Writing, national literature and selling oranges
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In the Guardian, Lauren Elkin, an American writer living in France, blogs about the idea of a national literature, much discussed at the recent Festival America in Paris. ‘The question of a writer’s nationality and ethnic identity preoccupied most of the discussions,’ she writes, quoting thoughtful comments by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
I can’t say the same for the author of ‘The Law of Dreams,’ Peter Behrens, who:
spoke of families so shamed by their poverty and their foreignness that they could not write their stories for several generations. He compared this to the experience of Central American immigrants to Los Angeles, mentioning a Guatemalan woman he saw selling oranges by the roadside. ‘Her kids aren’t going to be interested in writing about that,’ he said.
I immediately thought of the publicity photo of Gustavo Arellano as an orange seller (at right), which defies Behrens’ notion of stories so shameful they cannot be told. Arellano, a columnist at OC Weekly, has just published his second book, a hybrid history and memoir called ‘Orange County.’ In our review of the book, Luis Alfaro writes:
If the humor of the book emerges from the cutting reportage of Orange County’s history, the heart of the narrative lies in the Arellano family’s four-generation journey from El Cargadero, a village in central Mexico, to Anaheim. This is the quintessential California story. ‘Orange County groves became renowned,’ Arellano writes, ‘thanks not just to the fruits but the ornate labels on every packing box. What the labels, farmers, and civic leaders never highlighted was the means of production: Mexicans.’By taking on the weight of family history, Arellano’s story becomes an epic journey of oppression and endurance, and amazingly relevant in the current debate over immigration. For many Chicanos, it will be heartbreaking in its accessibility and familiarity.
Behrens’ book focused on an Irish immigrant to the U.S. fleeing the potato famine, and the novel’s empathy was the focus of much discussion. But I think he hasn’t quite grasped the tenacity of California writers -- how much poverty and exhausting work and desperation they can take. Maybe he hasn’t read John Fante or John Steinbeck or Nathanael West, a few that leap to mind.
Of course, California literature isn’t our national literature. I’m not even sure what a national literature of America might look like, but if it were up to me to define, it would include tales of poverty and striving, of hope and failure, from Native Americans to today’s immigrants. And there’s no shame in that.
-- Carolyn Kellogg
