The Republic of East La: Stories

This is my second Rodriguez book, following Always Running, and I think I'm hooked on him, now. Each short story is impossible to turn away from, and each represents a different sub culture of East LA's Chicano and Mexican cultures. Most importantly, however, each represents a different character and personality, within each of these subcultures. Modern American entertainment tends to lump all minority characters into one revolving cyborg, as if they're all connected to the same brain. Rodriguez's answer to that is introducing us to the real people of East Los Angeles and their real feelings, not only toward America, but toward each other. About as far as mainstream American folkore goes with the latter is the drive by gang war. Rodriguez doesn't leave that out either. But he gives us a different look, one from the "locas", or the women. The issues they face, ranging from violent to romantic to family neglect, will not give you the time to wonder, "what do they see in these guys, anyway?". And to think, we're distracted from this question just reading the book; imagine being in their shoes... It's this kind of writing that makes people like Rodriguez so important to America today, as unfortunately, stories of culture in places like East Los Angeles die on a vine before reaching the American mainstream household or entertainment venue, which leaves the role of messenger to Hollywood film producers and book publishers, who more often than not give us their own version. What else could explain most mainstream productions of Latino, black, or Asian culture?

It's rare to find new literature about Chicanos in Los Angeles. Most I've found is set in the years from 1920 to 1970. This was a breath of fresh air. I must admit that I hadn't heard of Luis J. Rodriguez before I read the books. What first attracted me to the book was the pretty girl on the cover. While the stories were compelling to me as a Chicano, I think the true beauty of the author's work is a truth that transcends racial and socio-economic background and most importantly, age.Highly recommended.

Luis J. Rodriguez once again has painted a vibrant and complex picture of those who work, live, love and die in "The Republic of East L.A." Rodriguez's prose is straight-forward yet poetic as he tells us about the varied struggles of cholos/as, a budding journalist, a limousine driver, immigrants, working people, all sorts of gente. My favorite story is "Sometimes You Dance with a Watermelon," where forty-year-old Rosalba (an immigrant living in poverty and already a grandmother) needs to escape her crowded home to get a momentary bit of joy. She rouses her favorite granddaughter, Chila, and they drive to Grand Central Market where they buy a watermelon. Rosalba balances it on her head and starts to walk swaying "back and forth to a salsa beat thundering out of an appliance store." She and Chila get caught up in this joyous dance:"Rosalba had not looked that happy in a long time as she danced along the bustling streets of the central city in her loose-fitting skirt and sandals. She danced in the shadow of a multi-storied Victorian -- dancing for one contemptuous husband and for another who was dead. She danced for a daughter who didn't love herself enough to truly have the love of another man. She danced for her grandchildren, especially that fireball Chila. She danced for her people, wherever they were scattered, and for this country she would never quite comprehend. She danced, her hair matted with sweat, while remembering a simpler life on an even simpler rancho in Nayarit."This is a powerful, beautiful collection.NOTE: This review refers to the paperback edition.

Luis J. Rodriguez once again has painted a vibrant and complex picture of those who work, live, love and die in "The Republic of East L.A." Rodriguez's prose is straight-forward yet poetic as he tells us about the varied struggles of cholos/as, a budding journalist, a limousine driver, immigrants, working people, all sorts of gente. My favorite story is "Sometimes You Dance with a Watermelon," where forty-year-old Rosalba (an immigrant living in poverty and already a grandmother) needs to escape her crowded home to get a momentary bit of joy. She rouses her favorite granddaughter, Chila, and they drive to Grand Central Market where they buy a watermelon. Rosalba balances it on her head and starts to walk swaying "back and forth to a salsa beat thundering out of an appliance store." She and Chila get caught up in this joyous dance:"Rosalba had not looked that happy in a long time as she danced along the bustling streets of the central city in her loose-fitting skirt and sandals. She danced in the shadow of a multi-storied Victorian -- dancing for one contemptuous husband and for another who was dead. She danced for a daughter who didn't love herself enough to truly have the love of another man. She danced for her grandchildren, especially that fireball Chila. She danced for her people, wherever they were scattered, and for this country she would never quite comprehend. She danced, her hair matted with sweat, while remembering a simpler life on an even simpler rancho in Nayarit."This is a powerful, beautiful collection.

With The Republic of East L.A., Luis Rodriguez slyly suggests our largest barrio might be a separate country. The critically praised author of Always Running: La Vida Loca, Gang Days in L.A., Rodriguez writes less about geography in the City of Angels and more about an atlas of human hearts. Twelve stories, twelve voices, The Republic of East L.A. surpasses the typical story collection with a unity of geography, culture, and artistic compassion. What Rodriguez achieves--if at a more modest level--invites comparison with James Joyce's Dubliners. Both have a felt history of community and honest portraits of characters caught in moral struggle. Rodriguez's protagonists are satisfyingly complex. In the lead story, "My Ride, My Revolution," Cruz Blancarte, twenty-something (but closing in on thirty) plays in a rap-and-rock garage band. He inherits a yearning for political revolution from his chicana activist mom. He hustles a girlfriend, Bernarda, two inches taller than his five-six. And he drives a limo for a living, shuttling the chasms between the barrio and tonier sections of L.A. No Hispanic stereotyping here. With a journalist's eye, Rodriguez enriches his stories with historical texture that reaches across decades and generations. Does that short-pants cholo beside the lowrider Chevy not echo the tattooed grandfather who had a pachuco past in the 1950s? Why did James A. Garfield High School lose its accreditation in the 1970s and then rocket to Stand and Deliver fame in the 1980s? Have we forgotten that in 1970 armed L.A. County Sheriff deputies in East L.A. attacked a crowd protesting the Vietnam War, leaving several dead, including Chicano journalist Ruben Salazar? But story by story, Rodriguez's narrative focus is tighter than barrio history. Character struggle often plays out against the frame of la familia. "Shadows" is possibly the grimmest portrait. Rudy spirals downward into alcoholism, metaphorically melting into the sidewalk as a "shadow" person--so often did he pass out there. Rudy's suffering is not his alone. It's shared by la familia too: an abandoned wife, an abandoned child, and a father who stops caring about his son. Despite individual setbacks, la familia emerges in these stories as the common engine of survival, driven by an unstoppable work ethic. "La Operacion" is an ambitious narrative of two parallel stories about the dream compelling so many Mexicans to cross our southern border. Working immigrant populations in the United States invariably send money back home to family and relatives. Thus, one story is set in East L.A.; one story is set in a small beneficiary village in the scenic Copper Canyon country of Mexico. After the glimpse of everyone winning in the "parallel economies" of both barrio and village, tragedy strikes in both places. La Migra, not unexpectedly, literally bulldozes the dream of the immigrants in East L.A. But surprisingly, the villager