In a summer with much discourse about a Greek mythical figure (Odysseus), here is the translation of a book that uses another, Medea. In this instance Medea is relocated to contemporary Mexico. A powerful presence who rolls up in a custom-painted modified car, dressed in black with snake tattoos, Medea is an “iconic, queen of the barrio” there to motivate, impel, and facilitate characters who find themselves at major turning points.
Medea Sang Me a Corrido by Mexican writer Dahlia de la Cerda is translated by Julia Sanches and Heather Cleary. The book is made up of six interconnected narratives. The last of which is a concluding reflection by Medea on what she has just intervened in, witnessed, and experienced. Each story is riven with complexity and told with compelling efficiency by the characters themselves. To understand this lively, powerful book it is useful to know two key terms: Aztlán and corridos.
The six stories are set in a fictional mid-sized city, San Miguelito, in Aztlán. A mythical space, Aztlán is seen by some as a spiritual homeland. Since the 1960s, Mexican-American activists have used the idea of Aztlán to express their shared cultural identity and to argue that Mexican-Americans in the US remained connected to people and communities in Mexico, despite the border separating them. This idea has a basis in historical truth, the territory is believed to have been inhabited by the Aztecs and covered large parts of modern-day southern US down to central Mexico.
This specificity of place combined with mythical elements is evocative and powerful at a moment of wall-building and violent separations in the region. Medea finds in Aztlán a place of “violence and resistance in equal measure” and of healing where she can speak openly:
“In Aztlán, a woman can cry or scream in pain or sing from happiness; she can feel everything or nothing, and there will always be someone there to validate her experience.”
Medea is a figure in all of the stories and the final story is her corrido (ballad) of sorts. This story pulls out the key beats, teachings, and takeaways from the preceding five stories and interweaves them with her biography and stay in Aztlán.
Corridos are a ballad form with Spanish medieval roots. Conventionally, they are heroic narratives and a distinctly Mexican style that evolved after independence in the 19th century and were valuable fireside listening for troops during the Mexican revolution. They are often centred on wily Robin Hood-esque underdogs fighting for the common good who get the better of corrupt authorities. Some corridos address women, but few are by women.
De la Cerda compares Medea’s corrido to the epic form in how it explores the human impact of violence by homing in on the particular. She is not interested in emulating narcocorridos, which tend to glamorise criminal drug-related activities. Instead, she tells the stories of how ordinary people survive under systems of such violence. For Medea, to sing a corrido indicates her agentic role in these stories as a roving non-conforming figure outside of society’s conventions and norms.
The recurrence of Medea in each story has led some to refer to this book as a novel. This is not accurate because each story could stand alone, but it is a testament to the narrative coherence that de la Cerda aspires to in her writing.
The connecting thread is woven together using a version of the Medea myth centred on her being a mala madre (bad mother) who murdered her own children and refuses to let their father, Jason, bury them.
National Trust, Hinton Ampner, CC BY-NC
Medea is an unsettling figure. The murder and disappearance of children have impacted so many and caused deep trauma in Mexico, which makes Medea a compelling figure for de la Cerda. Therefore, this Medea, who has capacity for terrible violence, acts as an uneasy companion to the characters. In the stories there are births, abortions, and deaths, loss and hope.
It is a book that is deliberately layered with references. There is a rich musical score that is intended to conjure a precise soundscape as the stories name nostalgic hits to contemporary popular music. This is an integral part of the world building of the stories and gives a sense of its intended primary readership.
In interviews, de la Cerda has described her work with prisoners on literacy and reading programmes and has asserted that she has written these stories with those new learners in mind. That is, the references are accessible and so too is the language. That is not to say it is simplistic, but it has a clarity of purpose and is a lively evocation of authentic lived experiences.
The translators, Julia Sanches and Heather Cleary, have spoken about how they have met the challenge of de la Cerda’s stylistic and linguistic dexterity through their work on this and on her previous collection, Reservoir Bitches (2005).
The books is written using raw, informal Mexican street slang and vernacular in order to capture the real voices the people she represents. Sanches and Cleary have adeptly conveyed the original using equivalences where appropriate, or retaining Spanish language words to invite the reader towards the specificity of the people and places of the stories in Medea Sang Me a Corrido.
De la Cerda lands the character’s voice brilliantly and precisely locates them in their place, time, and cultural milieu. These are realist stories full of tragedy and comedy, mutual aid and compassion, love and death. They all make for compelling reading.
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Niamh Thornton does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.