(Re)appreciating Olga Dies Dreaming
Last spring, I was given the book Olga Dies Dreaming from a good friend who's recommended reading I trust. It was shared that the character would have some ups and downs, but the style of this author, Xochitl Gonzalez, would be a good match for me. Reading for pleasure as a year 3 graduate student in a doctoral program has been a challenge, but knowing that the author and the main character of the book were Puerto Rican supported my ability to prioritize and read this novel in the middle of my spring semester. In June, I had the privilege of being part of an immersion course through my University to spend a week in Puerto Rico to learn from organizations and school sites that center their work on community, education, and resistance. In preparation for this course, I had already read portions of Jorrell Meléndez Badillo’s Puerto Rico, A National History. Once I returned from the course, I also elected to read Rosalina Diaz's Decolonizing Paradise : A Radical Ethnography of Environmental Stewardship in the Caribbean. I had never been to Puerto Rico prior to this, and so a Puerto Rico focused fictional novel was a welcomed break between required readings. I gave myself permission to engage in this novel since it was “related and on topic.” I convinced myself that by giving myself permission to read this novel I would have the possibility of learning more about Puerto Rico. I wasn’t completely wrong.
The truth is that when I finally arrived to Puerto Rico, I quickly learned why it is called “la isla de encanto.” Every part was lush and green, and at the same time there was a familiarity to the way in which cities and cityscapes collided with the dense greenery. Parts of Gonzalez’s writing came back to me more vividly than before. From Meléndez Badillo’s comprehensive history of Puerto Rico, I was able to grasp a better understanding of the Socialist National Party, which was a steady hand in a number of larger organizing movements across the island, strategizing to move towards separate and liberated Puerto Rico. Without giving too much of the plot away, I could see the parallel in Los Pañuelos Negros in the novel; powered by a working class, a “rebel” group that was in the continual fight to secure resources for its people when the government would not. The loyalty in this group was to its people, and to the preservation of the well-being of the land. There is a pivotal conversation with Olga, the main character, when the history of Los Pañuelos Negros is broken down for her and it is explained plainly that, “nothing happens without the jíbaro,” (Gonzalez, p.222).
While this conversation quite literally takes place in the last third of the novel, on my first day in Puerto Rico, we got to experience a decolonial walking tour of San Juan. There were many images and statuesque representations to unpack, including representations of the Great Puerto Rican Family; a Spaniard as the oversized father, standing next to a Taino mother, often depicted as docile, while the father raises a small infant – the Puerto Rican. This family model, such as in this statue, completely erases any African ancestry, lineage, or identity (intentional to the rhetoric), and holds its own consequences in how Anti-Black sentiment is sometimes perpetuated. Similarly, the image of the jíbaro has been historically utilized to represent the working class and the farming communities of Puerto Rico, but is often depicted as light-skinned, barefoot, often playing a guibana. This representation also erases both African and Taino lineage from the working class. Why am I mentioning all of this? Well, because it provides a long legacy of both erasure of the Puerto Rican identity, rooted in colonialism, was intended to create – and this made me think about Olga’s character.
Olga, in her own way, defies these forced and prepackaged scripts of what Puerto Rican identity is supposed to be. The colonial design influenced what it means to be Puerto Rican, and thus had impact in shaping Puerto Rican identities in New York, where the novel takes place. The book subtly addresses the division between the groups – those from the island and Nuyoricans – and how it poses challenges in bringing the community together. Olga embraces her flaws and in the spirit of resistance, does what she feels is most genuine to her. She defies gender traditions. She’s unmarried and a successful wedding planner to the elite of New York, which comes with its own issues of being the only Latina in mostly White spaces. But Olga is also there for her community, which she loves. We see this is how Gonzalez describes her neighborhood through the lens of Olga, noting the pain is seeing how much it has shifted over time. Olga is there for her family, but struggles with boundaries and the ability to say no. She is a charismatic character, imperfect, who the reader keeps rooting for to come out winning. Olga’s love for her community is only matched by the love that Puerto Ricans across the diaspora have for Borikén, the island.
I was able to see this when visiting Casa Pueblo, an organization that originated in the prevention of a major pipeline cutting through its mountainous region. While this resistance went on for many years, they were successful in preventing the construction. Since, it has evolved into a number of projects, one of which is a completely independent solar plaza that holds enough power to maintain not only Casa Pueblo itself, but extends well into the town of Adjuntas. The novel addresses this issue, too; the fact that the island can be days without power, and the predatory energy companies that jump to fill a critical need at an exorbitant cost.
In conclusion, my friend was right. I thoroughly enjoyed the writing style of Gonzalez in Olga Dies Dreaming. However, I had a deeper appreciation for Olga after reading both Meléndez Badillo’s and Diaz’s work, coupled with the privilege of visiting a wide range of communities across the island – all displaying a deep and resounding love for their community and the land they call home.
~g
