Eyes of Zapata

I am thoroughly enjoying Sandra Cisneros' ability to demonstrate such a dynamic progression of narrative voice throughout the course of Woman Hollering Creek. I don't even feel as though I'm reading the same author in the latter half of the book. The first half possesses such a beautifully sweet and descriptive tone, while the latter tends to evoke much darker, complicated emotions within me. As the stories progress, I find that I have more and more difficulty grappling with the questionable morality of the accepted social norms. I am genuinely struggling to accept the manner in which these women, particularly the narrator of Eyes of Zapata, are willing to settle for small fractions of their own husbands' hearts. It is utterly infuriating that the narrator does not demand more devotion, more respect, more integrity from the supposedly heroic Zapata.

We have encountered many incidences in which oppressed Chicana and Latina women turn a blind eye to the occasional dalliances of their husbands, but to be fully aware that one's own husband is also husband and father to several other women and children in other towns is an extreme to which I can not come to terms. What makes the situation even worse, if possible, is that Zapata feels no obligation whatsoever to conceal the existence of his multiple marriages.

I also had particular difficulty with the manner in which the former lovers of the narrator's mother conspire to execute her malicious, barbaric murder. Once more Cisneros quite competently portrays the appalling double standard granted to men in Chicano society. The men are free to philander about, free from responsibility, impregnating whomever they please. On the rare occasion that a woman decides to express her sexuality freely, however, committing no worse offence than the men who surround her, she is brutally and savagely murdered. To compound the injustice, this remarkable woman is not only betrayed and murdered, but she is left in the field as an example "braids undone, a man's sombrero tipped on her head, a cigar in her mouth, as if to say, this is what we do to women who try to act like men" (pg 111). The bitter emotions evoked within me at such extreme injustice are almost too much to bear. Cisneros is thus exceptionally successful in executing her literary purpose. She is capable of connecting with her audience on such a deeply personal level. I have experienced nothing close to any of the situations discussed in Eyes of Zapata, and yet I feel personally wronged by the injustice perpetuated in the backward societies of which she speaks. I think perhaps her tendency to convey the most deeply internal, personal thoughts of her characters -- the most secret opinions and truths which are rarely voiced -- that is the element of her writing style that enables Cisneros to have such a dramatic effect on her readers.

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On an entirely separate note, I also really loved the genuine nature of the individual prayers expressed in Little Miracles, Kept Promises. Cisneros' skill for assuming different narrative voices is once again brought to the reader's attention. These prayers of desire and gratitude were so beautiful, so personal, so honest. I felt as though there was such a wide range of perspectives being expressed. This short story was, in my opinion, a truly wonderful literary achievement.

La Gritona

I have a heard a lot of talk about Sandra Cisneros and now that I finally experienced her work for myself I find that I have mixed feelings about her. I definitely enjoy her uniqueness and I have genuinely enjoyed reading several of her stories. Cisneros has a particular talent for evoking strong emotions from the reader. “My Lucy Friend Who Smells Like Corn” was such a lovely, sweet, innocent story. I felt sincerely nostalgic for my youth as a simple, appreciative, little girl, even though I share none of these experiences with the little girls. Only the memory of childlike wonderment and awe for the simple pleasures is shared among us. “Eleven,” however, evoked exactly the opposite emotions in me, as I struggled not to cry while reading. I still can’t quite figure out why the words of Cisneros were able to touch me so deeply while none of the other texts have been able to affect me in such a way. There’s something about her exceptionally convincing ability to narrate from a child’s perspective that causes the reader to actually feel as though this heartbreaking story is being told by the bullied young birthday girl. And what adds to her sophistication as a writer is that Cisneros can do such a wonderful job of conveying that she is writing from the perspective of a young child without ever needing to directly inform the reader of the speaker’s age. Thus I was quite fond of the first few short stories.

As I read further into the text, however, I found that I began to notice a high frequency of incidents inserted purely for shock value. These did not so much detract from the literary merit of the text as they did from my personal enjoyment of it. As I read further and further into the book, I also found the stories became more and more difficult for me to comprehend. I’m still not sure as to whether I gained a proper understanding of what was going on in “Remember the Alamo,” with Cisneros’ erratic insertion of names before every new paragraph and constant repetition of “Say you want me…” (Cisneros, 67). Neither do I quite understand the significance of the narrator sleeping with her former lover’s son in “Never Marry a Mexican” other than the obvious shock value provided. I feel as though I could read some of these passages several times and still not fully understand exactly what Cisneros was trying to convey. Nevertheless she is an incredibly gifted writer and her writing has been a fresh breath of air. I definitely respect her. I’m just not so sure whether I truly enjoy reading her work as much as I do the work of Julia Alvarez, for example. We shall see how I feel after reading the second half of the book...........

North of the Rio Grande Thus Far…

I too wrote the wrong blog on Sunday… Sorry Jon!


I am definitely beginning to feel as though Jon has purposefully organized the order of the class texts from least to most interesting. I have enjoyed everything we’ve read thus far in class, but every time I think I’ve found my favourite text I end up loving the next one even more.

For me, reading Ruiz de Burton was an absolute treat. I loved the overwhelmingly sarcastic nature of Who Would Have Thought It?. Every point she made was so wonderfully satirical and oozing with contempt for the pretentious upper class New Englanders who bore the brunt of her mockery. Even their names were ridiculous… “Hammerhard”… “Hackwell”… Perhaps the reason she got away with such a harshly critical novel in 1872 was that she made fun of everyone and everything. The literature of Maria Amparo Ruiz de Burton is so heavily laden with cleverly disguised social criticisms that it is possible authorities were oblivious to the true meaning of her literature.

Marti, however, was another story. While I heartily appreciated the beautifully descriptive style employed by this poetic Cubano, I can not honestly say my Spanish is at a level where I can properly appreciate his poetic brilliance. Having to stop every two seconds to look up a word is what robbed me of the authentic Marti experience. Rivera was more my style. I think that if need be, I could sit down and read Rivera without a Spanish-English dictionary and still know what was going on. With Marti? Not a chance. Many of the words I looked up weren’t even listed in any of my dictionaries. The first few stories, however, which I took enormous amounts of time to translate entirely, were extremely beautiful. Jose Marti clearly has almost as great a love for magnificent architectural structures as for intricate language. His ability to make the dingy, overcrowded Brooklyn Bridge dazzle with splendour and the gaudy, corroding Statue of Liberty radiate magnificence is incredible. Jose Marti’s way with words is truly impressive.

What struck me to the core about Tomas Rivera’s writing was his uniquely intricate style and the subtle manner in which he used it to perpetuate the illusion of a collective Chicano voice. The slightly confusing and disjointed manner in which y no se lo trago la tierra is written, if anything, adds to the reader’s understanding of the Chicano situation. This element of confusion layered within the text is metaphorical for the feelings of the young protagonist as he attempts to make sense of the unjust, bewildering world around him. The young boy is caught in a whirlwind of discrimination and spiritual doubt as he struggles with even his own identity during exceedingly difficult years. Although it may take a little getting used to, Rivera’s style is a brilliant addition to his insightful explorations of complex Chicano emotions and issues.

I also thought the movie, Salt of the Earth was crucial to a proper understanding of the full spectrum of issues faced by the Chicano people. While the novels we have read portray the larger, more collectively troubling issues of racial oppression, Salt of the Earth takes it one step further by illuminating an entirely uncharted instance of oppression: the oppression of Chicano women by their own husbands. Many authors have spent so much time dwelling on the racial discrimination of the Chicanos as a whole, the additional gender oppression dealt with by Chicano women has taken a back seat and hidden in the shadow of this more widespread issue. The movie is thus extremely important to a full understanding of the Chicano situation, as it addresses all issues central to their struggle.

And the Earth Did Not Swallow Him

If you have not seen the movie, go and see the movie. Koerner Reserve section. And the Earth Did Not Swallow Him (1995).

As one of many class members who struggled a bit with the fact that this already obscure and abstract text was written in another language, I benefited greatly from seeing the movie. It really helped to tie things up for me and assured me I was on the right track... that I understood the novel properly. The movie remains fairly faithful to the novel, as much as is possible anyway, due to the abstract and disjointed nature of the text. The vignettes are more chronological in order and the story is slightly more focused on the perspective of Marcos, the young boy, than the Mexican American workers on the whole. The feeling you get from watching the movie, however, and the general expressive purpose are both very true to those intended by Rivera in the novel. The plight of the oppressed Chicano is very well presented and the injustice and hypocrisy of the entire situation are brought to the forefront.

One of the moments that struck me the most, in both the book and movie, was when the young boy points out in frustration that the Mexican Americans are always saying "when we arrive... when we arrive... " (104) and yet they never really arrive. They are a displaced peoples. They have no true home, no true identity, no place to which they ever feel they properly belong. Their lives are a constant struggle, a constant frustration as they live on the oppressive terms of others.

I feel as though the young boy, called Marcos in the movie, is so very insightful for a child. And I think it definitely has to do with the hardships he has endured at such a young age. The discrimination he has faced and the injustice he has encountered have made him old before his time. The child has seen so much and suffered so intensely that terrifying entities such as God and the devil don’t incite the same kind of daunting, immobilizing fear in him as they do in the average child. He has the nerve to call the devil and to declare that there is no God to his devout Catholic mother. The child is truly remarkable and his harrowing life experiences have shaped him to be the introspective, inquisitive young soul that he is by the end of the novel.

Rivera, I'm Liking Your Style

As I read further and further towards the heart of …y no se lo tragó la tierra, the feelings of pity and disgust that the novel has evoked within me seem only to intensify. The heart-wrenching story told by a young immigrant boy appears to worsen consistently with no hope of eventual improvement in sight. The injustice experienced by the young boy and the Chicano migrant workers around him is infuriating. The fact that he is condemned for defending himself when physically attacked in the bathroom is beyond maddening. Although I am often angered by the injustice brought forth in the novel, I am thoroughly enjoying Rivera’s writing. The disjointed style that seems to have confused and frustrated so many classmates is in fact what I am enjoying most. Throughout the novel, Rivera continually jumps around from one narrative voice to the next, expressing at various intervals the perspectives of intolerant young bullies, heartbroken mothers, indignant young victims of racial discrimination, and so on. The multitude of voices Rivera brings to the page via his fragmented vignette style of writing give the Chicano struggle a universal quality. If the story were told in one fluid motion from beginning to end, through the perspective of the young boy, the reader would sympathize with his plight and receive a limited concept of what life was like for the Chicano immigrant. Rivera’s style, however, is much more conducive to a proper concept of the hardships, the discrimination, the displacement experienced in Chicano life. The manner in which Rivera interjects at sporadic intervals with the disembodied voices of unexpected, unintroduced Chicanos is therefore crucial to the reader’s understanding of the widespread nature of this oppression. I love that Rivera has not only found a purpose significant enough to write about, but a style that enables him to multiply exponentially the impact he achieves over his readers.