72 pages • 2 hours read
Karen Tei YamashitaA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
The North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) plays a prominent role in Tropic of Orange. NAFTA was ratified by the United States, Mexico, and Canada in 1993, and it took effect starting in 1994, three years before the publication of Tropic of Orange. NAFTA’s goal was to remove trade barriers for the mutual benefit of the three signing countries, but by removing trade barriers without removing barriers to mobility for workers, it further impoverished the most vulnerable people in Mexico. While the agreement did lead to a net growth in prosperity in Mexico, not all Mexican citizens benefited. The poor and working classes were negatively impacted, and though many jobs were created, many of these were in maquiladoras, glorified sweatshops working legally in the free trade zone south of the border. El Gran Mojado’s battle with SUPERNAFTA represents the struggle against a globalism that exploits the poor and the vulnerable. Because the struggle results in the death of both contestants, it suggests that NAFTA contains the potential for the mutual destruction of the United States and Mexico.
As Arcangel travels North, he hands out fliers for the Ultimate Wrestling Championship, El Contrato Con América (“The Contract with America”) between the Mexican hero, El Gran Mojado, and the American villain, SUPERNAFTA. SUPERNAFTA is “a masked man in a titanium suit with a head of raging fire” (220). The narrator compares him to “the Terminator or Johnny Mnemonic or the Five Million Dollar Man,” noting that “National heroes like SUPERNAFTA were usually replicants of some sort” (220). The three US film and television figures named here (though the last reference is actually to The Six Million Dollar Man, a 1970s television series starring Lee Majors) are “replicants” in the sense that they straddle the line between human and machine. The comparison suggests that global capitalism amplifies the power of certain individuals while compromising their humanity. From within his titanium armor, with his face obscured by a flaming mask, SUPERNAFTA momentarily enchants the crowd at the Pacific Rim Auditorium with his promises of future prosperity. For that prosperity to arrive, he says, capital must be free to circulate. Even if the people in the audience only get twelve percent of “the action,” he says, twelve percent of a billion dollars is a lot of money. Arcangel breaks this spell by pointing out how little that money is when spread across all the people of Mexico: “This is not about getting a piece of the action, about dividing into tiny pieces what is always less and less” (222). El Gran Mojado fights for a future that values humanity over capital. The villain’s titanium armor suggests invulnerability, but it proves to be his downfall: He is burned to death when his fiery head sets his body ablaze. SUPERNAFTA represents the disillusionment many Mexican citizens felt with NAFTA: Though it seemed like a good deal on the surface (like SUPERNAFTA’s armor), it failed to live up to its promises.
Arcangel’s alter-ego, El Gran Mojado, in contrast, is a conglomeration of Mexican, Central American, and South American pop iconography. He is described as a “personage in a ski mask of camouflage nylon, blue cape with the magic image of Guadalupe in an aura of gold feathers and blood roses, leopard bicycle tights, and blue boots” (221). His outlandish appearance contrasts with SUPERNAFTA’s streamlined, technological look. While US national heroes are replicants, “International heroes like El Gran Mojado were usually freaks of nature” (221). His voice is described as sounding like a chihuahua, or Ricardo Montalbán, or Marcello Mastroianni (someone in the crowd points out that Mastroianni was Italian, and someone else responds “What’s the diff?”), or the sound of English with an Argentinian accent. The diversity of these references captures the globe-spanning diversity of Latinx identity and history. His name can be interpreted as “The Great Wetback,” an offensive term for recently arrived Mexican immigrants. El Gran Mojado turns this pejorative into the name of a superhero. The term “wetback” derives from the idea that recently arrived migrants are still wet from crossing the Rio Grande. For El Gran Mojado, this myth is a badge of honor—a symbol of the human mobility he fights for, in opposition to the world SUPERNAFTA represents, in which human beings are stuck in place while capital moves freely.
In Tropic of Orange, Yamashita brings to light the many intersecting histories, cultures, languages, and even maps that make up Los Angeles and the US/Mexico borderlands of which it forms a cultural and economic hub. The orange that carries the Tropic of Cancer—itself an imaginary geographical marker—across the similarly imaginary US/Mexico border and into Los Angeles serves as a metaphor for the city as a meeting place of histories, geographies, languages, and cultures. Because Los Angeles draws migrants from across the US, from Mexico and Latin America, and from around the world, it functions as a node at which many different maps of the world meet, transforming and informing one another in the process.
With his view of the city as an intersecting overlay of different maps, Manzanar Murakami is the character who most clearly understands Los Angeles as a meeting place of cultures and histories. Murakami himself is an intersection of many separate but intersecting histories. He is a first-generation Japanese American, and he was born in Manzanar, a World War II concentration camp for Japanese and Japanese Americans. He embodies the legacy of being deemed unamerican, or foreign, even though he was born an American citizen. His epithet, “Manzanar,” shows how he still carries that burden. He is the point of intersection between that dark history and the present, where he is marginalized due to being unhoused. This alienates him from the community of Little Tokyo and makes him part of the map of unhoused people and communities in Los Angeles, one of the many overlapping maps that he sees as constitutive elements of his city.
From his overpass, Manzanar Murakami sees how “human civilization covered everything in layers, generations of building upon building upon building the residue, burial sites, and garbage that defined people after people for centuries” (146). Though Los Angeles is famed for the speed with which it discards its history in constant pursuit of the new, Murakami’s vantage point as a social outsider allows him to see the layers of history hidden within the present. He reads the life and health of the city through the ebb and flow of daily traffic and converts it into orchestral symphonies that (initially) only he can hear. By doing so, he becomes a nexus for all the intersecting webs of life and history that make up the city.
Manzanar Murakami, the unhoused Japanese American man who conducts the traffic on the freeway as a symphony that—at first—only he can hear, stands as an emblem of one of the novel’s most central themes: the centrality of marginalized perspectives. In an orchestra, the conductor is generally recognized as a central figure—often the one member of the orchestra whose name is widely known among the public, and the one who is responsible for ensuring that all the many instrumentalists operate in harmony. Manzanar’s position as “conductor” of the freeway symphony subverts this role in at least two key ways: Almost no one knows who he is or what he is doing as he gesticulates above the freeway, and it is not clear that the drivers respond in any way to his conducting. His social position as an unhoused person renders him largely invisible, and anyone who does notice him assumes that his actions have no meaning. Nonetheless, there are hints from the beginning that his symphony exists beyond the boundaries of his own mind. In one of his earliest appearances, the narrator notes that “unknown to anyone, a man walking across the overpass at that very hour innocently hummed the recurrent melody of the adagio” (53). Later, when Arcangel’s procession reaches Los Angeles, distorting all social boundaries and hierarchies, Murakami finds himself joined by other freeway conductors, and the music they make is audible and comprehensible to everyone. It becomes the wrestling theme song of Arcangel’s alter ego, El Gran Mojado, as he fights on behalf of those who have been forgotten and left out of NAFTA’s purportedly general prosperity.
As the orange containing the Tropic of Cancer moves northward, it distorts not only geographical borders but also the boundary between reality and myth. When the villain Hernando tries to rape Rafaela in Chapter 38, their battle becomes a restaging of countless moments in history when women—now absent entirely from official, US-dominated histories of the borderlands—resisted the violence of powerful men:
And there was the passage of 5,000 women of Cochibamba resisting with tin guns an entire army of Spaniards, the passage of a virgin consecrated to the sun-god buried alive with her lover, of La Malinche abandoning her children and La Llorona howling after, of cangaceira Maria Bonita riddled with lead by machine guns at the side of her Lampião, of one hundred mothers pacing day after day the Plaza de Mayo with the photos of their disappeared children, and Coatlalopeuh blessing it all (189).
This scene takes place in Aztlán—the mythical place of origin of the Aztec people, later used as a symbol of identity and pride by the Chicano movement that began in Los Angeles. The novel’s Aztlán is a space of collective memory and imagination, an eternal present in which moments and people that have been forgotten or pushed to the margins return to the narrative center.
By Karen Tei Yamashita