Burning
Down the Canon:
Queer
Family and Queer Text in Flaming Iguanas ) (1)
Sara
Cooper
California State University, Chico
What
do sex, family, comedy, road trips, and latinidad
have in common? The answer of course is the Puerto Rican Diasporic
author Erika
Lopez, who with her innovative series of graphic novels (Lap
Dancing for Mommy, Flaming
Iguanas, and They Call Me Mad Dog)
has established herself as a writer who bravely goes where as of yet
few
authors dare to tread. Her transgressions only begin with the addition
of
graphics to her textual production, going on to flout rules of
structure,
content, and political correctness. (2) Although not a comic book style graphic
novel in the style of Art Spiegelman’s In the Shadow of No
Towers (2004) or Allison Bechdel’s new Fun Home (2006),
Flaming Iguanas: An Illustrated All-Girl Road Novel Thing
(1997)
does reflect the elements of subversion and rebellious confrontation
that may
be found in some of the best women’s (and men’s) comics.(3)
Nevertheless, this study is not an in-depth look at the work as graphic
novel
(the novel’s imbrication of text, line drawings and stamp art being a
departure from that genre), but rather mentions this aspect of
structure as one
more indication of how the author intentionally transgresses literary
and
social boundaries–especially those around gender and sexuality. Indeed
the main character and narrator Tomato Rodríguez–a woman on a
cross-country trek and a quest for identity–questions and ultimately
frustrates every possible gender role expectation, as do many of the
other
characters that she gathers around her. Partially because of the
novel’s
mixed genre and partly due to other insubordinate elements, Flaming
Iguanas shares to a great degree
the mixed blessing of marginalization that women’s comics have enjoyed
(or suffered). This is one of the issues I would like to consider
briefly
here–the novel’s place at the periphery of the United States
literary canon. How and why would this novel be perceived to belong at
the edge
of a literary tradition, rather than central to a new generation’s
production? Still, the edge is indeed connected to the whole, and the
periphery
can’t help but influence the center in some way. That said, what are
the
possible ramifications of the novel’s existence on the fringes of U.S.
mainstream literature? I will argue that in addition to the readily
apparent
visual and verbal edginess, it is also the author’s treatment of family
as an intrinsically queer institution, and her creation of an
inimitably queered
family that ultimately relegate her work to the margins of academic
viability. Moreover,
this apparent weakness, this seeming lack of power or position may in
fact be a
paradoxical source of strength and agency that infuse the novel with a
border-busting queer authority.
The Canon:
Begging to Be Burned
Let us
begin our own
critical road trip with a consideration of the way that the literary
canon
works. This does seem to be the first stop on our journey, and it is a
reality
that cannot help but inform the writing (and reception) of even the
most
iconoclastic author. The canon exists on multiple levels and consists
of an
immensely complex system of selectivity and prejudice that manifests in
not
only whether we read certain works, but also how we read them. A text
can be
marginalized through its complete non-inclusion, through its relegation
to some
allegedly inferior or less viable genre, or through a reading that
ignores
fundamental aspects of the text that would otherwise place it within a
particular
part of the canon. Tey Diana Rebolledo has written extensively on the
ways in
which the canon has ignored entirely or failed to concede complete
legitimacy
to the writings of Latina women. Only in the last decades of the
twentieth
century do we see Latinas being published by specialized (much less
mainstream)
presses, or even included in anthologies of American or Latin American
literature (2005, 13-39 and 56-73). So is it that recently women
writers have
claimed their rightful place as celebrated contributors to a vibrant
American
literature (although to this day women of color often only will be
discussed as
part of the U.S. Ethnic canon). During this same period, when critics
and
professors of literature began to focus on an increasing diversity of
texts
that highlight race, gender, class, and sexuality, there seemed to
remain a few
sticking points that continued to limit the scope of class reading
lists, exam
preparation materials, and academic discussion in general. There is yet
to this
day a literary discourse that is dangerously on edge--a discourse that
pushes
the limits of tolerance and propriety. We are embarrassed and irritated
like
when we hear fingernails on a chalkboard and try to block out or
marginalize
the offending words. After all, as established practitioners of a
venerated
profession, that is, the judgment and interpretation of written works
of art,
why should we pay any attention to the irreverence of disrespectful
upstarts?
As Julia Alvarez wryly comments in Border-Line
Personalities, when someone in one of her family gatherings would
ask
“Qué dice la juventud?” the younger generation:
knew instinctively that the older folks
didn’t really want to hear what we had to say. In fact, every one of us
would have been grounded until the day we were married if we had fessed
up to
what we were doing with and discovering about our bodies. Los viejos
just
wanted to hear the old verities recited back to them…Old and young had
to
hunker together as a familia and comunidad, especially after we arrived
in
crazy gringolandia. (2004, xv)
So the juventud, the youth, the rebels and
anyone who thought differently would keep quiet. Maybe
someone would snort or giggle,
which would earn her a glare and a sharp reminder that she was to be
seen and
not to be heard. After all, the family hierarchs, just like the
recognized
literary historians and critics, have a fairly tight rein on the hoi
polloi.
But when a rebel voice finds a place to emerge, then how do we
respond—by
looking the other way, by remaining complicit in its marginalization,
or by
finding a way to listen through the discomfort? Do the canonical
guardians feel
guilty when pouring salt on what they consider to be slippery and
slimy? Do
they hear our screams? In a way, this is a paper about the paradoxical
coexistence of embarrassing noise and shamed silence.
One example
of this
raucous hush is Erika Lopez's Flaming
Iguanas, a novel that teeters on
a queer edge. The storyline,
characters, and graphics often jar the reader emotionally, sometimes
blatantly
and other times requiring first that the reader traverse the chasm
separating
signifier and signified. For instance, a mixed graphic and text image
of a bag
of salt and a slug appears just after Tomato has fallen yet again on
her
motorcycle. As she picks herself up and starts to ride again, she notes
a frog
in the road and muses over how many of them she has not noticed and
therefore
hit, wondering “how many more critters I was tied to karmically
[sic]” (197). The graphic points to the purposeful killing of animals,
the guilt and shame connected to even the killing of slugs, who share
with
humans at least the capability of producing a sound like a scream as
they
sizzle, melt, and die. The realistic rendering of the slug juxtaposed
against a
stylized and comparatively tiny bag of table salt privileges the
suffering of
the much-maligned mollusk, while subtly jabbing at the human tendency
to savor
another of the gastropods as a delicacy (escargot) when we are not
getting their
cousins out of our garden.
Burn, Baby,
Burn
The
inserted line
drawing, stamp art, and scrawled cursive and print of each page of the
novel
only look primitive at first glance, in reality being another element
that
hints at the protagonist’s constant soul-searching on her journey of
self-discovery. The queerness resides partially in the visual fusion,
partially
in the protagonist’s willingness to speak of a silenced subject, and
partially in the gap of meaning requiring the reader’s complicity. Eve
Kosofsky Sedgwick defines queer as "the open mesh of possibilities,
gaps,
overlaps, dissonances and resonances, lapses and excesses of meaning
when the
constituent elements of anyone's gender, of anyone's sexuality aren't
made (or
can't be made) to signify monolithically" (8). While a diligent critic
could find ways to frame the slug graphic in terms of female sexuality
(the
moisture, the wetly curved lines, the abject status of the object),
actually
that is not a requirement of a queer reading. On the contrary, queer
theory
doesn’t fix its squinted eye merely on the sexual, but also involves
questions of race, class, religion, able-bodiedness, and various other
elements
that frame one’s closeness to or distance from normativity. One of the
foundational theorists of Queer Studies, Michael Warner defines queer
as
straying from the normal rather than simply opposed to heterosexual
(xxvi).
Critics such as David Eng and Yvonne Yarbro Bejarano push the limits of
queer
to include issues of race, class, religion, and ethnicity as well as
sexuality.
Bejarano’s oeuvre brings into the fray a complex discussion of the
intersections of race, gender, and sexuality, especially as relates to
cultural
production by women of color (4). In sum, a
queer text may be seen as
subverting any number of standards or traditions, and for Flaming
Iguanas, a graphic such as this is only the beginning. The
graphics and narrative consistently will mark the novel as renegade,
like an
“all-girl” roughneck crew blazing across a literary frontier.
While queer
studies does
encompass the uncovering and twisting of canonical texts and authors,
oftentimes queer criticism will focus on marginalized writers such as
Sara Levi
Calderón, or lesser-known texts by noted authors, like Luis
Rafael
Sánchez' "¡Jum!”
Frequently, queer scholars gently stretch the strictures of
literary
analysis so that it slides into the contemplation of culture, as in
Yvonne
Yarbro-Bejarano's work on Cherríe Moraga (2001). By the same
token,
queer studies can include scrutiny of texts that are radically outside
of the
scope of literary mainstream, to say the least, such as
Yarbro-Bejarano's work
on the newest Latina graphic artists (1995), José Muñoz's
studies
of the trash film star Divine or the Puerto Rican/Cuban performance
artist
Marga Gomez (1999), and Melissa Solomon’s comparison of Erika Lopez and
intellectual diva Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (2002). Whereas these studies
are
undeniable contributions to the study of literature and culture, and do
provide
a possible bridge from the text to new readership, the scope of their
influence
is still relatively small. The mainstream canon remains elusive for
many sorts
of queered cultural texts, and one might ask why such a disjunction
between one
critic's judgment and another's still prevails. Perhaps this gap is due
to the
incredible sense of discomfort that may be generated by the intensive
reading
of a truly queer text; if so many innovative yet somehow compliant
works are
available for study, then why should we knowingly subject ourselves to
the
sense of crawling out of our skin in response to an aggressively odd
and often
offensive creation?
Even
at first glance, and then increasingly upon further scrutiny, Flaming Iguanas is an earthy, eccentric,
and of course queer text -- linguistically, stylistically,
thematically,
philosophically, and sexually. It exists in the gaps and dissonances
that are
celebrated within queer theory, as it crosses borders in every sense of
the
word. Nevertheless, that a text be
considered tolerable in the permissive, rebellious, and even raunchy
milieu of
queer studies is not necessarily equated with acceptability in any
other
traditional field. Flaming Iguanas is
not an obliging text and does not embody a sense of the normal, which
of course
makes it an ideal example of the queer according to Warner and a
perfect target
for ostracizing by practitioners of the normative. It is purposely a
difficult,
and sometimes even exclusionary text, but often in a much different way
than
the body of works written for an intellectual elite, such as the
deliberately
obscure (and of course fascinating) essays by Derrida or Cixous. Only
the
highly and eclectically educated will catch some of the allusions and
references in Flaming Iguanas, but
other elements of the novel are purposefully blatant, vulgar, and crass
Solomon
says “lewd” and “prurient”, 201), such as the front
cover of the paperback edition of the novel.
There are
numerous reasons
that any “serious-minded” scholar of American or U.S. Ethnic
literature might shy away from Flaming
Iguanas. First of all, the novel is published by Scribner Paperback
Fiction
(Simon & Schuster) and is far from being re-released as a critical
edition
with notes and introduction by a properly academic editorial house (not
to say
that just that contingency will never materialize, given increasing
interest in
Lopez’s work). As an aside, one might speculate as to why a major
publisher would give voice to and extensive dissemination of this kind
of
cutting-edge, genre-busting work, when the theoretically freer academy
remains
reluctant to do so. Perhaps the simple answer is that it sells! That,
then, is
another element that must be taken into consideration, that Erika Lopez
is not
the sort of writer who insists on subsisting precariously in a garret
in order
to produce what is purposefully inaccessible to the general reader.
Whereas she
is single-mindedly devoted to portraying what she wants in exactly her
own chosen
manner, she is delighted (as would be many struggling artists) to be
given this
opportunity to bring her work to the public. Interestingly, we have
come to a
point in time at which intelligence and profundity need not be
considered
anathema to sex and humor; I say need not,
despite the fact that the contrary belief still holds sway in some
hallowed
academic grounds.
Other
elements that may
prejudice the more conservative scholar include the back flap of the
paperback
edition, which privileges reviews by queer and suspect publications
such as The Village Voice, the San
Francisco Chronicle, Feminist Bookstore News, and Lambda Book Report, the last of which
proclaims, "There's a sizable, rebelliously tasteless portion of our
reading public who will soon want to make Lopez their cartoonist pillow
queen.” This correlation between the novel and the comic book genre is
enough to earn it scorn or perhaps amused condescension from some
scholars.
Although critics like Charles Hatfield credibly argue the emergence of
the
graphic novel as a legitimate genre garnering important academic notice
(e.g.
articles in the Chronicle of Higher
Education), even Hatfield must acknowledge that for many “the form
is
at its best an underground art, teasing and outraging bourgeois society
from a
gutter-level position of economic hopelessness and (paradoxically)
unchecked artistic
freedom” (2005, xi-xii). As another example of cunning, ironic and
beautifully rendered social commentary in the form of the graphic
novel,
consider the Hernandez Brothers’ Love
and Rockets, which has a considerable cult following but has not
yet
received the analytical attention it deserves.
The concept
of artistic
license brings us to the physical appearance of the novel, which is
both
licentious (pun intended) and unchecked. The font of the chapter titles
approximates the scratching–alternatively cursive and print–of a
blotting ink pen, while the body of the text looks like the output of a
somewhat damaged and imperfectly aligned typewriter. This does bring to
mind a
section of the canon that won critical attention and acclaim exactly
for its
blatant disregard for normative typescript, regular placement of verse
or prose
on the page, and accepted rules of punctuation and grammar. I refer to, of course, the writers of
the modernist period, like Gertrude Stein or Julio Cortázar
(especially
in Rayuela), and even more specific
movements, like the concrete poets. Why is it, then, that the visually
playful
text in a concrete poem by Jorge Luis Borges or E.E. Cummings has been
accepted
fully as innovative yet canonical, while a further development of such
techniques is spurned in a novel like Flaming
Iguanas?(5) I
wonder if
this could be due to the fact that the author departs from a solely
verbal
exposition: the entire manuscript is littered with line drawings and
stamp art,
whose relation to the text is often difficult to ascertain at first
glance,
although indeed becomes clearer upon close consideration.
Underlying these parallels between
specific graphics and textual context, Laura Laffrado suggests that
“Lopez links the disruption of conventional female self-representation
to
the visual disruption of the conventional appearance of the page”
(408). In
many cases she makes visible and inescapable the perverse, abject, and
hybrid
complexity of female gender and sexuality, which can be an unforgivable
excess.
What's worse, the cover is bright yellow and red, sporting the image of
a
Carmen Miranda motorcycle chick showing the onlooker one of her breasts
(6). Here, surely
Erika Lopez has passed the
line of reasonable moderation and fallen into the outlandish. One asks:
Is this
a comic book by a cartoonist, or can this really be called a novel, in
the same
way that we understand the novel, like Lazarillo
de Tormes, Don Quixote, One Flew Over
the Cuckoo’s Nest,
or even Dharma Bums? As an aside, the
fact that the mixture of graphics and text is held in such low regard
in the
United States can be attributed at least in part to the history of the
comic
strip in this country. During the height of McCarthyism, comics were
blamed for
the perversion of America’s youth; the inappropriate gender models of
comic strips were encouraging homosexual fantasies in boys and
destroying
girls’ aptitude for being good wives and mothers. How ironic is it,
then,
that today works like Flaming Iguanas
again are pushing the limits of gender and sexuality as well as genre?
This brings
us to the
discussion of the novel’s content, which is queer indeed. The title
itself serves as a brief plot summary, and as already mentioned, the
protagonist's name is Tomato, as in juicy hothouse, thin skinned yet
sweetly
acidic, unashamedly meaty, round, and red. The narrative ambles
non-chronologically through Tomato's cross-country motorcycle ride (and
the preparations
beforehand), scattering four-letter words and sexual references at
every
turn. Although the narrator is of a
philosophical bent, she embraces a thoroughly contemporary and coarse
expression of her spiritual and intellectual preoccupations. A few
choice
chapter titles include: “Chapter 3: Ashes to Ashes, Crust to Crust”
(13); “Chapter 28: No, Those Aren't Panties, Those are Prayers”
(179); and “Chapter 31: I'm determined to one day understand and love
anal sex because I'm convinced I must be missing something” (190). The
constant juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane is a trademark
characteristic of Lopez’s writing and points to one of the underlying
preoccupations of the protagonist of this novel. Raised in a very
Catholic
culture, Tomato’s tendency to associate sexuality and religion is not
at
all surprising. What does clash, however, is the language that she
chooses to
express these connections. The well-known concept that our corporeal
being will
return to the ground and disintegrate (ashes to ashes, dust to dust),
leaving
our spirit to travel to the afterlife of heaven, hell, or purgatory, is
here
satirized by the changed ending, “crust to crust.” The crust may
call up the image of pie, but a more likely meaning in this context is
that of
the crusty covering of an injury (the cat Tomato accidentally runs
over) or
some sexually transmitted disease (herpes, scabies, or syphilis). Then,
the
comparison between panties and prayers (not directly tied to any
apparent part
of the plot developed in that chapter) and the focus on anal sex
exemplify the
novel’s embracing of the shocking and the inexplicable. The main
character is truly obsessed and fascinated with all that is improper,
but not
to the exclusion of more standard philosophical inquiry. She asks
herself time
and again about her purpose on earth, the definition of love, and the
nature of
coincidence. However, the more scandalous elements do tend to stand
out. If one
could ignore the pop-art facade, then surely the book's irreverence and
its
brash and unapologetic vulgarity would make difficult its inclusion in
the
canon of mainstream literature.
The Last
Straw: Queering Familia
Nevertheless,
if one
practices the sort of criticism that celebrates the twisted, the
irreverent,
and the otherwise queer, the inevitability of the fact that what passes
through
one person's mind will be patently offensive to some of her peers, then
Flaming Iguanas is a rare find. Lopez's
disregard of limitations and taboos takes many forms, as is suggested
by the preceding.
However, there is one aspect that deserves particular study for its
determined
irregularity: the queer aspect of family. Cooper argues that the myth
of the
predictably large and loving, stable and secure Latin American (and by
extension U.S. Latina/o) family is one that begs to be demystified and
recreated (2004, 2). The truth is that not every familia
is composed of the same sorts of members, nor does it serve
always the same functions, and most of all familia
does not create a predictable environment where all are accepted and
protected.
The critic Ralph Rodríguez is bothered by the naïve “notion
that familia is a safe haven, an
outside to society’s structuring power relations. Understood in this
manner, familia has been the
operating trope for forming Chicana/o social movements, once again
missing the
multiple ways in which family itself can be oppressive and generating a
nostalgia for a family structure that might save us from the wicked
world” (2003, 74). He suggests that the queer subject must go beyond an
innocent and uncritical vision of family, but rather than attempting to
escape
or deny family completely, the queer must queer family. His specific
expression
is to “scratch” family, in other words “embracing and yet
distancing oneself from family” (81), a concept that comes close to
José Muñoz’s theory of disidentification.
Rodríguez
advocates “the creation of new sets of relations and new lines of
personal connections that offer us a language and practice of
possibilities for
constructing family” (76). The queer familia
that this Chicano critic envisions for his specific culture is exactly
what
Erika Lopez paints from her Nuyorican mixed-race subjectivity in Flaming Iguanas.
Over and
over the
narrator uses insolent humor to undermine the vision of mainstream
heterosexual
family as picture-perfect. Tomato wryly comments that her best friend
Shannon
had left her to become a “Stepford wife with edge” and get
“free stuff” through matrimony (36); she recounts how outside of
her apartment a teenage male hooker is let out of a car sporting one of
those
“proud parent of an honor student” bumper stickers (38); and she
admits that she herself has tried to be the ideal trailer trash wife
with Bert,
her “darling little alcoholic” (145). Bert’s family ethic can
be deduced from what passes for a proclamation of affection: “Well, I
didn’t say I’d marry you or anything. Not yet, anyway. But you could
hang out here, and uh. . . we could hang out together, and well if you
wanted
to or if you got pregnant, well we could get married” (145). Matrimony,
then, is a civil institution that is linked to consumer culture, the
production
of progeny, the support of homosexuality and prostitution, and
premarital sex
ending in self-imposed shotgun weddings. On Tomato's motorcycle journey
she
does her part to further subvert the sanctity of the idea of
traditional
marriage and family, having a brief tryst with her two Canadian Johns.(7) Tomato explains:
“These were not
the raping and pillaging kind of Canadian guys. They were family men
who had
desk jobs, lived with lawns, and I was their Stranded Biker Girl
Experience” (125). Again, the appearance of social conformity seems to
be
much more important than any actual compliance with vows of monogamy or
honesty; in this case the physical travel outside of their domestic
sphere
leaves men with the assumption that the regular rules do not apply.
If she is
the Canadian
Johns’ experience, their incursion into the queer, they simply serve to
reinforce for her the unrelentingly flexible parameters of acceptable
family
composition and behavior. Tomato’s nuclear family is doubly
queer–both odd and gay–although they sound somewhat straitlaced and
cranky. She explains that her mom and Violet–her mom's girlfriend of
fifteen years–“split up all the time and move out of each
other’s houses. Between them, there are like four or five houses all
over
South Jersey because some of them are ‘too painful’ to move back
into” (51). One of Tomato’s visits home comically highlights the
couple's obsessive boundary issues and their “processing” based on
decades of therapy, a caricature of stereotypical lesbian love. This
provides
the backdrop for Tomato’s confession to her mom that she has been
contemplating becoming a lesbian herself. As Tomato bears her soul, the
older
woman reads and drinks wine in the Jacuzzi, forgetting to listen to her
daughter’s confession and plea for information. This is when Tomato has
an epiphany about her queer but not-queer family, that actually her
mother and
Violet spend most of their time avoiding the thought of what or who
they
actually are. “Violet was fifty-five years old, Catholic, and in denial
about loving women. My mother just figured it was no one’s business. So
it got to the point where they were pretending they weren’t
‘lesbians’ with each other, especially because they hated the word.
They thought it was harsh to the ear with the ‘z’ crashing right
into the ‘b’ sound” (176). That this episode of the
contradictory evocation and denial of a lesbian sexuality occurs in a
hot tub,
the setting of so many pornographic as well as drunken and denied
seduction
scenes, is an irony not lost on the reader. At the same time, the two
girlfriends bickering and the studied isolation that constructs an
invisible
boundary between mother and daughter deflate the erotic component of
the
lesbian relationship. It is just another white elephant in the Jacuzzi.
Nevertheless,
Tomato’s romanticization of the lesbian connection (and the gay element
of the queer family) is understandable, considering the alternative
modeled by
her father. She remembers that when she and her 7 year old sister Glena
go to
stay with Dad, who drinks too much and beds his coed students, he ends
up
punching his youngest daughter because she didn’t wash her hair (68).
The
family’s exemplar of the patriarchal hetero-normative culture does not
exactly inspire confidence or emulation. At some point Dad has moved to
California and started running a sex-toy shop with a lesbian named
Hodie,
further complicating the oddity of the family mythology. Now, in a
setup worthy
of the soaps, Tomato is taking her motorcycle cross-country to see her
dying
father, but by the time Tomato arrives, her father has already died,
leaving
her at somewhat of a loss. The dearth is soon eliminated as Tomato
focuses her
road-fueled sexual excitement onto the older, experienced butch. Hodie
finally
provides her with the opportunity to try full-scale sex with a woman,
and work
through some childhood issues (the protagonist mentions the Electra
Complex) in
a non-therapeutic atmosphere (250). Nonetheless, this experience
doesn’t
turn out exactly as she anticipates or dreads. Tomato exclaims:
To my relief, the next morning
I didn't
feel like a member of a lesbian gang. I didn't feel this urge to
subscribe to
lesbian magazines, wear flannel shirts, wave DOWN WITH THE PATRIARCHY
signs in
the air, or watch bad lesbian movies to see myself represented. No. I
wanted a
Bisexual Female Ejaculating Quaker role model. And where was she,
dammit?
(251)
Queer
family does not
admit the restraints even of an alternative or subculture, and the
protagonist
does not shy away from claiming her own unique identity, even when that
transgresses the limitations implied by any externally-conceived label.
Quite
the opposite, she is delighted to ignore societal norms, or better, to
taunt
those around her (especially the reader) by going one step further.
Notwithstanding
the
violence, enmeshment, and sexualization of the rest of the family
system,
perhaps the most outlandish relationship of all is that between Tomato
and her
sister. The two are close
emotionally as well as in age, although Tomato has always felt like the
cretin
of the family, without proper manners or an acceptable form of
expression. While
her brash vulgarity permeates the novel, one scene in particular
represents the
pinnacle of transgression of the family ideal:
I sat next to my sister on the sofa and
started blowing in her ear. She smacked me on the leg so she could
watch
TV.
"Don't worry, Glena-Glane.
Momma-girl
knows about our special drive-in-movie kind of love," I said in a cheap
southern accent.
I joke about incest with my
sister and
thank God it doesn't bother my mother.
When I want to know if I look good in something, I ask Glena if
it makes
her want to have sex with me. When she doesn't say anything I like to
believe
it means, "why, of course." I tell her if we were back in West
Virginia we wouldn't have to be ashamed of our love and she could bear
my
children. And in case something went wrong with the kids, there are
special
schools, you know. (53)
The
protagonist's ease and
humor diffuse the absolute seriousness of the incest taboo; at the same
time,
discussing incest so blithely is intrinsically queer. The desire and
contradictory revulsion that surround incest are principal social and
psychological motivators. However, there are many who would use
Tomato’s
running incest joke (and another jest two pages later about bestiality)
as
another reason to condemn her family as singularly odd and
unacceptable. In
this passage, the threat of sexual transgression within the family,
combined
with the skewed representation of the protagonist's gender and related
power to
impregnate is enough to make most readers a bit edgy, to infuse their
laugh
with a nervousness that can permeate the entire reading. Then too,
Tomato’s comments associate this improper behavior with a certain class
and regional area, a linking which underscores other class-related
gender/sexual stereotyping, like her attempts at being a trailer trash
wife. It
would take a determinedly ingenuous reader, however, to view said
scenes as
examples of classist or discriminatory rhetoric. Lopez’s
strength lies in laughing
at herself just as she laughs at the hegemony and the disinherited.
Indeed,
the most compelling and
valuable contribution made by this novel is the disidentificatory
strategy of
recuperating these emotionally loaded issues and performing them with a
humor
that recognizes the patently ridiculous within the abject. Within lies
the freedom
from internal and external discrimination, as explained by José
Esteban
Muñoz. “Let me be clear about one thing,” warns
Muñoz:
disidentification
is about cultural, material,
and psychic survival. It is a response to state and global power
apparatuses
that employ systems of racial, sexual, and national subjugation. These
routinized protocols of subjugation are brutal and painful.
Disidentification
is about managing and negotiating historical trauma and systemic
violence…I have wanted to posit that such processes of
self-actualization
come into discourse as a response to ideologies that discriminate
against,
demean, and attempt to destroy components of subjectivity that do not
conform
or respond to narratives of universalization and normalization. (1999, 161)
Lopez
embraces even the most
painful elements of her experience, but never in an innocent manner,
rather as
a prelude to a process of transformation that shifts the locus of power
into
her own hands. If she has lived out her idealized version of Anglo
working
class life, perhaps initially believing that she was doing so to escape
her own
ethnic heritage and the inescapably connected social disapproval, then
she also
has experienced an epiphany of sorts around race and class. After her
time with
Bert, she understands the nonsensical nature of a social hierarchy that
can
value spam above beans and rice, or vice-versa. Moving from the barrio
to the
trailer park essentially makes no difference in her life, as long as
she is
still attempting to shift responsibility away from herself for her own
identity
and future. Bert’s whiteness cannot negate her brownness, his
gender-normativity cannot relieve her of her queerness, and his
oblivious
stupidity cannot take the edge off of her critical acumen. However, he
can
provide a mirror that eventually reflects the reality of her situation:
she is
a mixture of artist and working class, United States Imperial Anglo and
colonial Puerto Rican, gay and straight, passive and assertive. In
order to
gain a sense of who she is, she must identify with the disparate
elements of
her makeup and then morph them into her own construction of self.
Tomato’s
hybrid
identity, one that shies away from full identification with any one
group, be
it ethnic, social, or sexual, brings up another issue related to the
transparent borders that circumscribe any particular field. Some queer
readers
can thrill in the tension that arises from the perverse, in this case
the
complete disregard of censorship around family and sex. On the other
hand, it
is important to note that Tomato's somewhat unflattering portrayal of
her
lesbian mother and her insistent queering of family and individual
sexuality
mean that Flaming Iguanas is not even
particularly attractive to all sectors of gay/lesbian studies (8). Her
unapologetic bisexuality can be seen as betrayal, sell-out, and
insulting, and
as an expression of the younger generation runs the risk of undermining
the
tenuous popularity (or in some sectors of culture and the profession
tolerance)
of the gay lifestyle. You can almost hear the reaction of
serious-minded
lesbian feminist separatists: "Tomato and the author are both young
upstarts, without two morals to rub together, and a serious identity
crisis to
top it all off." In discussing her non-monolithic portrayal of
sexuality
in the novel, and her general lack of self-censorship, Erika Lopez
acknowledges
that some lesbians and gay men have criticized and/or ostracized her as
a
direct result of this novel. Along these same lines, claiming that 90 %
of the
novel is autobiographical, Lopez admits to having angered a lot wider
range of
people than that, not the least of whom are the wives of the married
Canadian
men --the aforementioned family Johns (class visit). If the author will
not be
held back by the fear that her family and friends, even her immediate
queer
community will react poorly to her counter hegemonic narrative, then
certainly
she is not going to back down at the threat of non-inclusion in the
mainstream
canon.
I suggested
above that
there are more ways than one to relegate a literary work to
invisibility within
academia. The queering of Flaming Iguanas,
or in other words, the fairly effortless work of highlighting the queer
in this
novel, makes clear many of the reasons why it is not an easy addition
to the
canon. The physical appearance of the book, the bawdy tone, the use of
a young
and patently offensive language, the foregrounding of a sexually
transgressive
ethic, and the very queer representation of family make it
controversial, even
dangerous.(9) The novel exists on a queer edge,
and as such is not
easily embraceable from the center, as represented by the canon of U.S.
American
(Ethnic) literature. Yet, perhaps there are reasons why this is an
unfair
evaluation and treatment of the novel.
There is an
aspect of
Lopez and Flaming Iguanas that
insinuates, "Don't take me seriously, don't take this
seriously, and don't make the mistake of thinking that I
do." Flaming Iguanas is
self-consciously performative, as is the author when she reads from or
talks
about the book. Her gestures are bigger than life, and somewhat in the
mode of
a boisterous, sexy, long/frizzy-haired Carlos Fuentes, many of the
lines are
pronouncements (class visit). Unlike those of the Mexican canonical
author,
Lopez's revelations are aggressively tongue-in-cheek, funny, and sexual
in
nature. This tendency to pronounce and opine is one of the many
characteristics
that the author seems to have bestowed upon her main character Tomato.
A case
in point is a scene in which the protagonist is watching some lesbian
porn: "I
hung up the phone, lit a cigarette and watched the video as one of the
high-haired girls sucked wildly on her aerobic instructor's nipples
without
smearing her lip gloss, and I asked my cat, 'Hey Nena, come over here.
Do you
ever fantasize about something and then after you get off, think, oh, that is so stupid?' She looked at
me, and her eyes said all the fucking
time" (178). Although the protagonist's packaging of her nuggets of
wisdom suggests a generation-X posturing, it may be just this fresh
framing
that will make the age-old message intelligible and relevant to readers
of the
new millennium.
The
question of whether
to include Flaming Iguanas in the
lists of recommended readings for scholars of American (and
specifically
Latina) literature brings to mind the question of separation of high
art from
low art, now a subject of debate for some decades. This novel crosses
genre
boundaries, incorporating the popular and vulgar along with the poetic,
and
looses the voice of a renegade woman onto the sensitivities of a
literary
elite. Paul Julian Smith and Emilie L. Bergmann caution us that "the
question of drawing the line between the native and foreign, proper and
alien,
is always a complex one" (1995, 2). Yes, Erika Lopez may seem foreign
and
alien when viewed alongside of more mainstream continental Puerto Rican
authors
like Esmeralda Santiago. However, critics like Goldman assert that the
value of
the novel is exactly its “narrative that weaves together the
conventional
and the radical… construct[ing] a queer Latina romance that is both
legible and desirable” (13). Moreover, the work has its place within
literary history: only think of the picaresque, the road novel, and the
novel
of epiphany. Lopez consciously includes direct literary allusions to
evoking
these classic traditions, with mentions of Kerouac, Hunter Thompson,
Henry
Miller, and Erika Jong (27). With respect to this point, Goldman’s
study
cogently explicates how the specifically Latina consciousness “is
reconfiguring
traditional inscriptions of sexual tourism. In [the] novel, the
national
landscape becomes the space of sexual tourism, and the transcultural
and
transgressive are interwoven in a single trajectory that both produces
unexpected results and rewrites the conventional juxtaposition of
difference
and displacement” (4).
Is she or
isn’t she? Only her hairdresser knows for
sure…
If Flaming Iguanas is Literature (with a capital L),
deserving of
critical merit and inclusion in the wide range of privileges of that
classification, can we go further to posit that it forms a legitimate
part of a
specific canon, such as that of the Puerto Rican Diaspora? Are there
elements
that mark the work as belonging, beyond any shadow of a doubt (because
we do
have to admit that the jury here will assume the guilt, the lack, or
the
legitimate invisibility of the work until proven wrong)? In general,
the queer
Hispanic text has included historically (in the short visible history
that
exists) a sharp and slippery questioning of subject positions and
identities,
including that of ethnicity and national identity (Bergmann and Smith
1995, 2).
Specific issues that have been seen as key in the analysis of other,
canonized
works of Puerto Rican Diaspora literature include immigrant and
bicultural
identity, the complications of language, questions of color and other
physical
markings of race. One of the foremost scholars that interpolate
questions of
anti-normativity within those of Puerto Rican identity, Lawrence La
Fountain-Stokes suggests that Erika Lopez’s work is distinctively
Boricua, but that her brand of “Puerto Ricanness assume[s] a
significantly different spin” (294).
As might be
predicted,
Lopez's treatment of Latinidad and Puertorriqueñismo
is as queer,
irreverent, and edgy as the rest of the novel, but it is undeniably
there. As
such she shares a liminal yet important space with queer Latinas such
as
writers Achy Obejas, performers Carmelita Tropicana and Monica
Palacios, and
critics like Michelle Habel-Pallán. She may be writing from an
imposed
closet, but she definitely is situated within the Latino Diaspora
solar, to
adapt Alicia Gaspar de Alba’s conceptualization of Chicana/o pop
culture
texts as a place where the conjunction of ethnicity and sexuality is
most strongly
articulated (2003, xxi-xxiii). In the first pages of the novel, Tomato
mentions
her "huge Latin American breasts" (2), and her code switching
includes such gems as nicknaming a lover "Hooter-mujer" (248). Laffrado
explores in some detail the way in which the line drawings and modified
rubber
stamps in this and other Lopez novels “refigure” and
“ironize” societal images of the Latina. “These
overdetermined figures mock the social framing of Latina women… Lopez
reworks these stereotypes to give them female agency, self-possession,
and
sexuality” (411). Equally interesting are the ways in which Lopez
approaches the protagonist’s contemplation of her own mestiza Boricua
identity. In one monologue she explains:
I don't feel white, gay,
bisexual, black, or like
a brokenhearted Puerto Rican in West Side Story, but sometimes I feel
like all
of them. Sometimes I feel so white
I want to speak in twang and belong to the KKK, experience the
brotherhood and
simplicity of opinions. . . Sometimes I want to be so black, my hair in
skinny
long braids, that black guys nod and say 'hey, sister' when they pass
me by in
the street. / I want the story, the rhythm, the myths that come with
the color.
. Other times I wish I was born speaking Spanish so that I could
sound like I
look without curly-hair apologies.
(28-29)
What is in
focus here is
not only the impossibility of either embracing or denying all facets of
an
immigrant and hybrid identity, but also the slippage between craving
and
repulsion. The protagonist wants a purity of experience that allows an
almost
mystical exultation in each part of her, yet must disavow and denigrate
her
complete self. One is reminded of the seductiveness of the abject and
the
compelling force of desire (sexual and philosophical hunger) that
drives both
the creation and the reception of the queer text (10).
However,
the most
telling remarks that mark Flaming Iguanas
as a novel of the Puerto Rican Diaspora hark back to the central
disturbance of
this paper, that of the queer family. One must recognize that this is
not a
comfortable commodification of Latina identity, or of Puerto Rican
culture,
packaged to sell a certain limited and predetermined image of latinidad lite, a tendency lamented by
Juan Flores. The protagonist describes her own sense of queerness in
the midst
of her family, her Puerto Rican hybrid family that embodies her past
and
present as much as it eludes a direct correspondence with her own
perception of
self. Just as the family doesn't conform to a traditional picture of
heterosexuality,
homogeneity, or domestic bliss, there is no more conformity of outward
appearance than of style. Tomato's mother is light-skinned and her
father dark,
leaving the girls with mixed characteristics as well. The protagonist
explains,
"My sister ended up with pretty yellow Perdue-chicken skin, and when
she
gets a tan, she's golden, and I call her my little pollo.
. Me, I ended up kind of gray brown" (54). However,
some features like Tomato's pointy nose and curly hair leave others
wondering
how to categorize her, just as she is confused herself. In fact, she
shares the
racial mixture and social confusion characteristic of Caribbean
islanders who
immigrate to the United States, where black and white is not just a
fallacy,
but is a dividing line that does not admit any grey area. Clearly, the
institution of family is where the concepts of racial difference
continue to be
perpetuated, as children are differentiated by their good and bad hair,
their
“tan.”
As the
novel winds down,
it becomes clear that the protagonist has not had the sort of complete
catharsis that she had hungered for--she has not found a concrete and
unchallengeable identity, sexually or any other way, still not being "a
real Puerto Rican in the Bronx. . . a good one-night-stand lesbian. . .
[or] a
real biker chick" (241). As Melissa Solomon argues, Lopez might be best
classified as a “lesbian bardo,” in that she portrays and explores
“the transitional spaces between different and conflicting definitions
of
lesbian” (203). Looking at the final words of the novel, one wonders
whether Lopez may invoke an odd, twisted, and queer note of hope that
offers an
escape from the false dichotomy of hetero-homo. Ever the artist and the
idealist, Tomato envisions working with her father's ex-partner (for
the moment
her lover) to create a line of fake penis postage stamps, which would
be
successful because they "are all about penetration, communication, and
dreams coming true in front of a warped circus mirror for EVERYBODY"
(257).(11) In a
way Tomato
is suggesting that she take on the strategies of the patriarchal and
hegemonic
in order to perpetuate her own counter hegemonic, non-normative
artistic
vision. Her vision, however, is inclusive in the extreme: she wants
“EVERYBODY” to benefit from the “warped circus mirror.”
Like in the circus sideshow, where indeed no one can escape from the
strangely
transformed image of self that appears larger than life, no one is
exempt from
personal identification with this novel, symbolized by her postage
stamp
project. In the two-page representation of penis stamps, Lopez/Tomato
have
included such a diversity of imagery that every reader is sure to
recognize
many and find some personal connection with at least a few. Some penises are historical, like the Ye
Olde Plymouth Rock Penis, the Penis Posse, and the St. Valentine’s Day
Penis Massacre. A few will spark recognition only in those with some
level of
art history knowledge, like Penis Descending a Staircase and Andy
Warhol Penis.
In contrast are the contemporary figures and borrowings of popular
culture:
Fabio, Prince Charles, Kate Moss, the X-Files, and Absolute Vodka.
Others
humorously bring to mind very general experiences, like the Gas Station
Penis
Map, the Sunburn Penis, or the Penis Using a Litterbox. Some
confrontationally
juxtapose the penis with childhood images such as Bozo the Clown and A Christmas Carol (the Ghost of Penis
Present). Even more provoking, perhaps, are the various religious
scenes like
the Zen Penis, the Buddhist Penis, and the Penis Last Supper. It seems
as if
Lopez (and her protagonist Tomato) want to be sure to thumb her nose at
every
sacred icon and tradition—an equal-opportunity smorgasbord of irony and
social criticism. She screams that the penis is ubiquitous (which it
is), and
it does not belong uniquely to the patriarchy. Rather, here the image
of the
penis as central element of everything recalls Tomato’s
conceptualization
of queer family throughout the novel. We are all, at heart (or at
penis), kith
and kin, and we are all inescapably odd, hybrid mixtures of the
acceptable and
unacceptable.
From Puerto
Rico to New
Jersey to California is a winding road, of asphalt, words, and skewed
visions. Has
Erika Lopez, like a conflated Latina version of Thelma and Louise,
taken a
family road trip of self-discovery, only to shoot right over the big
wide edge?(12) Will
she shoot off the edge of
propriety, sobriety, and literary piety, which instead of notoriety
will gain her
only a whisper or a whimper? Has her queering of family and literary
form
inescapably marginalized her and disincluded her from the canon? And if
it has,
is this a good or a bad thing? If the canon is by definition
normalizing, then
perhaps Flaming Iguanas can only
retain its transformative and critical function on the edge, where
canonization
cannot disempower its discourse. From this vantage point Lopez can
continue to
make obscenely loud noises in the forest with "no one" official
around to "hear." Perhaps both the longstanding expectations and even
the passing fancies that inform literary criticism, and thus to some
extent
what passes into the canon, would only be a hindrance to a work like Flaming Iguanas. On the one hand, its
incursion into the comic or graphic novel genre is in essence a
thumbing of the
nose at rules and regulations. As a highly creative and underground
genus,
comics (like queer literature) are in some ways anathema to the very
ideals of
a literary canon. Hatfield warns that “it makes no sense, and indeed
would be bitterly ironic, to erect a comics ‘canon,’ an
authoritative consensus that would reproduce, within the comics field,
the same
operations of exclusion and domination that have for so long been
brought to
bear against the field as a whole” (2005, xiii). On the other hand,
Erika
Lopez’s novelistic production as a whole does fit into another category
of cultural production that also has defied convention and survived
attempts at
silencing it, that of U.S. Latina writers, graphic artists, and
performers.
Returning
to previous
thoughts on silence and admissible conversation, we can celebrate along
with
Julia Alvarez that a new generation of Latina writers is consistently
and
coherently challenging the long-time restrictions of what may be said,
or to
extrapolate, what may be written.
These wise, funny, very smart,
and
passionate young women are speaking up. In fact, if I were to single
out the
single most important change in this new generation, is that these
mujeres are talking,
and how. They’re confiando and fessing up, and that feels like the
strongest bond, what creates a true community, one that doesn’t leave
out
the thorny question or answer we don’t want to think about. (2004, xvi)
This, then,
is the
advantage to existing on the fringe of the traditional literary canon
at this
particular point in time: the fringe is growing at an incredible rate
and
gaining strength in the energy and tension inherent in its push-pull
relationship with mainstream culture and literature.
An alternative canon that embraces U.S.
Latina queer writers has come into a position of power that insures
continued
existence despite opposition and may even be able to disregard the
foundational
assumption that a cultural elite has the right to judge the value of a
new
novel or even a new genre. In this young forest, the trees can fall and
be
heard notwithstanding the most obdurate deafness engendered by
entrenched tradition
and hetero-normativity. What’s more, the existence of this counter
canon actively
encourages a frank and loud engagement with formerly silenced topics.
Erika
Lopez thus joins the ranks of outspoken Latinas like Alicia Gaspar de
Alba,
Cherríe Moraga, Nina Marie Martínez, and the novísimas
represented in Robyn Moreno and Michelle
Herrera-Mulligan’s Border-Line
Personalities (2004).
The mixture
of verbal
and visual elements in Flaming Iguanas
bring it closer in essence to the Chicana and Latina performative
pieces
studied by Michelle Habell-Pallán in Loca
Motion. Habell-Pallán explains that the artists she studies
are
“important because they construct transnational imaginaries within the
Americas that are shaped by a particular historical moment, politics,
and
humor” (2005, 2). Moreover, like Erika Lopez, they bring in questions
of gender
and sexuality alongside of race, nationality and ethnicity. Finally,
they are
shaped by the emergence of a powerful pop-culture, punk/hip-hop
aesthetic that
directly challenges the “neoconservative queer bashing and
anti-immigrant
hostility” present at the end of the twentieth century (2). If indeed
Lopez falls into the general terrain of the artists studied by
Habell-Pallán, then probably the critic’s most helpful and
illuminating insight that we may transfer to this discussion of Lopez
is her
understanding of the underlying tone and ideology of the works in
question. In
Habell-Pallán’s words, “Although acknowledging that their
point of origin is important, these artists are much more focused on a
politics
of destination” (4). What’s more, “their engagement with pop
culture is subversive to the degree that it has hope for an America
that has
yet to live up to its democratic possibility” (6). I think that Flaming Iguanas is Erika Lopez’s
manifesto of hope for herself, her family, and her Latina identity. In
the
novel Tomato has found a way to gather to herself the strength, ethnic
pride,
and history of traditional family without giving up a single iota of
the
quirkiness, sensuality, and rebeldía
of her own non-normative soul. Yes, the influence of her Puerto Rican
heritage
and Nuyorican youth is a beloved part of her identity, as are all of
the gender
role expectations that stem from both, but this is merely her origin.
More
importantly, this All-Girl Road Novel
Thing never ceases to emphasize movement, transition, change.
Reflecting a
centuries-old belief of this country, she shows that identity and
destiny can
only be found in pushing forward the frontiers. However, despite the
fact that
she literally follows in the footsteps of her ancestors in crossing the
continent, the true frontier Tomato is forging is in her perspective on
life
and family. The queer family, as well as the queer text that
transgresses
boundaries meant to keep literature in line, is in truth a reflection
(albeit
in that circus mirror) of the only reality that we have. It will be in
the
loving acceptance of a queered reality, an embrace in which the warm
pressure
of our own bodies changes the shape of the embraced every time, that we
have a
future.
Endnotes
(1). I would like to gratefully
acknowledge
the substantial commentary of Naomi Lindstrom, Yvonne Yarbro-Bejarano,
and my
many esteemed colleagues in Mujeres Activas en Letras y Cambio Social,
all of
which inspired me to expand, revise and update the original paper
presented at
the Modern Language Association’s Annual Convention in 2000
(Washington,
D.C.). The conversation generated at that panel, “The Invisible Canon:
Forgotten Names, Marginalized Texts,” also provided much-needed
stimulus
and provocative questions. Thanks as well to Dara Goldman, who was
generous
enough to send me a copy of her paper given at the 2006 LASA conference
in
Puerto Rico.
(2). Given the similarities between
Lopez’s work and feminist graphic novels, her subversive power should
be
of no surprise. According to critic and historian Sherrie A. Inness
“comic books are also at the cutting edge of exploring new definitions
of
gender because of their marginalization, which allows them to be what
Ronald
Schmitt [in Deconstructive Comics] identifies as an ‘important
deconstructive and revolutionary medium in the 20th
Century’” (153). Inness
goes on, explaining that “this deconstructive power is one of the
reasons
feminist theorists should be interested in comic books—texts that can
create alternative worlds in which gender operates very differently
than it
does in our own real world” (141).
(3).
More visually related to the mainstream comic strip, Spiegelmen’s Maus, Maus II, and especially In the Shadow
of No Towers have been
garnering serious critical attention.
See, for example, Marianne Hirch’s Family Frames: Photography, Narrative and
Postmemory (1997) and
the October
2004 issue of PMLA that features
images from The Shadow on the front cover as well as discussion of the
work
itself and the genre in Hirsch’s editorial.
(4).
See, for example, “The Lesbian Body in Latina Cultural Production”
and The Wounded Heart: Writing on
Cherríe Moraga.
(5).
Although of course it is much too soon to tell if indeed Flaming
Iguanas will be accepted into any particular category of
the canon, originally I was inspired to write on the
“unacceptability” of the novel due to my experience in a Queer
Theory reading group at California State University, Chico in 2000. A group of staunch feminists with
interest in the burgeoning field of queer studies, we read both
literary and
critical texts over the course of a semester. When
we read Flaming Iguanas, despite the novel’s strong
woman protagonist
and sex-positive message, notwithstanding the innovative stylistic and
structural elements, all of the group members but myself and one other
decided
that not only did they not like the novel, but they were sure it wasn’t
real literature. It was too pop
culture, too course, and too flippant. It was a comic book, one said.
It did
not make a stand politically or socially, another complained. It undermined the progress made by gay
and lesbian activists over the past three decades.
Perhaps also they found troublesome the
fact that, as critic Laura Laffrado points out, “The model of female
subjectivity inscribed and visualized in Lopez’s texts is compulsorily
‘I’-centered; it does not promote a conventional notion of
belonging to a female community as a basis of self-representation”
(408). I found it significant that the
only
other woman who shared my opinion was quite young, of the same
generation as
the author. Although I readily acknowledge the limited scope of this
one
personal experience, I have noticed that the critical scholarship on
Lopez’s work does tend to come from the newer generations of scholars
(those of us in our 50’s and younger). The novel also has been a
resounding success in the classroom, which suggests that a future
generation of
literary critics (or a certain sort) will champion the book along with
us.
(6).
The cover picture of the paperback edition, as many other examples of
the stamp
and line art within the text, can be seen as a disidentificatory
practice, as
defined by Muñoz. Here,
Lopez recuperates the image of the Latin bombshell, the tourist
attraction, and
the exoticized Latin music mystique, giving them all a twist. Framing the woman on top of a
motorcycle, in the context of what is called an all-girl road novel, places the erotic gesture of her partial
undressing in a different light.
One must now question whether she is prostituting herself and
her
identity for the dominant group (political, social, or gender) or
whether she
is flouting their rules, claiming her own sexual power, and laughing at
anyone
who doesn't approve. In the end,
the image captures much of its power from the mixture of its heavily
charged
sexist iconography with new elements suggestions of personal power,
humor, and
rebellion. For a discussion of the hard-back jacket cover, as well as
more
in-depth exploration of the physical elements of Lopez’s first three
works, see Laffrado.
(7).
Coincidentally, Puerto-Rican writer Letisha Marrero details a phone-sex
escapade with a “Canadian named John who happened to be incarcerated in
a
Florida jail cell,” one assumes a different John (143).
(8).
The schism between gay studies and queer studies is pronounced in some
of
Sedgwick's essays in Tendencies, where she explores an identity not
hemmed in
by restrictions of gender or sexual orientation. Thus,
a lesbian who loves, marries, and
sleeps with a gay man is not outside the realm of the queer. Similarly, a non-exclusionary outlook is
professed by Philip Brian Harper in several essays, where he reminds
the reader
that the involuntary visibility and invisibility of homosexuality is
much like
that of the homeless, people of color and other groups who exist
outside of the
confines of supposed normalcy.
(9).
An interesting comparison might be made with the literary production
and
critical reception of feminist writer Kathy Acker (1947-1997). Acker’s work, which incorporates a
brash treatment of sexuality and some truly innovative structural and
stylistic
elements, has received critical acclaim in postmodern circles, but also
exists
on the edge of the literary tradition to some extent.
One wonders how the element of race and
ethnicity of the authors, as well as the time period of their
production, may
contribute to their placement in the American canon.
(10).
The inescapability of desire as a textual element arises consistently
in queer
criticism. As suggested by
Muñoz, in reference to Marga Gómez's monologues delivered
from
the sexed space of her on-stage
bed, "The importance of such public and semi-public enactments of the
hybrid self cannot be undervalued in relation to the formation of
counterpublics that contest the hegemonic supremacy of the majoritarian
public
sphere" (1). Often
desire is entwined with the concept of abjection or repulsion, as in
Bergmann's
"Abjection and Ambiguity: Lesbian Desire in Bemberg's Yo,
la peor de todas" in Hispanisms
and Homosexualities and Ana García Chichester's "Codifying
Homosexuality as Grotesque: The Writings of Virgilio Piñera" in Bodies & Biases.
(11).
See Laffrado for a fascinating discussion of the representation of the
penis in
Lopez’s first three published works.
(12).
In the film Thelma and Louise, best friends flee from the authorities
in a
classic convertible after one of them accidentally kills a man who is
trying to
rape her. As they get further from
their origin geographically, the women realize that they also are
retreating
from the restrictions that society had placed upon them as women. They understand that they no longer can
live within such a system nor tolerate such prohibitions and
inhibitions, and
they plan and implement various acts of rebellion and revenge
throughout their
road trip. Nevertheless, the
“law of the father” comes ever closer to capturing them, and the
film ends as they act on the decision to drive full-speed toward a
cliff,
holding hands, the gleam of triumph strong in their eyes.
The implication, of course, is that
rather than force themselves to adhere to social expectations of
gender, they
willingly sacrifice their lives altogether, while holding out a tenuous
and
unarticulated hope that they will be catapulted into another dimension
where
their subjectivity will not be squelched.
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