“By writing I put order in the world, give it a handle so I can grasp it… I write to record what others erase when I speak, to rewrite the stories others have miswritten about me, about you… To discover myself, to preserve myself, to make myself, to achieve self-autonomy.”
—Gloria Anzaldúa, Speaking in Tongues: A Letter to 3rd World Women Writers
It is undeniable that Mala endures deeply horrible experiences throughout her life. Like many of my classmates, I wept while listening to her story. Throughout her childhood she is denied personal agency, and her entire life, she fights to reclaim who she is. However, through her coping mechanisms, which are often misinterpreted or dismissed by outsiders of Paradise, we witness her gradual reconstruction of the self in the face of ongoing trauma and chaos.
Immediately after reading Cereus Blooms at night, I had a hard time soaking in the general message of the book and the relationship Paradise has with queer individuals because of the intensity of Mala’s story. But reading Gloria Anzaldúa’s Speaking in Tongues: A Letter to 3rd World Women Writers helped me see Mala’s small, everyday acts not as strange behaviors, but as intentional, protective resistance for herself. Now, it is clear that maybe the whole point was the recognition that small acts of defiance and coping mechanisms make this ultimate change for ourselves and others. Anzaldúa frames writing as a vital tool of resistance for herself. One that allows her to define herself on her own terms, rather than be shaped by the limited narratives imposed on Chicana and women of color. Although Mala is a fictional character, she is an example of the intended audience Anzaldúa writes to: women of color, 3rd world women, and all those who survive by carving out space for their truth. Mala and Popoh, as a dark-skinned girl navigating an abusive household, embodies that struggle. Through her fight to survive, she asserts fragments of autonomy and selfhood, even when the Paradise community refuses to recognize them.
At face value it was easy for me to dismiss the coping mechanisms of Mala when they are first introduced, for example, the way she builds a wall of her furniture each night. At first I was confused by what the reason was but I didn’t necessarily try to understand immediately. Yet we are thrown back into her past when in fighting for her reclamation against her father she did this to protect herself. In sake of fear and self preservation she is working hard to protect that little girl inside of her. Just like when she makes a necklace out of snail shells, there’s always a part of her that’s holding on to what Aunt Lavinia told her about protecting snails. “Protect a living snail and when it dies, it doesn’t forget. Snails, like most things in nature, have long memories.” In a way, Popoh does this not just for the sake of nature, but also with the hope that it will bring her good fortune. By valuing the life of something as small as a snail, she’s holding on to the belief that these small acts might help change her life for the better.
In class, we debated whether Cereus Blooms at Night ends happily. For me, it does. I felt an immense sense of relief for Mala. She is no longer alone out of necessity. She is no longer feared, but loved by Ambrose, Otoh, and Tyler, who braids her hair. She is now surrounded by safety with those who love her. Though the relationship between Mala and her sister is not explicitly resolved, there is resolution in Mala’s newfound peace. She is no longer fighting for survival. She is at home with people who love her. And while I haven’t previously touched on Tyler and Otoh’s bond, it felt comforting to witness the possibility of a new beginning of a queer love and community, now rooted in safety and care. That, too, felt like a kind of reclamation.
Hello Bunbun, wonderful job on this post! The connections you drew between the real-life women that Anzaldúa describes and Mootoo’s fictional character Mala are very well-reasoned, in my opinion. Your realization that Mala’s daily ritual of building intricate walls was not just a nonsensical behavior, but in fact a representation of the self-protection habit she developed as a girl was well established – and also, I think that your initial puzzlement lends credence to Anzaldúa’s points about the survival mechanisms that women of color often adopt not always making sense to people looking on from the outside!
Finally, excellent point about the ending of the novel, in terms of finding a happy ending outside of a more traditionally tied-up end, which would have been the sisterly reunion. Mala’s location in a new kind of supportive family does seem to allow her to feel safe and happy, and considering all of her trauma, that does seem like a very relatively good ending to me.