Corporal memory

I might have to go out there and just say it: Carmen Rodríguez’ work has been my favourite of the course selections. It kept my attention easily riveted and provided much insight into a country’s political struggle of which I was largely ignorant. More importantly than this, I found her style of writing very conducive to emotional connection with the pain felt by her characters. Interestingly, what a lot of other students expressed as frustrating or confusing aspects of the book, were part of what intrigued me so. I wasn’t bothered by the apparent overlaps in the accounts or of the characters, and didn’t try to cling to a linear storyline, nor attempt to guess how much of the narrative was her own. Simply knowing (or feeling) that the events described happened to someone, somewhere, was more than enough to captivate, shock, and at times repel but ultimately attract me to the stories.

Of course, the identity of a political activist in Chile exiled to Vancouver, is a fairly unique experience, and the details are what make it so striking, but as I mentioned in class, I don’t think that too much import should be placed on setting. As far as I’m concerned, one of the great things about the book is that it does allow many different people from many different origins to relate to the basic human struggle of going through political turmoil at home and then having to face emotional estrangement in a new environment amid a new language. The detailed account of “her” story is a great vehicle for the message, and will certainly educate many a reader on the situation in Chile, but I think her work goes far beyond the boundaries of a Chilean woman living in Vancouver.

Anyone who has been forced to leave their home, and even some of us who have done so willingly, understands the anguish of inescapable memories. Some you hold on to for dear life, some you would much rather leave behind, but ultimately, the sum of your personal experience rests inside you forever. Whether you actively recall history or not, it will never cease to exist, and whether through your mind or your body, it will manifest itself in your actions and personality for as long as you live.

 

Who would have thought it?

First of all, I read of few of the first responses, and I have to disagree with this book being classified as a tedious read. In fact, I've found it pretty easy to move though, due in no small part to the author's ability to acutely satirize the political and social norms of her time. She was clearly well educated in the classics and I find that those references add a lot of depth to the text (although I must say that I'm grateful for the notes, as many of them would have otherwise been lost on me). A perfect example of her wit and sarcasm is when she compares the blind and unwarranted praise and respect of his fellows (and President) that Julius Cackle inadvertently gained through cowardly actions to that of Tennyson's reverence of the genuine bravery of Britain's soldiers in The Charge of the Light Brigade. She also doesn't hesitate to expose the ignorance of characters like Mrs. Norval and Mrs. Cackle in the ways of politics, like when Cackle speaks of the Habeas Corpus(es) as a group of people. These, of course, were carefully planted, but she could not have known that reading the book 135 years later, the audience would enjoy silly things like mentioning “the ragged little town of Hampton”, which I understand has since become quite the hot spot.

Considering that the theme here is racism and sexism and general social injustice for those of non-American blood (that idea itself being ridiculous in the young country of immigrants), I find it kind of remarkable that Ruiz de Burton lived through this and was able to overcome it to write such a well-referenced and educated account, in light of her then assumed "shortcomings". If we can suppose that she encountered similar adversity to that of which she writes, I think this adds a very interesting level of comprehension to the book.

However, despite being well aware of both its historical and current manifestation in our society, I still find the blatant racism maddening to read. Of course it was rampant and pretty much accepted in this setting, but the hypocrisy of its supposed objectors is what gets to me (and is supposed to get me, I guess). Clearly, this is most obvious in Mrs. Norval’s character, and she is undoubtedly demonized for it, but even the good doctor and his shining son Julian cannot be free of blame. They are compassionate people, yes, but they would certainly not have showered such attention and love on the young Lola had she not so conveniently been of pure Spanish blood, strikingly beautiful and the benefactress of immense wealth. Too many hypocrisies to note. In any case, I find myself curious to see what will become of them all.