Wolfe, Reese.The Monkeys Have No Tails in Zamboanga (Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1959) pp. 169.
An old friend, gone by and by, wrote this wonderful memoir a few years before I met him. He confessed he was an author when we worked together, but I did not read his work until decades later. Now I’m glad I finally read this part it; it may have been his most satisfying.
The Monkeys Have No Tails is Reese’s memoir of growing up and becoming a man. He told me, when I knew him, that he had grown up in the Berkeley-San Francisco area in a well-heeled family, an assertion confirmed in this book. I discovered I was vaguely familiar with his growing up years, as chronicled here, most probably because we talked about his early life when my wife and I visited him and his wife, Dorothee, and I started learning the little matters that underpinned our work. We were cultural attaché’s in Central America, he the older, I the younger (much younger).
Reese tells us in his book that he became a man at sea. That is what this memoir is about; that at the age of eighteen he left home and made it to the old wharfs in San Francisco where he committed himself as an apprentice mariner on a rusty old merchant marine ship. He thought it was the beginning of an exotic adventure but was soon put to work cleaning and polishing the entire ship, day after day, then later shoveling coal into the steam boilers. This is how came to sail the briny blue for countless weeks. He became overwhelmed with regrets when the fabled ports of call turned out to be a big disappointment.
He couldn’t get back home quickly enough.
In between, he discovered, among other things, that in Zamboanga monkeys have no tails but more importantly he learned lifelong lessons: who he was and who he wasn’t. He admired the first assistant engineer so much that he began aping him, but soon came to terms with himself, with who he was—and to return to finish up college in Berkeley.
He writes in a light and friendly manner and includes songs he sang on the ship’s foc’sle, strumming his banjo-ukulele to ease the long days on deck.
Marcelo Hernández Castillo. Children of the Land: A Memoir (New York: Harper Collins, 2020), pp. 362.
Every American should read this memoir because it offers a real, personalized story about what it means to live as an undocumented person in the United States. Most Americans have no idea.
The author was brought to the United States in 1991 as a youngster by his undocumented parents, making him a DACA person. This means that, like his parents, he too was undocumented but received protection from deportation in 2012 from President Barack Obama’s Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (hence DACA). He was one of a great multitude in similar circumstances, but different from most of them because he obtained a green card visa later, after all, as he explains.
Like most DACA folk, Castillo became Americanized to the point of losing fluency in Spanish, relying on over the counter drugs, wearing a nose plug, and even getting tattooed. And, like many of his fellow Dacas, he also achieved what most mainstream Americans do not: a master’s degree from a leading university. He does not expound on the challenges he encountered doing this, but they must have been enormous. Instead of becoming a lawyer or a doctor, he became a poet. Here are the reasons he admits for this:
I wanted to write poetry because I believed any practice in the English language would distance myself from my identity as an immigrant and I thought (naively ashamedly so) that the farthest association from an immigrant was a poet How foolish I was. Little did I know the lineage of immigrant poets I came from…(p. 75).
Then, again he explains regarding learning English:
I wanted to write and speak English better than any white person, any citizen, because in the unthinkable case of ever getting caught by immigration, I thought I would impress them enough with my mastery of English to let me go. What a stupid idea. (pp.75-76)
Castillo’s memoir is framed around the agonizing challenges of obtaining his own residential visa, then trying to get his father’s and later his mother’s. I found this part particularly gratifying because he unabashedly divulges the psychological and social strains involved. Just driving to be interviewed at the ICE offices to qualify for the visa he became fearful of committing a mistake that would get him pulled over and arrested obliterating his dream of holding a visa. Paranoia and trauma are words that he uses to describe his feelings—and those of his family. The rest of us would be better Americans if we could appreciate these experiences.
He is a poet writing his memoirs, so the biographical elements mentioned in the paragraphs above are veiled in his often florid text and fluid structure. Reading the text with care will help.
Why Castillo’s family chose to immigrate without documents in the first place is a crucial point addressed only tangentially because it is, after all, a memoir, not a history book. He works as a professional poet.
Fallas, Carlos Luis. Mamita Yunai (San José, C.R.: Editorial Costa Rica, 1941, 2019), pp. 267. [See Spanish below] The author was a unionized banana plantation worker in Costa Rica in the 1930s who learned to read and write despite conditions to the contrary. Mamita became his best known work. It is an excellent piece of literature, on its own, yet it also accomplishes what the author most wanted: to unveil the unquestionably villainous working conditions that made it possible for Americans to consume their bananas in those years. Have these conditions changed today?
Mamita Yunai is the ironic nickname that Spanish speaking workers used to refer to the company that employed them and which dominated the banana industry: The United Fruit Company. Yunai was the closest they could come to saying “united,” and they regarded the American firm as a wicked mother, which she apparently was. Apt title.
This is Fallas’ fictionalized memoir of the years he worked in the banana fields of Costa Rica, on the Caribbean coast, first as a liniero or line man and later as a labor union representative. In the novel he calls himself Sibajitas and describes himself as a member of a squad of laborers opening the dense jungle to install the narrow-gage rail lines that would help extract the elongated perishable fruit. Sweating from insufferable humidity and heat, swamps, snakes and swarming mosquitos, the author convinced me of the improbability of human survival especially with little or no medical services. He writes that countless men died as a result, most of them left to rot in the muddy morass, as in the case of a close friend. Local government officials are described as enablers of this situation because they were in the company pay.
The north coast of Central America is the home of many African-origin folks who appear here as United Fruit workers, alongside their Hispanic-origin co-workers. They speak pidgin English and Spanish and reside in Costa Rica or are passing through from Honduras headed to Panama looking for canal jobs there. Aboriginals from Talamanca also appear in the story because the banana fields intruded into their long-guarded territory. They’re regarded as proud enemies of Spanish conquerors but their condition, in the 1930’s, had been reduced to wretched survival.
By the way, the Prologue’s author scorns Fallas’ many critiques for suppressing this book because of his membership in the local Communist Party, crushed long ago. The book has been translated into English.
El autor fue un trabajador sindicalizado en las plantaciones bananeras de Costa Rica en la década de los 1930’s y aprendió a leer y escribir a pesar de tener todas las condiciones a su contra. Mamita Yunai es su obra mayor y la más conocida. La considero un trabajo literario excelente y pienso también que el autor logró lo que más quería: dejar ver las condiciones de trabajo incuestionablemente desgraciadas, que hicieron posible que los estadounidenses pudieran disfrutar de sus bananas en esos años. Han cambiado las condiciones en estos días?
“Mamita Yunai” es el apodo mordaz que los trabajadores de habla hispana usaban para referirse a la United Fruit Company, la empresa que los empleaba y que dominaba la industria bananera. “Yunai” era lo más cerca que podían llegar a decir “united,” y consideraban a la empresa norteamericana como una madre malvada, lo que aparentemente era. Título apto.
Esta es una memoria novelizada del propio Fallas cuando trabajó en los campos bananeros de Costa Rica, en la costa del Caribe, primero como “liniero” y luego como representante de un sindicato. En la novela se auto llama Sibajitas y nos dice que fue miembro de un pelotón de obreros que abría la espesa jungla para instalar las líneas ferroviarias que ayudarían a extraer la fruta amarilla y perecedera. Sudar a chorros a causa de la humedad y el calor insufrible, caminar en pantanos, aguantar serpientes y enjambres de mosquitos, el autor me convenció de la improbabilidad de la supervivencia humana, especialmente con poco o ningún servicio médico. Escribe que incontables hombres murieron como resultado, la mayoría de ellos pudriéndose en el fango, como en el caso de un amigo cercano. Describe a los oficiales de gobierno como achichinques por estar al pago de la empresa.
Gente de origen africano reside en la costa norte de Centro América y por eso aparecen aquí muchos de ellos como trabajadores de la United Fruit, al lado de sus compañeros hispanos. Hablan inglés pidgin y español y residen en Costa Rica o los describe el autor como emigrantes de Honduras dirigiéndose a Panamá en busca de trabajo. Los aborígenes de Talamanca también aparecen en esta historia porque los campos bananeros invadieron en su territorio, el que habían protegido durante la época colonial. Se les considera orgullosos enemigos de los conquistadores españoles, pero su condición en los 1930’s se había reducido a una resistencia miserable.
Por cierto, el autor del Prólogo rechaza a los críticos de Fallas porque suprimieron este libro debido a su membresía en el Partido Comunista, desbaratado ya hace mucho tiempo.
This is a portrayal of criminal gangs in Honduras and how the government there responds to them. Alberto Arce, a Spanish reporter, gathered the pertinent information sometime between 2012 and 2014 which he poured into his book (Honduras a ras de suelo, 2016) and which I reviewed on Amazon.com, separately. This is not the review. There is no English version of Arce’s book so far.
Alberto Arce
I decided the paragraphs below helped me understand why Central Americans are seeking asylum at the U.S.-Mexican border in 2018. They might help you understand too. (The Spanish language title is a play on the word “honduras,” which means the hollows or deepest parts, so the title could be translated as: the depths closest to the ground).
The Associated Press assigned Arce to work and live in Honduras during the years mentioned. I am familiar with Honduras because I lived there too, many years ago; one of my children was born in Tegucigalpa, and so I have some affection for and familiarity with the country.
I believe the information below, which I’ve translated, offers a background to the petitions for asylum that Central American migrants are making at present to our federal officers stationed at our southern border. It sheds light on the dilemmas our officials must face in granting or denying asylum. The main question they must answer is, does the asylum seeker really have a “credible fear” of harm or loss of life? A positive answer may lead to asylum. This is a controversial matter today.
Honduras a ras de suelo
The text below (see citation below-my words appear in brackets) I believe is a composite of information which Arce gathered from different Honduran citizens including a taxi driver whom he mentions. It supplements what I know about Honduras (I taught the history of Central America for many years at the University of Washington). Read on.
Gangs have existed in Tegucigalpa since the 1970’s. In the beginning they were no more than groups of youngsters from different schools who differentiated themselves according to the music they listened to, the way the dressed, or the haircuts they used, and they would fight with sticks and fists over the parks they preferred. ‘The tops,’ ‘the bottoms’ or the ‘associated wanderers’ were their names. They didn’t sell drugs nor extort people. The society to which they belonged hadn’t broken down yet.
Everything changed around the mid-1990’s. The United States, which did have a problem with violence and drugs in the suburbs, began to deport Central American immigrants back to their countries of origin. Many of them were teen agers who barely spoke Spanish and didn’t have relatives in Honduras who could help them. They began to congregate in the city parks and take care of each other. There was no interest nor capacity to deal with the new arrivees, and soon arms and drugs began to spread. My taxi cab driver Mairena, remembers it well.
At the beginning they were just deportees who wandered the streets asking for a few pennies to buy a soda while they looked after your parked car. People felt sorry for them. No one gave it much thought. No one looked ahead, and no one tried to find a solution. The police, even less, because they are under paid, ill-trained, and half-literate and, in many cases, are cousins or neighbors of the deportees themselves. They share the food they get on credit from the local stores and live in the same card-board dwellings.
The gangs are generally known as maras, a word used in the local Honduran jargon to refer to a friend. That’s the way they see each other, insecure youngsters from dysfunctional families beaten down by domestic violence.
In 1998 Hurricane Mitch destroyed a portion of the national infrastructure leaving thousands of orphans and displaced families in its wake forced to live in temporary housing. This became a recipe for the recruitment of new mareros, young maras. If you’re nobody, if you feel you don’t have anywhere to go, you have no future, no way to study something, and you’re tired of going hungry, or your step father beats you all the time, then you get into the maras.
Barrio 18 and the Salvatrucha Mara, also known as “13,” named according to the areas they originally controlled in Los Angeles, began to fight over barrios or districts in Tegucigalpa, toward the end of the 1990’s. Later, smaller groups, like the Chirizos or the Combo That Doesn’t Give Up, began taking over parts of inner city.
A large part of violence in Honduras is connected to drug trafficking. The gangs serve as transporters and sicarios [mobile assassins] for the drug cartels. Their services are often paid in kind, merchandise, which must then be monetized on the street, by peddling drugs in small amounts. They also charge a “war tax,” classic “protection” extortion. Most taxi cabs and city buses as well as businesses find themselves obligated to pay. Most of the time they must pay two gangs. If you don’t pay, you die. Recently, some home owners have been charged a tax. In Tegucigalpa and San Pedro Sula entire neighborhoods stand vacant for this reason because the owners moved away, refusing to pay or be killed.
It’s hard to find a gang member older than 30 because they’re either dead or in jail but also because gangs recruit children. First, they serve as look outs, then as couriers, peddlers, then extortionists. The highest position is a sicario. Gangs order ever younger kids to kill someone because they’re easier to manipulate, and because penal law applies only to someone over 18.
Women, mothers and children have specific but secondary roles within the organization. When a gang controls a neighborhood most everyone feels compelled to submit. The least expected of you is to stay silent. You don’t see, you don’t hear, you don’t speak. When someone [a gang member] has to hide, these organizations require full compliance [from the neighborhood], full support or cover up, voluntarily or out of fear.
There are no official statistics of gang responsibility in the overall violence picture. Experts assign them as the primary perpetrators of violent acts in the country. It’s not possible to know how many gang members there are. Perhaps 10,000. They control practically all the districts in the city. In those they don’t control they can go in and commit a crime anyway. This access gives them impunity.
Honduras approved an anti-gang law at the beginning of the century that penalized gang membership. It has been a total failure. The application of the mano dura [iron fist] has only triggered a war between the maras and the security forces. On the other hand, gangs are becoming more discreet. Identity rules for such things as clothing or tattoos are now only visible in prison or on the bodies of the most important and oldest members, people who got tattooed long ago. Nowadays, they’re sending their smartest kids to the university. They need administrators to move the money they accumulate. They even have doctors on their lists and secret clinics, allowing them to avoid having to go to a hospital when they’re wounded in action.
If during the civil wars and the revolutionary upheavals that afflicted Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Honduras on a smaller scale, there were groups of soldiers and police who summarily executed people just because they were leftists, since the early 2000’s human rights organizations have been denouncing the existence of social cleansing policies against gang members. [Arce’s book is a case by case report of how these policies are applied]. Officials have always attributed the deaths of gang members to their own internal conflicts. [This means that] Every so often the death squads return [meaning Honduran security forces].
This is an excerpt from Alberto Arce, Honduras a ras de suelo: Crónicas desde el país más violento del mundo, Ariel 2016), pages 148-151, translated by Carlos B. Gil. A permission to translate was submitted to Arce by Gil via LinkIn.
