Last Readings – (LAST 303 Blog)

Last LAST Thoughts

What a semester, folks. If you can believe it I actually read the Popol Vuh three times in January and February, and now I have an emotional attachment to corn. This class has given me a lot to think about, both in terms of the content we have reviewed and in the thoughts/feelings/other responses you have all shared over the last few months.

I think some of the main things I will be thinking about well after this class is authorship, agency, the idea of voice and the letrado. I’m not sure if I had any specific takes on any of these going into this class, but whatever I did think was definitely complicated by the texts we have read throughout this course. It was interesting, sometimes upsetting, sometimes satisfying, to see how voice (in our context, Indigenous voice) can be so incredibly varied. The nuances between communal voice and individual voice (or, sometimes individuals speaking for the community, whether they should or shouldn’t, or, sometimes individuals speaking though individuals, whether they should or shouldn’t) were surprising to me because I felt like my perspective on them was much more situational than I would have anticipated. For example, I think I would have taken issue with individuals speaking for communities as a general rule, but this gets complicated when a figure like Subcommandante Marcos enters the equation. Or then it becomes re-complicated when we have a Burgos figure. What a personal epistemological nightmare. Ultimately, I think authorship and voice do go hand-in-hand, but there is also a great deal of trust, consent, and almost election that go into creating an effective voice-author partnership, even in cases where the voice and author belong to the same person.

Going through all of the texts we have read, I am also struck with how often race and ethnicity came up as well. I think my biggest blind spot going into this course was anything to do with mestizo individuals and it was enlightening to see how different identity markers interacted with each other at different times. I think Yawar Fiesta has a lot to say about this and does a really good job of showing how different people from different ethnic backgrounds interact in a post-colonial moment. I am a few weeks late but I have also been thinking about how Guaman Poma and Marcos are actually quite similar in terms of their ascribed identities and how they use them- an important difference being that Marcos is chosen and then sheds his other identity, while Guaman Poma actually weaponizes his identity in his text.

Thank you guys for playing connections, wordle, and the mini with me during our breaks. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you all this semester and if you see me around, please say hi! Good luck with finals, research, the summer… whatever is in store for y’all next.

The Falling Sky, Week Two

The next section of “The Falling Sky” begins with a call to action, as Davi is asked to represent the Yanomami against the Brazilian government’s plan to begin excavating in the forest for gold. Mining in Latin America dates back, in some areas, to roughly 15000 BCE, but since the arrival of Columbus and Cortés, mineral resources have been co-opted by colonial powers and transnational corporations. Extractive industries, such as mining, seem to perfectly parallel the reality of settler-colonialism as experienced by humans. Forests, such as the one Davi calls home, are razed, and the land is turned hollow just so someone, somewhere, can make a product or a profit or both. This is perfectly brought together with Davi’s trip to the museum in Paris in a moment that perfectly exemplifies how extractive colonial practices work to commodify the cultures they are responsible for destroying.

I don’t know the figures for Brazil, but, in another class, I am researching colonial mining in Mexico. According to a (rather fascinating) paper by Studnicki-Gizbert and Schecter, roughly of forested area was cleared for silver mining in Mexico between 1558-1804. This area is roughly the size of Zimbabwe. These industries are truly a death sentence for any living being calling the forest home- not to mention the severe side effects that can come from living in proximity to a mine or refinery- mercury poisoning and silicosis are not hard to come by especially if the water becomes contaminated (which, it frequently does).

All of this to say that a gold mining operation is truly, deeply dangerous for Davi and the Yanomami. Apologies for the detour, now let’s get back on track. Davi agrees to speak up, of course, and from this point onwards has “never stopped talking to white people.” (pg. 311) Davi travels through Brazil, then to England and Paris to try to appeal the gold mine. During his travels, Davi also discusses how the food he ate while in Europe left him in a “ghost state,” (pg. 323) which I think speaks to how much physical difference is enduring in this experience. The experience, as he describes, manifests in physical and spiritual aches.

One part that stuck out to me was when Davi describes the spirits across Europe as not having been gone, just that no one can see them as they have lost their connection to them. I think that we (big we as in “””society,””” not necessarily small we as in our class, idk) feel this too at times, though not as acutely or as deeply as Davi describes. I do think that there can be a sense that (big) we gave something up to live in cities and have certain conveniences and access to a selection of products that no one could ever possibly own or try in one lifetime. (Don’t get me wrong, I am very attached to stuff, I just also think maybe we are doing too much all the time) This idea is also echoed in Chapter 19 when Davi talks about how some of his fellow Yanomami become enamoured with tools and good that the white people brought with them, as he continually says that merchandise, unlike people, lives a long time. (pg. 328-330)

The Falling Sky, Week One

In the “How This Book Was Written” section of The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, editor/collaborator/we’ve-talked-about-whether-or-not-this-role-counts-as-authorship-but-I-remain-divided Bruce Albert describes how he and Davi Kopenawa met, became close, and wrote this book. Albert says: “[…] Davi Kopenawa decided to use that recording to describe his view of the Yanomami’s tragic situation and to launch an appeal to me. And so he did, in his own language […]” (pg. 440) I don’t think it’s a reach to say that this is reminiscent of other texts we’ve read- I, Rigoberta Menchú especially, and Our Word is Our Weapon to a smaller degree. Albert’s background, much like Elizabeth Burgos’ own, puts him in a specific position to tell this story (though, unlike Menchú and Burgos, Kopenawa and Albert do not have an instantaneous connection). This is also discussed throughout the “Setting the Scene” section, where Albert gives us context for his and Kopenawa’s lives, work, and backgrounds. It is in this section that Albert says “the book is the result of a written and oral process that was continually shaped by the intersecting projects of the two authors.” (pg. 8) (So, I guess that answers the authorship question.)

This is further complicated as later, Albert describes his contributions as not being “direct translations” (pg. 444) of Kopenawa’s words. Rather, he states that “[m]y own editorial strategy, as far as possible, was guided by the search for a compromise that tempers the hierarchical relationship embedded in the ‘ethnographic situation’ and the textual production that flows from it.” (pg. 445) Again, not unlike other works we have discussed, it would seem that Albert is trying to impart a sense of “authenticity” or reality onto this work. However, we have no way of knowing which parts are accurate/real/authentic, and what is being played up or down for the sake of prose. I don’t necessarily think this is a bad thing or that changing certain details means we should be skeptical of the whole work. Kopenawa’s story, regardless of editorial intervention, is not one that is unfamiliar with or ungrounded in the reality of land dispossession and resource extraction.

I think my initial skepticism, or uncertainty, rests on the fact that Albert has had such an active role in the military in the past. Not that people can’t or don’t change. But I think that given the role that militaries have had in exactly the issues that Kopenawa is describing makes me wonder about his motivations and his conscience. I’m not sure how to place it.

Our Word Is Our Weapon, Week Two

The “Beneath the Mask” section of Our Word is Our Weapon raised more questions about the identity of Subcommandante Marcos. It’s interesting- not necessarily bad or good, just interesting- to add a section to this book that shows him interacting with the children in the camp, then later adding a section of confessions, it all seems very personal, even if the confessions are largely political. Compared to the more elusive image of Marcos that we saw in the first half of our discussion, this is vulnerable, intimate. I particularly enjoyed the section where he responds to the list of accusations- there’s a lot of personality here but there is also a deep awareness of how he is perceived, criticized, received… and he accepts it all. It’s hard not to feel at least a little bit endeared to this person/character/”hologram.” Is that strategic? Is it genuine? Both? I can’t say for sure.

The next section, wherein Marcos interacts with Durito, is much more metaphorical than the previous parts we have read. Durito, who claims to be 10 years old and a beetle, becomes part of the Zapatista movement of his own accord. Throughout Marcos’ stories, ages are sometimes exaggerated or tied to specific dates. This makes me wonder about Durito’s actual age- though, in some of his interactions with Marcos, it does seem like he is a child, while in others he is wise and politically aware beyond his years. This section also has an incident where Marcos, along with Durito, are almost caught by the military. When Marcos fears for Durito’s safety, Durito says that Marcos is actually the most at risk, which Marcos realizes is true. This takes me back to the previous section. Is Marcos including this to make a point about the dangers that children are facing under this government? Durito comes to the camp willingly, seeks it out even, yet I wonder what sort of childhood you have to have to do such a thing. (As an aside, I tried looking Durito up and all I can find is a specific type of snack, so if this is a nom de guerre, it is not one that is widely remembered.)

Of course, there is also a large part of this dedicated to discussing the Popol Vuh. Since we have already spoken about this so much (and no doubt will speak about it more tomorrow), I will try to keep my thoughts here concise. I think that, much like in IRM, including the Popol Vuh speaks largely to a shared identity. It makes sense that Marcos identifies with it, connects with it, and shares it here. Even though his own identity is called into question (or problematized), using the Popol Vuh is undoubtedly a way for him to connect with the people he is speaking, fighting, dying, for. It seems that there are also a lot of parallels (intentional or unintentional) between the story he is telling about the Zapatistas and the story of the Popol Vuh.

Our Word is Our Weapon, Week One

“Our Word is Our Weapon” reads like a treatise rather than a novel. As the pages detail the injustices the Mexican state imposes upon the Mayan population, I am reminded of all of the political theory I had to absorb early on in my studies- though, Subcomandante Marcos’ writing is certainly more digestible than Enlightenment-era philosophers. I understand why he was chosen to represent “the people”- his tone is clear and collected/ive. However, this representation is also complex in its own way. Marcos, the chosen speaker for the disenfranchised Indigenous people of Mexico, especially the Maya in Chiapas, is not himself Maya. How do we reconcile this? How does he? How can a collective identity speak in one voice?

Subcomandante Marcos seems to recognize that his position here is delicate, and the people that chose him as their speaker seem to see this as well. I suppose (?) that Marcos’ is a more direct representation compared to Guaman Poma’s First New Chronicle and Good Government, wherein Guaman Poma self-assigns as the spokesperson for the Indigenous population of the Spanish-occupied Andes. At least there is somewhat of a consensus and acceptance of Marcos as the voice of the movement. Something else that was similar to the Guaman Poma text was the inclusion of roles/lives of others. Guaman Poma spends a considerable amount of time detailing the experiences of individuals, which Marcos does as well. Particularly, Marcos goes into detail about the lives of some of the Zapatista women in the first section of this book. While this follows a long tradition of women participating in revolutionary activity in Mexico, women’s roles in times of conflict have largely been ignored or represented as negative. (Take many of the cultural depictions of the Soldaderas of the Mexican Revolution, which portray these women as either mothers or whores, a binary which erases a plethora of complex lived experience). Marcos describes these women as important, instrumental, even integral to the work of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN). This, to me, was reminiscent of how Menchú described the women who took up arms in Guatemala. Given Marcos’ own relationship to identity (the ever-present mask, for example), the whole of this text seems imbued with questions of how we relate to and identify with each other. The EZLN itself uses Marcos’ (ironically secret) identity as their own to form a larger movement and mobilize, yet Marcos is also co-opting a sort of identity by being the voice and masked face of the movement.

I, Rigoberta Menchú, Week Two

The second half of I, Rigoberta Menchú was (somehow) more brutal as the first. As Rigoberta explains how she became actively involved in guerrilla groups and resistance movements to protect her community, she is met over and over again with the deaths of members of her community, her compañeros and her family members. I was surprised at the level of detail with which she describes her involvement in the deaths, kidnapping, and/or capture of soldiers. It seemed to me that a certain level of death was normalized in the first half (particularly the way she described children dying), and that even in personal tragedies (the death of her brother on the finca), it was understood as a part of life.

I don’t feel like this is what she is saying when she talks about death in the second part of the novel. The deaths in the second half of the novel, especially the deaths of her father, mother, and brother, are all due to political injustice and the extraordinarily brutal treatment of the army during the Guatemalan Civil War. I thought that the way this was presented in the book mirrored how she was becoming more aware of the worsening situation facing the Indigenous community in Guatemala (and elsewhere in North, Central, and South America). The deaths of her siblings in the first half, are, of course, still tied to this. (Although, this tie seemed a retroactive realization rather than one she understood at the time- understandable as she was a child.) She talks about the deaths in the second half differently, however. I think this is because she was younger when they occur and her relationship to family and authority changes throughout the years. I thought it was also significant that the chapter on death and customs around death came after the death of her parents, and that the community is always present and prioritized. Last week, I talked about how I felt that she saw these earlier deaths with anger; this week, I think we see how that anger crystallizes and spurs action.

In last week’s class, we touched on the idea of whether or not parts of this story are exaggerated or false. I do not know if I formed a strong opinion last class. After reading this, I don’t think I care whether or not these things happened to her specifically, the fact is that they were happening, and in many places still are, to all kinds of people. In situations like this, does absolute personal truth matter more than getting the world to pay attention? Than getting people the help they need? I don’t think many of us would say that the specifics of what happened or how it happened matter more.

I, Rigoberta Menchú, Week One

Reading I, Rigoberta Menchú was an experience. There’s a lot I want to talk about in regards to the first half of this novel, from the way community is organized, to daily life, to relationships to work, family, and others, and of course the ways in which social hierarchies intersect all of these.

I was shocked by the simultaneous tenderness and anger with which Rigoberta describes her early life. I’m not sure if that is a mischaracterization of her feelings or not. There was a palpable frustration in many parts, especially when she talks about working on the finca and interactions she had with those in positions of power. However, there was also a deep recognition that what she was doing, what her parents were doing, was in service of something larger. Responsibility is something she talks about a lot- and I think this feeling of being responsible to other people is captured nicely when she describes how she felt after her work began to contribute to her family’s income: “I remember very well never wasting a single moment, mainly out of love for my parents so that they could save a little of their money […]” (pg. 40) Of course, this feeling of responsibility translates across the rest of her life as well. When she describes the role of the community, there is a deep sense of shared responsibility, of communal connectedness, towards each other. This exists from even before you are born.

The weight of this responsibility is also felt in death. Rigoberta explains that death was not uncommon- especially in the case of children dying from malnutrition. The loss of community (or, the absence of it) during her youngest brother, Nicolás’s, death is felt strongly as well. Any death is heartbreaking, but I really felt bad when Rigoberta explains that they couldn’t even communicate with others except sometimes through signs and gestures. What an isolating experience, coupled with what I’m sure is immense grief. This only became worse when the caporal of the finca says that they will have to pay to bury Nicolás’ body (and to keep him buried there). The entire finca system seemed incredibly unjust but this was truly an act of cruelty. This part also illuminated the dehumanization that Indigenous people underwent simply in order to survive, as well as showed some very serious tensions and intersections between class and ethnicity. The workers are treated with (less than) no respect, yet the entire system is reliant on them coming and selling their lives for months at a time, often with their children in tow, and a great personal cost. The contrast between life in Rigoberta’s village and the strong communal ties and the isolating, violent experience at the finca (and in the city of Antigua, actually) was unsettling.

Yawar Fiesta

Yawar Fiesta by José María Arguedas is a novel that takes place in the Andean town of Puquio, the story follows the events leading up to the titular fiesta. Early on, we learn that the central component of the fiesta is the bullfight. This is also a source of conflict between the Indigenous, misti, and Spaniard groups living in Puquio, and is reflective of larger social dynamics in 20^th century colonial Peru. Arguedas navigates complex relationships between colonizer, colonized, and those who fall somewhere between. This is not just visible in the story itself, but also in Arguedas’ use of language. The written words jump back and forth between Spanish (originally, though I am reading the English translation) and Quechua, indicative of the linguistic and cultural gaps faced by the inhabitants of Puquio. Personally, I wondered if this story was a way for Arguedas to articulate and reckon with his own identity as a mestizo/misti living in Peru, and if the simultaneous use of Quechua and Spanish was a way to convey a larger feeling of displacement and isolation, never belonging quite to one group or another. Throughout the novel, the misti are shown to be rejected by both the Indigenous and Spaniard groups, despite some incidental and case-specific acceptance.

Using the lens of the bullfight allowed Arguedas to converse with other issues present in the colonial context. For example, the main tension around the bullfight is that the national government has passed an edict stating that only professional toreadors may be hired for the event. This is in conflict with the traditions of the Indigenous people in Puquio, who would be unable to participate in the fiesta if the edict is upheld. This alone shows us a few levels of social stratification. First, we have the national government making the edict, who are likely not Indigenous people and are not making choices with the best interests of the Indigenous population at heart. We have those in Puquio who are calling for the edict to be upheld as well- predominantly also Spanish. Many who are supportive of the edict are doing so for the “good” of the Indigenous people- but have not considered the significance of the event for the community, or have thought what a law that effectively bars Indigenous people from participating might lead to later on. A professional toreador would have different (Spanish-influenced) training from that of an Indigenous bullfighter- likely, training that would be inaccessible to Indigenous peoples wanting to pursue it. Of course, we also have the misti and Indigenous communities, who struggle against the edict and are the ones most affected by it. Within this one conflict, we can see how colonial structures manifest outwardly and work to effectively lock-out the colonized populations from positions of power, influence, and eventually from their own traditions.

The First New Chronicle and Good Government, Week 2

The latter half of Guamán Poma’s plea to King Philip of Spain takes on a considerable tonal shift compared to the previous section. Guamán Poma starts out by chronicling the details of specific abuses (often even naming whom has committed them!) and also makes some suggestions for improvements. As he did in the first half, Guamán Poma emphasizes Christian values in his solutions and in his reasoning for why the actions of the Spanish towards the other inhabitants of New Spain are so distasteful. Race is also heavily discussed in relation to the current social structure of the Spanish colonial system, and goes beyond Spanish/Mestizo/Indigenous concerns and even brings up injustices towards black people in the colonies. Guamán Poma even touches on how systemic racism creates other societal problems (though his solution there leaves a lot to be desired, in my opinion) (there’s also some rough opinions on interracial marriage… not great).

Throughout The First New Chronicle and Good Government, Guamán Poma acts as an advocate for the Indigenous people in the Andes. This is no different in his proposed solutions, as he suggests that Indigenous peoples should be appointed into positions of power. There is never any mention of shedding the colonial system entirely, or of restructuring it in a way that is completely radical. In fact, the suggestions made by Guamán Poma all fall within the context of colonialism and continued Spanish presence. Other than the recommendation to adopt more Indigenous principles and add more Indigenous peoples into positions of power, Guamán Poma’s suggestions seem relatively in line with what the Spanish state claims to already want- namely, Christian principles, an imperial presence, and a hierarchical system of governance with the monarchy at the top (but the pope and God above the monarch). That being said, I still am not convinced this would have been well received by the Spanish, if it were, in fact, received at all. To our (my) eye, these reforms seem pretty achievable, but a large part of Spanish rule in the Americas and in other colonies did take on a degree of racial hierarchization, which only worsened as the colonial projects of Europe distilled. (Not saying it was great when Guamán Poma writes this, but racism certainly becomes more legally enmeshed after the Bourbon Reforms roughly a century later.) As we talked about last week, Guamán Poma is in a unique social position and is therefore able to elaborate on the injustices he witnesses. However, I think this position also has him thinking and acting within the confines of the colonial system as well.

The First New Chronicle and Good Government, Week 1

In this account to King Philip III, Felipe Guamán Poma de Ayala describes the history of the Quechua people, as well as traditional roles, rites of passage, laws, and traditions held throughout their societies. Guamán Poma was born into a noble Inca family after the Spanish conquest of Peru, and the perspective he delivers in “The First New Chronicle and Good Government,” while still critical of the Spanish occupation, reflects the fractured and disharmonious (to say the least..!) relationship between the Inca and the Spanish who were occupying Peru.

Something that stuck out to me was the way Guamán Poma described the relative safety of women pre and post conquest. Guamán Poma says that before the Spanish, unmarried women were able to walk freely, without worry. However, since the introduction of Christianity, this is no longer the case. Guamán Poma himself is a Christian, as he states and discusses throughout the text. This seems to be his way of saying that it is not so much that the Christian religion is itself the problem, it is the way some of the Christian Spanish colonizers choose to abuse their power and status, and exploit the rest of the population. This section also highlighted the ways in which gender relations differed in society before and after conquest and occupation. Before the arrival of the Spanish, there was relative equality compared to after.

Guamán Poma also devotes a significant portion of this treatise to Incan laws and social customs. I think this part of the letter is extremely important as it could be seen with relative objectivity (had it ever reached its intended audience). There are clear signs that the Inca had social order, and that in many cases, a lot of their institutions shared common ideas with the Spanish-imposed Christian institutions later on. It seems that Guamán Poma’s main argument is that realistically, the Spanish are only reasserting what was already in place- though, with more violence and with less representation from the Indigenous peoples, who at this point had been disenfranchised.

While this account is certainly thorough, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Guamán Poma’s perspective throughout it. First, his status as a noble already places him in a position of relative power above other Indigenous peoples. Additionally, his commitment to Christianity also complicates (though, it does not negate) what he is saying. At times it’s hard to tell if he is trying to urge the importance of Catholicism and Catholicizing or to warn against it. The best rationale, in my own personal feelings, between these points is that he isn’t denouncing the religion but he is denouncing how it is being proliferated. Unfortunately, I do wonder if that is something that King Philip III would have even cared about, had he been able to read this.