

Overcoming Traditions of Silence

      The movie I, the Worst of All chronicles the life of Sor Juana Inézde la Cruz, a 17^th Century poet, scholar, and nun active in New Spain (colonial Mexico). A prodigy, Juana proved from a young age that she was adept in multiple languages, mathematics, science, music, and theology. Despite the recognition she gained for her ability, Juana was barred from entering university and instead entered a convent where she was free to exercise her able to study and create. Although her works were well-received in royal courts (she was popularly known as “the Tenth Muse”), her tendency to focus on “hard theology” and the importance of women's education meant that they were also considered borderline heretical. After being reprimanded by Church authorities in New Spain and facing further censure, Sor Juana ceased writing, sold her books for charity, and devoted herself to caring for her plague-stricken sisters before succumbing to the disease herself.

     Sor Juana's story seems unique – after all, it was no small feat for a woman to get published and achieve fame for her intellect in Inquisition-Era Spain – but despite this, it does not seem to be one that most people know (at least not in the US). Perhaps she is not well known because of how she was censured by the Church, or because her works are in Spanish and Spanish texts are not often studied in curriculum in English-speaking areas, but there is something to be said for the power of the “tradition of silence” and its affect on repressing women's works. The “tradition of silence” is a term used by Chicana author Gloria Anzaldúa in her book Borderlands/La frontera to refer to the assumption that being “respectable” or “good” is tied into how much you speak – at least, if you're a woman or a girl. This assumption, while undoubtedly changing, still exists in cultures all over the world. English has a lot of terms that refer to people who talk too much – gossip, flirt, yenta, busybody, etc. – and they often have female connotations. It's a subtle way that our own language reinforces what the ideals are associated with genders. The notion of an ideal woman throughout history is often associated with being polite or soft-spoken.

     One of the saddest things about “the tradition of silence” is that we aren't given to realize how often women have defied expectations of their day and gone on to speak of wonderful things. Sor Juana is one such woman, but she is not the only one. Another is Hildegard von Bingen, a respected German abbess and mystic who wrote about medicine, botany, theology, and composed poems and some of the most innovate liturgical music of the time – all in the 1100s. Catherine of Siena, the patron saint of Italy, is credited with convincing Pope Gregory XI to reinstate the Papacy in Rome, and who served as an adviser to his successor and multiple European regents, all while writing theological tracts. Shortly after her, in the late 1300s, the English Juliana of Norwich wrote theological texts about her visions of the Passion of Christ. Juliana met with another Englishwoman named Margery Kempe who wrote what is considered the first autobiography in the English language, which documented her religious experiences and many pilgrimages throughout Europe and Asia – and she was married with 14 children.

     It is worth noting that the church provided space for all these women to demonstrate their intelligence and opinions – as it is worth noting that they came from wealthy families and are all linked to Europe. But surely they are not the only women to have proven themselves despite the “tradition of silence” - and they certainly won't be the last. Now if only we could make that clearer to people today.

Multi-Monikered

     There's a saying that holds that “a child with many names is well loved.” Legally, I have one three-part name – Matilda Kramer Yoder – but in reality I have more than I have ever been able to count. Matilda and Tillie may be the most commonly used of my names, but Till, Tillzers, Tilster, Tili, Tilda, Tillita, Tillith, Matild, Matillie, Mattie, Matt, Matildita, Matildette, Waltzing Matilda, Matilda the Hun, and Hakuna Matilda also make a good showing. When I was around 5 or so, I went through a phrase where I insisted on being called Matilda, which felt more refined and therefore was more appealing. I'm glad to say this did not last long, and I have come to love all my many names.

     This is not to say that I don't have deeper connections to some names than others. I am named for my twice-maternal great-grandmother (who also went by Tillie for short). Although I never met her, I cherish my connection to her because by all accounts she was a pretty awesome woman. I also share the name with my mother's childhood pet gerbil, which I take as indicative of my mother's life-long love for her grandmother and the name rather than my resemblance to a rodent. Rodent or no, it's easy to see why Matilda takes precedence over Matilda the Hun or Tillie the Terrible.

     There are other aspects to the name Matilda that make be proud to be one. I view the name as solid, unique, and easily translatable across cultures. Its meaning - “mighty in battle” - seems ironic given my Mennonite commitment to pacifism, but there are many types of battle in this world, and I like having a name that reminds me to be strong in the face of those battles. I am the only Matilda I know in my age group, though I know a baby Matilde, and have heard that the name is making a resurgence.

     I also love Tillie, though the name has very different connotations than Matilda. If the books I have with Tillies in them are any indicator, most people view Tillies as old hicks, homeless women, elderly aunts, naive girls, men, or mice (there are several mice-Tillies out there, which makes me wonder about what it is about my names that lends itself to rodents). These Tillies are all well-meaning, and often very generous, inventive, or intelligent, but the odd stereotypes remain. I have come to embrace them: for me, Tillie has always been more informal anyway.

     Not many people equate Tillie with the name Matilda, either, so I often introduce myself with that name and then add that I am usually called Tillie (partly in the hope that they will realize how cool both names are). Then I give people permission to call me whatever they feel like, and people take me up on it - I have a lot of names now, and I keep getting more. I've noticed that the names I am given reflect the depth of my friendships and remind me just how loved I am. And who wouldn't appreciate that?

Introducción

      ¡Bienvenidos! I hope the title wasn't too misleading: my Spanish is awful and I'll attempt to restrict it to brief words and segments so I don't embarrass myself too much.

     

      However, introductions are indeed in order! I'm Matilda Yoder, and this is my blog that I created for the Latino/a Literature course I am taking at Goshen College in Indiana. It is my hope that this class will connect me to the growing Latino/a population here in the US so that I may better understand and appreciate the diverse people that make up the vibrant Latino/a culture(s). Nor will I complain if I get a bit of a refresher in Spanish! 

     And now, onwards to posts with actual meat in them!