The People of Paper

Salvador Plascencia’s "The People of Paper" is a wild ride through the fragmented lives of Mexican immigrants in El Monte, California, but don’t expect a straightforward story. This novel is less a traditional narrative and more a literary collage — a patchwork of magical realism, metafiction, and typographical experiments that challenge how we think about storytelling itself.

At the heart is Federico de la Fe, a man grappling with loss and humiliation after his wife Merced leaves him because of his chronic bed-wetting. He moves to El Monte with their daughter, Little Merced, and becomes the reluctant leader of a group of carnation pickers, the El Monte Flores. But this isn’t your average labor rebellion. Federico and his crew are fighting against Saturn — a celestial force that’s less a planet and more an omniscient narrator, a stand-in for the author’s control over their lives. Imagine the existential dread of realizing you’re a character in someone else’s story, and then fighting back.

Alongside Federico, the novel introduces a quirky cast: Apolonio, whose healing powers come from Oaxacan songbirds; Santos, a masked Mexican wrestler hiding from sainthood; and others who blur the line between myth and reality. Each character wrestles with their identity and autonomy in a world where even the author’s hand is visible, sometimes literally, in the text.

What makes "The People of Paper" stand out is its structure. The pages themselves rebel against convention — expect sudden shifts in perspective, abrupt visual interruptions like illustrations or blank spaces, and text that sometimes looks like it’s been cut out or erased. This fragmented style mirrors the characters’ fractured lives and the theme of resisting control, making you feel their struggle viscerally.

Thematically, the novel digs into the messy business of identity — personal, cultural, and narrative. It’s about who gets to tell your story and how much freedom you have within that telling. Love and faith weave through the story as forces that both bind and liberate, while the magical realism elements keep things hovering between the believable and the surreal. It’s a meditation on the power dynamics behind storytelling — who holds the pen, and what happens when the characters start to fight back.

Reading this book is like piecing together a puzzle where the edges keep shifting. It demands your full attention and rewards patience with moments of unexpected beauty and insight. But don’t expect a smooth ride. The prose can be uneven, and the experimental format might feel like a headache if you’re used to traditional narratives. Still, if you’re willing to lean into the chaos, it’s a refreshing take on what a novel can be.

Plascencia’s debut is also a significant voice in Chicano literature, bringing fresh perspectives on immigration, labor, and cultural identity, all wrapped in a postmodern package. It’s a novel that refuses to be pinned down — much like its characters — and that’s exactly why it sticks with you long after the last page.