37 pages • 1 hour read
José Antonio VillarrealA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
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The first chapter gives a whirlwind introduction to Juan Manuel Rubio, a former Colonel of the Mexican Revolution, now an exile and a gunslinger. He turns up in Juárez, a city that he twice helped to liberate in bloodier days. There, he poaches a young prostitute from another client, shoots her pimp when he protests, and gets speedily arrested.
The arresting lieutenant recognizes him as an old friend and ally of his boss, General Hermilio Fuentes. Reunited, Fuentes and Juan Rubio talk over what has become of Mexico since the revolution. Juan Rubio explains that he shot the pimp because he was a Spaniard, a colonizer. The corruption and dishonor that many heroes of the revolution have fallen into appalls him, and he even challenges his old friend Fuentes over his willingness to turn a blind eye to corruption; he shows himself to be a proud, patriotic person, with strong ideas about manhood. Fuentes sadly tells him that this is what it is to grow old, and helps him create a plan to evade arrest by fleeing north across the border.
Juan Rubio takes a job running cattle, and determines to take part in a plan to assassinate the corrupt President. On the very night he agrees, his hero and former General, Pancho Villa, gets assassinated instead. Heartbroken, Juan Rubio vows that he will still kill the President one day, but for now, he plans to flee into California. His wife, Consuelo, and their children follow him, and though he had meant to abandon them, he winds up being pleased they came: His wife’s courage and persistence impress him.
The family settles in California and works on a melon farm. There, late one night, Consuelo wanders out to pee, but instead unexpectedly gives birth to their only son, Richard. Juan Rubio comes out and finds her and the baby, feeling deeply moved:
He was very nearly overcome by emotion, and did not question the strangeness of this as he gently laid his wife on the bed [...] He had never been this close to the birth of a child, for men are usually removed from such things [...] now he cried, not because it was a manchild, or because its genitalia seemed enormous in proportion to the little body, but because he was relaxed and because for a moment he had caught a glimpse of the cycle of life, lucidly not penumbrally, and he knew love and he know also that all this was good (30-31).
The narrative now switches to the perspective of Juan Rubio’s son Richard as he makes his way home from his first confession. He’s a sensitive and thoughtful boy, interested in plants and animals and the big questions of life. He’s confused in the wake of his confession: The priest got angry with him when he agreed that he liked to “play with himself,” and that he also played with his sister. When he asks his mother why, she’s confused too—until Richard realizes that the priest meant “play with” the way that some older girls once played with him, when they took all their clothes off. His mother is furious with him, and Richard is confused and frightened. Richard thinks back on many incidents of fear and shame around sex: for instance, believing that something terrible had happened to his mother while she was giving birth, thinking a spider might have bitten her.
Richard’s happiest times are with his father:
He loved his mother. She was always there when he needed her and her arms and her songs were warmth and comfort and security, but with his father it was a different thing, because pleasure is far different from security (42).
Through his father’s friendship with the families who come through town to pick fruit, Richard gets a sense of Mexican culture. He also learns about death when a visiting friend dies of peritonitis. State officials take his coffin away, refusing to allow his family to bury him. Richard sees the man’s ghost in the backyard that same night: “[H]is face was very white, because he did not have any blood. He did not talk and Richard did not talk, but he knew don Tomás wanted him to put him back in his grave” (45).
The Depression sets in, and a local barn that has fallen into disrepair becomes a headquarters for an Unemployed Council. This well-intentioned body falls into petty squabbles (often along racial lines) and is at last taken over by a Communist leader who arrives from San Francisco. This man rallies the locals for a hunger march on Sacramento. Richard is impressed by this, and by the wide range of people who come to the meetings; he observes “hobos” courteously taking only a little of the free dinner, and befriends some black immigrants from the Southern states.
Civil disobedience gets a foothold: The people of Santa Clara overturn and raid a food truck, and Richard and his father join in a farm workers’ strike for higher wages, during which they fight with the police. Richard must then defend Juan Rubio’s friend Victor, who kills a police officer. Richard bravely refuses to admit to the police that he saw anything. After this, the eventual hunger march seems like small potatoes to the young boy.
The chapter begins with a confrontation between Richard and his mother. Consuelo is concerned for Richard: She can see that he loves books and education more than anything, but soon he’ll have to leave school and work. She offers him a vision of a future in which he can have a nice house and support his family, but Richard rejects this: “I have to learn as much as I can, so that I can live...learn for me, for myself” (64). Consuelo is confused and saddened by this—and all the more so when Richard confesses that he has doubts about God.
Later, Richard observes as the children playing on his street, led by a tough little girl named Zelda, bully a couple of new kids, Ronnie and Mary, who are Protestant and therefore outsiders. Richard tries to stop Zelda, but she runs him off; Juan Rubio beats him for running from a girl, and sends him back outside, where Zelda roughs him up.
The new children keep to themselves after this, until the school librarian introduces Mary and Richard. Richard shocks Mary with his disrespectful and weirdly adult conversation, but she nevertheless befriends him.
Mary visits Richard’s home, and the two discuss books, learning new languages, and their shared ambition to be writers when they grow up. Richard often offends Mary’s sensibilities with his insistence on directness—for instance, calling horseshit “horseshit” and not “manure,” as Mary’s mother would insist. Despite their differences, Mary declares, “[Y]ou and I are going to be best friends” (76).
Mary returns home and describes her time at Richard’s house to her parents. Her uptight, snobbish mother isn’t impressed, wishing to preserve a separation between her family and the neighborhood “riff-raff”; her father is more indulgent. Mary, for her part, declares that she is going to marry Richard one day.
The first chapters of Pocho establish the collisions of many different worlds. The novel begins with scenes that wouldn’t be out of place in a Western: The macho Juan Rubio, with his gunslinging and his manful tears, seems like an almost mythic figure. Right from the start, he stands in contrast with his young son. While Richard has inherited Juan Rubio’s independence, stubbornness, and pride, he uses them in quite different ways.
For Juan Rubio, masculinity involves the constant (and sometimes violent) assertion of principle. Richard, on the other hand, is curious and questing. Richard’s interested in discovering the truth, rejecting traditional just-so stories, and in breaking the cultural boundaries he sees as nonsensical. In fact, Richard’s first real friendship crosses ancient lines: Catholic-Protestant, boy-girl. In Mary, Richard finds someone who, like him, is willing to approach difference with curiosity and love.
It’s clear from the start that questions of nationality and culture are going to be deeply significant to this novel. As a boy from a strongly-held Mexican cultural tradition growing up in the United States, Richard exists between worlds; he’s going to have to build his own identity to find a secure place for himself in the world. To do so, however, is to invite the ire of all sorts of people. Richard’s curiosity and straightforwardness often put him at odds with the people around him, from Mary’s aggressively conventional Protestant mother to the violently black-and-white priests. Richard is unimpressed by the hypocrisy he sees in the adults around him, and vows that he’s never going to be part of a group; he’ll be a completely self-made man.
The calm voice of the narrative suggests that Richard’s quest for independence will be more complicated than the young boy expects. Richard hopes to grow up to be a writer, and there’s a sense that Pocho might be just the sort of novel that Richard would produce. The similarity in the life stories of Richard and his author suggest that this story is at least semi-autobiographical. The narrative often tempers the rich texture of Richard’s internal life: Richard is a thoughtful boy, but in many ways still blind to his interconnectedness with the world. Pocho will tell the story of this young man’s education, in the biggest sense.