Reading for Alt Columbus Day

My plan, for today, was to write about resistance to Christóbal Colón and his crew of marauders; unfortunately, when one has a headache, one is not in the mood to re-read those old diaries—or even de las Casas’ Brevíssima Relación, which always makes me angry1—one is not quite in the right frame of mind to write anything engaging. However, thanks to my librarian superpowers, I can literally always churn out a booklist.2 So here are some books for, you know, Indigenous Peoples Day, and Alt Columbus Day.

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Labor Day 2017: The Camaraderie of a Union

I doubt it’s a secret that I am a fan of labor unions, or that it runs in my blood—that my grandfather encouraged his staff to become the first unionized library in Wisconsin, that my great-great granddad Carl the Commie had to leave Prussia for his unionizing (Von Bismarck, it seems, didn’t approve), that my mother’s been a union member for 50 years (or maybe more), that I have been and am involved in unions.

link.

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Reading for Charlottesville I

Back in the day (which was not actually all that long ago), people used to figure that the sun disappearing behind the moon was, you know, the work of darkness and demons. Given what’s happening in the world of late, I am starting to wonder if perhaps they had something right. In any case, rather than provide a list of funny and engaging books about astronomy, I am presenting reading for Charlottesville, ranging from novels to nonfiction, and from the Holocaust to America’s long, dark history of race relations. Surely, if we understand the horrors of the past, we are better equipped to go forward, not back.

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Para el alma no hay encierro: Juana Inés on Netflix

Miguel Cabrera’s posthumous portrait of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, née Juana Inés de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana. c 1750. Image from Wikimedia Commons

It’s taken me a bit to return to Juana Inés, mainly because I have been running largely on rage and when that is the case I turn, very decidedly, to The Last Kingdom and The Musketeers and Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries and other violent period dramas (with an occasional helping of Wynonna Earp or Buffy the Vampire Slayer), because I am nowhere near as nice a person as folks seem to think and watching those shield walls and one-sided swordfights is deeply satisfying. (There is a lamentable lack of punching and swordfights1 on Juana Inés, but, obvs, it shouldn’t be there, since it would probably be historically inaccurate to have ninja nuns. In Juana Inés, that it.2)

Bbc First Australia GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

swordfight!

“Paral el alma no hay encierro,” the title pulled straight from one of Juana Inés’s poems,3 hurts to watch, as Juana Inés’s brilliance is tucked away in a convent that would destroy her, her light almost snuffed out.4 It is interspersed with awkward acknowledgements of race and an intense, terminal exploration of women in seventeenth century New Spain. Ignacio, Juana’s faithless suitor, remains the weakest character link, at least for me. Similarly, Juana Inés‘s treatment of race continues to be awkward, although, in tantalizing fits and starts, it seems to be trying for something more, perhaps most of all in the discussion between the virrey and a few members of his counsel about slaves imported from Africa (they’re causing all these problems, complains the virrey, and we don’t need them anyway, we’ve got the Indians—which is probably as close as Juana Inés, or just about anything focusing on creoles, will come to admitting native slavery), and, later, when an irate merchant, who happens to be of African descent himself, goes up against the virrey’s decision not to allow him to disembark the people in his hold at ports in New Spain. (The merchant also pops up for about two seconds which is kind of weird. His costume is super rad though.)

I’m curious about the choice, and prone to read too much into it: there are records of people of African descent holding slaves themselves.5 Similarly, more than one conquistador was a man of African descent; some were free, some were freed, and some were enslaved. One of them, Juan Garrido, went on to become the first person to grow wheat in the Americas—if you read colonial literature, half of which is old letters complaining about your lousy neighbor (those are, alas, universal), or asking for more money, you’ve run into Juan Garrido and his wheat.6 So, as an exiled lit person, I am curious: does this merchant reflect people like Juan Garrido? Does he reflect people like the Brazilian Antonio José Dutra?7 Or is he just there, and am I reading way too much into a casting choice?

Daniel Villalobos Peña‘s 2012 Palacio Nacional de Noche. Wikimedia Commons.

Meanwhile, the brilliance of Hernán del Riego’s villainous Padre Antonio Núñez de Miranda shines in his absolute conviction that he is destroying Juana in order to “save” her. He will, in fact, destroy anyone and everyone, and do so absolutely convinced that it is God’s will. He is not the sort of man with whom one hopes to deal, for the fanaticism will continually blind him to his own encroaching evil. I’ve got to say, I love these complex and horrible villains—those who are villainous for the sake of villainy get boring awfully fast.

Para el alma no hay encierro
ni prisiones que la impidan
porque sólo la emprisionan
los que forma ella misma.
—Juana Inés de la Cruz8

In a show filled with snappy dialogue (like, really, the writing is really good), Arantza Ruiz’s Juana Inés gets the lion’s share (as it should be, obviously)—and, because whomever adapted this was a genius, much of her words paraphrase, or directly quote, her own works, while tapping into the frustration and fear of life as a genius who happened to be young, beautiful, female, and illegitimate—every last one a strike against her in the seventeenth century. Núñez de Miranda might think he is saving her, but he is trampling her, a fact made more egregious when she asks him to serve as her confessor.

Núñez de Miranda sends Juana Inés off to be abused, because God’s will, or something. From link.

Much of this episode is, indeed, pulled straight from Sor Juana’s biography—she did indeed go, first, to the Discalced Carmelites; unsurprisingly, she hated it, and did indeed become quite ill. Núñez de Miranda would indeed become her confessor, something I have never entirely understood—perhaps Juana Inés, in her genius, knew she needed to keep her enemies closer, and so was trying to keep tabs on the man who would eventually destroy her.

In case you forgot this guy’s face: Antonio Sebastián Álvarez de Toledo, Marqués de Mancera y Grande de España, 25th Virrey of New Spain. c. 17th century, in the Salón de Virreyes, Chapultepec Castle. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

The secondary characters—Juana Inés being, of course, our hero, and Núñez de Miranda our fanatical villain—remain a rich but inconsistent tapestry. Mauricio Isaac’s Virrey Antonio Sebastián de Toledo y Salazar is still a man of questionable morals, in many ways more modern than Núñez de Miranda—he is far less concerned with minor details such as bastardy (doesn’t affect her genius, he points out) and lies than is the priest, because, after all, that’s why we have confession, isn’t it? (In case you’re wondering—I feel his depiction is fairly accurate to the era; the virreyes were known for supporting Juana Inés—that’s pretty much how she managed to make it as long as she did—after all, it would, years later, be a virrey and vireina, leaving Mexico, who would smuggle her books to Spain, where they would be published.) Also, he still looks spectacularly like the man he portrays, which makes me a little more disposed to like him.

Ladies in waiting: Diego Velázquez’s Las Meninas. In the Prado. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

There are, naturally, some rather soapy parts to “Para el alma no hay encierro,” a number of which center around Lisa Owen’s Virreina, Leonor Carreto de Toledo. Ah, writers: could we have been less soapy with the middle-aged woman? Now, I am not entirely sure what Juana Inés’s classification at the viceregal court would have been—she’s a tutor, sure, but likely also some manner of lady in waiting or lady of the bedchamber or something—but it might well have been quite natural, given whatever her position was, for her to assist the Virreina in undressing (and in putting on old-timey lotion).9 Or perhaps it was really as startling as Juana Inés’s face tells us it is. Certainly, Leonor Carreto’s hysterical response to the eventual revelation of Juana Inés’s Big Dark Secret (her parents aren’t married! gasp!) is, well, melodramatic, which is kind of irritating given how infrequent well-written middle-aged women are. But Leonor shines as the episode goes on, seeking out Juana Inés like an avenging angel and finally carrying her away just in time to save her life. It’s super dramatic, and pretty much a melodrama, and it’s pretty great.

This might look familiar to you, if you’ve watched Juana Inés and Leonor Carreto when they’ve gone to the cathedral: “Catedral Metropolitana de la Ciudad de México. Dorados,” 2012 photo by CPeralta. Wikimedia Commons.

I have little doubt that it will take me a bit to get back to the third episode of Juana Inés, “Lágrimas negras de mi pluma,”10 mainly because I need some swashbuckling and also because I just noticed that Rogue One just hit Netflix. The things of which I was unsure during “Miradme Al Menos” remain, as it were, uncertain—but some of that is simply that I am no watcher of soaps, and never have been. In addition to ripping out our hearts, “Para el alma no hay encierro” also sets up the future: we meet a clergyman who will be an important figure going forward (he’s the guy who agrees with the virreina that, oh yeah, can’t have the clergy thinking they’re above the virreyes—which says he, for one, knows how to politic); we see Leonor go from hysterical matron to scheming, avenging angel; we watch Juana Inés topple, only to rise again, thanks, apparently, to whatever Nahautl healing magic11 has been used on her. And the framing device—Arcelia Ramírez’s dying genius, grasping to hold onto books, memories, words, life—remains as heartrending as ever. Our Juana Inés, both the youth and the dying woman, remain a woman, not a hollow figure of national pride.

Sor Juana, painted c. 1680 by Juan de Miranda. Universidad Naciónal Autónoma de México. Wikimedia Commons.

But most, most of all? I love how much respect, and love, the writers and producers and directors have given Juana Inés and her words—her beautiful, strong words, which have come down well more than 300 years, and which remain strong and stirring even now. Her words speak, in her dialog, even in the titles of Juana Inés’s episodes. It isn’t that often I get to partake of my favorite 17th century Spanish-language texts on the small screen, and I do thrill to it.


Notes
1 I say this, of course, as someone who tried to watch Doctor Strange and got bored. Insufficient action, excessive Orientalism. Although I kinda liked the librarian.
2 There have definitely been ninja nuns. Check out Catalina de Erauso, aka La Monja Alférez, aka the Lieutenant Nun, for one sterling example.
3 Romance 42, “A la misma señora (la Condesa de Galve), en ocasión de cumplir años.” 55-56 in the Obras Completas. By Juana Inés de la Cruz.
4 This is, in case you’re wondering, quite true.
5 They include people like Nicolás Augustín Metoyer of Louisiana, mentioned in this article by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and in this article from the Washington Post delving into the Metoyer family’s history.
6 Incidentally, Juan Garrido had slaves, at least occasionally, as mentioned by the National Park Service. He was also not the only person of African descent to be in the New Spain region, not by a long shot—there were many other explorers, including Esteban Dorantes. Meanwhile, while there are Afro-Mexicans, Mexico has only recently started officially documenting its citizens of African descent, as discussion in this Huffington Post article; meanwhile, Afro-Mexicans have been deported and forced to sing the national anthem because people don’t believe they are Mexican, as discussed by the BBC here.
7 Dutra, having managed to to buy his freedom and his wife’s, set out buying himself a number of slaves, including some (I think the musicians were among this number) whom he rented out to make more money. You can learn more about Dutra in Dutra’s World.
8 Romance 42, “A la misma señora (la Condesa de Galve), en ocasión de cumplir años.” 55-56 in the Obras Completas. By Juana Inés de la Cruz.
9 I am definitely no expert on ladies in waiting or anything they do. ¯_(ツ)_/¯ These are some pretty good resources about them:

10 Also a line from a poem! This one was written to commemorate the death of the Marquesa de Mancera, our own Leonor Carreto de Toledo. It is the third section of a longer sonnet: “En la muerte de la Excelentísima Señora Marquesa de Mancera.” Here’s the stanza from which lágrimas negras hails:

Muera mi lira infausta en que influíste
ecos, que lamentables te vocean,
y hasta estos rasgos mal formados sean
lágrimas negras de mi pluma triste.
Juana Inés de la Cruz, from “En la Muerte de la Excelentísima Señora Marquesa de Mancera,” 155-156 in the Obras Completas.

11 All I could think of was this trope, largely because of the way it was handled (and the way Juana Inés has skirted race through both “Miradme Al Menos” and “Para el alma no hay encierro”).

For More Information


Suggested Reading

Cruz, Juana Inés de la. The Answer/La Respuesta, trans. & ed. by Electa Arenal & Stephanie Powell.  2nd ed., The Feminist Press at the City University of New York, 2009.

Cruz, Juana Inés de la. Obras Completas de Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Porrua, 2007.

Mann, Charles C. 1493: Uncovering the World Columbus Created. Random House, 2011.

Paz, Octavio. Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz: O, Las Trampas de la Fé. 1982. Fondo de Cultural Económica, 1995.

Paz, Octavio. Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz: Or, the Traps of Faith.

Reséndez, Andrés. The Other Slavery: The Uncovered Story of Indian Enslavement in America. Mariner Books, 2016.

Restall, Matthew. Seven Myths of the Spanish Conquest. Oxford, 2003.

Warner, Marina. Monuments and Maidens: The Allegory of the Female Form. University of California Press, 1985.


Previously
Episode 1

Finding Dankmar Adler in Chicago

Photo of Dankmar Adler taken sometime before his death. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

Dankmar Adler, that genius of acoustical engineering, was born on July 3, 1844—one hundred seventy-three years ago, today. The Chicago History Museum fêted him, but it’s well possible that if you’re not a Chicagoan, or not an architecture fan,1 you’ve never heard of him. He was an acoustic genius, the acoustics consultant for Carnegie Hall2; the synagogue he built for his father would become the birthplace of gospel. He elevated Sullivan’s lacy architectural fantasies to genius levels after himself bringing Sullivan on, but after an economic downturn, Sullivan would never let him return to the practice, damaging both men, rather irreparably.3 And, as is far too often the case, much of his work has been torn down—but, to our fortune, much of it remains, too. Here are three of those Chicago survivors.

Auditorium Theatre & Building (Roosevelt University)

The Auditorium Building, as seen from Congress across Michigan. Image by Wikipedian Victor Grigas, 30 June 2012.

By the time Roosevelt University bought the Auditorium Building for $1, it had really been through the wringer. Now, slowly but surely, it’s being restored to its original glory, or at least something close. (And it is really, really beautiful—probably the nicest building in which anyone could go to college. Just saying.) The theatre is stunning, a work of architectural and acoustical genius—it is, in fact, the reason Adler got that job as a consultant to Carnegie Hall, and is frequently studied by concert hall architects even now. I like to think that Adler and Sullivan, who built it with dreams of egalitarian glory, would be pleased to know that the building now houses a college based on social justice for all. You’ll find it at 430 S. Michigan, kitty-corner (and a couple blocks) across from the Art Institute, and you’ll likely know it even if you’ve never seen it before: it’s been in its share of movies.

A photo of the Auditorium Theatre stage, 1890. Library of Congress Historic Buildings Survey photo by JW Taylor. Image from Wikimedia Commons

Pilgrim Baptist Church, Bronzeville

In better days: Pilgrim Baptist Church, 1964. Historic American Buildings Survey photo by Harold Allen. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

Pilgrim Baptist is one of the saddest of our sad tales of architectural despair, as well as one I’ve covered several times: it was nearly destroyed in a fire, careless roofers destroying the building that was once a synagogue (Kehilath Anshe Ma’ariv Synagogue) and then the birthplace, thanks to its music director, of gospel. I still hope that, some day in the future, someone will bring it back to life. It deserves to have music lift its rafters, not fire. Meanwhile, it sits,4 a despairing hulk, at 3300 S. Indiana, on the corner of Indiana and Martin Luther King Drive, just a bit away from the lake.

Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church

Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church. 2016 photo by Jim Roberts. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

I know Ebenezer Missionary Baptist5 a little better than I know some of Adler’s work: my mother performs in it often enough to be well-versed in its acoustics, still crystalline after nearly 120 years. This is a late Adler, built after his split with Sullivan, and once again originally a synagogue (Isaiah Temple, once upon a time), and it’s gospel’s birthplace, or at least its childhood home. My mother has said the building runs towards the spare (I don’t know if others would agree with her), but her focus is, and always will be, on the voice of the building, and the voice it gives her instrument, and, as was Adler’s way, Ebenezer Missionary’s voice is still clear, all these years later. You’ll find it at 4501 S. Vincennes, also in Bronzeville.

Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church

Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church, 2015 image by John W. Iwanskifrom Flickr.

There are a few more Adler buildings throughout Chicago—some churches, a few remnants of the Adler and Sullivan stock exchange at the Art Institute—enough to give one a taste, as it were, of Adler’s rather extraordinary mind for sound waves. They’re all worth a visit, right down to the rather incredible room, lifted directly from the stock exchange and set down in the Art Institute for anyone to see, as long as they can find it. (I finally went in; naturally I recommend it to others.)

So here’s to Dankmar Adler, Jewish immigrant,  genius engineer and architect, whose works became cradles of a great new American music, and whose buildings remain, as they have always been, spaces of great and pure acoustic beauty, created by a man with an understanding of sound to be filled with music and with life.


1 And how can one be a Chicagoan and not an architecture buff?
2 Notes from both “Origins of Modern Architecture,” fall 2008, and “Origins of Civic and Commercial Architecture,” spring 2009, both taught at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago by Timothy Wittman.
3 Ibid.
4 There was a recent attempt to tear the church down; it failed to acquire a permit. I continue to hope that Pilgrim Baptist will, one day soon, come back from the edge of the grave.
5 There is a lot of information out there about Ebenezer, because it is a well-loved building. Here are a few sites:

Miradme Al Menos: Juana Inés on Netflix

Frontispiece, Fama y Obras Póstumas del Fenix de México. Madrid, 1689. From Wikimedia Commons.

Juana Inés de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana, la Décima Musa, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, looms large in the study of the literature of the Siglo de Oro. Hers is often the first woman’s voice we find, in a litany of men; forcefully Juana Inés reminds us of a woman’s genius, and a woman’s perseverance, against great—and ultimately insurmountable—odds. She is, in short, much more immediately important to me than is Simón Bolívar, libertador and subject of a flagrantly inaccurate adaption—but I have watched María Luisa Bemberg’s Yo, La Peor de Todas, and I’ve read Octavio Paz’s Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz: O, Las Trampas de la Fé,1 as one does—and now, finally, an age after it showed up in my queue, I’m watching the new Netflix/Canal Once production of Juana Inés. I know how this story must end—all of us do, and all of us know her confession, some of us by heart—and so the interest here lies in how this new show will depict Juana Inés’s life, and her genius, and her eventual doom.

The hacienda where Juana Inés grew up: “Frontispicio de la hacienda de Panoaya, en Amecameca, Estado de México, que perteneció al abuelo de Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.” 26 January 2006. Image by Wikipedian AdamcastforthWikimedia Commons.

The first episode of Juana Inés is a command: “Miradme Al Menos,” which I would translate as “At least look at me!” and which Netflix has translated as “At Least Look Unto Me.” (Okeydokey, Netflix.) Our young protagonist will repeat the phrase, repeatedly, in various forms but always as a command, throughout that first episode: at least look at me, she demands, as men ignore her, and turn away from her, and try to decide her life without ever acknowledging her humanity, let alone her mind.

Viceroy at the time Juana Inés came to the court: Antonio Sebastián Álvarez de Toledo, 25th Viceroy of New Spain, Marques of Máncera and Grande of Spain, in a 17th century portrait currently housed in the Salón de Virreyes. Juana Inés really nailed this guy’s look, in case you’re wondering. Wikimedia Commons.

This Juana Inés is not yet the Décima Musa, the woman whose salons were known through Mexico’s cultured elite—and, though they were held in a convent, attended by many of the country’s greatest minds, criollos and peninsulares2 alike. Instead, she’s a child, a genius who happens to be a woman in an era in which women are, as the vierrey periodically reminds his court, supposed to be more decorative motif than greatest mind of the century.

Juana Inés thinks it’s absurd that women aren’t allowed into libraries: women, too, are rational beings. From link.

We follow Juana Inés from her aunt and uncle’s home—she’s been sent there by her mother, who lives in the country, as one does when one has been the mistress of a soldier and has his illegitimate children—to the viceregal court in Distrito Federal, through streets littered by the officials of the Santo Oficio (the Inquisition, also known as the Santa Inquisición), led by one Antonio Núñez de Miranda, a Jesuit priest who is definitely gonna be a problem later one (Juana Inés lets us know this right away, so even if we didn’t already know Juana Inés’s story, we’d know Padre Núñez de Miranda was bad news. After all, the bugger is burning books when we meet him—if it’s not on the okay list, it goes.) We also meet Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora3—it’s his books that Núñez de Miranda is burning. He’s another who will figure in throughout Juana Inés’s story—I’m curious to see how the writers will develop him, and their friendship, as the series goes on.

Escena de Inquisión, by Francisco Goya. 1646. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

Juana’s youth is framed by an older Juana, on her deathbed, remembering her life. It’s pretty jarring, at least for me: the hero, brought low, as a framing device for the heroic journey. But her youth itself is a framing device: the show rather brilliantly puts in place the pieces that will make up the adult Juana Inés, from her pride in her Mexican identity (“soy criolla,” she tells a Spaniard) to her linguistic abilities (she speaks Nahault because, as she tells another character, it is the language of the land); from her belief in women’s rights to her aggressive genius, it’s all there: her hero’s journey, and her doom, set from the moment she walks into the viceregal court.

Diego Velázquez’s Las Meninas, 1656-1657. Wikimedia Commons.

The viceregal court was simultaneously terrific—it looks like something out of Velázquez! it’s incredible!—and also kinda weird. Juana probably had men propose to her—she was a great favorite, after all—but my interest lay, after all, in her words, and in her rather blasé acknowledgement that she joined a convent because of her “absolute unwillingness to enter into marriage” and because, above all, she wanted to live alone and quietly, where nothing “would disturb the freedom my freedom to study.”4 Which is to say, in short, I don’t think she’d be jumping for joy at the thought of marriage to anyone, let alone a guy who writes iffy poems. I was also a little unsure of the viceroy’s mistress, who is clearly out to cause problems—I think she’s artistic license, which makes sense, but I’m not so sure about her. I’ll see what she does in the next episode. (Also, her blondness is rather eye-catching, in a dark-haired court—apparently the viceroy’s got a thing for blondes.)

An idea of the virreina, Leonor Carreto de Toledo: Diego Velázquez’s La Enfanta María Teresa de España, 1652-1653. Wikimedia Commons

From the vicereina to Juana Inés, from the ladies in waiting to the viceroys’ daughter María, “Miradme Al Menos” is filled with women clawing their way through a world distinctly hostile to them. The mistress, what’s her name, uses her body and her spying abilities to try to push herself into the graces of the viceroy and of Núñez de Miranda. The vicereina, Leonor Carreto de Toledo, uses her considerable intelligence and political acumen to try to protect her daughter—she would not seek a better tutor were she not trying to make her daughter something more—and to try to make her own life a little better. She’s a long way from home, is Leonor, in a very different world, and she’s trying her damndest to make it work (although she also calls theirs “this shitty court,” so, you know, she’s not trying to love it or anything like that). Also she looks like she stepped out of a painting by Velázquez.

Clawing one’s way up, by whatever means necessary. From link.

Juana, of course, is something special, even in a world filled with women trying to survive (and to keep their minds from atrophying). She’s an aggressive kid, a genius who knows it, and who has been raised by people who recognized her genius and, for the most part, try to help her on her way, while simultaneously protecting her from an ugly world. I don’t recall precisely why she was tested, by forty of Mexico’s greatest (male) minds—they really did it up, in that there shitty court—but, although I don’t really think it was about tutoring at all, it is very much part of her mythos,5 it isn’t the worst framing device, and fits the story building in Juana Inés rather well. Her snappy dialogue and sly mastery of a bunch of dudebros who expect to drown her with their superiority might seem impossible for a teenager (although I’d argue one has only to actually listen to them to realize that it is not), but it fits with Juana Inés’s writing—she always had a brilliant voice, and would have had it ready to command, although not yet fully matured, when she was “tested,” at 15 or 17, by forty men who wanted her to fail.

Before the test. From link.

One of Juana Inés’s many snappy quotes comes on the theme of obedience, which has never been her strong suit. The words the scriptwriters have given her are a foreshadowing of her great Respuesta, written in 1691, in which she vigorously defends the right of a woman to an education. In fact, Juana Inés will say that it is God’s will that a woman be educated, for did not God give her her mind?6 So, in the flower of her youth, as a teen who manages to be simultaneously assured, even aggressive, and as uncertain as any other teenager, Juana tells Núñez de Miranda that there is no higher love than that of God, and so she will obey God before she will obey him. The most chilling thing about Hernán del Riego’s depiction of Antonio Núñez de Miranda is probably his absolute faith: he’s going to break her, sure, but he’s only doing it to save her soul! That fanaticism makes him rather a terrifying figure.

Confronting Núñez de Miranda. From link

Juana Inés, of course, is magnificent in her confrontation with Núñez de Miranda: her mother is, she says, “una gran mujer, aunque pobre e ignorante”—a great woman, albeit poor and uneducated. She is willing to stand up for her unwed mother, to risk the censure of priests and society to insist on Isabel Ramírez’s greatness. Her speech, and her defiance, is itself a foreshadowing of one of her great poems, “Hombres necios,” in which she points out that the man is always let off easy, while the woman, no matter what she does, must suffer the consequences. (Her father, after all, was presumably still cavorting around the Spanish Empire, military rank intact.) These nods to the poetry and prose of the Décima Musa come throughout the episode, from nods to the Respuesta and “Hombres necios” to, when she critiques the viceregal court, “A Su Retratro” foretold, in its full grim glory.

The courtyard of the Palacio Nacional (the former viceroys’ residence). National Palace, Mexico. 2012 image by Rob Young. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

I had a few quibbles, particularly at the very end of the episode. I don’t see Juana Inés, young or old, as the kind of woman who would throw herself into a man’s arms—any man’s arms, even if he did write iffy poetry in her honor. She was a brilliant woman—she knew what being a bastard meant for her marriage prospects. Hell, she wasn’t even supposed to join a convent as a nun because of her illegitimacy, which is why she professos herself “hija legítima de Don Pedro de Asbaje y Vargas Machuca y de Isabel Ramírez”7—the lie gave her a chance at a life. The passage of time is also a bit of an issue: one presumes time has passed, but there is no real evidence of it in the dreamy world of the court, where it is always spring, or summer. (Did this gachupín8 really fall in love with our heroine in, like, a week? One hopes not.) Another quibble comes in the confrontation with Antonio Núñez de Miranda: he claims that Juana Inés’s father is the local priest, who is also de Asbaje! (Cue the drumroll, please.) This is presumably being done for dramatic effect, but I am wary of where it could go. So far, Juana Inés has also avoided thorny discussions of race in New Spain. I don’t recall when, exactly, she was “gifted” another human, but I do know Juana took a slave with her to the convent.

Statue of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz in Madrid. 2011 image by Wikipedian Drow male. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

The show touches on Juana’s linguistic abilities, primarily her ability to speak Nahautl9; she apologizes to a Nahautl man, which seems fitting for a woman who wrote poetry in the Nahautl language, but it still glosses over the realities of life for Afro-Mexicans and indigenous and mestizo Mexicans. It will be interesting to see how the show deals with race as it continues on through Juana Inés’s life and career. I’m also not quite sure about the focus, from what’s her name the mistress, Núñez de Miranda, and the viceroy, on Juana Inés’s poetry for the vicereina—back in the day, it was the done thing to write what was essentially love poetry to one’s patron, and I’m not sure if a man as intelligent and cultured as one presumes the viceroy would have to be would truly be unaware of such literary conventions. But it is certainly possible, and could be a decent foil going forward.

Retrato de Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, 1680, by Juan de Miranda. Wikimedia Commons.

So, for once, I’m really excited about an adaption, although I doubt that I will marathon this one as I marathon nearly everything else—I’m taking way too many notes, and revising too much old research, for that. Juana Inés is, thus far, a remarkable humanization of a woman who has become more symbol than human: the Décima Musa as a child, genius but also unsure, capable of smirking when the displaced mistress calls her names but also capable of fear and uncertainty. So far, in fact, I’ve thought a lot of Marina Warner’s Monuments and Maidens: The Allegory of the Female Form—Sor Juana has come down to us as something of an allegory, her statues and her face on currency less woman than symbol of something else, and something greater. Juana Inés, however, is trying to resurrect the woman, and the girl, behind that symbol, and so far, it is doing rather a good job.


For More Information


End Notes

1 Generally considered the definitive biography of Sor Juana.
2 “Criollo,” or “creole,” means, in this context, a person of Spanish descent born in the Americas. It will become increasingly important in the days to come, as creoles—including people like Sor Juana and her circle—begin to define a “creole identity.” And remember Simón Bolívar? It’ll really come into its own with the Revolutions.
3 Sigüenza y Góngora will eventually get kicked out of the Jesuit order—I’m really curious to see if this gets a mention in Juana Inés.
4 The Answer/La Respuesta, translated by Electa Arenal & Stephanie Powell. 51.
5 It’s worth noting that this episode is first written down in the biography that went in with her poetry, and that it was part of the effort to prove that, as Electa Arenal and Stephanie Powell write, “nothing in its pages went against church teachings” (3)—important for a world under the sway of the Inquisition.
6 See The Answer/La Respuesta.
7 Quoted from Autobiographical Writing by Early Modern Hispanic Women by Elizabeth Teresa Howe, 196.
8 A less than complimentary term for a Spaniard living in the Americas but born in Spain. This one was more used during the move towards independence.
9 As Arenal & Powell point out, Juana Inés also spoke various languages and dialects, including “African, and … rural dialects” (3). Juana Inés could have gone even further with the whole linguistic genius thing, basically.


Bibliography

Cruz, Juana Inés de la. The Answer/La Respuesta, trans. & ed. by Electa Arenal & Stephanie Powell.  2nd ed., The Feminist Press at the City University of New York, 2009.

Cruz, Juana Inés de la. Obras Completas de Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Porrua, 2007.

Warner, Marina. Monuments and Maidens: The Allegory of the Female Form. University of California Press, 1985.


Episode II

Young Adult Fiction About Migration, Immigration, and Refuge(es), I

A little more than a month ago, an American hopped up on xenophobia shot up two men from India and another man who tried to stop him, killing one. Anti-refugee rhetoric continues to swirl, and hate groups are at a horrifying high. Books can help bring us together; fiction may acually make us better people. It makes sense, then, to me, to turn to books during times like these; to seek out, and suggest, those books which may help us better understand immigrants, and refugees, and those who migrate, even within the same country.

I first read Pam Muñoz Ryan‘s middle grade novel Esperanza Rising shortly after it was published, in the early 2000s. It has stuck with me, powerfully, ever since. It’s set during the Great Depression, in Aguascalientes and then in the San Joaquín Valley in California, and readers follow Esperanza Ortega from her life as a spoiled child of privilege in Aguascalientes through a desperate flight to the United States following her father’s murder. Readers go into the camps where Mexican agricultural laborers live and watch la migra—today’s ICE—as they raid, harass, and bully the laborers. Perhaps the most incredible element of Esperanza Rising? It is told through a child’s eyes (Esperanza is only 15 at book’s end), and, as I remember it, at least, it really does read like a child’s perspective on immigration. It is also a Pura Belpré Award Winner, for those interested in reading up on diverse award winners.

Just because.

You may well have heard Nicola Yoon‘s name: her first book, Everything, Everythingis being made into a movie, and her second, The Sun Is Also a Star, won the Coretta Scott King/John Steptoe Award For New Talent. It is about The Sun Is Also a Star that I am going to write today. You see, it brings us multiple angles on this theme of migration and immigration and Americanness, and many of them are rarely, if ever, really discussed. The hero, Daniel, is Korean-American; his parents want him to be a doctor, but he’s a poet at heart. The heroine, Natasha, is Jamaican-American; she came young to this country, and is a brilliant student, aiming for the stars, or at least the sun. But she is also, through no fault of her own, undocumented. The Sun Is Also a Star is the story of the luminous, terrifying day during which Natasha and Daniel fall in love, while Natasha is trying desperately to save herself from deportation. (You’re going to cry. And also laugh. And wince.) There’s an added layer of realism to this story: in the words of interviewer Ibi Zoboi (this name will come up again, fyi): “You share a letter to the reader at the beginning of the book about how you and your husband first met. Your name is Nicola and you are Jamaican American, just like Natasha in your novel. Your husband’s name is David and he is Korean American, just like Daniel in your novel.” Zoboi goes on to ask if the novel is autobiographical; Ms. Yoon says that “all evidence to the contrary, the novel is not autobiographical,” but that it “was definitely inspired by the spirit of our relationship.” Ms. Yoon’s books have an almost ethereal, luminous quality—one which I am hoping translates to the screen—and, true to form, The Sun Is Also a Star is beautiful, heartbreaking, and, ultimately, hopeful. It’s also an amazing window into what young Americans like the DREAMers must feel. (And, for those who like to know these things: it has starred reviews from KirkusBooklist, and Publishers Weekly.)

Melissa De La Cruz‘s novel Something In Between is, in a way, very similar to Yoon’s The Sun Is Also a Star. Like Natasha, Jasmine de los Santos is an exemplary American girl, smart and college-bound. She is, in the words of one of the quotes De La Cruz uses to preface her novel, almost “more American than people born here.” She is also an undocumented immigrant from the Philippines, although she, like Natasha, does not at first know this. Unlike Natasha, Jasmine learns about her status during the course of the novel. Adding to her angst, she falls in love with the wrong guy: a dude whose father happens to be a congressman who doesn’t believe in immigration reform (and, indeed, works against it). This is very much a romance; Booklist says that “At its gooey heart, this is a love story suited for romance-thirsty teens,” but reviews from Booklist to Publishers’ Weekly to Kirkus all mention that one will probably learn something from it, too, even if Kirkus thinks it’s way too optimistic. This one is very much a happy ending; it will likely make for a satisfying read, and will provide another window into the life of a young American without papers.

Remember Ibi Zoboi, who interviewed Nicola Yoon about The Sun Is Also a Star? Well, she’s back: she wrote the intense American Street, a novel about a young Haitian woman, Fabiola (or Fab) Toussaint, who comes to the United States with her mother to live with her aunt and cousins in Detroit. But there is a sudden, horrible catch: Fabiola has the proper documentation, and is sent ahead to Detroit—but, somehow, Manman does not, and is detained, thrusting Fabiola alone into a brave and frightening new world. American Street reminds me of some of the contemporary Latin American novels I’ve read; I would call parts of it magical realism, except I think back to what a professor once said—how can it be magical realism if it is one’s belief?—and am hesitant to do so, as Zoboi, through Fabiola, calls up Haitian spirits and traditional beliefs to help her survive Detroit. American Street actually has some similarities with The Hate U Give—it, too, touches on the horrors of structural racism and police brutality. It is rather a tour de force. It has also been reviewed well: Publishers WeeklyKirkusand Booklist all accord it starred reviews.

I have not read Alexandra Diaz‘s The Only Road; it is, however, a Pura Belpré Honor Book, and, while Kirkus calls it “A deft, harrowing, yet formulaic sketch of a complex subject,” the blog Latinos in Kidlit gave it a positive review, while it garnered a starred one from BooklistThe Only Road takes its middle-grade readers on a journey from Guatemala to the United States, as young Jaime must escape violence at home before it kills him, too. It is a timely book—think of the children fleeing violence in Central America who have come to the U.S.—and will offer readers a window into a world with which they probably are not particularly familiar. Another Pura Belpré winner, the translated I Lived on Butterfly Hill, by Chilean-American academic and writer Marjorie Agosín, offers its readers a look at Chile during the years of the dictatorship, and follows its young heroine to the United States as well. Its reviews mention that it may be intimidating, but Publishers WeeklyKirkus, and the Jewish Book Council all give it strong reviews.

Lithuanian-American Ruta Sepetys calls herself, on her website, a “seeker of lost stories.” Certainly her novels about the human costs of World War II, Between Shades of Gray and Salt to the Sea, are such lost stories, sought and remembered. I’ll slide away from objectivity here: I loved both Between Shades of Gray and Salt to the Sea. They shattered my heart, and I learned a lot from them. Between Shades of Gray follows a young Lithuanian girl, Lina Vilkas, after her father, a math professor, is detained by the Soviet secret police and her mother and brother are sent to Siberia. (My middle name comes in part from a Polish resistance fighter who happened to be a family friend, which might make these stories more intense for me.) It is a story of horror and depravity, but also of humanity and, surprising in those shades of gray, of hope.

Salt to the Sea, meanwhile, showcases several different people—Joana, Lina’s cousin and a nurse; German resistor Florian, fleeing for his life; Polish Emilia, fighting for her life and struggling against the crimes committed against her; and Alfred, a sadistic young Nazi—as they struggle through the end of the war in Prussia. They will all embark upon the Wilhelm Gustloff—and anyone who knows maritime history will know what comes next. (I cried my eyes out anyway, but, because this is Sepetys’ gift, there is still hope.) Both Between Shades of Gray (which definitely isn’t 50 Shades, sorry not sorry) and Salt to the Sea offer a glimpse into the darkness that drives people from their homes. Between Shades of Gray gets starred reviews from Publishers WeeklyKirkusand BooklistKirkus gives Salt to the Sea a strong review, Publishers Weekly and Booklist starred ones. Though both are set in the 1940s, and in Europe, both are a pretty stark reminder of the dangerous facing refugees, and of the reasons why people leave.

I think Warsan Shire has probably written the ultimate contemporary explanation of why one would leave home; there is a reason her poem “Home,” with its reminder that “you only leave home / when home won’t let you stay” has been spoken at protests and held up by asylum seekers. The novels I’ve suggested here are not, to be sure, Shire’s “Home”—but they are strong works, pieces that can help us to better understand the lives of others,1 and the realities of our world. And, of course, there are more out there.


1 By the way there’s an amazing German movie called The Lives of Others. It is very much worth watching.