Kendall Henderson - Caramelo
Caramelo wasn't necessarily a novel I enjoyed reading; the kind of poetic, long-winded style wasn't really up my alley, but I appreciated some of the beautiful lines and emotional scenes. Novels that span the entire history of a family aren't my favorite, but I did find the approach of Soledad's ghost communicating with Lala really interesting. I just don't have much personal interest in dysfunctional-family stories or novels that have such a broad scope and overabundance of elaborate, poetic lines. While I was reading I looked for something to feel connected to or inspired by and focused on the power of stories to the Reyes family and the continuing influence the past has over the conflicts and relationships in the present.
Stories seem to have such a power over each character, whether they use them to inflict pain or suppress them to avoid it. Soledad in particular seems to wield her history as a mode of power, and Zoila rebels against this in the fight they have on p. 85 (hardback edition): she says, " I don't give a good goddamn what stories you've got to tell me, I'm not going to give you the satisfaction, and you know why? 'Cause that's exactly what you want, ain't it?" Soledad sometimes seems so focused on the past that she neglects the present, becoming stuck on her own pain and transferring that hurt into aggression towards her own family.
As Celaya relates the stories of her family's past, Soledad is there to comment and reprimand Lala when she feels her story isn't being fairly portrayed. In death, however, Soledad seems more willing to be honest, as if she is trying to reconcile and confront her past. She expresses mournfulness for the things she's lost and hardships she's endured, and protests when Lala edits details of the story for artistic effect. They seem to fight for control of the story in sections of dialogue: "In rosy pastels it seemed to rise like a dream of a more charming time ... It was never rosy, and it certainly wasn't charming. It was smelly, dank, noisy, hot, and filled with vermin. Who's telling this story, you or me? You. Well, then. Go on, go on" (97). Whether Soledad's focus on acknowledging the negative is another trait of her "Awful Grandmother" bitterness or a renewed embracing of the truth is up to the reader. However, it does feel like Soledad gains some respect for Celaya as Celaya becomes the narrator of her family's history and explores the experiences of those who came before her.
We're able to understand how important the past is to Soledad, whether we are able to excuse her cruelty or not. Celaya seems to take a power from Soledad as she becomes the voice of the past, and she stands up for herself against her grandmother when Soledad threatens to withhold the rest of the story from her on p. 205, replying, "The less you tell me, the more I'll have to imagine. And the more I imagine, the easier it is for me to understand you. Nobody wants to hear your invented happinesses. It's your troubles that make a good story. Who wants to hear about a nice person? The more terrible you are, the better the story." This feels like such a poignant reflection on storytelling and memory. Whoever the audience is for the story gets to draw their own conclusions about who is sympathetic and who is inexcusable. Celaya, in contrast to her family, wants to dig deep into the pain of the past, no matter whether it distances her further from her grandmother or not. It's interesting to consider the value of stories: do we tell them to comfort ourselves or to remind ourselves of hard times? Soledad and Celaya are opposing examples of this, but it seems like the ultimate answer can be both.
Stories seem to have such a power over each character, whether they use them to inflict pain or suppress them to avoid it. Soledad in particular seems to wield her history as a mode of power, and Zoila rebels against this in the fight they have on p. 85 (hardback edition): she says, " I don't give a good goddamn what stories you've got to tell me, I'm not going to give you the satisfaction, and you know why? 'Cause that's exactly what you want, ain't it?" Soledad sometimes seems so focused on the past that she neglects the present, becoming stuck on her own pain and transferring that hurt into aggression towards her own family.
As Celaya relates the stories of her family's past, Soledad is there to comment and reprimand Lala when she feels her story isn't being fairly portrayed. In death, however, Soledad seems more willing to be honest, as if she is trying to reconcile and confront her past. She expresses mournfulness for the things she's lost and hardships she's endured, and protests when Lala edits details of the story for artistic effect. They seem to fight for control of the story in sections of dialogue: "In rosy pastels it seemed to rise like a dream of a more charming time ... It was never rosy, and it certainly wasn't charming. It was smelly, dank, noisy, hot, and filled with vermin. Who's telling this story, you or me? You. Well, then. Go on, go on" (97). Whether Soledad's focus on acknowledging the negative is another trait of her "Awful Grandmother" bitterness or a renewed embracing of the truth is up to the reader. However, it does feel like Soledad gains some respect for Celaya as Celaya becomes the narrator of her family's history and explores the experiences of those who came before her.
We're able to understand how important the past is to Soledad, whether we are able to excuse her cruelty or not. Celaya seems to take a power from Soledad as she becomes the voice of the past, and she stands up for herself against her grandmother when Soledad threatens to withhold the rest of the story from her on p. 205, replying, "The less you tell me, the more I'll have to imagine. And the more I imagine, the easier it is for me to understand you. Nobody wants to hear your invented happinesses. It's your troubles that make a good story. Who wants to hear about a nice person? The more terrible you are, the better the story." This feels like such a poignant reflection on storytelling and memory. Whoever the audience is for the story gets to draw their own conclusions about who is sympathetic and who is inexcusable. Celaya, in contrast to her family, wants to dig deep into the pain of the past, no matter whether it distances her further from her grandmother or not. It's interesting to consider the value of stories: do we tell them to comfort ourselves or to remind ourselves of hard times? Soledad and Celaya are opposing examples of this, but it seems like the ultimate answer can be both.
I like the question you pose about stories, and I think it is both based on who were are speaking to. For example, often times, parents tell stories to their children about the hard times. Meanwhile we tell friends and siblings stories to comfort. The best part if that it doesn't always have to be your story. Stories trail and are always relatable to anybody going to a similar situation in any generation. I also like that you pointed out the dark humor in the novel because I thought I was the only one who noticed and even giggled sometimes.
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