Wicked Weeds: A Zombie Novel - Pedro Cabiya

Translated by Jessica Ernst Powell

Published in 2016 by Mandel Vilar Press, Simsbury, CT

184 pages

ISBN: 978-1-942134-11-4 (paperback)

Out of all of the various monsters that haunt the horror genre, zombies have always held my avid fascination. Although often dismissed as a crude figure of low-budget horror, the figure of the zombie is surprisingly complex. The zombie is a ubiquitous symbol of the death drive, embodying our anxieties of death, hedonistic consumer capitalism, colonialism, racism, and mass contagions. They reveal the fragility of the modern state and its inadequacy in response to crises (a point all the more salient in the wake of 2020), and, in their most libertarian forms, they highlight the darkest, most cynical impulses of human relationships. In addition (as I argued in my undergraduate thesis), the zombie is also a deep source of theological reflection. 

But where did the zombie come from? It can be all too easy to forget, in a post-Romero zombie landscape, that the zombie has its origins in Haitian folklore traditions. Coined from the Haitian zombi, the original zombie isn’t so much a brain-hungry, walking, decaying corpse, but rather a victim of an unnatural death who was raised back to life by a bokor (witch-doctor). Caught between a liminal space between life and death, the zombi has no will of its own, instead being entirely enslaved to do the bidding of the bokor. 

Since the 1930s, the zombie has branched out from these roots and evolved into multiple manifestations, ranging from the slow, meandering “Walkers” that populate the worlds of Night of the Living Dead and The Walking Dead to the ultra-fast, viral contagion zombies of 28 Days Later and World War Z. But these stories often follow the same basic structure, and it’s easy to find the genre a bit stale without some new, interesting variation. In his 2016 novel, Wicked Weeds: A Zombie Novel, Puerto Rican-born poet, screenwriter, and author Pedro Cabiya returns the zombie to its Caribbean roots. In this non-linear story, Cabiya combines existential philosophy, ethnobotany, and Caribbean oral history to create a truly unique zombie novel. 

Overview: 

As such, Wicked Weeds is organized as a scrapbook made by one of the main characters, scientist Isadore Bellamy. This scrapbook is comprised of several different types of genres, including standard narrative prose, scientific field notes, diary entries, philosophical scribblings, police interviews, and transcriptions of oral history. Immediately before the story begins, the reader is given both a warning and a choice: they can either read the book chronologically, or they can follow the guidance of the Table of Contents, jumping around and reading each type of literature together. The author warns that those who stubbornly choose to read “in rigorous compliance with the page numbers...will get you nowhere, for even following that path you will wind up in chaos.” On the other hand, those who choose to follow the erratic arrangement provided by the table of contents “should fear not, for the table of contents will always deliver them to a safe harbor, telling them what goes with what.” Yet, he warns, this method could prove to be fatal, as although it will be more understandable, they will not be reading as Doctor Bellamy intended, and may suffer tragic consequences.  

In one first-person narrative, we are introduced to a wealthy unnamed scientist who lives his days covertly as a zombie. Feeling no emotion, our zombie protagonist (a top executive of a pharmaceutical company) surprisingly befriends three of his female coworkers as he obsessively searches for a cure for his condition. As these newfound friends begin to give him overtly romantic gestures, he continually bumbles his way through them as he tries to hide his true identity, leading to a wide array of awkward (and somewhat humorous) interactions. As he seeks a cure and comes to terms with the budding romances with these three women, the scientist explores the existential questions of what it means to be human as they teach him lessons in passion, empathy, and love. However, a tragedy occurs during a night out on the town, and the police reports scattered through the book give a wider context to these events from the perspective of each of the three women. 

In a parallel story, Dr. Isadore Bellamy gives her reflections on growing up as a Haitian descendant within the Dominican Republic. She also offers an account of classism and zombie-based slavery, as well as a brutal murder that obliquely intersects with the unnamed scientist’s story. Isadore ponders the nature of human subjectivity and how we perceive the world around us, and also transcribes an oral account from her great aunt Sandrine, as she (from rural Haiti) struggles to adjust to life in the urban Dominican Republic. In this account, Sandrine recounts various accounts of classism, her difficult relationship with a boy named Pascal, as well as a thrilling and chilling late-night zombie chase. Throughout all of these stories, Cabiya explores the themes of phenomenology, the philosophy of emotion, neuroscience, and religious syncretism in this unique, Caribbean noir work of fiction. 

Commendations:

First of all, the non-linear, disjointed scrapbook structure of this book makes it a bewildering, but fascinating read. I must confess: I read this book twice, although three years apart. Back in 2018, I originally read the book chronologically, accepting chaos for the sake of reading it as the imaginary Dr. Bellamy intended. What I came away with was a slightly confusing text that, while difficult to piece together, ultimately came together in the end. The fractured structure of a chronological reading, while confusing at times, keeps the reader on their toes and thinking about how it all fits together. There is also a shocking twist toward the end, which puts the rest of the narrative in a much different light. Most recently, I read it thematically, using the Table of Contents as my guide. While it was a much smoother journey, some details get either lost or spoiled far too early. This choice of reading, however, made for an interesting new perspective upon rereading it, as I picked up a few details that I missed by reading it differently the first time. 

Furthermore, the story is primarily told through three main perspectives: the unnamed male scientist, Dr. Isadore Bellamy, and her great aunt Sandrine. Each of these characters sits within different points of tension within the social classes of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. While the male scientist is wealthy and seemingly handsome, his condition as a zombie and his ever unstable mental state makes him an outsider (at least within his mind). Isadore is a beautiful and immensely intelligent woman who overcomes many difficulties to become respected in her field. Sandrine is a native Haitian whose village is steeped in black magic and folklore. These various perspectives reveal the complex social relations between these two countries, as well as their economic and historical tensions. Sandrine’s story, in particular, had the most salient critique of classism, racism, and the legacy of slavery through a science fiction/zombie horror lens, which I found one of the best and most impactful sections of the book. In a unique analysis, the zombie becomes a figure of the immigrant, the foreigner, and the outcast— a symbol of radical alterity within the acceptable social order that is exploited by the logic of capital (such as the ultra-wealthy using zombism to create slaves and house servants).

While they didn’t always contribute much to the thrust of the main narrative, I also deeply appreciated the brief asides that tackled a wide range of topics. Covering such disparate fields such as color theory, neuroscience, ethnobotany, existential philosophy/phenomenology, and the analysis of Pinocchio as an early zombie figure, these brief, but punchy chapters left me with much to think about and consider, and tended to blend non-fiction speculative writing alongside the fictional narrative. Alternating between dense philosophical and scientific jargon to lyrical, poetic, and deeply sensual descriptions of various sensations of touch, sight, and smell, Cabiya is certainly a gifted writer, traversing several different genres of literature with incredible deftness. This experimental style, while strange at first, was quite intriguing and refreshing. 

Finally, for diehard fans of zombie film and literature, this book delivers an impressive knowledge of zombies as they’ve been represented in pop culture over the years. Combining several decades of zombie literature and lore, Cabiya successfully utilizes a wide array of examples to ponder the philosophical depths of the figure of the zombie. In these explorations, Cabiya causes us to question what it means to be alive, and what it means to live with a sense of qualia- or “the living thing’s capacity to establish a connection between his experience of the world and the self” (6).

Critique: 

While this experimental style is interesting, the book feels incredibly disjointed and uneven. While it tries to tie these various stories together, the book ultimately doesn’t quite fit everything together cohesively. This problem is exacerbated by the differing ways in which the book can be read. As I mentioned before, reading chronologically is the most confusing way to read through the story. The various fragments remain suspended in ambiguity, only to find a tiny bit of resolution after the twist ending is revealed. 

On the other hand, while reading the book according to the table of contents is a much more cohesive and comprehensible experience, the main twist of the book is given away early on, which completely spoils the experience of trying to figure out the narrative for yourself. Also, details that are revealed progressively on a chronological read (such as characters that intersect across storylines) are lost on a thematic reading, leading to a more confusing experience as to how it all fits together. While I prefer to read this book front to back chronologically, either way you choose to read the book, the reader will most likely come away confused as to how all the various pieces connect. Honestly, even after multiple reads, I’m not sure that they do. 

Finally, one of the most salient critiques I have of this book concerns the narrative of the male scientist and his three female coworkers. This section takes up the majority of the pages of the book, which is unfortunate since it’s the most troublesome and eye-rolling part of the book. First of all, our male scientist is in charge of the lab that these women are running and is technically their supervisor. I only mention this because immediately, these women throw themselves at our main male protagonist in an increasingly absurd series of sexual advances. 

Upon meeting them for the first time, our zombie protagonist immediately describes them in hyper-sexualized language, taking note of Mathilde’s “firm, steely abdominals and a pristine, flat belly button in which a gothic piercing glimmered,” Patricia Julia’s “short skirt” and long bronzed legs like “a perfectly smooth, sculpted column,” and Isadore’s “thin, floral print dress that just barely managed to contain the flawless bulk of her jet-black breasts'' (14). As soon as he takes charge of the laboratory, they each fight with each other for his affection, making increasingly sexualized advances on him. 

Every single time these characters are introduced, our protagonist immediately describes what they are wearing, as well as the various alluring physical traits of their bodies that are sexually suggestive to him. As the women make incredibly absurd advances upon our male scientist, he, feeling no emotion, keeps bumbling through the various social cues that they are giving him. These make the women upset at him, and after throwing a tantrum or two, they inexplicably return to try to win his affection again and again.

These culminate at a dance party toward the end of the book, in which he hesitantly engages in various sexual activities with two of his female subordinates (including a far-too-descriptive and uncomfortable scene of him fingering one of the women’s anus until he, an undead zombie with no flowing blood, miraculously gets an erection, terrifying our zombie protagonist). These encounters with each woman help him regain a bit more of his qualia, as he learns to empathize with Mathilda, regain the sense of touch with Patricia Julia, and fall in love with Isadore. Yet, from his male gaze, these women are portrayed primarily as sex objects, with their various body parts to be “possessed” and “hunted.” 

While this can be read through the lens of an unreliable, male chauvinist narrator, it is still disappointing to see these women used as little more than sexual props. Verging on the edge of softcore erotica at several points, it is rather uncomfortable to read and incredibly demeaning to women, who only seem to exist in his narrative to help him discover his lost humanity (or qualia) through his romantic/sexual encounters with them. While the absurdity of the situations borders on humor, it far more often than not fell flat for me, leading to just an awkward mess. These scenes ultimately left me rolling my eyes and even caused me to want to stop reading the book altogether at one point. While I am glad that I finished it, I do not know if it was ultimately worth the groan-inducing plotline of this central narrative.

Conclusion: 

Overall, Wicked Weeds is an immensely unique, cerebral, but wholly uncomfortable read. Mixing classic noir, science fiction, philosophy, neuroscience, and social commentary, Wicked Weeds gives the reader an idiosyncratic zombie novel unlike anything else out there. What it gains in erudite and engrossing descriptions of racism, classism, and slavery in Haiti and the Dominican Republic, however, falls flat in its failed attempts at humor at the expense of the dignity and complexity of several female characters. This aspect is unfortunate since I think that there are a lot of hidden gems within the book (Sandrine’s narrative of slave labor on peanut/cashew plantations, philosophical musings on the nature of the self and the brain, Pinnochio as a prototypical zombie, etc). These are unfortunately overshadowed (in length and centrality in the narrative) by the awkward tale of the scientist and his sexy assistants who just want to sleep with him (typical hyper-masculine fantasy stuff). As an alternative, non-horror zombie novel, however, it certainly brings a new and fresh perspective to zombie literature and has the potential to bring in new readers who might typically be averse to horror literature. 

As such, this book is certainly not for everyone. If you are a fan of typical horror-based zombie literature, then this one might not be up your alley. If you are looking for a vastly different take on zombies with a bit of Caribbean noir flare, then this cerebral story might be for you. Whether you are a zombie fan or not, this book certainly gives the reader a unique, fresh perspective on the figure of the zombie. Returning the zombie to its Caribbean roots, Cabiya shows us how this liminal figure refuses to be buried, arising to haunt our current social, political, and ecological conditions.