Tag Archives: gender

Week 12, Indiana, “Papi”

Rita Indiana’s Papi was a thought-provoking read. In terms of difficulty, it was one of the ‘lighter’ reads—comparably bigger fonts, very colloquial narration, and manageable length. However, this book made me reflect on my relationship with my father and family in general.

“Papi’s there, around any corner. But you can’t sit down and wait for him cuz that’s a longer and more painful death. It’s better to make other plans, to just stay in your PJs and watch cartoons from six in the morning until midnight, or even go out for a stroll, which is a game Mami made up for herself called if-Papi-wants-you-he-can-come-find-you” (1).

This was such a sad and powerful quote that got me really interested in the book right from the get-go. Being introduced to the character Papi through this context, I had so many initial questions regarding the character—such as “what does this ‘Papi’ do, to not always ‘want’ to be with his daughter?” I even questioned if he was alive or not. However, after getting to know much more about Papi, his unique traits, his unrealistically never-ending list of possessions, and his twisted (?) love life, I realized that he just wasn’t an ordinary—nor a good—father; at least in my opinion. He definitely was portrayed as what Professor Jon described as a “macho man lifted straight from the stereotypes of Latin American and Caribbean pop culture masculinity” (Indiana Lecture, p.1).

In the lecture, Professor Jon stated, “So that narrator has to come to terms with the loss of someone who was never quite there (for her) in the first place” (p. 1). This got me reflecting on my relationship with my dad. For quick context, I have been separated from my dad since kindergarten, as my mom and I came to Canada for my education and my dad stayed in Korea to work; my parents are still together, but our family just lived separated. Growing up without a ‘father figure’ throughout my daily life while still ‘having a father’, there were many aspects of the narrator that I was able to relate to. However, I was still able to visit my dad when “I” wanted to (a big difference with the narrator), and my dad supported both my mom and I to his best ability. So for me, when I have to “come to terms with the loss of someone who was never quite there [for me]” but still present more or less in my life, I think I will feel a big sense of loss and sorrow (Indiana Lecture, p.1).

Q: I wonder how others felt while reading about the father character (Papi). Did you feel uncomfortable? What sort of emotions did you have towards Papi?

Week 10, Menchú, “I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala”

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Rigoberta Menchú’s book, I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala, was a powerful account of the struggles and oppression faced by the indigenous people in Guatemala. It was a striking read, one that brought up a strong exchange of emotions.

One of the most striking aspects of Menchú’s story was the sheer brutality and violence that she and her community were subjected to. The indigenous people in Guatemala were treated brutally, their rights systematically violated. Menchú’s description of how she and her community were forced to work in virtual slavery on the large estates owned by the ladinos, and how they were denied access to basic resources like education and healthcare, was extremely painful to read. While the Menchú’s sufferings were painful to read, the strength and hope she and her community held onto was inspiring. The quote that resonated with me was “They’re dead but our people keep their memory alive through our struggle against the government, against an enemy who oppresses us. We don’t need very much advice, or theories, or documents: life has been our teacher” (181).

While reading the book, I constantly found parallels between Menchú’s experiences and those of other marginalized groups around the world: the indigenous peoples of Canada and the Jewish victims during the Holocaust (as I am currently studying the Holocaust in a different course). Despite the extreme violence and repressions they faced, the indigenous people in Guatemala fought back against their oppressors; Menchú herself became involved in the movement for indigenous rights and worked tirelessly to promote awareness and advocacy for her community. Similarly, the indigenous people in Canada have been fighting for their rights and the recognition of their sovereignty for decades, and the Jewish community has worked to ensure that the atrocities of the Holocaust are never forgotten.

Lastly, thinking more broadly about the genre of this book, I questioned the credibility of biographical works in general. There is no doubt that biographical works—and the individual-level of history—are crucial aspects to better understand a historical event. However, biographical works do have their limitations; they are mostly based off one’s memories, which can easily be distorted. Additionally, biographical works are usually told by one specific perspective; it undoubtedly contains personal bias, sometimes explicit, other times not.

Dwelling on this thought, my question for this week is:

How “credible” did you think Menchú’s book is, in terms of objective credibility? Not in terms of historical accuracy, per se, but more on how credible the book felt to ‘you’. Were there any parts of the book that seemed to indicate bias? Should we even care about objective credibility when engaging in biographical works such as this?

Week 9, Vargas Llosa, “Captain Pantoja and the Special Service”

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Mario Vargas Llosa’s Captain Pantoja and the Special Service was an eventful read. The book—both directly and indirectly—dealt with heavier themes of colonialism, discipline and control, sexuality, prostitution, and corruption, while simultaneously providing comedy.

The first thing that stood out to me was how corrupt the military was. This was most explicitly shown to me in Father Beltran’s statement, “’And do they call rape a ‘misfortune’ nowadays?’ […] ‘Because that’s what it was: rape’” (16). Additionally, the corruption was evident once more when General Victoria, despite acknowledging that “’what the recruits tried to do to the lady [was] very wrong,’ […] hedges, smiles, salutes” (18). While these two quotes got me confused whether or not this book was going to be comic or just straight up disturbing, the first instance of comedy came by from this quote: “It has to be the heat, the climate, don’t you think?” (18). This statement by Tiger Collazos just got me laughing in disbelief; it was an ‘are you serious?’ moment. In this way the comedy used by Vargas Llosa in this book seemed unconventional, definitely not the same type of comedy as used in regular comic books. At the same time, however, it didn’t also feel like the conventional ‘black humour’ either. In my opinion conventional black humour is more explicit—straight up making fun of a ‘dark event’—while the comedy in Captain Pantoja was more satirical.

Secondly, as a student currently enrolled in a Holocaust studies course, I found some parallels between the events and themes laid out by this book and those of the Holocaust—albeit on different degrees. A key theme of the book was abuse of power, which is also a central theme of the Holocaust. In both cases, those in power use their authority to exploit and oppress those who are vulnerable. In the book, Captain Pantoja’s project essentially commodifies women who work in the brothel; their welfare is of little concern to the military. Similarly, during the Holocaust, the Nazi regime used its power to systematically persecute and murder millions of Jews, Romani people, disabled individuals, and others deemed ‘undesirable’; the Nazis treated their victims as subhuman, and their welfare was of little concern to those in power. Moreover, Captain Pantoja’s attempt to defend himself with the “fact that he was only following orders” was a very similar behaviour shown by many German officers post-Holocaust (Vargas Llosa Lecture, p.8). After the events of the Holocaust, many German officials tried to justify their acts and avoid responsibility by stating they only did what they did because they were told to do so. To take this argument for its face value or disregard it is beyond the scope of my reflection today. However, connecting this book with the insight I have on the Holocaust made me reflect on how literature can be a powerful tool to explore complex and difficult—‘hard to speak’—topics.

Question: Did Vargas Llosa’s style of comedy work for you? Or were you more disturbed by it?

Week 3 – Campobello, “Cartucho”

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Nellie Campobello’s Cartucho was an intriguing yet fascinating read.

Firstly, the content of the book was interesting as it depicted a unique perspective on the Mexican Revolution. Going away from the more conventional “victor’s narrative” of the Revolution, it provided a detailed firsthand account of the brutalities and violence that were experienced by those who suffered. These accounts were not just limited to physical sufferings—ex. torture or death—but also included psychological sufferings—mainly in the form of mourning. The extremely detailed and sensual narrative content made me question why the author decided to depict the Revolution in a rather unconventional way. However, this quote from the lecture, that “[w]hat counts is what sticks in the mind” answered this question (2). As much as outcomes are important (ex. who won or lost which battle), the everyday lives and trauma experienced by the population are equally as important to record. Perhaps Campobello’s Cartucho was a way in which agency was given back to those who suffered—or died. Perhaps, those that were kept silent were finally given a voice through this book.

Secondly, Campobello’s use of a child narrator for this story was confusing and disturbing at times but also beneficial at other times. First of all, I wondered why the author decided to use a child narrator for a book that deals with a topic as heavy as the Mexican Revolution—containing diverse ideologies, politics, and gruesome imageries. The whole part of “General Sobarzo’s Guts” was particularly disturbing because the imagery was quite gruesome. The most disturbing quote was probably when the child narrator and some others said “Guts! How nice! Whose are they?” While on one part the use of a child narrator felt odd, it also seems like the extremely detailed portrayals and unfiltered depictions were only made possible because it was told by a child narrator—who seemed to driven by affect more than any internal political considerations of the war.

Lastly, the lack of a chronological or logical continuity made it difficult to get used to the narrative style of the book. However, the conversation video cleared things up. A key point that I was able to develop from watching the video was questioning the necessity to make sense of a ‘non-linear’ narrative. Do we have to make sense of a narrative in a chronological or logical continuity? Or would this, in itself, be a form of bias/ presumption? While there is a seductive effort to make sense of what happened, for both us (as readers) and those that suffered from the war (trying to make sense of what the war entailed), reality proves different; in reality, there were lots of senselessness—especially in war. Perhaps making sense with some kind of a happy ending was damaging—or misrepresenting—what happened in reality.

Question: Isn’t Campobello’s use of a “child narrator” a form of play-acting? Do you think Campobello successfully portrayed the war in a “child narrator’s perspective”, despite writing the book as an adult?

Week 2 – de la Parra, “Mama Blanca’s Memoirs”

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Teresa de la Parra’s Mama Blanca’s Memoirs was a pleasant read filled with feelings of childhood, memory, and nostalgia. Additionally, the book also fed thoughts on accuracy—and distortion—of representations, different perspectives within narratives, and the nature of storytelling. Lastly, Teresa de la Parra’s book provided an interesting—perhaps inaccurate, to an extent—depiction of the realities of a plantation farm in nineteenth-century Venezuela.

First of all, the foreword to the book gave me a lot of points to think about. As mentioned in the lecture content for this week, it stood out how the publication of Mama Blanca’s memoirs by the un-named editor was a “betrayal”. The editor and Mama Blanca seemed to have a very strong bond built upon trust, despite the significant age gap—the editor stated how Mama Blanca, in regards to age, was “a person who might have been my great-grandmother” (7). While the relationship seems unconventional based on people’s “judgement on outward appearances[,]” I thought the relationship between the editor and Mama Blanca was a precious relationship built upon kindness, love, and trust (7). To a certain extent, I can relate to this special type of relationship with an elder. I have somehow developed a very precious relationship with my middle school teacher and now we have a family-like relationship built upon sincerity, support, and mutual respect. Knowing how precious these types of relationships are, I wonder why the editor decided to publish Mama Blanca’s memoirs. Although Mama Blanca was dead by the time the editor published the memoirs, it was still breaking the trust that the former gave to the latter. Was there something about the memoirs—about Mama Blanca’s life—that made the editor feel compelled to publish it, despite that meant a “betrayal”?

Second, the fact that Mama Blanca was relatively privileged—being the daughter of the owner of a sugar plantation in Venezuela, part of an upper-class family—made me question the accuracy of her representation of the realities of sugar plantations in nineteenth-century Venezuela. For Mama Blanca and her sister Evelyn, “the mill was a club, theater, city” (84). The mill “seemed heaven” to them, which is quite different than what we normally would imagine when thinking of a mill. While Mama Blanca knew that “[p]eople did not gather at the mill to amuse themselves[,]” she nevertheless depicted the mill as “full of life and color” (86). This representation of the mill as “heaven-like” seems to reflect more about Mama Blanca’s social class and privilege, rather than providing an accurate representation of the realities of the mill. On a wider perspective, this reminded me that a story is a form of representation and image construction that is heavily built upon the author’s point of view.

Question: Mama Blanca stated that she sometimes “demanded an ‘old story,’ but stipulating tyrannical changes that reflected the varying states or desires of [her] spirit” (32). Do you have any experiences of allowing your imagination and feelings to create new endings to stories?