Imperial Conservatism in my Grandma’s Laundry Room
It’s February, 1996, in the red brick living room of a small ranch style house in southeastern Tucson. The beige leather armchair radiates heat as a middle-aged Mexican lady grips it tight, the archived news of a one Ray Buckey and his gaggle of satanists’ “ritual abuse of children” at the McMartin pre-school playing before her. It hits her. The Satanists are still around, well into the 90s. The forces of evil devouring students across America have not been defeated since Michelle Remembers.
She realizes that she, too, has children. More importantly, she has a daughter. Daughters are always more susceptible to satanic cannibal rings than anyone else. She moves— quickly— to rummage for something, anything, that will help her prevent the indisputable demise of her family. The Bible? Well, yes. That’s a given. But she needs more. A more modern approach, if you will, to accompany His word on the matter. Suddenly, she hears a voice whisper into her ear: “Bob Larson…” She’s confused. Who could this “Bob Larson” character be? A prophet? A false prophet? Then, as if by pure miracle, a book appears in her hands. Satanism: The Seduction of America’s Youth.
This godforsaken book has been loved quite well by my grandma for years. It sits atop a mahogany colored dresser right next to the washing machine, and probably will till the day she dies. What’s more is that what lies beside it are walls covered in Trump and other American paraphernalia. Bob Larson is a beloved member of the American televangelist echelon, which closely neighbors white supremacist/Trumpist groups that circulate the media. ‘Murica lives gleefully above my grandma’s washing machine. But the passion for a fantastical imagining of this country is only a facade. The entirety of my grandma’s laundry room can be summarized as a contradiction. The goal of this essay is not to totally condemn, but rather to understand the different shades of radicalism that racial capitalism and heteropatriarchy leads different people to. The intention is to follow a similar detail-oriented rubric to that of “The Black Living Room.” What led a little Mexican Lady from nowhere Sonora who grew up in abject poverty to have such a room?
“Posessive investment in whiteness,” which is described by authors Ventura & Chan as the “converting of whiteness into cultural, and consequently, economic capital” has been thoroughly discussed in Intro to American Cultures at Pomona College. It has mostly been explored in its targeted marketing at the white middle and lower classes by upper echelon pundits seeking their own further enrichment. However, though this subject can take an entire semester alone, I would like to prompt an exploration of how this possessive investment in whiteness has also made its way (deeply) into nonwhite groups and cultures. It’s yet another brand of assimilationist politics within the workings of Empire. Of course, my grandma’s Mexican immigrant experience isn’t everyone’s. However, it’d be negligent not to acknowledge how a niche Trumpist brand of white supremacy permeates a lot of Chicano families such as my own. The understanding of the family as it exists in a white heteropatriarchal society translates to “security” and “success” even in families such as my own.Satanic Panic alcove in American Christian fundamentalism that birthed the works of Bob Larson and the like is not just a far-White problem.
The “colonized mentality,” understood by postcolonial thinkers such as Franz Fanon as the internalized inferiority that is inflicted during colonization and that persists even after decolonization, is what I’d diagnose my grandma with. Books like Satanism: The Seduction of America’s Youth embraces an utter contempt and suspicion of the greater public that is only encouraged (and was originally created) by neoliberalism and white supremacy. The book, the laundry room and whatnot seem to reinforce the “anything but Mexican mindset,” even if Larson’s book has nothing to do with anti-Mexican racism specifically. Larson’s entrepreneurial fundamentalism and homophobia is cut from the same cloth that Trump’s anti-immigrant political agenda is. This particular colonized mentality for Latinos is often referred to as Latinidad. “The countries of Latin America have long seen themselves as European diaspora, although the region has been considered by the United States as inferior. It is common for US Americans to view even Euro-descendant Latin Americans as people of color, and this slippage has worked to give the impression that the construct of Latin American Art is inherently diverse, even when it addresses the artistic production of artists who endorse a Europeanist canon and are considered white in their home countries.” In short, people like my grandma subscribe to another iteration of white supremacy that teaches them vehement self-hatred. Christianity has served as a raft for this disdain for “Latinos” that veer off farther from the white ideal. I have to be both critical and understanding of my grandmother, since her status as a lightskinned Mexican woman shields her from her own bigotry against either darker Latinas, afrolatinas, indigenous people, or all of the above. The kind of hatred and fear my grandma keeps on her bookshelves is masqueraded as a desire for both her own people and those around her to “self-discipline,” rather than a deliberate splintering of oppressed psyches by colonial forces.
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