UUnniivveerrssiittyy ooff NNeebbrraasskkaa -- LLiinnccoollnn DDiiggiittaallCCoommmmoonnss@@UUnniivveerrssiittyy ooff NNeebbrraasskkaa -- LLiinnccoollnn Dissertations, Theses, and Student Research: English, Department of Department of English Spring 1-2012 LLeeeecchheedd SSttoorriieess,, LLaayyeerreedd SSeellvveess:: AApppprroopprriiaattiinngg NNaarrrraattiivveess aanndd FFiinnddiinngg VVooiiccee iinn EEll SSaallvvaaddoorr Kaitlyn E. Palacios Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.unl.edu/englishdiss Part of the English Language and Literature Commons Palacios, Kaitlyn E., "Leeched Stories, Layered Selves: Appropriating Narratives and Finding Voice in El Salvador" (2012). Dissertations, Theses, and Student Research: Department of English. 59. https://digitalcommons.unl.edu/englishdiss/59 This Article is brought to you for free and open access by the English, Department of at DigitalCommons@University of Nebraska - Lincoln. It has been accepted for inclusion in Dissertations, Theses, and Student Research: Department of English by an authorized administrator of DigitalCommons@University of Nebraska - Lincoln. LEECHED STORIES, LAYERED SELVES: APPROPRIATING NARRATIVES AND FINDING VOICE IN EL SALVADOR by Kaitlyn E. Palacios A THESIS Presented to the Faculty of The Graduate College at the University of Nebraska In Partial Fulfillment of Requirements For the Degree of Master of Arts Major: English Under the Supervision of Professor Joy Castro Lincoln, Nebraska January, 2012 LEECHED STORIES, LAYERED SELVES: APPROPRIATING NARRATIVES AND FINDING VOICE IN EL SALVADOR Kaitlyn Elizabeth Palacios. M.A. University of Nebraska. 2012 Adviser: Joy Castro Issues of shifting identity, border crossing, and layered systems of power have long been discussed and examined by scholars of Chicano/a and queer theory. This collection of creative nonfiction essays gives a personal, anecdotal perspective on those themes. The essays narrate the story of the U.S.-born author and her Salvadorian husband who is applying for his permanent residency in the United States. As the author travels to and from El Salvador, she contemplates her own positions of power and the problems of appropriating narratives of those outside of her community. In addition, as she learns her husband’s stories and the history of his country, she finds that her own identity and stories become more complex and hybrid. Even as she enters the narratives of others, she too is touched and transformed. iii Copyright 2012, Kaitlyn E. Palacios iv TABLE OF CONTENTS Strategic Shifting, Self-Conscious Shaping: Hybrid Identity and Power Positions in Writing across Borders……………………………………………………………………1 A Leech of Tales…………………………………………………………………………12 The Hills We Die On………………………………………………………………….…31 Stuttering in Clavazones………………………………………………………………....47 Descarada………………………………………………………………………………..63 When it Touches You…………………………………………………………………....79 References…………………………………………………………………………….….98 1 Strategic Shifting, Self-Conscious Shaping: Hybrid Identity and Power Positions in Writing across Borders For the past six years, I have found myself, my identity and voice, in a state of flux and growth—an awkward stage of changes that has been difficult to understand and control. This time in my life has been one of increased border crossing, of choques and negotiations between and among layered positions of power in foreign situations. Through my relationship with my husband Noé, I have learned about his country of El Salvador, about the complicated process of immigration in the U.S., and about ways in which my identity changes as I move across geographic borders into new territories. As Noé and I have gone to and from El Salvador to apply and wait for his permanent residency in the U.S., I have often been confronted with unfamiliar stories, and forced to acknowledge my transparent position of privileged Other in a community that is not my own. This fluctuation of identity, which is at times confusing and challenging, has nevertheless been one that has caused growth and enrichment. Increased investigation and innovation have caused me to explore and become comfortable with new modes of story-telling and new kinds of stories. Issues of identity, the ownership and interpretation of outside stories, and the art of flexibly moving through systems of power permeate these narratives. And yet these themes are not new. While they have risen out of my own lived experiences, they have been acknowledged and examined by other authors—particularly Chicano/a theorists and Latin American men and women who have also moved between different worlds and identities. These are voices that create a textual community for me that both complicates 2 and enriches my work. But even so, at their core, the essays in this collection are about real people and places that exist in an extratextual world. They have been appropriated here, placed into narratives that I can understand. But I hope that they have been self- consciously used and transformed and that some of the truths discovered and created here will challenge and transform other narratives we might, more often, tell ourselves. Perhaps one of the most difficult issues for me to appreciate and utilize during the crafting of these essays had to do with identities and voices—those of the narrators who tell the stories of a reimagined past. In fact, as a nonfiction writer, one of my biggest challenges was finding narrative voices that would be able to effectively make meaning of the events that happened to me and of a “real-life” identity that seemed increasingly multifaceted and complex. My narrative identity, influenced greatly by connection with different voices, continues to undergo painful development and growth. In The Man Made of Words, N. Scott Momaday tells the story of a Native American man, Plenty Horses, who lived part of his life in a white boarding school. When he returned to his community after years of separation, he found himself an exile. Momaday writes that Plenty Horses was no longer able to speak his native language fluently and, because he had also failed to master English, his “voice was broken,” his very being “thrown away” (103). Although the situation of Plenty Horses was one riddled with distinct problems of power and dominance, I too can understand the difficulty of living inadequately, not just between languages, but between different modes of telling, and voices. Six years ago, long before I began this project and before I lived in El Salvador, I was a younger writer of fiction who had lived my life in one location—Nebraska—and 3 who operated in one language—English. My “pre-contact” narrative voice had a simple stability untroubled by multiplicity and doubt. After I graduated from the university, I took a few years off from school. I worked as an ESL teacher, met my Salvadorian husband Noé, and traveled to Ecuador to learn Spanish. I did very little writing during that time. And so, when I attempted, after years of listening to diverse narratives, and after years of silence on the page, to begin writing again in graduate school, my voice felt broken, croaking in awkwardness like an adolescent’s. As I began writing these essays, alternately I relied on old tactics of dry humor and distant narration and, at other times, I found that these tools failed me as I attempted to describe my husband’s family in El Salvador, a desperation and poverty that was foreign to me and in which I could not find the old humor. As a result, my narrative voice in essays faltered and shifted uncomfortably between tones and distance. Perhaps as Vivian Gornick writes in her book The Situation and the Story, “the problem was I never knew who was telling the story” (20). My own extratextual identity that changed and fluctuated was reflected on the page in an unstable, wavering voice. However, rather than conclude with Momaday that such a voice negated my ability to be, and that I existed as a writer who was “thrown away,” who was doomed to ineffectively narrate stories “between two worlds, without a place in either,” I took comfort in the literature of Chicano/a theorists who celebrated notions of hybridity and its capacity to enrich language and complicate narratives (Momaday 103). In her work, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, Gloria Anzaldúa famously celebrates the multiple languages that make up her being. She points out that language is “living,” and discusses stories as “acts encapsulated in time, ‘enacted’ every time they are spoken 4 aloud or read silently. [They are] performances and not…inert and ‘dead’ objects” (77, 89). Anzaldúa’s emphasis on performance is useful and encouraging. As writers, we have many different stories and can therefore strategically foreground distinct aspects of our voices and identities. Just as stories change, so do the voices who tell them. As Gornick puts it, great writers have not only “been possessed of an insight that organized the writing,” but have created a “persona…to serve that insight” (23). Thus, Anzaldúa and Gornick both acknowledge flexibility in writing, a theatrical putting on of masks. In addition, Anzaldúa opens up a middle space for languages, an in-between location in which voices are fluid and switch between spaces and cultures to recreate, complicate, and destabilize old narratives. The diverse and living Chicano/a language is a reflection of this fluidity. Drawing inspiration from Anzaldúa’s theory as well as from authors like Sandra Cisneros who incorporate both Spanish and English in their texts, I have allowed myself to acknowledge a double identity. During my writing, when I searched at times for an English expression, a Spanish word or phrase came to mind. I had to reach across languages as needed, pulling in pieces to fill in gaps or to increase precision. Spanish words and ideas have now lodged themselves in my brain and disrupted a formerly-stable language structure. I have allowed these bits of Spanish to exist in my stories, sometimes as no more than small pieces. For example, my essay titles “Stuttering in Clavazones,” “Descarada,” and “When it Touches You” clearly appropriate terms and sayings from a Salvadorian community—sayings that have helped me understand my experiences within that community. Just as Cisneros alternately translates and leaves phrases in Spanish as titles 5 for chapters in Caramelo, I have also allowed the language in my essays to be hybridized—something that I have found increasingly subconscious and intuitive. While I still struggle greatly with inconsistent voice and tone, I have learned that this inconsistency is part of growth and that it precedes a rich complexity I did not formerly possess. Writing these essays has been, in part, an experiment with these different voices. Among these different essays, I find different versions of myself. For instance, in “The Hills We Die On,” my voice is academic, contemplative, and leaves room for poetic distance. Perhaps this is because this particular essay does in fact discuss distance, a misunderstanding of what is Other to my experience. However, in “Stuttering in Clavazones,” I much more deliberately access my “old,” familiar voice. It is dry and funny and it reflects my relationship with a familiar past. And yet none of these essays remains completely untouched by life in another culture. In fact, almost all of them contain some amount of Spanish and reflect my interaction with a second language. This language and culture have become so much a part of me that I cannot seem to extract them entirely from narratives, even if those narratives are about an English-dominated past. As I navigate through fluctuating identities, I have come to understand the difference between what Sue William Silverman calls the “Voice of Experience” and the “Voice of Innocence” (50). While, “the Voice of Innocence reveals the raw, not-yet- understood emotions associated with the story’s action…the Voice of Experience…interprets or reflects upon the events” (50, 51). In the interests of consistency and meaning-making, I must, in revision, separate the two. And so, I tend to think of my Voice of Innocence as erratic, changing unpredictably in a natural, knee-jerk