Banned Book Report:
Nobody’s Son: Notes From An American Life, by Luis Alberto Urrea. Tucson, U. of A.
Press, 1998
Information that is frightening to the rich and
powerful should be the headline, the lead story, shouted, shared and splattered
over the Interzone. As if it might change their minds.
Last June the Arizona Department of Education [sic]
shut down the “Mexican American Studies” curriculum in Tucson schools, and in December
a judge “justified” the action. No matter that students in the program had a
nearly 50% higher graduation rate than the rest of the kids. The law (ARS
15-112) says you can’t teach a class aimed at a specific ethnic group. What this
really means is that you can’t teach a version other than the “white”-washed European
version.
No one is disputing the accuracy or quality of the censored
texts; only whether they should be taught. So I borrowed one from the
(socialist!) local library, to see what frightened the cowardly government into
suppression of knowledge in the public schools.
“Nobody’s Son” might be a reference to Richard Wright’s
classic “Native Son”, since the main characters could both be said to be an
offspring of the societies that spawned them. Or not. This is not an epic
novel, but a collection of stories from childhood, cultural criticism, and
existential introspection.
Nobody’s Son is also the title of the first section,
the tale of Urrea’s conflicted parentage, citizenship, childhood, and language.
Blue-eyed Mexican dad, New York mom, rough ‘hoods, typical poor childhood and atypically
vicious family fights, sometimes race-related. Harrowing and darkly entertaining,
but nothing new as crappy childhoods go. And nearly all of us south, central
and north Americans are mongrels.
The English language is a mixed breed to begin with, he
notes, it’s impossible to speak “English Only.” No argument here; for business
reasons alone it’s wise to be bilingual in border states. Intentionally
creating misunderstanding does not help if we actually want “justice for all.”
His dad teaches him to be proud to be a “greaser.”
Mexicans repaired the pioneer wagons and greased the westward wheels. “So when
they call you that, hold your head up. It’s a badge of honor. We helped build
America.” (p. 10) That seems safe, patriotic, and inclusive. Does suggesting
Mexicans belong here threaten the power structure?
By the time Salem, Massachusetts was founded, his
Spanish ancestors “…had been prowling up and down the Pacific coast of our
continent for several decades. Of course, the Indian mothers of these families
had been here from the start. But manifest destiny took care of us all—while we
greased the wheels.
“Them wagons is still rollin’.” (p. 12)
Maybe this is where the book starts stepping on toes. To
point out the fact that the war on native peoples is ongoing, is to subvert the
accepted historical narrative. The United States is still trying to steal
Natives’ water and land, and suppress what remains of their devastated cultures.
Courts and classrooms are now the battleground; lawyers, judges, and
legislators have replaced the cowboys and cavalry. Every treaty has been broken
and innocents still die unnecessarily. The powerful may prefer to hide this
fact lest we withdraw our silent assent.
Part two of the book is five short pieces, the first a
fun memoir of early childhood in Tijuana. Life itself is “magical realism” when
everyone believes in ghosts. Reminded me of my own hijinks, raised among
religious folk. And, like mine, his childhood playground is now in the shade of
a freeway.
Next is the obligatory “growing up Catholic” piece that
everyone who grew up Catholic seems compelled to recount. The twist is the
religious discrimination sub-text; black, white, or brown, you got beat up if
you got caught wearing the Catholic school garb. This section made me laugh a
few times, and ends with young Urrea getting a nun-administered ass-whipping,
as if his street battles weren’t enough.
I guessed what the Ed Abbey essay was about before I
started it. Abbey was pretty flagrantly racist toward Mexicans, but Urrea
decides to forgive him and accept the rest of Abbey’s work anyhow. Which is
what I had to do way back; you don’t have to like everything your favorite
writers crank out. This section felt like it was stuck in to make the book
fatter.
“Whores” is seething revenge on the macho culture that made
his childhood miserable. After supper at a family holiday, a group of the most
macho make a visit to a low rent Tijuana house of ill repute. As he recounts
the darkly comedic evening, he savagely attacks the misogynist and bullying
aspects of Mexican culture. A lot of solid punches in a short piece, angry and
heart-rending.
“Sanctuary” is the strongest piece in the book. Chronically
ill, with both parents working, the author ends up in the hands of his father’s
co-worker’s “hillbilly” family. He gets well, but also learns how a loving
household functions.
His own home felt like a battleground, but
“At Mama Chayo’s
house, however, everyone was loved. Period. There was always enough love to go
around….
“By love I don’t mean drippy sentiment…. Love, in that
house, was a bedrock fact, not discussed nor fretted over, never analyzed and
barely recognized. Love simply was.”
Abelino and Mama Chayo “…had been married forever, and
they still loved each other enough that they could love everybody else. True
love seems to be a spiritual loaves and fishes; it doesn’t get used up, but
keeps regenerating itself to feed all comers.” (p. 133)
The young author learned from his saviors what
happiness feels like.
Mama Chayo dies suddenly of a stroke, and
“Right at the end, after all the many mourners had
passed by…right before they closed the box forever and carried it to the
hearse, Abelino stepped up to her. He didn’t weep. He stood silently, gazing
down at his one love, his one true destined love, the companion of more than a
lifetime, and he studied her face. Then, with no emotion showing on his face,
he reached into the coffin and put his palm against her cheek. His big, iron,
calloused worker’s hand. It trembled slightly, and it landed on her flesh as
delicately as one of her butterflies. Just a second, no more. But all the love
in the world was there, in his palm. All the love in the universe, and all the
tenderness, and all the grief, and all the beauty collected there in his hand
and lay against her lovely cheek.” (p. 151)
My God, people! You mean these Mexicans are capable of
love like everyone else? Bad news for racists: you are wasting a lot of time,
energy, and hate; people are the same everywhere.
The last section of the book is a meandering reverie,
of a road trip undertaken after the death of his mother. Having driven many an
aimless road trip across the same intermountain west, I found it a bit dull.
The “old west” is full of weird people, far from their ancestral home, often
stupid and/or xenophobic.
In that sense, this section serves once again to
connect Urrea to the rest of us. Nearly all of us in the western States and
northern Mexico are from somewhere else, rootless hungry ghosts. And, people
are strange when you’re a stranger. I am fourth generation in Arizona but I
still feel like a tourist sometimes.
Nobody’s son turns out to be everybody’s. Cultural
differences aside, we’re all just humans and the way forward is with love. What
sort of racist brutes would suppress such information? The good old-fashioned Arizona
Department of Education [sic]! The common humanity of “Nobody’s Son” is a
refreshing and often humorous antidote to such intentional hate and ignorance.
%$#@!
Do Not Be Ashamed
You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
-Wendell Berry
