Cultural Hybridity: The Latino Youth’s Search for Identity

The word “Latino” encompasses a large variety of cultures, and as a result, Latino literature covers just as broad a field. Mexico, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic are just a few of the countries whose cultures are represented in this genre of literature. Regardless of the many unique aspects of these cultures, many of the novels coming out of Latino identities share very similar themes. Pulitzer Prize winner Junot Díaz writes about a Dominican-American boy named Oscar, who struggles with depression and obesity, and obsesses over women in The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Oscar tries to make sense of his Dominican values and his American interests, and in the end, cannot make sense of either. In Rudolfo Anaya’s novel Bless Me, Ultima, Mexican-American Antonio must chose between his mother’s and father’s wishes for his future, and choose whose culture is the most important to him. Pilar, a young Cuban-American in Cristina Garcia’s Dreaming in Cuban, must learn to reconcile her mother’s American dreams and her grandmother’s Cuban lifestyle. Despite the differences in cultures, languages, and locations, these four novels in Latino literature are strung together by the quest for identity. In these examples of Latino literature, the coming of age journeys of the Latino characters requires them to reconcile their traditional home culture and the American culture they are immersed in to create their own hybrid culture.

In the United States, it used to be commonplace for immigrants to abandon their identities upon arrival and to quickly assimilate to the standard American culture of the time. According to William Deresiewicz in his article "Fukú Americanus," published in The Nation in 2007, the immigration experience is very different from once was. Deresiewicz writes that in the “nineteenth and early twentieth centuries left their homelands, they left them forever” (36). Now, Deresiewicz notes that immigrants hold on to their home cultures more, and as a result, cultural “assimilation is less certain” (36). Even families that have lived in the US for multiple generations may feel that they “remain suspended between two places” (36). Deresiewicz goes on to say that European immigrants do not feel this suspension between two places as much as Caribbean immigrants do, because of the distance between their country of origin and their new lives. On the other hand, Caribbean roots and “lands are so close” that immigrants’ “status and plans are so often unclear” (36). Deresiewicz’s claims can be easily applied to Pilar, whose parents come from Cuba, and Oscar, whose mother comes from the Dominican Republic. Although Antonio’s family is not from a Caribbean nation, he and his family still fits into Deresiewicz’s theory as Mexico’s proximity contributes to the unclear status and plans of many Mexican immigrants. Pilar, Oscar, and Antonio all experience a suspension between two places and two cultures, especially as they begin creating their own identities separate from those of their parents. However, rather than picking either their home identity or the American identity, these characters all strive to create a new hybrid identity that combines both.

In The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Oscar spends his entire life trying to balance the Dominican expectations of his family and his immersion in American culture. Deresiewicz says that Oscar’s is an American story overshadowed by a Dominican one (39). Because of this, his “divided identity” makes Oscar, “as a character…remain something of a blank” (39, 41). Throughout the novel, Oscar tries to figure out which culture will save him from being a blank. When Oscar was only seven years old, his family members embedded aspects of their home culture in his mind. His uncle, Tío Rudolfo, was one of the only male role models available to Oscar in his youth—and he served as the perfect icon of a machismo Dominican man. At many of the many parties that Oscar went to, his tío or “some drunk relative inevitably pushed Oscar onto some little girl” and everyone else would laugh as the children “approximated the hip-motism of the adults” (Díaz 12). Oscar’s love for females began with encounters like those, and through his younger years he “had ‘girlfriends’ galore” (Díaz 12). His Dominican family loved that Oscar was acting like “a ‘normal’ Dominican boy,” and his “nascent pimp-liness was encouraged by blood and friends alike” (Díaz 11). Although he did not realize it at the time, Oscar was strictly adhering to the Dominican ideals of machismo that his family instilled in him.

As Oscar grew older, he left his Dominican machismo behind. His interests shifted from his family’s Dominican machismo to the new American trends of comics and science fiction. According to Yunior, the narrator of Oscar’s story, “Oscar had always been a young nerd…but by high school his commitment…had become absolute” (Díaz 20). Tío Rudolfo was replaced a collection of white males ranging from Asimov to Tolkien to the Marvel superheroes. As American nerd culture of comics and science fiction begin to consume Oscar’s interest, his Dominican roots get left behind. Suddenly, he has a “triple-zero batting average with the ladies” and because he is Dominican, “everybody noticed his lack of game” (Díaz 24). Tío offers him advice, but Oscar’s nerd-dom has destroyed any “game” he may have had. Every time he tries to talk to a girl now, he ends up scaring her away with nerd culture references, such as “If you were in my game I would give you an eighteen Charisma!” (Díaz 174). Oscar’s inability to get a girlfriend is extremely detrimental to his self-esteem, making him depressed and eventually leading to his attempted suicide.

For Oscar, the American nerd culture he has adopted distances him from his family’s Dominican macho culture. Strong role models from each culture, Tío Rudolfo and his Abuela as well as his many comic book and science fiction characters, beg for Oscar’s alliance and adherence to their values. Eventually, the attempt to reconcile American and Dominican culture becomes too much for Oscar and in trying to please both, he overdoes it and consequently gives up. For Oscar, there were too many standards and ideals presented by his family and America, and he could not resolve their conflicting interests—women and fantasy—to create a new identity for himself. In the end, Oscar dies. His death does not happen entirely of his own free will, yet it is obviously connected to his lack of cultural grounding and his need to prove himself worthy of both cultures—an impossible task when trying to adhere to all the ideals from each culture. It appears that sometimes cultures are too strong to be melded into a hybrid culture.

Although Pilar in Dreaming in Cuban must also reconcile her traditional home culture and American culture, she succeeds where Oscar could not. When Pilar was very young, she chose to follow her Abuela Celia’s traditional Cuban culture rather than her mother Lourdes’s American culture. Before she even knew what the word atheist meant, Lourdes told Pilar that her grandmother was one, and Pilar “knew immediately it was what [I] wanted to become” (Garcia 175). Even without understanding the meaning of culture or beliefs, Pilar chooses her grandmother’s culture first. According to Rocío G. Davis in her article, “Back to The Future: Mothers, Languages, And Homes In Cristina García's Dreaming In Cuban," Pilar identifies with her grandmother “for roots and connectedness,” which she cannot get from her mother (66). Later, Pilar begins to develop reasoning for her adherence to her traditional Cuban culture and resists her mother’s culture. Davis writes that he process of creating one’s own identity involves “pain and resistance,” which shows itself as Pilar hurts her mother (61). Teenaged Pilar makes fun of her mother in her “auxiliary police” uniform, preparing herself “to fight the communists when the time came” (Garcia 132). Pilar has learned about Cuba and the politics there that her mother so strongly disagrees with, even going so far as to give her mother a “book of essays on Cuba called A Revolutionary Society,” which her mother then destroys (Garcia 132). It is only once Pilar goes to Cuba itself that she realizes that Cuban culture is not as ideal as she once held it to be. She tells the reader that now, Cuba feels “kind of dead to me” (Garcia 137). Instead of staying with her grandmother in Cuba, she decides that she belongs in the US. She occasionally longs for its culture, but “every day Cuba fades a little more inside me” (Garcia 138). Davis writes that mother-daughter texts “tend to favor the pattern of separation and later bonding,” noting that Garcia never brings the bonding to completion, only leads up to the moment of reconciliation (67). At the end of the novel, Pilar is now closer to her mother, even her “breathing falls in time with [her] mother’s,” and is realizing the good of the American culture, but still has not made the transition to bonding with her mother or her culture (Garcia 221).

As Pilar realizes the flaws in the Cuban culture and the benefits of the American culture, she begins to meld the two together. Although she now sees the validity and importance of her mother’s American culture, Pilar does not know how to combine the cultures. Instead of immediately adapting her own culture to parts of American culture, Pilar starts by showing her respect to both cultures. When Pilar’s mother asks her “to paint a mural for her second Yankee Doodle Bakery,” Pilar agrees to do it (Garcia 138). Although Pilar does not completely respect the Statue of Liberty that her mother requests her paint, she feels “guilty in [her] own way” at her take on the American icon (Garcia 177). Pilar goes to her mother in the early morning, after she “can’t sleep all night thinking maybe this time [she’s] gone too far” (Garcia 143). The remorse that Pilar feels is proof that she is growing more sympathetic to her mother’s views and the American culture. Davis writes that it is here that the reader learns through Pilar the “distinction between division and differentiation, understanding that while division prevails there can never be completion” (61). By this, Davis means that it is acceptable to have differences, but that differentiation is not a separation, but a “particular way of being connected to others” (61). The ability to see the good in different cultures is an important step in integrating both cultures into one’s new culture. As Pilar continues to see the good in her mother’s culture, she will continue incorporating it into her life; by combining her mother’s and grandmother’s cultures in harmony, Pilar will create her own hybrid culture.

Rather than the combination of different countries’ values, Antonio in Bless Me, Ultima struggles between the cultures of his parents. Even though his parents are only two people, the differences of their cultures can be seen as a metaphor for the differences between Mexican and American cultures. His mother is a Luna, “the daughter of farmers”; his father is a Márez, a “vaquero” and a man of the llano (Anaya 8). According to Debra Black in "Times Of Conflict: Bless Me, Ultima As A Novel Of Acculturation,” the Márez and Luna cultures will have to become acculturated. Black writes that this requires “some form of change within one of these groups must result from the contact” (146). Typically, the weaker culture will submit to the stronger culture, but in Antonio’s parents’ case, both cultures remain strong. Although his parents are married and have learned to accept parts of each other’s culture, both his mother and his father try to instill their cultural values in Antonio. Antonio’s father wants him to grow up to “make a fine vaquero” (Anaya 5). Meanwhile, his mother wants Antonio to be a “man of the people, and perhaps a priest” (Anaya 8). Although Antonio is so young, the novel makes it clear that he “will serve as a bridge between the two cultures he inhabits, being a part of both” (Black 150).

Throughout the novel, Antonio is constantly being tugged in both directions, and feels at a loss, as he wants to please both of his parents, and in turn, both of the cultures he is a part of. For a while, Antonio chooses the Luna way of life, working with his uncles at their farm, being deemed a priest by his peers and finding solace in Catholicism. However, the appeal of the Luna culture soon fades. At church, Antonio called out to God, “but there was no answer. Only emptiness…It was over” (Anaya 211). For Antonio, the Church no longer can satisfy his needs of living a complete life. It is only now that he realizes that there is a third way, one that chooses neither his father nor mother over the other. His father admits that while he has tried to lead his own life, he must also give “other men room and respect to live theirs” (Anaya 217). Although his father is talking to Ultima, the message is also passed on to Antonio, who is no longer being forced in the directions of Márez or Luna. Antonio realizes that he has learned vital things from his mother and his father, such as love of the earth, and the importance of family (Anaya 220). Bless Me, Ultima shows how the future of the family, as seen in Antonio, must forge “a collective identity that reveals a search for a distinctive identification and a recognition of cultural differences” (Black 161). It is only once Antonio realizes this that he must love and become part of both his Márez and Luna roots that he comes of age. Through Ultima’s guidance and help, Antonio realizes that both cultures are alive within him and he must embrace them both, creating a new hybrid culture, in order to live fully and “love life” (Anaya 247).

The formation of identity is the most pivotal part of any young person’s coming of age, but it is especially so for Latino youth. Living between two different identities and cultures—American and the culture of their home and family—Latinos must reconcile the differences between these differing cultures they are a part of. Often, Latinos go through a period of disliking their family culture, then move into a period of realizing that their home culture has its good points, and then finally move into a period where they create a blend of the two cultures in their lives. Davis writes it is of utmost important for those caught between two cultures to see differences not as division. For some, such as Oscar, the two cultures may be too strong and the task of creating a hybrid culture becomes too daunting and ends abruptly without reconciliation. But for other Latinos, combining the two parent cultures into a hybrid culture that allows them to move freely between both cultures is the final test of their maturity and newfound adulthood. As we can see through the examples of Pilar and Antonio, the opportunity to identify the valuable parts of each culture and incorporate those into one’s own hybrid culture is an exhilarating coming of age experience.



Works Cited
Anaya, Rudolfo. Bless Me, Ultima. Berkeley: TQS Publications, 1991.
Black, Debra B. "Times Of Conflict: Bless Me, Ultima As A Novel Of Acculturation." Bilingual Review/La Revista Bilingüe 25.2 (2000): 146-162. MLA International Bibliography. Web. 12 Apr. 2012.
Davis, Rocío G. "Back To The Future: Mothers, Languages, And Homes In Cristina García's Dreaming In Cuban." World Literature Today: A Literary Quarterly Of The University Of Oklahoma 74.1 (2000): 60-68. MLA International Bibliography. Web. 12 Apr. 2012.
Deresiewicz, William. "Fukú Americanus." Nation 285.17 (2007): 36-41. Academic Search Premier. Web. 12 Apr. 2012.
Díaz, Junot. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. London: Faber and Faber, 2008.
Garcia, Cristina. Dreaming in Cuban. New York: Ballantine Books, 1992.

The Mongoose in The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

In Junot Díaz’s Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, he includes many footnotes to explain Dominican history, nerd culture, and anything else the author finds important. One of the footnotes that caught my attention the most was one explaining “the Mongoose” that keeps appearing as a savior character in the book.

A mongoose is a small, ferocious animal that lives in Southern Europe and Asia, and in Africa. This carnivore, which looks similar to a weasel, was also introduced to many of the Caribbean islands by settlers from across the ocean.

The Mongoose appears in many folktales, seemingly originating in India (as Díaz’s footnote says). The first Mongoose folktale can be found in the Panchatantra, which is a legendary Indian collection of short stories, estimated to be written around 200 BC. This link is a video representation of the story, told in the original Hindi. For an English version of the story, you can read the Mongoose story from the Panchatantra translated here.

The Mongoose story was so popular and well-known that European men heard and recorded the tale. Rudyard Kipling, perhaps best known for The Jungle Book and Just So Stories, wrote the story of the Mongoose in “Rikki Tikki Tavi,” a short story that appears in The Jungle Book (click here for the best part of the movie adaptation).

The most interesting connection between that I have made between the Mongoose story and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is the moral at the end of the folk tale. It says that it is best to not make hasty decisions that you may regret later. The Mongoose appears to Beli and Oscar, and when it does, it seems to be directly responding to each character making a hasty decision that they will regret later. For Beli, it is after she proudly talks about having an affair with a powerful government man and disrespecting his wife. She made a rash decision to openly admit to such an affair. For Oscar, it is as he is standing on the bridge, waiting to jump to his death. The Mongoose appears and keeps him from dying, only injuring himself, and Oscar gets to continue living. Later, the Mongoose appears again in the canefield after Oscar is beaten the first time, a result of his blatant interest and love for Ybón, the girlfriend of a policeman. With each of these appearances, the people the Mongoose appears to have just made hasty decisions that they will soon regret.

Semester Theme

Although each work of Latino literature is unique and distinct from every other work, there are a few common themes that tie many of the novels together. My theme for the integration project is that identity is a struggle between cultural/familial values and choosing one’s own path in life. More specifically, coming of age is a vital part to the reconciliation of this struggle. Bodega Dreams by Ernesto Quiñonez and Dreaming in Cuban by Cristina Garcia are two of the books from this semester that exemplify this theme through their characters, Blanca and Pilar, respectively. Although both Blanca from Bodega Dreams and Pilar from Dreaming in Cuban must select different aspects of their cultural and familial identities to adopt as their own, each character goes about discovering which parts are most important on their own.

In Dreaming in Cuban, Pilar provides the best example of this in her struggle to become her own person. Pilar is disconnected from her immediate family, and does not find much value in her relationships with her mother or father. Although she does not get much out of that relationship, she does find great worth in the relationship she has with her grandmother, and respects and wants to adhere to her grandmother’s cultural and familial values. For example, when Pilar learns at a young age that her grandmother is an atheist, she quickly decides that she will be one as well, without knowing what all that would entail (Garcia 175). For Pilar, her deep connection with her grandmother is enough to determine at least a part of her direction in life.

In Bodega Dreams, Blanca struggles between the values of her Pentecostal culture and her family’s culture as she chooses her own path in life. We can see her internal struggle with this as she yearns to help one of her sisters in Christ find a husband and stay in the US, and how she wants help from people that her family, specifically her husband Chino, knows, but how she is unwilling to ask them herself. She instead asks Chino to go “husband-hunting for Claudia” for her (Quiñonez 95). Here, we see Blanca realize that both parts of her life are valid and can possibly work together. In this sense, Pilar and Blanca differ—Pilar seems yet unaware of the good that can be found in her immediate family’s way of life, but Blanca is reaching an awareness that there are valuable aspects to all parts of her life.

In conclusion, it is obvious that both Pilar and Blanca struggle between becoming their own person and pleasing those in their immediate family and community. Blanca struggles more with the realization that the life of the street, of the less prestigious, is just as valuable to her life as is the life of the Church. It is difficult for her to justify both of them, but eventually she realizes that both Chino and Jesus are people she loves and represent ideas she needs (whether to help a friend or to acquire eternal salvation). Pilar, on the other hand, still seems young and immature in her awareness of the good that could be present in her immediate family. Instead, she still agrees with her grandmother Celia, and avoids any connections with her mother. Pilar is still very much of the absolute view of her grandmother; she has not learned that there is a black and white area of beliefs. Although Blanca and Pilar both struggle to find their own identity, Blanca is advancing much faster than Pilar as she has already acknowledged the reality of grayness between either end of the absolute beliefs of her past. Both Pilar and Blanca need to come to a happy medium between the different backgrounds that they have to create their own identities.

Dreaming in Cuban Response

Pilar, the daughter of Lourdes, is better connected to her grandmother Celia than to her mother.

Pilar lives with her family in New York City, but gets sick of her mother and decides to run away. She gets on a bus to Miami with the intention of eventually getting to Cuba.

On the busride, Pilar dreams about being in Cuba and in it, she says that “the peple lift me up high and walk with me in a slow procession toward the sea. They’re chanting in a language I don’t understand. I don’t feel scared, though…I can see my grandmother’s face” (Garcia 34). This quotation shows that Pilar does not understand the Cuban language or culture completely—she cannot understand the language the people in her dream are chanting. Regardless, she is not afraid. Her grandmother gives her a sense of stability and connection, despite the physical and cultural distances.

Despite the physical distance, Pilar still says that her grandmother and her talk every night. Because of this ability to communicate freely, Pilar and Celia have created a very deep bond.
This truth further reveals the amount of magical realism present in the novel.

Throughout the novel, Pilar’s character remains more connected to her grandmother and less connected to her mother, and is a significant aspect to all three women’s stories.

The Young Lords

Bodega Dreams by Ernesto Quiñonez was written in 2000. The novel follows a young man named Chino and his life in Spanish Harlem, but one of the most important characters in the book is Willie Bodega. Quiñonez writes that Bodega was a member of the Young Lords when he was in his youth.

The New York chapter of the Young Lords Organization was founded on July 26, 1969. Although there was also another big chapter in Chicago, the NYC Young Lords quickly became the most prominent in social and political movements. The Young Lords were founded as a Puerto Rican nationalist group. They began as a turf gang, interested in cleaning up their neighborhood and supporting the people there. Their interest in helping their community continued until the FBI crippled and discredited the group in 1973. However, there are still Young Lords organizations and Puerto Rican Americans who identify with the group.

The Young Lords' presence inspired a Puerto Rican cultural renaissance in the 1970s. Art, music and poetry flourished. Groups such as the Nuyorican Poets Cafe were started and began to thrive--giving the world a new type of literature. The graffiti to the side is a portrait of Pedro Pietri, author of "Puerto Rican Obituary" and one of the founders of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. This image can be found on one of the walls outside of the Cafe, which still thrives with new Puerto Rican poetry and music.

Palante is an important word for the Puerto Ricans. In turn, it became an important idea for the Young Lords. Palante became the name of one of the group's newspapers devoted to relaying their activities and ideology. The term is a contraction of two Spanish words para, meaning "for," and adelante, meaning "forward." Together, the phrase symbolizes the Young Lords' desire to improve the lives of their people.

The Young Lords developed a 13 Point Program that described their intentions in their community. The group wanted and worked for the self-actualization for Puerto Ricans and all Latinos, and they thought multicultural education was important. The Young Lords also stressed that machismo should never be oppressive, but instead, should be revolutionary and that men should support women as equals.

Mirrored

apologies to Rafael Falcon.


I glance, slightly disinterested, at myself in the mirror——nothing unusual there. Dark brown eyes look back at me. I see a face framed by straight, fine hair. The lips are thick and small; the ears and nose are full of angles. My skin is pale now, sprinkled with moles. In summer, my skin tans red—not olive like my sister’s—and freckles dot my nose. My skin shows a beautiful mixture: Swiss, English, German, Lakota and maybe a few drops of something else.

I look a little closer into the mirror. I see my grandma’s pink-backed quilt, made from Amish dress scraps, draped over a chair. Light blue and green polyester stars. The wind-pushed snow knocks hello at the sliding glass door. Mango, the cat, mews at the squirrel sitting by the naked oak tree in the backyard. It is too early for robins, but the cold weather hawk rests on the evergreen’s tip.

My mirror reflects things treasured by the Mennonite, the Amish, the proper English culture. It reveals rich traditions, elegant crafts, and plates and trays and baskets of food. I see Grandma Rosa, stirring three pots at once. Homemade egg noodles in broth, potatoes with garlic and rosemary, spicy sweet sauce for apple dumplings later. Her hips are my hips—confident and bossy, despite the generation gap. I see my Poppie: out with the horses, close up giving me a kiss, in the kitchen popping popcorn on the stove. I see my brother Jacob, named for Poppie, bobbing his head as he plays the marimba, his adopted instrument. I see my sister Anna, who inherited our mother’s skin and unique fashion sense, steal attention with her clever, silly ways. I see my grandpa LeVon, leading hymns at church. His unwavering tenor slides over the congregation. I see my grandma Leota, who is now going blind, picking green beans from the garden, their new puppy Abby at her side. I see myself touch Grandma’s elastic-less olive brown skin, pushing down the tall veins in her slender hands.

Suddenly, I see so many treasured things! As I look deeper into the mirror, geographical boundaries melt away. Times and places blend. I see the slow, low Amish songs mixing with the gospel Mennonite hymns. I see, from my parents and grandparents, the great smorgasbord of food. Homemade Chinese food and our family’s love of rice from my mother’s time in China. Plain hot water from Rosa’s life after the Depression. Homemade bread and jam from the Amish way of life. Popcorn and apples because that is what Poppie grew up eating on Sunday nights. A love for spicy foods from my dad’s time in Latin America. Canned and frozen vegetables stored in the basement, because that’s just what is done.

I look even further. I see Poppie’s scarred legs from being burned by lye. I see his mother and siblings surviving on potatoes while his dad and oldest brothers were gone finding a new home. I see his dark skin, his high cheekbones, his confident build, his suspected Lakotan blood. I see Grandma Rosa’s blue eyes and dark hair, proud of her Swiss heritage. I see Grandma Leota’s dark skin, her tall thin build, the Middle Eastern blood that somehow snuck into her family’s pure English line by way of a wandering man and his rebellious lady. I see the proof of these in the richness of the food, the love of travel, the need to learn that which has not yet been explored.

I look into the mirror and see much more than my reflection. I see that I am more than my brown hair, my brown eyes, my finicky skin. Wherever I go, I can carry myself with pride, knowing I come from beautiful people with rich, powerful stories. The mirror shows me that my reflection is just a small sample of the beautiful, rich heritage of who I come from, what I am.

Proyecto de Poesía: María Meléndez

María Meléndez was born in the United States of America and grew up in the Bay Area of California. As she was growing up, Meléndez loved poetry and read as many poetry books as she could. Now, Meléndez is a mother and wife, the editor for Momotombo Press at Notre Dame, the publisher of the literary journal called Pilgrimage, and a poet. She has published three books of poetry: How Long She’ll Last in this World in 2006, and Flexible Bones in 2010, both published by the University of Arizona Press; and Base Pairs in 2001, published by the Swan Scythe Press. Meléndez lives in the mainstream culture of the United States, but she does not want to be seen as post-Latino or like a woman without a history. Her passions can be identified as the exploration and incorporation of mestizo identity, feminism and femininity, and ecology into her writing. Of the three themes, her mestizo identity and feminism show up most prominently in her writing. Although the poems by María Meléndez in the anthology The Wind Shifts often address a specific audience with their allusions to mestizo history and culture, her poems can be enjoyed and appreciated by all American feminists.

First, let us examine a poem that the majority of Americans can relate to, regardless of cultural heritage. “Nude Sonnet,” a free verse poem with a prosaic look and sound, is a love poem that celebrates the body of a man. Regardless of its form, love is something that every human has felt or will feel, making it a universal topic. However, “Nude Sonnet” is not a typical love poem or the celebration of a lover’s body. In this poem, Meléndez explores the cultural expectations between a man and a woman in a romantic relationship and questions those expectations. In line 9, she asks the man, “why don’t you ever say I’m beautiful?” She then seems to realize that her request may out of place and wonders “but then, / why don’t I ever say that you are?” (“Nude Sonnet”10). Rather than keeping with the traditional expectation that the woman should be seen as the beauty in a relationship, Meléndez re-examines the typical roles between men and women and questions why she should expect something she has not given. In this way, feminist readers—both women and men—can delight in the discovery that stereotypical male/female roles do not have to be adhered to. Men’s bodies can be celebrated as beautiful, too.

The poem “Tonocacihuatl: Lady of our Flesh” is written in five stanzas of four lines, making it one of Meléndez’s most structured poems, although it does not have a rhyme scheme or meter. “Tonacacihuatl: Lady of our Flesh” makes a huge shift in audience as Meléndez writes about the mythology of the Aztecs, one of the most powerful native tribes of central Mexico. In their mythology, Tonocacihuatl is the wife of Tonacatecuhtli, the god of creation, and is herself the goddess of creation. These two gods were the original beings and created everything else in the universe. The name Tonocacihuatl means “lady of the flesh” or “lady of substance.” It can be argued that many mestizos would not be aware of this Aztec mythology; however, it is likely that mestizos have been exposed to it by their family and cultural experiences.

This poem not only is for a mestizo audience that understands the importance of the goddess Tonacacihuatl, but is also a poem for feminists. The creator goddess—a female divine entity—is not present in the majority of white Western culture. The poem’s portrayal of the Creator as a woman is a powerful one for womankind, as are the universal images and senses that Meléndez uses to describe the goddess of creation. Meléndez describes Tonacacihuatl’s breath and sweat as the “fragrance of rain,” her dress as being covered in “thirteen mirrors” and her fever as “an affliction known as August” (“Tonacacihuatl” 1, 2, 13, 16). In the descriptions of her breath, sweat and dress, Meléndez uses concepts that are familiar in nearly every life—and certainly in every North American one. One might assume that the last image—fever as August—is a familiar one, but it is good to remember that only in the northern hemisphere is August a hot and sticky summer month. Still, this poem of a female creator remains a tangible idea for feminist readers to grasp onto.

Meléndez’s poem “Remedio” is a free verse poem that focuses on images of wolves and the spirit. To better understand this poem, we must first understand the significance of the wolf image and, specifically, “la loba” that is mentioned in line 36. In Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ book, Women Who Run with the Wolves, she includes the myth of La Loba, the Wolf Woman, from the Pueblo people of the southwestern US. In Estés telling of the myth, La Loba is an ugly, fat, old woman who lives alone and avoids the others’ company. The only work of La Loba is to collect wolf bones, collecting and preserving “that which is in danger of being lost to the world” (Estés 26).

She searches through las montañas and the dry riverbeds to find enough bones to remake an entire skeleton. As she stands near a fire and sings over la criatura, the bones become the wolf—furry and breathing. The wolf becomes alive, jumps up and runs into the desert. Somewhere along the run, the wolf is “suddenly transformed into a laughing woman who runs free toward the horizon” (Estés 28).

Knowing the Pueblo myth of La Loba, we can now read “Remedio” with a better understanding of the Latino and mestizo connections and see this poem through the feminist lens. The narrator of the poem gives directions to the reader or listener, saying to “let your wolf mask go” (“Remedio” 3). This “wolf mask” is the body of the wolf that rises from the bones and runs off into the desert. La Loba, or the narrator, is telling the listener to shed their wolf skin and become the woman that the wolf eventually morphs into. Later, the narrator instructs the reader in a “simple spell for home lycanthropy,” or a simple way to turn one’s self into a werewolf (“Remedio” 30). In a chronological poem, this piece of information would come before the previous quote; regardless, this step is important as it gives a “remedy for when you’ve lost your sense / of Spirit in the world” and encourages women to “recuerda la loba” within themselves (“Remedio” 28-9, 36). The narrator goes on to instruct the reader to notice the natural world, and to “let her pass through your heart again, / this wolf” (“Remedio” 31, 40-41). Based on these instructions, the reader may safely assume that the narrator is La Loba herself and the text is her song to the bones of the wolf—encouraging the tired, dead bones to come into their full potential and run like the powerful she-wolf through the desert, eventually turning into the free woman within.

Throughout all of María Meléndez’s poems, themes of feminism—the validity of womanhood and the expectation of equality among genders—and of mestizo culture and history are deeply rooted and intrinsic parts of Meléndez’s message. From the Aztec people’s creation myths to the more recent myths from the Pueblo people, Latino and mestizo history appears and reappears in her poems. Goddesses such as the Aztec Creator Tonacacihuatl and mythical women such as La Loba bring ancient and respected views of women into mainstream American culture. Even more so, Meléndez surveys the life of a modern American woman and realizes that expectations in love between men and women should not be any different. Although sometimes her specific references to Aztec and Southwestern US myths may occasionally isolate some mainstream American feminists, Meléndez’s poetry is accessible enough that all of her readers can enjoy and appreciate her portrayals of mestizo culture, feminism and femininity.

A Response to The Devil's Highway

The crosses along the border fence represent those who have died trying to cross.
Photo courtesy of keiforce.

The Devil's Highway by Luis Alberto Urrea is, in my opinion, the most well-written and emotionally-riveting book that we have read so far. I think the reason it connects so well and makes such an impact is because the idea of borders is one that we can all relate to.

What borders have I had to cross?

Thinking about it, I keep going back and looking at pictures I have posted up in my room, or the ones I have saved on my computer or even some of the ones I'm tagged in on Facebook. The pictures are all of the places where I felt those borders (college, working at camp, working in Chicago, my family, my on-again-off-again friends) but that's not where I find the borders themselves. There are no pictures of the borders I've experienced like there are photos of the US-Mexican border. People don't usually take pictures of the things keeping them out of or separated from where they want to be. But these borders are important.

And in my case, every border has people that are encouraging and supportive on each side of the fence. What would I do if I didn't have that support system to help me through? What if I got to the other side and realized I didn't know the language? What if I got there and every sign looked like WingDings and every person talking sounded like R2D2? I'd be straight out of luck. I'd give up. I'd go home.

The people that cross the border along the Sonoran Desert are either the stupidest or the bravest people I have heard of. The courage that they have to come to a new place across a land known to be threatening and devastating, and known to be a killer--even under the best conditions. I can't imagine having the strength or the willpower or feeling so responsible for my loved ones that I would cross such a destructive area to support them. I have so much respect for people that travel across the desert--and for any person that goes through hardships--to benefit the ones they love.

The Guardians, The Devil's Highway and Identity:

As a work of creative nonfiction, the story of the Yuma 14/Wellton 26 does not fit as well into the theme of identity as a struggle between cultural/familial values and choosing one’s own path in life as the other books we have read this semester. Rather than metaphorically finding their own paths in life, these men are quite literally and physically moving themselves away from their families and their cultures. For the interactive map from the presentation, click here. In The Guardians, Gabo must forge his own identity separate from his family's. Tía Regina is not religious, going as far as to scorn it, but her sobrino Gabo is. Regina says, of Gabo, that her “biggest fear is he’s gonna become a priest. Wait ‘til Rafa hears about it. He’ll be so disappointed” (7).

In Gabo’s search to defining himself and finding an identity leads to his experimentation with a gang. At the barbeque birthday party that Miguel throws for him, Gabo invites his friend Jesse. But he also ends up inviting the whole Palomino gang. When El Toro gets up to leave, Jesse and Tiny Tears go with him; and then Gabo follows too. Regina says that he “didn’t thank us for the party, say good-bye, or even look at nobody. He just hurried off and got in Jesse’s car with the others. It wasn’t like my nephew not to mind his manners” (80).

After Gabo leaves with the Palomino gang and has a run-in with the police, he goes to Padre Juan Bosco’s house rather than home to his aunt Regina’s. She says that he is “a boy trying to figure things out” (97). The Padre assures Regina that when Gabo is ready, “he’ll go home on his own” (99). This is a very interesting statement, especially given my thesis for these Latino novels. This would in turn suggest that once young individuals take the time trying to figure out who they are and what their identity is, they ultimately end up back in their homes, as the Padre puts it—in their family and cultural origins.

On the other hand, The Devil’s Highway contains a literal path away from the cultural and familial expectations in the Latino characters’ lives. Each of them are leaving for different specific reasons, but all of them are leaving to better their lives and the lives of their families. Enrique Landeros García went on the journey to get enough money to “pay for a more straightforward chance at a future” for his children to go to school (52). Reyno Bartolo Hernandez “went to Don Moi for money to pay for [his adopted daughter’s] care (53). All of these men, along with the others not mentioned here, are choosing to temporarily abandon their families and cultures to assure a better life for their families. They have chosen that a future for their children is more valuable than their own lives—death is a well-known consequence of the path on the devil’s highway. As adults, their identities are tied to the lives of their children more than they are tied to the men themselves. Perhaps once Gabo reaches adulthood, he will find that his identity is intrinsically tied to his family.

Thoughts on 9500 Liberty:

9500 Liberty, a documentary first aired completely via YouTube video clips, follows the story of Prince William County, Virginia from the spring of 2007 until the spring of 2008. During this time, a law was instated that required police to check the citizenship status of people based on subjective standards of suspicion. The law required 21 new police staff as well as 14 million dollars.

The biggest problem with this law is that the "probable cause" mandate almost certainly meant that Latinos and non-white people would be racially profiled. This caused huge conflicts between the Latinos, who made up 20% of the county's population at the time, and those white Americans worried about protecting America, and more specifically, Manassas (as is shown through the "Help Save Manassas" group).

In response to the passing of this law, a man named Gaudencio Fernandez who owns the property at 9500 Liberty Street, erected a wall with messages to the government on it (as is pictures above). Others started blogs, such as Greg Letiecq and Alanna Almeda and Elena Schlossberg. Many immigrants--both legal and illegal--simply left Prince William County.

There were so many interesting topics in this film. I was fascinated and disgusted at the use of manipulation and coercion by citizens of Manassas City. I was shocked that county officials would make decisions without a basis of facts concerning the matter. More so, I was so surprised at how many people hold hostile prejudices and un-based opinions of Latinos. One man referred to the United States as "my country" and that people here should speak English. A woman asked county board members to remember who was behind 9/11: illegal immigrants.

To me, these sentiments--along with other opinions we heard from various other characters in the documentary--simply perpetuate feelings of danger, anger and fear. Fear seemed to be the most overwhelming emotion throughout this movie. Speakers in favor of the law used fear politics--appealing to the board members sense of fear rather than their logic or obligation to uphold the US's democratic ideals.

One of the citizen speakers put it best, I think. He was a teacher, but asked to be seen instead as a human being. He went on to say that we all deserve to be seen as human beings. When you think of people in that sense, I can't imagine passing a law that would divide, uproot or harm families. Regardless of "legal" status, human beings are human beings and we all deserve respect--enough to not be judged by the color of our skin.

Thoughts on Identity from A Day Without a Mexican

First things first: I’d give this movie 2 of 5 stars. And that’s only because I was in a good mood when I watched it. A great idea, but could have been cut down to about 20-30 minutes and the point would have been just as clear. Acting was hilarious, but I’m not sure that was intentional. Facts were interesting, but the Bradley Hand font they used for them was not a good choice.

All complaining aside, I actually thought that A Day Without a Mexican raised good points and brought up a valid issue that is often ignored in the United States. Latinos are often all lumped together. Colombians, Guatemalans and other latinoamericanos are often carelessly thrown into the category of “Mexican” without any prior thought by their labeler. Even worse, latinos are often assumed to be illegal immigrants—even if they were born and raised in the US.

This movie made me more aware of how much of a powerful impact that latinos have on the US not only culturally, with salsa being our nation’s favorite condiment, but also economically. According to the movie, latinos in California alone are contributing 100 billion dollars to the economy.

The most thought-provoking scene in A Day Without a Mexican was the section in which Lyla realizes, for herself and for the audience, that even though she’s genetically Armenian, she’s a latina at heart. She has been raised by latinos and that is who she identifies with.

In my mind, being a latino/a is a state of mind, rather than a genetic prescription. I have a friend named Christine. She has curly dark hair, dances salsa and mambo, speaks Spanish, and is one of the fieriest women I know. She’s genetically not of Hispanic descent in any way, but she identifies as a latina. On the most recent census, she labeled herself as “other,” because there isn’t an option to check for “Latino/a.”

I think it’s really important that people realize that, as both Christine and Lyla have showed me, being a latino, latina (or identifying with any group of people, for that matter) is more about what’s on the inside than what’s on the outside.

Beyond Christianity: Bless Me, Ultima

This is the second time I have read Bless Me, Ultima, but, I’ll be the first to admit that it was the first time I understood it. The first time I read this novel, I was in middle school, and many parts of it I did not understand. I understood the basic story, but I did not catch the struggles between Antonio’s Márez self and his Luna self. I also had previously missed the role of women in Antonio’s life and how differently they are viewed—here I am thinking specifically about the differences between his mother, the girls at Rosie’s and then, Ultima.

The role of family in Bless Me, Ultima is what interested me the most—not the aspect of religion and spirituality. The father and his actions, as well as the actions of Antonio’s older brothers, fascinated me. It seems so strange to me that his three older brothers would waste their money and their time with the girls at Rosie’s or gambling or drinking. I would have imagined that three boys who had gone off to war would return with a sense of solemnity and a need to be responsible. It was interesting too to see how they each dealt with post-traumatic stress from the war. If there were another book about Antonio’s brothers, I would definitely read it. They were so important and had so many stories--an example of wonderful character writing by Anaya.

Ultima, of course, was the most provocative character in my mind. She was a powerful woman who knew exactly who she was and what she needed to be doing on Earth. Even though this is a fictional story, I’d like to think that it mirrors real life, and that the respect that Antonio’s family had for Ultima is true for how real families respect wise, older women in their lives. What I like most about Ultima is how she never explicitly states what she believes—I have no idea whether or not she was a Christian—but I know that she is a good person, and that is, in some ways, far more important. The blessing that she gives Antonio as she is dying is one of the most honorable and beautiful things I can imagine someone to hope for another. She says:

"I bless you in the name of all that is good and strong and beautiful, Antonio. Always have the strength to live. Love life, and if despair enters your heart, look for me in the evenings when the wind is gentle and the owls sing in the hills. I shall be with you."
Ultima to Antonio
(Bless Me, Ultima 261)

On Many Different Zones:

The movie, I, the Worst of All, follows the life of Sor Juana de la Cruz, a nun in Colonial Mexico. She writes poems and plays, and says at one point in the movie that she would not exist without her books. And then, her books are taken away.

What?

When she is teaching young girls to sing at the convent school, she stops to tell them that “perception and curiosity,” “intelligence” and the “desire to explore” are not just gifts given to men, but traits that women should be proud of having too. Sor Juana is preparing girls for what men will try to tell them as they grow up, and to give them knowledge that there is an alternative—that women are every bit as capable as men.

This seems to mirror issues still current in our culture. In Borderlands/la frontera, written by Gloria Anzaldúa in 1987, she starts off her story sitting in a dentist’s chair. The dentist, a man, tells her—not just once, but twice—that they are “going to have to control your tongue.”

As we move closer to becoming a society of fairness, some may think that the quest for gender equality has ended… but it has not. Even today, there are so many double standards between men and women. If a man works hard and ignores others’ needs to get ahead, he is honored as a devoted businessman. If a woman does the same, she is a bitch. If a man sleeps with multiple partners, he’s a playa. If a woman does the same, she’s a slut. If a man talks a lot, he is celebrated for his strong personality. If a woman does the same, she is a gossip.

But, women are not sitting by idly.

At the end of the movie, the actress portraying Sor Juana sits alone in quiet contemplation and there is a sense of resiliency around the woman she embodies—a sense that she has not given up writing or creating. In her poem, “In Reply to a Gentleman from Peru, Who Sent Her Clay Vessels While Suggesting She Would Better Be a Man,” the real Sor Juana writes in a sassy, memorable voice—suggesting to the man that it is indeed just fine that she is a woman, and that diversity is good and enables all to share their God-given gifts.

This idea, that diversity is a beautiful reality rather than a frightening one, is one that easily carries through from Sor Juana’s 17th century to our present day. Diversity in sex, orientation, race, ethnicity were all issues dealt with in Colonial Mexico. Interesting that they remain the issues most often tiptoed around in America today.

But it is well that such great talent
live in many different zones,
for those who are with greatness born
should live not for themselves alone
[Sor Juana]

On Naming:

When I was younger, I was really self-conscious about my name. In elementary school I was always worried that people would make fun of me for having a boy’s name, or an Amish name or a black kid’s name. They did. The worst part was when people would mess up my name. Spelling it wrong was bad enough—no capital V, and a silent e on the end—but the worst was when they’d say it wrong—Lavern, Lavohn, Lavoon.

My name is Lavonne. I am named after my grandfather—and no, that’s not a typo, I really do mean my grandfather. His spells his LeVon, he is my mom’s dad, and his love for music was passed on to me. He’s not one to talk about his feelings, he’d sooner criticize my eating habits then give me a hug, but I know he loves me. I’m proud to have his name.

My middle name is Rosa, after my dad’s mom. She’s brilliant and sassy. Everything you wouldn’t expect from a woman who grew up Amish and wasn’t supposed to finish the 8th grade. When my mom uses my middle name, I know I’m in trouble. In high school, it usually meant I’d forgotten to get up for school on time, now it usually means that I forgot to take the clothes out of the dryer or get the cookies out of the oven. Even though my mom uses it when she’s being serious, I still think it’s the most beautiful name. The beginning is strong as the R fills up your mouth with vibrations, but the end of it slides out of your mouth the way that water droplets flow off your fingers when you hold your arms just right in the shower.

Eventually kids at school got used to my name, and I got used to never being able to find it on keychains or those mini license plates or anything. And Word documents always think I spelled my name wrong and I meant to say "Lionel" or "lavender" instead.

As a 21-year old, I have lost a lot of that fear about the unusualness of my name. I love knowing that I’m the only Lavonne that most of my peers know. When people think “Lavonne,” they don’t have other people popping into their heads to define what that word means to them, just me.

It’s all up to me. I’m unique. I can define my name for others, even though parts of it have already been defined for me. I'm a brand-new compilation of two already established names and people. My name is exactly what I chose to make it mean.

An Introduction

I created this blog for a class on Latino Literature that I will be taking this semester at Goshen College. Learning is always personal, and this is just one way for me to voice what I think about the texts we read and the topics we cover in class.