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lieu de memoire, albeit one whose materiality will not survive the impending transformation of the community. Chavela seems to realize the importance of preserving the memory of the blue house and its symbolic role within the community. Viramontes writes, “A pair of wooden beams held up the ceiling and the child tried to memorize them because Chavela told her it was important not to forget” (14). Of course, the radical erasure of the blue house and the other houses in the neighborhood will deprive Ermila and the rest of the community from appropriating this site as a lieu de memoire; instead, the community must find ways of confronting trauma in the absence of physical sites that enable memory production.⁶

By frequently shifting narrative perspective and introducing jarring temporal leaps, Viramontes explores the deep psychological impact of this process on the various characters in Their Dogs. For each character, the post- construction, post-traumatic neighborhood of the present denies any real sense of mobility or opportunities for productive social exchange. The androgynous Turtle, one of the novel’s central characters, is homeless in the final chapters, and, in the climactic scene, is shot to death by the police after fatally stabbing Ermila’s cousin, Nacho. In her essay on the novel, Hsu L. Hsuan observes that Turtle’s “name references the slowdown or ‘space-time expansion’ that freeways imposed

⁶ Obviously operating on different scales, the problem faced by Viramontes’ East

L.A. is similar, in kind, to projects of memorialization circulating around post- Holocaust Europe, where important sites of Jewish heritage were permanently erased from the city during World War II. James E. Young offers an illuminating discussion on Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum Extension to the Berlin Museum and the difficulties Libeskind encountered housing “the memory of a people no longer at ‘home’ there.”

on inner-city residents who lacked automobiles” (154). Other urban theorists have noted how postmetropolitan space “disempowers the tactile body” and creates urban zones that “can barely be experienced any longer in physical terms” (GUST 128). Turtle, in this regard, is a relic of a bygone urban era. Perpetually moving through neighborhoods on foot in spatial practices that should allow her— drawing from de Certeau’s writings—to establish social connections and establish herself politically in space, Turtle cannot locate a sense of community in her neighborhood, largely because the freeways have erased sites of social exchange and likewise eradicated the culture of empathy that once existed in the barrio. For instance, the Japanese-American convenience store owner, Ray, whose store is ironically named “The Friendly Shop,” is immediately suspicious of Turtle; even after a moment of empathy during which he offers her a job at the store, he remains obsessed with cleaning his body and his hands from the perceived contagion. Turtle left “microbes and germ contagion on everything,” Viramontes writes. “No matter how much Ray washed his hands, no matter how hard he wiped and rubbed the sweat off his palms, his hands couldn’t forget [Turtle’s] stink” (262). Even though Ray recognizes Turtle as a fixture in the community, the culture of the barrio—no longer a place where street-level social production occurs—prevents healthy social exchange.

The tragedy of Turtle’s narrative stems from her inability to locate stable, grounded, material sites that connect her to memory and community, two mutually dependent concepts in the novel. Pierre Nora explains:

lieux de memoire are fundamentally remains, the ultimate embodiments of a memorial consciousness that has barely survived in a historical age that calls out for memory because it has abandoned it. They make their appearance by virtue of the deritualization of our world—producing, manifesting, establishing, constructing, decreeing, and maintaining by artifice and by will a society deeply absorbed in its own transformation and renewal, one that inherently values the new over the ancient, the young over the old, the future over the past. (12)

Turtle spends much of the novel traversing urban space in an attempt to locate physical sites that link her to history and allow her to confront the traumatic erasure of community that occurred in her youth. The postmetropolis, constantly in a state of “transformation and renewal,” all too often overwrites these potentially productive spatial loci which, as Nora suggests, serve as “embodiments of memorial consciousness” that are vital to community and cultural memory.

Unfortunately, as noted above, these sites in the barrio have been erased and overwritten by the freeway system, leaving only traces of the productive social spaces that once existed. Aimlessly wandering the neighborhood looking for an adequate place to sleep, Turtle recalls Chavela’s blue house, the symbolic locus of community and her psychological connection to the past. Viramontes writes:

Under a willow, Turtle sat dead tired on a marble bench to rest and thought about how hurtful bad flowers can be and then she thought of Chavela and the potted ferns and her hibiscus flowers…Chavela’s warm towel carried the fragrance of Dove soap. She wiped Turtle’s face and the moist cleansing made her feel refreshed, lovely. For some reason, the viejita liked Turtle and tweaked her chin and gave her lemonade because as far back as Turtle could remember, she always had an unquenchable thirst. (235)

Apart from establishing Turtle’s visceral connection to her environment, which allows her to access memory in more involved ways than other characters and, perhaps, speaks to her inability to adapt to her postmetropolitan environment, this passage reveals the dramatic transformation she has witnessed in the barrio. Once a place of comfort and trust, the neighborhood—now a place of “prickly barbs” and “bad flowers”—fosters social encounters tinged by suspicion and distrust. In a corollary scene, Ray later likens Turtle’s smell to “flowers left way too long in a vase of putrid water” (262). The transformation of the neighborhood, Viramontes seems to suggest, affects the social mindset of all members of the community.

More importantly, though, this passage designates Chavela’s blue house as a critical site of memory, albeit one stripped of its materiality and therefore stripped of its productive spatial potential; for Turtle, and for the rest of the barrio, the lack of material sites for memory production prevents the community from solidifying

itself under the aegis of shared, collective trauma. As quickly as Turtle comes upon this fleeting memory, she “left the bench, not caring to avoid the puddles on the gravel trail” (236).

Turtle’s abortive journey through Eastside reveals the few opportunities for memory production that still exist in the barrio. Revisiting the street where she grew up, she is forced to confront the fact that “their old house was hardly recognizable” (221), reinforcing her actual and symbolic homelessness. Lacking any connection to her past, Turtle finally seeks shelter in cemeteries, physical sites that here function as lieux de memoire insofar as they situate her within a historical narrative. Located “right below the Interstate ramps” (219), the cemeteries she visits—first Serbian, then Chinese, and finally what appears to be an Anglo-American mausoleum—are the last physical sites of memory capable of connecting the community to the past. Although she finds temporary shelter in these spaces, it is significant that each cemetery is ethnically “other” to Turtle; even though they offer a connection to communal memory, they do so in exclusionary ethnic terms which undermine their productive potential for the Mexican American community. Before she falls asleep in a crypt, “Turtle wondered what possessed this old white man named Ross to die so far from home” (236). At the culmination of Turtle’s search, this lieu de memoire, rather than connecting her to communal memory rooted in the barrio, reinforces her social and ethnic isolation while furthermore reminding her of the traumatic erasure of her home.

Through these failed attempts to access physical sites of memory production, Viramontes laments the loss of lieux de memoire as a result of postmetropolitan expansion. Early in the novel, Ermila attempts to rationalize processes of erasure, which, she begins to realize, affect memory production in critical ways. Viramontes writes, “Who was it that told [Ermila] all she had to do was look up at the heavens to see the shapes of things missing? Was it Mrs. M. of the Child Services or any one of the three foster parents? Everything went up into thin air but didn’t go away” (14). Later, as an adult, she makes the same observation: “Who was it who told her that everything went up into thin air but never quite disappeared? Something always remained behind, like the photograph of her parents, like the formidable mass of oil on the asphalt where the van had once been parked” (295). These passages are significant for two reasons: first, Ermila observes that individuals may access moments of erasure through memory practices. The things that “didn’t go away” or “never quite disappeared” endure, for better or for worse, through memory. In her neighborhood, however, physical sites that might facilitate this exchange are themselves the objects of erasure. This leads to the second point: even by the novel’s conclusion, Ermila is unable to recall the source or the origin of this insight. Her memory—significant in its thematic relation to the text’s central concerns—is haunted by the traumatic loss of its core, the loss of an originary moment of conception. Like her old neighborhood, which functioned as a cultural core for the community but has since experienced erasure, the origin of this memory remains beyond her grasp,

suggesting that even if things “never quite disappear,” their traces cannot facilitate a productive confrontation of trauma. If all we have are immaterial traces of an originary moment, how can we with any confidence access the traumatic Real at the heart of the postmetropolitan existence?

This question haunts Their Dogs, moving characters inexorably to the climactic scene where Tranquilina, challenging the Quarantine Authority officers who have just fatally shot Turtle, supernaturally levitates as a means of escaping institutional violence. Viramontes writes, “Shouting voices ordered her not to move, stay immobile, but she lifted one foot forward, then another, refusing to halt. Two inches, four, six, eight, riding the currents of the wilding wind. Riding it beyond the borders, past the cesarean scars of the earth, out to limitless space where everything was possible if she believed” (325). These elements of magical realism here at the novel’s conclusion, of course, suggest the inescapability of oppressive urban space, disciplined now by institutional power and overlaid by the fabric of the postmetropolis. The only viable solution—not a real solution at all, really—is to magically fly away and escape urban spaces that deny the production of memory. Juxtaposed with the novel’s overwhelmingly realist impulses prior to this point, the novel’s miraculous conclusion can only be read ironically, with Tranquilina serving as a mythical figure in a world that, the reader well knows, is experienced only through the realities of urban life.

Viramontes’ concern for representing these realities and for situating herself within the city’s history is significant and worth exploring through the lens

of urban trauma. Aside from her presentation of the Quarantine Authority, a fictional presence she manufactured for the book and modeled after “public safety” curfew laws imposed on Chicanos from 1969 to 1971 (Hsu 155),⁷ Viramontes is careful to represent Los Angeles with historical accuracy. This, perhaps, signals an attempt to align the East L.A. freeway construction of the 1960s with the two better known moments of urban erasure in Los Angeles’ history: the razing of Bunker Hill and the infamous Chavez Ravine episode. Soja examines these historical precedents through the lens of the palimpsest, a theoretical concept that helps to explain processes of erasure and urban trauma. Bunker Hill, settled in Los Angeles in 1870 in what would later become the New Downtown, was one of the first Anglo settlements in the area. When this collection of over 400 Victorian homes fell into disrepair in the 1940s and 50s, the city decided to tear down the buildings, flatten the hill, and begin a massive construction project intended as a new urban center for Los Angeles, which was already expanding outward at a feverish pace. The construction of the New Downtown, begun in 1959, would eventually demolish 396 historic buildings and forcibly displace 11,000 residents (Soja, Postmetropolis 214).

The second traumatic urban erasure in Los Angeles’ history—the razing of Chavez Ravine and the construction of Dodger Stadium—occurred simultaneous to the Bunker Hill episode in the late 1950s. After years of resistance from the

⁷ Viramontes’ presentation of the Quarantine Authority acquires new meanings when positioned alongside historical immigration policies that quarantined immigrants upon arrival to the United States. In this light, the term “Quarantine Authority” carries with it significant rhetorical baggage, particularly in regard to the issues citizenship and belonging that thematically undergird the novel.

Mexican-American community of Chavez Ravine, a barrio settled in the nineteenth century, the city moved forward with the construction of the stadium and, in some cases, utilized police force to physically remove inhabitants from their homes (Schrank 280). Analyzing these moments of urban erasure within the context of an ongoing process of metropolitan transformation, Soja utilizes the palimpsest as a theoretical concept to explain the historical processes of displacement and urban renewal in Los Angeles. First used in ancient Egypt, palimpsests are scrolls or tablets whose original text has been erased and later over-written with a second layer of text. Traces of the original text often remain inscribed on the tablet, signifying the processes of erasure involved in the generation of new texts. Calling all the way back to the city’s originary moment— the settlement of La Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles—Soja argues that Los Angeles’ metropolitan space is palimpsestuous insofar as it continually overwrites urban spaces to facilitate the flow of capitalism and to accommodate growing populations (Postmetropolis 228). The erasure of Chavez Ravine and Bunker Hill are merely two examples of much larger institutional projects that prioritize urban growth over cultural history.⁸

⁸ From this perspective, it could be argued that city growth—from eighteenth- century Venice to turn of the century New York City to postmetropolitan Los Angeles—has always involved palimpsestuous processes of erasure and reconstruction. In the postmetropolis, however, urban infrastructure—such as the freeway system, whose function is to facilitate movement, not social production— often overlays public, communal space without providing necessary sites for human exchange. Historically, urban growth, even when involved in processes of erasure, has replaced aging infrastructure with street-level sites that encourage social interaction.

The above examples, along with Viramontes’ commentary on freeway construction on the Eastside, signify the existence of urban spaces that are palimpsestuous by nature: their historical foundations have been erased and overwritten by layers of postmetropolitan space. Bunker Hill offers an interesting example, as Downtown, the very heart of the city (if one could be said to exist in the postmetropolis), is revealed to be just another depthless, ahistorical postmodern surface; its “history,” unlike the metropolis of the modern period whose growth was the result of gradual processes of urban development, is linked to the erasure of communities grounded in actual zones of cultural history.⁹ Using the palimpsest as a theoretical tool reveals the traumatic absence that underlies postmetropolitan space. Cultural sites that have been overwritten by new development—more often than not for the sake of facilitating commerce and the movement of labor—function symbolically as spatial zones that have been repressed by institutional power; they are overwritten, immaterial, culturally- repressed sites that reflect Pierre Nora’s claim that modern space has all but precluded the possibility of memory practices.

Because these spaces have undergone erasure and no longer have material existence to facilitate memory practices in space, individuals cannot “work

⁹ Even these American cities of the modern period have, beginning in the postwar years, been victims of postmetropolitan urban expansion. Robert Moses’ radical transformation of New York City is the most well-known example of this. In gestures equal in scale to Los Angeles freeway development, Moses transformed the entire cityscape of New York, often cutting through long-established neighborhoods and displacing their residents who, more often than not, were ethnic minorities and economically disadvantaged. See Robert Moses and the Modern City: The Transformation of New York for further reading.

through” the institutional trauma that has been enacted on them. This is the reason Turtle flounders in the novel’s final pages; the palimpsestuous environment imposed on her community—looming, even, over the cemeteries, the last- remaining lieux de memoire—prevents residents of the community from accessing trauma through spatial practices. This is even more significant considering the nature of urban transformation. With Chavez Ravine and Bunker Hill, fixed, stable sites (Dodger Stadium and downtown high-rises), presumably capable of serving new symbolic functions in the community, were erected atop pre-existing ethnic communities. In Viramontes’ Eastside, however, the freeway system—a site of movement, transition, and disassociation—replaces the situated community of the barrio. Lacking, even, the situated, physical sites that replaced Bunker Hill and Chavez Ravine, the barrio is overwritten by a system that offers little opportunity for spatial practices or social interaction, and therefore little opportunity for working through trauma.

Furthermore, freeways disconnect drivers—suspended above the community—from the urban spaces through which they move. Kathryn Milun discusses the psychological and social implications of postmetropolitan freeways. She writes, “freeways created gigantic urban pathways by razing older neighborhoods, often creating even deeper spatial boundaries along lines of entrenched segregation. Connecting the city’s neighborhoods in this way allowed a driver to experience the expanding metropolis as a functional whole, ‘as a totality,’ even if the experience was en passant rather than in vivo” (132). Later,

she links this commentary on social segregation to trauma and the psychological implications of freeway culture. She explains, “The urban freeway is the zone of roaring white noise within which the ‘normal’ citizen must learn to be comfortable. Becoming normal in this road film is to become increasingly desensitized to the feeling and effects of both personal trauma and public space” (133). Overwriting communities with freeway space, then, represents the most dramatic case of urban erasure; members of the community are not only deprived of crucial lieux de memoire, but the very spaces that replace these sites offer no opportunities for social interaction or community reinvention.

Viramontes is explicit in her condemnation of postmetropolitan freeway culture, continually noting its role in perpetuating the trauma endured by the residents of the barrio. Once a cohesive urban space connected organically to the rest of the city, the neighborhood has since been cut off spatially, through the artificial boundaries imposed by the freeway, and socially, through the psychological distance existing between the residents of the community and the people moving on the freeways above, who are oblivious to the social blight around them. Viramontes comments on both of these concepts. She writes:

Whole residential blocks had been gutted…The streets Mama remembered had once connected to other arteries of the city, rolling up and down hills and in and out of neighborhoods where neighbors of different nationalities intersected with one another…now the freeways amputated the streets into stumped

dead ends, and the lives of the neighbors itched like phantom limbs in Mama’s memory. (32-33)

More than just affecting the characters’ relationship to their neighborhood, the freeways institute a social space that discourages empathy and generates political invisibility. Describing Turtle’s near rape at the hands of a grocery clerk, which occurs on the side of the freeway, Viramontes writes, “Not one driver from all those cars zooming on the new freeway bridge, not one driver driving the overpass of the 710 freeway construction, not one stopped to protest, to scream, What the hell do you think you’re doing, motherfucker, pinche puto, get your fingers off her tits, baboso!” (25). Homeless and every day a victim of this kind of social blindness, Turtle realizes “that to render someone invisible was more painful than a cracked skull” (21). Each instance reveals how freeway culture does more than merely alter the landscape of a neighborhood; it creates artificial, institutional boundaries around urban space, it severs the organic, street-level connective pathways between neighborhoods, and it institutes a psychology of political apathy for under-privileged communities.¹⁰

The traumatic erasure of community described above is certainly complicated by these effects of freeway culture. Indeed, Their Dogs is willing to acknowledge the paradoxical relationship between freeway construction and the




¹⁰ Viramontes, in interviews, has been vocal about the effects of freeway construction on her own childhood. She explains, “it was an apocalypto, a real transformation of the neighborhood. Not only do you become an island unto yourself, a quarantine, but you’re amputated from the rest of the city. The only way that you even know that you exist is when people pass you. You see this constant motion, but you’re completely immobile. It’s horrendous” (“You Carry the Border with You” 85).

communities it affects. In a tangential, but thematically central, scene, Viramontes describes the origin of the gang member, Lucho’s, stutter. Victim to an abusive father, Lucho as a youth is held against his will on the edge of a freeway overpass. Viramontes writes, “The screams that Lucho screamed that night were distinct and everywhere. His pleas to be released rose up from the borderless mass of confusion between safety and harm, between fun and terror, between hatred and love, and the shrill sounds escaped from his throat but caught on his two buckteeth” (231). From this episode, Lucho develops a debilitating stutter that plagues him, presumably, for the rest of his life. Viramontes’ curious description of the scene—presenting a traumatic, life-altering moment as an ambiguous, affective experience—reflects the fundamental paradox of freeway culture faced by every postmetropolis: while freeways offer mobility and opportunity for most residents of the city, they tend to corrode the spatial infrastructure of the neighborhood, an infrastructure that many urban theorists believe is central to establishing and exercising political agency and voice. Furthermore, by situating this traumatic event on the freeway overpass, Viramontes explicitly links freeway culture to a culture of sadism. It is significant that this moment—the visceral, traumatic exposure to the freeway in its incipient form—ends with Lucho being silenced. His loss of voice reflects the loss of political agency experienced by the community in the years following the construction. Lacking the avenues necessary for the processing of institutional trauma, the characters float in “the

borderless mass of confusion,” victims of the forces of discipline enacted through the city.

What is lost in freeway construction—cohesive neighborhoods, community “safe spaces,” street-level spatial practices, etc.—cannot be replaced by the freeway systems that overwrite these urban zones. Even as they provide mobility for the people that utilize them, freeways limit our ability to exercise what Lefebvre and David Harvey designate as our “right to the city.” In this regard, rather than functioning in the street-level political sense suggested by de Certeau, freeway mobility moves drivers along predetermined channels, denying the possibility of subversive spatial tactics, which, in Their Dogs, are linked to the cultivation of political voice.¹¹ Seeing the automobile as a kind of capsule that isolates drivers from the outside world, Lieven de Cauter describes the increasing privatization of the American cultural landscape as a result of automobile culture and transportation. He writes, “A society of mobility is unthinkable without omnipresent control…Transport becomes to an increasing degree the transit between controlled and closed-off zones. The generic city is obsessed by closing- off, safety, and control” (275). The result of this “capsularization” of culture is the privatization and depoliticization of urban space. If individuals no longer have to encounter political resistance in their lived environment (because of their ability to isolate themselves from it), then the spatial practices engaged by those living

¹¹ One could develop this thread by looking, again, to Deleuze and Guattari’s notion of smooth space and striated space. Freeway systems, in disciplining drivers along predetermined pathways, function as quintessential striated spaces. In contrast, the less disciplined, more democratically-defined space of the barrio

may be understood as a smooth space.

237

in, for instance, the barrio lose their political power. In short, establishing oneself in urban space may no longer hold the same opportunities for cultivating political voice as once was believed. When lived, communal spaces give way to freeway culture, one is left to wonder what value remains in the subversive spatial tactics described by de Certeau and Lefebvre, who both see the lived space of the city as a site of political strife.

Despite this changing urban landscape, the characters in Their Dogs attempt to carve out spaces of agency that may prove capable of harboring new forms of community. This is most immediately evident in the war over gang turf being waged throughout the novel. Turtle and her brother, Luis Lil Lizard, belong to the McBride Boys, rivals to the Lote M gang. Continually staking out turf in the barrio, these two gangs seek “dominance of the boulevard” (298) and “ownership of those precious city blocks” (20). The subversive tactics employed by these gangs gives some indication that spatial practices may still offer productive means of challenging the institution. As children, Luis Lil Lizard and Turtle attempt to sabotage the bulldozers waiting in the neighborhood and, later, they perpetrate another symbolic act of resistance by removing the marking flags that designate the construction dimensions for the coming freeway. Unfortunately, these spatial tactics directed against the institution are secondary to turf warfare, and these gangs, rather than using spatial practices to reinvigorate community, use space as a means of perpetrating violence on one another. In one scene, the rival Lote M gang defaces graffiti on McBride turf, etching out the names of the

McBride Boys and overwriting it with their own insignia. Viramontes writes, “That’s exactly what the Maravilla vatos planned to do on the bridge, send a dispatch announcing erasure” (217). Perhaps subconsciously recognizing their impotent relationship to institutional power, the gangs misdirect their frustrations against one another, perpetrating acts of erasure that simulate what has happened to their barrio.

Although they do not realize it at the time, the gangs’ attempts to stake out turf through graffiti are ineffectual. The above scene takes place on the bridge of a freeway overpass, a popular site for graffiti in most major cities. Viramontes seems to suggest, however, that, perhaps because of the depoliticizing power of freeways in urban space, these efforts to claim space through graffiti are retrogressive; gangs too often claim turf as a means of establishing themselves against one another instead of using space to challenge institutional power. In an earlier scene, the McBride Boys engrave their names in the freshly-laid cement of the overpass, believing themselves to be immortalizing their presence in urban space. However, Viramontes explains that time, even just a few decades, will make “the boys’ eternal bonds look worn and forgotten” (164). The point here is that the rapidly evolving postmetropolis—in its endless accumulation of new surfaces designed to better accommodate population growth and the movement of labor—cannot serve as a repository for memory. Whatever attempts the boys make to memorialize themselves (through the spatial practices involved in marking their territory) are immediately undermined by the changing complexion

of the city. From a Lefebvrian perspective, this idea undercuts the political value of claiming turf, which, although it creates temporary spaces of agency, is haunted by the realization that the city provides “no solid tierra firme to stand on, nothing to hold on to” (247). Lacking stable urban sites in the postmetropolis, characters can only make symbolic gestures toward claiming spaces of agency.

While the residents of the barrio are unable to utilize space productively, the institution—represented most directly by the Quarantine Authority—is very effective at organizing and disciplining the community. Ostensibly in place to rid the neighborhood of rabid dogs, the QA disciplines the neighborhood by setting up boundaries and monitoring the movement of residents through ID checks and curfews. Viramontes writes, “The girlfriends lived within the shaded boundaries of the map printed in English only and distributed by the city. From First Street to Boyle to Whittier and back to Pacific Boulevard, the roadblocks enforced a quarantine to contain a potential outbreak of rabies” (54). The efficiency with which the QA organizes and disciplines space is worth noting here, and Viramontes is quick to point out the racial discourses underlying the quarantine. Despite its physical presence in the barrio, the QA merely functions as a symbolic embodiment of institutional discipline, as the real agents of discipline and spatial organization are the freeways and their ability to transform the community and institute new, artificial boundaries on urban space. Describing the effects of freeway construction on Alfonso, Ermila’s boyfriend, Viramontes writes, “At first, when the Caltrans people unfurled the freeways, he had whole abandoned

blocks to get lost in. But after the freeways were completed, Alfonso opted to sit on his father’s couch the greater part of the day” (303). In organizing the smooth space of the barrio, the freeways function similarly to the QA; both modes of institutional discipline limit the mobility of the underprivileged and deprive the community of its organic presence within the city.

Viramontes seems well aware of the political and traumatic dimensions of postmetropolitan expansion, and, as other critics have noted, she utilizes narrative strategies to develop her critique of these issues. Lacking the means to reestablish themselves in the barrio and regenerate community, her characters spiral into violence and gang warfare, fulfilling a tragic narrative sequence that ends with the death of Turtle and Nacho. Over several chapters, Viramontes plots out the various narrative threads that lead, seemingly inexorably, to the novel’s tragic conclusion, and her formal stylistics here suggest that the narrative of postmetropolitan growth in contemporary cities is irreversible and ultimately catastrophic. In this way, Viramontes has fashioned her novel as a simulation of postmetropolitan space, sending readers along narrative conduits that, when they intersect, produce violence and reinforce social divisions. Addressing the novel’s narrative structure, Viramontes has remarked, “It’s impossible for me to tell just one story. I had to tell all these different stories and, like the freeways, have them all intersect” (“You Carry the Border with You” 82). Despite these intersections, the novel’s textual space, like the urban space of the postmetropolis, cannot foster empathy. Whereas another novel may have optimistically commented on the

possibility for cultural growth springing from new modes of social interaction in the postmetropolis, Viramontes seems resigned to the destructive social and psychological effects of urban expansion. Like the gangs, who cultivate insular, exclusive groups prone to violence, the narratives of Their Dogs are violently incompatible with one another and cannot converge in meaningful ways.

Commenting on what she calls the “fatal contiguities” in the novel’s narration, Hsuan L. Hsu writes, “As the novel progresses, these subplots begin to intersect like freeway interchanges” (152-153). Although Hsu correctly points out the formal strategies at play in the novel, she does not adequately explore the implications of this process on the reader or on Viramontes’ larger commentary on urban trauma. Throughout the novel, readers follow the chief narratives as they approach their point of intersection. Foreshadowing the traumatic conclusion, Viramontes does not attempt to conceal the impending death of her central characters. For instance, she begins the penultimate chapter with a police report that outlines the events to come and at one point makes a temporal leap forward, revealing Ray’s reaction to Turtle’s death. These moments of foreshadowing, combined with her fragmented narration, entrap readers in a textual program that challenges conventional narrative structures of progress, growth, and mobility.

Disrupting readers’ desires for narrative tension and expectations of narrative closure, Viramontes creates narrative freeways, so to speak, that highlight the inescapability from the postmetropolitan narrative of expansion and, consequently, social dissolution.

Enclosed in this textual space, readers move inexorably toward the moment of intersection. Unlike Spiegelman, for instance, who encourages readers to creatively “practice” textual spaces, a process that offers readers a sense of interpretive agency, Viramontes, by revealing the horrific conclusion early on and playing out every excruciating step, prohibits readers from creatively engaging the textual space of the novel. Rather, we remain trapped in a series of claustrophobic narratives that, we are well aware, will intersect and end in violence. Through this process, Viramontes denies the possibility of engaging textual space in productive, reader-centric ways. This, of course, builds into her commentary on postmetropolitan urban spaces, which, as I have shown, deny the possibility of important spatial practices central to establishing positions of political agency. Furthermore, Viramontes’ narrative structure denies the possibility of memory practices and, more specifically, the processing of trauma. Lacking a denouement, a narrative strategy that provides a space for the reader to reflect on the action that occurred in the climax, Their Dogs simply ends with the death of Nacho and Turtle, immediately followed by Tranquilina’s magical apotheosis. The final sentences describe this traumatic scene, and the reader is given no opportunity, via narrative, to confront the violence enacted on these characters. Here, again, like the postmetropolitan erasure of lieux de memoire, Viramontes denies us a textual space in which to process trauma and, lacking resolution, we remain, even after the novel’s end, trapped in the space of the narrative.

Viramontes’ narrative strategies directly involve the reader in the traumatic erasure of memory and the silencing of political voice that the novel describes. Part of the reason that the characters in her novel are incapable of reclaiming their community is that they lack the traumatic referent against which to direct their frustration. How, exactly, does one challenge an institutional presence that is dispersed in the very reality that we experience and understand as “the city?” The ineffability of the institution, particularly as it manifests itself in urban space, is central to its political power. The following section takes on this issue, discussing Robert Altman’s film, Short Cuts, which depicts Los Angeles three decades removed from Viramontes’ Eastside of the 1960s. Living in urban and suburban spaces created by the residue of unbridled freeway expansion, Altman’s characters must locate spaces of social production in an environment that seems to discourage it at every turn.