Pseudo Reality: Religious Kitsch

Pseudo Reality: Religious Kitsch

Religious kitsch. A hot topic in Latino communities? Evidently so. Representing classic American culture, sunglasses and T-shirts stand out in tourist shops lining Venice beach in southern California. The sunglasses follow the trends. And the shirts sport presidents, Spongebob, and other pop culture items. But amidst the plethora of “junk” are Virgin Mary posters and “saint” bracelets that appeal to Latinos in the marketplace. In The Last of the Menu Girls, Rocío’s mother has a picture of Jesus hidden in her closet. It fascinates her children. In Bless Me, Ultima, the family has an altar in their home, and Antonio views the Virgin Mary as a real figure in his midst. Religious kitsch both in reality and in Latino literature seems to represent a pseudo reality for Latin and Latin American families today. Easy to access and traditionalized in homes, Latino kitsch brightens the atmosphere and becomes almost a transubstantiation experience because it transcends the material presence of the object to a spiritual state for some Latinos like Antonio and Rocío. In fact, some kitsch like the picture of Jesus in The Last of the Menu Girls becomes so real to its beholder that it is ingrained into his or her psyche, just as the picture is surreal to Rocío and her sister Mercy. All in all, religious kitsch presents an outlet for emotion and self-definition for Latin Americans, rather than solely religious devotion.

Ilan Stevens proclaims that “kitsch is king in the Hispanic world” (Cantinflas vii). In another of his books, The Hispanic Condition, he says that “Latinos get lost somewhere in the entanglement between reality and the dreams,” which is precisely how religious kitsch functions for these peoples (Stevens 181). They mix a physical reality with dreamed notions and beliefs embodied by the collected religious kitsch. Stevens speaks of a fellow writer, Richard Rodríguez, author of Hunger of Memory, who tells how time (a family clock) and religion (kitsch items) are “connected artifacts in [the Mexican-American] hyphenated soul” (120). Rodríguez said that in public and private, “there were holy pictures on a wall of nearly every room, and a crucifix hung over [his] bed... and over the clock” (Rodríguez 120). Stevens related Rodríguez’s memory to illustrate that “el sueño [y] el tiempo…[represent] religion and earthly life[,]” a way to release emotion through the connection between things temporal and surreal (120); kitsch is the mode to make those connections, just as in Rodríguez’s home example.

Another expert, Celeste Olalqiaga explains that there are distinct degrees of “kitschness” (42). Each level involves various emotional levels and connections that play a role in Latino self-definition and sometimes an invented personal history. First-degree kitsch is sacred to its owners and only belongs in sacred places, not among street venders, even though that is where it is often found after time passes with each generation. For first-degree kitsch, the “images…embody the spirits they represent, making them palpable” or practically tangible (42). These physical religious symbols, statues, posters, and pictures create the opportunity to reach an “unattainable experience…of immediate feeling” and connection with oneself and the spiritual subject (43). But only those who are orthodox believers in whatever religion represented in first-degree kitsch can experience this intensity of feeling and attachment to simple pieces that comprise an altar for example; otherwise, it is mere fascination. To these believers, first-degree kitsch isn’t “junk,” one of the defining descriptions of kitsch. These pieces are only scrappy “kitsch” to those people distanced from each religious piece. The attached emotion is the crucial component that determines the degree of reality drawn from the inanimate object. To the first generation owner, the emotional security and affiliation outweighs the “junk” label, making it a moving mainstay in personal collections.

For the second generation however, those connections weaken to a more disillusioned state. Its representation “becomes the real,” instead of the object itself (Olalqiaga 45). Similarly in research for example, a tertiary source shares this characteristic. For instance, to the student reader who lacks background knowledge, history narratives in their textbooks are indisputably true; writers’ biases or other influences are often unconsidered. This is how religious kitsch frames the minds of second generation holders as well. The image lacks the “feeling” and is merely a “sign” that represents a so called truth, rather than an object with emotional value (45). This is precisely how Rocío and her sister view the Jesus picture in The Last of the Menu Girls. It is a toy to be admired, while for their mother the keeper, there is an implied importance. Otherwise she would not keep it among her most prized possessions.

The farthest from first-degree kitsch comes when the kitsch spreads from its religious centers. Olalqiaga uses Catholic iconography to illustrate how religious items have breached the “confines” of sacred places like “church souvenir stands, cemeteries, and botanicas” to the fads and trends of the markets in Manhattan—her area of study (36). Unfortunately, in the U.S. some of these images are discredited in night clubs of cities as they are used for decorations (37). Even closer to home, a fellow student said that her ex-boyfriend and his roommates have an altar with Latino Catholic memorabilia, simply because they find it amusing that such cheap “stuff” is for sale (Bright INTERVIEW). Olalquiaga describes this phenomenon by saying that “suddenly, holiness is all over the place” in the forms of Virgin water fountains and images of favorite holy saints (37-8). But to those Latinos who connect spiritually and emotionally with these religious artifacts, cheap as they can come, the respect shown towards them does not parallel their monetary value or abundant supply.

Outside of the orthodox religious posters, statues, and bracelets, many Latinos seem to attach spiritual meanings to originally secular items, redefining them to be religious in order to self-identify with something personable. In The Riddle of Cantinflas for instance, the first chapter is about Santa Selena. Little did I know at first glance that the title Santa Selena refers to the deceased pop star who apparently personifies “collective suffering” because of her tragic murder (Stevens 4). An old man told Stevens that she spent her time “helping the poor and unattended” (3). In the collective memory of those Latinos, she cared about Mexican Americans when no one else did (9). In San Antonio, a mother of four actually prays to Selena, to her image that is just below the Virgin Mary on her personal altar (3). How is Selena religious? She originally wasn’t, but because that mother feels a connection to her; the importance is in the personal connection—the personal religion (Olalqiaga 48). One lady, Audrey Flack ascribes to this personal nature so acutely that she “explores her own feelings through images of the Virgin Mary” (49); she connects to images that embody motherhood.

In Caramelo, the rebozo is so heavily highlighted that it dons some spiritual element, even though it is separate from orthodox religion and more applied to social mysticism.