As my first foray into what could possibly be categorised as Chicano literature (or Hispano? Almost Latinamerican, but not entirely?), I knew very little of what to expect, and yet I am surprised to have found myself teared up at the end. Might it be to the effect of empathising with my fellow migrants and displaced, particularly in the world-shaking era we happen to find ourselves in (notably with the Palestinian and Congolese genocides, the Sudanese war, the rise of white supremacy and fascism around us); whatever it might be, though certain stylistic choices continued to mildly annoy me during the read, ultimately one comes to understand the reason for said choices. 
I cannot help but think that there's more to be said and read about this novel, and my baby-steps  introduction to Rudolfo Anaya; the matters of pseudo-spiritual connection to one's ancestors, issues of race and class, the role of the Native and Indigenous woman as little more than a witch-healer or a fertile land, these issues I find are tackled earnestly and honestly by the author. In particular noting his address to the reader at the end of the novel, which I believe happens to explain what initial doubts plagued my mind about the characters.
I shall happily read this again, possibly weep to it; and think of what sensibilities matter to the children of those Wretched of the Earth, those children of the forgotten.