Rudolfo Anaya Bless Me, Ultima (1972)
Anaya, in case you were unaware, was a fairly big cheese in Chicano literature - Chicano literature being, in case you were unaware, the writing of working class, indigenous and mestizo Mexico, and therefore something dealing with folk history, the role of the Mexican in modern society, and understanding one's roots in the conquest where those roots may incorporate both the conquered and the conquistador. I came to Anaya through my Mesoamerican obsession and Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland, which he co-edited with Francisco Lomelí. This led me to the novels Heart of Aztlán then Bless Me, Ultima, both of which significantly informed elements of my own Against Nature in the event of anyone giving a shit.
Bless Me, Ultima is a folksy tale of growing up Chicano in New Mexico around the time of the second world war. It's folksy in so much as that its semi-rural people live at the very lowest rung of the economic ladder, and is unlikely to alienate anyone who enjoyed Little House on the Prairie, except there's not much sugar to be spared here, and even Ultima, the amiable curandera grandmother at the heart of our family, remains a little too mysterious to be entirely cute. There's nevertheless plenty to warm the heart, mostly centred around the early life and schooling of Antonio, our main character, much of which will be familiar to anyone who was ever six years old - which is probably most of us; but the warmth is, as with much lore of Mexican derivation, part of a cosmos built from dualistic counterparts, and so the rest of the universe is necessarily cold, dark, and full of uncertainty. Ultima herself contrasts with the alleged bruja daughters of Tenorio, a contrast which itself hints at the possibility of evil being no more than a question of where one happens to be stood, particularly when Tenorio accuses Ultima of witchcraft. All the while, Antonio is torn between, amongst other forces, his Catholic upbringing - albeit the indigenous interpretation of Catholicism - and something more animist, closer to the old ways, embodied in the magical realist figure of the Golden Carp which hints at a water-based cosmos far closer to the traditional Aztec view of creation; as are the travels Antonio experiences in his dreams, interludes which seem to impact upon his waking world. As to what it's actually about, it's about life and death, no more, no less, and in terms which are both figurative and absolutely literal.
Whilst arts grant funded poets from San Francisco gobbling mescaline and having visions may be all well and good, Bless Me, Ultima would seem to present a genuine, and unflinchingly honest insight into the Chicano soul at ground level, out on the llano and far away from any tourist attraction or even anything too rustically picturesque. It's also the work of an author who wanted to be read, so it communicates theological and philosophical complexities without either talking down to anyone or shaking its head and muttering that you probably wouldn't understand; which is why it's rightly regarded as a classic.
Anaya, in case you were unaware, was a fairly big cheese in Chicano literature - Chicano literature being, in case you were unaware, the writing of working class, indigenous and mestizo Mexico, and therefore something dealing with folk history, the role of the Mexican in modern society, and understanding one's roots in the conquest where those roots may incorporate both the conquered and the conquistador. I came to Anaya through my Mesoamerican obsession and Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland, which he co-edited with Francisco Lomelí. This led me to the novels Heart of Aztlán then Bless Me, Ultima, both of which significantly informed elements of my own Against Nature in the event of anyone giving a shit.
Bless Me, Ultima is a folksy tale of growing up Chicano in New Mexico around the time of the second world war. It's folksy in so much as that its semi-rural people live at the very lowest rung of the economic ladder, and is unlikely to alienate anyone who enjoyed Little House on the Prairie, except there's not much sugar to be spared here, and even Ultima, the amiable curandera grandmother at the heart of our family, remains a little too mysterious to be entirely cute. There's nevertheless plenty to warm the heart, mostly centred around the early life and schooling of Antonio, our main character, much of which will be familiar to anyone who was ever six years old - which is probably most of us; but the warmth is, as with much lore of Mexican derivation, part of a cosmos built from dualistic counterparts, and so the rest of the universe is necessarily cold, dark, and full of uncertainty. Ultima herself contrasts with the alleged bruja daughters of Tenorio, a contrast which itself hints at the possibility of evil being no more than a question of where one happens to be stood, particularly when Tenorio accuses Ultima of witchcraft. All the while, Antonio is torn between, amongst other forces, his Catholic upbringing - albeit the indigenous interpretation of Catholicism - and something more animist, closer to the old ways, embodied in the magical realist figure of the Golden Carp which hints at a water-based cosmos far closer to the traditional Aztec view of creation; as are the travels Antonio experiences in his dreams, interludes which seem to impact upon his waking world. As to what it's actually about, it's about life and death, no more, no less, and in terms which are both figurative and absolutely literal.
Whilst arts grant funded poets from San Francisco gobbling mescaline and having visions may be all well and good, Bless Me, Ultima would seem to present a genuine, and unflinchingly honest insight into the Chicano soul at ground level, out on the llano and far away from any tourist attraction or even anything too rustically picturesque. It's also the work of an author who wanted to be read, so it communicates theological and philosophical complexities without either talking down to anyone or shaking its head and muttering that you probably wouldn't understand; which is why it's rightly regarded as a classic.
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