"Lo tuyo es puro teatro":
Tropics, Erotics and Boleros in Luis Rafael Sánchez's novel
La importancia de llamarse Daniel Santos
In her trademark song, "Puro
teatro," La Lupe, the defiant Caribbean diva from the fifties and
sixties sings: Igual que en un escenario/ finges to dolor barato./ Tu
drama no es necesario/ ya conozoco ese teatro
/Teatro, / lo tuyo
es puro teatro/ Falsedad bien ensayada/ estudiado simulacro. A woman charges
a lover of simulating emotions and acting out a rehearsed sentimentality.
Yet, this song goes beyond the commonplace of the woman who feels betrayed.
To accuse a man of (over-)dramatizing his emotions and being a studied
imitation and 'fake,' is a significant unsettling of traditional gender
roles. After all, it is femininity that is often thought of as reeking
"of the artificial," while "masculinity 'just is'"
(Halberstam 234). By the end of the song, the lover is further told that
even if his feelings are 'true' she can no longer believe him, Y hoy que
me lloras de veras/
/perdona que no te crea,/ me parece que es teatro.
The man's behavior is interpreted as always being 'no more' than a performance,
a rehearsed role. To expose and exhibit masculinity as just as performative
as femininity is a radical destabilization of masculinity and its naturalized
position in society. Perhaps it is because of these denaturalizing effects,
that Pedro Almodóvar chose "Puro teatro," sung by La
Lupe, as a coda in his movie, Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown
(Quiroga 167). La Lupe's song, recontextualized by the movie, is a point
of identification for queer audiences, who recognize themselves in La
Lupes's controlled excess, her defiance and her assertion that life is
after all nothing but puro teatro. This relationship between performance
and gender roles that "Puro teatro," I want to further explore
in Luis Rafael Sánchez's novel La importancia de llamarse Daniel
Frances Aparicio in her essay, "Entre la Guaracha y el Bolero: un
ciclo de intertextos musicales en la nueva puertorriqueña,"
points out the central role that popular music plays as an intertext in
Puerto Rican narrative especially in the literary work that has been published
since the 1970s. Moreover, Aparicio considers the recurrent employment
and evocation of popular rhythms, lyrics and performers in the works of
Luis Rafael Sánchez, Ana Lydia Vega, Carmen Lugo Filippi and Manuel
Ramos Otero, as one of the pivotal stylistic and thematic traits that
mark a break with the previous literary generations. As Aparicio argues,
the intersection and saturation of literary discourse with popular codes
creates a multiply valenced and voiced text, in which no single or unifying
perspective predominates, making it a significant departure from a paternalistic
literary canon. Totalizing metaphors and the search for a consensus give
way to a vision of Puerto Rican culture as fundamentally "conflictiva,
heterorracial y polifacética" (Aparicio 74). Moreover, this
integration of popular culture and everyday language into the literary
text puts into question the privileged status of literature as 'high'
culture that is radically separate from the expressions of everyday life.
Concurrently, the use of popular music in narratives calls for and appeals
to readers with a very different and much more popular and widely available
'auditive' knowledge, thus democratizing the reading process and re-defining
the position of the author who no longer is the superior and distant 'father'
Macho Camacho (1976), with its radical shift towards the popular and polysemantic
can be read as initiating a break with the previous generations of writers.
Luis Rafael Sánchez's following novel, La importancia de llamarse
Daniel Santos, published in 1988, is, according to Frances R. Aparicio,
already "el apogeo de un ciclo de textos narrativos puertorriqeños
en los cuales el discurso de la música popular caribeña
asume importancia como elemento intertextual" (73-4). Daniel Santos,
revolves around the figure of the bolero singer and quintessential macho
latinoamericano, Daniel Santos, who originated from Puerto Rico and became
popular in the 1950s, in many Latin American countries.
The bolero is a musical form popularized in Latin America in the 20th
century. It is a hybrid musical form with roots in both African and European
musical traditions. Moreover, it is a specifically urban phenomena that
emerged in cities in Puerto Rico, Cuba and Mexico at the beginning of
the 20th century. Juan Gelpí proposes that the intimacy which characterizes
the bolero is a response to the urbanization and large increase in population
that took place in the first decades of the 20th century in most larger
Latin American cities (Gelpí, "El bolero" 20). According
to Gelpí, the intimate scenario that the bolero creates, "bien
podría constituir una respuesta simbólica a la despersonalización
de las relaciones sociales que se produce en las ciudades modernas"
(Gelpí, "El bolero" 21). The exaltation of the affective,
intimate and personal counters the experiences of fragmentation and isolation
that characterize urban daily life.
The intimacy of the bolero is created by its thematics of personal suffering
and desire which are transmitted through the voice of the performer commonly
singing in the first person singular (yo), that addresses him/herself
to a second person singular (tú). The use of tú as a form
of address in the lyrics creates an ambivalence, since the non-determinate
and non-gendered tú becomes a site for facile identification and
transference for the audience (Zavala 115). As Zavala explains in her
book, Bolero: Historia de una amor, the androgynous tú makes it
possible that the one who is addressed could be "hombre o mujer"
and the amorous discourse be either "heterosexual u homosexual, mayoritario
o minoritario" (120). Critics such as Frances Negrón-Muntaner
and Jorge Quiroga, have also pointed towards this ambiguity of gender
in the bolero and how that "makes it particularly susceptible to
queer appropriation" (Negrón-Muntaner 70).
Jorge Quiroga in his book, Tropics of Desire: Interventions form Queer
Latino America, remarks upon the reemergence of the bolero in the 1990s.
According to Quiroga, this time around, the bolero "is sung in a
different register," in a more specifically gay context that was
not present in the 1950s and in earlier literary works that thematized
the bolero, such as Cabrera Infante's Tres tristes tigres and Pedro Vergés's
Sólo cenizas hallarás (151). For Quiroga, the more recent
works of such writers as Manuel Puig and Luis Rafael Sánchez, signal
"the beginning of a new voice" (151). Though highly personalized
and intimate, the bolero can be a vehicle for making the non-heteronormative
desires public, allowing for the creation of sentimental communities of
belonging (Quiroga 149). The bolero "'verifies' personal suffering
and renders it culturally legitimate," and legible as a point of
identification for those whose erotic and sexual choices do not find facile
public affirmation (Negrón-Muntaner 71).
The bolero allows for identifications that go beyond the traditional heternormative
script, and also, generally, resists the "normalizing discourses
of marriage and family," propounding instead a love that is
forbidden or 'sinful.'(Negrón-Muntaner 71). Yet, despite these
subversive potentialities, the bolero also commonly reiterates and essentializes
some very conventional gender roles. As Quiroga points out, with regards
to the bolero, "once the theatrical mask has been ripped away, what
we have is essential gender forms" (156). In the bolero, masculinity
defines itself in contrast to and in response to what is perceived as
properly female, and "letra y música son formas de situarse
como hombres y abordar a la mujer" (Zavala 45-6). Woman is subordinate
and merely an 'other' through which men are able to position and define
themselves as men and even create a homosociality through a shared discourse
of suffering and pain (Zavala 45).
Consequently, it can be said that the bolero contains both a "transgressive
and recuperative impulse," at once working towards an integration
of the audience into the body social and its dominant norms and enabling
a resistance precisely by displacing "the social onto the personal
theatrically" (Negrón-Mutaner 72). This displacement of the
social onto the personal, makes the personal, especially if it does not
conform to the dominant social script, always already political; the personal,
becoming then, a point of departure for imagining other communities and
even a "new order of things" (Negrón-Mutaner 72). Recuperative
and transgressive impulses of the bolero both manifest themselves in Luis
Rafael Sánchez's novel, Daniel Santos, and are embodied in the
figure of the bolero singer Daniel Santos who is, according to Aparicio,
is " ícono de
These dialogical tensions already posit themselves in regards to the genre
of Sánchez's narrative which he himself postulates as a fabulación,
placing it somewhere between biography and fiction, yet resisting being
enclosed in either genre. By designating his narrative as fabulación,
Sánchez less appeals to the conventional narrative form of the
fable then to an oral tradition of fabular, telling and re-telling popular
myths and chisme. The traditional fable as it emerged in the European
tradition is rigorously regulated in its structure and evolves around
the transmission of a moral imperative or mandate. Sánchez's text
does not make any outwardly apparent or straightforward moral claims;
this is particularly obvious in the representation of Daniel Santos. Julio
Ortega, in his discussion of Daniel Santos, remarks upon the apparently
paradoxical fact that in the novel Daniel Santos,"un personaje de
la negatividad (bohemio machista, quizá includo delictivo),"
becomes "todo un paradigma positivo de la cultura que se supuestamente
se expresa en él y él encarna" (36-7). The exalted
machismo of Daniel Santos takes on mythical dimensions in the novel and
is given "un valor moderno y asertivo, positivo y crítico"
(Ortega 36-7). Yet, 'ser un macho todo riesgo' is also critiqued in the
text (though only once explicitly) as "[una] enfermedad terminal,
que indecora, bestializa" (Sánchez 132). This ambivalence
towards machismo might seem paradoxical at first, but as I will show,
it also points towards the particular notion of masculinity that the novel
The novel has three main parts. The first two parts, "Las palomas
del milagro" and "Vivir en varón," are given the
appearance of transcriptions of interviews and discussions about the infamous
Daniel Santos that the narrator has with different individuals throughout
the Latin American continent. Author and narrator are collapsed and appear
to be the same person, to which the interviewees refer in varying degrees
of familiarity and respect. Comments about Daniel Santos are reproduced,
but also are the comments these interlocutors apparently made about the
author/narrator himself. Yet, it is precisely through what appears to
be 'only' side comments about the narrator himself that he becomes another
central presence and character in the text. For example, in the transcription
of one of the conversation with a Nuyorican called Guango Orta, the following
statements are made about the narrator/author,
[a]unque se tertulie que te sobran ocurrencias pero que te faltan ideas.
Aunque se chismee que eres el cruce satisfactorio entre el charmer y el
bluffer. Aunque se maligne que el éxito inmerecido y desorbitado
de La guaracha del Macho Camacho te ha dejado manco y mudo. Aunque se
sotovocee que eres, seguramente un homo ludens porquer eres, inseguramente,
un homo closet. El único escritor regio, apocalíptico y
triunfoso de la literatura antillana eres tú. (Sánchez 65,
Guango Orta's discourse re-creates the author/narrator as a mythical figure,
who just as Daniel Santos is surrounded by chisme, rumors and seemingly
shocking disclosures about his character, artistic ability and sexual
preference. Through this mythification of the narrator, he becomes among
the multiplicity and heterogeneity of voices in the text the only one
who receives the stature to measure up to and enter into a dialogue with
the excessive and hyperbolic persona of Daniel Santos.
The narrator's relationship to his subject is elusive and complex. While
he travels across an entire continent and goes through great lengths to
approximate his subject he apparently has no interest in knowing Daniel
Santos personally or directly, as a surprised interlocutor wonders "¿[c]ómo
es posible que tú
no quieras conocerlo ni de lejos?"
(Sánchez 46). The narrator at once claims to want to give himself
up, entregarse, completely to his subject and to deconstruct, desarmar,
the myth of Daniel Santos. Their ambivalent relationship is mediated through
the voices of the many interlocutors; inevitably the scene of the bolero
emerges, where the text functions as the voice of the performer. Ortega
also makes this connection between the scene of the bolero and the text
itself, he notes that "[l]a novela reemplaza
al bolero, el narrador
al cantante" (37). In the novel the narrator becomes the yo del cantante,
who addresses himself to the desired other, the "tú apelado,"
Daniel Santos (Ortega 47). This creates inevitably a diadic and dialogic
relation between the narrator and his elusive subject, which is not devoid
of certain amorous implications that the bolero always connotes. The latent
homoreroticism, the relation between the tú and yo structures the
narrative and persists vis-à-vis the excessive heterosexuality
that is Daniel Santos' signature style and plays a central role in the
The excess of Daniel Santos is fundamentally related to the particular
notion of masculinity that the novel puts forward. As explained earlier,
the novel seems to give an ambivalent portrayal of the exalted machismo
of Daniel Santos that puzzles both Julio Ortega and Aurea María
Sotomayor in their discussion of the novel. Ortega finds this representation
'paradoxical,' while Sotomayor is much more critical of the homage to
the problematic (anti-)heroe, Daniel Santos (Ortega 36-37; Sotomayor 317-8).
Sotomayor wonders whether Santos's accomplishments summarized as "boleros,
borracheras, barraganas," represent "una subversión válida,"
and she proceeds to ask "¿Qué significa traducir la
conducta rufianesca de este hombre como norma de gesto trascedente y de
naturaleza transgresora y rebelde?" (Sotomayor 317). Sotomayor concludes
that Daniel Santos, "es, sobre todo,
el relato de una ontología
caribeña calcada sobre el estereotipo norteamericano de lo exótico"
(318). Is Santos's machismo really no more than an exotic stereotype from
the Western imagination? This perspective disregards that Santos's machismo
and version of masculinity emerges in the novel out of a specific location
and socio-economic experience. Daniel Santos is of "procedencia barriobajera,"
where "la pobreza y la miseria amadrina la procacidad del cuerpo,
los tempranos desórdenes" (Sánchez 84). The poverty,
misery and restrictions of the poor barrio,s are according to the narrator,
what leads the "varón completo de quince, dieciséis,
diecisiete años" to a visceral machismo as a form of "consuelo"
(Sánchez 85). Part of this form of "vivir en varón,"
is "atreverse a todo, mostrarse invicto, obscenizarse," in order
to be different and fiercely independent (Sánchez 86). Yet, the
expression "vivir en varón," (it carries the performative
connotation of playing in a certain key, e.g. tocar en b-moll) already
indicates it as a mode of being, a method of survival, a learned behavior
and not an essential and innate characteristic.
This performative aspect of machismo as something that is produced and
rehearsed is revealed in the assertion that "ser varón obliga
parecerlo primero" (Sánchez 129). 'Parecer varón' consists
of carefully rehearsed gestures ("Parecer varón es encuevarse
los puños en los sobacos para aupar los bíceps"), ways
of dressing ("Si una rampante vellosidad ocupa el pecho la camisa
se desabotona hasta el ombligo") and a way of speaking ("Parecer
varón es relatar las incidencias del pon que se le ofreció
a una mami") (Sánchez 129). This rehearsed masculinity also
includes the exclusion of femininine coded behavior: "hacer caso
omiso de la pericia dulce, las técnicas d penetración, los
primores lingüisticos del ars amandi y restringir el discurso del
placer al tamaño del güevo, sensu strictu" (Sánchez
130, author's italics). Yet, unlike this reified form of machismo, Daniel
Santos succeeds so phenomenally in his seductions precisely because he
is not this form of "hombre bruto" (Sánchez 11). Instead,
he is "un munificiente con las caricias
.un especialista en
zalamería húmedas," with which he saved "[m]ujeres
emaciadas por abusos de hombre bruto" (Sánchez 27,11). Santos's
sentimentality, melodramatic abilities and physical sensibility are what
make him "braguetero supremo" (Sánchez 27). In a sense,
it is these 'feminine' aspects of Santos persona that assure his success
as a seducer and Don Juan, and ultimately make him "[un] hombre entre
hombres" (Sánchez 12). It is by exceeding what is considered
the realness and the naturalness of masculinity that Santos creates successfully
his seductive persona. Judith Halberstam, in her chapter entitled "Drag
Kings: Masculinity and Performance," explains how masculinity is
generally seen as nonperformative, and "'just is,' whereas femininity
is always suspected of artificiality (234). Santos, with his "pinta
de maldito seductor, el envoltorio de bohemio amanecido, el repertorio
cancioneril que pronostica que sí habrá más penas
y olvidos," is an "outrageous performance of masculinity,"
excessive, and so over the top that the theatricality that is inherent
in all gender identity is revealed (Sánchez 86, my emphasis; Halberstam
237). Only if masculinity becomes denaturalized and loses its apparent
authenticity can the structures that support it become exposed and available
for critique (Halberstam 239). In gender identities' "very character
as performative resides the possibility of contesting its reified status"
(Butler, "Performative Acts" 271). Though the novel does not
consistently critique the machismo that sustains Daniel Santos's performance,
the novel nonetheless reveals the performativity of his masculinity and
de-essentializes "the most precious and deepest stronghold of Puerto
Rican national identity: 'machismo'" (Lugo-Ortiz, Entiendes 17).
Agnes Lugo-Ortiz has pointed out that since the sixties and seventies
"a multifaceted discourse on homosexuality was starting to imprint,"
and a concern for the representation of different sexual identities and
practices emerged in Puerto Rican literature (118). Many texts showed
"a preoccupation with fixing the visibility (the clear-cut otherness)
of the 'maricón,' of determining his identity as unequivocally
identifiable and prescribable" (Lugo-Ortiz118). Sánchez's
novel succeeds precisely in avoiding a reified and fixed perception of
desire and identity. A complicated nexus of desire emerges and vanishes
during the brief interval of a bolero sung by Daniel Santos. This coincides
with Quiroga's observation about the bolero, which for him "are all
they erase what is and create what could be"
(152). The bolero allows desire and identification to travel across and
beyond national borders; its mobility and ephemerality avoid precisely
the "fracaso" and "desgracia" that for Sánchez
signifies the "carbonziarse en la sordidez de un machismo" (132).
The representation of machismo in Daniel Santos is so ambivalent and 'paradoxical,'
because it moves between being a highly compulsive and reified form of
behavior and being a much more de-essentializing theatrical production:
machismo as an effective pose. While a performative production of machismo
is not necessarily any less problematic than its essentialized version,
it nonetheless opens up for questioning some of the problematic premises
that sustain this position, among which is an often vicious misogyny.
Significantly, these two versions of masculinity are linked to differing
conceptions of the national and national belonging that appear in the
novel. On one hand the text reveals, what Aparicio calls a 'centripetal'
movement, which the bolero creates as a pan-Caribbean structure of feeling
and desire, a shared sentimentality, and on the other hand there is a
'centrifugal' gesture towards the national as essential 'Ursprung,' a
kernel, that the narrator is attached to. This ambivalence towards the
national has already been noted from Sánchez's first novel, by
Agnes Lugo-Ortiz who finds that while Macho Camacho, undertakes a dismantling
of the patriarchal national discourse, yet "this dismantling certainly
does not mean a departure from an obsessive entanglement with issues about
the specificity of Puerto Rican national culture or from a relentless
desire to think the national community" (119).
This ambivalence towards the national becomes especially evident in the
final and third part of the novel, entitled "Cinco boleros aún
por melodiarse." In this final part, the author proposes "materiales
narrativos que podrían 'bolerarse,'" brief stories or episodes
in which daily life reveals its melodramatic dimension, making it ideal
material for a proper bolero (Ortega 37). The final scene, because of
its placement and its radical difference from previous scenes, appears
as the novel's culmination and resolution. The scene takes place in Puerto
Rico, more specifically in the rainforest. The narrator describes how
he frequently searches out a certain place in the forest as a retreat
during his worst days (Sánchez 201). One day, a group of exuberant,
ebullient youth skipping school romp around in the rainforest intrude
into the narrator's refuge. The narrator describes them enthusiastically
as "[e]mbajadores plenipotenciarios de la loca frescura, embajadores
que proclaman sus libertades
. Siguen pitando, asirenan los pitos,
se jamaquean, rompen ramas, apedrean los mangos, se agreden con guayabas
y mangos" (Sánchez 204). As this group of adolescents moves
away from the narrator's hideout, he notes that a couple has stayed behind,
"[un] animal macho espléndido, criado para amar [y]
hembra espléndida, criada para amar" who he then, with both
fascination and unease, watches copulate (Sánchez 207-8). This
frugality and exalted sexuality appear to make the confines of society
briefly recede and give way to an edenic and unrestrained delirium. The
narrator still hidden from view, apparently ecstatic and with a certain
degree of nostalgia exclaims, "no ceso de celebrar el pájaro
de la juventud" (Sánchez 211).
In several ways, this scene motions towards a coming home and essence;
after the narrator has transversed many Latin American cities tracing
the path of Daniel Santos, he is in this last scene in Puerto Rico, his
and Daniel Santos's 'país natal.' Moreover, he is in the rainforest,
the most primordial and pre-historic of places. Also, this sense of the
return to pre-civilization and a pure essence is reinforced by how the
narrator addresses the youth -jocosely, without doubt, but significantly
nonetheless- as "Pieles Rojas," who escaped the "clases
los Cara Pálida" (Sánchez
204). This half-serious, half-joking evocation of the indigenous who have
long ceased to exist on the island of Puerto Rico, furthers this motion
towards an idyllic, indigenous past. This return to the 'heart' of the
author's island, to the topos of the millenary rainforest and the native
population is less a turning back then a vision for the future and health
of the national community, represented in this youthful utopia that the
narrator glimpses at from his hideaway. A vision of Puerto Rico emerges
in which all ills of civilization, underdevelopment and an unequal modernity
are temporarily eased by what the author calls a 'genital anarchy.' An
animalistic instinct and vitality of the animal macho and animal hembra
assert itself despite bitter reality of "[l]a América amarga,
la América descalza, la América en español"
(Sánchez 134). This scene emerges as a moment of resistance, a
showing off of vitality, health and potency incorporated in the adolescent
bodies that persists and asserts itself against all odds.
The exuberant group of adolescents appears to be the response to Pedreira's
call in Insularismo for Puerto Rico, which he sees as a 'sick child' to
become strong and healthy and overcoming its 'growing pains.' Their vitality,
health and sexual prowess appear as an indicator of national health, and
is met with admiration by the narrator who watches and sees "[como]
bailan los pieles rojas la utopía que los recorre de pies a cabeza"
(Sánchez 211). Yet, vis-à-vis these adolescents bursting
with health, the role of the narrator is severely constrained and limited.
He himself remains removed from the scene in more than one sense. Not
only is he physically immobilized to not give away his presence, but also
his age and critical consciousness separate him inevitably from this bacchanalian
The narrator does reveal a certain pride and admiration for the youth
that could be interpreted as paternal, yet his position is very different
from the paternalistic position that Pedreira takes. He is aware that
the utopian scene can only persist as long as his own presence does not
interfere and remains unnoticed. While this scene is to some degree a
response to Pedreira's call for a healthy and strong nation, it is also
a highly exclusionary moment. Since, even as the narrator finds himself
at the center and 'heart' of his "patria," his participation
and involvement is limited to that of a passive onlooker who is conscious
of his being out of place and even superfluous.
The narrator seems to have encountered and touched upon a certain primordial
essence or kernel of his island, which at the same time represents a revitalized
national community. However, this community remains inaccessible and just
out of reach for the narrator himself. Vis-à-vis this misencounter
between the narrator and his national vision, another earlier scene in
which a certain imagined community is created takes on a distinct significance.
The episode takes place in Cali, where the narrator sits in a restaurant
where the voice of Daniel Santos begins to sing suddenly. As the voice
of the bolero singer sounds, an immediate identification between the waiter
Plinio, who chose the music and the narrator takes place,
Plinio dice - ¡Daniel! como quien dice-¡Viva!
desapellidado, seña de complicidad entre parroquiano y camarero,
lo llamamos Daniel sin santos ni tutelas. (Sánchez 181)
A sentimental and imagined community is created in the ephemeral moment
of a bolero sung by Daniel Santos. This union resounds with homoerotic
insinuations. Plinio slowly pronounces Daniel's name syllable by syllable
and this utterance becomes "[una] penetración ricamente despaciosa"
(Sánchez 181). Then Plinio reaches for the hand of the narrator
and makes the more than suggestive remark, "[c]ompañero de
afinidades, compañero" (Sánchez 181). The narrator
in turn describes how, "[c]on los ojos cerrados, con la sonrisa que
no despega los labios me voy yendo a la deriva por los tremedales del
sentimiento. Con la dicha fustándome le sonrío al pasionario
sin ley que convoca Daniel" (Sánchez 181). A triptych structure
of desire emerges, where Daniel Santos gives the two men access to each
other. This scene is in stark contrast with the heterosexual coupling
of the final scene, where the narrator notes that he is superfluous and
considers "evaporarse para que el amor carnal que
sin terceros que en el amor nada hacen" (Sánchez 207). Here
on the other hand the third element, Daniel Santos's voice is essential
for the encounter between the two men. A matrix of desires is created
between them that is not exclusionary as the final rainforest scene but
instead inclusive and available to others as well. Moreover, a communion
takes place that is independent of such factors as class, race, or sexual
The bolero as Quiroga ascertains takes place in "another space beyond
the national" (162). In Sánchez's novel "the bolero
into a transnational (and even a meta-Caribbean) space"
(151). This transnational, pan-Caribbean reach of the bolero is closely
related to the desires that it voices and gives rise to, desires that
are out of bounds, ambiguous and uncontainable within national borders.
For example, Daniel Santos's "pasionario sin ley," is said to
have led to his "expulsión de un país que se sintió
injuriado por su paso calamitoso" (Sánchez 9). Daniel Santos
scandalous sexual success, which includes the seduction of "la tartarnieta
predilecta," of an Ex-president, led to accusations that he was "[un]
burlador de la honra nacional" (Sánchez 11). This confirms
Sylvia Molloy's and Robert McKee Irwin's thesis in Hispanisms and Homosexualities,
that the relations "between nationalities and sexualities are uneasy
at best" (xii). Unregulated sexual access and excess, as embodied
by Daniel Santos's performative masculinity is met with national closure
and expulsion. Yet, through the bolero, unregulated desires also create
their own communities of belonging (however brief and ephemeral) and re-draw
a sentimental cartography in which national borders recede.
Aparicio, Frances R.. "Entre
la guaracha y el bolero: un ciclo e intertextos musicales en la nueva
narrativa puertorriqueña." Revista Iberoamericana. 59. 162-3
(Enero-Junio 1993): 73-89.
Butler, Judith. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of 'Sex.'
New York: , 1993.
---. "Performative Acts
and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory."
Performing Feminisms: Feminist Critical Theory and Theatre. Ed. Sue-Ellen
Case. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990. 270-282.
Gelpí, Juan. "El
bolero en la Ciudad de México." Nómado. 4 (1999)18-24.
--- . "El clásico
y la reescritura" Revista Iberoamericana. 59.162-3 (Enero-Junio 1993):
--- . Literatura y paternalismo
en Puerto Rico: estudio del canon. San Juan: Editorial de la Universidad
de Puerto Rico, 1993.
Halberstam, Judith. "Drag
Kings: Masculinity and Performance." Female Masculinity. Durham:
Duke University Press, 1998. 231-266.
Lugo-Ortiz, Agnes. "Community
at Its Limits: Orality, Law, Silence, and the Homosexual Body in Luis
Rafael Sánchez's '¡Jum!'" ¿Entiendes?: Queer
Readings, Hispanic Writings. Eds. Emilie L. Bergmann and Paul Julian Smith.
Durham, Duke UP, 1995. 115-136.
Molloy, Sylvia, and Robert
McKee Irwin, eds. "Introduction." Hispanisms and Homosexualities.
Durham: Duke UP, 1998. IX-XVI.
"Drama Queens: Latino Gay and Lesbian Independent Film/Video."
The Ethnic Eye: Latino Media Arts. Ed. Chon A. Noriega and Ana M. López.
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. 59-78.
Ortega, Julio. Reapropiaciones:
cultura y nueva escritura en Puerto Rico. Puerto Rico: Editorial de la
Universidad de Puerto Rico, 1991.
Quiroga, José. Tropics
of Desire: Interventions from Queer Latino America. New York: New York
"Caribbean Dislocations: Arenas and Ramos Otero in New York."
Hispanisms and Homosexualities. Eds. Sylvia Molloy, RobertMcKee. Durham:
Duke UP, 1998. 101-119.
Sánchez, Luis Rafael.
La guaracha del Macho Camacho. Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la Flor, 1976.
---. La importancia de llamarse
Daniel Santos. Puerto Rico: Editorial de la Universidad de Puerto Rico,
Hilo de Aracne: Literatura puertorriqueña hoy. Puerto Rico: Editorial
de la Universidad de Puerto Rico, 1995.
Zavala, Iris M. Bolero: historia
de una amor. Madrid: Celeste Ediciones, 2000.