When my friend Mario Duarte asked me to read his latest book, a series of connected short stories about a Mexican-American boy growing up in western Illinois called My Father Called Us Monkeys published by Ice Cube Press, I was both excited and a tad apprehensive. I was excited at the opportunity to read about another childhood with parallels to mine; both Duarte and I are Mexican-American kids who grew up in small towns in the Midwest, and both of us took on the challenge of writing about it. The apprehension came in the fact that I had a friendship with the author before reading the first page. I’ve been on the other side of that ask and I can tell you it can be nerve-wracking. I’m reminded of the social anxiety nightmare of sharing a favorite song or funny video with your friends, only to get silence in response.
Fortunately, my worries were all for not, as the stories of main character surrogate Marco have stayed with me long after I put down Duarte’s book. Which might seem like a case of appreciating newfound representation, of simply being in awe at finally getting to read of a boy that looks like me and grew up in similar landscapes. But where this collection gets interesting is in its specificity. As I read I appreciated the skill with which Duarte realized Marco’s world (one that mirrors a lot of Duarte’s own upbringing and does not mirror mine).
The stories follow Marco’s coming of age in the late ’60s in a western Illinois town. His family, like many other Latino-American families, can be traced back for more than a century on this country’s soil. The stories of this family can be sweet, like convincing their father to adopt a new kitten, which he names Pulgas (“fleas” in Spanish).
Other times the stories explore the interconnected cast of small-town characters and their humorous misadventures. All the while, there are forces looming beyond: the Vietnam War, civil rights, economic struggle. Duarte is not afraid to hint at these topics, but always filtered through the limited worldview of childhood — a fact that imbues the stories with a sort of melancholy and, at times, mysteriousness.
One story in particular, “An Afternoon with Taylor,” exemplifies this approach. Marco comes across a lonely man and his parrot, Taylor. Within their interaction the man refers to his wife in past tense. When Marco, as children are experts at doing, pulls at a string too personal and fraught, the man replies that, “You’ll learn about such things, soon enough.” We are never struck over the head with exposition; instead, Duarte displays an admirable restraint, conveying a charged and childlike appreciation of the now.
Yes, ultimately Marco may learn about the full, sad scope of life, but that can wait until after he’s done admiring the talking bird and stone the man gives him. My mind continues to conjure up questions about this scene and countless others in the collection, but one answer I do have is that Duarte has a deft skill in creating vastness within his stories.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s November 2024 issue.
