Author Archives: mandy zhou

11/25/21

American Labyrinth

Inside, the building branches vertically and horizontally into hallways, offices, windows, courtrooms, and waiting rooms… it’s easy to get lost. The building’s labyrinthine architecture is, in a way, a replica of the U.S. immigration system. And, as in any labyrinth, some find their way out and some don’t. Those who don’t might remain there forever, invisible specters who go up and down elevators and wander the hallways, imprisoned in circular nightmares. (Luiselli 35-36). 

Luisilli’s equivocation of the physical architecture of the building to the US immigration system is incredibly apt, and her evocation of the labyrinth reminds me of Franz Kafka’s The Trial and the Greek myth of the Minotaur’s Labyrinth. This specific passage has many parallels with Kafka’s novel. Josef K, the protagonist of The Trial, must both physically and mentally navigate the court system when he is accused of committing a crime. However, (spoiler alert) he is thwarted at every turn, and after a year of trying the escape the impossible labyrinth, he pays a couple of people to murder him. In the novel, and in Luiselli’s explanation of the building, both authors understand that the physical architecture mimics a bureaucratic system that is trying to confuse and exhaust the victim — they are “imprisoned in a circular nightmare” (Luiselli 36). A more cynical reading would suggest that Luiselli evokes the Minotaur’s Labyrinth when she compares the system to the Labyrinth. Young Athenians were sent into the labyrinth as sacrificial victims to be devoured by the minotaur. This comparison would suggest that the children were always meant to lose, and they never stood a chance — the game was rigged from the start. 

Luiselli acknowledges the victims of this obfuscated system. She recognizes them as ghosts, spectres — perhaps suggesting that they are dead or sent to their death because of the decisions made in the court. Alternatively, Luiselli could also be referring to all the people that have already died on their way to this building; the people trying to navigate the nightmare world that is their real life.

11/18/21

The Parade and the End

The reader of “The Parade Ends” by Reinaldo Arenas must relinquish their need for linear storytelling in order to progress through the story. The story fundamentally operates on a different epistemology of time — time does not progress linearly forward; instead, it oscillates forward and backwards triggered by motifs. Arenas writes that “I was, again, like so many years ago already, at the extreme where life is not so much as a useless and humiliating repetition, but only the incessant memory of that repetition” (Arenas 99-100). Arenas summarizes the structure of his story within this explanation. The story is not about the banal repetition of life; instead, it’s one step removed from life, it is only the memory of life. Thus, time does not need to function linearly, or perhaps, time can no longer function linearly. Tormented by the fragmented memory of his past, Arenas can no longer stay in the present. 

“The Parade Ends” reminds me of Quentin’s internal monologues in The Sounds and the Fury by William Faulkner. Quentin’s monologues are devoid of all punctuation, and the reader floats ceaselessly tugged forwards and backwards by whatever memory Quentin happens upon. While Arenas does not deprive the reader of all punctuation, the prolonged sentences lull the reader through the mind of the narrator forwards and backwards without respite. In both cases, the narrators cannot reconcile with the linear time, and thus, their narrative cannot be constrained by the normal grammatical structure. The reader must adopt this epistemology of time as they progress through the stories in order to experience the story (rather than figure out the story).

11/2/21

Now I’m the Bad Guy

Ena Lucia Portela’s “Cinderella’s Secret Dream” highlights the problematic portrayal of the evil villainess. Portela demonstrates this through Cleis’ own criticism of the heroine, “Cleis couldn’t imagine anything more boring and stupid… She longed to play the “villainess,” an evil woman who gets her kicks committing all sorts of dastardly deeds” (2). The evil woman is active, she gets to do the “committing”; in contrast, the ingenue is acted upon, and the only thing she can do is cry. However, it is precisely the agency that positions the villainess’ as evil. They become transgressive figures and must be made into a villain in order to subdue their appeal. In the classic trope, there are only two options: you can either be the sweet, ‘morally correct’ woman that is submissive, or if you want agency, it must mean you are evil and monstrous. 

However, Portela criticizes this dichotomy. In contrast to the original fairy tale, Cleis must have her own agency. She must be the one to buy her own dress, to bring herself to the party, and, most importantly, to get herself away from the party. Like her own stepmother, she must take action for herself. Perhaps also like her stepmother, she perpetrates the downfall of another woman. Just like how the old housekeeper now makes Cleis do the housework, Cleis makes Lotta take her place in the demented mansion of Price Charming. In this comparison, Lotta was truly the one without her own agency — her life is almost entirely determined by her mother. Cleis is the only one to make it out of the town and achieve her own dreams. Through the success of Cleis, Portela offers a different option from the classic dichotomy, one far more realistic and probable: we all have, and we all should, exercise our own agency, even if it makes us the villain sometimes.

10/27/21

The River of Consciousness

“Broken Strand” by Mayra Santos-Febres blurs the consciousness of Miss Kety, Yetsaida, and ultimately, reader and writer. Santos-Febres’ tactful melding of the multiple consciousnesses further exposes the theme prevalent through the story that gendered violence is a shared experience. They all have a broken nose; they have all bled from a “ripening womb” (4). The short story opens with, “ a little girl and a father and a dream and a memory broken like a nose,” and it immediately switches into the second person, “there are days when you have to walk languid out on the street to forget” (1). There is no specific “little girl”; instead, it is Miss Kety, Yetsaida, Yetsaida’s mother, and every other woman. Every woman was this little girl; furthermore, Santos-Febres notes that you, as the reader, were this little girl. The prevalent use of the second person through the story calls the reader to attention. However, not in a way to expose the reader, but in a way to create solidarity with the reader. In this way, Santos-Febres creates a connection with a reader closer than most author-reader relationships; she wants to speak to you. 

Santos-Febres explores what is in this shared consciousness. There is always a father, a dream, and physically broken body parts that bring with it the broken memories. There are memories of children at four years old already with knowledge of “alcoholic breath and dried-out condoms” (2). Santos-Febres is alluding to the memory of violence, and the physical manifestation of this violence is everyone’s broken nose. There is also the dream in this shared consciousness. The dream is to be able to “remake yourself” physically and metaphorically (7). The strive for beauty is not superficial, and Santos-Febres expresses it in saying “Miss Kety, the saviour, the true emissary of true beauty” (3). Miss Kety’s role as the saviour reveals a divine link between physical beauty and inward beauty. Perhaps in this world where women are both physically and psychologically scarred, one must attempt to build themselves up from the outside in. 

10/14/21

In God we Tru$t

In Claudia Piñeiro’s Widows on Thursdays, the gated community of The Cascades have almost unanimously elevated money into the position of religion, and thus, they have constructed a new morality based on capital gain. Tano begins the movie preaching to the other husbands about the role of money as religion — in an incredibly ironic moment, he says that they must have faith in money. To some extent, everyone that lives in this gated community has subscribed to this religion because if they had not, they would not be here — clearly demonstrated by Ronnie and Mavi’s family departure at the end. Tano banks on the death of others to take their life insurance, and he is unabashed and even proud of this scheme. He explicitly expresses his belief that he cannot be doing the wrong thing because he is only doing what he has to do to achieve success. Morally, the religion of money does not subscribe to the good and bad of ethical norms, good and bad is in relation to earning and losing. In all fairness, Tano is not a hypocrite. While he banks on the death of others, he also understands the value of his own death. Him and the other husbands’ suicides demonstrates the extent of how much these people truly do believe in the religion of money. They genuinely believe morally that their death is for some greater good, that their death is spiritual as it relates to their religion. Money has truly become God, and they are willing to kill themselves in service of this god. 

The most bleak part of the movie is that Tano was right — his and his associates’ death do help propagate the lives of their wives. In a way, Tano’s death has illuminated the fact that Tano and Teresa are alike in ways — this is exactly what Tano would have wanted Teresa to do. In death, Tano and Teresa are truly partners in this crime.

09/21/21

and we sold all of nature

In “And We Sold the Rain,” Carmen Naranjo emphasizes water as a source that causes contempt, happiness, and lastly, exile; through this, the people’s relationship with water comes to symbolize a fraught relationship people have with nature under capitalism. The first mention of rain happens when the people complain that “they raise our water bills but don’t give us any water even though it rains everyday” (Naranjo 149). Rain has yet to become exploited, and (while incredibly sardonically) rain is considered separate from water as a commodity. At this stage, rain (as a representation of nature) is an obstacle, a cause for frustration when “poor people without umbrellas, without a change of clothes, they get drenched” (Naranjo 151). This sentiment is further emphasized when Naranjo writes “[t]he sea of poverty” — the sea, a large water mass, is chosen to represent poverty. However, this soon changes when they sell the rain, and the rain becomes a commodity. For a moment, it seems that they have conquered this cause of annoyance, and “[t]he people smiled. A little less rain would be agreeable to everyone” (Naranjo 154). Furthermore, they are able to profit off their triumph over nature. It is almost smart, until it becomes unsustainable. 

Finally, water becomes the ultimate cause, and aid, of their exile. The rain stops forever, and people are forced to flee — a situation that the real world will perhaps come to sooner than later due to the climate crisis. By their triumph over nature, and the commodification of natural resources, the people have made their home uninhabitable. Like The Lorax, this short story’s hyperbolic situation mirrors one of the real world’s rapid and insatiable consumption of nature that can only lead to exile.

09/14/21

The Irony of It All

Arturo Arias in  “Guatemala 1954 — Funeral for a Bird” utilizes irony to expose the near unfathomable horrors left by the bombing experienced through a child’s perspective. The most apparent example is the children’s lack of empathy towards the bodies contrasted with their admiration of the dead bird. Sanchez “in a fit of anger… kicked the corpse” when the corpse becomes an obstacle between him and the dead bird (Arias 51). Furthermore, at that moment, Sanchez “didn’t see the headless body” (Arias 51). For a moment, Sanchez is so consumed by his thoughts of the bird that he literally fails to recognize the human body in front of him. When Sanchez is forced to recognize the body, he does not do so with the same honour as the bird, but rather with contempt. While Arias definitely uses irony to unsettle the reader, perhaps more interestingly, he makes the reader further distrust Sanchez and the narration.

Arias further exposes Sanchez’s fickle (unreliable not as a result of purposeful manipulation, but childish perspective) narration to the reader when he finds the ring to bring as an offering to the bird. When Sanchez finds the ring, he shouts that “I found a ring! A precious ring!” (Arias 53). We only find out after the ring is described in detail that “the finger it encircled also seemed beautiful” (Arias 53). Sanchez is not concerned with the finger: he does not say that he has found a finger, rather just the ring. The reader is forced to recontextualize the ring after finding out that the finger is attached. This further causes the reader to question the narration. 

While we often understand the rhetoric that horrors of war and suffering are unfathomable in children’s eyes, Arias literally makes these horrors unfathomable. The reader never gains access to a version of this story as a normal adult would tell it; instead, we must constantly try to piece together the story narrated through the thoughts of a four-and-a-half-year-old.