Hispanism, Queer Theory, and Community
Israel Burshatin, Haverford College
The three terms that I have loosely assembled as a
title, Hispanism, queer history and
community, are meant to stand as temporary markers for the comments
and many questions that follow. The first two especially, Hispanism
and queer history (or queer anything), can arouse deeply held
convictions and disciplinary anxieties. With Hispanism one treads
perilously across a once imperial and now trans-national field whose
demarcations have been intensely questioned in recent years. The name itself is
one that many have grown increasingly weary of. In this sense, Hispanism is
quickly finding its own queer turn, a discipline that nowadays dares not speak
its name. I like the provisional and functional definition that Sylvia Molloy
and Robert McKee Irwin give in their introduction to Hispanisms and
Homosexualities:
Hispanism ... is more than a linguistic bond: it
is a conviction, a passion, a temporal continuity, an imperial monument. If for
some of us it may mean a (provisional) way of organizing the study of a set of
cultures, we should remember that we are, most assuredly, in a minority; that
what for us is functional, either as a way of organizing a subject of study or
even as a means of postulating strategic identities, is for others an article
of faith and a clear call to the heart. (x)
They go on to observe,
accurately I think, the extent to which Hispanism has traditionally
conceived itself in monolithic terms, as an oddly defensive family whose
members supposedly share cultural values and engage in common cultural
practices and, I would add, who are expected to follow narrowly
prescribed disciplinary protocols (x-xi). For the medieval and early modern
periods, the disparities are, I believe, even greater. Attempts to write a
queer history of Iberian culture will necessarily occupy an interstitial
disciplinary location, against the grain of the fusty rules of decorum of
traditional Hispanism and on the margins of the incessant crossings of queer
historiography. Is this interstitiality something to bemoan or to
celebrate?
I use the term queer history (rather than queer
theory or queer studies) since one of the strengths of the essays in Queer
Iberia is the historical grounding of the interpretations offered, even
those of literary texts. In Getting Medieval Carolyn Dinshaw helps us to
grasp queerness as a historical category in a tour de force of combined close
readings and expansive theorization. As I understand her multiple and unbounded
definitions of the queer, it designates a Derridian supplement. For instance,
she calls Margery Kempe queer in the sense that her body, does not fit
her desires (149). But the dissemination that accompanies Derridas
semantic supplementarity is reined in by the ethical stance inherent in the
queer scholars location in his or her communities (scholarly, gender,
class, ethnic, etc.). The scholars position depends on affiliations to
communities past and present. For Dinshaw the queer is also both excess and the
unsaid, what is left out, the leavings of categories:
queerness is just that relation of unfittingness, disjunctiveness - that
uncategorizability, that being-left-out (158). Especially useful, I find,
is her attention to the alterity that medievalists and early modernists are
accustomed to finding in their objects of study, the irreducible differences
that arise as we interpret societies, texts, beliefs and cultural artifacts
that only with difficulty or by some act of ethnocentric or presentist elision
can be neatly mapped onto our world. Dinshaws exhortation to join her in
queer historiciza-tion makes the interstitiality I referred to earlier a very
good thing, nurtured by affiliations that are partial and contingent:
Let us imagine the widest possible usable field of others with whom to make
partial connections [...and] a process that engages all kinds of differences,
though not all in the same ways: racial, ethnic, national, sexual, gender,
class, even historical/ temporal. Thus ... the medieval, as well as other dank
stretches of time, becomes itself a resource for subject and community
formation and materially engaged coalition building. By using this concept of
making relations with the past we realize a temporal dimension of the self and
of community. (21)
Return to Queer Iberia formally acknowledges
and celebrates the rise of one such scholarly community that is in the process
of coalescing around queer interventions in medieval and early modern Iberian
studies. Fundamental to Queer Iberia and other similar projects is our
awareness of discontinuities and of textual intimacy, the
Barthesian act of queer history, in which the touch of recognition
and solidarity closes gaps of time, space and culture (Dinshaw 50).
How
do our scholarship and teaching affect hegemonic Hispanism? Assuming that we
envision our work as an oppositional practice -or a radical
practice, as John Beverley once proposed- do we constitute ourselves as a
minority in the Deleuzian sense of not having a stable and limiting model while
we pursue, instead, strategies and tactics that would counter disciplinary
myths of temporal continuity and imperial monuments? Do
we privilege, instead, constant variation (Daniel W. Smith xliii),
which undermines the reification of canonical texts? How do we promote
convergences and divergences that do not pass through the filter of global
capitalism and the corporate university? With full awareness of Hispanism as a
hegemonic structure, viable in the sense that it also varies over time and is
sufficiently malleable to accommodate dissenting voices as it co-opts them, is
it enough to assert our deep conviction that interpreters can never really
master a past recorded in the archives of repression?1
Is it sufficient just to teach our students about the origins of disciplinary
practices whose function was to maintain subaltern subjects silenced in the
past (women, sexual minorities, Amerindians, conversos, Moriscos,
Africans)? Is our project reducible to the mid twentieth-century ideal of
la otra España, one that sought to give voice to an imagined
community dating back to nineteenth-century Spanish liberals exiled in England
and France? The ideal of the other Spain, conceived as an antidote
to la leyenda negra and to the triumphalist myths of Spanish
imperial resurgence cultivated by the Franco dictatorship, still has
irresistible force for any project of disciplinary renewal.2 It is
that counter-hegemonic offshoot of Hispanism that in a very real sense has
become a new orthodoxy and one with remarkable staying power and progressive
credentials, in part because it has assimilated the strong critical voices of
distinguished peninsularists like Américo Castro, Juan Goytisolo, Luce
López-Baralt and Francisco Márquez-Villanueva.
The
editors of Queer Iberia are right to underscore the importance of the
yoking of race and sexuality in the past as well in todays theoretical
discussions, as in the work of Ann Laura Stoler, whom they specifically cite
(Hutcheson and Blackmore 11). But should we not also attempt to historicize
-and critique- similar concepts as they have been understood in the discourse
of the more progressive elements of Hispanism? The value of this more local
dialogue within the discipline might enable us to engage more fruitfully with
Hispanism, if thats something that seems worth pursuing. Regardless of
how we might reformulate these questions or go about answering them, our
scholarship and teaching should reflect the view, I believe, that even within
hegemonic structures it is possible to find or open up spaces in which
resistance can manifest itself (Dominick LaCapra 64). One of the
challenges before us is the extent to which a revitalized Hispanism that
embraces queer studies can do so without necessarily rehabilitating the
historically determined structures that have never really wanted to let the
subaltern speak, the mythography of Castilian regeneration, populism and
Europeanization notwithstanding.
As an example of the interstitiality
of queer Iberian studies I referred to at the beginning of these remarks I
would like take a brief look at the thoughtful review of Queer Iberia
written by the distinguished medieval historian Teófilo Ruiz. Above and
beyond the differences I will necessarily focus on here, it is most important
to keep in mind that Ruiz is undoubtedly a sympathetic -indeed, an
indispensable- interlocutor for the project of Queer Iberia. Ruiz writes
with palpable appreciation that Queer Iberia reveals aspects of
Iberian medieval and early modern culture hitherto unexplored or dealt with as
ancillary to mainstream history, and he mentions specifically
same-gender sexual relations, cross-dressing and gender bending
taxonomies. He welcomes themes that would have been considered
untouchable when people of my generation were completing their dissertations in
the late seventies and early eighties. He takes issue, nevertheless, with a
number of perceived deficiencies: the absence of contributors from Spain,
over-reliance on literary representations, and what he considers to be the
unfounded assertion of a teleology of queerness that asserts its
enduring quality in Iberia (585). He questions the criteria used to
make this claim of peninsular queerness and asks, provocatively, but, by
that criteria [sic] what culture is not queer? Is all difference
queer? (586).
Some of his observations are
indisputable - all of us, Im sure, would welcome closer dialogue with our
colleagues in Spain and elsewhere in the Spanish speaking world. But his
attribution of a reductive teleology of queerness to some of the work in
Queer Iberia is an interesting but problematic move. If I were to debate
the point -which is not my purpose here- I would ask him to consider the
remarkably queer thrust of the national imaginary of medieval Spain, as found
in chronicles and historical narratives in Arabic, Latin, Castilian and other
peninsular languages, in which the Muslim conquest of 711 becomes a cultural
sign of divine retribution for the moral failings of the Visigoths and
especially, for the concupiscence of the last king of the Visigoths, don
Rodrigo. There is ample evidence of the construction of a
proto-national/religious identity closely bound to a queer sexuality
encompassing voyeurism and fetishism, as well as symbolic re-enactments of
subjugation, jouissance and self-castration. (No wonder our courses are
so popular!) The legends of Rodrigo and La Cava and the monarchs
synecdochic violation of the Tower of Hercules bespeak a concept of nationhood
that is suffused with themes of sexual and national transgression in the form
of Muslim invaders, who themselves represent extremes of masculinity and
femininity.3 As some of the contributors in Queer Iberia have
shown, sexuality and gender operate in other important historical narratives
that are not derived from those of don Rodrigo and La Cava. And, surely,
post-Freud, it would not be an argument for exceptionalism to suggest that
historically grounded perceptions of self and other are never too far from the
symbolism and languages of Eros. In fact, Sara Liptons essay in Queer
Iberia, which Ruiz singles out for praise, makes very explicit the
undeniable queer subtext that underlies Pedro II of Aragons historical
narrative.
An important issue raised by Ruiz concerns the gap that he
sees between Queer Iberia and contemporary Spains purported
indifference to the issues debated by Américo Castro and Claudio
Sánchez-Albornoz. Ruiz states categorically that the Castro-Albornoz
debate [is] so dated as to make the discussion almost anachronistic. No
one in Spain under the age of sixty cares about these issues anymore
(586). What is unclear to me is whether he means the specifics of an
acrimonious and admittedly outmoded debate or the underlying -and, I would
argue, still pertinent- complex of questions regarding Spanish or peninsular
identities and their alternately repressed, scorned or romanticized Jewish,
converso, Islamic and Morisco elements. While the specific debate may
indeed be hopelessly démodé, the larger underlying
questions of Spanish indebtedness to its former colonial or minority subjects
are, if anything, more pertinent than ever.
Even a casual reader of
the Spanish press will be familiar with the alarming rise of xenophobic
thinking, reinforced by official measures recently adopted that seek to limit
migration from the Maghreb and sub-Saharan regions of Africa. This closing of
the peninsular cultural mind seems to coincide with a corresponding rise in
hate crimes in urban centers, from Almería to Madrid, where Moroccans
and Dominicans have been targeted. What, exactly, has superseded the debate
over the value of non-Christian and non-Western contributions to
peninsular cultural history? In the eyes of Juan Goytisolo and other critics of
the contemporary scene, current cultural tensions reinscribe the old biases,
sometimes shamefully so. When the Castro-Albornoz debate was au courant,
these issues were in fact more academic than they are today, for in the
depressed economy of the postwar period Spain exported its surplus labor to
Germany and elsewhere in northern Europe as low-paid guest-workers.
But the tide has turned as the metropole, now a major economic force, is awash
with unwanted (but useful) low-paid migrants from Africa and the Americas, a
situation that gives renewed currency to the old essentialisms favored by
Albornoz and his supporters. I shall cite one recent example of retro thinking
that not only recycles some of the old shibboleths about Islamic resistance to
European assimilation, but proffers these as the kind of useful thinking we
must accept if we are to recover from the attacks of September 11,
2001.
In a recent issue of ABC, Cándido, a regular
columnist for the Madrid daily, sings the praises of Emilio Castelars
acumen in capturing the essence of Orientals like Osama Bin Laden -
back in 1876! Cándidos bizarre point is that history and
todays intellectuals are at best unhelpful in elucidating the events of
September 11th. He offers, instead, the most hackneyed recycling of the
psychological and moral attributes dear to Orientalists over one hundred years
ago, during the waning years of the Spanish empire:
Cuando Emilio
Castelar en su ensayo político de 1876 titulado «La
cuestión de Oriente» describe el tipo árabe, parece estar
describiendo a Osama bin Laden, el presunto responsable de la tragedia del 11
de septiembre: La elevada estatura, las distinguidas maneras, el
temperamento nervioso, el arte en el manejo de las armas, los ojos profundos,
la mirada escudri-ñadora, los labios perfectamente dibujados, la frente
espaciosa, la color atezada .... Sin embargo es el mismo tipo de hombre
que inventó la trigonometría, que llevó el álgebra
a las matemáticas o que instaló el primer observatorio
astronómico en la Giralda.... La grandeza de los árabes se
debió a su heterodoxia, que floreció sobre todo en el imperio
maho-metano de Occidente y que se movía en el esquema de la razón
y el trabajo, no en el de la inspiración y el principio del fatalismo.
Este principio es el que destruye la voluntad y la conciencia, suprime la
libertad y quita la dignidad quitando la responsabilidad. El fatalismo
musulmán carece de opciones y convierte la lucha contra él en una
lucha contra máquinas. Como escribía también Castelar,
un solo libro entregado al comentario perpetuo de una raza muy dada a las
argucias teológicas petrifica la inteligencia y le da la rigidez de la
muerte. A eso es a lo que se enfrenta el secularizado mundo occidental.
Por eso en situaciones como la creada después del ataque de
precisión a Nueva York y a Washington, que eleva definitivamente el
terrorismo a uno de los peligros mayores de este mundo, cabe preguntarse por el
papel del intelectual en las coyunturas extremas de la historia.
This
truly bizarre reiteration of Orientalist clichés shows how far some
contemporary Spanish commentators are from effecting the sort of clear break
with outmoded ideas that Ruiz has in mind. As this passage shows, the
essentialisms of the so-called clash of civilizations that weve been
hearing so much about lately, and which the Castro and Albornoz debate directly
engaged, are not in the dustbin of history. As tempting as it is, I will not
comment on the transparently queer traits ascribed to the Oriental" -his
ojos profundos, labios perfectamente dibujados,
distinguidas maneras, temperamento nervioso- but
mention these only to indicate the alarming resurgence of stereotypes one hoped
had been rendered obsolete by the writings of Edward Said and Juan Goytisolo,
to name just two of the most prominent public intellectuals to have demystified
the cultural constructions of Islamic or Arab otherness.
At the
beginning of my remarks I summarized some of Carolyn Dinshaws ideas about
queerness - its double valence as both excess and the unsaid, its
unfittingness and disjunctiveness. Although he writes
from a position outside queer studies, Ruizs commentary suggests that he
too endorses a substantial rewriting of the culture. Nevertheless, he pulls
back from fully endorsing this direction by cautioning against the dangers -and
temptations- of over-interpretation: As with many exegeses, some
interpretations can be stretched too far (587). He expresses greater
comfort and assurance with queerness as part of a microhistorical approach, a
local phenomenon that resists wider application: Queerness,
like every other historical category must be contextualized in the local and in
the particular. But how, then, do we take the results of our
investigations to the higher plane of writing culture, which he also finds
compelling? Indeed, Ruiz exhorts Hispanists to integrate
queerness into the way we write culture(588). I find
intriguing that queerness somehow figures on both sides of the divide, a
ubiquitous yet problematic position for a critical and historical approach that
only very recently entered Hispanic studies. Still to be determined by all of
us is how to negotiate the disjunction between the local and historicized
micro-event of queerness and the broader category of writing culture, which
implies, surely, a theoretical and speculative construct, one that must
perforce attend to master narratives. Do these negotiations implicitly trace
the divide between history and literature? Are there other disjunctions
implicit in these two disciplinary opposites? Isnt the project of
Queer Iberia about just such crossings and connections? Does exegesis,
as Ruiz presents it, imply an always already present queer turn? As tempting as
that sounds, I do not believe that any of the contributors to Queer
Iberia has made any such claim. Rather, they have shown -and rightly so-
that queer scholarship chafes the rigors of narrowly defined disciplinary
protocols.
1 The term archives of repression is
Carlo Ginzburgs and it designates the corpus of heresy and inquisition
trials that scholars must tap into in order to document subaltern resistance in
medieval and early modern societies (xxi). My own work on the
hermaphrodite Eleno de Céspedes is based on such
repressed archival sources.
2 See Beverley, who references
Roberto Fernández-Retamar.
3 Shortly after September 11, 2001 on
Pat Robertsons TV show, The 700 Club Jerry Falwell
interpreted the attacks of September 11 in remarkably similar terms. He
point[ed] a finger to blame, among others, pagans, feminists,
abortionists, gays and secularists for the destruction of the Twin Towers in
New York City (audio portion in Scott Simon). Like the Arab and Berber
invasions of the Iberian Peninsula in Christian chronicles, the events of
September 11th turned Islamic warriors into the instruments of a wrathful God
in Falwells feverish imagination.