Two Hundred Years of Solitude

Martha Hobson

Patrick Duffey

CI: 200 Years of Solitude

28 November 2016

Research Paper

Feminism is a movement that has been happening for many years and will continue to happen for many years until the ideal outcome of equality between all races and genders. The topic being covered in this paper is feminism in Latin America. Although many Latin American women would not consider themselves to be feminists, their actions say otherwise. What Allende does as a female Latin American author is portraying herself and women as strong and independent beings. Allende also used strong women in her life, like her grandmother, to portray in her novels like La Casa de Los Espiritus. Finally, we will see the political influence feminism has on its people, and how feminism is needed in times of trial. Feminism in Latin America has been prominent in both gender communities for a very long time, even if many individuals wouldn’t necessarily classify themselves as feminists.

Isabel Allende, in my opinion, is revolutionary. What she does it portray every female character in her novels, specifically La Casa de Los Espiritus, as strong and independent. This does not just give a positive portrayal to a gender that is generally oppressed, but also strengthens feminism by using beautiful art. It is like creating a television show that is not only entertaining but also educational. In “Allende and Valenzuela: Dissecting the Patriarchy” Catherine Perricone beautifully states,

What should be said of Allende and Valenzuela at the outset is that through their characterization of the masculine Other they are learning to take control. In this sense, they are still paradoxically “writing themselves” as intelligent human beings: making statements, declaring the way things have been, and asking for a re-evaluation of and, where necessary, a change in the status quo (81).

What I believe she is so beautifully saying is that Allende creates a female character to fight what is, and trying to create what life should be. Not only does she create strong female characters, but she also creates not-so-great male characters as kind of a foil to her intelligent women. She is not saying that all men are bad, but she is saying that there are many problems with society, and this is what we need to do to fix that. Another terrific thing Allende has done is, “utilized spatial symbolism to emphasize and parallel the actions of female characters as they sought to overcome the tyranny of patriarchy” (García-Johnson, 185). This comes to show the power of words and how Allende used those words to create a voice for the voiceless.

In La Casa de Los Espiritus, there are many strong female characters who Allende created herself, but she mirrored a very important character after one of the most influential people in her life. “Her grandmother, Isabel Barros Moreira–the model for Clara in this novel–was an extraordinary woman who inhibited space between dreams and reality” (Levine, 2). This comes to show the positive influence she had as a young girl, and how she used her strong female role models to help her female readers, young and old, understand the importance of being a woman with a voice and a good head on her shoulders. Allende’s writing is inspirational, not just as a young woman, but as a human being with feelings and knowledge of those who are not as fortunate as myself as to have the opportunities I have been given.

And finally, feminism is not just a movement that effects women, but a movement with great political influence and a loud voice. For many, many years, Latin American countries have struggled with different leaders whose ideals and ways of the ruling may not have been the most popular, humane, or well accepted. Over the course of many years leaders have come and gone, and with them, their ways of ruling, such as democracy, communism, and socialism. With each leader comes a new way of ruling, but what does not change is the need for feminism and equality. In “Feminisms in Latin America: From Bogotá to San Bernando” by Nancy Saporta Sternbach, Marysa Navarro-Aranguren, Patricia Chuchryk and Sonia E. Alvarez, they state,

Latin American nations are plagued by chronic and political crisis. In all countries, feminist groups must make heroic efforts to stay afloat organizationally amid staggering national debts, painful austerity plans, and dramatic political changes (395).

In times like these, it is very easy for the feminism movement to be brushed under the rug by many a political leader, but it is times like these when feminism is needed the most. Many things that feminism are just the whining’s of privileged white women who keep wanting “more.” But feminism is more than that. Feminism is the need for equality between genders no matter what race you are. The magnificent thing Allende does with her novels is how she portrays women in a strong way, but also realistic to the times she is writing because of her upbringing.

Feminism in Latin American, while not always prominent, is and will always be there. While we may not always see it because there are not women running about burning their bras or denouncing their relationships with men, we have women like Isabel Allende who use the power of words and art to get the message across to their audience. Feminism is not and should not be scary for those who do not understand the concept but should be taught and celebrated by those who do. One day everyone will be equal, and that day will be grand!

 

If you leave Miami and head north on I-95, the city of Boca Raton is just an hour away. Boca stands out from other cities in South Florida by being just a smidgen more “Floridian”- it is the quintessential ocean coast town. Our palm trees are taller (there is no escape from them- walking down the sidewalk is a threat to your life because you never know when a coconut might fall on your head, or when you’ll trip over a palm frond almost as big as you); and our buildings are brighter- we seem to have an affinity for pastels so bright they make neon look dark. With the exception of the Keys, and maybe Miami, you won’t find a more “Floridian” place in South Florida than Boca Raton.

The most frustrating thing to a Floridian is an ocean breeze; in the middle of August when it’s hot enough to fry an egg, even in the shade, and the humidity is so thick it’s like you’re walking underwater, the last thing you want to feel is an ocean breeze. These are the most fleeting things in the world, and after that brief moment of cool relief is gone, you’re left feeling more miserable than ever. Summer in Florida is nature’s revolt; it’s too hot to do anything, and the people of Boca get lethargic and sleepy, unwilling to do anything, as the slightest movement could cause you to break out into a sweat. The citizens retreat, and nature flourishes with an explosion that you don’t see any other time of the year. Summer is also hurricane season, which means that running to the store without an umbrella is about as risky as crossing the street without looking both ways.

It was on one of those rainy summer days in Boca that the Randall girls were all gathered in their kitchen looking skeptically at something on the counter. They were standing in what looked like the middle of an explosion; flour was all over the kitchen, and a stack of dirty baking utensils were stacked precariously in the kitchen sink. The distinct smell of smoke hung in the air, and there was something dripping from the ceiling that looked suspiciously like raw egg. The girls however, were too busy looking at a baking sheet on the counter that was covered in some unidentifiable mounds of dough.

“I think they turned out all right,” said the oldest in a bright voice. “They actually look pretty good.” The third youngest Randall girl rolled her eyes. “If by ‘good’ you mean ‘I wouldn’t feed this to my worst enemy’, then yes, they look positively delectable.” The oldest shot her younger sister a nasty look as the third oldest snorted from behind a cookbook. Sprawled out over two chairs, she raised the book from her face and said, “That’s such a dumb saying; I would totally feed that-“ She made a vague gesture at the smoking baking sheet, “to my worst enemy.”

“That’s true,” the youngest piped up. “I would put hot sauce in them, too.” The second youngest looked up and said, “Oh! What about mayonnaise?” The third youngest, jumping into the fray, shook her head sagely and said, “If you’re going to do something, do it right- put wet cat food in it.”  Her two younger sisters looked at her then as one looks at a god, and the third youngest stood there, basking in the glow of rare genius.

The third oldest and the oldest exchanged looks of disgust, while the second oldest, wringing her hands together, said in a worried voice, “L-let’s not talk about poisoning people, okay? Here, why don’t you guys help us frost the cookies? We have pink AND purple frosting, and we have sprinkles!”

That got the attention of the three younger girls, and they eagerly crowded around the counter, grabbing knives to frost with a recklessness that suddenly made the second oldest wince and regret her suggestion in the first place. The oldest looked pleased that everybody was coming together, and was congratulating herself on her fine leadership skills when the third oldest suddenly sat up, knocking the cookbook to the ground, and said something that made all the girls’ blood run cold.

“Those are supposed to be cookies?”

Feeling as if they were moving underwater, the Randall girls all turned as one to look at the baking sheet, which somehow, inexplicably, had turned into a muffin pan.

And then all hell broke loose.

“This is what I get for leaving you guys alone for longer than two seconds,” the oldest Randall girl fumed angrily. The second oldest scoffed and turned on her sister. “Excuse me? I’m just as capable of handling this as you are. Don’t condescend me!” The second youngest was in sobbing hysterics. “M-mother’s cookies are r-ruined!” She proclaimed before dramatically throwing her arms on the counter and burying her face in them. “Don’t you mean the muffins?” said the third youngest nastily, as she prodded the hardened lumps of dough. The third oldest remained unmoved by all of this; in fact, she had picked up one of the containers of frosting and was proceeding to eat it with a spoon.

Eventually, though, the third oldest got tired of listening to her sister’s fighting; placing her frosting down with a sigh, she interrupted her screaming sisters.

“Okay, first- do not call your sister juvenile animals,” she admonished the second oldest firmly, who scoffed and looked away. “And you,” she said pointing to the oldest, who looked at her in disbelief, “just sit down, please. A college degree does not make you God.” “And lastly,” she said, turning to the third youngest, “that is not appropriate language- you should be ashamed of yourself.” The scolded girl flushed angrily and glared at the ground.

“She’s right,” the oldest said, desperately trying to regain some semblance of authority. “This isn’t about who messed the coo- the muff- the dessert up,” she said with a glare at  the second oldest, who gave her an evil eye right back. “These aren’t for us- we shouldn’t be fighting.”

“Do you think those will send Mom back to the hospital again?” The littlest one piped up, looking skeptically at the ruined dessert. The second youngest gasped ad swatted her sister on the arm. “Don’t say things like that!”

“I actually think that’s a valid question,” the third oldest said slowly, looking askance at the “cookies”. “I think they’re still smoking.” The oldest sighed, and rubbed her hands over her face. “Does anyone know when Dad’s coming home?” The second oldest replied, “He’s working late tonight- again.” The atmosphere in the room seemed to deflate a little, as the girls fell silent, unsure of what to do next.

“I’m hungry,” the youngest broke the silence. “Yeah, me too,” the second youngest echoed. “Fine, fine, I’ll make dinner,” the third oldest sighed heavily as she jumped down from the kitchen stool. “NO,” her five sisters said in loud unison. Their sister looked around, affronted. “Excuse me?” The oldest shook her head and said through gritted teeth, “You are not cooking. Ever. Again.” The third oldest scoffed and said, “Why not?” “Because potato chips do belong in hamburger meat, is why not,” the oldest replied. “I thought it would make it crunchy,” the third oldest protested.

“It doesn’t matter,” the oldest said firmly. “I’m cooking, you guys clean up. When Dad comes home, we’ll ask him to go to the store to get a dessert  for Mom. And a card- we’ll ask him to get a card. Then tomorrow, we can all go down and bring her home. Now go.” She clapped her hands and her sisters scattered, while the rain continued to patter on the rooftop outside.

 

 

Narrative voice is perhaps one of the most important, yet underappreciated, literary devices in use today. For most people the word “literature” tends to evoke vague ideas about similes and imagery; figurative language is usually always at the forefront. In the grand scheme of things, narration seems to get overlooked as a less important means of interpreting a piece of literature. However, the power of narrative voice lies in its subtlety; it reveals a lot more about a work than one would originally think. As much as any image or metaphor, it sheds much insight on character, and even author, than most of the other literary devices used. Bias, secret wants, vendettas- narrative voice allows the reader to really delve into the minds of the characters, and gives the reader the opportunity to assess the work and its characters from a variety of angles. It enables the reader to get a better understanding on the workings of the given novel. This is true concerning Isabel Allende and Gabriel Marquez’s works; their focus on the fantastical isn’t the only thing these authors have in common. Allende and Marquez’s skillful use of narrator contributes a lot in terms of the impact that their narrative techniques have on both the novel and the reader.

Sporadically throughout Isabel Allende’s The House of the Spirits Esteban Trueba becomes a first-person narrator, instead of just another character in the novel. With Esteban, Allende employs a great example of the typical unreliable narrator; simply put, from Esteban’s point of view, he can do no wrong, distorting the truth as he does to portray himself in the most flattering light possible. It’s the reader’s job to discern fiction from reality- to see Esteban’s supposed power for the tyranny that it really is, to understand that his alleged concern for the welfare of others is nothing more than a thin mask that does nothing to disguise Esteban’s utter selfishness.

However, when we see the third person narrator talking about Esteban, it’s completely different. There is one scene in the beginning of the novel where a train drops Esteban off in the middle of nowhere. The narrator describes the scene with a dreary isolation: “The distant mountains disappeared behind the clouds of a shrouded sky; only the snowy peak of the volcano could be seen in all of its clarity, outlined against the landscape and lit by a timid winter sun……..he combed the landscape for the town of San Lucas, but was only able to make out a far-off hamlet that was faded in the dampness of the morning. He walked around the station. There was a padlock on the door to the only office. There was a penciled note tacked on it, but it was so smudged that he could not read it. He heard the train pull out behind him, leaving a column of white smoke. He was alone in the silent landscape.” While the use of imagery is powerful here, it makes an even bigger impact given that it is told to us by somebody who isn’t Esteban. From the point of view of an outsider, Esteban is stripped of all the pomp and circumstance he tries to bestow on himself.  Removed of the false sense of power Esteban likes to think he has tricked the reader into believing he has, this outside narrator shows Esteban’s true colors. This desolate scene, the narrator tells us, is reflective of Esteban’s true state. Paired with the use of narrative voice, the narrator also makes use of some powerful imagery. The only light in the scene is given from a “timid winter sun”; whatever of its rays that can leak through the “shrouded sky” are the only light that reaches Esteban. Then there is the locked station door: a place where he would seek guidance, direction, is locked to him, leaving him alone in this deserted landscape. This sense of abandonment is heightened by the train that pulls out of the station; Esteban’s last chance to be reunited with other human beings leaves him behind. Essentially, this narration reveals Esteban’s true isolated self: symbols of hope, passageways to humanity- these are all out of Esteban’s reach.  As much as Esteban would like to deceive the reader, and even himself, it just isn’t possible. Ruth Y. Jenkins wrote that, “Allende, like Kingston, explores the tension between silence and voice…”; here, Jenkins points out the power of Allende’s narration, and how, even in instances when Esteban was the narrator, and the female voice was silenced, Esteban’s character was still revealed. This “tension” that Jenkins writes of also points to the struggle women faced, subjugated as they were by men.

This all becomes even more fitting by the novel’s end, when we learn that the omniscient narrator has all along been Alba, Esteban’s daughter. It’s especially fitting considering that Allende’s novel is essentially about female empowerment; as we see, it is the women who are the reliable narrators, not men like Esteban. The House of the Spirits, at its very heart, speaks of women’s innate strength, a fortitude that not only do men overlook, but which they seem to lack themselves. For instance, at the end of the novel, when Alba has been kidnapped, for all his bluster throughout the novel, Esteban’s sheer brutishness can do nothing to save his daughter. He has no chance but to turn to Transito Soto, a female prostitute, for help in rescuing his daughter. Esteban begs in a way that he has never done before, beseeching the help of a women he used to throw money at in exchange for sex. And in the end, it is Transito’s connections that save Alba, not any of Esteban’s crude, clumsy attempts at asserting dominance. James Mandrell sums it up best when he wrote that, “History will thus continue to repeat itself. But history as his-story can be changed, and will be by those who wait, filling pages with a true story, neither invented or imagined, that is guaranteed to wake others from the stupor of their individual lives.”

The use of narrator in Gabriel Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is a bit more complex than it is in Allende’s work. Trying to remember which Auerliano is talking at any given point is difficult enough, but throw in several generations of the Beundia family, and it becomes almost impossible to pinpoint a narrator- or narrators, for that matter. However, while intricate, one can safely assume that Marquez’s novel is told from the perspective of a third person narrator. This is probably one of the only certainties we have in this world that Marquez has created. The ambiguity surrounding the narrator in One Hundred Years of Solitude causes Ronan McFadden to make the statement that, “This plunges the reader into uncertainty as to their own, and the narrator’s, perspective: how to have faith in the facts of this world when the magical and the empirical are so thoroughly intertwined and thereby resist close scrutiny? This ultimately impacts on the reader’s ability to view the narrator as reliable…”. McFadden’s argument here is that the narrator lacks reliability simply because “the magical and the empirical are so thoroughly intertwined”; fact and fiction are too entwined and as such, this causes difficulty of distinction. McFadden makes the claim that the narrator becomes lost in the fantastical world that Marquez has created and so loses any reliability and as an omniscient narrator. However, I think that the source here has strayed from Marquez’s purpose as an author: to have the reader suspend their disbelief, to fully immerse themselves in the world the author has created. Just like the tone of the work, or Marquez’s use of language, the narrator is yet another literary technique the author is using to create the world of his work. It isn’t something to be detached from Marquez’s other literary devices, something people seem to forget when they analyze works of literature. Narrative voice isn’t not a magnifying glass you can hold the book up to to understand it more clearly; narrative voice is a technique that is as powerful, and oftentimes, as complex as a really good metaphor. In fact, Birute Ciplijauskaite writes that, ”A major portion of the book obeys the rule of ambiguity which Todorov stresses as an important element of “fantastic literature..”. This is completely true; as immersed as Marquez’s novel is in the fantastic, I find that a distinct, clear-cut narrator would not only detract from the mood of the book, but it would be unreliable as well. The mood and the unreliability go hand in hand here; it just isn’t believable in this world where girls can float off into the sky for the narrator to be something entirely separate from the work. Marquez does this successfully in One Hundred Years of Solitude; where voice is well integrated into the meaning of the work. One of the most prevalent of these themes is the idea of being free: a freedom that can only be found in solitude. This then begs the question- what, exactly, is solitude? These questions are probably best answered in Marquez’s novel by the quote: “The world was reduced to the surface of her skin and her inner self was safe from bitterness.” As the title suggests, the idea of solitude plays a large role in Marquez’s work, and this quote in particular demonstrates a person’s retreat into their mind, away from reality and into a world that is safe from outer corruption. The word “reducing” holds the idea of something being stripped down to its bare minimum being; of this woman, Amaranta, being reduced to her inner essence. On the outside, she is nothing more but a “surface of skin”, and to the rest of the world, she is hidden far away, deep within herself. Whatever is important, or essential about her, is now safe from any “outer corruption”. We see that Amaranta’s retreat to solitude here is a mental, not a physical, one. In withdrawing from the real world into her mind becomes not only safe, but free as well in a sense. She is free from the supposed corrupting influence of the outside world; the bitterness that can arise when one is shackled to a life that they don’t want to live.

 

Works Cited:

Ronan, McFadden. “The Reliability of The Narrator in Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children and Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude.” Opticon1826 5 (2008): Directory of Open Access Journals. Web. 30 Oct. 2016.

Ciplijauskaite, Birute. “Foreshadowing as Technique and Theme in One Hundred Years of Solitude.” Books Abroad 47. (1973): 479-484. Humanities & Social Sciences Index Retrospective: 1907-1984 (H.W. Wilson). Web. 30 Oct. 2016.

I was absolutely seething. It was already turning out to be one of those days where it’s exhausting just to exist, and going from class to class was taking all of my energy and every conversation was irking me beyond belief. Half of me wanted to fall asleep right on my desk in history while the other half wanted to stand up, turn around, and scream at the boys sitting behind me. For an interminable amount of time, minutes that seemed like agonizingly annoying hours, they whispered about girls in our class, making disgusting comments and providing completely unwarranted and revolting commentary that I would have happily died without hearing. The teacher did not even notice, as we were all talking and working individually on projects, and the boys’ talking just became part of the noise.

This incident was one in a long line of irritating moments that challenged my patience and my will to stay silent for long periods of time. Most of the time, I am able to keep my thoughts to myself – particularly controversial or negative thoughts, opinions that I just assume people will not want to hear because it makes me sound overemotional and angry, and I want people to be happy around me and not see me as too opinionated. This, though, was not a matter of opinion. I felt my personal existence being challenged, others speaking about things that should not have been their concerns, and everything built up inside me. I would soon find that these types of degrading comments could be heard while walking down the street, in a store, on television or in the movies, or even heard from friends and family and people I thought were different, better than that. Lines began to blur and the frustration within me turned from a slowly blossoming flower to a volcanic explosion after another small, but paramount, incident, in which my entire view changed.

I was sitting there, listening to the boys behind me and wondering what the world had come to, trying to get my feelings in check but also trying to remind myself that it was okay to be angry and okay if I was angry specifically at those boys. I asked my teacher if I could go to the restroom. I just wanted to leave the room for a few minutes, get away from this, forget how I felt for a minute. It happens too often – my thoughts fill up my head like clouds, layering over one another and blocking anything else from entering my mind. I was grateful to enter the silence of the empty bathroom. My mind started to clear, I felt less like the stereotypical angry feminist – which is what I wanted to avoid.

I leaned against the counter and wished. I wished for someone who would understand my thoughts, someone who had them too, someone who knew how to let them out properly. I wanted to tell people what I thought of them but I was too anxious to do it in person, especially in a situation like I was having in the middle of a classroom. I was leaning against the counter, still simmering in all of my thoughts, when I saw something – someone – start to take shape in front of me.

It was a person. A woman, with a flowing dress, long hair, a gentle but determined expression. She smiled at me as she came into view completely. I was so startled I jumped and knocked my shoulder into the paper towel dispenser.

“Ow ow ow,” I yelped, grabbing my arm. “Who are you?”

“Exactly who you wished for,” the woman said, laughing a little. “My name is Clara. You wanted to talk to someone? About being a girl, how to handle that, what to say to people when you’re feeling… a bit intense?”

I let go of my shoulder, squirmed a little. “I’m just a little confused. Like I was just in class, and people were saying such degrading things, and I hear stuff on TV all the time that I don’t really like either, and it’s just so frustrating. I feel a certain way but I don’t want to get angry about it because I’m not supposed to be angry, and I want to be nice and pleasant, but then other times all I want to do is punch someone’s teeth out.”

Clara’s eyebrows rose. “Well, I know how that feels. More than anything.”

“So you can help?” I asked.

She nodded, walking (more like floating) across the room and leaning against the counter beside me. “A long, long time ago I had this same thing happen with my…” A tear rolled down her cheek, I could see the stars in her eyes, the memories flying past like film reels playing, and if she hadn’t obviously been a spirit I would have reached out and touched her arm for comfort. “Someone I loved dearly. This was all I could think to do, to help her, I just came to her to tell her that even though everything seemed like it was bigger than herself, like she couldn’t handle what people were saying and how they were treating her, I told her one little thing. And it changed everything.”

“What was it?” I asked, standing up straighter, my mind going crazy again.

“I told her to make it a story,” Clara said. “Her life, her family’s, everything that seemed too crazy to handle, write it all down. Well, she couldn’t write it down just then, but she did, one day soon after.”

“Write it down? That’s your huge advice?” I wrinkled my nose. “I write everything down. Writing is my thing. But this seems like it may be too big to write.”

Clara nodded somberly. “It can seem like that. And it may take a while, and a lot of organization, and a lot of drafts, but in the end you’ll have a story. Your thoughts, and your story. And that is something only you can do.”

I start to thank Clara, but before I can even get one sentence out she disappears. Her body disintegrates, and I’m left with a feeling of fullness and brightness and like everything is changing.

That’s why instead of saying these ideas, I write them down. Just like this story. It lets me lay out everything just how I want it to be, so it is coherent and specific and as straightforward as possible. All the details are there and everything seems right. Clara changed everything for me in that one simple moment with her own story and showed me how important stories can be. One simple spirit and I finally understood.

Allende’s use of supernaturalism in The House of the Spirits directly propagates the novel’s prominent theme of feminism. Without their supernatural powers, which are unique to their gender in the novel, the three generations of Trueba women would not be able to stand up to the men in their life – namely, patriarch Esteban Trueba. Clara, Blanca, and Alba all find a sense of courage in their spiritual connections to one another and to the deceased. This courage drives the plot of the novel as each woman is introduced into the family and ages in her own individual fashion. This affects their relationships with one another as well as with the male characters, as the Trueba women are faithfully connected to each other through their mysterious supernatural powers. By the end of the novel, it is evident that the theme of supernaturalism is thoroughly integrated with the presence of tenacious women in the novel, and can be credited for giving them a strong voice against all opposing forces and connecting them emotionally to one another.

As the first generation Trueba woman, Clara begins the sequence of supernaturalism. Her “powers provoke and disturb her priest,” (Jenkins) who decides she is possessed. Her father, a prominent political figure, does not want an embarrassment of a cursed child. Her husband, Esteban Trueba, repeatedly denounces her opinion as valid and would rather Clara stay a silent and complacent wife. Clara denies this option throughout the novel. When she decides to stay silent, it is her own choice and it is exclusively silence towards Esteban. The use of supernaturalism “reveal[s] alternative experiences that formal realism can neither portray nor contain sufficiently,” and “may also serve as a specific rhetorical strategy both to expose and counter the androcentric social and literary scripts that circumscribe “acceptable” behavior” (Jenkins). Clara defies social norms, refusing to live by anyone’s rules other than her own. She knows she is the best person to decide what is best for herself, and gives Esteban many chances to redeem himself in her life before deciding to stop speaking with him. She makes this decision extremely late in her life, late in their relationship, and even though it seems like an extreme choice, all she is doing is not speaking. She could have emotionally exploded and fought with him for years, as she had plenty of evidence against his faithfulness and could have argued that he had never been level-headed, but she took a morally high route and simply cut him out of her life. This gave Clara the opportunity to live how she wanted, and she ended up living much longer than her husband. Clara’s feminist strengths come from her own mother. “While Nivea enthusiastically promoted feminist causes, Clara quietly continued her own fight for freedom within her own home” to “escape the domination of her husband” (Garcia-Johnson 185). Clara builds the foundation for her daughter and granddaughter, and even from the otherworld is able to supplement their feminist fights.

Blanca inherits her mother’s spirit for fighting for her rights, but not her exact connection to spirits. Blanca defies her father’s wishes many times over, namely by having a secret relationship with Pedro Tercero. They are obviously interested in one another from their childhood years together, but Esteban Trueba disapproves. He forces her to wed Count Jean de Satigny, but Blanca runs away to meet with Pedro Tercero. Even though she ultimately does not divorce Count de Satigny and they stay married until he later passes uneventfully, Blanca’s true love of her life is Pedro Tercero. She obeys her father on this account of marriage, but Blanca keeps “a sacred space within her womb for the product of her union with Pedro: Alba” (Garcia-Johnson 190). Blanca’s methods of standing up to Esteban and holding her own in the novel are more subtle than Nivea’s ouvert feminism, Clara’s conspicuous dislike of Esteban’s controlling personality, and Alba’s later defiance of the political system. As a character, however, Blanca’s role in The House of the Spirits is imperative. Her actions inspire her daughter Alba to pursue her own secretive, forbidden (mostly by Esteban) relationship. Without that relationship, Alba’s ultimate acts of defiance and her most dramatic successes would likely not exist at all.

Alba plays an important role as the last generation Trueba woman in the novel. “Alba perpetuates a cyclical repetition of the human experience, one which prevents time from becoming simply a linear progression of events and ensures a connection between herself and her predecessors across all spatial and temporal boundaries” (Frick). Alba’s supernatural connections defeat what would be seen as normal, or even possible. She not only breaks past these boundaries of time and space, but she also breaks many rules in her own life. From her grandmother and mother, Alba learns to be feisty and to demand what she wants. None of the Trueba women are bystanders in any situation, Alba the least of them all. Alba joins a protest at her school and also cultivates a secret romance with Miguel, like her mother did with Pedro Tercero. In the end, Alba’s determination and will to fight gets her in trouble with the military. She spends a long time in captivity, kidnapped by Colonel Garcia and his men. She is beaten and sexually assaulted and for a long time, Alba does not think she will make it out alive. Likely the most important interaction of supernaturalism and feminism happens with Alba at the very end of the novel. First, she manages to connect with her grandmother Clara, who she is initially trying to summon so Clara can help her die. Alba has lost all hope and is at the point where she would prefer to be dead than to suffer another minute in the literal doghouse Colonel Garcia has sent her to. Instead of fulfilling this request, however, Clara “appeared with the novel idea that the point was not to die, since death came anyway, but to survive, which would be a miracle” (Allende 414). Alba takes Clara’s advice and begins to write stories in her head. She writes of everything that happened with her family, everything they ever did, to occupy her brain and keep her hope alive in that tiny doghouse. She “survives her torturous captivity by the “saving idea of writing” the spirit of her Grandmother provides (414)” (Jenkins). When the military guards come to retrieve her after they hear she has stopped eating and is dying, they bring her to Colonel Garcia. Alba, however, “did not recognize him. She was beyond his power” (Allende 414). From Clara’s advice at just the right moment when she was about to drop everything and submit to the overwhelming fear and strength Colonel Garcia had over her, Alba found her own strength. If it were not for her ability to connect with Clara’s spirit, Alba could have let herself die in the doghouse. Then she is taken first to a clinic and then to a concentration camp for women. Here, the women unite to help one another get through one day at a time. They have a strong sense of togetherness and facing the world head-on as a collective group, a trait that is often referred to when describing female friendships in real life as well. Women are known for connecting easily with one another and being extremely emotionally understanding, and that is just how the concentration camp prisoners are. In the end, Alba is freed from the camp and because of her courage that has slowly built up throughout her story, she is brave enough to write her family’s entire story just as she had written in her head while trapped in the doghouse.

Isabel Allende wrote the novel based on true events that happened in Chile in the early 1970s. According to Scott MacDonald Frame, because Allende wrote based on her own experiences in her own country, “La casa de los espiritus does merit attention as a plausible albeit fictionalized version of a subjective and personal view of Chile’s history.” Frame also adds that “La casa de los espiritus is not an historical novel in its own right; more a (her)story about a tragic family’s history.” This real-world context adds a dimension to the feminist themes. Allende lived through events extremely similar to the political conflicts in The House of the Spirits, using her life not just as an inspiration but as a direct source from which to draw a realistic story. There are fantastical elements to the novel, and many would question the real-world possibility of the women’s telepathic powers, but this real political tie-in adds to the realness of the novel as a whole. While women in the real world, at least modern women in our American society, do not typically subscribe to the belief that they are spiritually connected to one another and to the otherworld, the feminist issues brought up by this theme are deeply relevant to 1970s as well as modern feminism. This timeless relevance of the issues tackled makes the novel applicable to any generation up to the present.

The way that the themes of supernaturalism and feminism intersect in this novel is key to its structure and emotional depth. The telepathic abilities of the Trueba women add another dimension to their obviously deep connections. This strengthens their relationships with one another, and in turn strengthens each individual. Though defining the women as feminists themselves is a contentious point with some critics, it is agreed that they are strong characters themselves. Their actions reflect those of feminists in 1970s Chile, but they could be inspirations for modern women in America or any country on earth, and that shows the theme of feminism. The characters also find courage to defy dominating males and even oppressive government regimes through their unique characteristics as women and their spiritual connections. Both of these themes are necessary in The House of the Spirits because they interact so seamlessly throughout the text and need one another to be as exhaustive as they are in description. Clara, Blanca, and Alba Trueba find their supernatural strengths, and therefore their strengths in all their lives, in their house of spirits.

Sources:

Frame, Scott Macdonald. “The literal and the literary: a note on the historical references in Isabel Allende’s La casa de los espiritus.” Studies in Twentieth Century Literature, vol. 27, no. 2, 2003, pp. 217-230.

Frick, Susan R. “Memory and Retelling: The Role of Women in La casa de los espiritus.” Journal of Iberian & Latin American Studies, vol. 7, no. 1, 2001, pp. 27-41.

García-Johnson, Ronie-Richele. “The Struggle for Space: Feminism and Freedom in ‘The House of the Spirits.’” Revista Hispanica Moderna, vol. 47, no. 1, 1994, pp. 184-193.

Jenkins, Ruth Y. “Authorizing female voice and experience: ghosts and spirits in Kingston’s The Woman Warrior and Allende’s The House of the Spirits.” MELUS, vol. 19, no. 3, 1994, pp. 61-73.

It was a time of great change and a time of new beginnings. I walked through the crowded and bustling halls of the oh-so-pretentious Edward S. Marcus High School with bright eyes and excited, nervous energy. Naïve and innocent, I had not a clue as to what to expect these next four years to be like. Everyone always claims high school is the “time of your life”,  so that is what I expected. In hindsight, I would not say high school was the time of my life, but I will say it helped shape me as a person. This “shaping” process was at times painful and at times exhilarating, but I am thankful for it now. My first year in high school, I was on the volleyball team, and I was Homecoming Duchess. I also dated the good looking football player- yes, I realize this is starting off so cliché and idealized sounding, please bear with me. The hallways doubled as my catwalk, as I strutted from class to class all the while schmoozing and climbing up the social ladder each step I took. Looking back, I laugh because I was never one for schmoozing or small talk, and I am still not to this day. Then my sophomore year came, and I received a reality check. After playing volleyball since I was in the fifth grade, I decided it was not for me anymore. I also broke up with my football player boyfriend whom I had dated since the fifth grade as well. Everything that was comfortable and familiar to me, I no longer had. In addition, I failed my drivers test on my 16th birthday which was devastating. My parents bought me a one series two door BMW prior to me driving on the wrong side of the road and failing my test. Yes, I drove on the wrong side of the road. You heard that right. In other words, if my ego had not already been knocked down a few notches, it for sure was now. Before I knew it, my sophomore year had come and gone. I was now a junior staring blankly at college applications and anxiously waiting for my SAT scores to come in. My freshman year I would’ve told you I was going to attend TCU and be a cute little sorority girl on her way to earning an MRS. degree. By my junior year, I knew that was not in any shape or form what I wanted for myself. After I decided volleyball was no longer for me, I enrolled myself in AP classes which gave me a much different perspective on what I wanted. I had just begun tapping into my learning potential, and I wanted more. By this time, I would classify myself as a full-blown nerd. My friends had all started partying on the weekends, and I was not about the party scene. Morally, I disagreed with a multitude of my friends’ choices. I spent a great deal of time with my parents for this reason. My parents and I have always been extremely close, but they truly became my best friends as pathetic as that sounds. Honestly, they make some pretty great friends, and I am so grateful for them. If it had not have been for them, I am not sure I would have been able to cling to my morals as strongly as I did and avoid the party scene which got many people in serious trouble. My senior year was my favorite year by far. I did a lot of personal development and discovered all kinds of things about myself. My previous years in high school, I did things because other people wanted me to. I never did what Sydney wanted to do. By my senior year, I was as selfish as could be. If I did not want to see you or talk to you, I did not. It was lovely. I was apart of yearbook with all my friends. We drove the teacher crazy, but it was so much fun. I won a senior superlative- best dressed along with Conner Dimoush- a boy who lives across the lake cove from me. I discovered I am passionate about working out and eating healthy. I found cross fit and Pilates. My mind was clear and my body was functioning as well as it had ever functioned. I had a new-found motivation and drive. Being selfish was the best thing I could have done for myself, and I recommend everyone be selfish if you are from the ages of 16-25. I received my acceptance letter to Austin College, and I could not have been more excited. The world was full of opportunities waiting to be taken, and I was going to do just that. All in all, my time in high school changed me for the better. From the day I walked into Edward S. to the day I walked out of Edward S. for good, I was not the same person. I realize and acknowledge that I am an incredibly privileged child, and the issues I wrote about are so miniscule and petty in the grand scheme of things. At the time though, they did not feel that way. For the time being, I know what I want, and I am on a mission to get it done. I thank Edward S. for the good times and the bad, and I look forward to how these next four years at Austin College may reshape me once again.

It was in the late summer, the very beginning of my first year at college that I met Melquiades. He was alone in the library, on the second floor, reading from a book which looked so impossibly old that I am still certain it could not have been in circulation, and that he must have brought it from home.

He was a senior, and an international student – from where, exactly, I never learned, but he was dark, and he had sharp, angled features. He was fluent in Punjabi, and when I learned this I believed he was Indian or Pakistani. I then learned he was also fluent in Arabic, and Hindi, and Spanish, and Russian, and French, and Latin, and Catalan, and Portuguese . . .

All I ever really learned about Melquiades, besides his fluency in every language I could think of, was that he was writing a massive book, or novel, or something, in a language I didn’t recognize. He told me once that I would be able to read it when it was my turn to read it.

Every time I went to visit Melquiades through August and September, the library seemed totally empty. No one sat at the help desk, or on the couches, or on the computers. As I recall, the lights even seemed to always be off. Dim rays of warm afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows and lighted the causeless dancing of an infinitude of dust particles, each identical to the last, but with no relation to one another, and never touching as they floated aimlessly through the great empty library.

I would come to the library almost every day and find him in his usual place. I would sit across from Melquiades and study for hours at a time. Some days we wouldn’t speak. Some days we wouldn’t stop speaking, and he would tell me things I didn’t believe, like the results of the upcoming presidential election. It was a race between a politician with years of experience and a reality television star with an upcoming rape trial. The outcome seemed so obvious that it was not worth speculating. Melquiades said with absolute confidence that the television star would win. I asked him why and he shrugged. “Democracy only has maybe forty-four years left, anyway,” he said, without any apparent intention of explaining his prediction. “Nothing serious will come of his presidency, and it won’t matter in the end.”

I tried never to let Melquiades unsettle me too greatly. Through October and November he gave me a new prediction every day. A great many of these predictions, like the nuclear wipeout of Singapore, the extinction of democracy, and the US-China conflict, I have seen come true in my adulthood. Many others I have not seen, but not a single one of his predictions can I say was entirely false, and not simply yet to come. Some of his predictions came true, but not literally as he made them.

“You will marry a dog,” he once told me. “You will have to put her down.” Last winter I authorized my wife’s doctors to take her off of life support after an eight month coma. I haven’t figured the dog part out yet.

In December Melquiades seemed very weary. He told me that his writing had made him incredibly sad, and that he wished he could take a break, but he seemed to have forgotten how not to write. I advised him to leave his project at school and stay with his family for the holidays. He looked down at his hands and said, “My family has moved on from this world. I think that all there is for me to do is to write.” He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back, not sure why.

I returned to school at the beginning of January to find Melquiades exactly where I’d left him. Come to think of it, I never saw him anywhere else. He was always there, writing or reading, always alone until I came and sat with him.

“How is the next great American novel coming?” I asked him. I was shushed by someone I couldn’t see. Melquiades looked up at me and shook his head very slowly. “I wish that you could read it now,” he said, “so that I could make it less sad.”

“What has that got to do with anything? If you want it to be less sad, write it less sad. My reading it now won’t change anything.”

He almost laughed. It was the closest sound to a laugh I ever heard Melquiades make.

The weather transitioned painfully slowly into a milder, sunnier winter – the leaves and flowers and animals, however, did not return for spring. It was a mystery, and confused theories filled the news all day every day. Melquiades wrote furiously.

I still sat with him every day, but he spoke less and less every time. He seemed sadder, more tired and withdrawn, and he stopped giving me predictions. Every day I asked him what was wrong, and every day he answered simply: “I am tired of writing, but I’m not done yet.”

Melquiades finished writing in May, and it was then that spring played a furious catch-up. It was difficult to breathe for all the pollen in the air, and difficult to walk on the sidewalk for all the squirrels and rabbits. Days before his graduation Melquiades handed me his finished book.

“I can’t read this, Melquiades.”

“You will, someday. You’ll be able to. I promise,” he said. He stood shakily, as if for the first time – it was, actually, the first and only time I ever saw him stand. He turned away from me and walked out, saying nothing. I never saw Melquiades again. He wasn’t at his own graduation.

I meant to write the events of the rest of my life. This is, after all, my autobiography. But oddly it seems to escape my recollection. I have not slept in several days.

I’m afraid that I am dying. My chest feels tight and my vision is fading. I have lived a very long, very sad life, and everyone I know is gone. I can’t remember, but I know that’s true. What should I do? I don’t remember what a man is supposed to do when he is dying. I can’t stop writing.

Melquiades’ book is here with me. Or, it was here with me. It looks like it’s been replaced by an identical copy, one written in English. I will read it, and when I am done I will tell you what it says.

The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende is a complex and fascinating novel. Its author was cousin to Salvador Allende, the democratically elected president of Chile who died in the famous 1973 coup, and it was written in the late twentieth century, when the civil and political scenes were writhing under the stresses of change. Isabel Allende was understandingly sympathetic to her cousin’s Marxist ideals, and so her novel is ripe with progressive, anti-hegemonic sentiment. One of the most pronounced themes in The House of the Spirits is revolution – at times upsetting, but usually quiet. The novel chronicles political, cultural, and social revolution, reflecting the changes in twentieth century Latin American countries that its author was witnessing.

One of the earliest social revolutions the book makes note of is a women’s suffrage movement in the nameless country (terribly similar to Chile, the author’s home country) where the novel takes place. Nivea del Valle, mother to young Clara, campaigns with other upper class women for their right to vote. Through the novel there is an emphasis on women standing socially beneath men, regardless of wealth or class. Amanda and Clara resist this, though passively. They live their own lives, independent of any man – there are men in their lives, but they couldn’t usually seem to care one way or another. This is infuriating for the men (Nicolas and Esteban, respectively) who expect to easily bind them in their chauvinistic idea of a romantic relationship and find that these women are more apt to do whatever they please whenever it pleases them. Blanca, Clara’s daughter, also refutes this – but out of love for Pedro Tercero. Alba later falls in love with Miguel, Amanda’s younger brother and an important Marxist revolutionary figure. Their relationship is important because they are not married and they are not in typical gender roles, and they’re both proponents of a socialist government.

From very early on there is a looming political revolution, spelling disaster for the established oligarchy. For as long as Latin America had been colonized, the accepted way was simply that some people ought to be in charge and the rest, unfit to lead or even to learn to lead, ought to work for those in charge. Now, however, Marxist thought is spreading like wildfire through the poor and hungry, the working class, and the intellectuals, and the wealthy landowners are doing everything they can to suppress it. Esteban Trueba fights bitterly to “protect” his hacienda from this growing threat to his power and wealth, but he cannot stop it. Pedro Tercero Garcia, a child born under Esteban’s rule of Tres Marias, begins to teach the rest of the inhabitants about Marxism and the promise of equality. Despite his efforts, Esteban cannot reform the boy. He instead banishes him from Tres Marias and later attempts to murder him with an axe. Pedro Tercero goes on to become a hero to the burgeoning socialist population, writing songs of revolution.

There is an inspiring social revolution that occurs when the Candidate is elected president. The poor pour into the streets where the wealthy live, where most of them had never been in their lives. They do not loot or cause any damage – they simply walk, fascinated, soaking in their newfound equality and trying to understand their utopia.

Allende by no means wrote a fair and objective study on the differences between capitalism and socialism or between conservatism and liberalism. Her bias is glaringly obvious, but retrospectively it seems appropriate. She was forced to flee Chile after the extreme right wing conspirators usurped the new Marxist president, her cousin, and demolished any hope of immediate social and political reform. She also grew up around the very prevalent Latin American ideal of “machismo,” which, among other things, connotes that men are superior to women and are expected run society. She faced sexism in the real world that mirrored some of the sexism in her book. The House of the Spirits was rejected several times – no doubt because its author was a woman. But Allende persevered, just as Clara and Alba persevered in the face of discrimination and subjugation.

This is a story of revolution, and all of the things that it brings with it: bloodshed, heartbreak, triumph, equality, inequality, loss, grief, and satisfaction, mirroring the life of its author, and the lives of all those who have lived to see revolution, its changes, its effects, and who have fought for it or against it, selfishly or for loved ones.

Historically, men reigned superior to women in various facets of life. From the home to the work place, women find themselves fighting a constant battle for equality not only in earlier South American society but in American society today. The fight has become a focus and priority in today’s society, but prior to the 21st century/recent generation of millennials, this has not always been the case. The novel, The House of Spirits, illustrates the struggle pre-21st century for gender equality through the lives of multiple hispanic women. Throughout the novel, they each exercise their own individual, personal strife towards a common goal. The feminist activism begins with Nivea who specifically advocates “to be allowed to vote and attend the university”. This provides insight into the wide span of avenues in which inequality exists-  not only in politics but in education as well.  Following suit, Clara contributes to the cause as she blossoms under the summer sun while living in Tres Marias, “[understanding] that there is a place for her”. She flourishes as she devotes her time and energy to educating the other residents of Tres Marias on various subjects- reading, writing, general healthcare. This newly discovered passion for investing her time into earthly phenomena rather than the “supernatural” empowers her- driving her to express her dissatisfaction with the status quo amongst the other women of Tres Marias. Additionally, to end chapter four, Allende references an anecdote about a group of hens who unite and retaliate against an abusive fox. Not only does this anecdote foreshadow the eventual downfall of the oligarchy system in Latin America and rise of economic equality, it more importantly aims to foreshadow a revolution of the genders. Hens, believed to be born “stupid and weak”, unify to exert influence and gain earthly power. All in all, this novel serves as the author Allende’s declaration of independence as well as a declaration of independence for a suppressed female population. Additionally, Allende’s novel, House of the Spirits and Almodovar’s production, Volver, are strikingly similar in a variety of ways. To begin simply, both works take place in “traditional, patriarchal, gender-separated (and fascist) Spain,” setting the scene for a rarely viewed look into the lives of the female characters. House of the Spirits and Volver are both almost revolutionary in that they focus on the relationship between men and women but more importantly the issues specific to women only- issues that spurred shame in the hearts of many women prior to recent times and were rarely written about or talked about. The husband/wife dynamics between Clara and Esteban are reminiscent of those of Raimunda and Paco. For Clara and Raimunda, “men…tend to be malevolent, irrelevant or simply absent” and of lesser priority than connecting with the supernatural or in Raimunda’s case, keeping house or working a day job. On the opposite side of things, the male characters share habits as well. For example, Esteban and Paco are two sexually frustrated individuals who as a result, harbor an interest in preying on young girls. These two works do not place much emphasis on the male gender. However, when the men are depicted, it is a rather disturbing and somewhat alarming depiction. In chapter five of House of the Spirits, Allende goes into depth about Blanca during puberty and the inevitable menstrual cycle. This is significant as historically, menstruation was not a topic of conversation or much less a topic found in a piece of literature. Likewise, Almodovar makes a “startlingly risqué joke” when Raimunda is asked about Paco’s blood on her neck claiming it was “women’s problems”. These two examples are not only comical but help bring attention to what was once an uncomfortable subject for some. All in all, Allende and Almodovar were pioneers of the feminist movement in South American society. Specifically Allende, as it was incredibly rare for an author of an award winning book to be a woman much less a woman writing about gender inequality. Although, her success did not come without objection. Critics felt her work was strikingly similar to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 Years of Solitude. Their likeness is still up for debate today. Almodovar was influential to the movement, as he was a homosexual male. His sexual orientation not only made his work a bit taboo for the times but offered people a different view on the issues at hand. Similar to the feminist movement in the United States, the feminist movement in South America, was studied by many, criticized and even condemned by some, and served as the catalyst for social and economic change for women. The movement began in 1900 and by 1920, the movement was in full effect and was apart of every middle class females political vocabulary. In the beginning, there were three capitols in Argentina that served as the hub of the feminist movement- Buenos Aires, Montevideo, and Santiago. Among the broad, over-arching topic of feminism in South America, there are two main factions of the idea. There were feminists who focused solely on labor movements and the struggles of working women, and there were feminists who focused on the aspirations and wants/needs of middle-class women and their equality in regards to their male counterparts. The first group of feminists relied on the teachings and writings of August Bebel- a German socialist politician. His followers were typically of the lower socioeconomic class but nonetheless just as important to the movement. They saw the wage gap and unsafe working conditions in factories as inconsiderate and unjust, as they were the mothers of future generations to come. The other group found inspiration in philosophers such as John Stuart Mill. These women emphasized ideas such as suffrage, women’s public health, and the role within the family.  In regards to suffrage, women felt that if they worked and paid their taxes then they too should have a say in who is elected to lead and create laws. When it came to public and reproductive health, there was emphasis on the teaching of social hygiene within schools, providing proper gynecological services as well as information on how to prevent diseases and how to prevent pregnancy. Throughout South America, there were issues regarding prostitution, the child mortality rate, and over-all health and wellness of women. Feminists believed the key to combatting these problems was better education and access to proper healthcare for all women- not just those who were able to afford it. Additionally, many of these topics in reference to women’s health were seen as risqué and were taboo to talk about at the time. Feminists urged these topics to be normalized and made comfortable to discuss in mixed company while not losing the sense of urgency and importance these issues demanded. A wide variety of people recognized and acknowledged the platform on which the feminist movement stood. However, the two groups continued to struggle to persuade anarchists in efforts to gain the support of the labor force. Specifically, Anarchists framed the feminist movement as a bourgeois ideology discrediting it in the eyes of many as well as stirring up apprehensions from many. Support from the labor force was crucial as the majority of the population fell under this category. At the time, there was an influx of women leaving the home to work in undesirable conditions. This stirred emotional responses and created a hot political topic as the original, traditional image of the female staying home and tending to the family became less prominent than before. For many who opposed and even condemned the movement, their reasoning always circled back to the same thing as before. It is hard for some to accept a new and different image that conflicts so intensely with the previous image so deeply engrained in their society. All in all, the works mentioned above give a voice to a group of people who otherwise would not have one, and without these works and all they entail, the world in which women live and function would look much different.

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