The Gregorio Cortez of the ballads is certainly more heroic than the historical figure. He represents an attempt by Mexican-Americans to reclaim the most admired qualities of vaquero culture–horsemanship, marksmanship, courage, and endurance–which Anglo-Americans had appropriated. The corrido Cortez is, quite simply, a John Wayne in brownface.

Despite the cultural drift that Mexican-Americans in Texas were experiencing around the turn of the century, they still considered themselves "Mexicans" and were likewise designated by Anglos. The Rio Grande was regarded less as a political boundary which separated two countries than as a water-giving artery in an arid land which drew Mexicans on either side to its banks and held them in a common culture. In the days before the United States Border Patrol, travel across the river was an easy matter. Mexicans born on the southern bank could move to the other side and experience little change. But all the while, as we can see in the corridos after 1900, the pressures of Anglo-American culture were intensifying and the cries of Mexican allegiance occasionally turned shrill, a ballad-maker here and there trying too hard to make his point as in the "Corrido del norte":

Nací en la frontera de acá de este lado, de acá este lado puro mexicano, por más que la gente me juzque texano yo les aseguro que soy mexicano de acá de este lado.

(I was born on the border though here on this side, though here on this side I'm a pure Mexican, even though people may think I'm Texan I now assure you that I'm all Mexican from here on this side.)

The corrido tradition has declined somewhat in "Mexico de afuera" since 1930, the victim of commercialism, overexposure, and cultural changes. Recent Mexican-American ballads have commemorated powerfully such events as the assassination of President Kennedy, but generally they lack the epic quality of earlier compositions. Still, corridos, even more than other folklore genres, have played a critical role in the establishment of a Mexican-American literary tradition in a time when conventional literary works were relatively scarce. The corridos have provided to MexicanAmerican writers not only themes and stories but a cultural and narrative stance, a way of transcending the prevailing gloom of American minority experience. Better than any other art form, the corrido celebrates and vindicates the "Greater Mexico" experience.

For several generations after Guadalupe Hidalgo, the literary record of Mexican-Americans–or what we have of it–shows a considerably slower movement towards a distinctive perspective than does the folklore. The corridos, for example, as early as the 1860s focused on cultural conflict with the Anglos as the fundamental fact of the Mexican-American experience; much of the conventional literature, on the other hand, is nostalgic and oddly detached from contemporary issues, as if the present reality were too difficult to confront. Moreover, when writers did choose to treat current issues, their tone was seldom either proud or defiant, but rather tentative and subdued, even submissive.

Although the southwestern territories were never as culturally isolated–either before or after the coming of the Anglo–as scholars have generally claimed, opportunities for formal education were scarce until well into the twentieth century. Before 1848, schooling, except in its most rudimentary form, was limited primarily to the privileged classes. After the region was absorbed by the United States, education for Mexican-Americans did not greatly improve for reasons of discrimination and differences over curricula and control of schools. But for those Mexican-Americans who had the tool of literacy, writing was a highly popular activity. MexicanAmericans kept diaries, journals, and "books of personal verses" to which several members of a family might contribute. For those writers interested in a larger audience, there were Spanish-language newspapers throughout the Southwest that published creative works; from 1848 to 1958, over three hundred and fifty such newspapers were issued for varying periods of time.

Of the published material, verse was by far the most popular form of literary expression. A large portion of the newspaper poetry was printed anonymously, a custom which dates from the early days of Spanish colonization. But whether anonymous or signed, versifying was so widespread an activity in the Spanish-speaking Southwest that in 1884, the exasperated editor of La Aurora in Santa Fe, apparently reeling under the weight of unsolicited submissions, composed a brief essay entitled "Remedies for VerseMania." Much of the newspaper poetry was virtually indistinguishable from folk verse and followed traditional Spanish forms such as the canción and décima. Early Mexican-American newspaper poetry generally focused on such themes as love, religious piety, love of the Mexican homeland, and the beauty of nature. Closely attuned to literary movements in Mexico and Spanish America, Mexican-American poets followed the fashions of romanticism and modernismo in turn. So strong were these southern influences that Mexican and Spanish-American poetry–notably the works of Amado Nervo, Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera, and Ruben Darío–often dominated the literary pages of Mexican-American newspapers.

Not surprisingly, much of the newspaper verse was of low literary quality. The lyric poetry particularly was flawed by a lack of originality, sentimentalism, and an almost pervasive inability to restrain romantic impulses. Early Mexican-American poets composed odes to clouds, turtle doves, and virgins; they endlessly professed their unrequited love; and they solemnly celebrated devotion to the Church. Francisco Ramírez, the young editor of El Clamor Público in Los Angeles from 1855–1859, published his own verse and rhapsodized about "angels of love" and "enchanting nymphs." Another poet from the same newspaper, José Elías González, wrote these lines.

Tu cabellera es de oro; Tu talle esbelto, ligero; Eres mi bien, mi tesoro, El ídolo que venero.

(Your long hair is golden, your figure well-shaped, lithe; you are my love, my treasure, the idol I venerate.)

There is something profoundly disturbing about this body of work. It seems a literature created out of fear and intimidation, a defensive response to racial prejudice–particularly the Anglo distaste for miscegenation–and ethnocentrism. The New Mexican writers retreated from the contemporary world into nostalgia, and it is a striking quality of their work that there are so few Anglos in it, as if each one were a gross impertinence. The problem is that their literary past is so pathetically unreal and self-deceptive. Nina Otero Warren, a chief advocate of New Mexico Hispanicism, defended the oppressive system of peonage by explaining that the peons "were not slaves, but working people who preferred submission to the patrón rather than an independent chance alone." In the same work, she observes that Hispanos "lived close to the soil and to nature. They cherished their traditions, inherited from Spain and adapted to their new life. Theirs was a part of the feudal age, when master and men, although separate in class, were bound together by mutual interests and a close community of human sympathy. Much of this life remains today."

In sum, the body of early Mexican-American literature that has survived–both in Spanish and English–is less interesting than the folklore and certainly less representative of the collective spirit. The vigor, the tone of defiance so typical of the corridos is lacking in the written materials. What we find instead, generally, is a rather ingenuous hopefulness, a submissiveness, and a contrived and derivative romanticism. The reason for this dichotomy may be that, until about 1940, most Mexican-American writers came from relatively privileged backgrounds, from families of position and property that had a considerable stake in cultural and political accommodation. The oral traditions in this period, on the other hand, were essentially a proletarian form of expression, articulating the sentiments of those who had little capital and few material goods to lose. These people sought to preserve their culture and were ready to defend it, as the expression went, "con la pistola en la mano." Allin all, an interesting twist to the stereotype of the humble Mexican as a docile, meek individual.

A landmark in Mexican-American literary history was reached in 1945 with the publication of Josephina Niggli's Mexican Village, an unduly neglected work consisting of ten related stories that constitute a literary chronicle of Hidalgo, a town in the northern state of Nuevo Leon. The major character in the book is Bob Webster, an American-born product of a liaison between a Mexican woman and an Anglo who rejects his son when his Mexican blood manifests itself rather too clearly. Deeply hurt, Bob runs off to Europe, eventually fighting with the French during World War I. But his loneliness is relentless, and in desperation he travels to Hidalgo, the village of the Mexican grandmother who had raised him, to satisfy a "nostalgia of the blood." To the villagers, he seems an incongruity: his dark skin and fluent Spanish clash with the foreignness of his name. Yet, Webster feels a sense of belonging in Hidalgo, the stories of his grandmother running through his mind and tying him to the people and the land. At the end of Mexican Village, Bob has been fully assimilated into the community, even to the point of taking his mother's name. Through Webster, Niggli suggests that few Mexican-Americans are truly detached from their origins. Their cultural memories–as in Bob's case, often received as folklore–reside in the back of their minds, ready to emerge.

In treating Mexican culture, Niggli intended not only to describe it but to create a fictional ambience that itself imparts a sense of the culture to the reader. No device served this end more effectively than the extensive use of folkloric materials. For example, Niggli introduces each section of Mexican Village with a proverb which is related to the theme of the story; the characters themselves also have a fondness for dichos. In addition, Mexican folksongs reverberate throughout the book. Niggli recounts legends of noble bandits and buried treasure typical of the oral traditions of northern Mexico. One of the major characters in the book is Tía Magdalena, a bruja (witch) who can dispense a remedy or a curse for any occasion, depending on her inclination. Several of the fictional situations in Mexican Village are variations of well-known folktales. One episode features a daring young man who sneaks into a rival town to romance its prettiest girl, a modification of a Mexican tale in which the devil assumes a disguise, descends to earth and dances with an innocent young woman.

Like María Cristina Mena, Niggli simulated the flavor of Spanish by reproducing in English its syntactical and idiomatic qualities. Although Mexican Village was composed in English, it intentionally reads like a translation. Sometimes Niggli uses literal translations such as "the family Castillo" to achieve the effect of Spanish; she also renders into English distinctively Mexican expressions: arrogant boys are called "young roosters"; Tía Magdalena speaks affectionately of "Grandfather Devil"; another character trying to emphasize his honesty swears by "the five wounds of God."

Mexican Village stands as a major transitional work in the development of Mexican-American fiction. In its sensitive evocation of rural life, its emotionalism, and affectionate portrayal of exotic experiences and personalities, the book culminated the romantic tradition in Mexican-American writing. But Mexican Village also pointed forward to an emerging school of realism, confronting such issues as racism, the oppression of women, and the failure of the Mexican Revolution. Before Niggli, no writer of fiction in the United States, with the exception of Katherine Anne Porter, had so vividly depicted the fundamental tensions in Mexican life: the sometimes volatile interaction of Spanish and Indian cultures, the profound sense of history and traditionalism pulling against the fascination with that which is modern and voguish. But Niggli's greatest achievement was to delineate an important aspect of Mexican-American experience and to create a distinctive ambience for its presentation.

After Niggli, Mexican-American writing changed significantly just as the Mexican-American population itself changed, largely as a result of the impact of World War II. Shortages in the domestic labor force brought on by military demands were alleviated by the importation of thousands of Mexican workers, many of whom settled permanently in the United States. The war also triggered a shift in occupational and residential patterns. Mexican-Americans left agricultural work in small communities for factory and service jobs in large cities, particularly Los Angeles and San Antonio. The participation of Mexican-Americans in the military services provided many with their first intimate contact with Anglo-American culture. Military experience undoubtedly heightened the expectations of many Mexican-Americans. Having risked their lives for the United States, they demanded more of its institutions in return. In sum, the Second World War pulled Mexican-Americans closer to–although clearly not into–the American mainstream. By the late 1940s, Mexican-Americans had established a cultural identity distinct from that of their brethren south of the Rio Grande. Whereas an earlier generation had fought in Chihuahua and composed corridos about Pancho Villa, the present generation fought in the Philippines and composed corridos commemorating Douglas MacArthur.

In 1947, Mario Suàrez began to publish a series of stories in the Arizona Quarterly. The stories are about the people of El Hoyo (The Hole), a barrio in Tucson, and Suárez describes the residents not as Mexicans or Mexican-Americans, but as Chicanos. Suárez explains that "Chicano" is simply the short way of saying Mexicano, but it is clear the term suggests something more. The Chicanos are an embattled minority, in some ways reminiscent of Steinbeck's paisanos of Tortilla Flat but drawn less in caricature and with greater understanding and compassion. In Suárez's stories, they appear as an assortment of individuals who combine Mexican and American characteristics to marvelous effect.

Although El Hoyo is physically a part of Tucson, culturally it is a world unto itself where different principles obtain. One of its leading citizens is Señor Garza, a barber who operates his business according to the unshakable conviction that "a man should not work too hard." When business gets too heavy, Garza closes his shop and escapes to Mexico. Garza is not lazy but simply does not assign a high importance to the making of money. As Suárez writes: "Garza, a philosopher. Owner of Garza's Barber Shop. But the shop will never own Garza."

Suárez understood that the merging of Mexican and American cultures was a delicate process, particularly in a fast-paced urban environment with its bewildering array of institutions. In "Kid Zopilote," Suárez depicts the transformation of Pepe García, a young man from El Hoyo who, during a summer in Los Angeles, is exposed to the zoot-suit craze and comes away much impressed. The Mexican zoot-suiters, or pachucos, had affected an elaborate lifestyle based on a bizarre combination of Mexican and American traits. They spoke a patois of English and Spanish, creating terms such as "returniar" and "watchiando." Pepe is especially impressed by the camaraderie of the pachucos and so becomes one himself, much to the horror of his tradition-minded mother. Under the influence of his new friends, Pepe takes to smoking and selling marijuana and is eventually arrested. In the jailhouse, the police destroy his zoot suit and shear his magnificent pompadour. When Pepe is released, his humiliation is so great that he stays at home and practices his guitar. He becomes a quite proficient musician, but when his hair grows long and "meets in the back of his head in the shape of a duck's tail," he puts down his guitar and returns to the street. As Pepe's uncle observes, a zopilote–a buzzard–can never be a peacock.

Suárez's most poignant treatment of the acculturation process appears in "Maestria." This story features Gonzalo Pereda, a "master" of the art of raising fighting cocks. One day he is presented with a young rooster from a friend in Chihuahua and Gonzalo nurtures the bird, called "Killer," with special affection. After a few victories in the pit, Killer is badly beaten. Gonzalo nurses the bird back to health, but ironically sees Killer choke to death on a piece of liver. Writes Suárez:

Like Killer's plight, it might be added, is the plight of many things the maestros cherish. Each year they hear their sons talk English with a rapidly disappearing accent, that accent which one early accustomed only to Spanish never fails to have. Each year the maestros notice that their sons' Spanish loses fluency. But perhaps it is natural. The maestros themselves seem to forget about bulls and bullfighters, about guitars and other things so much a part of the world that years ago circumstance forced them to leave behind. They hear instead more about the difference between one baseball swing and another. Yes, perhaps it is only natural.