Review: Marie Arana. Cellophane.

NY: Dial Press, 2006. ISBN 0385336640

Michael Sedano

A prankster's perpetual motion machine and a picture postcard of what seems an impossible structure captures a young man's imagination. He sees through the perpetual motion machine–a ball bearing driven along a track by a hidden electric fan– but the iron building perched on a hill surrounded by jungle sparks the young man's quest to produce his own engineering marvel in the nineteenth century Peruvian Amazon watershed. Something like that doesn’t belong in such a place. That people can do something like that doesn’t mean they should.

The point is lost on the young man, Victor Sobrevilla Paniagua. He becomes an engineer, finds a livelihood in a rich foreigner’s paper factory out in the middle of nowhere. The foreigner dies, leaving Victor in possession of the papermill’s equipment with nary an heir nor creditor in sight. Victor steals the factory--moves the papermill, kit and kaboodle, deeper into the jungle where he establishes a family plantation dubbed “Floralinda” and thus begins his family saga.

This is the skeleton of Marie Arana’s 2006 novel, Cellophane. The novel takes its title from Victor’s obsession with transforming hemp, cotton, and local weeds into the shimmering transparency that would demonstrate his own miracle in the jungle like that iron house that didn’t belong. Arana is not so obvious, however, choosing instead to place the reader in the heart of the family, seeing what they choose to see.

Floralinda seems to prosper under the Engineer’s labors. His family grows, his factory grows, his fortune grows. Victor comes to be known as the shapechanger because he can convert trees, grasses, hemp, and other local vegetation into massive rolls of brown paper and familial prosperity. Only occasionally does the novel allude to the terrible pollution that papermaking brings to pristine environments, but the depredations are never far from the surface.

Strange happenings begin to turn the family’s fortunes from prosperity to asperity. We begin seeing the falsehood behind the seeming paradise. Insanity, marital infidelity, deformity signal impending disaster. A plague of truthfulness infects the family. People blurt out closely held secrets, truths emerge unthinkingly. The priest confesses his carnal knowledge of a woman at an early stage of his career. To comfort him, Sobrevilla’s wife tells the assembled family that her father was a priest. Another confession: a grandparent was a Chinese coolie, a truly abhorrent heritage to an outraged daughter-in-law who considers her lineage to have passed from Spanish royalty. Then there are the shrunken heads.

These are only a few of dozens of strange happenings in the Amazon jungle that Arana weaves into an involving story that plays upon perception, reality, and false vision. Floralinda takes on the character of the world seen through the transparency of cellophane. Don Victor’s close friend and confessor, an indio medicine man named Yorumbo, explains near the middle of the novel, “You say you can see through your paper. But that kind of seeing means nothing. A man sees through water and air, doesn’t he? Just as a man sees through water to find a fish, just as he sees through air to find a bird, you must see past your shine to find what your heart really hungers for. The burden of your paper, pacu, is that it will force to you to look elsewhere.”

The beauty of the passage is its false transparency. While the indio seems to be making a profound disclosure, at its heart the statement has no meaning while speaking a kind of truth. “Elsewhere“ is so nondirectional that all Don Victor can do is stare along the same sightline, not seeing yet consumed by his vision. Events slowly begin growing out of his control like the seed that sprouted in a monastery. It grew into a huge tree that consumed the entire structure.

Truth be told, the novel plods along from development to development. Not without its moments of sheer delight, like the jivaro headshrinkers, or the delightful seduction of the grandchildren’s nanny. Don Victor traps a hatful of butterflies in order to greet the outwardly unremarkable teacher possessed of a wonderful figure. With a tip of the hat and explosion of color, the delighted schoolteacher is softened up. The sight sets the plantation tongues to wagging and the lustful Victor’s passion on an ever upward arc that brings about his downfall.

Arana finds the heart of her story in betrayal. The novel’s pace quickens when government arrives at Floralinda and turns everything inside out. Those who had lived off Floralinda’s prosperity turn against the family in a frenzy of looting and rejection. In the end, the fantasy of paradise becomes the reality of master and economic slave. The Sobrevillas, whose domesticity we witnessed from inside the family’s domicile and the author’s chosen perspective, finally are revealed by the acts of the people of Floralinda.

The cook’s husband makes the point clearly. “He shook the cross over his head. ‘Don’t you see? It’s over! No more bullies! No more threats from that priest! No more orders from the señora! We can raise that baby in your belly as a Nahua, as a proud creature of this forest, as our fathers raised us to be!’”

In the end, the family floats away from Floralinda like some shipwrecked crew. Victor takes out the fortune he’d bought as a child and that had guided his vision all those years. He wonders what kind of paper it was made from. He releases it and it sweeps away in the wind.


Already the middle of January and turning the corner into February. Look for Gina Marysol Ruiz' Wednesday column. And on Thursday, La Bloga welcomes our guest columnist, Lisa Alvarado. I'll see you next week.

mvs

MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. DAY

In honor of today, here is Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream Speech” delivered on August 28, 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.:

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by a sign stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

*****************************

◙ The new issue of Somos Primos is now live. Somos Primos is “dedicated to Hispanic heritage and diversity issues” and is produced by the Society of Hispanic Historical and Ancestral Research.

◙ Rigoberto González reviews Cynthia Cruz’s debut poetry collection, Ruin (Alice James Books) in the El Paso Times calling it a “brief but transfixing glimpse into the eyes of hopelessness that engages no safe words. Cynthia Cruz is ruthless but brilliant, and her landscape is an eternal but oddly inviting winter, ‘a world someplace else.’”

◙ Agustin Gurza, staff writer at the L. A. Times, recently wrote a wonderful piece on the remastered classics from Fania; Fania's complete catalogue can be found here. Because of Agustin’s article, I immediately ordered two CDs: Siembra (Willie Colón and Rubén Blades), and Celia & Johnny (Celia Cruz and Johnny Pacheco). The sound is crisp and the music itself is, of course, muy suave.

◙ Over at Tertulia Magazine, Francisco Aragón interviews elena minor, editor of the literary journal, Palabra.

◙ Manuel Paul López, author of Death of a Mexican & Other Poems (Bear Star Press), now has a blog.

◙ CATALINA Magazine has honored the best Latina authors and their work for 2006 by releasing the “Top 5 Books by Latina Authors” list. We noticed a few friends of La Bloga included:

1. HUMOR: Happy Hour at Casa Dracula, by Marta Acosta

2. CHICKLIT: Becoming a Latina in 10 Easy Steps, by Lara Rios

3. ADVENTURE: Across a Hundred Mountains, By Reyna Grande

4. FANTASY: Death Calls, by Caridad Pineiro

5. ROMANCE: In Between Men, by Mary Castillo

◙ Daniel Hernandez, former writer for the L. A. Times and now doing great things over at the L. A. Weekly, also has entered the blogging world with his own blog. Daniel is a remarkable journalist whose recent piece, Shades of Brown, is a must-read for anyone curious about the L. A. Times’ troubled and confusing relationship to this city’s Chicano and Latino communities.

Distant Star - Five Easy Pieces

Manuel Ramos

DISTANT STAR BY ROBERTO BOLAÑO
I confess my frustration when I read something by Roberto Bolaño. Last year I wrote about his collection of short stories, Last Evenings on Earth (New Directions, 2006); check out the October 6, 2006, La Bloga archives here. I thought the anthology was good, obviously worth reading, but even in that post I mentioned Bolaño’s puzzling creativity, what I now refer to as his "style" – sorry, I cannot come up with a better word although I understand that style in the context of writing does not mean all that much; but Bolaño’s writing strikes me as very stylized, even self-conscious – and the reader’s responsibility to contribute to the narrative. My latest excursion with Bolaño, Distant Star (originally published by Editorial Anagrama as Estrella distante in 1996; published in English by New Directions in 2004, translation by Chris Andrews) confirmed my first impressions and added to my level of exasperation, but did not lessen my admiration for this writer.

Distant Star is a novel centered on the unraveling of the mystery of Carlos Weider: Chilean poet, officer in Pinochet’s air force, torturer, serial killer. Weider’s first claim to fame, garnered when he was a university student using the name Alberto Ruiz-Tagle, is the assumption made by the Chilean literary scene that he will "revolutionize Chilean poetry" despite the lack of any meaningful poetry produced by Weider. Eventually, he "writes" poetry with his airplane. Here is how Bolaño describes the narrator’s first witnessing of such poetry, observed as the narrator waits in prison, a victim of the Pinochet roundups of suspected threats to the new regime:

There, high above the city, it began to write a poem in the sky. At first I thought the pilot had gone mad and I wasn’t surprised. Madness was not exceptional at the time. I thought he was looping around in a fit of desperation and would crash into a building or a square in the city. But then, suddenly, the letters appeared, as if the sky itself had secreted them. Perfectly formed letters of grey-black smoke on the sky’s enormous screen of rose-tinged blue, chilling the eyes of those who saw them.

Weider becomes the darling of the intelligentsia, that is, the darling of the academics, writers, and other artists who survive the early years of Pinochet.

The narrator is exiled from Chile as Weider’s star rises. However, that star dims drastically when Weider exhibits a collection of photographs (the "art of the future") that embarrasses the leaders. Although the photographs document the brutality and corruption of the regime, and Weider’s own insanity, nothing comes of the revelation except that he slips away, also in exile, to continue to do whatever it is that he does, including contributing poetry and articles to various neo-Nazi and fascist magazines and journals. Inevitably, the narrator becomes obsessed with finding Weider, and the novel ends with an ambiguous but symbolic closure to that search.

Bolaño’s book dares to suggest that there is a direct connection between Pinochet’s destruction of the Allende government and society, and the fascination of Chilean writers – poets in particular – with the superficial trappings of art for art’s sake, of artistic expression nurtured in a social and political vacuum. Weider’s first victims are his fellow poets, and that is no accident. They are students who fell in love with his image, with his "potential," with his mysterious attitude, but who did not really know him or his poetry. As it turns out, Weider is unknowable. His lack of humanity makes him a shadowless enigma, a deadly and terrible ghost who found himself in a society where he was tolerated, then worshiped, much to the agony of the Chilean people.

Bolaño says in a preface that he initially wrote a short piece in another book about Nazi Literature in the Americas, then he realized that he had much more to say. And, indeed, there is much more in Distant Star about far right poetics and art. But there also is considerable information about numerous poets (left and right) who were admired or ignored; and about the generation of Chileans who came of age when the Allende fairy tale ended violently. Bolaño includes several anecdotes about such people. In the same vein as the characters in Last Evenings on Earth, these exiles, for the most part, are adrift in guilt and despair. They are constantly searching but do not always know what it is they search for. The poet Soto is a good example. And the Soto chapter is a good example of why Bolaño’s writing is frustrating for me. In the middle of the Weider story, the reader is taken into Soto’s world in exile. I had to wonder, "where is Bolaño going with this?" Pero, sabes qué, I kept reading. I could not stop even though I wanted Bolaño to get back to the main story line. As I read the story of the doomed Soto I shook my head when Bolaño described Soto as "happy" and, yet, when he met his destiny, Soto’s eyes filled with tears of self-pity. That contradiction explains much about Bolaño’s writing.

The book is fiction and, as far as I know, the Weider character is not based on any one specific person. Certainly, though, the book provides revealing insight about the mind-set of the Chilean people during the Pinochet years. In the simplest terms, Weider is those people, and those people are the ones who love then revile Weider, who praise then condemn him. Near the end of the book, an elderly witness to one of Weider’s crimes gives the following testimony:

In her memory, the night of the crime was one episode in a long history of killing and injustice. Her account of the events was swept up in a cyclical, epic poem, which, as her dumbfounded listeners came to realize, was partly her story ... and partly the story of the Chilean nation. A story of terror. When she spoke of Weider, she seemed to be talking about several different people: an invader, a lover, a warrior, a demon. When she spoke of [the victims], she likened them to the air, to garden plants or puppies. Remembering the black night of the crime, she said she had heard the music of the Spanish. When asked to clarify what she meant by "the music of the Spanish," she replied, "Rage, sir, sheer, futile rage."

FIVE EASY PIECES
1. Now Appearing -- On The Road


Jack Kerouac's connection to Denver is celebrated by the Denver Public Library with an exhibition of the original rolled scroll of teletype paper on which he wrote On The Road. This book is an acknowledged American classic, written in three weeks in1951 and published in 1957, and I have to say that looking at the original manuscript was a gas. Denver is all over the book and Kerouac spent a lot of time in the city, diggin' the vibe. The 120-foot scroll is on display until March 31, 2007. I had the pleasure on opening night of the exhibit of listening to readings from the book by students and professors, as well as by Carolyn and John Cassady, wife and son of Neal Cassady, the model for Dean Moriarty, the novel's central character. Westword has a large spread in its January 4th issue on Kerouac and his ties to Denver, including excerpts from several writers who have also used Denver in their work. If you look closely you can find a quote from one of my books, Brown-on-Brown, that pays homage to Chubby's on West 38th.

2. Another Denver Classic
El Chapultepec is a 50-year old bar on Larimer in Denver, famous for live jazz and standing room only ambience. I've seen many great musicians in that bar, on the stage and in the booths. The Pec is the last real bar in downtown Denver. Now, right here in my own neighborhood (West 38th again), the historic club opens Chapultepec Too with a weekend of jazz celebrations beginning January 19. Chapultepec Too can be found at 3930 W. 38th in Denver.

3. A Land Full of Stories
The Story Circle Network, in conjunction with the Southwestern Writers Collection at Texas State University in San Marcos, is sponsoring a writers conference with the theme A Land Full of Stories, June 8-9, 2007. The conference is now accepting workshop proposals on topics related to writing about place (January 22 deadline). Full information about the conference, including a page where workshop proposals may be submitted, is available here.

4. Klail City Death Trip Series
Giuliana Arcidiacono from the University of Catania (Italy) recently wrote to Rolando Hinjosa announcing the completion of her Ph.D. thesis on The Klail City Death Trip Series. Cool.

5. NALWA
I've seen an announcement for a "Proposal" for a National Latino Writers' Association. Could this be the beginning of something? For more info, contact Valerie Martinez: valmatz AT comcast DOT net.

Later.

Resolutions - 10 TTD before you stop

Those of you who didn't come up with resolutions for the new year--or your life--can plagiarize anything below that fits.

1. Get drunk with your mom in her adobe house.
If you live long enough, you'll get discomforting reminders from afflicted family and friends that we're all mortal. I still have one parent and hope to kill a bottle of Presidente brandy with her in an adobe made under her specs and supervision. She attended an adobe construction school in Arizona and remembers it well. Your parent likely has a different dream; find what it is and jointly kill your preferred bottle, once it's accomplished. I did this once--a memory worth repeating.

2. Become a master teacher.
Yours might not be about teaching, so substitute your own mastery. It's not about which craft; once upon a time, human culture was a life-journey from novice to master craftsman, for every trade. Today, instead, we go from job to job or are often forced to change careers. But at least once, disregard the mierda your bosses or company shovel onto your back and decide you'll learn more about your employment than your boss could ever know. Then go past that until you stand above all the mediocrity that passes for "competent."

3. See and hear a jaguar in the Petén jungle; settle for a mt. lion.
They're as equally endangered and unique as whales, wolves or polar bears, so take your pick. But do it before our presence on the planet leaves a gap in your time here. I'm not greater than a jaguar--my personal favorite--especially when it comes to who fits better into the environment. That's why I'd like to meet Jaguar, on his turf, no matter I hide behind the leaves. If the encounter turns deadly, at least I'll have checked off this item and perhaps served a great meal.

4. Draw the dinosaur glyphs in an Anasazi canyon.
Yours might be to dance a mambo at Stonehenge or sing Lucy in the Sky, nude, on a barren beach, right before a hurricane, but do it while your legs and voice still work--however you can reconnect with antiquity amid what remains of the simpler, unspoiled world. Mine is getting tribal permission to enter a side canyon closed to non-natives. Drawing the pictoglyphs that resemble dinosaurs presumed extinct before the arrival of humans, would be this artist's dream, and fun; something to leave behind to worry myopic Euro-American scientists.

5. Spend 2 weeks in Cuba.
Cuba is not about Castro's faults or communism's failures; it's about a people who successfully defeated the torturous dictator Bautista and withstood his CIA-U.S. military bullies longer than many of us have been alive. I want to spend time (legally, if Homeland needs to know) with people who live free of student loans, variable-rate mortgages, endless wars and onerous medical insurance. I want to traverse the U.S. embargo (legally, Homeland) and discover life in a simpler society, less oppressed by capitalist materialism. I want to speak Spanish in a country where its literacy is nurtured and revered. Although other places may fit your needs better, do the same before they get invaded. Whatever needs to be changed in any country will be decided by people who stayed and bore the burden of citizenship. Exchanging experiences with Cubanos is a time-sensitive, historically unique opportunity. For one reason or another, things may change soon, not necessarily for the better.

6. Write one book, self-published if necessary.
You'd be in good company: Elements of Style and Bartlett's Quotations were originally self-published; Tarzan and the translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, as well. Shelly, Carl Sandburg, Thomas Paine, Upton Sinclair, Mark Twain and Walt Whitman all resorted to it. So why not? Face it: if you're about my age, you were captivated by Michael J. Fox's changing history in Back to the Future so his dad's SciFi novel got published. But you and I don't have a DeLorean time machine. Fact is, there's too many writers and not enough readers in the English language. If you don't write, splurge on framing an unsold painting or a collage of your own original dichos.

Your self-promotion will stop friends and relatives asking when your work will be exhibited or for sale. Plus, you can put it next to Leaves of Grass and pull it down sometimes to feel its weighty significance. Of course, this suggestion comes from an undiscovered talent, so if you're more talented, or luckier, keep on.

7. 50-yd.-line seats at a Dallas Cowboys game.
Okay, this one's a little self-indulgent, but what would a 10 List be without some of that? Replace this one with your own indulgency, but mine is to be close enough to the DC Cheerleaders to count their freckles, or whatever. Berate me, if you will; I'm probably more flawed than you.

8. Finish the house.
If you're lucky enough (or unlucky enough), you got a house you gotta get done with. That half-finished basement or those unfinished windows will hound you 'til your done, even if you spouse doesn't. At least your widow(er) will then have a nice place to host your wake and not squander the life insurance on less qualified contractors.

9. Play with adopted grandchildren.
Though some of you only want your own grandchildren, I'm not a believer in the arcane "my bloodline must carry on" BS. There's not only too many of us on the planet, there's too many orphaned or homeless little ones out there, many because of U.S. actions within or against their countries. I don't need a grandchild that resembles me or carries a genetic propensity for alcoholism and weight-gain. Why wish labor pains and stretch marks on a daughter or daughter-in-law? Kids are kids, and if we're around them long enough, our genetic make-up preconditions us to love and care for them as if they were our own, no matter.

10. Go on a vision quest.
Since my indigenous blood is as diluted as rosewater and my self-education lacks spine, I never experienced this. My rites of passage amounted to communion and confirmation, both of which focused on my memorizing God's plans and judgements about me, rather than finding out about myself. Whatever your ethnic roots, consider reclaiming a piece of ancient heritage. Modern society's clobbered our psyches to where we've lost connections not only to the planet, its fauna and foliage, but even with our true selves. Spending a week, alone, away from civilization, sans phone or IPod, unable to stuff my gut or fret about societal responsibilities--all that would force me to be with my Self. It would prove more difficult than the other 9, no doubt, but I should discover what's really under there. We could all maybe use some of that. Before we stop.

Rudy Ch. Garcia
_______________

We need 1 new Bloguista contributor!

RudyG must take another spring sabbatical from La Bloga, since he enrolled in two courses to complete his teaching accreditation. Whether he survives the ordeal or not, La Bloga is searching for a new contributor who could more or less regularly post on Thursdays. If you are such a person, or want to nominate someone, please contact any Bloguista. At the least, Thursday will be available for Guest Posts.

Guest Columnist Christine Granados Remembers Tillie Olsen

Just wanted to share some of my thoughts about Tillie Olsen's death
and what she taught me. It's about 600 words. Thanks for listening.
Christine

The Lessons of Tillie Olsen

I learned what power literature wields from Tillie Olsen
and I was heartbroken when I read that this thoughtful, talented,
mother was no longer a part of this/my physical world.
I first met Olsen as an undergraduate student at UTEP in
El Paso, Texas in an English literature class I took when I was
nineteen years old. I say met even though I’ve never actually been
in the presence of Ms. Olsen but I have read her stories and about
her so in my mind I have been introduced to the woman. I’ve kept the
short story “As I Stand Here Ironing” in my subconscious and life
throughout the years and still cry every time I read it, each time
for a different reason.

When I first read the story I cried in pity for the
mother who regretted what she could not give her first-born daughter,
and because this story evoked my emotions I wanted to share my new
find with my own mother, a book lover, too. I nonchalantly gave her a
copy of the story and said, “This reminds me of you and Becky (my
sister and first-born in the family).” After my mother read the story
she not only, cried, but wouldn’t talk to me for an entire day
afterward.

Still not understanding the power of the pen I gave the
same story to my older sister, Becky and told her the same thing. She
read it and cried and cried. Thankfully, she has always been more
forgiving than my mother and only stopped talking to me for an hour.
Then she said, “Chris, you can’t give people stories like this, like
they were candy.”

I said, “Why not?”

“Well, because they are heartbreaking.”

“I know, huh?” I said. “That’s why I loved the story.
It’s good.”

Becky sighed, “Yes, it is but you can’t tell people this
reminds me of you and not explain why. They’ll go crazy trying to
figure which part of the story is them.”

I said, “Well, I thought it was pretty obvious, who was
Mom and who was you.”

“There you go, that, you can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too personal, too deep,” she said. “You have to
work up to conversations like this with people. What Mom and I have
between us is years and years of resentments and unspoken hurts that
need to be chipped away slow.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “I was there. I remember.”

Becky looked up at the ceiling as if an answer were
written there. “You can’t rip the clothes off a woman who has just
been raped and make love to her right away.”

“Damn, you don’t have to be all dramatic about it,” I said.

“It’s what you understand and it’s what you did to us.”

I looked down. “I just wanted to share a good story with
you guys. That’s all.”

“Well, then that’s what you should have said and left it
at that.”

“Oh.”

Now when I read “As I Stand Here Ironing” as a mother of
two children myself I cry like I did when I was nineteen but I cry
now because I understand the heartache, misgivings, hesitancy, and
regrets a mother has when raising a child of her own and I cry
knowing how my youthful indiscretion hurt the two women in my family
who I love the most. Since that valuable lesson I’ve never been so
careless with literature again and I never, ever, say when loaning a
book or handing someone a short story this reminds me of you. Thank
you Ms. Olsen for your life lessons. You will be missed.


La Bloga Blogmeister's Note: Christine Granados' work was included in Manuel Ramos' December 1 La Bloga, where we celebrated a "top 10" list of 2007 Writers to Watch, that named Christine Granados and La Bloga's own Daniel Olivas.

Thank you, Christine, for so warm a tribute.

Thanking others, de adelantado, for sharing your own guest columns with La Bloga. It's a simple process. When you have an idea, a critique, something notable and of value you'd like La Bloga to share with others, send it! You know the old saying, Mi La Bloga es tu La Bloga.

INTERVIEW WITH MARGO CANDELA

Monday’s post from Daniel Olivas…

With the publication this month of her debut novel, Underneath It All (Kensington Books, paperback $14), Margo Candela introduces Jacquelyn “Jacqs” Sanchez, the fictional personal assistant to the wife of a fictional San Francisco mayor. Jacqs has the brains and beauty (not to mention fashion sense) to survive the political and personal high jinks of her boss, a former soap opera star who finds herself struggling in the role of big city mayor’s wife. Jacqs suffers the pain of a failed marriage and battles a slightly self-destructive impulse to pursue men who are simply wrong for her. And there’s the culture gap between Jacqs and her more traditional parents and friends back home in Los Angeles. The novel moves along at a fast clip with clever dialogue and memorable characters.

Candela, whose parents came from Mexico, grew up in Los Angeles but attended college at San Francisco State University where she majored in journalism. The middle of five children, she eventually moved back to Los Angeles where she now lives with her husband and son. Candela was kind enough to answer a few questions about writing and getting published:

OLIVAS: Your protagonist, Jacqueline Sanchez, is funny, smart and sexy. Is she modeled on any particular people you know? Also, I really liked the family dynamic between Jacqueline and her parents, who are more traditional than she is. Was that difficult to write?

CANDELA: I’ll admit to noticing mannerisms and quirks from a wide variety of people I know and incorporating them into different characters, but Jacqueline’s mostly a made up person. It made it much more enjoyable to figure out what kind of person she would turn out to be since she was her own person, not based on anyone in particular. She’s a little frustrating, but that’s what makes her interesting. She’s not perfect, she makes mistakes but her heart is (usually) in the right place.

As for the dynamics between her and her parents, it wasn’t hard at all to write. Her interactions with them and the rest of her family allowed me to explore some of her flaws and strengths. Her parents are set in their ways and don’t understand why Jacqueline insists on rocking the boat, but they love her even though they have a not so obvious way of showing it.

OLIVAS: When did you decide that you were going to be a novelist?

CANDELA: I wasn’t sure how to translate wanting to write into an honest job, so I considered doing something useful like becoming a social worker. When I mentioned this to my mother she wondered why I wouldn’t do something in the realm of writing since I seemed to enjoy it so much. It hadn’t really occurred to me that I should enjoy my eventual job or even aim for something as ambitious as a career. When it came time to transfer out of junior college I signed myself up as a journalism major (since I figured a job with newspaper or magazine combined my love of writing with my need to be employed) and things developed from there.

OLIVAS: Did you have any mentors who helped you on your road to becoming a published novelist? What’s the best advice offered to you?

CANDELA: I went into this whole thing blind. A lot of the time I faked it, pretending to be comfortable with my decision to take such a huge gamble. Other times I really had to stand my ground to pursuing my goal of getting published. I really didn’t have anyone to look to for guidance so I kind of made things up as I went along, setting goals and time frames for myself. When people questioned me or made light of what I was doing, I told them it was like I was starting up and trying to run my own business and, eventually, that mindset gave me more confidence in what I was doing and helped me through some rough spots when things weren’t working out the way I’d hoped. In the end, this is a business. Everyone from the agent who signs you to the person who ships your book off from the warehouse thinks of it as such and I think writers should too.

OLIVAS: Who are your literary influences?

CANDELA: I’ve always enjoyed reading Anne Tyler. Celestial Navigations (Ballantine Books) is my all time favorite novel. I read a wide variety of fiction and non-fiction but I don’t really have anyone who I can point to as a direct influence of my writing.

OLIVAS: Did you listen to music when you wrote your novel? If so, did the music influence your fiction? What is your writing process in general?

CANDELA: I have a huge collection of Putumayo compilations on my iPod. They find and put together some of the best world music out there. One of my favorite “finds” is Lhasa De Sela and her song “De Cara A La Pared.” I played it again and again when I was working on my literary novel.

I turn my computer on first thing in the morning and turn it off when I can’t face it anymore. I set word count goals for myself and it’s always a good day when I exceed what I was aiming for. Sometimes I’m really into what I’m working on and time flies, other times I’m sitting at my desk with my head in my hands wondering why I can’t write. It’s always a huge sense of relief when I finish a manuscript, even though I know I still have to revise and polish it.

OLIVAS: What are you working on now?

CANDELA: Right now I’m in a bit of a holding pattern. My agent has sent out my novel about three sisters from East Los Angeles whose lives take very different paths before they come back together again and we’re waiting to hear from editors. I have two proposals in the works to be presented to my editor at Kensington. The first will be my third women’s commercial novel about two people who fall in love but never meet. I’m also hoping to write a young adult book about a girl dealing with the ups and downs of planning for her Quinceañera.

OLIVAS: What has been the reaction of your family members to your writing?

CANDELA: They’re very proud of me, but for a long while they were waiting for me to come to my senses and get a real job. I write fiction, but it’s inspired by life and I hope that if they read my books they’ll realize any events (or characters) that seem familiar are written out of love and respect. My family and friends are a constant source of inspiration. They do funny, sad and interesting things I can’t help but notice, but I would never intentionally embarrass them or reveal anything private since I want to keep being invited over for dinner.

OLIVAS: How did you go about finding a publisher? Any interesting stories that you can share?

CANDELA: My editor found me. She had insomnia and a search engine lead her to my site. She sent me an email asking for me to submit and it couldn’t have come at a better time. I had just asked my second agent to release me from my contract and was hoping my current agent was still interested in my work. Within 24 hours I’d met my future editor and found my agent. It’s all about timing, perseverance and a healthy dose of luck. Oh, and the writing. A good manuscript doesn’t hurt either.

OLIVAS: Any plans for a movie version of your novel? Who do you see playing Jacqueline?

CANDELA: I’d love to see Underneath It All be turned into a movie and I don’t think many writers out there would say they wouldn’t. In my case, especially since there are very little roles out there for Latinas, especially commercial roles, which don’t either romanticize or make a caricature out of us. It would be great to see the story brought to life by any of the Latina actresses out there, especially Jessica Alba or Eva Mendes. I think Michael Pena, from Crash and World Trade Center, would make a perfect Noel, Jacqueline’s charming but aimless brother. On the other end of the spectrum, I think Heather Graham could be excellent as Mrs. Mayor, who is a calculating but naïve person.

OLIVAS: What are your thoughts about the whole “chica lit” phenomenon? Are you offended by the label? Is the label empowering? What advice would you give to an aspiring Latina writer?

CANDELA: I hope readers who like chica lit will like Underneath It All, but at the same time I was very conscious when writing it, and my subsequent books, that I wasn’t specifically writing chica lit. The writers who have fully embraced the label like Mary Castillo, Sophia Quintero and, of course, Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, have turned it into something vibrant and a literary movement that has filled a need for readers. If my book can be included in amongst theirs as well as in the ranks with Jennifer Weiner, I’d be honored. My goal has always been to tell the stories of Latinas while aiming for a general audience. It was very important for me to work with an agent and editor who wouldn’t try to make me fit a mold but use my unique perspective as a Latina writing about Latinas to its best advantage.

The only piece of advice I could give to an aspiring Latina writer is to treat the whole experience as a business. You have to invest the time, effort and make sacrifices to get anywhere in life, writing is no different. There are lots of great resources out there for writers, but don’t expect anyone to give you a free pass just because you’re a woman or a minority. You have to earn it, just like everyone else. Know what you’re writing and why you’re writing it. A healthy dose of pragmatism doesn’t hurt either, but aim high.

Guest Column: Chon Noriega reviews Apocalypto

by Chon A. Noriega

In late November, I had a chance to see the first advance screening of the completed version for Mel Gibson's Apocalypto , which will be released this month. The film is being promoted as the first Hollywood film in an indigenous language, set in the pre-Colombian era, and shot on location using local talent both in front of and behind the camera. Likewise, the marketing of the film reflects a strategic alliance between Latino business and Latinos in the entertainment industry. We would appear to have the makings of a "perfect storm" with the convergence of a Hollywood "A" list actor-director's production with Latino demographics, income generation (for Latino business), employment opportunity (for Latino actors and behind-the-camera positions), and media representation (of the Latino population). So, how do we reconcile Gibson's apparent altruism toward Latinos with his recent drunken tirade against women and Jews? Is the latter just an aberration that now undermines the former? Or is there a larger logic, or dare we say Conspiracy Theory (to reference a Gibson film), at work? I turned to Apocalypto for an answer.

The film appears to be set 500 years before the Conquest, and yet it ends with a shot of ships setting anchor. It depicts the Mayans, and yet shows them engaging in ritual sacrifice—which was the Aztecs. So in terms of historical detail, the film—co-authored by Gibson—has enough faults to negate it as an accurate depiction of the Mayans. Instead, it must be seen as doing something else: offering an allegory about the evil of any societal organization beyond the familial and (small) tribal. It is the big city—with its slave trade, free markets, government, and organized religion—that results in the downfall of the Mayan civilization (and the small tribes it enslaves). When the Spaniards arrive, it is clear that things will only get worse. Whatever the film may say about Mayans, or Latinos, it clearly makes a general statement against modernity. In other words, the film argues against the very type of higher-level organization that Latino groups are undertaking to market the film! Therein lies the paradox of Gibson's appeal: his message has been that of the loner who suffers great pain, yet triumphs, even in death and even as the entire world is going to Hell. But that appeal depends upon and is a commodity within a global news and entertainment industry—which is to say, modernity.

In the end, Apocalypto is the Chantico of Hollywood cinema. You may remember Chantico as that short-lived Aztec chocolate drink from Starbucks, the one whose marketing I found problematic on several fronts, and yet whose taste was sublime…. Well, Gibson knows and excels at the most fundamental thing about cinema, the moving image, such that Apocalypto could easily have been a silent film, and not just a subtitled one. Beautifully shot and edited, the film visually conveys physical movement and broad characters and emotions within a simple chase narrative. The performances, like Gibson's own roles, are more pantomime than "realistic" or dialogue-driven. I could not help but be impressed that, as I picked apart the holes in the story and its message, the film-as-film captivated me. Alas, as with Chantico, consumers may want more….

Chon Noriega, Director and Professor

Reprinted by permission from UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center
December, 2006 Newsletter

CHON A. NORIEGA is Professor in the UCLA Department of Film, Television, and Digital Media. He is author of Shot in America: Television, the State, and the Rise of Chicano Cinema (Minnesota, 2000) and editor of nine books dealing with Latino media, performance and visual art. Since 1996, he has been editor of Aztlán: A Journal of Chicano Studies, the flagship journal for the field since its founding in 1970. In July 2002, he became Director of the UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center.

La Bloga Blogmeister note: La Bloguera and Los Blogueros appreciate reader Dr. Concepción Valadez' efforts to bring Chon's critique to our pages. La mandamos un abrazisimo for her thoughtfulness.

La Bloga welcomes guest columnists. When you have a thought, an inkling, or a full-fledged piece you'd like to share, send it along.