The first incidence of public magic realism was the most humiliating. I’d had them before, but it was always when I was alone, so it was easy to confuse them with dreams. But the bruises and burns persisted and I realized that the apparition of a flaming Virgin of Guadalupe with a beaver’s head was actually before me, and when I tried to touch her, I’d get burned. Years later it would still make me feel “other”. How could I identify as a Canadian with these repeated episodes of Latin American Magic Realism?
At first, I didn’t think it made me any different. I just thought everybody had them. But when I tried to talk to my friends about it, it became obvious they weren’t having the same experiences. Eventually I felt the isolation of what was happening to me. I was having an “immigrant” experience. Specifically, as was to be noted on my disciplinary note from the principal, “repeated incidents of Latin American Magic Realism.”
Anyway, the episodes started to become more frequent when I hit puberty, and mother would yell at me because I wouldn’t come out of the bathroom, or I’d lock myself in the bedroom and I know she assumed the worst—that I was making myself blind in the usual manner—except that she wasn’t assuming the worst because I’m sure when she found out the truth, she would have preferred that I be masturbating than having heated arguments with this beaver-headed Virgin about my lack of discipline with binomials. I sucked at math, and I’d tell her “so what?” And she’d be spitting wood chips from the branch she was always chewing on and tell me I wasn’t trying hard enough. What a bitch; this beaver-headed virgin of Guadalupe had a lot of nerve.
Well, that went on for awhile, and her appearances were always when I was alone, but in grade eight, when I was 13 and had my first crush, she appeared in the hallway just after I’d finally got up the nerve to approach Monique Leduc, this beautiful Acadian goddess from Memramcook. I wanted to impress her so I memorized as much as possible about the expulsion of the of the Acadians from Atlantic Canada, many of whom settled in Louisiana, and when I went to talk to her I was going to cleverly drop some points seamlessly into the conversation about the plight of the Acadian diaspora.
“Really? You’re Acadian? Well, I’m sure glad your ancestors weren’t ones to starve to death in the winter following the expulsion.” I might as well start planning our wedding, it was such a surefire winner. But the beaver-headed virgin had other plans.
When the moment came—the moment when nerve and opportunity finally coincided, a force outside of myself was carrying me toward her and I was really doing it. She had just separated from her twosome, from whom she was rarely separated, and she was alone at her locker—nobody around to make fun of me for approaching her. And just as I was about to say “Hello, Monique,” everything I’d memorized about the Acadians suddenly left me.
As she waited for me to say something, I panicked—I’m sure I could have found a way out—but the beaver-headed virgin appeared in flames behind me, and a whoosh of heat hit me, and Monique went wide-eyed and I said “Hi, Monique, look out for the beaver-headed virgin of Guadalupe!” And then it disappeared, but the vice-principal, a noted disciplinarian, had witnessed the episode and yelled down the hall, “Rodriguez! Incidents of Latin-American Magic Realism at McKinley Junior High are strictly forbidden!”
I got detention for it but at least now I knew what it was.
Lalo Espejo is a writer, monologist and political satirist whose work has appeared on CBC radio, campuses across Canada, and most recently as a regular contributor to the Vancouver Review. You can find his rants, politics and satire at The Lalo Blog.Com.