Author Archives: andrea martinez

11/25/21

the “right” answers

On page 61, Luiselli mentions that for refugee kids to gain recognition of U.S. immigration structures, they need to provide the “right” answers. But what are the “right” answers? Working within an immigration system preying on your trauma and waiting for you to fail cannot bring about the “right” answers. By the time refugee children arrive at the U.S. border, the weight of the journey, leaving what they have always known, their language and the warmth of a culture that they might not even return to, can be a lot to process. In contrast with the literal coldness of ICE, which puts kids in cages of never-ending violence. The paradox of claiming asylum in the U.S. is that the process often brings about more violence. What is supposed to be the place that will provide freedom from the danger you supposedly left behind will make you relive the trauma. Asylum should be a means of escape. Yet, the way U.S. immigration is structured forces kids to re-immerse themselves in what they are trying to forget. The immediately and forcefully demanded “right” answers dehumanize children. Early on, U.S. officials teach them that suffering is the only way to earn a place in U.S. society.

Ultimately, what is most cruel about demanding “right” answers, other than the traumatic responses being weaponized against as the value assigned upon children, is that U.S. officials are complicit in creating the situation which leads to the “right” answers. They know what the kids are fleeing from, they have encouraged the violence and have profited from it too. Yet, U.S. officials still make the kids narrate their trauma as an ultimate assertion of power relations they cannot escape.

11/17/21

Gazes of Sympathy and Recognition

“Fiesta, 1980” by Junot Diaz explores the sad reality of family relations driven by the fear of communication. Stemming from an abusive parent, Papi, we see Yunior’s family descend into a state of anxiety and fear of confrontation within their own home, a space that should be safe. Mami, Rafa, Madai, and Yunior submit to abuse that coerces them into silence against Papi’s obvious violence. Although the physical punishments that come with challenging Papi’s assertion of toxic masculinity are painful, it seems the family members are more concerned about losing Papi’s love (pg. 27), they know that to challenge his violent control is to undermine the agreed-upon silence which artificially unites the family under a somewhat liveable and stable environment.

Yet, although the four family members cannot express the repressive family environment, the gaze and looks exchanged provide solidarity and recognition to each other’s feelings evoked by Papi’s abuse. Looks are a very important motif in Junot’s story. The first instance is on page 23 when Papi returns from his affair, and Yunior and Rafa look at each other to recognize their father’s family betrayal. Another pivotal point in the story is on page 26, where Madai is too scared to open her eyes. By being the youngest, Papi’s violence is something she is not as accustomed to. By closing her eyes, she is likely in denial of the pain inflicted by her dad and does not want to recognize the others’ anxiety yet. Finally, probably the most moving moment of recognition in the story, on page 42, Yunior looks at his mom with love and compassion, and through a smile, Mami seems to reassure him of her love. Hence, through gazes of sympathy and recognition, they transmit and read feelings through their eyes that they could not communicate otherwise because of Papi’s presence.

11/4/21

My Body Belongs to the State

Through the excerpts of Grieving, Cristina Rivera voices the tiredness of simply existing in a state whose interests lie in the profit of your suffering (pg. 22). As Mexican citizens, our dignity, and sovereignty are robbed through violent means to enrich a few. Our path is laid out before even being born, our body will not belong to us but to the Mexican Narco-State. We do not get to dictate our safety and define our bodily autonomy. Instead, violence infiltrates both public and private spheres. There is no corner of Mexico where one can isolate from corruption and its exercise of violence. Equally, there is no corner where justice can be found (pg. 21). Furthermore, we do not hold ownership over our labour, and we are constantly robbed of self-sufficiency (pg 4-5). Thus, the State simultaneously deprives us of justice while not allowing us to access alternatives outside State structures (pg. 4). Our integrity and bodily autonomy are non-existent, and despite the different cycles of historical and political contexts, the outcome is the same: our bodies do not belong to us. The body is the most personal and only ‘guaranteed’ form of ownership that follows us until death. Yet, the Mexican Narco-State and corrupted allies have found ways in which to infringe our last resort of dignity.  

Additionally, intersecting gender identities further creates the helplessness that Rivera speaks about. The State embodies patriarchal and capitalist notions of power, which trickle down to everyday violence, with women and gender non-conforming identities being primary targets. We are defenceless to the State’s “Why Should I Care?” attitude (pg. 5). While providing the example of Señorita Signatory, Rivera says, “her organs were a question of the state” (pg. 20). Although the example is from 1939, 80 years later, the conditions in which Mexican society finds itself are the same. Our bodies and the autonomy associated with simply ‘being’ are continually violated to accommodate State interests while leaving the rest of us in an agonizing state of survival. 

10/24/21

A Glance into What Cleofilas can be

Initially, Cleofilas perceives herself in relation to men. Her identity is forged through labels patriarchal structures assigned upon her: a daughter, a wife, a sister, a mother. Yet, we know she loves sewing and loves telenovelas and is captivated by the arroyo behind her house. But these aspects of her individuality are only narrated, never validated by other characters. Additionally, she does not hold control over her desires and ambitions. Her father, Don Serafin, permits her husband, Juan Pedro, to take her away and move to el otro lado without seeming input of what she wants (p. 219). And later, we know she is not happy with the forced move and her marriage. She constantly yearns to return to her family and move away from Juan Pedro, who is abusive and unappreciative of Cleofilas (p. 222-223). Yet, she initially submitted to his ‘love’ because she felt it was her duty to go from being a daughter to a wife and soon a mother. She was not given options, her role as a ‘good’ woman was preassigned, and a good woman does as the men in her life desire.

Yet, when Cleofilas’ husband physically abuses her, further robbing her of her emotional and physical integrity, she is ultimately pushed to separate herself from him. Primarily as means of survival, but also with great bravery and confidence, which I think come from her desire for autonomy. During the escapade, she meets Felice, the antithesis of a ‘good’ woman within the era. Felice curses, screams, owns a car, and ultimately exudes freedom, something Cleofilas appears to long for. I believe this is when Cleofilas sees her potential to live a fulfilling life in which she does not have to suffer and lose her individuality to appease the men in her life. Felice mirrors what Cleofilas can be. Although the story ends right after their meeting, one can assume that now that Cleofilas has escaped domestic abuse, she sees herself ready to be assertive in her decisions, even if there is gossip or disappointment projected upon her. She values her freedom and safety above others’ patriarchal expectations. And she understood that staying dormant to abuse would lead to a similar path to Soledad and Dolores, whose names mean loneliness and pain, as both characters are in sorrow because of the men in their lives. Yet, instead, Cleofilas chose Felice’s path, whose name sounds like feliz, meaning happy in Spanish. Thus, although the effects and projections of the patriarchy will be there as they are structural, Cleofilas, by actively challenging these predisposed notions, has higher chances of finding happiness and a more fulfilling path, rather than allowing cycles of violence to continue.  

10/12/21

“Thursday’s Widows” and … Zombies?

“Thursday’s Widows” (2008) follows the deaths of three seemingly wealthy men, pretending to live perfect lives, ‘detached’ from Argentina’s social and economic realities. We rarely catch a glimpse of what is truly going on outside the gated and exclusive residential zone. Yet, through news clips and quick shots contrasting the slums and wealthy zones of the city, we know of the apocalyptic nature in which Argentina finds itself. People are fighting for food, suffering gas shortages, and unable to access their money from the banks. Meanwhile, in refuge within their community, the wealthy Argentinians mockingly say, “what would we do without our credit cards.”

An obvious social critique, the film has a zombie apocalyptic feel to it, a theme commonly used to reflect social anxieties through science fiction means. This technique is reminiscent of Night of the Living Dead (1968) by George Romero and his sequels, which are critiques of racial relations and capitalism. Although “Thursday’s Widows” does not actually feature zombies, there is an “us” vs “them” theme, from how they treat their house workers to how they look at the outside, scared that the images they see on the television will affect their perfect, “safe haven” and “detached-from-reality” bubble. What they do not realize until Ronnie tells the wives the truth about their husbands’ deaths, is that it is too late, the effects of the economic virus floating in Argentina has already infected them. No matter their isolation, they have already turned into zombies. Which, in a way, might have been what they wanted, as the three women affected are the ones who seemed to desire it the most. Gustavo and Carla, a problematic couple from the ‘outside,’ Martin’s harsh economic standing, which resembles the situation most of ‘outside’ Argentina is living, and Tano’s depression, which is an ‘outside’ feeling due to the economic context, are how the ‘virus’ begins to develop, resulting in their deaths, except for Carla who was innocent in the story. By the last scene, the community has turned into zombies after the husbands’ deaths. As Ronnie’s family leaves, the final stage perfectly sets their escape from repeating the same mistakes. As their car leaves the infected area, a seemingly safe space, gates, barbwire, and security guards are shown. Yet, it is just as dead on the inside, as the ‘outside.’ At some point, Lala says something like: “what if they [working-class Argentinians] come to the gates and try to enter.” Again, utilizing zombie imagery of them trying to infiltrate the community as if it had not already happened on its own. Furthermore, the three husbands who die are also the most corrupt ones, who work for foreigners and exploit their fellow nationals, which partially fuels the economic crisis—coming full circle, and referring to the karma which Ronnie makes a note of at the beginning of the movie. At last, the only ones who “make it out alive” and are to find refuge away from the infected zone are those who can still trust and love each other. As in a zombie apocalypse, you need trust to make it out alive.

10/6/21

Spatial Inequality and Access to Justice: A Cross Comparison between Parasite (2019) and “The Puzzle of the Broken Watch”

Parasite (2019) is a Korean film directed by Bong Joon-ho. It follows attempts to class mobility by a lower-class Korean family. Although quite different genres, “The Puzzle of the Broken Watch” and Parasite explore spatial inequality through their surroundings and how those living in ‘slums’ access justice and navigate daily life institutions in unequal ways. 

In Parasite, the Kim’s home undergoes a fumigation leak, a man urinating in front of their family unit, and a disastrous inundation. Later, even at the shelter after losing their home to the rain, the conditions are inhumane, with the State’s unpreparedness to offer help to its lower-class citizens. Hence, the Kim family’s environment tells us how they experience neglect due to their economic status. In contrast, the Park family sees the rain as a blessing because the State has invested infrastructure into their area. 

In “The Puzzle of the Broken Watch,” class relations are not as explicit, but are still embedded within the narration of Juan’s neighbourhood and his dishonest arrest. Atlampa is a working-class neighbourhood in Mexico City, a city defined by its social stratification. Juan’s daily context is described as: “tenements which characterized the older, poorer Mexico … ravaged by the years … crowded with tables, assorted junk … improvised partition of bedspreads and sarapes” (pg. 4-5). Furthermore, there is constant neighbourhood vigilance, but this is not as to benefit each other. Instead, when needed, people keep silent to appease people in power (ex. gossiping ladies silence on Ismael). Ismael, a policeman and worker of the Mexican State, asserted his power against the neighbourhood, as they know if they speak on injustice, they will just be met with consequences. Juan’s unequal spatial context made him vulnerable to being framed in the first place. Ismael knew that Juan’s positionality within society was less valid than his. And had it not been for the willingness of the detective, Juan would have likely not gained justice. Or at least we assume he does, as the story ends without conclusion on Juan’s case. Additionally, it is interesting that when the detectives are looking at other plausible perpetrators, it is all working class people until they get to the murderer, perhaps representing their interchangeability.

Within both works, we see Mexican and Korean societal structures, given legitimacy by the State, keep cycles of exploitation and marginalization as to obstruct the working-class from obtaining justice. Both States deliberately fail to protect the working class, as they are seen as expendable. Their lives are not as valuable, and their spatial surroundings represent the lack of dignity that is assigned unto their identities. The States’ structures are built only for those who can afford freedom. Everyone else is in a state of survival, trying not to fall victim to the States’ corruption and negligence. Through a spatial context, both stories explore levels justice recognition. 

09/21/21

The Perpetual Cycle of Underdevelopment

The Global South lives in a perpetual state of being promised development. Western nations have laid out paths that resemble pyramid schemes, claiming that if we follow a number of simple steps, we too can achieve our own developed nation! Yet, there is a cyclical nature to our development or lack thereof. We go through peaks and troughs, booms and recessions, never achieving the riches and freedom Western states enjoy. With more than 70 years into the official beginning of development projects, it is clear we have been set up to be in a perpetual cycle of underdevelopment.

“And We Sold the Rain” by Carmen Naranjo clearly depicts this condition the Global South is confined in. The country in her piece, which we assume is Costa Rica, does not enjoy economic, social, or political freedoms. To the extent which when they find temporary wealth in selling the rain, the president believes they “will regain our [their] independence” (154). Yet, this is not true. Despite colonialism being technically over, neo-imperialism is thriving. Through it, ideas of development and economic dependencies are instilled to serve Western interests while the Global South lives in a fragile state of uncertainty, where they have no idea whether the products they have built their economy around will continue to be marketable. The Global South is in a constant limbo, where they depend on outside economies to eat and access primary resources like water, as shown in pages 149-150. Despite Costa Rica being a resource-abundant nation, with the perfect climate for all types of crops, they can not even eat beans, and abundant precolonial food, because of their need for imports they can not afford due to bankruptcy. The development project forged dependency, as nations were encouraged to specialize in selling a resource, while Western nations returned it manufactured at double or triple the price. Through this extractive method, cycles of underdevelopment are enforced, leading the Global South to blindly fight for a seat at a table that was never built for their inclusion.

 

09/14/21

Arturo Arias’ Funeral for a Nation

Arturo Arias’ “Guatemala 1954-Funeral for a Bird” develops under a context where Guatemala is again deprived of sovereignty and self-determination. Guatemala is a majority working-class and Indigenous nation, two continuously marginalized identities by upper-class and Western societies. But hope this marginalization would end seemed plausible with Jacobo Árbenz’s rise to power. Unlike most Guatemalan leaders before 1951, Árbenz sought to grant power to historically ignored national communities. Guatemala followed a pattern of “Caudillo” rule, defined by militant and strict governmental policies prioritizing foreign and upper-class interests at the expense of the rest of the nation. Hence, once Árbenz ambitiously began to reform inequalities in the country, Guatemalans saw political and economic representation as a growing reality. Specifically regarding land redistribution, as land ownership provided a great deal of autonomy and liberation. Yet, this working-class and Indigenous re-claim of power quickly threatened U.S. interests, and by 1954, Árbenz, a symbol of hope, was deposed, and upper class and foreign companies usurped power.

With this context in mind, Arias’ story seems to be an ode to the death of a dream that was close to realizing before foreign intervention and greed destroyed it. In the story, Maximo, the protagonist, and the other kids are holding a funeral for a bird. But I would like to believe the bird symbolizes Guatemala or Árbenz’s reforms, and in reality, they are having a funeral for Guatemala’s lost hope towards a more equitable society. The boys’ intense emotions are perhaps how Arias wanted to reflect that Guatemalan future life is again succumbed to living under the same exploitative conditions they have been living in since the institution of colonialism. Thus, the “bird’s” funeral is emotional because it represents the burial of a free Guatemala, where working-class and Indigenous sovereignty were plausible and where those who worked the land owned the land.