The Collected Works of Jimena Idar de la Cruz

Jimena | 22 | Bigender (she/he) | Queer | Chicane | Democratic/Libertarian Socialist

[sor-jimena-idar]

Return to Pleasantville (1998)

The fundamental theme of Pleasantville (1998) is that of inhumanity vs. humanity, ignorance vs. knowledge, reaction vs. revolution. Two teenagers of the 90s, David (Toby Maguire) and Jennifer (Reese Witherspoon), who find themselves transported into a black-and-white T.V. show that depicts a mythologized and cliched life in the isolated 50s suburbs: a suburb called Pleasantville. 

These two represent Adam and Eve within the Eden that is Pleasantville, with Jennifer bringing the first primordial sin of love to the townspeople; this symbolism is much more apparent when Margaret offers a red apple to David. Much like Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed, she does this by engaging in dialogue with the people, to bring them to know their true humanity. In contrast, David as Adam tries to resist his sister from uprooting the “family values” that Pleasantville is founded on. He desperately tries to stop the change that she brings, but at the same time reveals the townspeople’s humanity to them by again engaging them in dialogue, first with Bill, to reveal to them their most fundamental political right: autonomy. The real Prometheus of the film in actuality is Betty (Joan Allen), who is the first denizen of Pleasantville to truly understand love, sex, pleasure, desire, etc. by both means of dialogue with Jennifer but also by her own instinctive humanity. This is best symbolized when she experiences her first orgasm (which is self-induced) and begins to see color; in essence, leaving Plato’s world of forms and seeing the aforementioned virtues truthfully. Similarly, her climax inexplicably causes a tree to instantaneously combust, which can be interpreted as the Burning Bush from Exodus, perhaps to symbolize that God’s presence can only be felt by those who have attained their true humanity but also represents her role as Prometheus, bringing fire to those who are cold but yet do not know that they are cold. 

In regards to the theme of reaction, this is perhaps best symbolized by an early scene where several white men are gathered in a barbershop discussing the loss by the town’s previously undefeated basketball team. There, the men are on the verge of understanding imperfectness as a virtue they had no understanding of before. But it is then when the mayor, Big Bob (J .T. Walsh) walks in. The other men in the room become subservient to him, and he in turn quashes all possible learning and dissent previous to his entrance. This symbolizes the white patriarchal state in its role to maintain philosophical hegemony over the people it rules and its reaction in face of possible change from within itself. 

In regards to the theme of revolution however, this is best understood in the historical reality of the fifties in which the movie satirizes. The fifties were the spark that would ignite the larger revolts of the following decades, especially in the arts; it was when authors such as Heller, Vonnegut, Baldwin, Salinger, and Bradbury and others found their beginnings as literary revolutionaries as an antithesis to the writers and culture of previous generations.

The revolt of the movie, however, is led by the teenagers of Pleasantville, who use the diner as a gathering place. The day after the Burning Bush is put out, the teenagers confront David as to how he knew to put out a fire, where then David engages them in dialogue and together they learn that things within the town are changing fundamentally, without any sign of ending. In the process of this, he takes the group of teenagers to the town library and finds the books are completely blank. As he explains to the others the plots of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Catcher in the Rye, the books become complete and the teenagers both display humanity’s natural curiosity while also seeing their struggles reflected in these pieces of literature, which help them to undergo their own humanization. In essence, the flame of knowledge and freedom is lit and cannot be put out. But the state, the vanguard of conservatism will resist. The same men from the barbershop, including the mayor, understand that the teenagers’ thirst for knowledge will only lead to more fundamental change and bring more color to their town. However, the men (but not the mayor) find themselves intrigued and attracted by the color. The mayor (who is also the leader of the Chamber of Commerce representing the ties between the state and capital), instead, seeks to suppress the rebellion by using a pillar of the community, George (William H. Macy), to publicly denounce the colorization as he is a respected figure. Later, the mayor makes a call for counterrevolutionary action, which culminates in mob violence destroying the colorized diner and a burning of books, reminiscent of the actions taken by fascists in Europe and white supremacists in the United States. These actions will be later codified calling for a reversion of the colorization and an erasure of history. At the same time George’s wife Betty is now “in color” but hides it, suppressing her outward expression of humanity but then understands that such a thing ought to be shared, when she is with Bill while viewing his art.

Similarly it is when Jennifer falls asleep reading D. H. Lawrence and when the teenagers fall asleep at Lover’s Lane during the rain, when David defends Betty, and when George understands his true romantic love for Betty that they gain color, which at face value is read as them gaining a sense of genuine love and romantic passion. But when Big Bob gains color during the climax of the movie, we are shown that it is when people are true to themselves, rather than simply experiencing love, that they gain color, and even the oppressor, the embodiment of the state, can gain a true sense of self.

At the end of the movie, we find that the entire town is colorized and has become integrated as part of the larger world, with the people humanized and educated and it is by these means that we can construct a more just and fair world: by education and dialogue to understand that we are part of one entire society, a brotherhood of humanity.

[sor-jimena-idar]

untitled piece

soy un niño <<no sabo>>. i did not learn this phrase until i started using social media. before that i had to rely on the english “my mother never taught me.” but perhaps it is best to start at the beginning.

genesis.

i was born to a mexican immigrant mother and a white american father. they are fine people but that is beyond this. my memory of my youth is foggy, without definite shapes, times, or recordations. my mother tells me she could not teach me spanish, because i refused it as a baby; much how a graft does not take to a tree. as a very young child i did not understand the ramifications of being chicane. to be white but not entirely. an undefinite other. during a month long trip to mexico with my abuela (one of the few spanish words i knew), a trip which i do not entirely remember, i had eaten nothing but plain cheese quesadillas because i refused to try foods i was unfamiliar with. in school i had taken a great deal of pride in my chicanismo despite not knowing spanish. i also often conflated mexicanismo with nahua culture; i had often imagined mexico as simply a modern indigenous country where they had maintained the customs of the aztecs and other nations, my understanding of colonization would come much later. it is around this time that my mother tells me i refused to learn spanish, in english this time.

malinchismo.

when one becomes an adolescent, around ten or sometime later, one begins to form the identical foundation on which their character will be built. it was then i had become attached to the juvenile concept of cosmopolitanism, believing myself to be not a part of any grand culture group, regarding america not as a nation or ideology but simply a place in which i lived. to be american, i thought, was to just live in america. i had met other people like me, children born to dominican, puertorican, cuban, nicaraguan parents but who spoke broken or no spanish. but i had still not understood that we formed a part of the whole, perhaps out of my own lack of understanding or my internal shame of not actively participating in american latin culture. this pattern continued through the last years of high school.

exiting the cave.

my ideological development began in the last two years of schooling, i had come to understand that the current state of society would not allow for equality, and that those at the top of the societal pyramid were to blame. but i still found myself identifying as mexican american, not truly understanding what either of those words meant. when i began college, with access to more books than i could reasonably read, i was entranced. for one course or another, i checked out a number of books; the labyrinth of solitude being the principal of these. i only read the first few pages, where paz discusses the pachucos and their “in betweenness” being the basis of their identity, and i found some comfort in that, but also an intellectual hunger had begun to fester. i registered for spanish classes the next year.

impresent day.

“no hablo español, lo siento.” my spanish, even after a couple years of studying, is very stilted, my voice carries my uncertainty within it. i still struggle with accepting this. there is a terrible shame in being unable to read márquez, paz, azuela, magón, o sor juana in their tongue, there is an unspeakable embarrassment in having your fucking boyfriend translate the poetry of gloria anzaldúa or sandra cisneros. but i will get over it. my spanish will always be that of a twenty something who got started too late, but it’s okay. no es una cosa.

[sor-jimena-idar]

The Unfinished Dialogues of Smith and Doe

Act One, Scene One

[Setting: A desk and typewriter take center stage alongside two chairs: a desk chair and a dining room chair. There are several reams of paper in a stack beside the desk, novels next to said papers in a stack. They are the novels of the two authors sitting in the chairs, although the names of the authors on the books are different. The trash basket is overflowing with crumpled and ripped sheets of paper stained with ink. The two authors sit in silence staring at the typewriter.]

Smith: We have to write something

Doe: But what?

Smith: Something.

[Doe starts to type]

Smith: No.

Doe: Why not?

Smith: Not enough depth.

Doe: Perhaps.

Smith: What about us?

Doe: What?

Smith: What if we wrote about us?

Doe: I suppose.

Keep reading

[sor-jimena-idar]

The Unfinished Dialogues of Smith and Doe

Act One, Scene One

[Setting: A desk and typewriter take center stage alongside two chairs: a desk chair and a dining room chair. There are several reams of paper in a stack beside the desk, novels next to said papers in a stack. They are the novels of the two authors sitting in the chairs, although the names of the authors on the books are different. The trash basket is overflowing with crumpled and ripped sheets of paper stained with ink. The two authors sit in silence staring at the typewriter.]

Smith: We have to write something

Doe: But what?

Smith: Something.

[Doe starts to type]

Smith: No.

Doe: Why not?

Smith: Not enough depth.

Doe: Perhaps.

Smith: What about us?

Doe: What?

Smith: What if we wrote about us?

Doe: I suppose.

[Doe rips the paper from the typewriter and insert a clean sheet and types for a moment]

Doe: How does this work?

Smith: Not terribly hard.

Doe: How should we continue?

Smith: We can just talk until we think of something. Let’s just give it a rest for a moment.

[Beat]

[Doe starts to type again]

Doe: Why haven't we tried technical writing?

Smith: It's inherently boring, besides we’re paperback writers, not academics.

Doe: Right but-

Smith: But what?

Doe: Couldn't we do some technical writing about writing? Like how to write a book or something?

Smith: Like a guide?

Doe: Something like that, yes.

Smith: Pass.

Doe: Why?

Smith: I hated them in school.

Doe: Like you even read them.

Smith: I did read them, I just, never got it.

Doe: Got what?

Smith: I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s hypocritical to tell someone how to write?

[Doe sighs and looks at Smith with annoyance]

Doe: We’ll talk about this later.

[the scene goes dark and the sound of the typewriter keys fills the air]

Act One, Scene Two

[The lights turn back on, Doe and Smith are sweaty and disheveled. Ink smears both of their palms from mishandled ink ribbons]

Doe: Perhaps we could take a break?

Smith: No.

Doe: Please?

Smith: We said we would work on something until we made something.

Doe: Could we not write half of something down and call it a day?

Smith: You would write ‘something’ and leave.

Doe: Not true! We just need to put anything on this paper and we can leave, right?

[Smith sighs.]

Smith: Yes.

[Doe puts a clean sheet into the typewriter and types “anything”; they then look at each other and laugh after a comedic pause]

[Some time passes; this is marked by the clock in the room speeding up and the sound of a grandfather clock chiming]

Doe: Why did we become authors in the first place?

Smith: We had a good idea for a book.

Doe: Ideas, you mean.

Smith: Well, idea. Singular.

Doe: We have a few good books, don’t lie to the audience.

[Doe gestures to the right wall]

Smith: Our first was the only good one.

Doe: They all sold well! We even got that big newspaper to promote us several times!

Smith: You know our publicist bought that endorsement, right? Besides, how can you trust the invisible hand to pick a decent apple?

Doe: Why are you so cynical?

Smith: That’s just how I was raised!

Doe: That's a lazy reason, you know. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but it doesn’t have to try and grow the same branches.

Smith: Oh, fuck off.

Doe: Just think about it!

Smith: It’s because my life was shitty growing up.

Doe: You can tell me about it.

Smith: Choke on your tongue.

[They take turns typing some more, the lights turn off and on shortly afterwards to indicate the passage of time.]

Doe: Is there any future in fictional writing?

Smith: Probably not.

Doe: Why do you say that?

Smith: You tell me a good plot for a fictional story that’s worth reading. I mean realistic fiction, not some high fantasy shit like we watched in college while we were stoned out of our minds.

Doe: Alright.

[Doe pauses]

Doe: The internet is rather new, what if we wrote a book that takes place entirely over AOL instant messaging?

Smith: AIM? Jesus Christ, you’re out of touch.

[They both look at the typewriter, and give a comedic pauses as if to make a joke that would not land]

Doe: You’re no help, give me a plot then.

Smith: I don’t have one! That’s why I’m asking you.

Doe: Fine, fine… What about: two people. And they do nothing but talk for the entire time.

Smith: Isn’t that “Waiting for Godot”?

Doe: Perhaps.

Smith: We aren’t playwrights.

Doe: I know that! You asked for a plot and I gave you one.

Smith: And it’s a shitty one at that.

Doe: Hey! It’s not that bad!

Smith: You call this good writing then?

[Smith gestures to their dialogue.]

[They give each other a look, as if they understand they are actors.]

Doe: Anyway.

Smith: Have we discussed philosophy yet?

Doe: Probably not. We save that for last when we’re bored.

Smith: Then what should we talk about

Doe: The philosophy of language?

Smith: Why?

Doe: We’re authors.

[Both of them glance at the back wall, where both of their diplomas hang in frames.]

Smith: Oh. right.

[Scene fades to black]

Act One, Scene Three

[Scene lights turn on]

Doe: Should we quit at this point?

Smith: No.

Doe: Why?

Smith: We’re writing something.

Doe: But shouldn't we quit being authors?

Smith: Are we really authors?

Doe: Explain.

Smith: How can someone really write for a living?

Doe: Isn't that what we’re doing? I mean, look at this office we have!

[Doe gestures to the stage setting. A ceiling tile comedically falls onto the stage from the rafters. Neither of them acknowledge it.]

Smith: We have it for a month. Besides a well-selling novel doesn’t mean they’re any good, and it doesn’t make us good authors either.

Doe: Stop being a pedant, let’s just write this book.

[Some time passes]

Doe: Why did we become authors?

Smith: We went over this already.

Doe: I meant why did we, as two people become authors.

Smith: Why do you ask?

Doe: I thought we hated each other!

Smith: So do other people.

Doe: Does everyone hate everyone, too?

Smith: Maybe, I’m not a psychologist.

Doe: So we do hate each other, then?

[The scene fades to black; when the lights turn on they are wearing different clothes and the trash is mostly cleaned up.]

Doe: It's been three weeks.

Smith: So?

Doe: All of our other books took days.

Smith: We can take our time.

Doe: Aren't we on the clock?

Smith: That would be a terrible foundation.

[Neither of them laugh]

[Beat]

Doe: I need a smoke.

Smith: You never smoke.

Doe: Like you even know me.

Smith: I do. I know how you smell, too.

Doe: We don't even like each other.

Smith: I never said that!

Doe: You never not said it!

[Doe looks at the shortened stack of reams]

Doe: We've gone through too much paper.

Smith: Not true.

Doe: It's a lot of reams to go through in a few days.

Smith: I think that’s a bit subjective.

Doe: There's nothing on these sheets anyway.

Smith: You just don't see it, that’s all. We just have to write it.

Doe: Is this your philosophy minor bullshit?

[A moment of silence]

Doe: I hate you. You are killing me.

[Doe puts in a clean sheet of paper.]

Doe: Could we write about language?

Smith: We did this bit already.

Doe: Why?

Smith: We’re not linguists.

Doe: We’re authors though.

Smith: Like that gives us authority over language.

Doe: It could.

Smith: Like hell it ‘could’.

[Smith quiets down as Doe tries to write. Smith wipes their eyes with their sleeve.]

Doe: Your eyes are bloodshot.

Smith: I'm tired.

Doe: You're crying, what's wrong?

Smith: Fuck off.

Doe: Please.

Smith: Fuck off please.

Doe: You know what I meant.

Smith: I'm a failed author.

Doe: You're not.

Smith: I've never written anything good.

Doe: Yes we have.

Smith: Just keep writing.

[Beat]

Doe: Propose...

Smith: Yes?

Doe: Propose we actually make it with this story. Like ‘own a beach house on a Caribbean island’ make it.

Smith: Okay.

Doe: What would we do afterwards?

Smith: Besides being modern-day colonists, we would continue writing.

Doe: But why?

Smith: We're authors.

Doe: But isn't there more to than just being authors?

Smith: Is there?

Doe: I'm not sure.

[Beat]

Doe: So letter and letter.

Smith: Yes?

Doe: There is a letter as in one you send to a friend and a letter that makes up words.

Smith: Okay.

Doe: Isn't it funny how one letter is necessary for the other.

Smith: Explain.

Doe: The letter for the mail is a collection of words which in itself is a collection of letters.

Smith: Huh.

Doe: Language is a strange thing.

Smith: What if I sent a letter consisting only of punctuation.

Doe: I suppose it is still a letter.

Smith: But you said letters necessitate the use of letters.

Doe: How can something necessitate itself?

[Smith sighs out of frustration]

Doe: You’re no fun.

Act One, Scene Four

[It is a different day. Today is the day they will finish their book. Smith and Doe are in different clothes. Two coats hang on the coat rack by the door. There is a brown bottle, a whisky tumbler, and a tall glass beside the typewriter. Throughout the scene, Smith and Doe drink from these containers and alternate between them.]

Smith: Hmm…

Doe: Yes?

Smith: Is it moral of me to have published work that I was not proud of?

Doe: Why wouldn't it be?

Smith: Is it not immoral to be disingenuous to yourself and your readers?

Doe: Yourself, yes.

Smith: But the readers?

Doe: It is neither moral nor immoral.

Smith: How so?

Doe: Just because you cannot be proud of something, does not mean others cannot enjoy it.

Smith: Yes but-

Doe: There is a distinction between the artist and his viewers, the author and her readers.

Smith: I suppose.

Doe: Therefore it cannot be a dilemma of morals of others just because you face one yourself. [Doe shows Smith the other a small pile of typed papers; they take a minute to read it]

Doe: Well?

Smith: Your character...

Doe: What about my character?

Smith: They're too rational.

Doe: Are we not rational beings?

Smith: We are irrational beings.

Doe: But it is ideal to be rational.

Smith: Yes.

Doe: Then why is being too rational a bad character trait?

Smith: Because art imitates life.

Doe: So shouldn't ideal art imitate ideal life?

Smith: Yes.

Doe: Then why not write ideal people?

Smith: Doesn’t sell well.

Doe: But I mean, is it not our duty as authors to display morality in its best, to write story arcs and characters that show the best that humanity has to offer?

Smith: You sound like that German philosopher.

Doe: There’s a few, which?

Smith: I don’t know, the one with nationalist and racist ideals.

Doe: That could be any of them!

[Pause for comedic effect, but don’t laugh]

Smith: Anyway…

Doe: Yes?

Smith: Maybe we should scrap this? Start over?

Doe: What are you talking about! We’re almost done with this!

Smith: I know, I know.

[Beat]

Smith: I like it here, you know.

Doe: You could move here.

Smith: Yeah but… It wouldn’t be the same.

Doe: The same? The same as what? You hate the city, you always complain about it.

Smith: Well, you wouldn’t be here.

[Doe smiles at them]

Doe: Let’s just finish then, we’ll talk about it on the train back.

Smith: Let’s talk about it now.

Doe: Smith…

Smith: It would be nice here, both of us. We could be neighbors!

Doe: I don’t know. I have roots back home.

Smith: You mean your family? You talk so much about how much they hate you.

Doe: I know, but I just… can’t leave them.

Smith: Yes, you can.

Doe: I can’t.

[Beat]

Doe: You wouldn’t understand.

Smith: Perhaps. But you would be happier outside of the house, wouldn’t you?

Doe: I guess, yeah.

Smith: You can move them here. You can spend all your time at my place.

Doe: I’ll think about it, alright?

Smith: Fine with me.

Doe: Let’s just finish this.

[The authors take turns on the typewriter for a moment. The church bells ring out twice. The clock on the wall shows an improbable time.]

Doe: I think that’s it.

Smith: Yeah?

Doe: Yeah.

Smith: We need a title, though.

Doe: Oh yes, hm…

Smith: ‘The Dialogues’

Doe: What, like Plato?

Smith: I guess, yeah.

Doe: Fine with me.

[Doe puts a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter and types the title onto it.]

Doe: What will our names be this time?

Smith: What about-

[Behind stage, there will be a brief moment of static, so the audience cannot hear what

Smith chooses to be their names.]

Doe: Alright.

[Doe types their names onto the cover page.]

Doe: That’s it. We’re done.

[Both authors get up and begin to pack. Doe collects a stack of papers, the manuscript, and places it into a briefcase. Smith puts the typewriter inside its case. Both walk to the door and put their coats on and look around the office.]

Smith: I don’t really know what to say.

Doe: Don’t say anything then.

Smith: Alright.

[Both exit stage right and the lights turn off. End scene.]

[sor-jimena-idar]

Mañana

They look at me; then they see me. They see the tint of my skin. They see the Kahlo unibrow. They see the Cantinflas mustache. They ask: “Where are you from?” But that is not what they are asking. They are asking “Why is your skin not pale? Your facial hair so thin? Your hair so thick?” Why, why, why. And I must answer, “My mother is Mexican.” And then they ask, “Do you speak Spanish?” And I must answer, “No.” To which they ask “Why?” And I must answer. But I do not answer. I think. My mother did not teach me. Was she ashamed to be Mexican? And her child a Chicano? Perhaps she wanted me to be American, whatever that meant. But that is not enough. It has been years, I could have learned Spanish, in school or elsewhere. Mi Abuela had offered to teach me. And I declined, saying it was too much for just one summer. Is it a personal shortcoming? Am I lazy? Or destined to be monolingual? Maybe I am my mother’s child, ashamed to be myself. To be the “other” in the room. But I must answer. How long has it been? Only seconds perhaps. And I answer. “My mother did not teach me. She wanted me to be American.” And they nod in acknowledgement, understanding this familiar story. How many have lost their mother tongue of their fatherland because their mother and father wanted an American child? Different from them, same as everyone else. But that is not the case. It is never the case. We are always different. Different from our parents, from our ancestors, but also our peers, our colleagues, our compatriots. We are stuck, like a scratched record, speaking our “native” language with a broken tongue when we talk to other people of our nation. One day, things will be different. We long for that day. But we will be sure to not make the same mistakes of our forefathers and foremothers. Our children will grow up different from us, free from our struggles.