Subalternity and Luis J. Rodriguez’s “My Ride, My Revolution”

Juan Buriel

Contingent and partial, the subaltern’s irruptive presence stands at odds with strategies to portray
and describe subalternity in itself.
- Gyan Prakash, “The Impossibility of Subaltern History” (294)

Admittedly but a single work, The Republic of East L.A. by Luis J. Rodriguez can elicit profound implications for the study of the Chicano subaltern subject and its representation. The subaltern, according to Latin American critic John Beverley, “designates a subordinated particularity, and in a world where power relations are spatialized that means it must have a spatial referent, a form of territoriality” (2, original emphasis). The Republic of East L.A. portrays a place that has achieved global recognition as, according to Raúl Homero Villa, “the prototypical Chicano barrio of the United States” (62); or, the paradigmatic site of Chicano subalternity. And it is this meta-barrio of East L.A. that serves as the spatial referent for episodes of Chicano subalternity depicted in each the novel’s twelve short stories. Commonly situated within the spatial referent of East L.A., these seemingly disparate short stories symbiotically come together as complementary parts of a discontinuous narrative to form a novel. Rather than constituting a mutually excluding dissimilarity, their difference from each other performs the very heterogeneity that author Luis J. Rodriguez claims exists in East L.A. Rodriguez attests in interviews that The Republic of East L.A. is meant as an interrogative response to East L.A.’s proverbial image - its acclaimed noteworthiness - as a place of social decadence.1 Yet, as with any work with new historicist inclinations, there is a tendency to presume that such revisions naturally beget more authentic or transparent representations of subalternity. That the novel is prone to an ethno-essentialist reading, to being conveniently commodified by the multiculturalist politics of the modern metropolitan academy, warrants a consideration of the structural relations of power and representation operating through its interpretation. In other words, how is it that the novel can so convincingly stage its representation of Chicano subalternity? If, as Gyan Prakash maintains, “the subaltern appears as a figure that resides outside authorized categories, signifying a pure externality beyond the realm of reason” (287, my emphasis), then how is it that, on their own, the novel’s short stories manage to stage a seemingly reasonable and fitting representation of Chicano subalternity?

Perhaps it is that the voices of the narrating author and the speaking characters in the novel shine so brightly in their narrative exemplarity as Chicano subalterns that, as a consequence, they blind a reader to the presence to the actual subalterns of the novel; or, those silent subaltern non-characters confined to the shadows of the narrative. I argue that it is precisely the narrative silence of these non-characters that signals the limitations of the novel’s representation of Chicano subalternity. What appears to be the voice of the subaltern emanating through the speaking characters is, in fact, but a fortuitous positive staging of the subaltern’s position of immanent silence signaled by the silent subaltern non-characters of the novel. It is with these non- characters that the subaltern makes its ambivalent appearance in the novel, reminding us once again of the unspeakability, that imminent silent condition, of the subaltern.

At first, however, the novel seems to exhibit all the necessary qualifications to overturn Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s famed assertion that “[t]he subaltern cannot speak” (1988a, 308). Not only do the novel’s stories collectively foreground a cast of speaking Chicano subaltern characters whose circumstances offer a view into the rather oppressive social conditions of East L.A., but the very written production of the novel itself serves as testimonial of the literary inscriptions of a Chicano subaltern subject hailing from his enclave of subalternity: namely, the author himself, Luis J. Rodriguez. By all accounts, then, the novel appears to have borne the textual presence of the Chicano subaltern subject of East L.A. through a narratological scheme involving a native subaltern author and a host of empowered and speaking subaltern characters. As the redemptive search for authentic representations of the Chicano experience is pursued within the metropolitan academy, and as this archival endeavor is continually augmented, refined, and legitimated by the work of critics, a novel possessing the cultural credentials of The Republic of East L.A. – with its proximity to the real events of Chicano subalternity in East L.A. via its author, as well as the ethnographic veracity of its overall portrayal – is surely to be venerated as among the works of Chicano literature that, more than others, embodies such autochthonous qualities. For it is generally regarded that this celebrated body of literature more or less captures and revives the expressive intonations of the Chicano subaltern subject of history long silenced by repressive apparatuses of Euroamerican hegemony.

But The Republic of East L.A. is neither an innocuous representation of Chicano subalternity in East L.A., nor can its multiculturalist status as an authentic representation suffice in determining its cultural meaning. By staging the subaltern with a voice the novel inevitably grants cognitive authority to certain subaltern subject positions at the silent expense of others. In this way the novel, and contrary to the intentions of the author, fosters the unwitting production of subalternity through its attempt at portraying it by inscribing the necessary silence of a cast of silent subaltern non-characters. Despite all indications that the novel accomplishes the seamless transference of a regional subaltern experience through the staged voices of its speaking characters and its narrating Chicano author, a close examination of the voices that compose the narrative reveals a curious find: the perpetual silence of one or more subaltern non-characters recurrently serves as the occasion for other Chicano characters to speak. That is, the voices of those characters poised as speaking Chicano subalterns, as well as the narrating voice of the author himself, function synecdochically as the privileged subject positions through which representation of the Chicano subaltern of East L.A. is consolidated. What appears to be the manifestation of the subaltern’s voice in the novel is but a positive staging of the negative subject position of the subaltern that perpetually fails to speak in a way that matters. The subaltern of the novel, then, is the subject position occupied by the non-speaking subaltern characters that remain without a staged voice. “If the subaltern can speak then, thank God,” exclaims Spivak, “the subaltern is not a subaltern anymore” (1990, 158). Therefore, the actual subaltern subject position in the novel is occupied by the narrative non-characters that do not speak, are not fully represented or representable, and cannot be discerned within the narrative as anything other than a negative presence. As Rey Chow purports, “[i]t is only when we acknowledge the fact that the subaltern cannot speak that we can begin to plot a different kind of process of identification for the native” (36).

It is, therefore, important to recognize that the novel is diffuse with silent subaltern non-characters whose presence, at first, does not command urgent interpretive attention. Yet, these silent non-characters mark the novel’s limits as a narrative representation of subalternity. As neither the speaking characters, nor the narrating voice of the author, these silent non-characters constitute a symbolic lack of the novel. Compliant with the tenets of Lacanian psychoanalysis, Beverley holds that the subaltern is “that which resists symbolization, a gap-in-knowledge that subverts or defeats the presumption to know it” (2). Thus, the non-characters of The Republic of East L.A. function silently as modest reminders within the novel itself that it is but a limited narrative production, an incomplete representation, of what is the incommensurable experience of Chicano subalternity that always already proves irreducible to textual portrayals and descriptions. These silent subaltern non-characters do not have their stories told, they are relegated to the margins of the narrative, and their voices are either completely silenced or are depicted as unintelligible. Let us now examine only the first of the novel’s twelve stories with attention trained towards the critical meaning of the silent subaltern non-characters.

In the first story of the novel, “My Ride, My Revolution,” Cruz Blancarte, a politically conscious limousine driver who gains exposure to the world outside East L.A. by chauffeuring a bourgeois clientele, functions as both the narrating and protagonist voice of the story. On this given morning he is awakened to another day in his Boyle Heights barrio of East L.A. by the “coughs and giggles” (Rodriguez 2002b, 1), the “voices and inflections” (Rodriguez 2002b, 1), emanating from the group that has gathered to witness the wonder-on-wheels that sits parked in front of his house. Cruz pensively observes through the window of his bedroom the scene unfolding around his limousine as people from this group of admirers “skirmish around it, climb its blinding chrome and white armor, smearing dirt and fingerprints on its tinted windows (Rodriguez 2002b, 1). Amid the group Cruz notices some scruffy men who, he purports, “gather around to put words together about this wonder on the roadway, to excavate a new vocabulary for this intrusion that seems to smirk at their poverty, to lay like a diamond on a garbage-strewn lot” (Rodriguez 2002b, 1, my emphasis). Altogether, in this initial scene, Cruz demonstrates to the reader his awareness of the ideological sway that the limousine exerts on the neighborhood residents. He is keen to the psychical process by which his limousine, or the object on which the group’s attention is focused, becomes a spectacle for the people of his neighborhood. It is a spectacle worthy of their attention and admiration precisely because it represents to them the power and prestige that is the social antithesis, the foreign and rarely encountered other, of their very existence in this segment of East L.A.  According to Cruz, the magnetic hold of the limousine on the group’s attention comes not so much from the social glitz that it exudes, but rather from the fact that it is the very lack that defines and reminds them of their depreciated social status in their subaltern enclave of East L.A. Cruz claims that the limousine mocks at their condition of subalternity “[h]ere in a rund-down section of East Los where limos don’t belong” (Rodriguez 2002b, 1). “[A]lthough here it is,” continues Cruz, “laughing at fate, at ‘everything in its place,’ at a segmented society of ‘who has’ and ‘who hasn’t,’ and practically telling the world, ‘see . . . here I am, in the barrio – how about that!” (Rodriguez, 2002b, 1). 

An interesting triadic contrast to be witnessed between all the characters and non-characters of the novel is prophesied in this opening scene of the first story, “My Ride, My Revolution.” For there appears in this scene the speaking character of Cruz, the scruffy men who struggle to find the appropriate vocabulary to speak, and the remaining figures whose very existence is known only by a profusion of unintelligible sounds as well as the smudges of dirt physically imprinted on the limousine. That is, the men struggling to speak are, in effect, portrayed as aspiring an ability to speak that has already been achieved and duly demonstrated by Cruz himself in his narration of this first story. And yet, these men, by virtue of their very aspirations to speak, are already a cut above those other silent non-characters whose expressibility in this scene is reduced to their smearing of dirt on the limousine. The men’s very struggle to find the appropriate vocabulary to explain the presence of the limousine is – between Cruz’ articulateness and the others’ inarticulateness – symbolic of the desire to be emancipated from the void of silence. They are the non-characters of an ambivalent disposition caught in the anxious domain between being in possession of a voice with which to speak and the condition of utter silence (or at the very least rudimentary and unrefined forms of expression) suggested by the presence of the other subaltern non-characters.

“I’m awake,” describes Cruz, “sitting at the edge of my bed with my hands on my head, startled by the wedges of daylight through torn curtains, by the voices and inflections, their wild abandon, and by the men’s search for living poignancy from the polished enormity in their midst” (Rodriguez 2002b, 1). There emerges here a dual significance to Cruz’s awakened state. For he is both in a state of early morning slumber, as well as politically conscious of social matters to which the silent subaltern characters have yet to awaken, or are in the process of awakening to. Whereas the smearing of dirt by certain non-characters is considered an act of “wild abandon” in Cruz’s estimation, the vocabulary sought by the struggling men is valued as a more admirable form of expression even though it is still in its formative stages. For with the appropriate vocabulary, and thus the achievement of a recognizable voice, these men can rid themselves of their wild tendencies and thus advance to an intellectual faculty that will permit them to speak for themselves. With this vocabulary they will command an authoritative voice like that epitomized by Cruz himself. The search for a voice is here, at the very outset of the novel, insidiously prefaced as a main preoccupation of all the subsequent eleven short stories of the novel.

Later in this first story, while Cruz is meditating on the meaning of his rock band, a certain relation is insinuated between voice and intelligibility. Here, Cruz draws a distinction between his work as a limousine driver, as a social subject participating in hegemonic modes of production, and his leisurely pursuits as a member of a rock band named La Cruz Negra. The band is his escape from the formality and order demanded by his job. For Cruz, as well as for the other members, the band serves a therapeutic purpose. Through their collective music the members of La Cruz Negra supply themselves with a medium through which to cathect their pent-up frustration with society. The band fulfills their collective need to critique a society that, as the following lyrics suggest, proves unfavorable for Chicanos. 

Lies, betrayals, this system smells –
My brain is crammed with rusted nails,
Time to blow it all down – got to fight it –
Tear it all down –
Can’t be cruel to the Brown – (Rodriguez 2002, 2002b, 16, original emphasis)

The revolutionary overtones of these lyrics signal a developing class-consciousness that Cruz and his fellow band members express by resorting to the medium of music. However, their unintelligible style of music is deemed by its unwilling listeners to be inappropriate and threatening. “As it turns out,” states Cruz, “most people in the cottages can’t stand our playing” (Rodriguez 2002b, 17). “But even after the initial death threats and cursing,” continues Cruz, “they eventually get used to hearing us. Like the way we’ve all gotten used to the incessant roar of traffic on the San Bernardino Freeway” (Rodriguez 2002b, 17). Though their music may reluctantly be accepted into the fold of life in their barrio, it is the very unintelligibility of their music that is its defining trait.

We’re La Cruz Negra – there’s mean intention there. Besides, the few people who come to hear us at the downtown bar where we sometimes practice don’t seem to give a shit. Raw is better. Raw is power.
           
Raw means we’re never gonna get a record deal.

I know this. Right now it’s just about being there – losing oneself in the
venomous three-chord assaults, in the blood-boiling guitars, heart-stopping bass, and the drums with mayhem on their mind. It’s being in that
unnameable space between voice and microphone, flesh and metal alloy;
between what screams I pull from my bass-plucking hands and the suicide eyes of the people listening to us. [. . . ]

‘Darn, m’ijos, you could peel paint with that noise,’ she [Ruby] offers.

‘Hey, Ruby, how does it sound today?’ Lilo asks.

“Better, really – a lot better. I could almost hear a melody.’

‘Damn, we messin’ up bad then,’ I add. (Rodriguez 2002b, 16-17, original
emphasis)

In effect, La Cruz Negra intentionally strives to be unintelligible.

Whereas La Cruz Negra can choose when and where to be unintelligible, the actual Chicano subaltern is not afforded the luxury of such a choice. As Cruz himself admits in no uncertain terms early in the story, “I spend most of my life trying to be different” (Rodriguez 2002b, 5). Again, Cruz’ character is afforded the wherewithal to choose difference, to waiver at will between social acceptance as a limousine driver and marginalization. Curiously, however, Cruz alludes to an alternative set of norms present in his neighborhood from which he also seeks to distinguish himself.

In the neighborhood, whenever the cliques break off into their own worlds, I stand aside, listening to my own rhythms. I don’t want to be one of the cholos, the gangbangers. They have their own problems, I’m sure, their own identity issues. I can’t relate to them. Like I want to live. I don’t care about the dance crews too much. I don’t want to end up a working stiff, stuck in some sweatshop, waiting to retire, only to sit in the backyard with beer in hand, bored to death. I don’t want to be like those ranchera-loving mejicanos in bars drowning in their losses. [. . . ] I have spiritual curiosity that isn’t just to fill in the voids. It’s also not about hooking onto any one belief – it’s the satisfaction one gets from learning about the vibrant universe of arts, words, images, and ideas that human beings have created over time. (Rodriguez 2002b, 5, original emphasis)

In this passage, Cruz’ character implies that those who are what he does not want to be – “gangbanger,” “dance crews,” “ranchera-loving mejicanos” – lack an appreciation for what are, in fact, elements of high culture. And yet, for all of his philosophical enlightenment and political consciousness, Cruz seems unaware of the paradox of his ways when he expresses the revolutionary intention to resist the corruption of state institutions with which he himself is very much complicit.

‘You want change – you have to study,’ Ruby would always say. [. . .]

Not just theory. Not just practice. Truth is both. [. . .]

Eventually, I came around. This isn’t hard if – like Jesus or Zapata – you care about those at the bottom. It isn’t hard if you don’t fit in. if you feel and taste the daily injustices and hypocracies – and it makes you gag. If it seems that the churches, the schools, the politicians, and corporations are all in collusion against you. That’s the way I see it – it’s good to be about something they hate.

So I play bass for the La Cruz Negra – thumping out a bloody rage and calling for a worldwide uprising. Claro que hell yes! (Rodriguez 2002b, 6, original emphasis)

Cruz, in effect, envisions himself as the leader of this forthcoming revolution, armed with distinct knowledge “about those at the bottom,” a native informant who can speak for and of the Chicano subaltern who cannot be represented except through him.

Cruz ends “My Ride, My Revolution” with words that, contrary to their intended meaning, chime an ironic ring with regards to Chicano subalternity. “Maybe, someday,” envisions Cruz, “I’ll get serious about that revolution” (Rodriguez 2002b, 24). For the Chicano subaltern, revolution is not a choice. Rather, and as a last resort, it becomes a necessity. The irony, of course, is that despite all of the frustration and anger disclosed by Cruz through his music and his narrative explication in this first story, he nonetheless is shown by Rodriguez to be a character that is capable of expressing his discontent whereas the silent subaltern non-character of the novel is not. The silent subaltern non-character of the novel is never afforded the narrative opportunity to articulate, that is to voice, what Cruz in this first story seems so effortlessly to be able to do. The frustration and anger articulately expressed by Cruz should not be confused with that of the Chicano subaltern who is unable to speak of their condition.    
To be sure, the actual Chicano subaltern of the novel cannot be rendered through the intelligible voice of a character, such as that of Cruz, since the occasion for such speech is conditioned by the silence or unintelligibility of subaltern non-characters. The narrative voice of Cruz in the first story, for example, is staged over and against those silent non-characters that at the very least achieve a narrative presence only by way of their silence. Still, their silent presence cannot simply be excused as “insignificant notation” (Barthes 12, original emphasis) inherent to the novel’s narrative structure when faced by the looming possibility that the novel can likely be appropriated as an authentic representation of Chicano subalternity in our age of multiculturalism. We must, according to Roland Barthes, be always attentive to that conformity to “the [multi]cultural rules governing representation” (14) which conditions and constitutes the very irrelevancy in our interpretive practices of certain silent or seemingly superfluous notations within the narrative structure. The silence of the non-speaking subaltern characters of The Republic of East L.A. presents itself as a critical heuristic for detecting and comprehending the insidiousness of interpretive domination and (mis-)appropriation (textual or otherwise) that persists even in the well-intending discourse of multiculturalism.

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