Mexican WhiteBoy

The recycling plant, rundown and vandalized by graffiti, is visible from Uncle Tommy’s front steps. It symbolizes duality. There are many binaries depicted in Mexican WhiteBoy, the most prominent pair of opposites being hope and despair. It makes sense that the plant would be situated in a “forgotten slice of America’s Finest City” (97), as not only is it an eyesore, but what surrounds it is an abundance of waste in the form of untapped human potential. Recyclable items wrongly discarded into landfills are like the lives of many of de la Peña’s characters; they have innate potential but live in el barrio, a heavily Hispanic, impoverished neighborhood that, by little fault of its own, has limited opportunity. Unless a deliberate choice is made by the individual, each is likely to repeat the cycles of his or her family; of living a life without purpose, or worse, decaying as a result of unhealthy behaviors and relationships.

The flipside of the figurative landfill, or of despair, is that of the hope represented by the recycling plant. While the plant physically embodies the neglect shown to this part of the city, it is also a clear symbol of potential. Not only does it give new purpose to waste, but it gives hope in the form of opportunity. Working in the plant is likely an unpleasant job, but society and the environment both benefit from its labors. The plant has stood for generations, employing immigrants and other working poor. The plant workers process the refuse that would have languished for centuries in landfills into something useful, something with a purpose. Therefore, as much as the description of the plant elicits images of despair, the plant itself provides dignity and a source of income for the many who work there. The recycling plant symbolizes the duality of potential: that which is wasted and that which is realized.

Sound, or in most cases, its absence, is a motif throughout Mexican WhiteBoy. Sound, or silence when there should be sound, exists in nearly every chapter. At the outset, it is made known that Danny has gone silent. As Sofia says, “He ain’t no big talker” (2). He has vowed not to speak his mother’s language, English, and he does not know how to speak Spanish. There are seemingly less significant instances when there should be sound, such as when the television is on, and its volume is off, with silence pervading the room. This could speak to the fact that the Lopezes live in the United States, where most channels broadcast in English. Having a picture with no sounds shows only partial and perhaps marginalized access to something English speakers take for granted.

There is also the obvious and overriding silence surrounding the circumstances of Danny’s father’s desertion. Danny’s father cannot be present in Danny’s life the way Senior can in Uno’s, or like Uncle Tommy can in Sofia’s. Messages from Danny’s father are not in the form of sound, nor are they even sensed by Danny until he learns his father has sent a surrogate, the scout, to watch over him. It’s unclear as to whether Danny “hears” this message as one of care, but it does illuminate the truth.

While completely silent, but somewhere in between, is Danny’s inability to communicate with Liberty when he desperately wants to. The figurative silence they hear is each other speaking a language that is foreign; however, in an important scene, Liberty’s inability to hear Danny allows him to speak his truths to her about the sadness he feels over his father and about being a “fake” Mexican. He is also able to tell her how he feels about her because he knows she cannot “hear” him. Where sound does exist throughout the novel, and is seen in a positive light, is music. Whether in English or Spanish, its listeners universally enjoy its mood-enhancing qualities; it’s a beat to talk alongside and dance to, and, most importantly, it transcends the need to understand language.

Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez symbolize the success that comes from hard work, education and a level of assimilation. They are a retired couple: he is a retired fireman, and she is a retired special ed teacher. They live in the cul-de-sac where the neighborhood kids play stickball. They are Mexican-American, likely first generation, who are both educated and have experienced full careers. They are also still married and their son, Marco Rodriguez, is the one who started the Saturday derby “back when he was coming up” (9), showing their longstanding presence in the neighborhood. Marco, now a first-year resident at a pediatric hospital in Albuquerque, is proof that success, while difficult, is not impossible for someone growing up in this part of National City. The Rodríguezes are the only characters who depict both familial stability and steadfastness in their careers, and in their role as neighborhood mentors. There is much not said about the Rodríguezes themselves, but by virtue of owning a home, having the ability to retire, and be generous to neighborhood children, one can surmise they have assimilated to American culture in ways that are advantageous. They don’t appear to have cast aside their identity as a Mexican-American family, however, since they’ve chosen to remain in the neighborhood after their son has left home. The Rodriguezes show it is possible to be true to one’s own values while still creating opportunities for success in National City.

Low-cost beverages, most containing alcohol, serve as a motif that reminds the reader of the characters’ demographic. Drinks of this nature appear throughout the novel, starting with one of the neighborhood girls coming on to Danny saying, “We can just sit there […] take turns sippin’ a little white Zin and shit” (3). The group of girls is gathered in a circle, “gossiping, sipping ice-cold Kool-Aid out of Gatorade bottles” (9), as real Gatorade is too expensive. In one of their conversations, they’re trying to determine who will be “sneakin’ in the thermos of jungle juice” (4) to the Del Mar Fair. Beer also gets frequent mention and is how Danny remembers his father: “[his father] wouldn’t look up or say anything. They just sat there together […] a beer dangling from his dad’s right hand” (5). And, as the group heads off to the Del Mar Fair, “The passenger side door of the Impala swings open and Uno flings an empty Colt 45 onto the lawn of a neighboring house” (59).

Later, in Uno’s bedroom he ponders a shapeless stain on the rug “from the time Manny dropped a full cup of Kool-Aid” (137). His room is shabby and depressing, and Kool-Aid reinforces the idea of poverty. Uno had just returned from a party and was being berated by his stepfather, but he “still [had] a dose of Hennessey cruising through his veins from the party he just left” (137). Even in happy times, Danny, Liberty, Uno and Sofia celebrate, eating enchiladas and “sipping coffee mugs of white wine from the box Cecilia [had] opened” (241). The beverages run the gamut, but they evoke images of poverty, a lack of purpose, substance abuse, lawlessness and violence.

Shoes, and Danny’s Vans in particular, are a motif reminding the reader of Danny’s status as an outsider. When he arrives in National City, Danny’s shoes signal to the others he is from somewhere else. Vans are lightweight, cotton and typically associated with surf and skate culture. Being part of that culture implies one lives near or spends time on the coast; in turn, living on the coast connotes some level of privilege, especially when juxtaposed to el barrio. When the Vans are mentioned, Danny is typically insecure about not belonging, and when they appear on the pitching mound, they portray him to his opponents as being incompetent. Danny vows to get new clothing, maybe some Timberlands like Uno’s, but he never does.