Joanne B. Mulcahy | Oregon Voices: "Know Who You Are": Regional Identity in the Teachings of Eva Castellanoz | Oregon Historical Quarterly, 108.3

OREGON VOICES

"Know Who You Are"

Regional Identity in the Teachings of Eva Castellanoz

by Joanne B. Mulcahy

ON A STEAMY JULY NIGHT IN 2005, I sit with Eva Castellanoz in back of her house in Nyssa, on the Oregon-Idaho state line. In white jeans and an embroidered floral top, she looks far younger than her sixty-six years. Black curls spliced with gray cascade to her shoulders; her smooth skin seems unmarked by years of labor in the onion fields that surround us. Eva gestures toward a huge locust tree in the yard. "This tree that does not talk taught me the biggest lesson of my life. It was sick and dying; it had no leaves.... An old Mexican man told my husband to drill a hole in its trunk, soak a stake with a special recipe, and drive it through that hole." After Eva's husband followed the old man's directions, the healing solution soaked through to the root. In less than a month, Eva says, "the tree started to heal. Then the limbs began to produce all these leaves. I learned that when the root is ruined, the limbs are sick, like our heritage that has been stripped and bitten away."

In Eva's work as a traditional artist and a curandera (healer) she often tells people: "Know who you are. Never leave the root. Because once you do, you start to die to yourself." "Knowing who you are" is deeply cultural, the metaphor of the root reaching back to Eva's Mexican childhood and her identity as indigenous. But the metaphor extends into her present life, too, as other roots of the tree have stretched to place her firmly in eastern Oregon. These notions of place and identity were inchoate in the teachings of Eva's father, Fidel Silva. When we leave Eva's house and drive into town, she sweeps a hand toward the sugar beet fields, saying, "This was my daddy's dream, to have a home here. I want to be part of the realization of that dream." She likes to quote two of her father's most frequent pronouncements. He used to say, "I'd rather be a poor man in the U.S. than a millionaire in Mexico." She also recalls the statement that Silva made when he moved his family to Texas. No one, he said, will "ever take the Mexico out of you." This duality forms the basis of Eva's stories and teachings, creating a "usable past" to serve the needs of the present.¹

Eva Castellanoz makes corona flowers in Nyssa, Oregon, in 1989. Eva uses crepe paper as well as old paper bags and discards for her flowers. She says: "Save things that you might throw away. Ask yourself, 'what's that good for?' The things or people that we think are the least — they are the most." She cuts and curls the paper into floral shapes, wraps the wire stem with green tape, and then dips the paper into hot wax.

OHS Folklife Collection, S-1–339

Eva rolls out masa for corn tortillas in the kitchen of her house in Nyssa. The house burned in 2003, and since then she has been living in the casita, where she makes coronas and sees people who come to her for healing.

Courtesy Joanne B. Mulcahy, photographer

For all of us, the past forms part of our identity, a continuity that we create through stories, material culture, and rituals that root us in a place. When we are deracinated from our home, we carry it within us. Eva sees members of her community in Nyssa suspended between the home of their past and their new life in the United States. Many who come to her for healing are in "dis-ease" from the loss of home and culture. For them, Eva seeks a healing solution that will revive the roots — a hybrid Mexican American identity, a form some scholars call un mestizado nuevo, one that is "shaped by both cultures yet possesses neither culture in its entirety."² Among the many elements in Eva's notion of identity, two emerge prominently: the need for better lives for women and a sense of rootedness for Mexicans and other immigrants arriving in the United States. For Eva, "reviving the root" involves teaching Mexican traditions, but with a twist: when cultural practices recreate gender inequality, those traditions "must die," she says. "Realizing the dream" involves embracing those aspects of American life that she finds life-enhancing and rejecting those that celebrate individual achievement at the expense of the group. Both are linked to her identity as an Oregonian and as a member of the Nyssa community — the place she calls "my piece of the puzzle."

I MET EVA IN 1989 WHILE SERVing as director of the Oregon Folklife Program at Lewis & Clark College. We have worked together to document Latino folk arts in Oregon and, for over sixteen years, to record her life story. Every year, I drive Interstate 84 to Eva's home in Nyssa; sometimes, we meet in Portland or at her friend Maria's house in Hermiston. In 2001, we journeyed together to Eva's childhood home in Pharr, Texas. Many of her nine children and many of her growing clan of grandchildren and great-grandchildren have welcomed me, as they have many others who visit Eva. Her public stature has grown considerably during the years that I have known her; and she is now widely acknowledged in the West and nationally for her folk arts, particularly her coronas, the wax and paper floral crowns used for the quinceañera, a young woman's fifteenth birthday celebration. Television documentaries and National Public Radio programs chronicle her life, and she has received numerous awards, including a National Heritage Award for her coronas. For four years, Eva was a member of the Oregon Arts Commission and is now a frequent guest at conferences and events concerning Latinos in Oregon and Idaho.

Eva's own roots are complex, stretching back to her birth in 1939 in Valle de Santiago, Guanajuato, Mexico, and to her parents' indigenous heritage. "I call myself Mexicana," Eva says, "But truly in my heart, I am Mexica. The Aztec Indians, that's what they called themselves. That's who I am — an Indian from Mexico."

Pre-conquest indigenous practices and beliefs are so syncretized with Spanish influences in colonial Mexico that they cannot easily be teased apart. Eva's practices as a folk artist and healer clearly incorporate both. Her mother, herself a traditional healer, was Otomí, an indigenous group that inhabits the central plateau of Mexico, from the southern city of Toluca to the states of Guanajuato, Hidalgo, and Queretaro.³ Her father, who called his ancestors la raza d'oro (the golden race) descended from the Aztecs, the Nahuatl-speaking peoples of central Mexico.⁴ From her mother, Eva learned traditional healing practices. Curanderismo is a complex system that considers the spiritual, psychological, and physical needs of a patient. It incorporates indigenous Mexican folk healing and religion, Catholicism, and medieval European beliefs brought by the Spanish, including Arab influences such as the evil eye.⁵

Eva performs a limpia (a ritual cleansing) in her casita. During the ceremony, mesquite coals burn under the patient's feet. Eva recites a prayer she learned from her mother, also a healer, as she sweeps the body with smoke from burning sage to cleanse the person's aura. Other ritual objects Eva uses include a crucifix, holy water, and a piece of purple cloth. Some curandero/as use eggs to absorb the negative forces surrounding a person.

Courtesy OHS Folklife Collection

Eva's early life and that of her five older brothers and sisters was steeped in Mexican and indigenous traditions. Both her parents were resourceful folk artists who taught her how to "make something from nothing." Her father carved chairs from discarded wood; her mother painted them and wove caned seats. From both, Eva gleaned a strong connection to the land. For a time, her family lived in the woods. "They were like nomads," she says. "They were called pájareros, from the Spanish word for bird, because that's what they did for a living. They'd go around and rob the nests of singing birds in the wild to sell to rich people." Later, when the family moved to Texas, Eva would go to the fields outside Pharr each day with her father. Describing her father's beliefs about an animated world, she remembers: "He taught me a lot of things. We would leave the house with two little gorditas my mother packed. Along the way, he would trade pieces of the gorditas for the plants he took. He would pray to the plants...The earth, the rocks — I think those were his only friends."

Despite a profound connection to Valle de Santiago, the family was uprooted by tragedy when Eva was three. That year, her parents lost all five older children to disease, leaving only Eva. Now, she says of the tragedy, "It's almost like it's just so big that it still lingers in your thoughts, just by saying it and not even living it." Traumatized by their loss, the family left Valle de Santiago for the Rio Grande Valley in 1942.

At Reynosa, the family waited for the right time to cross the river. Eva's mother, Maria Concepcion, had a vision of El Otro Lado. As Eva tells the story: "She got all dressed up to cross. She'd bought a new flowered dress, sandals and stockings. She never used to wear such things, but she bought them because she thought nobody was ugly over here, that it was paved, that there were no weeds." The night when they crossed with the coyote, the river was low. A little canoe was waiting with about eighteen people in it. When they started to put it in the water, it toppled. Everyone panicked. Eva remembers: "My mom said it was really scary, really dark, watching the people lower in the water trying to save themselves. We found each other but my mom had to slide down the riverbank through mud and weeds. There goes her dress and hose. She thought everything here would be easy. But she found out that it wasn't like that."

Eva's father already knew El Otro Lado. He had traveled for many years to different parts of Canada and the United States, including Nyssa, as a migrant worker on farms and in factories. Eastern Oregon had long been shaped by Mexican influence. In the mid-1800s, vaqueros came north from California and Texas, and Mexican miners followed along with mule packers who carried supplies to the mining camps. In the 1880s, industrial expansion opened up the border, and approximately one-eighth of Mexico's population moved north in the first decades of the twentieth century. Civil war and economic instability in Mexico urged workers to the United States, where mining, railroads, and especially farms demanded labor. So intense were United States labor needs during World War I that the secretary of labor waived all immigration restrictions against Mexicans until 1921. The Immigration Act enacted that year restricted the entry of Europeans but, under pressure from agribusiness, exempted Mexicans. To protect them from the race quotas of the 1921 act, the United States government listed incoming Mexicans as "white," but the public did not always accept that status. Racist attitudes deepened with the economic failures of the Great Depression; in the decade following the 1930 census, one-third of immigrants from Mexico were repatriated, including children born in the United States.⁶

With the outbreak of World War II, renewed demands for cheap labor resurfaced. In 1943, Public Law 45 formalized the crossing of braceros, Mexican laborers, to the United States. During the next five years, 309,538 agricultural workers came north, 219,000 from Mexico. The program buttressed economic development in the American West and the Mexican North. Like many other braceros, Fidel Silva reaped economic benefits from the open border, and, like many others, he faced hardships. Public Law 45 stipulated that braceros receive minimum wage, health care, adequate housing and board, and freedom from discrimination. In fact, many men lived in tents that provided little protection from summer heat and winter chill. They ate iron-deficient food that caused anemia and faced the constant threat of accidents and the sting of racism.⁷

After their arrival in Texas, Eva's family crossed between Reynosa and Pharr for several years until they had papers to live legally in the United States. During their nearly twenty years in Texas, Eva's father was a foreman on a local farm while her mother cooked for the fieldworkers and healed those who came to her for help. Eva worked in the fields before and after school and drove her mother to Reynosa to sell chickens and trade goods. "I loved school," she says, "I just worked and escaped into reading and books. I was not interested in men." But men, including Teodoro Castellanoz, were interested in her. Ted watched the young Eva as she tended her father's horses. When one of the girls told her that Ted wanted to be her novio, Eva was flattered. "I was thirteen," Eva says. "I saw him and I liked him. The first thing I said was, 'Tell him to give me a picture.'" Soon, Ted was coming under her window at night. Eva's parents already had potential husbands in mind for her and for her sister, Maria — the sons of Don Claudio, another Mexican migrant who lived on the farm — but those plans dissipated when Eva's enraged father found out about Ted's nocturnal visits. Though Eva had done nothing wrong, her father hit her, spurring Eva's decision to marry Ted. She also feared Ted's threats that he would capture her and take her to Mexico if she didn't marry him.

Eva went through the traditional rituals of being "stolen" and "deposited" at the home of Ted's padrinos. "Ted took me to our padrino and our madrina," she tells me. "That is called depositar— they deposit you at the home. You are not seen by the to-be groom until the wedding." Eva participated in her own wedding with the sense of having little choice, squeezed between traditional notions of a woman's worth and the anger of two men.

Tensions with her family eventually resolved. When Eva was nineteen and pregnant with her first child, Diego, her father decided to move the family. Eva agreed to go. Fidel Silva had had his sights set on Nyssa since he first came to Oregon. Perhaps the Owyhee Mountains of eastern Oregon echoed the hills beyond his home town in Mexico. Maybe he had grown fond of life near the Rio Grande, making the nearness of Oregon's Snake River boundary alluring. Whatever the reason, Eva's father was determined to live in Nyssa.

These images of Eva at fourteen and her husband-to-be, Teodoro Castellanoz, were taken in Pharr, Texas, and juxtaposed into a single frame by Idaho photographer Jan Boles in the 1990s. Copies now hang in both Eva and her daughter Chana's houses in Nyssa.

Courtesy of the author

The first settlements in Nyssa date to 1883, when the Oregon Short Line railroad ran through the eastern edge of the state. The city was incorporated in 1903, drawing population as it evolved from a railroad way station to an agricultural area. A 1911 brochure hailed Nyssa as a "progressive and growing city" on the Idaho state line. It urged readers to consider the region's farming potential, claiming "There is room for all of us." Space was plentiful but water scarce until 1932 when the government completed work on the 417-foot-high Owyhee Dam. As agricultural land expanded, Mexican workers filled labor shortages, culminating in the bracero program that brought Fidel Silva north.

In 1957, Eva arrived in Nyssa with her parents, her sister Maria, and her brothers Manuel and Fidel. They lived in a migrant camp at Parma, moving into other parts of Oregon and Washington to work seasonally. Eva worked long hours in the fields, bringing Diego, then the next born child, Rosario (Chayo), with her to work. Ted migrated back and forth to Texas until he obtained legal papers. When he eventually joined the family, he worked in the fields or drove a long-distance truck. With a government grant, Eva and her father constructed a house, brick by brick, on the edge of Nyssa, where she raised the family that grew to nine children. Ted was often gone, leaving Eva the dual responsibility of home and fieldwork.

Through the next forty years, Eva developed and passed on a fierce attachment to eastern Oregon. Being an Oregonian coexists with her identity as Mexican and indigenous. She also reconsidered which parts of each culture would best support the lives of the next generation. Long before, Eva had vowed that expectations and choices for girls would be different when she had daughters. They would follow tradition, but with a difference. She says now, "I was going to give the freedom to my daughters that was denied me for being a woman. I thought it even before I was married, before my children came." The result is her creative selection of those influences she finds empowering from both Mexican and American culture. Her remaking of tradition is most evident in her work with women, enacting her vow to herself that choices would enlarge for the next generation. For many young women, that transformation begins when they come to Eva for a corona.

IN BACK OF EVA'S HOUSE, BEyond her koi pond and cages filled with cockatiels and doves, is a casita where Eva heals people and makes her coronas. Next to huge jars of herbs are rolls of multicolored ribbons and an old skillet sticky with melted wax. As a young woman, Eva saw coronas being made on the street during a visit to Guadalajara. She came home inspired to replicate the practice, dipping paper into hot wax to form the lifelike flowers for the ritual crowns.

On any given day, a young woman might visit Eva to request a corona for her quinceañera. This coming-of-age ritual symbolizes a young woman's advancement into adulthood, fertility, and responsibility. It begins with a Catholic Church ceremony and moves to a party in a home or community hall. The ritual markers after the church service might include a change into high heels, the cradling of a baby doll given by her godmother — the mark of her ability to bear children — the first dance with her father, and the opportunity to drink alcohol publicly for the first time.⁸ For Eva, one central feature is the color of the flowers — white, for chastity. This may seem contradictory for a woman bent on reshaping Latino tradition to honor women; but Eva points out that if young girls guard their virginity, then they don't end up "giving themselves away" and dropping out of school as teenage mothers. She wants to preserve the wearing of white for purity, yet she also rails against the double standard that limits girls' choices while boys have freedom. Her teachings focus on how young women can honor their bodies and their autonomy. She uses traditional arts to rebel against the institutions of church and family when they perpetuate inequality. As folklorist Norma Cantú points out, the quinceañera can contain subversive elements even within the strict confines of the church and community.⁹

Eva uses these jars of herbs for cooking and healing in her casita in Nyssa.

Courtesy Joanne B. Mulcahy, photographer

Eva does not call herself a feminist; she rejects labels of all sorts. "I am a woman, a human being," she says. But she fits within contemporary Latina feminism in her practice of celebrating young women as female and Latina. In the 1960s and early 1970s, Latinas critiqued the second wave of feminism for not fully incorporating ethnic and racial differences; they also challenged the Chicano movement for neglecting gender hierarchies. The result was a new way of thinking about the intersection of cultural and ethnic differences, class conditions, and other factors.¹⁰

On the left is a corona for a young woman's quinceañera. The corona is comprised of tiny floral buds called azhares, which recreate in wax the orange blossoms traditionally used for coronas in Mexico. Eva prays for and thinks about the recipients as she makes the flowers. On the right is a sample of one of Eva's bouquets made for a quinceañera, showing the exquisite detail of her work.

Courtesy OHS Folklife Collection

In advocating revised traditions, Eva says, "It starts with birth. Our men want boys, boys, boys. This should change now." Her challenge to tradition emerges most strikingly in making wedding lassos (from lazo— "link or bond"). She shapes the paper and wax flowers into a double crown to symbolize the life-long connection of marriage. As with the quinceañera, the seemingly conservative message has a twist. "When weddings come up," Eva says, "I make sure to get into what's maybe not my business. But a woman is my business because I am a woman, I have daughters, I have granddaughters who are going to grow up and get a husband. I try to get both the man and the woman and I say, 'Do you know what the lasso means?' It's two circles; they are equal. One is not bigger than the other one. Fifty-fifty — fifty you, fifty me. I do not have to walk behind you. I need to walk beside you."

Traditions, Eva argues, must serve the individual and the social good. While Mexican culture provides the root, new growth may be stimulated by practices and beliefs germinated in American soil. "There are traditional things that are not good for a person. They have to die; [we] even kill them and keep what's good." Of the lasso, she says, "There is a cross in the middle, that's the symbol for Jesus Christ. It was told to me when I was married that this is my cross and I have to carry it. Heck! Then what do I have you for? Let's both carry it. And whatever you do to me, you do to Jesus Christ. This is what binds you together.... You should be able to come home and help me cook, be partners, not slaves. Partners in marriage, partners in work, partners in bed, partners in parenting."

Eva was a master artist in the Oregon Traditional Arts Apprenticeship Program in 1993. Here, she instructs three of her granddaughters on how to make the smallest buds that go on all of the coronas.

Courtesy OHS Folklife Collection

While Eva jettisons tradition in some contexts, in others she cites such practices as the antidote to problems in American life. Many of the troubles Eva witnesses emerge from the need for connection: to family, to community, to place. The materialism and individual striving celebrated in American culture are major culprits. "The parents are not there at home. They want the new car. Everyone wants to get ahead," Eva complains. "We're struggling with young people not going to school," she argues. "We have snatched away their language. We have made them feel like it's worthless. We need to continue to speak Spanish, to use our foods, our singing, whatever comes with us. This is why our branches are sick, because the roots are sick. Their sap is not there anymore."

"THE ROOT" — EVA'S DOMINANT metaphor of her Mexican past — is an arresting symbol of her connection to place. When Eva sweeps a hand over the fields to say "This is the realization of my daddy's dream," she narrates an identity in process, at once indigenous, Mexican, and American — a hybrid identity that carries selective aspects of the past into the present. Places, writes Keith Basso, "possess a remarkable capacity for triggering acts of self-reflection, inspiring thoughts of who one presently is, or memories of who one used to be, or musings on who one might become."¹¹ Eva's creation of regional identity tells a story of one family's struggle to root itself in Nyssa over three generations. Poverty, racism, and other hardships have riddled their path. But Eva's connection to Nyssa is profound. Once, Eva and I visited a shopping mall in Ontario together. The clerk was gracious to me, offering me a discount card, but he ignored Eva. After we left, Eva described other racist encounters in eastern Oregon. She ended by saying: "But I still love Nyssa. It gave me life and I gave it life. I gave Nyssa nine wonderful people. Nyssa helped me nourish my children. So we're great partners."

Stories of place integrate historical and imaginative narratives, intersections of "culture and the environment...spaces where the real and the ideal coexist."¹² They have specific resonance for migrants who relocate, carrying home within them. Eva's stories pass on to another generation the sense of place her parents brought from Mexico and that she has created in Oregon.

The facts of Hispanic settlement in the West are established, as is Eva's place in a long-settled population in eastern Oregon. Still, Eva is aware that she can be identified as "other" — within her own culture as female and in dominant American culture as Latina. Just as she asserts the rights of women within both spheres, she also links her individual destiny to the collective, claiming Latinos' right to shape their futures in the Northwest. After one discussion about Latinos in Nyssa, she said, "God could have put me in Portland. He could have put me in Pocatello. But he put me in Nyssa to be supported by the people here. I belong on this piece of the puzzle." Eva's story triggers striking connections to the narrative of Manifest Destiny in which early white settlers claimed divine guidance as they usurped Indian lands and those originally claimed by Spanish-speaking people. Eva's assertion of Divine will in her own right to a place in eastern Oregon twists that story, offering both serious and ironic commentary on Manifest Destiny. She embraces the contribution of new immigrants to an evolving, hybrid identity just as she asserts the rights of women to challenge "traditions that must die."

Regional consciousness, historian William Lang writes, is "multiple...there are many versions and many viewpoints."¹³ The mestizaje nuevo may tie together some of these viewpoints, integrating the individualism and innovation so celebrated in the American West and the collective responsibility at the heart of Eva Castellanoz's Mexican "roots." Richard Rodriguez argues that "Americans are so individualistic they do not realize their individualism is a communally derived value."¹⁴ In evoking the mutual interdependence of her community, Eva moves to a metaphor of embodiment. "If I'm hurt," she says, "the whole of Nyssa is hurt because that little blood vessel, or that little toe or finger is hurt. We are one body."

Notes

^1. The term and concept of a "usable past" was first used by Van Wyck Brooks, in his essay, "On Creating a Usable Past," The Dial (April 11, 1918), 337–41.

^2. See John Francis Burke, Mestizo Democracy: The Politics of Crossing Borders (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2002).

^3. One of Mexico's oldest indigenous groups, the Otomí, was one of several groups in the state of Guanajuato, occupying the northern and eastern border of the Aztec and Tarascan empires at the time of Spanish conquest in the 1500s. Today, the Otomí language is considerably diminished, but religious rituals, especially during Holy Week before Easter, remain important throughout the region. See James Dow, The Otomí of the Northern Sierra De Puebla, Mexico: An Ethnographic Outline, Monograph Series, no. 12 (East Lansing: Latin American Studies Center, Michigan State University, June 1975); and Phyllis M. Correa, "Otomí Rituals and Celebrations: Crosses, Ancestors, and Resurrection," The Journal of American Folklore, 113:450, Holidays, Ritual, Festival, Celebration, and Public Display (Autumn 2000): 436–50.

^4. "Aztec" is a broad generic term for the post-classic inhabitants of the Valley of Mexico at the time of Spanish conquest. The dominant group was the Mexica, the founders of the city of Tenochtitlá; most but not all inhabitants spoke Nahuatl, the widest-spread of the Uto-Azteca language family. In Nahuatl, "Azteca" means "someone who comes from Aztlán," the original dwelling place of the Mexica people. Interpretation of the codices that survived Spanish colonization is contentious, leaving the status of Aztlán somewhere between myth and history. See Alan Knight, Mexico: From the Beginning to the Spanish Conquest (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 132–42.

^5. See Robert T. Trotter II, and Juan Antonio Chavira, Curanderismo: Mexican American Folk Healing 2d ed. (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1997); and Françoise Verges, "Mind and Body: Revising Approaches to the Analysis of Curanderismo" in Wings of Gauze: Women of Color and the Experience of Health and Illness, ed. Barbara Bair and Susan E. Cayleff (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1993), 109–121.

^6. See Rodolfo Acuña, Occupied America: A History of Chicanos (New York: Harper and Row, 1981), 121–51.

^7. See Erasmo Gamboa, "The Bracero Program," in Nosotros: The Hispanic People of Oregon, ed. Erasmo Gamboa and Carolyn M. Baun (Portland: Oregon Council for the Humanities, 1995), 41–44.

^8. For a full discussion of the meaning of the quinceañera, see Norma Cantú, "Chicana Life-Cycle Rituals" in Chicana Traditions: Continuity and Change, ed. Norma E. Cantú and Olga Nájera-Ramírez (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2002), 15–34.

^9. Cantú, "Life-Cycle Rituals," 16.

^10. See Carla Trujillo, ed., Living Chicana Theory (Berkeley: Third Woman Press, 1998); and Denise A. Segura and Beatriz M. Pesquera, "Chicana Feminisms: Their Political Context and Contemporary Feminisms" in The Latino Studies Reader, ed. Antonia Darder and Rodolfo D. Torres (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell Publishers, 1998), 193–205.

^11. See Keith Basso, Wisdom Sits in Places (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1996), 107.

^12. William L. Lang cites cultural geographer E.V. Walter's description of place in his introduction to The Great Northwest: The Search for Regional Identity, ed. William G. Robbins (Corvallis: Oregon State University Press, 2001), v–vii.

^13. Lang, Great Northwest, vi.

^14. Richard Rodriguez, Brown: The Last Discovery of America (New York: Viking, 2002).

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