LITR 5731: Seminar in
American Minority Literature
Sample Student Final Exam Submission,
fall 2004
Susan Cummings
12/9/04 9:32 PM
Assimilation and resistance in Native American and Mexican American Literature
The adage “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” has some twisted relevance to Objective 4 (registering the minority dilemma of assimilation or resistance), especially with regard to indigenous peoples of the Americas. Neither the Mexican-Americans nor the Native-Americans were successful in repelling the European invasion and subsequent occupation, yet the two groups survived as minority citizens of their own lands in different ways. As noted in class, the indigenous peoples of today’s Mexico and Central and South Americas intermarried with the invaders early on, largely because the Spanish conquerors were unattached men, either priests or soldiers. Nature and power being what they are, the acquisition of indigenous women for, at best, purposes of companionship was inevitable. The result was a new mix of peoples from two different continents who eventually united through language and government. On the other hand, the Europeans who squatted on and then swiped the land north of the Rio Grande came, in large part, with families intact. Without a biological imperative to answer, those invaders remained separate genetically from the indigenous tribes. Indigenous North Americans and the Anglo-Europeans eventually used a common language because it was necessary first for commerce and then subjugation. Once the indigenous people were under U.S. control, the government systematically attempted to remove their language, the very vehicle that allows a culture to survive.
Through intermarriage, the common language allowed the Spanish and indigenous tribes under their rule to eventually develop a culture, one that drew from both lineages. English, a shared language based on commerce, coercion, and conquest, had little chance of being the basis for a shared culture in what eventually became the United States. The two main languages of the Americas, Spanish and English are the symbol of how indigenous people “joined” another group when they were unable to defend their lands against technologically advanced intruders. The results, though, were different, depending upon which side of the Rio Grande the indigenous people lived. North of the Rio Grande, the fight for cultural and political sovereignty against inevitable victors was futile, in a literal sense. Disease, warfare, and near-starvation in concentration camps all but decimated the Native Americans within the United States. South of the Rio Grande, though, the indigenous people survived as a third entity: no longer genetically pure “mestizos” or Spaniards, they were the Mexicans.
Another hybrid, though, was born in the area loosely bordered by the Rio Grande, the Sabine River, the Red River and the Pacific Ocean. These indigenous people first were conquered by the Spanish and acquired a new language and much of the Mexican culture from the south. From the East, though, came land-grabbing, treaty-breaking citizens of the United States, bringing with them yet another language and culture. As the geo-political boundaries of the United States eventually became formalized and stable, these people became known as Mexican-Americans: the children of the Americas, Anglo-Europeans and Spain.
For the Native Americans of the United States and Mexican-Americans, the questions of language, culture, and agency are complex. Both groups are the living legacy of “non-citizens” of their own lands. The literature of both groups is rich with evidence of their struggle with the question that dogged their ancestors, “Can we resist or must we assimilate?” Contemporary minority literature just as often asks what the price is for choosing either one.
Black Elk answered the question by splitting the difference. Trading on his exotic heritage, Black Elk wove fascinating tales of Native American life for Anglo audiences, not his own people. In addition, he traded his religion for that of his subjugators, gaining more credibility in their sight. In return for his land and religion, Black Elk’s stories of his people enabled some cultural elements of his people to survive. It was not possible for him to share these stories with children and grandchildren for they had been torn from their families and sent to boarding schools. Had he not chosen to “play ball” with Americans enthralled with the romantic notion of the “noble savage,” those stories would be lost.
The voice of the 20th Century Native American speaks through writers like Chrystos and Sherman Alexie. Chrystos vents the rage of a people dispossessed of their lands and birthright. In “I have not signed a treat,” she rises up with the dignity and voice of a great leader, demanding that the United States vacate the premises, noting that she has never agreed to the terms of the accord between her ancestors and their invaders. Using double meaning and phrases commonly used to deride Native Americans, Chrystos declares the United States a “crazy person” and calls “this US a theory … illusion … a bad idea.” US can be read as either United States or US (the union of a foreign government with indigenous people). Rebellion, resistance, and rage are voiced on behalf of her indigenous cohort.
Alexie’s work reflects the damage of assimilation as it echoes against voices of tradition. In Lone Ranger and Tonto, he describes contemporary Native American divorces as further evidence of the brutalization of his people. “A hundred years ago, an Indian marriage was broken easily. The woman or man just packed up all their possessions and left the tipi. There were no arguments, no discussions. Now, Indians fight their way to the end, holding onto the last good thing, because our whole lives have to do with survival.” He also notes that assimilation brings with it prejudices that were not previously part of Indian culture. In another Long Ranger and Tonto story, Alexie writes “Years ago, homosexuals were given special status within the tribe. They had powerful medicine … our tribe has assimilated into homophobia.”
Sherman’s writing suggests that assimilation exacts a high price, the price of identity. In “Witnesses, Secret and Not,” he writes, “I had to figure out what is meant to be a boy, a man, too. Most of all, I had to find out what it meant to be Indian, and there ain’t no self-self manuals for that last one.”
For contemporary Mexican-Americans, the question of resistance or assimilation lacks the brutal history forced on Native Americans. While Mexican Americans were the subjects of two different conquering forces from across the Atlantic, they were not displaced or rounded up like cattle. Instead, their questions of identity are questions of ambivalence: to what degree can, they chose assimilation and to what degree is resistance valuable. That choice is dependent, in part, upon the presence (or lack) of two minority markers: language and skin color. Many Mexican-Americans do not speak Spanish. Many are as light-skinned as any Anglo-American is. For them, assimilation or resistance is a matter of choice. For Mexican-Americans who do speak Spanish or have an accent or have a dark complexion, society often addresses the question, and in a very public manner.
In “Depression Days,” Pat Mora writes of “buying the dark with his last fifteen cents.” His reference is to paying admission to a movie after a day of looking for work in Colorado. It also represents the choice he made when he refuses to “pass” or assimilate in order to get a job. “ ‘You don’t look Mexican, Delgado. Just change your name and you’ve got a job’.” Just changing his name would fed his family, warm the house, and enable him to shoulder the responsibility for his family. The cost, though, is too high for Delgado. Though light-skinned, he claims his “dark” heritage and escapes into a cinematic fantasy, all the while filled with the conflict between personal pride and responsibility to the group. In order to have one, he must give up the other. His predicament is reminiscent of the brothers in Ultima. Leaving home for California means abandoning familial responsibility in favor of the dominant culture’s highly valued markers of success: economic independence and separation from birth family.
Although Americans tout education as the stepping-stone to success for everyone, and especially minorities and immigrants, education is also a step toward assimilation and can drive a wedge driven between the individual and their group of origin. Lorna Dee Cervantes address that dilemma in “For Virginia Chavez.” The poem tells the story of two friends whose lives take different paths, in part based on educational achievement. The learned friend recalls explaining great works of literature about love to her friend who “knew all that the kicks in your belly had to teach you.” The woman who chose education in effect chose assimilation, and that choice was made possible because she rejected traditional Mexican-American values regarding motherhood and abortion. In the end, the two women cling to each other in a sense of womanly love and sisterhood, despite their differences “ignoring what the years had brought between us: my diploma and the bare bulb that always lit your bookless room.”
The sense of ambivalence regarding assimilation or resistance also appears in Sandra Cisneros’s short story “Mericans.” This time the confusion lies with the dominant culture rather than with the minority. At the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City, a tourist assumes that Michelle’s brothers are Mexican based on their appearance. Speaking to Junior in Spanish and offering gum in exchange for a picturesque photo, she is palpably surprised when Junior asks in English if his siblings want gum too.
“But you speak English!”
“Yeah, my brother says, “we’re Mericans.”
12/10/04 12:08 AM
12/10/04 10:04 AM
Anglo in Minority Land
The title is facetious, but it does express to some degree the wonder of being exposed to a genre of literature which, to my embarrassment, I have had little exposure. As a member of dominant culture who has loved literature all of her life, I find that the literature of dead white men (some Twain, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner and a wee bit o’ Shakespeare) often left me cold. Obviously I could understand the various genres, appreciate the significance of dead white men’s writings (maybe that’s because I was told to), but given the choice, between the literature of James Joyce, DH Lawrence, Melville, and Hemmingway or the work of Larry McMurtry, Carson McCullers, Dorothy Parker or a biography, I’ll always choose the second list because I find the work compelling, relevant and LITERARY. It is not just light reading; it is literature that I enjoy because these writers speak a language I understand. Perhaps is regionalism or gender-specific, but the preference is there nonetheless. Nevertheless, how does that relate to minority lit?
I have always sensed that my literary life list was lacking because I had not read much by minority authors, in part, because my professors did not teach them; and only a few minority works were in anthologies as I read in high school and undergrad classes. After reading “The Color Purple” by Alice Walker, I realized I was missing something great. In addition, stumbling upon Sandra Cisneros reinforced that sense of literary void. However, without guidance, I could not bring myself to say to a librarian, “Uh, who are some good minority authors?” It was as if I was saying good literature did not contain minority writers and that the published work of minorities felt the wet of printer’s ink only because the authors were minorities. Sorta like literary affirmative action. Besides, without seeing a photo of an author, how could the unguided reader figure out who was a minority (that color coding thing at work)? At any rate, this course has served me well because know I can converse with some knowledge about minority literature.
The framework of the course, specifically the objectives, helped me differentiate between immigrant and minority groups and then identify the characteristics of minority literary against the background of dominant culture. I feel I will now be able to read with the headlight of a literary miner, identifying veins of double language, identity conflict, assimilation dilemmas, and the ambiguity of living with double identities. Each time I find that vein in a work, I am able to trace it back to the mother lode of unchosen contact with America of the dominant culture. I read now with more than a sense of shame (I am white, you know); I read with a sense of appreciation of the richness of culture that I can access through books. Choosing to read a book by a minority writer is like accepting an invitation into another person's cultural home. Sometimes that home has some of the same furniture in mine; sometimes it hardly resembles what I call a home. Nevertheless, I am able to read the work both as a scholar and as a member of the dominant culture visiting someone’s home. I am trying to get around the notion that I am reading for exoticism (Oh look how quaint are the homes of the natives!). I am trying to get to that point of connection, respect, and understanding that is needed to access other worlds while being able to explicate the work in a literary sense. This course has helped me do that (as did Immigrant Lit). What’s more, I can apply my knowledge in the classroom, helping young students expand their reading base. Perhaps one day, cultural understanding and acceptance will replace the exoticism of “Minority literature” in literary anthologies and in the collective consciousness of all readers.
12/10/04 10:36 AM