LESSON 3: TESTIMONIO

 The recent decades in Latin American literature show the emergence of Testimonial literature, or the
Testimonio, which traces its origin to autobiographical literature.
 "An authentic narrative, told by a witness who is moved to narrate by the urgency of a situation.
Emphasizing popular oral discourse, the witness portrays his or her own experience as a representative
of a collective memory and identity. Truth is summoned in the cause of denouncing a present situation
of exploitation and oppression or exorcising and setting aright official history. " (Yudice, 1985)
 Biografia de un Cimarron (Biography of runaway slave)
-by the Cuban, Miguel Barnet
-It told the story of Esteban Montejo, A Cuban man of African.
-This narrative worked to tell the story of an individual belonging to a marginalized group.
 I. Rigoberta Menchu
-Edited by elisabeth Burgos-Debray
-This Testimony is the story of a young Guatemalan Quiche Indian woman & the tragic experiences of
Indian communities in Latin America, dealing with military oppression, moral endurance and the struggle
for justice.
-was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1992.
-Mechu says: This is my testimony. I didn't learn it from a book and i didn't learn it alone. I'd like to stress
that it's not only my life; it’s also the testimony of my people... The important thing is that was has
happened to me has happened to many other people too. My story is the story of all poor Guatemalans. My
personal experience is the reality of a whole people. (1984, 1).

 Literature goes through an evolutionary process and the birth of the testimonials narrative as a genre
was the least bit random, it was inevitable, it was bound to happen.
 The testimonio has no fixed structure or format, while it is largely narrative, it may come in almost any
form (letters, oral histories, songs, etc. . .)
 The testimonio, given its form and purpose , counters that prescriptive features of traditional literature.

DISNEYLAND
Ivy Echavarria
I came to America at age 20 with my parents and sisters after a rather protracted wait for our papers to go through the
process. The wait encompassed my adolescence and afforded me a rather cavalier attitude towards attaining a college
degree as it always seemed a matter of time for the papers to ‘go through’. By the time the papers went through, my dad
was in his mid-fifties, my mom in hers late forties. These details are Important. I had no backup plan as far as immigrating
except to learn the ropes. I took some cursory clerical classes after dropping out of college in anticipation of the inevitable
admin assistant job in the USA. The clerical school I went to was half filled with upper middle class housewives from
Makati who were shooting for mid-marriage careers out of apparent sheer boredom. We were taught to answer phones,
type, write in shorthand and operate the facsimile machine. Thus, Landed in America armed with no college degree, but
knowing how to write in shorthand. I was twenty. Language was no issue and I was fully immersed in western culture that
I had to keep my eyes open for the casual meandering of Johnny Depp when we landed at the Los Angeles International
Airport. My grandfather pair for our apartment rent for the first couple of months as we took on fast food restaurant jobs
or jobs at the plastic factory where they made IV tubes. It was a matter of time before we were decorating our apartment
with cheap décor. Thing improved for us at a rapid pace. Culture shock is brief and fleeting if you are willing to
assimilate. We still speak the native language at the dinner table to this day, but mostly we spoke English. The biggest
struggle I had to face, immigrating the way I did as a grown up child to my parents who immigrated with me, was the
inevitable reversal of roles between parent and child. Because as we left the fast food restaurant and the factory jobs for
better clerical job, our parents stayed behind at theirs and waited for retirement. They looked on to our successes as we got
braver in search of rewarding job opportunities this country offered. When my grandfather first filed for immigration
petition papers, I was a mere child. My parents spoke constantly about our inevitable move to America. It was a matter of
when, not if. We talked about going to Disneyland while time marched on. And one day, you find yourself driving the old
car a kind relative sold to you for cheap. It was a clunker. But it did not matter one bit.
You’re taking the folks to Disney.