RMST 495/520: Long Books

I am embarrassed to confess this is one of the most recent central american contemporary novels written by a woman that I have read so far, after, of course, Jacinta Escudos.

This novel has forced me to think about the importance of your own intersections to match those of the writers of the books that you read. Do I carry a birth given social bias? Or as someone from such a small region in the world, a region that is accustomed to silences and where we learn to ignore our problems by ignoring the importance of literature, accessing books like Albizurez’s is so hard/inaccessible that it makes you believe that your experiences/your life are/is not book/novel-worthy?

This book might not be Nobel prize worthy, but damn, the difference that it makes to see yourself, your culture, your pains, the places that you have inhabited, the histories that you have learned in school and at home reflected in the pages of a book, being part now of the word of literature. I have to confess that this book sparked some intense visceral reactions in me, a bunch of incomprehensible emotions that the other books we have read for this class have not caused.

What is this book about? This ia a story about inherited wounds and the slow, painful labour of seeing clearly of swimming against your inherited current. Ita, a successful upper-middle class lawyer in her forties, is diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a chronic pain with no visible cause. This illness becomes a metaphor for what the novel is really about: a suffering that lives in the body but originates elsewhere, in a family history and a national history that were never spoken aloud.

Her search for the meaning of her pain leads her back to her mother, an artist who abandoned her career during Guatemala’s 36-year long armed conflict, and through her, to the silences that structured her entire upbringing. As Ita revisits her childhood, she begins to pull back the blurry curtain that kept her from seeing the realities around her: the class tensions within her own parents’ relationship, the way her family treated the domestic workers, most of them Indigenous, as part of the household yet invisible within it, and the lies she was told about a murder that her family chose to bury rather than confront.

What emerges is a portrait of generational trauma not as a single event, but as a system of omissions passed down from one generation to the next. Ita comes to understand that her privilege depended on not seeing, and that the racism and classism of Guatemalan society were not distant forces but intimate ones, present even in the most private spaces of her life. The novel questions the idea of innocence in times of war, suggesting that even a child raised in comfort is shaped by the violence that surrounds her.

Ultimately, Ita is a novel about awakening. By confronting her family’s past, Ita confronts the country’s (to an extent), and in naming what was hidden, she begins to make sense of a pain that was never only her own.

I have to acknowledge that this novel shares some of the pitfalls we identified in our discussion of Kim Thúy’s Ru. Albizúrez, like Thúy, narrates a pain that is not entirely her own, speaking from a position of relative privilege compared to those who directly suffered the civil war and genocide in Guatemala. However, I believe Albizúrez handles this tension with greater self-awareness. Rather than claiming to know her place, she makes the uncertainty of that place the subject of the novel itself: Ita is still working out whether she is an observer, a beneficiary, a perpetrator, or a victim, and the narrative never resolves that question too comfortably.

My question for this week: How does your reading experience change when a book is written not only by a woman, but by a woman who shares other parts of your identity, such as your country, region, language, social class, or generation? Do you find yourself drawn to authors whose backgrounds resemble your own, or does it not matter much to you?

It has been a few hours since I finished the book and I do not seem to know how to make justice to the book through this blog.

In comparison to Kim Thúy, I believe Lisboa makes a better work at portraying memory through generational trauma narrative. I love how she makes us jump from different points of views across different time periods (it reminds me a bit of Emiliano Monge in Justo Antes del Final). But more than being fragmented snippets (as we saw with Thuy), Lisboa weaves each memory and even each forgetting in such a beautiful visual conversation.

There is a specific scene where the sisters, Maria Inês and Clarice, are bathing their mother, where their conversation turns into a poem. Gorgeous. This scene reminded me of the moment in the movie A Separation by Asghar Farhadi, where the son is washing his dad:

Even though they are from really different contexts and stories, I believe there is space to put these two scenes in conversation with each other to talk about the ways that gender dynamics affects the ways that daughters/sons confront the last stages of a parent life, when the roles flips completely making the silences, the tensions, become so loud that are too hard to ignore.

In general, these scenes, for me, represent a decision: mercy.

I love how Lisboa, throughout the entire book, pushes the abuser to the sidelines of the narrative. Nothing really points out to the father having anything to do with the hints of trauma that we get throughout the character’s stories. At best we try to blame his absence and the rigidity of a mother not capable of loving for the difficulties their daughters have to face when they try to create their own families when they grow up. Easy to blame the mom, huh? The dad, even in his absence, takes up a secondary role in the trauma inflicted. It is not until Otacília dies, that he starts taking more of a primary role in the book, that our attention is briefly occupied by his nuisance. In general he is just that, un estorbo. Until we go back, again, to that memory: Maria Inê’s memory, a memory once ignored by us, the readers, and by Maria Inê herself.

It is fascinating how accurately the book portrays the way families conceal abusers in real life. As a reader, Lisboa forces you to reproduce the forgetting and the silences needed to be complicit with the violence, with the abuser, of course, this time, unintentionally. But unintentionally, you also become complicit in toxic family dynamics in real life. You have bits and pieces that, with, perhaps, more questions, with, perhaps, more curiosity, with, perhaps, more attention, with, perhaps, more overthinking, you might be able to piece together those snippets of memory before the narrative explicitly reveals the truth about what happened; the truth behind all those little and big decisions that the characters seem to take out of the blue, that helps people around them perceive them as “bad daughters” as “bad adults” as “crazy women,” specifically, of course, in the way Clarice is perceived after her “irrational” decisions.

Question: What’s your stance towards Otacília?

I honestly do not have a lot of inspiration to write this post. I read the book, it was ok.

The book reminded me of this short video that, if you have been to Dunbar theater you might recall, where they depict a Vietnamese family leaving their country escaping the communist, followed a warm welcome by a Canadian soldier:

I honestly feel it gives hints of propaganda. Just reproduces the us and them narrative. Weird timing too, just amidst Canada having its most aggressive immigration policy reversal in decades. I do believe the book Ru provides a more balanced perspective on the events that led to them fleeing the country.

It was interesting to see a new perspective (those from the South of Vietnam, the rich, the ones who did not fear the U.S.). I guess she was privileged, then not at all, then a little bit, and then privileged again but with nuance? Of course this is extremely reductionist.

Things that caught my attention in comparison/contrast to the other books we read:

• the generational trauma still there, but she has kind of solved the puzzle more than the other characters from the other books we have read? Is it money? Rag to riches experiences give you more perspective?

• Motherhood is less complicated? She sounds more healed than the other characters from the other books?

• She is probably also neurodivergent, but weirdly she doesn’t explicitly mentions it. I liked this new layer to the narrative, yet it was not that developed.

• We never get to know any real details of the main character outside of her trauma, and her kids. We get a bit about her sexuality, a bit about the husband, her trips, her jobs, but all too faint to make a real picture of who she is. Maybe that’s the point? So a lot of women with similar experience, beyond Vietnamese, can relate to her story of overcoming migration, war, etc…?

Overall, I didn’t like the way the book is written. I felt it was too choppy? I guess my question is if you see any purpose in a book written like that? Less like a diary, but more like snippets? Maybe the author is trying to get to the idea of how memory, how stories are actually felt and lived, they are fragmented? They are just pieces, they come and go, some have continuity, others don’t, some have more purpose than others.

I guess throughout the book I got excited about some themes that popped up in some of the snippets, but the author did not develop any of those. I felt like I was on a boring roller coaster; there is no climax I guess? Maybe migration feels like that?

Apologies for the scattered thoughts, my brain decided to repeat the style of what I just read.

First impression: In an attempt to not say that I did not like the book, I will say, what the hell was that?

After a few second thoughts: okay, interesting? Maybe, I get the point?

My first question then is: Who are we blaming?

Are we blaming the poor family? The poor mother? Are we blaming the rich women? The girl herself? The new baby? The old dad (the carabiniere)? The new partner of Adalgisa (Guido)?

It is way easier to understand (at least for me) why the girl (our main character) was kind of taken away from her first family so easily. It reminds me a lot of those international adoptions in Latin America during a conflict, where rich people, usually from the Global North, easily adopt kids from Indigenous or war-torn communities. Under the cover of a “good deed,” rich people get away from the forced displacement that made a kid just go through, the usual lies, the erasure of their past, just for the kid to grow up and find out (most of the time) a tragic/terrible story that could be summarized as “kidnapping.”

But on the other hand, we could ask: what other life would this baby have lived had they weren’t taken away? Poverty? Lack of love? Death? Why are our answers always so negative? Well, because we know the reality of a lot of abandoned kids or orphans that had to face the realities of their communities after war/repression was over. But still, how can we be sure that the future of that kid would have been worse?

I believe it will be unfair to blame the biologial/poor family. Similar to how the girl at the end starts feeling guilt for rejecting some of the gifts from Adalgisa (because then she was denying these privileges to her little sister), I can see the mom thinking this same way when thinking how denying Adalgisa her own daughter would have been an act/decisions out of selfishness.

Can we blame Adalgisa (what a bi*c*)? I think we get at the end the vibes of “actually, if we are more critical of the situation, Adalgisa is just a victim of the horrible/angry/deceiving man.” I don’t buy it.

What about the assh*** of the carabiniere? What a joke that he can’t take care of the girl, why revenge Adalgisa’s affair with that little girl?

Second question: Was the secrecy necessary?

No

Third question: What does Adriana represent in the story?

Here is where the story is saved. The concept of motherhood gets distorted symbolically and textually throughout the novel, ending in maybe the idea that mothering is not an act done by someone who gives birth to you, and that it is unfair to see like that? I don’t know.

Extra general thought:

While I was trying to finish the novel yesterday, I understood why classes like this are necessary. Reading more women makes you more empathetic with other women, and with yourself if you identify as a woman. We tend to read mostly men writing (either literature or more academic writing). We could definitely pin point classes where most of our readings are just men, or even when all readings are just men. Is this the same case with other classes? No, unless they are specifically about feminism or (like this one) about women writers. I do not think enough women have read enough women, and (of course) I do not think enough men have read enough women.

Hi everyone, I am joining the party a bit late. This is my introductory post.

My name is Valeria. I am in my first year of my Master’s program in Hispanic studies. I am originally from El Salvador (Kuskatan) and moved to Vancouver 8 years ago to do my undergraduate studies at UBC (Political Science and Latin American studies).

My interests (I am currently researching) are the intersections between memory, education, family, and gang-violence in the context of new authoritarianisms in Central America (specifically El Salvador). My other non-academic interests include (but are not limited to) sewing (still learning) as a part of multi-media diy projects, cooking, bike riding, swimming (still learning), and writing bad poetry.

I tend to not have that many expectations for any of my classes. I think there is a creative and surprising aspect that is taken away if you have too many expectations. However, for this particular class, what excites me is the fact that I will be forced to only read women’s writings/ideas. In an environment where we unconsciously tend to gravitate to reading only men’s authors (as it was my case in the last RMS 520 class I took, reading Bolaño and Monge), I am curious to see what different themes this space/class will force us to talk about in contrast to other courses.

Can I find more connections between all the books I am reading in this class just because the authors are all women? What do they have in common beyond that? Are the books more emotional? Are the books talking more about men? Are the books talking more about women? How do women portray men? Do they do it the same way men portray women? Is it helpful to focus on gender when reading their novels? Do I change as a reader when I read novels crafted by women?

How discussions of intersectionality or social locations can fit in this space/class?

I do have a lot of questions entering this class. I hope to answer a few once we reach the end.

I am curious to read your blogs and see what are your thoughts on these questions. If you wouldn’t mind I would love to hear some of your ideas regarding one or more of these questions in the comments. What do you think so far?

I guess the other important reflection is that it is not just any women’s writers, it is women’s writers in the 21st century. What themes are women in the 21st century talking about that other women writers in other generations were not able to name? Or how do they name it differently?

That’s right. This is the end. But when certain things come to an end, I like to think about how it can lead to new beginnings. For me, one of those new beginnings is a growing appreciation and desire to read more Latin American literature. As a French Studies student who also did a major in French as an undergrad, this course served as my introduction to the world of Latin American literature. Of course, the course didn’t focus solely on that. After all, the theme of the course was “long books”—a topic we explored from multiple angles, including through the lens of students’ blogs, which was honestly one of my favourite parts of the course. I LOVED reading my classmates’ blog posts. I can’t say blog-writing is something I will continue, as I am a very private person. But perhaps that will change…perhaps, after being obliged to share my thoughts and ideas with others, I will learn to open up more. This can be another new beginning for me. As an undergrad, I was always one of the quietest students. When I would finally work up the courage to raise my hand, I would tremble in fear, which was usually followed by an immense worry that I would sound stupid in front of others. One aspect of this course that I appreciated was the fact that I felt a lot more comfortable and less nervous than I usually do in class. For that, I give credit to our professor Jon, as well as my wonderful classmates. As a grad student, there are many instances in which I feel inadequate. Unfortunately, I tend to compare myself to others far too often. So I want to say thank you to everyone for setting a tone and creating a classroom atmosphere that was welcoming—an environment full of open-minded individuals, from different backgrounds and fields of study, who invited thought-provoking discussion, without judgment.

So, has my opinion of long books changed since the beginning of the course? The Savage Detectives was the second longest book that I’ve read in my life (the books we read in my other courses are usually less than 300 pages). I didn’t love it, but I did like several aspects of the book (if you’re wondering what those aspects are, you can read my previous blog posts). Les guerriers de l’hiver was significantly shorter in length (459 pages) and overall, I did prefer this novel over The Savage Detectives. Norek’s novel was definitely more conventional and less experimental than Bolaño’s. However, I appreciated Bolaño’s unique (and sometimes bizarre) writing style. In fact, I’d say that I preferred his writing style more than Norek’s. But, I would say that I preferred the story of Les guerriers de l’hiver. On the other hand, Amulet was the real gem of this course. Reading the short novel put me in a bit of a trance-like state, as I embarked on a surreal journey through memories of the past and visions of the future, while constantly being reminded of the present situation of our narrator (I loved her), who faced incredible challenges as she survived through a week or so of absolute chaos. It was beautiful. And I’m looking forward to reading it all over again. I probably won’t be rereading the other two books, at least not for a while. And it’s not because they’re much longer books. I’d say that I now have a greater appreciation for longer books after taking this course. Perhaps that was one of the goals of the course? Well if it was, then it worked on me. I haven’t figured out which books I’ll be reading this summer, but I already plan on looking into books that are lengthier than those that I usually choose to read. In the past, I’ve often chosen shorter books over longer books, simply because I figured that I would be more likely to finish those books. I’m the kind of person that usually gravitates towards books that are less than 400 pages long. If I’m in a bookstore, I will pick up books that look like they’re 400 pages or less, then proceed to read the back in order to see whether it might be something I’d enjoy reading. They say that one should not judge a book by its cover (I’m also guilty of this), but I’d say that one should not judge a book by its size either. Sure, it might take a lot longer to read, especially for a slow reader like me. However, that extra time and effort might just be worth it. Not every book is worth reading. But I don’t want to miss out on those that are worth reading, simply because of their length. This course has helped me gain the patience and focus to read through longer books. And for that, I am incredibly grateful.

I hope everyone has a wonderful summer :)

Question for the class: If you were to recommend a book for me to read this summer, what would it be?

I am late with this. It’s been increasingly hard to do anything. Fuck depression.

I hope I do not come off trying to find pity in this post, but if I have to write something this is the only thing I have in my mind and I might as well use this obligation to write a blog post as some kind of shout to the void.

I do not know why did I think I could be a graduate student. I do not know why did I think I could be in academia. Two out of two times I’ve hit a big, painful, life threatening depressive episode at the end of a term. I’ll survive, maybe, but will I finish my masters? Increasingly I think it is not for me. Even though it seems that having an imposter syndrome is a necessary qualification for academia it seems no one does anything to address it. I’ve been told several times, by different professors that “it never goes away”, but haven’t been offered a real solution. I do not know how to write an essay. I do not know how to engage with a class. You would think that after a whole degree in literature I would feel capable to have a thought. The anxiety I’ve been trying to manage this week has made getting out of bed one of the hardest challenges. And now I have two essays in the horizon, no idea what I am going to write about, no idea how am I going to write them, wondering if I should just drop out, go back to Colombia, get in a call center and either die of burn out or depression. Since we are talking about endings that seems the one my life keeps foreshadowing to.

I have no idea how the next weeks will look like.

I am 90 words short.

Well, around 8000 words short.

How am I to survive this degree let alone the academic career that seems to be the only option left for me?

Another ending.

As we conclude this term, I can notice a difference in me. I started noticing this, when I finished The Savage Detectives. My urge to keep reading got really intense, almost to the point where it felt a bit excessive. It was not until I finished the other book that I realized what was actually going on.

It is not just that I want to read more, but that I have gotten used to staying with a text for longer. I keep thinking about it after I finish, going back to certain parts, trying to make sense of things that did not fully click the first time. The ending does not feel as final anymore.

When I finished Justo Antes del Final, the sadness that took over me almost pushed me to start a new novel right away. However, I stopped myself to think about whether that was really necessary, or if starting something new was just a way of avoiding that uncomfortable feeling.

I realized that I am not used to just sitting with what a book leaves behind. I usually feel this need to move on quickly, to fill that space with something else. But this time i held onto that bittersweet feeling a bit longer. The sadness did not go away, and starting another book would not have changed it, it would have only distracted me from it.

How long should one mourn a story? How long should one mourn a book?

If the book is longer, is the mourning harder? I guess now I understand one of the conversations we had in class about endings, and how maybe humans just hate them as much as they hate death.

Maybe that is the beauty of collective reading. You do not have to confront the ending in isolation.

I think that could be one of the reasons why finishing The Savage Detectives did not feel as difficult as finishing my individual book. We were constantly in conversation, sharing thoughts about Bolaño and the events we were reading, engaging with each other’s posts. That made the ending feel less heavy.

Maybe that is also why it did not feel as overwhelming.

Do you feel like that too? Did it feel easier to finish The Savage Detectives than your individual book?

I remember mentioning the page count set in class for a book to be considered “long” in front of students who were not in our class, and a lot of them disagreed. I’m curious to see if my standard for what counts as a long book changes after this class, and actually pushes further.

Do you know what you are reading next?