Latin@ Rising

by Matthew Goodwin

  Perhaps, however, it’s all much more straightforward. Like all aesthetic artifacts, SciFi narrative fiction is the distillation then recreation of a chosen slice of reality to make new our perception, thought, and feeling. It is the making of a blueprint inclusive of mention of “scientific knowledge” (in bold scare quotes) that aims to create a new relational experience between the subject (reader/viewer) and object (novel, comic book, film). When Hal goes crazy in 2001, all along the story we have a series of explanations given to the audience as to what is going on. We’re given a “scientific explanation” all along. This differs from, say, Cortázar’s short story “Axolotl,” where the human protagonist transmogrifies into an Axolotl without scientific explanation. The interpenetration of different ontologies simply happens. In each case the pact established with the viewer and reader is very different. SciFi is all about how creators create relations (or pacts) with their readers through a “scientific” explanation.

  I might add, that no matter how purposefully the SciFi author (Latin@ or otherwise) seeks to contradict his or her reader’s expectations, they generally don’t seek to override the legality of the universe; the laws that govern the physical and social universe as we know it today. Even in some of the most creatively envisioned fictions like Lem’s Solaris with its sentient planet and Flatland with its 2D universe, there are referents to a law-like universe with its furnishings.

  Within the constraints outlined above whereby an author chooses certain conceits to establish a pact with the reader, there is total freedom. Authors like Ernest Hogan, Sabrina Vourvoulias, Frank Espinosa, Los Bros Hernandez, and all those collected in this volume, do indicate — reference — the universe, its laws, and its furnishings, but within this they also imagine new technologies, objects, and ontologies. That is, within the indexical constraints that allow us readers to recognize inanimate things and living entities, anything can and does go.

  Creators of narrative fictions with a so-called scientific explanation (hard or soft) distill from, then reconstruct the building blocks of reality. Today, and yesterday, these building blocks of reality in the US have been increasingly made up of Latinos and Latinas. Today, as the majority minority in this country (and in many states the majority), our existence, actions, and products are undeniably visible. Yet, we’re still oddly absent from mainstream SciFi narrative fictions. It doesn’t help matters either that we are egregiously absent from SciFi scholarly histories, including most glaringly Brian Stableford’s The A to Z of Science Fiction Literature. (Scholars like Christopher González, Catherine Ramírez, and Andrea L. Bell and Yolanda Molina-Gavilán are working to set the record straight here.) Latin@ Rising shows the world something different. That we are capable of creating (and consuming) storyworlds whereby we are the subjects of scientifically explained future-set worlds.

  As seen with the great abundance of stories in this volume, Latin@ authors can and do imagine storyworlds that at once call attention to the past (colonial histories) and look forward to a future where there exist relations of equality between Latin@s and others—and where empathy and solidarity are the rule everywhere. They move beyond those SciFi stories created by non-Latin@s who often seem boxed in by capitalist modes of thinking. The white savior, Manifest Destiny mythos of James Cameron’s Avatar is a case in point. Authors included here such as Kathleen Alcalá, Ana Castillo, Junot Díaz, Carlos Hernandez, Ernest Hogan, Adál Maldonado, Carmen Maria Machado, Daniel José Older, Edmundo Paz-Soldán, and Sabrina Vourvoulias, among others, throw us into the middle of hot zone apocalyptic plagues, shapeshifting robots, intergalactic skinwalkers, pre-Columbian holobooks, cyberpunkistas, banderos for hire, Crypto-Jews, transatlantic Latin@s, hybrid invertebrate/human mestizos, chino-cubano and Nipo-peruanos border crossers, Mars inhabiting Jewish Tejanos, Latina cyborgs born of recycled parts, and cybernetically-wired patron saints. They open our eyes, thoughts, and feelings to issues of colonialism, migration, racism, and totalitarian regimes. They offer alternative social structures that allow for the full realization of our potentialities.

  To return where I began, I am a Latin@ whose intellectual journey was born from my encounter with SciFi. And if Latin@s are the future of this country, I dare end by saying that science fiction is me.

  Works Cited

  González, Christopher. “Intertextploitation and Post Post-Latinidad in Planet Terror”. In Critical Approaches to the Films of Robert Rodriguez. Ed. Frederick Luis Aldama (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2015).

  —. “Latino Sci-Fi: Cognition and Narrative Design in Alex Rivera’s Sleep Dealer”. In Latinos and Narrative Media: Participation and Portrayal. Ed. Frederick Luis Aldama (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013).

  Bell, Andrea L. and Yolanda Molina-Gavilán. Eds. Cosmos Latinos: An Anthology of Science Fiction from Latin America and Spain (Wesleyan University Press, 2003).

  Suvin, Darko. Metamorphosis of Science Fiction (Yale University Press, 1979).

  Canavan, Gerry and Priscilla Wald. “Preface,” in American Literature, Vol. 83, no. 2 (June 2011).

  THE ROAD TO NYER

  (after Isak Dinesen’s “The Roads Round Pisa”)

  Kathleen Alcalá

  In a review of Alcalá’s remarkable collection of short stories, Mrs. Vargas and the Dead Naturalist (1992), Ursula K. LeGuin points to the originality of Alcalá’s vision: “The kingdom of Borges and García Marquez lie just over the horizon, but this landscape of desert towns and dreaming hearts … is Alcalá-land. It lies just across the border between Mexico and California, across the border between the living and the dead, across all the borders — a true new world.” Alcalá has a BA in Linguistics from Stanford, a MA in Creative Writing from the University of Washington, and a MFA from the University of New Orleans. She is the author of a trilogy of historical novels and a collection of essays, The Desert Remembers My Name: On Family and Writing (2007). A past alumnus and instructor at the Clarion West Science Fiction Workshop, her stories have appeared in magazines such as Isaac Asimov’s Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and in numerous anthologies including Like Water for Quarks (2011). Her forthcoming work of nonfiction is titled The Deepest Roots: Finding Food and Community on a Pacific Northwest Island. Although her writing very often hearkens back to 19th Century Mexico, in “The Road to Nyer,” the narrator visits Catalonia and gains a new understanding of the ancient roots of her family heritage.

  The road to Nyer hairpinned back on itself just past the turnoff, our first clue we were coming from the wrong direction. Otherwise, the approach was swathed in greenery, vigorous ferns punctuated by palm trees. Beyond the road sign indicating a town in two kilometers, it was impossible to deduce what lay ahead. An easy place to waylay travelers. Perfect country for bandits, I thought, the supposed occupation of my ancestors. Drop a rough log across a narrow road flanked by steep cliffs, and your victim, perhaps in a carriage, perhaps pulling a handcart, has nowhere to go but straight into your arms.

  The road curved west and then swung south, now in the lee of houses clinging to the cliff above it. All at once the village lay before us, topped by a picture book castle at its highest point.

  We parked and got out of the car. It was very quiet. All we could hear was the rushing water of an unseen river below. Perhaps the town was deserted, its use as a fortress having outlived its practicality. Yet everywhere was evidence of habitation, from live potted plants in the windows, to freshly patched and painted walls. The hand-painted portrait of a man in a cap grinned out at us from a small stained glass window that was bricked up from the back. Community water ran into a carefully maintained cistern.

  A boy of around ten sat on the curb, as though waiting for someone, but he scampered off when we drew close. I doubt we could have talked to him anyway, this far north of Barcelona and any dialects I might venture into.

  We trudged up a steep path to the castle, which appeared to have no entrance, and circled left around the base of the tower. Up close, we could see that the wall ha
d been patched and re-patched numerous times over the centuries, brick replaced by stone and filled in with plaster. I ran my hand along the rough surface, wondering how many assaults it had withstood, or if this was a replica built to mimic a “real” castle. It certainly looked authentic — there was no gift shop at ground level, welcoming tourists across a faux drawbridge for a Disneyfied tour of the past. There was no Princess Room, although I could certainly use one after three hours in the car.

  As we entered an alley skirting the east side of the turret, we could look up to a balcony far above. Standing back to examine the decoration, I could see a crest depicted in relief. It consisted of a rooster facing left above an oak tree, next to a pair of crossed quills. Oh joy! I thought. I’ve come to my vocation as a writer honestly. But who uses a pen on their shield? Is the pen really mightier than the sword? Above the shield itself hovered a crown, evidence of their protection by or allegiance to someone or another.

  As we rounded another corner, a burst of noise erupted from a doorway just in front of us. This was followed by silence. Curious, we approached the modern glass door, incongruous with the rest of the building. Inside, we could see people moving about, but when we drew close, all was quiet again. The door was locked.

  We retreated, confused. Cars began to arrive, and people began to enter the same doorway. Each time the door opened, a torrent of noise poured out. I walked up to the door, hoping to discern a friendly face. But the people going in looked neither interested nor menacing, as though we really did not exist. It is the survival instinct of those who live in small towns, I thought. No reason to cozy up to strangers.

  Finally, I screwed up my resolve and approached the door for the third time. After all, I would probably never visit this place again. Let them throw me out. This time, I noticed a second glass door, and as I stared through it at the people milling about inside, a very small man leaning on two canes saw me and struggled with the unwieldy door to let me in.

  I caught the door and entered. Inside was a place neither here nor there, not ancient, but not new, with stone floors and a stairway that curved up into the tower and out of sight. The man said something I could not understand.

  I tried to say, “I’m here to see the castle. I am a Nyer” in my poor French. He looked confused. “Just a minute, let me get my husband.” Sometimes men were more comfortable talking to him, although he could not speak any of the local languages. This usually led to an interesting game of charades: I spoke to the locals, they looked at my husband and spoke to him, he shrugged, and I answered. Repeat.

  The man balanced precariously on his canes looked at me with incomprehension. He looked very old, and was wearing a beret. “Qu’est-ce que signifie mari?” he asked someone behind me.

  I turned to see a girl in a patched grey dress carrying armloads of food from the kitchen to a commotion of people who filled a dining area I had not noticed before.

  I said the same thing in Spanish, and she recoiled as though I had said something obscene. Right. Best stick to French.

  A woman in a red dress came out, regarded me, then shrugged and pointed up the stairs. She knew what I wanted. She said something to an elderly woman cradling her purse as though it was her last possession on earth. The second woman started up the huge stairway, pausing to see if I would follow.

  I looked outside for my mari, but he had wandered away.

  What the heck, I thought. How often do I get to visit the family castle? Up I went.

  The second floor (or the first, in Europe, since the ground floor does not count) was a long way up. As the spiral staircase finished its first turn, I could hear a clattering sound below. Lawn mowers? Serving platters? As we reached the second landing, rather than growing fainter, the noise from below grew louder. I could hear shouting now, and pounding feet. Maybe a spontaneous soccer game had broken out. The old woman redoubled her efforts and picked up the pace. She was pretty spry for her age, I thought, working to keep up.

  As we reached the last floor, she turned left and, clutching her bundle against her chest, broke into a run. I did, too, but found that I had to lift my skirts to do so. Skirts? She, too, wore a long skirt, something I had not noticed before. When we came to an open doorway, she motioned for me to go inside. But she was clearly going somewhere else. I wasn’t about to be left behind with that mob behind us.

  “Nyer?” she said.

  “Oui,” I answered. “Je suis de la famille Nyer.” I had decided by now that they were speaking some form of Languedoc, a close cousin to Catalan. My poor French would have to do. Again, she motioned for me to go inside, but I would have none of it. We ran around to the other side, and popped through double doors onto the balcony I had seen from below. The woman was now carrying a wriggling infant dressed in ribbons and velvet. I looked from it to her face in amazement, and saw that she was not so old after all, her hair pulled back from a youthful face into a white lace cap. She crouched down on the balcony. I pulled back my veils (veils?) and tried to peer over the balustrade. Something thonked against the wall above our heads and clattered to the floor between us. An arrow. Crouching behind the railing, I decided, was just fine. Most of the action seemed to be indoors anyway, and soon, the terrifying noise, people shouting, the clashing of metal on metal, was very near. My elbow bumped something hard at my waist, and I pulled a large, squarish knife out of its casing. Good for beating a weft or … It would have to do.

  A deafening explosion came from below, and fragments of masonry rained down on us. Pity, I thought. There goes that lovely crest. The baby, which had been fussing slightly, was now screaming. The woman spoke urgently to me now, in a panicked voice, but I still could not understand her.

  The small man who had let me in now burst onto the balcony, dressed in yellow hose and a doublet striped in the bright red and yellow of the Catalan flag. With his bowed legs now exposed and a velvet cap on his large head, I could see that he was a dwarf. A twin, dressed identically, followed close behind.

  In a crouch, I was level with the little men. The first looked at me, his eyes widening in recognition and his face turning red. His eyes focused on my throat, and reflexively, I covered it with my hand. My fingers touched an elaborate necklace I had been unaware of until that moment. Looking down, I could see the prominent diamond at its center. He shook one of his canes in my face. “Nyer!” the man bayed loudly. He turned so his voice would carry down the stairwell. “Nyer-r-r-r-r!”

  I understood that.

  “Why, you little traitor!” I yelled, kicking his other cane out. We skirmished briefly, cane to weftbeater, before I bolted past, sending both men tumbling. I could hear fighting on the stairs, women screaming. I caught a glimpse of a man in a long cape and a swoopy hat. He gave me an appraising look, then must have realized I did not pose a threat. He didn’t look very friendly. Serrallonga? He was supposed to be on our side. I ran the other way. Were we fighting for the Banyuls or the Hapsburgs? I forgot. Where was that room she kept trying to push me to into? Maybe I could barricade myself in. I pulled out the weftbeater and made a dash for it.

  Skidding inside, I swung the heavy wooden door closed and threw the bolt, sliding the sword in on top to reinforce it. The room was still and bathed in half-light from small, high windows. The noise outside seemed far away. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I noticed with a start that a man and woman sat quietly behind a wooden table, facing the doorway. Dressed in medieval finery, they, too, like the little boy we had first spotted outside, appeared to be waiting for something, or someone, who had not yet arrived.

  I introduced myself in some dreadful mixture of Spanish and French, and clasped each of their hands. The woman motioned to the wall on the far side of them, where a massive fireplace dominated the room. It too, looked original, but how could the carved wooden surround of a fireplace survive for seven hundred years? Things burned down a lot in the old days. I stepped closer to examine it.

  The shield of Catalan, familiar now from our travels in norther
n Spain, was carved and painted prominently above the mantle. It consists of four red stripes on a field of yellow, from the once yellow flag that the Catalan national martyr, Count Guifré el Pilóss, stained with his bloody fingerprints in a dying attempt to raise the banner. Or so they say. It was flanked on either side by depictions of knightly armor. Over a bricked-up doorway to the right was painted more of the same — not the portrait of a knight, but a fresco of empty armor.

  Finally I understood: The Nyers were not bandidos, but banderos. They were mercenaries — guns for hire. Or at least harquebusiers. You paid your money and they took their chances on your behalf. Their nemesis, the Cadells, were the same — available to whichever royalty had the money to hire them. Usually, the Nyerros and Cadells fought against each other, but sometimes they were on the same side, carving out the borders between Catalan and the Pyrénées-Orientales department of France, one stone fortification at a time. After all these years, there were no portraits of individuals — they were who you needed them to be. My ancestors must have used up the last of their luck before embarking for the Americas to start anew.