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.