La Gringa (Marie-Sarah Bouchard): A brief reflection on the concept of cultural fascination.
I went to the Salon du Livre de Montréal, determined to find a book that would help me with my long-procrastinated goal of finally reading a French novel. Nothing was grabbing my attention until I went to Boréal’s kiosk and saw a title that made me chuckle, La Gringa. People always say how you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but no one said anything about judging a book by its title! For context, Gringo and its feminine counterpart, Gringa, are terms mostly used in Latin America. However, their meaning varies by region. For me, a Colombian raised in Bogota, Gringo refers to anyone who lives in the US. For others, Gringo is used to describe someone with Caucasian features. While not inherently offensive, Gringo wouldn’t be used in professional or formal settings. That said, I figured the book would somehow touch on Latin American subjects, which not only fascinates me, but would also make the experience of reading in French easier. After reading the book’s blurb, I was sold. The blurb in question made it clear that the story’s main themes would be identity and a sense of belonging, concepts that, as an immigrant, I constantly find myself gravitating towards, especially when the cultures being focused on in the blurb are those from Quebec, my chosen home, and Venezuela, a culture with which my own culture shares significant traits. I grabbed the book, paid for it, and left the fair proud of having found something that would (hopefully) help me achieve my goal.
In brief, the book follows Maria, a woman born in Montreal in 1969 who was adopted and brought to Venezuela, where she was raised among people who didn’t look like her, including her family. Despite her loving upbringing, Maria’s goal was to eventually meet her biological parents. Due to the political situation in Venezuela, Maria, now with a family of her own, decides to move back to Canada, where she faces a new set of challenges. The narrator of the story is Maria’s daughter-in-law, who has tasked herself with presenting Maria and her family’s story to her son and us.
As mentioned before, one of the reasons I chose to read La Gringa was because of the duality between Quebec and Venezuela. That said, I remember feeling slightly confused when I realized Marie-Sarah Bouchard’s background wasn’t Latin American, and it took me back to my years at university when one of my creative writing teachers told us that one of the first questions we need to ask ourselves before writing anything is, “Why is this your story to tell?” As such, I went into La Gringa slightly cautious, as I did not want to immerse myself in a world propped up by stereotypes and shallow knowledge claimed as fact. However, while reading the novel, it becomes apparent that the narrator never claims to be an expert on the subjects discussed. In fact, the narrator is quite transparent when mentioning that details about the historical context and cultural elements were conveyed to her by Maria’s real-life counterpart and through her own research. Likewise, I appreciate how Bouchard doesn’t put the more controversial or stereotypical elements of Venezuelan culture and history at the forefront; they are present to further contextualize and to feed into the characters’ motivations. For instance, the chapters set in Venezuela, which take place in the second half of the 20th century, touch on various historical events, including Hugo Chávez’s rise to power. That said, the intricacies of Venezuela's political landscape were only touched upon when relevant to the plot, avoiding the potential perception that Bouchard might be fetishizing this historical chapter.
It is apparent that the narrator has an intrinsic fascination with Venezuelan cultural elements, which helps us, as readers, understand them and immerse us even further in the story. Some of those elements are: the great importance of Miss Universe, Gaita, the candy (I never expected to read the words “Cocosette” or “Bubbaloo” in a book), and bullfighting. As someone whose culture shares many of these elements (except for Gaita, a musical genre I was not familiar with before reading the book), I found the references to them appropriate and reflected a clear understanding of their importance and the research involved. One of the elements the narrator focused on most was Maracaibo, the city where most of the book is set. The earlier chapters effectively function as an ode to the city. Bouchard clearly wants to capture the city's magic, and it’s evident that, despite not knowing it herself, she has fallen in love with it through her mother-in-law’s stories. In several instances, it’s noted that the city depicted no longer exists due to the country's political and economic conditions. In a way, this turns La Gringa into a means to preserve this “magical” version of Maracaibo.
Despite the overall positive depiction of Venezuelan culture in the book, Bouchard doesn’t shy away from highlighting cultural elements that, while outdated, still hold some semblance of truth not only in Venezuela but in Latin culture as a whole. We are quickly introduced to the character of Catire, Maria’s cousin. Like Maria, Catire is portrayed as a kid full of energy and passionate about exploration. However, the family’s treatment of Catire worsens over time due to one specific element, his sexuality. As early as the age of eight, Catire is referred to as a “maricón,” a Spanish slur for gay men. People are fearful of the mere possibility of one of their kids being gay. He is ultimately isolated as his family is embarrassed about his queerness and attempts to hide him to the point where, despite growing up alongside Maria, their relationship strains over time to the point where Maria didn’t know Catire had been struggling with HIV until after he died because of it. This level of family rejection is attached to another element that is different from homophobia, that being the family image. In various Latin American countries, perception is everything. Others need to see one’s family as perfect, meaning that one single person has the potential to shatter that image, which is why it was so important for Catire’s family to keep him and his “lifestyle” under wraps. Another example of this phenomenon is how Maria isn’t allowed to keep seeing Manuel, her first boyfriend, because his parents find out that she is adopted, meaning that they didn’t know what her background is. I appreciate that such elements are also highlighted, as it creates a more complex and realistic view of Venezuelan culture. Clearly, it also lands close to home, as I was also subjected to such elements growing up in Colombia.
Ultimately, Bouchard does an outstanding job at showing appreciation for a culture that, despite not being her own, she admires and, just like Maria, grieves its current state. At the end, not only did I enjoy reading Maria’s story, but also, and most importantly, I finally managed to finish a French novel!
It’s interesting that we often think that only people from a specific culture are allowed to write about that culture, but this book seems to show that it might be more complicated than that. Although the author has based her story on someone in her family, I suppose one could argue that she doesn’t have first-hand experience with Venezuelan culture. What about the author’s approach do you think made it work? It seems like she came in with the right intent and researched a lot. Does this mean that just by following these practices, anyone can write about a specific culture even if they don’t have any personal connection to it?
This is a great reflection on a question that I think is often oversimplified: whether an author has the “right” to write about cultures that aren’t their own. Some of the most important literature we have exists precisely because a writer dared to look outward.
Reading this reminded me of my hard time reading Dune. Frank Herbert drew heavily from Arab, Bedouin, and Islamic culture to build the Fremen, and yes, today that raises legitimate questions about instrumentalization. But Herbert didn’t write a savior narrative in the traditional sense. Paul Atreides isn’t a white messiah who rescues a primitive people; he’s actually a warning. Herbert was critiquing the very mythology of the charismatic leader, showing how dangerous it is to…
Wow! What a great review. You have such a way with words, and you have definitely piqued my interests about picking up a book like this!
Thank you for this! You have certainly made me interested in reading this book!!