DECONSTRUCTION OF BINARY IN REINALDO ARENAS’S BEFORE NIGHT FALLS

DECONSTRUCTION OF BINARY IN REINALDO ARENAS’S BEFORE NIGHT FALLS

by

Val Killpack

                In Cuba, or Latin America in general, homosexuality designates, “less a libidinal relationship between individuals of the same gender than a particular role, position, or style of behavior” (Epps 232).  This is to say that living publicly as a male gay in Cuba, in the time of Reinaldo Arenas, more so, but still, exorcises a place of power (or lack thereof) and delineates one into a hierarchical place in society, culture, or political establishment.  The definition of homosexuality in Cuba, until the last decade perhaps, revolves around being a maricón, or receptive partner.  Reinaldo Arenas writes of a “real man” being the active/penetrating partner (top), and the receptive partner (bottom) being deemed the homosexual.  This definition of homosexuality, “points to a difference between a homosexuality of identity, regardless of the positions therein assumed, and a homosexuality of performance and appearance, in which positionality is the dominant, or most visible, mark” (Epps 233).  European and American culture concerns itself less with the particular sex role, and stigmatises both partners more equally.  In a sense, Euro-American society essentialises homosexuality, placing personal identity upon the notion of an intrinsic “gayness”, whereas Latino culture leans toward constructivism, in that homosexuality applies to those who act a certain role (performance) and display that (bottom) role publicly (appearance), and the underlying (essential) same-sex desire, a concept that does exist in Cuba, does not mean one is a homosexual.

                The performance and expression of homosexuality became polarized under socialist rule, whereas before, the category did not exist, and (homo)sexuality existed in its fluid, three-dimensional expression, a scale of sexuality, more complex than Alfred Kinsey even acknowledges.  Lourdes Arguelles and B. Ruby Rich explain: “In this prerevolutionary setting, discreet lesbian or gay male identities in the modern sense—identities that are based on self-definition and involve emotional as well as physical aspects of same-sex relations—were rare” (445).  Pre-revolution, same-sex expression did not associate one with an identity at all, never mind a political stance.  Sexuality before the revolution existed only on a behavioural level, and in certain ways was not problematic because of that (though, Western influence had begun to commodify (homo)sexuality).  Sexuality perhaps resembled, behaviourally, the modern practice of pansexual polyamory (as expressed in John Cameron Mitchell’s film, Short Bus).  The revolution instituted a polemical hierarchy which categorised, polarised, and segregated (homo)sexuality.  Arenas, resembling a modernist lamenting a former continuity, speaks of the development of this disparity:

In Cuba gays were not confined to a specific area of a club or beach.  Everybody mingled and there was no division that would place the homosexual on the defensive.  This has been lost in more advanced societies, where the homosexual has had to become a sort of recluse and separate himself from the supposedly nonhomosexual society, which undoubtedly also excludes him.  Since such divisions did not exist in Cuba, the interesting aspect of homosexuality there was that you did not have to be a homosexual to have a relationship with a man; a man could have intercourse with another man as an ordinary act.  In the same way, a real gay who liked another gay could easily go out and live with him.  But the gay who liked real macho men could also find one who wanted to live or be friends with him, without in any way interfering with the heterosexual life of that man (Arenas, BNF 107-08).

In a sense, Arenas’ resisting of this paradigm shift, this binary of sexuality, also manifested as a protest of the socialist ideal.  Castro, following the doctrine of Marx and Lenin—as well as other socialist and communist theorists and leaders—created a dualistic community.  Castro’s infamous words, “Within the revolution, everything; against the revolution, nothing” (Epps 249), exist in a context of proletariat/bourgeois struggle.  This (theoretic) polarity manifested socio-pragmatically, if you will, as revolutionary/counter-revolutionary.  Arenas finds himself caught in the same dynamic, though expressed through sexual (and gender) identity.  The former, uncategorised scale of sexuality transforms into a duality with the Cuban revolution.  Heterosexuality (which includes the gay dominant partner), with the help of Castro and Guevara’s “real man” campaign, shows up ‘within the revolution’, whereas homosexuality falls ‘against the revolution’.  This separation and labelling of sexuality links closely with gender performance—as Judith Butler would phrase it—and to perform outside of behaviours allocated as that of the “real man” (or machismo) categorises an individual as homosexual or gay, whether  this desire or behaviour exists or not.  Epps describes this gender performance: “Eminently controlled in conduct and appearance, the new man is the old man, man as he has long been promised to be: the eternal masculine” (259).  As Arenas alludes to, appearance trumps performance and identity for Castro.  (This is still the case for Cuba, even in the early twenty-first century, which is apparent when looking at the efforts made to show Cuba in a positive light to the world for purposes of international relations.  The CENESEX website and the film Strawberry and Chocolate both exude portrayal/appearance of equality before actual acceptance—though institutional changes have and are being made.)  Rather than basing homosexual identity on an essential or intrinsic quality or identity as expressed by the individual, the homosexual identity is assigned by the establishment based on appearance and sometimes performance, or appearance of performance.  This brings up another point, which is paramount to Arenas’ position: personal identity versus group identity.

                Socialism and communism imply giving up one’s personal identity (ego) for the benefit of the whole.  This implies, in this case, that one gives up his/her artistic vocation and sexual identity and surrender to the revolution, or as Arenas sees it, to Castro.  It seems paradoxical that citizens must let go of their identity, whereas their leader continues to elevate his status by creating a more prominent personal identity.  Arenas sees this not only as fascism, but as dictatorship.  As Brad Epps points out, Arenas could not exist without Castro.  Arenas falls into the same binary pattern—dominant and Other—and he defines himself in opposition to Castro, as the oppressed Other.  Arenas homosexual identity falls into category of Other, with heterosexuality being dominant, and his position as writer/artist is Other in contrast to proletariat worker (revolution supporter) as dominant.  In a certain sense, rather than breaking down these barriers (social constructions), Arenas reinforces them by placing himself so firmly within them.  Arenas defines his personal identity as Other in all cases, even in America, where is Othered by Miami and then New York.  A tantalising short story written by Arenas reinforces this position: The Glass Tower speaks of his treatment in (his) post-Cuban life.  In the story, the main character’s supporters persecute him by placing him on a pedestal, thus separating (Othering) him, and at the end, when he reveals he has nothing to offer, he is abandoned by everyone except a dog (a symbol of sexual narcissism in the story).  Abilio Estévez voices the impact this point of view has for the us, the reader, and through the text we see, “the Other as the center of our lives, the torturer/observer who brings us unfailingly to self-torture and self-observation.  The pitiless Other who makes us pitiless toward ourselves” (863-64).  This antagonism drives him, and Oberg reports, “Arenas writes a revelatory phrase: ‘The world and I are at war.’  Here’s the key, not only to Before Night Falls but to his entire literary production.  […]  Enmity is one of the fundamental motives for anyone to sit down and try to mend the world” (865).  This animosity and isolation as Other drive Arenas to confront the ultimate problem: “knowing whether or not life is worth being lived.  […]  Arenas gave legitimacy to suicide.  We know his answer” (Oberg 864).

Arenas, in confronting the dominant power, his ultimate adversary, ultimately declares Castro to impersonate that demon.  Castro represents the darkness of Arenas’ childhood, the oppression he faced as a gay man, the difficulty he experienced living as a writer, and inadvertently the dark side of himself, the man that desires to end his own life, which he eventually decides to do.  Arenas’ suicide note takes no personal responsibility, however, and credits Castro as the source of the decision—Castro who signifies so much for him.  He writes: “I end my life voluntarily  […]  There is only one person I hold accountable: Fidel Castro” (Arenas, BNF 317).  Arenas expresses his perpetual conflict in his poem As Long as the Sky Whirls (Arenas, “As Long…” 112), which is written for Lázaro Gómez, but in subtext, and perhaps Arenas’ subconscious, could be read as being written for and to Fidel Castro:

As Long as the Sky Whirls

                As long as the sky whirls

You will be my redemption and my doom,

magnetic vision,

                                lily in underwear,

salvation and madness

                                every night waiting.

As long as the sky whirls

no infernal could be a stranger

because I have to take care that that would not harm you,

No joy would go by inadvertent

Because in some way I have to reveal it to you,

                                As long as

                                the sky

                                   whirls

                you will be the truth of myself,

                the song and the venom,

                the danger and the ecstasies,

                the vigil and the sleep,

                the dread and the miracle.

As long as the sky whirls… but perhaps the sky whirls?

Well: as long as the sky exists.

                                As long as

                                the sky

                                   exists

                you will be my pain most noticeable,

                my loneliness most tragic

                my bewilderment unanimous

                my perpetuous silence

                and my absolute consolation.

As long as the sky exists… but perhaps the sky exists?

Well: as long as you yourself exist.

                                As long as

                                you yourself

                                   exist

                you will be the mirror and the time,

                the infinity and the imminent,

                the memory and the unusual

                the defeat and the verse,

                my enemy and my image.

Because there would be no more suns than the ones you yourself radiate

like there would be no other penance than to know that you exist.

                                But perhaps you do exist?

New York (May 1985)

(Arenas, “As Long…” 112)

Arenas creates not only his politico-sexual identity in opposition to Castro (his reflection?), but also his art, his politico-writer identity.  (Though he may realise his construction: “But perhaps you do exist?” (Arenas, “As Long…” 112))  Arenas sees himself and Castro as two sides to one coin: “my enemy and my image” (Arenas, “As Long…” 112).  Abilio Estévez states, “all the demons lived in the heart of Reinaldo Arenas.  And all the angels, I would add” (861); his stance is in opposing Castro, the other side of the coin, “there would be no other penance than to know that you exist” (Arenas, “As Long…” 112).  Art, for Arenas, is beauty, and beauty (for Arenas) can also exist only in contrast to Castro.  He speaks of this in Before Night Falls:

A sense of beauty is always dangerous and antagonistic to any dictatorship because it implies a realm extending beyond the limits that a dictatorship can impose on human beings.  Beauty is a territory that escapes the control of the political police.  Being independent and outside of their domain, beauty is so irritating to dictators that they attempt to destroy it whichever way they can.  Under a dictatorship, beauty is always a dissident force, because a dictatorship is itself unaesthetic, grotesque; to a dictator and his agents, the attempt to create beauty is an escapist or reactionary act (Arenas, BNF 87).

Arenas clearly defines himself here, in his identity as an artist (writer), as the Other, where Castro is the dominant, opposing force.  Arenas defines homosexuality (and the underlying gender expression) and then art, writing, and music as forms of political resistance.  The film Strawberry and Chocolate attempts to break this binary by associating the homosexual-artist protagonist with a pro-Cuban stance, and by associating a government employee with anti-Cuban ideals, such as wanting to leave and live in European decadence.  The film, in dialogue with Arenas, tries to counter the notion that Castro-communism exists in opposition to homosexuality and art.  The protagonist of the film still has to leave, but only as a result of residual, cultural misunderstanding.  Though the film may have been made partially as propaganda—for the sake of appearance—it does unfold an ideal that yearns for greater continuity, solidarity, and inclusion.  The film shows a Cuban regime that desires to define itself not in opposition to homosexuality and art, but in opposition to anti-Cuban sentiment.

                Accompanying the film Strawberry and Chocolate, Cuba repealed the, “Public Ostentation Law, which was used to effectively harass gay people who refused to remain closeted.  Aimed at those who ‘flaunted’ their homosexuality” (Oberg 10), thus supporting their new image with governmental/ structural change, in hopes of international détente.  The underlying problem of discrimination then remained largely socio-cultural: “Most, however, reported incidents of private discrimination by individuals, and all resented the residual machista attitudes that remain stubbornly embedded in some levels of Cuban society” (Oberg 10).  The exact reasoning for these changes remains elusive, though largely they were spurred by international dialogue following publication of Arenas’ book, Before Night Falls, which speaks to the importance of public opinion for Cuba (Castro), and implicitly the effects this has on international policy regarding economic sanctioning and trade.  Castro realised that to survive economically (especially with the booming tourist business), changes loomed imminent.

In questioning the validity and truth of Arenas’ “memoir,” Before Night Falls, one mustn’t forget his extensive, literary self-education.  Arenas creates himself as a character, and Castro as a character, in his book.  He strives for literary success, id est for creating a masterpiece, just as his predecessors have done.  Jean Genet’s first text, Our Lady of the Flowers, and countless other works of autobiography, memoir, and auto-fiction all convey a sense of one’s existence, while never portraying complete truth, for as Arenas surely knew, once anything is put to words on paper, it automatically becomes fiction, de facto.  Abilio Estévez so eloquently states: “I suspect that sincerity is one thing, and truth something else.  From this point of view, I do not doubt Arenas’s sincerity—even though his pages at times fall short of the truth” (863).  Arenas bends details to convey the overall sense of situation, to bring the reader into the text.  Arenas uses artistic liberty with success and, though he does not live to see it, the international community listens and Cuba responds accordingly.  This underlying sincerity and intention to create change, or just to scream protest, drives Arenas’ writing, and in that respect he has lived, worked, and written with complete integrity, and in fact motivated political and social change on a grand scale.  “I don’t know if he suspected his capacity for saving us,” writes Estévez (865).  More than anything, Before Night Falls is a wake-up call, “a shout in the middle of the night” (Estévaz 866), a testimony that refuses to let the world sleep in ignorant bliss.

REFERENCES

Arenas, Reinaldo.  “As Long as the Sky Whirls.”  Trans. Lázaro Gómez Carriles.  Bomb no. 82 (Winter 2002/2003).  112.

Arenas, Reinaldo.  Before Night Falls.  Trans. Dolores M. Koch.  New York, NY: Viking Penguin, 1993.

Arenas, Reinaldo.  “The Glass Tower.”  Trans. Dolores M. Koch.  Grand Street vol. 61 (“All-American,” Summer 1997).  7-17.

Arguelles, Lourdes and B. Ruby Rich.  “Homosexuality, Homophobia, and Revolution: Notes Toward an Understanding of the Cuban Lesbian and Gay Male Experience.”  Hidden From History: Reclaiming the Gay and Lesbian Past.  Ed. Martin Bauml Duberman, Martha Vicinus, and George          Chauncey, Jr.  New York, NY: NAL Books, 1989.  441-55.

Epps, Brad.  “Proper Conduct: Reinaldo Arenas, Fidel Castro, and the Politics of Homosexuality.”  Journal of the History of Sexuality vol. 6, no. 2 (Oct. 1995).  231-83.

Estévez, Abilio.  “Between Nightfall and Vengeance: Remembering Reinaldo Arenas.”  Michigan Quarterly Review vol. 33 (Fall 1994).  859-67.

Oberg, Larry R. “How Criminal Was Castro?” The Gay & Lesbian Review vol. 8, no. 6 (Nov.-Dec. 2001). 9-11.