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Michael Sedano

Payback is not sweet. Last week, after I'd gotten word that PBS has funded Ken Burns to ignore Chicano and other Latino soldiers in PBS/Burns' seven-part film essay on World War II, I got an email from MoveOn.org begging my support for PBS against some cretin in Congress who wants to cut off funding for PBS. I used to sign that petition in knee-jerk reaction time. I no longer find myself moved by MoveOn's plea. Not that I support the ignorant rightwing pendejos who want to foment culture war, but I figure if PBS intends to ignore me, I shall now ignore PBS and its supporters on grounds that the WWII series shows PBS' true colors. (I have word that a meeting of some sort will take place between raza activists and PBS representatives in Washington DC on March 6, to discuss the Burns series. I’ll update you if there’s anything to report.)

Paranoia strikes east. The Los Angeles Times has an irritating pattern of ignoring arts events that take place on the city's east side. Sounds like PBS all over again, but unlike TV, I read the Times every day. Reading the Sunday Times' gallery openings, one gets a sense that art stops at La Brea Avenue, no culture exists east of that dividing line. The Times seems to be moving easterly, however. But I worry about the implications. Sunday's Times (2/25/07) featured two, count 'em, two Chicano artists. In West magazine, Artemio Rodriguez gets five pages. Rodriguez creates in the spirit and mold of Jose Guadalupe Posada. He's an outstanding artist whose linocuts decorate the cover of Gilb's Woodcuts of Women, and several of my walls. In the Calendar section, Gronk (also on one of my walls) gets a below-the-fold page one feature. Given the Times' west side bias, these two pieces showing up on the same day make me wonder if maybe the Times reached its annual quota for east side coverage and the two pieces write finis to the Times' coverage of art on our side of town?

Dirty Girls Social Club Writer Takes Ambitious Third Step
Review: Make Him Look Good. Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez.
St. Martin's Press. April 2006. ISBN: 0312349661

Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez' first novel, The Dirty Girls Social Club, made for an enjoyable romp through the trials of an assorted handful of Latinas. Each of las sucias faces commonplace issues like infidelity, abuse, stereotyping, bilingualism. In addition, Valdes-Rodriguez uses her characters' ethnicity to help draw parallels and distinctions between Cuban, Mexican, and Puerto Rican latinhood. All in all, Dirty Girls filled a useful space in U.S. latina literature.

There's no good reason I missed Valdes-Rodriguez's second novel, 2005's Playing With Boys. However, because her first was enjoyable and well-written, when I happened across her third novel, Make Him Look Good, I opened it eagerly.

Then nearly put it back. The style–adolescent diarist replete with italics for emphasis-- just about gags me with a spoon, you know what I mean? Persistence offers some reward, however. As with Dirty Girls, the author finds resources in fluff to weave a solid enough fabric to make it worthwhile to read all the way to the 376th final page. This hidden value starts to reveal itself when the story introduces a Serbian teenager named Jasminka, who narrates the shelling and rape of her Bosnian village. In a refugee camp, her beauty and thin frame attracts the eye of a recruiter and she soon finds herself a runway model in Paris. Jasminka's, sadly, is the weakest voice in the story because the writer unsuccessfully mimics the clipped syntax of Jasminka's second language English. Internal monologues would take place in well-developed grammatical sentences. Fortunately, Valdes-Rodriguez can’t keep it up and Jasminka’s speeches become increasingly fluid and standard as the story weaves to its close.

Valdes-Rodriguez undertakes an ambitious task of fleshing out a myriad of distinctive characters, using first-person narration that grows a bit confusing after a while, and a standard third person voice to move along the story. In addition to Jasminka, the cast includes the two sisters of the Cuban well-to-do refugee Gotay family, the twenty-something live-at-home Milan, the central character who opens the novel, and her wildly successful, gorgeous and boyfriend-stealing sister Geneva, with their mother and father to add texture. Then there's Ricky Biscayne, Mexican-Cuban sex object Latin pop star making a cross-over to big market pop. Jasminka is Ricky's neglected wife, starved for food and starved for love, haunted by the ethnic cleansing of her village and Ricky's regular forays into other women's beds. Add to the mix the incredibly slimy Jill Sanchez, fading movie star cosmetics-clothing entrepreneur who's been using Ricky as a sex toy for many years.

Then there's Ricky's secret of success. Matthew Baker, a low self-esteem college pal, whom we initially meet as a mystery man playing the backgrounds at Ricky's Tonight Show performance. Ricky's gotten rich off Matthew's talent. Matthew writes the songs and his powerful voice sweetens Ricky’s vocals, carrying the load. Poor Matthew burns a candle for a beautiful woman who's dumped him three times already, coming back to Matthew's arms on the rebound from one or another fling. Now she’s married a musician and earns her living performing with her husband on cruise ships sailing out of Miami. Matthew knows he’s a loser, but admits he would take her back in a heartbeat. In fact, the songwriter has moved to Miami not to be near his job with Ricky Biscayne, but to be able to catch a glimpse of the bandsinger, when she hits port.

The Gotay girls’ mother, a noted Miami talk show radio host, sees the tension between her daughters and coerces the two of them to take a sisterly peacemaking cruise. Milan, Geneva, and mom arrive at the berth just as Matthew is there to catch a forlorn glimpse of his unavailable love. Milan and Matthew collide, the chanteuse notices the commotion and calls down to Matthew, “Loser!” Milan is on the phone, her bookgroup has selected a title that Milan shouts out, it’s a novel called Loser. Matthew thinks Milan directs that at him. This is the cute meet that eventually brings Milan and Matthew together to live happily ever after.

But Valdes-Rodriguez has a lot more up her sleeve than Milan and Matthew. There’s the story of Irene and Sophia. Irene’s a single mother of the beautiful, talented Sophia, who, it develops, is Ricky’s unacknowledged daughter. Then there’s Nestor, Irene’s co-worker and the only one who supports her when word gets out Irene will sue the fire department for gender discrimination.

Nestor’s story, although minor, offers the most delightful handful of pages in the book. Nestor lives alone, nurturing the memory of his dead wife and daughter. As Nestor’s love for Irene grows, his dead wife’s spirit recognizes he’ll finally release them. Nestor’s cats tell the story in conversation with the ghosts. “Why is he so nervous?” asks the cat. The woman strokes his shiny black fur. “He’s going on a date,” she says. Chester doesn’t know what a date is, and says so. “He’s found a woman he really likes,” says the woman. “They’re having dinner tonight, alone.” “We’re glad,” says the little girl. “Why are you glad?” asks Chester. . . . “Oh, Chester,” says the woman, “We have places to go. And we haven’t been able to go yet because Nestor has needed us.” This section, coming in the last 25 pages of the novel, is absolutely brilliant and earns Valdes-Rodriguez tons of tolerance in my book.

In the end, Make Him Look Good is a revenge comedy. Slimy Ricky and slimy Jill get their delicious comeuppances, the Gotay sisters become genuine friends, Irene and Nestor settle down, Sophia gets Ricky’s money and a sister, Jasminka’s daughter Danijela. Jill becomes a laughingstock, Ricky climbs on the born again wagon to rekindle his career—Jill told him to cut a religious album and that’s what he’s done. Those are not spoilers, by the way, they're reasons to turn the page and read on!

Jasminka gets one of the last speeches watching Ricky on television with all his phoney expressions shilling the new album. “I look at Alma. Alma looks at Irene. Irene looks at Sophia. Sophia looks at Milan. Milan looks at Matthew. Matthew looks at Geneva. Geneva looks at Violeta. And then, as everyone looks at everyone else, and as if guided by spirit greater than ourselves, we all begin to laugh.”

I remember reading Alisa Valdez-Rodriguez’ stories in the LA Times when their now-faded Latino Initiative was going great guns. She had a wicked insightfulness that skewered her subjects, but always with the restraints imposed by a big time newspaper editor. I miss some of that editorial oversight in Make Him Look Good, but it’s encouraging seeing her unleash that wit with almost total abandon. I don’t remember what Maureen Dowd complained about chick lit, and I don’t care. Judging by Make Him Look Good, I’m on the lookout for Valdez-Rodriguez’ number four. You go, woman.

Uau. Can you believe it’s already the end of February, 2007. A month like any other month, except we were there! See you next week.

mvs

I’m one of those people who hates unsubstantiated book snobbishness.* You want to hate something and tell everyone around you that it is part of the ever growing corruption of Literature or the female mind or the male mind or a child’s mind. Great. But the biology major in me says prove it. Back it up with facts, figures or something beyond your subjective thoughts and conclusions drawn from a complete lack of scientific evidence. If you can’t do that, then stick with what you can back up: why you did or did not like it. Which means, of course, you would have to actually read something that represents what you claim is corrupting.

It’s like writing a high school book report:

“I did not care for the use of Melville’s Billy Budd in this A.P. English curriculum because the heavy reliance on the reader to grasp Melville’s Christ allusions, which requires the reader to be of, or have a passing familiarity with, the Christian faith. In a country that houses a multitude of different religions and many non-practicing people, I feel that this is a novel’s narrow focus…yadda…yadda…yadda…spend the next two pages supporting argument.”

Notice the paper starts with an “I,” singular, and proceeds to outline the thesis (which, if it’s a good essay, will also address counter arguments), and does not attack the whole of English Literature. The essay is not calling for the removal of Budd, simply supplying the thoughts of the reader on its suitability for high school classroom use after having read the whole damn thing. And I’m cool with that, just as I’m cool with reader reviewers. I like hearing readers’ thoughts and opinions on novels. I’m interested in reading what different people liked and disliked, what allusions are obvious to some and not to others, etc. That’s interesting. We’re all going to take something different away from a reading experience—some of it universal and some of it not—and not all of it is going to be everyone’s cuppa, which is why an informed reader may seek out many different reviews on the same subject to form their own opinion about whether or not to give this book or that one a try.

Denigrating an entire genre, sub-genre, or type of book when you’ve barely read any of the titles housed there-in? Not interesting, just sloppy. Very, very sloppy.

So when I first read the Independent’s article on Horror that I outlined in my last column, I was more than a little taken back on the bit (and yes, I mean that with all British connotations) tacked on to the bottom addressing the popularity of “Para Porn.” This would be Urban Fantasy or Paranormal Romance for those who might be wondering. Two different sub-genres (actually three as they throw Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight into the mix) all smashed together in a derogatory way because, according to the experts, this does not deserve to be mentioned within the same breath as Horror.

How derogatory? Well let’s see:

“Horror expert Steve Jones says that "Para Porn" represents a new genre, though he regards it disdainfully as women's fiction rather than horror. "It's aimed at a different audience to traditional horror," he says, with the hint of a sneer.”

Wow, it’s not Horror because it’s Women’s fiction, not because it doesn’t contain traditional Horror elements, but because it is aimed at women or has female protagonists who have sex. Gotcha. I see the light! You have converted me to your higher purpose! And, gee, thanks for clearing that up for me. If I still worked at a bookstore I would put up a sign warning all my male customers away from buying the Kim Harrison or Kelley Armstrong novels (because men did indeed buy them), and instead direct them to the more Manly novels of King and others. Because women surely do not read Horror! Gads, no, nor do they make up a large percentage of the book buying population. Obviously these books need to be placed all together and quarantined away from serious Horror.

Sarcasm aside, I’m slightly amused by the fact that even as it’s considered porn, the publishers admit that “they are starting to sell really well over here.” And that even as they denigrate the influence that Buffy that Vampire Slayer may have had on this growing trend of kick-ass heroines, they praise it for resurrecting the Horror genre (see the first part of the article). I think this is truly the definition of a back-handed compliment, or maybe they’ve been reading The Game and this is really a come on. Hiding a compliment in an insult will really capture a girl’s attention, you know.

But I’m willing to give the British publishers a bit of a pass in that they recognize what people are reading and that it is a boon to what had previously been a dead genre. Maureen Dowd does not get the same kind of treatment. She had to go and resurrect the old “Is Chick Lit sucking the brains out of the female population? Why yes it is” argument and then proceed to make mistakes all over the place, which are addressed here, here and here. I wouldn’t even mention Dowd (and why she chose to discuss a four year old argument now since other writers have done a much better job of covering the fiasco) except for the fact that her argument echoes that of the British pubs in the whole “it’s focused towards women and therefore has no redeeming value” opinion, which saddens me.

It’s 2007, folks. I realize that I’ll never be able to wrestle the classics from the cold, dead hands of a bunch of old white guys, but can’t we open our eyes a little? Can’t we begin to realize that everyone brings something to the table? The people read for a myriad of reasons and therefore will be attracted to a myriad of different genres and reading levels? That we cannot command the reading public to like one thing and dislike another just because we feel that it is not up to our superior standards?

And why, WHY!, does the fall back insult/argument still have to be about women? Oh, you know, only women read that. It’s Women’s fiction, and not worth my time. This will only appeal to women.

Well, guess what, buckos. Readers change. The reading environment has changed. And while it is still hard to get men to pick up a book written by a woman, I wonder how much of that is a negative feedback loop we, as a society, have created by telling them they won’t be interested because it’s “Women’s fiction.” If I, as a woman, can identify with a male spy/playboy is it really that hard for a man to read a story told from the point of view of a female lawyer or cop?

I’m not asking them to walk a mile in a Chick Lit heroine’s Manolos (if that heroine even owned Manolos, a shoe stereotype that owes more to Sex and the City than any Chick Lit novel I’ve ever read), nor do I think it’s necessary for me to shove my size eights into one of Don Pendleton’s character’s army boots to understand what some men see in his novels. Some books will play out better to a more masculine audience and some to a more feminine, which is something I accept.

That doesn’t mean, however, that one book is better than the other or that you can even compare apples and oranges. Had Maureen Dowd sat down with those thirty-odd Chick Lit novels and discussed why she, and solely she, couldn’t get into them, then maybe I would have understood where she was coming from. Maybe. But she seems to be missing the point that the Horror publisher’s at least got that any fiction genre and its popularity hinges on the public’s need for escapism of some sort (whether it is escapism with a side of trying to understand the world around them or simply to fully escape the world around them). Chick Lit at its best fulfills that same need by taking the pressures many women suffer under (trying to do well at a high-pressure job, find someone to spend their life with, and achieve some type of economic stability even if it can only be measured in shoes) and discussing it a fun, one-on-one manner.

Telling someone that their time would be better spent reading The Red Badge of Courage misses the point. My time, and what I do with it, is my time and until it affects the great and judgmental you in some detrimental way you don’t have a right to infringe upon it. Maybe my time would be better spent writing my own memoirs, or cooking up enough dinners to freeze for the next few weeks, or helping the homeless, or (in my personal case) finding a job. And maybe most of my time, or your time is spent doing this, and worrying about that, and dealing with that other thing.

But maybe we need to channel that tension of all the things we should be doing or having to do into some sort of release, find something to open that pressure valve and let it all out so that we can continue to function as proper members of society. And maybe we find that in books that let us relax, escape our world for another or teach us in some funny, distant way to handle it. If it educates us at the same time, great, but what stands for education is subjective as well.

If it expands my vocabulary, does it count?

If it educates me in pop culture, something that our world trades upon as heavily these days as solid facts, have I wasted brain space or increased my knowledge in other areas more accessible to those around me?

If it gives me a breather, takes me away from this world for 400 pages, and allows me the distance I need to later revisit what is going on around me and perhaps deal with it critically, is it not performing the greatest public service of all?

There is a reason fiction—of all kinds—exists, and it is up to the reader whether they choose to read to learn, to think, to escape or all three. And beyond introducing new titles and authors to try, there is nothing you or I can do about it. So stop trying to tell someone what they shouldn’t read, and pick up a new book.

You might be pleasantly surprised when something that constitutes Para Porn or Chick Lit appeals to you. And if they don’t, well then, you have something slightly more empirical to back up your arguments when someone asks you why not.






*I’ve been doing pretty well with my own snobbishness when it comes to role-playing books and game, thanks to some wonderful customers I had that were very open but their thoughts and opinions on the subject.