LITR 5731: Seminar in
American Multicultural Literature: Minority
Sample Student Final Exam Submission,
corey porter!
“I Choo-Choo-Choose You!”
or, Quotes from The Simpsons Used as Final Exam Titles
In our last class meeting, I felt I was sufficiently riled up—or was at the very least, vocal regarding my opinions of Best Little Boy. What I’ve never done is sit myself down to consider is why I have such strong feelings concerning homosexual culture and Americans’ overall reluctance to accept it. While I don’t believe this final essay will reveal any divine truths, I would like to knock around a few thoughts I have regarding the acceptance or relevance of choice in minority literature (or culture, even), and Best Little Boy presents a suitable example of the question of choice in belonging to a minority culture. Best Little Boy provides powerful examples of the results so-called “choices” have on the character deemed responsible for making them (regardless of whether or not any decision actually exists).
Best Little Boy seemingly turns the minority concept on its ear (even in class and on the syllabus [dead last], it’s maligned to the fringes of what we consider “minority”)—homosexuality simply doesn’t come to the forefront of thought when one considers the term “minority.” Typically, I would argue, minority brings to mind divisions in race, color, or gender; rarely sexual preference (or for that matter, class, religion, or a number of other quantifiable cultural distinctions). Contrary to this belief, I think homosexuality could easily be the single-most relevant minority status there is.
For the whole of recorded history, homosexuality has been manifest across all divisions in culture. Homosexuality has been present—well—forever. It’s been a constant minority, because if it weren’t, the reproductive rate of the human race would slowly dwindle to nothing. Every race, nation, religion, gender (both, ha!), etc. has a percentage of homosexual individuals, and yet in the majority of America, these individuals are regarded as a passing irregularity—something has gone wrong somewhere in their wiring, some choice they have made, has put these individuals in the minority. Heck, people even believe homosexuality can be cured! (“I’m too white. Can you cure my color, doc?” “Sure can, and your insurance will even cover 80% of the bill!”). Could it truly be a matter of thousands of years of decision-making that has pushed homosexuals into their unfavorable minority status?
Best Little Boy might argue, “no.” Quite early in the text, Andrew Tobias makes (what I consider to be) a veiled but convincing argument against such thinking. He remembers how in his childhood, a housemaid used to tickle his and his brother’s feet so they would fall asleep. “People are not assigned ticklishness the way pansies are assigned colors: Ticklishness has something to do with where your head is (9).” It seems to me that Tobias is making a very clear distinction between things that people have a choice over (their ticklishness) and things beyond their control (the color of a flower). This comparison pits a trivial reaction against the substantial weight of appearance, asking the reader to compare the author’s homosexuality with something of comparable quantifiable value (the color) rather than something arbitrary and ultimately meaningless (the ticklishness). I think it’s a masterful stoke of writing here, but maybe it’s only because I believe in what I think Tobias is trying to say—maybe I want him to say it, so I will it into the text…
Or perhaps the evidence is there. Tobias continues reminiscing of his childhood and how he, as the title might suggest, was generally a good kid. Hidden in this “goody-goody” backdrop is a line I think supports my argument that homosexuality—a finite minority status—is an absolute, irrespective of the choices one makes. Tobias confesses that he was “one very Establishment little kid (12).” He does what his superiors (adults) ask of him. He behaves as he thinks he should; constructs elaborate ruses to convince others just how normal he is. My question, then, is if Tobias does everything society and those empowered over him (including his savagely homophobic father) asks of him—if he makes all the right decisions—how is it that he is still gay? If homosexuality is choice of the minority, and Tobias does everything he can to please the majority, how can he be homosexual? The answer, I believe, is obvious: homosexuality is not the choice of an individual—Tobias does not choose to belong to a minority. He simply is what he is.
“Me Fail English? That’s Umpossible.”
or, Cultural Relevance in Understanding Literature
I think we stride a very fine line when trying to discuss minority literature without addressing minority culture. I believe that in order to fully understand and appreciate the literature of a distinct minority group, one must first gain a working knowledge of its culture or run the risk of an ethnocentric opinion. It’s easy to make judgments of a minority group when one compares cultural elements such as class, religion, sexuality, etc. against his own—x is not on par with y in so many instances—and dismiss or mislabel said group because of it. While easy, it’s also misguided. These judgments aim to compare things as if they exist in a vacuum; cultural traditions or characteristics are removed from their context and as such, can be considered abnormal.
Thinking back to class, I can remember discussing Woman Hollering with little vigor. I wasn’t emotionally invested in the collection of short fiction (though that’s not to say I can’t recognize Sandra Cisneros for her most-obvious talents) and as such, didn’t take the time to pull much from the text. I do remember, however, Rosa being very excitable in our discussions—a couple times she mentioned that, like Cisneros, she was of Mexican descent and grew up in Chicago. I think this connection, or this understanding, of cultures makes Woman Hollering immeasurably more meaningful to Rosa than it is to me. Because of Rosa’s understanding of where Cisneros is writing from (not physically, but mentally), she was incredibly more engaged with the text. Rosa was able to discuss the literature with moxie because she understood the culture of the text. When discussing Woman Hollering in class, Rosa was doing so with an understanding of the culture the text comes from.
The same might be said for all literature; those with knowledge concerning the text are those most likely to get a rise from it. Take for example the poem I presented to the class, Jimmy Baca’s (section) V from Martin and Meditations. Baca paints a vivid picture of down-and-out downtown Albuquerque and his status within it. Baca is an embodiment of his reflection in the wealth and promise which surrounds him, “comb my hair in the blue tinted office windows,/see my reflection in the glinting chrome cars.” He’s sharing a small space in world with a very distinct dichotomy—those with and those without. The words are powerful: (and obviously, I presented it) I can appreciate them and begin to dissect them in search of their literary merit; but Gordon, in the same session, told the class that he had seen the desolation first-hand. He had been to New Mexico and witnessed for himself the scenes Baca depicts in his poem. I can’t speak for Gordon, but I can assume that the poem carried additional weight with him because, at the very least, he had seen elements of the culture Baca describes.
An understanding of culture can be a useful tool for a reader prying into that culture’s literature. This tool can highlight things in the text that might normally pass (undetected) over an uneducated reader’s head. When I presented Baca in class, I frequently took the poem to work to make notes on it; but also to pump my pal Gerardo for information. I circled words I was unfamiliar with (“pozole”is a kind of stew, I learned—which makes sense because one can stretch a budget much farther on a diet of soups and stews—leftovers—than otherwise, and Baca’s semi-autobiographical poem is emphatic about his financial standing). I asked him about La Llorona and he told me a personal anecdote (and then later, a story his girlfriend’s grandmother used to tell her as a child). Gerardo helped me with pronunciations and cadences; all these elements I was oblivious to because I had little (still do) understanding of the culture in the text. So it’s important to remember that when discussing literature, we’re also discussing culture.
*I guess a side note to this second essay: to make sure a distinction is made between culture and literature (they’re not the same thing, after all) it is important to cover elements of culture mentioned in or related to the text. Without supervision, any discussion could quickly devolve into a series of personal narratives.
