El Coyote, the Rebel Read online

  Falcón, Romana. Revolución y caciquismo: San Luis Potosí, 1910-1938 (México, D. F. : Centro de Estudios Históricos, Colegio de México, 1984).

  Flores, Lauro. “De pícaros y Pink Feathers: tras la huella de Luis Pérez, ‘El Coyote’.” The Americas Review (Valedictorian Issue, 1999): 222-240.

  Galarza, Ernesto. Barrio Boy. The Story of a Boy’s Acculturation (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1971).

  Leal, Luis. “El Coyote: The Rebel, novela pre-chicana olvidada,” Suplemento Dominical, La Opinión 221, Los Angeles, California, Oct. 14, 1984, 12-13.

  Reisler, Mike. By the Sweat of Their Brow. Mexican Immigrant Labor in the United States, 1900-1940 (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1976).

  Rivera, Antonio G. La Revolución en Sonora (México, D. F.: Imprenta Arana, 1969).

  Rodríguez, Juan. “Notes on the Evolution of Chicano Prose Fiction,” in Modern Chicano Writers, eds. Joseph Sommers and Tomás Ybarra-Frausto (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1979), 67-73.

  Root, Deborah. Cannibal Culture: Art, Appropriation, and the Commodification of Difference (Boulder: Westview Press, 1996).

  Saldívar, Ramón. Chicano Narrative: The Dialectics of Difference (Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1990).

  Sommers, Josef, and Tomás Ybarra-Frausto. Modern Chicano Writers (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1979).

  Spitta, Silvia. “The Spice of Life and the Taste of Diversity,” in The Americas Review, 24:1-2 (1997): 197.

  Venegas, Daniel. Las aventuras de don Chipote, o, Cuando los pericos mamen. Introducción por Nicolás Kanellos (Houston: Arte Público Press, 1999).

  ———. The Adventures of Don Chipote, or, When Parrots Breast-Feed. Translated from the Spanish by Ethriam Cash Brammer; with a new Introduction by Nicolás Kanellos (Houston: Arte Público Press, 2000).

  Wyllys, Rufus Kay. The French in Sonora (1850-1854): The Story of French Adventures From California Into Mexico. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1932.

  Notes

  1El Coyote, the Rebel. New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1947. Juan Rodríguez brought this book to my attention in 1980-1981, for which I thank him. I believe he was also the first one to mention Pérez, in his article “Notes on the Evolution of Chicano Prose Fiction,” included in Joseph Sommers and Tomás Ybarra-Frausto’s Modern Chicano Writers (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1979), 67-73.

  2The only critic who has previously examined this book in any significant way is Luis Leal, “El Coyote: The Rebel, novela pre-chicana olvidada,” Suplemento Dominical, La Opinión 221, Los Angeles, CA, Oct. 14, 1984, 12-13. My article, “De pícaros y Pink Feathers: tras la huella de Luis Pérez, ‘El Coyote’,” appeared in The Americas Review (Valedictorian Issue), 1999.

  3Clearly, this book was more widely reviewed than J. A. Villarreal’s Pocho (1959) upon their respective editio princeps.

  4Politi’s illustrations had to be omitted from the present edition, as their copyright status is not clear. Mrs. Ann Phillips, Luis Pérez’s stepdaughter, seems to recall that Pérez bought them outright from Politi when the illustrator became impatient due to the delays in the publication of the book. However, no relevant documentation was found among Pérez’s papers. As reported in two tiny articles published in two different local papers, Los Feliz Hills News (Oct. 19, 1950) and Hollywood’s Citizen News (Dec. 22, 1950), Pérez donated the original manuscript of El Coyote together with the original brush illustrations by Politi to the UCLA library. This suggests that Mrs. Phillips’ recollection is correct.

  5“The Spice of Life and the Taste of Diversity,” in The Americas Review, 24:1-2, (1997): 197. See also, as cited by Spitta, Deborah Root, Cannibal Culture: Art, Appropriation, and the Commodification of Difference (Boulder: Westview Press, 1996).

  6Purportedly issued by Harper and Davies (Los Angeles, 1941). This mistaken information is included in a biographical entry printed in the 1942 volume of Who’s Who in California, p. 715.

  7Chávez Came Home (226 pp.). This novel is the story of Frank Chávez, a Mexican-American who takes part in World War II and returns home, to Los Angeles, to confront the social injustice perpetrated against his family and the other dwellers of the Chávez Ravine. The twin topics of literary creation and publishing dynamics appear in Chapter 33. This manuscript is also the source of the epigraph to this introductory essay.

  8The full text of Dikty’s telegram, dated February 20, 1954, states: “‘Chico’ difficult manuscript upon which to make publishing decision. However, definite decision now made to accept manuscript for book publication and accordingly we are planning to feature it in our list. Letter of necessary editorial suggestions will follow in a few days. Congratulations and we look forward to a book which will be financially rewarding for all converned.” [sic.]

  9The Girls of the Pink Feather. North Hollywood, California: Frimac Publications (Carousel Books), 1963.

  10Leal’s article is cited above in Note 2. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are mine.

  11Politi died on March 25, 1995. He was 87 years old.

  12Some of the information I include here was either provided or verified by Mrs. Ann Phillips and her husband, Capt. Charles K. Phillips, in an interview I conducted with them in their home at Nacogdoches, June 11-12, 1996.

  13This sheds some light on the nature of Chávez Came Home, one of the unpublished manuscripts mentioned above.

  14Interestingly, Pérez conducted the negotiations for the publication of El Coyote with W. H. Hindle, the foreign editor for Henry Holt and Company.

  15My efforts to secure pertinent documentation, such as Pérez’s birth certificate or baptism affidavit, have been fruitless thus far, despite the assistance I’ve received from Father Rafael Montejano y Aguiñaga, San Luis Potosí’s eminent historian.

  16Curiously, however, Luis’ subsequent journey will trace in reverse the pilgrimage of the Aztecs.

  17In the episode that recounts the battle of Río Verde, for example, Luis says that one of his fingers was shot off. According to the testimony of his family, the author said this was what had happened to his own right hand and, in fact, some photos verify that part of his ring-finger was missing.

  18See Héctor Aguilar Camín’s account of the activities of Francisco de Paula Morales and his brother, Alberto, in his book La frontera nómada: Sonora y la Revolución Mexicana (México: Siglo Veintiuno Editores, 1977), pp. 157-163, 192-195.

  19Antonio G. Rivera. La Revolución en Sonora (México, D. F.: Imprenta Arana, 1969).

  20The rivalry between José María Maytorena and Plutarco Elías Calles (a future president of Mexico), and their struggle over the governorship of the State of Sonora is legendary and has been amply documented by numerous historians, including Aguilar Camín and Rivera. The fictitious names of Morales and Contreras, and of their derivatively named armies the Moralistas (“the moralists”) and Contreristas (“the opposition”), are loaded with a symbolic charge. Pérez’s irony and dark sense of humor are evident here in light of the cynicism, absurdities, and fratricidal strife he depicts.

  21For a good accounting of the importation of Mexican labor into the United States during that time, see Mark Reisler’s By the Sweat of Their Brow: Mexican Immigrant Labor in the United States, 1900-1940 (Westport and London: Greenwood Press, 1976), especially chapters 1 and 2.

  22For Pérez too, as Ramón Saldívar has proposed about Galarza, “the use of the chronotope of the road is specific, organic, and deeply infused with the ideological implications of his story”(165). As was the case for little Ernie in Barrio Boy, the motif of the road also allows young Luis Pérez “to describe the sociohistorical heterogeneity of the culture[s] that [have] nurtured him as a child”(165).

  23According to Mrs. Phillips, it was agreed (by both Pérez and his editors?) that the story would work better if the protagonist married a nice Mexican señorita. It certainly deflected any unnecessary controversy that an Anglo-Hispanic marriage might have raised—especially after the confl
ict created by Luis’ relatively innocuous liaison with Miss Olson was satisfactorily resolved.

  24The Girls of the Pink Feather, by “Louis Perez” was Carousel Book No. 515, “Complete and Unexpurgated,” as announced on the provocative cover. Some of the other titles of the series are Naked Passions; Sin Club; Fires of Lust; Hollywood Virgin; Virgin for Sale; Sex Circus; Carnival of Lust; The Flesh Market; and Sex Doctor.

  25Pérez died on October 21, 1962, after a protracted bout with cancer.

  26“Of the Silver Spoon,” literally translated.

  27Another interesting connection is that the last name of this character, Celia Contreras, is the same one that Pérez gives to the general who commanded the battalion in which Luisito fought during the Mexican Revolution.

  28According to Pérez family, this was in fact the case. Mrs. Ann Phillips recently informed me that she has now found the original manuscript for Chico. Unfortunately, I was not able to examine it before this work went to press.

  29To date, we have been able to locate two manuscripts with the same title and similar subtitles: The Conquering God: Based on the Life of Hernán Cortés (338 pp.), a novel about the conquest of México narrated in the first person, purportedly by Cortés himself; and The Conquering God: Historical Novel Based on the Life of Hernán Cortés (309 pp.), which is told in the voice of Rodrigo de Pelayo, one of Cortés’ soldiers.

  El Coyote

  THE REBEL

  To Amelia

  1

  On the twenty-fifth of August, 1909, in San Luis Potosí, Mexico, after siesta time, in the middle of the patio of an adobe house, there was a large crowd of men and women surrounding a señorita and a caballero, who were dancing the Jarabe Tapatío. By the side of the crowd there were a little girl and a five-year-old boy imitating the dancers. I was the boy, and the occasion of the fiesta was to celebrate the anniversary of my birth.

  After the dance, while the people were applauding, I saw that near my aunt there was a plate of sticky cacti candy. It was to be served later in the evening. But I was hungry for sweets, and when my aunt was busy watching the dancers, I quickly grabbed a big piece of candy and stuck it on the back of my neck. As I was sneaking away thinking that no one had seen me, my grandfather took me by the hand and asked, “Where are we going with that candy?”

  “What candy, Abuelito?” I asked, trying to look innocent.

  “This candy,” he said, pulling the piece of candy from my neck and handing it to me. Then, overcome with emotion, with tears rolling down his hollow cheeks, and with several tumblers of pulque in his stomach, he began relating to me and to a few of the guests the fate of my father and mother.

  “My son,” he began, “you are old enough to know and to understand the sad misfortune which befell your parents. You are beginning a life of misery and must learn to face the truth like a brave little man and a stouthearted soldier of fortune.”

  To this startling information I was all ears, yet I did not quite understand what my grandfather meant. I was too young to comprehend fully, and besides I was more interested in my cacti candy, the party, my toys, and other gifts which I had received.

  “Today you are five years old,” he continued, sadly.

  While I looked at him, he paused to take another tumbler of pulque; then running his stiff fingers through my untidy hair, he proceeded with the conversation in a rather low tone.

  “Yes, yes, Luis, five years ago today, during the early hours of the twenty-fifth morning of August 1904, you were born and your beloved mamá passed through that gate which men commonly call death! From that moment on you have been living under my and your aunt’s care.”

  Again he paused, and while he was taking another sip of the fermented liquid, I asked, “Abuelito, who was my mamá, and what was her name?”

  In a sympathetic manner he answered, “Little Luis, your mother’s name was María. She was an honest, kind and beautiful Spanish-Aztec woman. She was young and full of joy. María was always trying to help others and made great sacrifices to console and aid the unfortunate. She was my favorite daughter. Yes—Luisito—she was my favorite daughter!”

  While he was talking I could see that his eyes were full of tears, and I clumsily tried to wipe them off with my candy-soiled fingers. At the same time I asked, “Abuelito, do I have a papá?”

  With a deep sigh, he continued, “Yes, Luisito, you have a papá, but I don’t know where he is now. Your papá was a young French nobleman, who came to Mexico as a minister to represent his country. In the course of time he met your mamá, and against my will she married him. One year after you were born, your papá was recalled to France by his government, and since you were just a baby in arms and without your mamá, he decided to leave you under my care, as you were since the day your mother passed away. He left his property and a large sum of money for your education, but unfortunately the Mexican Government soon found out that what I had in my possession belonged to a Frenchman who was suspected of having been a spy. And that being the case, the authorities lost no time in confiscating everything of value, leaving the family and me to live from hand to mouth.”

  “And now, Abuelito, what are you going to do with me?” I asked.

  “Now, my grandson,” cheerfully he replied, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, “I am waiting for my son, your uncle, who is coming from Douglas, Arizona, to visit us.”

  “What is my uncle’s name, Abuelito?” I interrupted.

  “His name is Miguel Pérez.”

  “When is he coming?”

  “Little Luis, he will be here sometime soon. I intend to have him take you back with him to the United States. I will ask him to give you a good education for my sake, your sake, and for the sake of the Holy Church.”

  “No, Abuelito, I don’t want to go with my uncle. I want to stay here with you,” I cried, as my grandfather held me in his arms.

  By this time the musicians were playing, some of the people were dancing, others singing, drinking, and shouting, which made it impossible for my grandfather to continue with the details of my future.

  2

  The next thing of any importance that I remember was the arrival of my uncle at San Luis Potosí. His arrival was exciting because the family had prepared a big tamale fiesta to celebrate his homecoming. My grandfather secured the services of a small orchestra in order to make the party more enjoyable. Also, since it was Christmas Eve, my grandfather hung two large piñatas from a branch of a tree in the patio for us children to break. The fiesta lasted three days and nights.

  The piñatas which hung from the tree branch were two ovalshaped earthen jars, handsomely decorated with bits of tinsel and streamers of colored tissue paper. One of the jars was filled with toys, nuts, and candy. The other was crammed with flour.

  The object of the Mexican Christmas game is for one who is blindfolded to break the swinging piñata with a long stick. After it is broken, all the children scramble to gather up the contents. Each contestant is given three chances to hit the jar, and if he fails, someone else is blindfolded and placed near the piñata to continue the game.

  Early that Christmas Eve my grandfather, the family, and many friends went to the station to meet my long awaited uncle. About five-thirty in the afternoon, when my uncle and his wife got off the train, the crowd which was gathered there was bewildered on seeing the two Mexicans dressed in clothes that were fashionable in the United States at that time. When my grandfather saw them alight from the first-class coach, he broke through the mass of people and embraced his long absent son, extending also a hearty and courteous welcome to his daughter-in-law, whom he had never seen. After a few minutes of chatter and confusion, the men in the crowd took the baggage and led the guests to the carriages in which we rode to the patio of our house, where the carefully planned celebration was continued.

  When we arrived at our ranch, the corral gates were thrown wide open, and as we were entering through the arch of the thick sun-baked-brick wall-fence, the musicians started
to play a march. When we were near the center fountain, the orchestra modulated from the march to the Mexican National Anthem. Everybody stood still until the last note was played. When the music had stopped, someone in the crowd shouted, “Viva México! Viva la Patria!”

  “Viva México!” cried the whole crowd.

  “Viva el patron de la casa!” shouted one of the coach drivers.

  “Viva! Viva!” continued the throng.

  At the end of the many cheers and shouts, the confused murmuring started again, and the piñata game began. The first boy who volunteered to try to break the goody pot was my cousin, a lad about my age. He was blindfolded and armed with a long stick and placed in the middle of the crowd. He struck three times, failing to strike either piñata. The next contestant was an eleven-year-old girl known as the tomboy of the community. She also lost, never coming anywhere near to the swaying jars. The third one to try his luck was a thirteen-year-old bully boy, who kept saying that he could break the pot at the first blow. After being blindfolded he was led toward the jars. He moved forward, and backwards, from one side to the other, until he thought he was at the right place, then swung his stick and missed the target. The second blow was also unsuccessful, but the third time he struck the piñata which was full of flour. He was a sight—covered with it. The crowd hissed and booed. While everybody was laughing at the poor fellow, someone in the gathering shouted, “Let Luis Pérez break the other jar.”

  “Yes, let little Luis try his luck on the other one,” said someone else.

  “He is too young,” exclaimed one of the older spectators.

  But regardless of my age, by popular demand, I was blindfolded and placed in the middle of the ring.

  When I was somewhere in the center of the circle drowned by cheers and hisses, I groped my way toward the swinging piñata. While I was blindly moving about searching for the decorated pot, I felt the flour under my sandals, and so I knew that I must be very close to my target. Then I stopped, raised the stick and swung it, but in vain. At my action a short silence reigned, but when they saw that I had missed the jar, they hissed and booed, and many of them shouted, “To the right, Luisito.” “To the left, Luis!” “Get closer, Luis!”