A Response to The Devil's Highway

The crosses along the border fence represent those who have died trying to cross.
Photo courtesy of keiforce.

The Devil's Highway by Luis Alberto Urrea is, in my opinion, the most well-written and emotionally-riveting book that we have read so far. I think the reason it connects so well and makes such an impact is because the idea of borders is one that we can all relate to.

What borders have I had to cross?

Thinking about it, I keep going back and looking at pictures I have posted up in my room, or the ones I have saved on my computer or even some of the ones I'm tagged in on Facebook. The pictures are all of the places where I felt those borders (college, working at camp, working in Chicago, my family, my on-again-off-again friends) but that's not where I find the borders themselves. There are no pictures of the borders I've experienced like there are photos of the US-Mexican border. People don't usually take pictures of the things keeping them out of or separated from where they want to be. But these borders are important.

And in my case, every border has people that are encouraging and supportive on each side of the fence. What would I do if I didn't have that support system to help me through? What if I got to the other side and realized I didn't know the language? What if I got there and every sign looked like WingDings and every person talking sounded like R2D2? I'd be straight out of luck. I'd give up. I'd go home.

The people that cross the border along the Sonoran Desert are either the stupidest or the bravest people I have heard of. The courage that they have to come to a new place across a land known to be threatening and devastating, and known to be a killer--even under the best conditions. I can't imagine having the strength or the willpower or feeling so responsible for my loved ones that I would cross such a destructive area to support them. I have so much respect for people that travel across the desert--and for any person that goes through hardships--to benefit the ones they love.

The Guardians, The Devil's Highway and Identity:

As a work of creative nonfiction, the story of the Yuma 14/Wellton 26 does not fit as well into the theme of identity as a struggle between cultural/familial values and choosing one’s own path in life as the other books we have read this semester. Rather than metaphorically finding their own paths in life, these men are quite literally and physically moving themselves away from their families and their cultures. For the interactive map from the presentation, click here. In The Guardians, Gabo must forge his own identity separate from his family's. Tía Regina is not religious, going as far as to scorn it, but her sobrino Gabo is. Regina says, of Gabo, that her “biggest fear is he’s gonna become a priest. Wait ‘til Rafa hears about it. He’ll be so disappointed” (7).

In Gabo’s search to defining himself and finding an identity leads to his experimentation with a gang. At the barbeque birthday party that Miguel throws for him, Gabo invites his friend Jesse. But he also ends up inviting the whole Palomino gang. When El Toro gets up to leave, Jesse and Tiny Tears go with him; and then Gabo follows too. Regina says that he “didn’t thank us for the party, say good-bye, or even look at nobody. He just hurried off and got in Jesse’s car with the others. It wasn’t like my nephew not to mind his manners” (80).

After Gabo leaves with the Palomino gang and has a run-in with the police, he goes to Padre Juan Bosco’s house rather than home to his aunt Regina’s. She says that he is “a boy trying to figure things out” (97). The Padre assures Regina that when Gabo is ready, “he’ll go home on his own” (99). This is a very interesting statement, especially given my thesis for these Latino novels. This would in turn suggest that once young individuals take the time trying to figure out who they are and what their identity is, they ultimately end up back in their homes, as the Padre puts it—in their family and cultural origins.

On the other hand, The Devil’s Highway contains a literal path away from the cultural and familial expectations in the Latino characters’ lives. Each of them are leaving for different specific reasons, but all of them are leaving to better their lives and the lives of their families. Enrique Landeros García went on the journey to get enough money to “pay for a more straightforward chance at a future” for his children to go to school (52). Reyno Bartolo Hernandez “went to Don Moi for money to pay for [his adopted daughter’s] care (53). All of these men, along with the others not mentioned here, are choosing to temporarily abandon their families and cultures to assure a better life for their families. They have chosen that a future for their children is more valuable than their own lives—death is a well-known consequence of the path on the devil’s highway. As adults, their identities are tied to the lives of their children more than they are tied to the men themselves. Perhaps once Gabo reaches adulthood, he will find that his identity is intrinsically tied to his family.

Thoughts on 9500 Liberty:

9500 Liberty, a documentary first aired completely via YouTube video clips, follows the story of Prince William County, Virginia from the spring of 2007 until the spring of 2008. During this time, a law was instated that required police to check the citizenship status of people based on subjective standards of suspicion. The law required 21 new police staff as well as 14 million dollars.

The biggest problem with this law is that the "probable cause" mandate almost certainly meant that Latinos and non-white people would be racially profiled. This caused huge conflicts between the Latinos, who made up 20% of the county's population at the time, and those white Americans worried about protecting America, and more specifically, Manassas (as is shown through the "Help Save Manassas" group).

In response to the passing of this law, a man named Gaudencio Fernandez who owns the property at 9500 Liberty Street, erected a wall with messages to the government on it (as is pictures above). Others started blogs, such as Greg Letiecq and Alanna Almeda and Elena Schlossberg. Many immigrants--both legal and illegal--simply left Prince William County.

There were so many interesting topics in this film. I was fascinated and disgusted at the use of manipulation and coercion by citizens of Manassas City. I was shocked that county officials would make decisions without a basis of facts concerning the matter. More so, I was so surprised at how many people hold hostile prejudices and un-based opinions of Latinos. One man referred to the United States as "my country" and that people here should speak English. A woman asked county board members to remember who was behind 9/11: illegal immigrants.

To me, these sentiments--along with other opinions we heard from various other characters in the documentary--simply perpetuate feelings of danger, anger and fear. Fear seemed to be the most overwhelming emotion throughout this movie. Speakers in favor of the law used fear politics--appealing to the board members sense of fear rather than their logic or obligation to uphold the US's democratic ideals.

One of the citizen speakers put it best, I think. He was a teacher, but asked to be seen instead as a human being. He went on to say that we all deserve to be seen as human beings. When you think of people in that sense, I can't imagine passing a law that would divide, uproot or harm families. Regardless of "legal" status, human beings are human beings and we all deserve respect--enough to not be judged by the color of our skin.

Thoughts on Identity from A Day Without a Mexican

First things first: I’d give this movie 2 of 5 stars. And that’s only because I was in a good mood when I watched it. A great idea, but could have been cut down to about 20-30 minutes and the point would have been just as clear. Acting was hilarious, but I’m not sure that was intentional. Facts were interesting, but the Bradley Hand font they used for them was not a good choice.

All complaining aside, I actually thought that A Day Without a Mexican raised good points and brought up a valid issue that is often ignored in the United States. Latinos are often all lumped together. Colombians, Guatemalans and other latinoamericanos are often carelessly thrown into the category of “Mexican” without any prior thought by their labeler. Even worse, latinos are often assumed to be illegal immigrants—even if they were born and raised in the US.

This movie made me more aware of how much of a powerful impact that latinos have on the US not only culturally, with salsa being our nation’s favorite condiment, but also economically. According to the movie, latinos in California alone are contributing 100 billion dollars to the economy.

The most thought-provoking scene in A Day Without a Mexican was the section in which Lyla realizes, for herself and for the audience, that even though she’s genetically Armenian, she’s a latina at heart. She has been raised by latinos and that is who she identifies with.

In my mind, being a latino/a is a state of mind, rather than a genetic prescription. I have a friend named Christine. She has curly dark hair, dances salsa and mambo, speaks Spanish, and is one of the fieriest women I know. She’s genetically not of Hispanic descent in any way, but she identifies as a latina. On the most recent census, she labeled herself as “other,” because there isn’t an option to check for “Latino/a.”

I think it’s really important that people realize that, as both Christine and Lyla have showed me, being a latino, latina (or identifying with any group of people, for that matter) is more about what’s on the inside than what’s on the outside.

Beyond Christianity: Bless Me, Ultima

This is the second time I have read Bless Me, Ultima, but, I’ll be the first to admit that it was the first time I understood it. The first time I read this novel, I was in middle school, and many parts of it I did not understand. I understood the basic story, but I did not catch the struggles between Antonio’s Márez self and his Luna self. I also had previously missed the role of women in Antonio’s life and how differently they are viewed—here I am thinking specifically about the differences between his mother, the girls at Rosie’s and then, Ultima.

The role of family in Bless Me, Ultima is what interested me the most—not the aspect of religion and spirituality. The father and his actions, as well as the actions of Antonio’s older brothers, fascinated me. It seems so strange to me that his three older brothers would waste their money and their time with the girls at Rosie’s or gambling or drinking. I would have imagined that three boys who had gone off to war would return with a sense of solemnity and a need to be responsible. It was interesting too to see how they each dealt with post-traumatic stress from the war. If there were another book about Antonio’s brothers, I would definitely read it. They were so important and had so many stories--an example of wonderful character writing by Anaya.

Ultima, of course, was the most provocative character in my mind. She was a powerful woman who knew exactly who she was and what she needed to be doing on Earth. Even though this is a fictional story, I’d like to think that it mirrors real life, and that the respect that Antonio’s family had for Ultima is true for how real families respect wise, older women in their lives. What I like most about Ultima is how she never explicitly states what she believes—I have no idea whether or not she was a Christian—but I know that she is a good person, and that is, in some ways, far more important. The blessing that she gives Antonio as she is dying is one of the most honorable and beautiful things I can imagine someone to hope for another. She says:

"I bless you in the name of all that is good and strong and beautiful, Antonio. Always have the strength to live. Love life, and if despair enters your heart, look for me in the evenings when the wind is gentle and the owls sing in the hills. I shall be with you."
Ultima to Antonio
(Bless Me, Ultima 261)

On Many Different Zones:

The movie, I, the Worst of All, follows the life of Sor Juana de la Cruz, a nun in Colonial Mexico. She writes poems and plays, and says at one point in the movie that she would not exist without her books. And then, her books are taken away.

What?

When she is teaching young girls to sing at the convent school, she stops to tell them that “perception and curiosity,” “intelligence” and the “desire to explore” are not just gifts given to men, but traits that women should be proud of having too. Sor Juana is preparing girls for what men will try to tell them as they grow up, and to give them knowledge that there is an alternative—that women are every bit as capable as men.

This seems to mirror issues still current in our culture. In Borderlands/la frontera, written by Gloria Anzaldúa in 1987, she starts off her story sitting in a dentist’s chair. The dentist, a man, tells her—not just once, but twice—that they are “going to have to control your tongue.”

As we move closer to becoming a society of fairness, some may think that the quest for gender equality has ended… but it has not. Even today, there are so many double standards between men and women. If a man works hard and ignores others’ needs to get ahead, he is honored as a devoted businessman. If a woman does the same, she is a bitch. If a man sleeps with multiple partners, he’s a playa. If a woman does the same, she’s a slut. If a man talks a lot, he is celebrated for his strong personality. If a woman does the same, she is a gossip.

But, women are not sitting by idly.

At the end of the movie, the actress portraying Sor Juana sits alone in quiet contemplation and there is a sense of resiliency around the woman she embodies—a sense that she has not given up writing or creating. In her poem, “In Reply to a Gentleman from Peru, Who Sent Her Clay Vessels While Suggesting She Would Better Be a Man,” the real Sor Juana writes in a sassy, memorable voice—suggesting to the man that it is indeed just fine that she is a woman, and that diversity is good and enables all to share their God-given gifts.

This idea, that diversity is a beautiful reality rather than a frightening one, is one that easily carries through from Sor Juana’s 17th century to our present day. Diversity in sex, orientation, race, ethnicity were all issues dealt with in Colonial Mexico. Interesting that they remain the issues most often tiptoed around in America today.

But it is well that such great talent
live in many different zones,
for those who are with greatness born
should live not for themselves alone
[Sor Juana]

On Naming:

When I was younger, I was really self-conscious about my name. In elementary school I was always worried that people would make fun of me for having a boy’s name, or an Amish name or a black kid’s name. They did. The worst part was when people would mess up my name. Spelling it wrong was bad enough—no capital V, and a silent e on the end—but the worst was when they’d say it wrong—Lavern, Lavohn, Lavoon.

My name is Lavonne. I am named after my grandfather—and no, that’s not a typo, I really do mean my grandfather. His spells his LeVon, he is my mom’s dad, and his love for music was passed on to me. He’s not one to talk about his feelings, he’d sooner criticize my eating habits then give me a hug, but I know he loves me. I’m proud to have his name.

My middle name is Rosa, after my dad’s mom. She’s brilliant and sassy. Everything you wouldn’t expect from a woman who grew up Amish and wasn’t supposed to finish the 8th grade. When my mom uses my middle name, I know I’m in trouble. In high school, it usually meant I’d forgotten to get up for school on time, now it usually means that I forgot to take the clothes out of the dryer or get the cookies out of the oven. Even though my mom uses it when she’s being serious, I still think it’s the most beautiful name. The beginning is strong as the R fills up your mouth with vibrations, but the end of it slides out of your mouth the way that water droplets flow off your fingers when you hold your arms just right in the shower.

Eventually kids at school got used to my name, and I got used to never being able to find it on keychains or those mini license plates or anything. And Word documents always think I spelled my name wrong and I meant to say "Lionel" or "lavender" instead.

As a 21-year old, I have lost a lot of that fear about the unusualness of my name. I love knowing that I’m the only Lavonne that most of my peers know. When people think “Lavonne,” they don’t have other people popping into their heads to define what that word means to them, just me.

It’s all up to me. I’m unique. I can define my name for others, even though parts of it have already been defined for me. I'm a brand-new compilation of two already established names and people. My name is exactly what I chose to make it mean.