Monthly Archives: January 2023

Mistral

Week 4: Madwomen and the Folklore of Anguish

Beginning Gabriela Mistral’s Madwomen, I was admittedly intimidated. Often I find it difficult to decipher and fully understand poetry or prose. Part of the reason, I think, is because poetry condenses so much information in so few words – it feels like not a single article or punctuation can escape me lest I completely miss the message. Surprisingly, however, I found myself easily falling into Mistral’s poetic rhythm and found it difficult to put the text down. The language was so captivating, it was almost hypnotic; I think this is a fitting reaction given Mistral’s invocation of folkloric imagery.

What I enjoyed most about Madwomen was Mistral’s frequent allusions to Greek mythology. The introduction, written by Randall Couch, hinted to this initially saying, “Greek tragedy depicted prophets without honor in their own countries – a role with which [Mistral] came to identify” (18-19). Mistral speaks to this rejection from her home country, Chile, in the first stanza of her second poem “The Abandoned Woman,” describing Chile as a “sour country” whose love she is going to unlearn. Later in this same poem she describes peeling her “skin like a pomegranate,” which is considered the fruit of the dead in Greek mythology, commonly associated with Persephone, queen of the underworld (35). Being interested in Greek mythology since childhood, other language stood out to me as originating from this epoch: “nor the wind, shaker of sails” (Zeus), “and once more take up the world” (Atlas), “a medusa lifted on the waves” (Medusa) (43; 49; 51).

My favorite Mistral passages came when she assumed the perspective of an all-powerful goddess, like in “The Anxious Woman.” She writes, “How could he not arrive, if the elements / I’m pledged to bring him to me?” invoking the omnipotence and divinity of an immortal god. Interestingly, in this way, Mistral is demonstrating that despite the power and immortality of the gods, they still suffer. I believe this could be allegorical of Mistral’s own life: despite being at the height of her career and influence, she still contended with “madness” and anguish. Another similar instance came in “Electra in the Mist,” in which Mistral writes, “In the ocean mist I wander lost, / I, Electra, fingering my garments,” embracing the identity of the goddess of storm clouds (109).

But above all, my favorite passage of this kind came in the form of “Clytemnestra,” known as the wife of Agamemnon, king of Mycenae. In Greek mythology, Agamemnon brutally sacrificed his daughter to please the gods and improve the Greeks’ chances in the Trojan War. In “Clytemnestra,” Mistral captures the maddening agony and torment of a mother without her daughter, sacrificed at the hands of a proud, arrogant man. Being one of the last poems in the collection, reading it, I felt I could almost hear the chorus of howls from this congregation of “mad women,” driven to insanity by grief or injustice. I expect there are hundreds of gems in Madwomen I still need to discover and I hope to return to this text again and again.

Question for discussion: Do you like Greek mythology? Which fable is most vivid for you?

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Campobello

Week 3: Cartucho and Collective Memory

Nellie Campobello’s Cartucho was a fascinating read. The text was structured in the exact way that I think memory often operates: short, vivid pictures of vague people and experiences. Reading Cartucho, I felt I was actually experiencing and reflecting on these snapshots of the Mexican Revolution with the narrator.

The text had an unsettling contrast between the curiosity of childhood and the haunting depictions of death and violence around her. Campobello’s narrative embrace of the gruesome was both poetic and upsetting. One passage in particular that stuck with me came on page 8 in “El ‘Kirilí,'” “El ‘Kirilí lay there in the water, his body turning cold, the tissue of his porous flesh clutching the bullets that killed him.” In this way, Campobello’s vignettes are both eerie and beautiful, as I’m sure childhood itself was in this exact time and place in history.

The juxtaposition between childhood bliss and the inhumanity of war was inescapable in Cartucho. One scene illustrative of this tonal shift came on page 36 as Campobello “buries her nose” in a slice of watermelon just before seeing a man be hanged before her very eyes.

What I found especially interesting was not only Campobello’s acknowledgement of the brutality around her, but also her complete embrace of it. One quote that illustrates this comes on page 39, “I liked hearing those tragic stories. It seemed to me I could see and hear everything. I needed to have those terrifying pictures in my child’s soul.” Given the deluge of tragedy she was subject to, it’s not surprising to me that Campobello would be able to describe these atrocities in such detail while being detached from nostalgia.

I believe that Campobello viewed herself, even at that young age, as a valuable collection of memories and stories from the front lines of tragedy. As a child and a girl, she was powerless to stop any violence or death around her, but her true power lay in her capacity to be an archive of truth and a vessel for the memory of those who had lost their lives.

This brings me to think about the function of memory and how Campobello’s text serves as an inheritance of collective memory. The stories were not just her own personal accounts but also many of her mother’s, which had been passed down to her almost as heirlooms. In a broader sense, I think the ballads Campobello included later in the text also serve this function – as a heritage of collective memory. She writes, “They all had favorite songs, which they left as an inheritance to others who loved them too… This song belong to all of them. They would sing it together, in a circle, with their arms around each other’s shoulders” (78-79). In this sense, collective memory is a ballad itself, shared among comrades and neighbors and passed down through the generations, forever holding the legacy of those who could no longer sing along.

Question for discussion: Storytelling seems to be a very unique talent (that I do not possess!); would you consider yourself an effective storyteller? How do you know?

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de la Parra

Week 2: Mama Blanca’s Memoirs and the Performance of Beauty

Mama Blanca’s Memoirs by Teresa de la Parra was truly a joy to read. Her description of social interactions and relationships, in particular, made profound of the otherwise mundane. It’s difficult not to quote the entire text for this purpose, but one passage in particular that I think illustrates this talent is about Mama Blanca’s sisters, “My five sisters and I formed a rising staircase stretching from seven months to seven years, and from our enthroned stairway we ruled over all of creation without ostentation.” This quote also highlights a major theme of the text, which is the fantasy of childhood. In both the foreword and the following text, de la Parra takes care to describe the sweet, innocent, tender adventures of youth – a time for both narrators of incredible abundance and magic and absent of any serious preoccupations or anxieties. It was lovely to read about Mama Blanca’s childhood adventures through her own eyes and then return to the foreword and understand that this joyful, mischievous spirit never quite left her.

Another theme I found myself returning to was that of classism and the severe power dynamics of wealth and status. This theme was especially played out through the story of Vicente Cochocho, a “hired hand” of Piedra Azul plantation. Vicente, literally called “louse,” is often described as ugly. It becomes clear throughout the passage that attractiveness and elegance are more than just exterior aesthetics in de la Parra’s world, they are tools for social upward mobility. In this sense, characters described as ugly, including Eleuteria and Aquilina, Vicente’s partners, lack power, not simply because they are poor, but importantly because they lack beauty. In a way, to the others, his ugliness justifies his position on the plantation and his subsequent treatment. Beauty is a major preoccupation of the characters in Mama Blanca’s Memoirs, especially Blanca Nieves’ mother. De la Parra writes, “Far more than in her own person, Mama’s vanity had its abode in our six heads.” Blanca Nieves’ performance of beauty is a significant theme of her early childhood. Over time, she comes to understand that her value lies in her beauty, specifically in her hair, saying, “My honor … had its seat in my hair and in no other part of my person.” In this case, despite the labor it requires, beauty grants Blanca Nieves status and power, in whatever modest sense.

Finally, a theme I found woven throughout every passage of the text was that of law and order, punishment, and justice. This is illustrated through the relationships and power dynamics between parents/caregivers and children, masters and subordinates, and older and younger siblings, to name a few. Blanca Nieves seems to have a keen sense of justice and we can see this especially in her descriptions of the “hired help” working at Piedra Azul: her contempt for caregivers like Evelyn, who are authoritative and harsh, and her admiration for Vicente, who is kind and selfless. Question for discussion: How do you see Blanca Nieves’ sense of justice playing out in the relationships and dynamics of her own family and community as an old woman?

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Uncategorized

Week 1: Introduction

Hello everyone, my name is Marisa. As you can tell, I am joining the class late but I can’t overstate my excitement to get started. I am a fifth-year Combined Major in Science student, studying Life Sciences, Earth & Ocean Sciences, and Statistics. If everything goes to plan, this will be my last term at UBC! I’m filled with equal amounts of trepidation and excitement. I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but my family emigrated from the Dominican Republic. My experience with Latin American and Hispanic literature – outside of a handful of Dominican authors – is very sparse, so I’m incredibly eager to dive into these works.

The aspect of this course that interests me most is our exploration of “the gap between the representational and the real,” as Jon described it. “América Latina: Un pueblo sin piernas, pero que camina” is a quote that always comes to mind when I reflect on the region of my ancestors. It’s a lyric from the band Calle 13, hailing from Puerto Rico, and I think it does an incredible job of capturing the spirit of LATAM people. A people plagued by war, corruption, colonialism, globalization, violence, exploitation, and natural disasters – yet one that unceasingly reaches for the light, so birthing revolution, art, hope, innovation, resistance, and collective dreams. In this lens, it is clear to me how a genre like magical realism emerges. I expect the literature we read in this course to occupy a similar role in its contexts: a tool for imagining futures. Imagination is capable of bridging this gap. Imagination is required for walking (“camina”) without legs (“sin piernas”). I’m curious to see how these authors and poets have generated futures throughout history and hardship.

Although excited, I have to admit I find this course a bit daunting. My background is extremely STEM-heavy, and I don’t have much practice expressing my thoughts and observations in this way. In addition, beyond lived experience, I’m not fluent in the language of politics, international relations, anthropology, history, or the like, so I am anticipating a challenge in articulating some of the more nuanced sociopolitical themes in these works. In that sense, I expect this course to challenge me to stretch myself out of my comfort zone. Nonetheless, I’m hopeful that this foray into LATAM literature will invite me to appreciate the power of imagination in translation and leave me feeling more connected to my culture.

Question for discussion: When choosing your reading list, were there any themes, locations, or identities you were cognizant of selecting? Why was this important to you?

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