A Cross-Cultural Embrace | Mariachis Ride Into Uvalde, Texas With Songs of Heartache and Hope

Today, June 5, 2022, the New YorkTimes published a poignant and beautiful story of mariachi musicians spontaneously gathering from across Texas in the town of Uvalde, where nineteen children and three adults were massacred in their school this past week by a teenager with an assault rifle. 

The mariachis came to offer the town's people what they have in their souls, songs of grieving and comfort. One of the songs they sang was "Un día a la vez", "One day at a time". It is a song known by virtually every Mexican. It is totally Mexican in spirit, a voice of popular Mexican culture, but it carries a universal message that we think everyone should hear. Hence, we are publishing it here. 

Below are the Spanish lyrics, followed by an English translation. For those with subscriptions to the New York Times, at the end, there is a link to the powerful article. 

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Hoy, el New YorkTimes publicó una conmovedora y hermosa historia de músicos de mariachi que se reunieron espontáneamente de todo Texas al pueblo Uvalde, donde diecinueve niños y tres adultos fueron masacrados en su escuela la semana pasada por un adolescente con un rifle de asalto. 

Los marichis vinieron a ofrecer a la gente del pueblo lo que tienen en sus almas, cantos de duelo y consuelo. Una de las canciones que cantaron fue "Un día a la vez". Es una canción conocida por prácticamente todos los mexicanos. Tiene un espíritu totalmente mexicano, es una voz mexicana pero lleva un mensaje universal que creemos que todos deberían escuchar. Por lo tanto, la estamos publicando aquí. 

Entonces, a continuación están las letras en español, seguidas de una traducción al inglés. Para aquellos con suscripciones al New York Times, al fin hay un enlace al artículo poderoso.

Yo quiero vivir 

Un día a la vez 

Necesitado Me encuentro, Señor Ayúdame a ver, yo quiero saber Lo que debo hacer Muestra el camino Que debo seguir

Señor, por mi bien,

yo quiero vivir Un día a la vez Un día a la vez,

Dios mío Es lo que pido de ti Dame la fuerza para vivir Un día a la vez

Ayer ya paso, Dios mío Mañana, quizá no vendrá Ayúdame hoy Yo quiero vivir un día a la vez

Tú ya viviste Entre los hombres Tú sabes, mi Dios, que hoy está peor Es mucho el dolor Hay mucho egoísmo Y mucha maldad

Señor, por mi bien, yo quiero vivir Un día a la vez Un día a la vez, Dios mío Es lo que pido de ti Dame la fuerza para vivir Un día a la vez

Ayer ya paso, Dios mío Mañana, quizá no vendrá Ayúdame hoy Yo quiero vivir

un día a la vez Ayúdame hoy,

yo quiero vivir Un día a la vez.

 **** 

I want to live 

One day at a time 

I find myself in need. 

Lord, help me see; 

I want to know what I should do. 

Show the way 

That I should follow, Lord, 

for my own sake. 

I want to live 

One day at a time. 

One day at a time, My God, 

is what I ask of you. 

Give me the strength to live 

One day at a time. 

Yesterday has already passed. 

My God, 

Tomorrow, perhaps, won't come. 

Help me today. 

I want to live one day at a time. 

You have already lived among men. 

You know, my God, that today is worse. 

There is a lot of pain. 

There is a lot of selfishness and a lot of evil. 

Lord, for my sake I want to live 

One day at a time. 

One day at a time, my God, 

is what I ask of you. 

Give me the strength to live One day at a time. 

Yesterday has passed, my God. 

Tomorrow may not come. 

Help me today. 

I want to live 

one day at a time. 

Help me today. 

I want to live 

One day at a time.

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/06/04/us/mariachis-uvalde-victims.html

Day of the Dead Transformed by Commercialization Over the Centuries

The Conversation, October 27, 2021 | By Mathew Sandoval*

As a Mexican-American who celebrates Día de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead, at the end of October and beginning of November, I’ve noted an increasing concern the past several years that the holiday is becoming more commercialized

The mass-marketing of the Day of the Dead is evident in the costumes that people buy for the day. Credit: Man Hon Lam / EyeEm Getty Images

Indeed, for those who hold the holiday sacred, it’s jarring to see the extent to which it’s now mass-marketed. The evidence is everywhere. The holiday aisles of Target are stuffed with cheap Day of the Dead crafts during October. Halloween stores sell Day of the Dead costumes. Nike makes Day of the Dead shoes. California and Arizona sell Day of the Dead lottery tickets. Disney famously tried to trademark “Día de los Muertos” before its 2017 film “Coco.” The examples go on and on.

The bottom line is that Día de los Muertos and its associated imagery, skulls and skeletons have become trendy and a prime opportunity for companies to make a profit.

But as a researcher of culture and performance, I know only too well that the truth is Day of the Dead has always been commodified.

The Roots of Commercialization

Day of the Dead is what anthropologist Hugo Nutini calls a syncretic holiday, meaning it’s a cultural product of two different religious traditions that hybridized during the European colonization of the Americas.

Day of the Dead brings together the annual feasts for the dead celebrated by pre-Hispanic Indigenous cultures such as the Aztec, Maya, Zapotec and Mixtec peoples. During Mexico’s 300-year-long colonial period, which started in 1521, these Indigenous rituals were merged with the Spanish Catholic holy days for the dead known as All Saints, celebrated on Nov. 1, and All Souls on Nov. 2.

Early Spanish chroniclers in Mesoamerica such as Diego Duran and Bernardino Sahagún documented the Aztec feasts for the dead known as Miccailhuitontli and Huey Miccailhuitl. Duran wrote in the 1570s that he was astounded to see how lavishly the Aztecs spent on supplies for their offerings to the dead.

Sahagún noted the overwhelming bustle and financial activity that took place at the market in the capital city of Tenochtitlán, modern-day Mexico City, during the Aztec ritual feasts.

All manner of foods and goods were sold to citizens to celebrate the Aztec feasts of the dead. In this respect, there wasn’t much distinction between commercial and religious activity. The religious feasts supported the market and vice versa.

The Catholic religion also emphasized commercial activity in relation to All Saints and All Souls Day. According to 16th- and 17th-century Catholic belief, the majority of souls landed in purgatory after death, rather than heaven or hell. It was the responsibility of the living to help alleviate the suffering of souls in purgatory and assist them in getting to heaven. This could be done through prayer or by making offerings to the souls.

In Mexico that meant Spanish colonizers and newly converted Indigenous Catholics were tasked with purchasing directly from the church candles and other religious items that could be used in offerings to those souls in purgatory. Additionally, they could pay their local priest to say special prayers for the souls during Día de los Muertos, a practice that remained in effect through the 20th century.

The Colonial Era

As Day of the Dead became a more popular and elaborate festival in Mexico, the associated commercial activity grew in size. According to anthropologist Claudio Lomnitz, in the 1700s, Day of the Dead generated the largest annual market in Mexico City.

In fact, the plazas and streets were so overwhelmed during the holiday with vendors, carts, booths and makeshift markets that the local government deemed it a “public disorder.” Mexico City’s mayor and city council eventually had to control Day of the Dead’s economic frenzy by enacting laws and issuing vendor permits. In other words, the holiday had become so commodified in Mexico City that it required government regulation.

By and large the markets and vendors in Mexico sold items related to the holiday – food, candy, bread, alcohol, candles, toys and religious items. However, according to Lomnitz, by the 1800s, the Day of the Dead markets in Mexico City were also selling clothing, shoes, furniture, tools, home decor and many other things.

The swell of commercial activity on Day of the Dead also presented an opportunity for musicians, dancers and other entertainers to perform on the streets for money. In short, Day of the Dead in Mexico City and other urban areas carried both religious and economic significance.

Modern-Day Commercialization

Day of the Dead’s commercialization was also quite pronounced in rural Mexico. A number of anthropologists in Mexico and the U.S. writing about Day of the Dead in the early and mid-20th century make special note of the sizable holiday markets. They write that villages are transformed into commercial fairs where people gather from communities many miles away to buy and sell foods, goods and services during the festival.

The scholarship of anthropologists Stanley Brandes and Ruth Hellier-Tinoco has been influential for understanding how Mexico began “selling” Day of the Dead to the outside world in the mid-20th century. Mexico’s tourism industry started promoting the holiday to U.S. and European travelers as an “authentic” Mexican experience.

Many guidebooks and travel brochures highlighted Day of the Dead as a cultural event for tourists to attend and buy folk art related to the holiday. Additionally, Mexico’s tourism industry positioned certain regional celebrations as the most “traditional” Day of the Dead festivals for tourists to explore.

Mexican candy in the shape of sugar skulls being sold on the occasion of the Day of the Dead in Michoacan, in the western part of Mexico. Source: ©fitopardo/Moment via Getty images

Hellier-Tinoco has shown how Mexico’s “selling” of the Day of the Dead on the rustic island of Janitzio in the state of Michoacán transformed the small community ceremony into a spectacle attended by more than 100,000 tourists a year.

Given all this evidence, there doesn’t appear to be an era when Day of the Dead wasn’t intimately tied to financial activities and profiteering. But the holiday’s commercialization has also ensured its survival.

In 2019, I talked to a grandmother building a Day of the Dead ofrenda, an altar with offerings for her family’s dearly departed that included candles, food, flowers, and festive decorations. For years she’d tried to get her grandchildren to help her erect the altar for their ancestors, to no avail. It wasn’t until they watched Disney’s “Coco” and saw sugar skulls at Target that they took interest in the holiday. Now they eagerly help their grandmother build the altar.

Commercialization is and has been transforming Day of the Dead. But, from what I’ve seen, it’s also giving a new generation a chance to be proud of their culture.

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*Mathew Sandoval, is a Senior Lecturer at Barrett the Honors College at ASU's Downtown Phoenix campus. He holds a PhD in Culture & Performance from UCLA, an MA in Individualized Study with a focus on Performance Studies from NYU, and a BA in English with a focus on Performance at the University of Nevada Las Vegas. Dr. Sandoval is also a member of ASU's Chicano /Latino Faculty & Staff Association.

Dr. Sandoval is currently researching the transborder holiday Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). He focuses on the large-scale public celebrations of the holiday in Los Angeles and the US Southwest in order to examine the ways the holiday has developed from ancient MesoAmerican ritual to American popular culture. His research analyzes issues of performance, interculturalism, race, hybridity, indigeneity, spirituality, and cultural appropriation & commodification. Furthermore, he writes about the way Day of the Dead intersects with his experiences coming of age as a working-class mixed-race Chicano.

Disclosure Statement.

Mathew Sandoval is affiliated with the Mesa Arts Center, an arts nonprofit that stages an annual Day of the Dead celebration. He serves on its annual Day of the Dead organizing committee. Dr. Sandoval is also affiliated with the Hollywood Forever Cemetery's Dia de los Muertos festival, serving as a judge for its altar competition.

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Indian Slavery Once Thrived in New Mexico | Latinos Are Finding Family Ties to It

 New York Times, January 28, 2018 | Simon Romero

Lenny Trujillo made a startling discovery when he began researching his descent from one of New Mexico’s pioneering Hispanic families: One of his ancestors was a slave

St. Thomas the Apostle Church in Abiquiú, N.M., a village settled by former Indian slaves, or

Genízaros, in the 18th century. Credit: Adria Malcolm for The New York Times 

ALBUQUERQUE — Lenny Trujillo made a startling discovery when he began researching his descent from one of New Mexico’s pioneering Hispanic families:

One of his ancestors was a slave.

Mr. Trujillo, 66, a retired postal worker who lives in Los Angeles, said:

“I didn’t know about New Mexico’s slave trade, so I was just stunned. Then I discovered how slavery was a defining feature of my family’s history.”

Mr. Trujillo is one of many Latinos who are finding ancestral connections to a flourishing slave trade on the blood-soaked frontier now known as the American Southwest.

Their captive forebears were Native Americans — slaves frequently known as Genízaros (pronounced heh-NEE-sah-ros) who were sold to Hispanic families when the region was under Spanish control from the 16th to 19th centuries. Many Indian slaves remained in bondage when Mexico and later the United States governed New Mexico.

The revelations have prompted some painful personal reckonings over identity and heritage.

But they have also fueled a larger, politically charged debate on what it means to be Hispanic and Native American.

A growing number of Latinos who have made such discoveries are embracing their indigenous backgrounds, challenging a long tradition in New Mexico in which families prize Spanish ancestry. Some are starting to identify as Genízaros.

Historians estimate that Genízaros accounted for as much as one-third of New Mexico’s population of 29,000 in the late 18th century.

Floyd E. Trujillo, 83, right, swabbed the inside of his mouth for a DNA sample as his son Virgil spoke with Miguel A. Tórrez, a genealogist. Credit: Adria Malcolm for The New York Times

Gregorio Gonzáles, 29, an anthropologist and self-described Genízaro who writes about the legacies of Indian enslavement, said:

“We’re discovering things that complicate the hell out of our history, demanding that we reject the myths we’ve been taught.” 

Those legacies were born of a tortuous story of colonial conquest and forced assimilation.

New Mexico, which had the largest number of sedentary Indians north of central Mexico, emerged as a coveted domain for slavers almost as soon as the Spanish began settling here in the 16th century, according to Andrés Reséndez, a historian who details the trade in his 2016 book, “The Other Slavery.”

Colonists initially took local Pueblo Indians as slaves, leading to an uprising in 1680 that temporarily pushed the Spanish out of New Mexico.

The trade then evolved to include not just Hispanic traffickers but horse-mounted Comanche and Ute warriors, who raided the settlements of Apache, Kiowa, Jumano, Pawnee and other peoples. 

They took captives, many of them children plucked from their homes, and sold them at auctions in village plazas.

The Spanish crown tried to prohibit slavery in its colonies, but traffickers often circumvented the ban by labeling their captives in parish records as criados, or servants.

The trade endured even decades after the Mexican-American War, when the United States took control of much of the Southwest in the 1840s.

Seeking to strengthen the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery in 1865, Congress passed the Peonage Act of 1867 after learning of propertied New Mexicans owning hundreds and perhaps thousands of Indian slaves, mainly Navajo women and children.

But scholars say the measure, which specifically targeted New Mexico, did little for many slaves in the territory.

Many Hispanic families in New Mexico have long known that they had indigenous ancestry, even though some here still call themselves “Spanish” to emphasize their Iberian ties and to differentiate themselves from the state’s 23 federally recognized tribes, as well as from Mexican and other Latin American immigrants.

But genetic testing is offering a glimpse into a more complex story.

The DNA of Hispanic people from New Mexico is often in the range of 30 to 40 percent Native American, according to Miguel A. Tórrez, 42, a research technologist at Los Alamos National Laboratory and one of New Mexico’s most prominent genealogists.

He and other researchers cross-reference DNA tests with baptismal records, marriage certificates, census reports, oral histories, ethnomusicology findings, land titles and other archival documents.

Mr. Tórrez’s own look into his origins shows how these searches can produce unexpected results. 

He found one ancestor who was probably Ojibwe, from lands around the Great Lakes, roughly a thousand miles away, and another of Greek origin among the early colonizers claiming New Mexico for Spain.

“I have Navajo, Chippewa, Greek and Spanish blood lines,” Mr. Tórrez, who calls himself a mestizo, a term referring to mixed ancestry. 

“I can’t say I’m indigenous any more than I can say I’m Greek, but it’s both fascinating and disturbing to see how various cultures came together in New Mexico.”

Revelations about how Indian enslavement was a defining feature of colonial New Mexico can be unsettling for some in the state, where the authorities have often tried to perpetuate a narrative of relatively peaceful coexistence between Hispanics, Indians and Anglos, as non-Hispanic whites are generally called here.

Pointing to their history, some descendants of Genízaros are coming together to argue that they deserve the same recognition as Native tribes in the United States.

One such group in Colorado, the 200-member Genízaro Affiliated Nations, organizes annual dances to commemorate their heritage.

“It’s not about blood quantum or DNA testing for us, since those things can be inaccurate measuring sticks,” said David Atekpatzin Young, 62, the organization’s tribal chairman, who traces his ancestry to Apache and Pueblo peoples. 

“We know who we are, and what we want is sovereignty and our land back.”

Some here object to calling Genízaros slaves, arguing that the authorities in New Mexico were relatively flexible in absorbing Indian captives.

In an important distinction with African slavery in parts of the Americas, Genízaros could sometimes attain economic independence and even assimilate into the dominant Hispanic classes, taking the surnames of their masters and embracing Roman Catholicism.

Genízaros and their offspring sometimes escaped or served out their terms of service, then banded together to forge buffer settlements against Comanche raids.

Offering insight into how Indian captives sought to escape their debased status, linguists trace the origins of the word Genízaro to the Ottoman Empire’s janissaries, the special soldier class of Christians from the Balkans who converted to Islam, and were sometimes referred to as slaves.

Moisés Gonzáles, a Genízaro professor of architecture at the University of New Mexico, has identified an array of Genízaro outposts that endure in the state, including the villages Las Trampas and San Miguel del Vado.

Some preserve traditions that reflect their Genízaro origins, and like other products of colonialism, many are cultural amalgams of customs and motifs from sharply disparate worlds.

Each December in the village of Alcalde, for instance, performers in headdresses stage the Matachines dance, thought by scholars to fuse the theme of Moorish-Christian conflict in medieval Spain with indigenous symbolism evoking the Spanish conquest of the New World.

Brienna Martinez performed the Matachines dance in Alcalde, N.M. Credit: Adria Malcolm for The New York Times

In Abiquiú, settled by Genízaros in the 18th century, people don face paint and feathers every November to perform a “captive dance” about the village’s Indian origins — on a day honoring a Catholic saint.

Miguel A. Tórrez conducts the El Pueblo de Abiquiú DNA and Ethnographic Study, which examines the backgrounds of people who either identify as Genízaros or are descendants of Genízaros in Abiquiú. Credit: Adria Malcolm for The New York Times

Mr. Tórrez, the genealogist, said,

“Some Natives say those in Abiquiú are pretend Indians. But who’s to say that the descendants of Genízaros, of people who were once slaves, can’t reclaim their culture?”

Efforts by some Genízaro descendants to call themselves Indians instead of Latinos point to a broader debate over how Native Americans are identified, involving often contentious factors like tribal membership, what constitutes indigenous cultural practices and the light skin color of some Hispanics with Native ancestry.

Some Native Americans also chafe at the gains some Hispanics here have sought by prioritizing their ancestral ties to European colonizers.

Pointing to the breadth of the Southwest’s slave trade, some historians have also documented how Hispanic settlers were captured and enslaved by Native American traffickers, and sometimes went on to embrace the cultures of their Comanche, Pueblo or Navajo masters.

Kim TallBear, an anthropologist at the University of Alberta, cautioned against using DNA testing alone to determine indigenous identity. She emphasized that such tests can point generally to Native ancestry somewhere in the Americas while failing to pinpoint specific tribal origins.

Ms. TallBear, a member of the Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate tribe of South Dakota who writes about tribal belonging and genetic testing, said:

“There’s a conflation of race and tribe that’s infuriating, really. I don’t think ancestry alone is sufficient to define someone as indigenous.”

The discovery of indigenous slave ancestry can be anything but straightforward, as Mr. Trujillo, the former postal worker, learned.

First, he found his connection to a Genízaro man in the village of Abiquiú. Delving further into 18th century baptismal records, he then found that his ancestor somehow broke away from forced servitude to purchase three slaves of his own.

“I was just blown away to find that I had a slaver and slaves in my family tree,” Mr. Trujillo said. 

“That level of complexity is too much for some people, but it’s part of the story of who I am.”

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Related:

• The Genízaro Pueblo of Abiquiú, Russel Albert Daniels, American Indian, Summer 2020 | Vol. 21, No. 2.

Cohetes, Giant Firecrackers | Indigenous Traditions Alive in Modern Mexico City

Today our neighborhood parish church begins its week-long Fiesta Patronal in honor of the church's Patron Saint, San Mateo (Matthew). The festivities are accompanied by much fanfare, including processions and regular barrages of cohetes — giant firecrackers, rockets.

San Mateo Church Portada,
decoration of archway over main door

The story of how cohetes arrived in Mexico and our reflections about their contemporary cultural significance offers a rare glimpse into the complex, multi-dimensionality of Mexico's culture.

The celebrations of Mexico's indigenous peoples prior to the arrival of the Spanish were noisy affairs involving drums, rattles and war cries.

Meanwhile, in Europe, both gunpowder and the recipe for making it had arrived in Europe from China via The Silk Road sometime in the thirteenth century. Hence, Spanish soldiers were armed with muskets during their conquest of Mexico's original peoples.

Then in 1520, just one year after Cortés landed on Mexico's shores, two of his soldiers brought back from the crater of the volcano Popocatépetl the sulfur needed to make gunpowder.

Meanwhile, Franciscan Friars — brought to Nueva España, New Spain, to evangelize the indigenous peoples —  banned percussion instruments for being elements of pagan rituals. To take their place, the Friars introduced stringed instruments. But cohetes also made their way into the mix.

Reed's hunch is that the cohetes replaced the enormous drums employed by the Aztecs in their religious ceremonies to ensure that the gods were paying attention. So when the Spaniards introduced gunpowder, the original people immediately adopted it to their own customs —  to non-Mexicans, sometimes to startling effect.

Several years ago, during the fiesta of the Holy Spirit in Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, we attended a High Mass celebrated outdoors in a traditional Purhépecha community near Pátzcuaro. We noticed the cohetero, man who sets off cohetes, standing no more than twenty feet from the priest. At the Elevation of the Host, the cohetero set off a barrage of cohetes.

Startled, we jumped, but neither the priest officiating at the Mass nor the congregants seemed fazed. We were later told that cohetes are set off to get God's attention — almost certainly a legacy of pre-Spanish ritual beliefs.

Thus is the stage set for an article by Francisco Ortiz Pinchetti, a journalist who founded Proceso magazine, a widely read Mexican weekly.

A forty-year veteran observer and reporter of Mexican society, Pinchetti is also the author of De pueblo en pueblo: crónicas del pequeño México (2000). In Spanish the word pueblo refers both to the people (el pueblo) and the place (pueblo or village) where the people live. Hence, the title might be translated as "From People to Village: Chronicles from Little Mexico."

Here's my translation of part of the article:

"Many residents in the upper middle class neighborhoods of such Mexico City boroughs as Coyoacán, Benito Juárez, Álvaro Obregón and Miguel Hidalgo get all stirred up by the barrages of cohetes that go off each time there's a fiesta in a church in these districts. This is particularly true where there are indigenous enclaves whose elderly inhabitants and their descendants preserve the tradition. The newcomers say they don't support the tradition, complain they cannot sleep and claim it's illegal to set off cohetes. 

"Last weekend was an ordeal for them, since few fiestas are like that of the Holy Cross celebrated with a scenario comprised of a fireworks display. Moreover, [on International Worker's Day] the noisy celebrations of construction workers at their work sites (which always involve cohetes y cuetes [a play on words: rockets and 'loaded' (drunk) men]), coincides with the religious festivals in many churches dedicated to devotion of the Holy Cross on May 3. 

"In neighborhoods like Santa Cruz Atoyac, for example, the barrages begin the preceding night, go throughout the night into the pre-dawn hours, persist throughout the day and finish up the next day. The newcomers say, 'What a horror!' Social networks are, of course, deluged with complaints.

"I must confess that I am addicted to pyrotechnics (not as a pyromaniac, mind you). I enjoy fireworks as few other things in life. It fascinates me to watch the night sky fill with bright, multicolored spangles. Sure, I love the now-computerized September 15 [Grito or Shout of Dolores at midnight before Independence Day, September 16] spectacular displays in the Zócalo, but I have a special fondness for — let's call them —  'artesanal' pyrotechnics set off by means of traditional "castillos" [castles], the "toritos" [little bulls] and "bombas" [bombs] in small-town fiestas and in our urban neighborhoods that still hold onto that enchantment.

"An inevitable part of all this are the barrages of the loud cohetes that are a completely indispensable part of any popular celebration in our country. Without them, a celebration just wouldn't be the same. 

"In the neighborhood where I live, the feast of St. Lawrence the Martyr is celebrated each August 10 in the sixteenth century Franciscan chapel that still stands in the Saint's namesake park. And I must say that it thrills me to hear the first battery of cohetes announcing the celebration, even if they do waken me at five o'clock in the morning.

"Be that as it may, everyone can put up many reasons for or against this practice, which is as traditional as the questions raised about it. Personally, it seems to me that the matter has an irretrievable class bias that was, I believe, summed up, perhaps unwittingly, by one Karen (surely she lives in a luxury condominium) on her Twitter account. 

"Last Sunday between barrages, Karen tweeted:

'Unfortunately, we are mixed in with closed-minded pueblo (village) and neighborhood people. It's all a matter of education.'

"God help us!"  

 Some Personal Reflections

Time to 'fess up. Reed and I live in a condominium in Coyoacán two blocks from the original pueblo of San Mateo. We enjoy the cohetes, which is a good thing because we are treated fairly regularly to their barrages. Not only is the parish church just three blocks away, but we seem to be centrally located to hear the thunder from several other churches as well. We've come to accept the cohetes announcing five o'clock Mass and heaven only knows what else as yet another part of Mexico.

As a practical matter, Mexico's indigenous and Spanish heritage peoples have struggled to find ways to live together. Through conversion and education the Franciscan Friars hoped to acculturate the indigenous peoples to Spanish ways, which involved learning to speak Spanish and follow la cortesía ("the courtesy") — the elaborate code of manners governing personal behavior. Those who made the transition were called ladinos.

One of our only reservations about moving to Mexico City was that we would lose touch with indigenous elements of Mexican culture. We've been surprised and delighted to discover that we needn't have been concerned — as Ortiz Pinchetti makes clear in his description of the Fiesta de la Santa Cruz [Feast of the Holy Cross] celebrated in the neighborhood of Santa Cruz Atoyac. The convention for naming neighborhoods illustrates the Spanish-Indigenous synchronicity:

Santa Cruz [Holy Cross] is the parish's Catholic patron saint; Atoyac is the indigenous place name.

The article's concluding paragraph is so loaded with cultural references that it almost deserves its own post, but for the sake of convenience, if not brevity, let me take a shot at it.

As former twenty-year residents of New York City, Reed and I are unrepentant urbanites. We thrive on the energy and cultural diversity of city life, but we're also very comfortable in rural settings. We've lived not just in New York City, but in rural and semi-rural communities as well. Maybe our experience has made us more aware of regional differences:

Northern California (where I grew up) versus Southern California; New York City versus Upstate New York (where Reed grew up); Fairfield County versus the rest of Connecticut.

It's very similar here. People outside Mexico City speak of "México," when they refer to their country's capital. People born in Mexico City call themselves capitalinos, people of the capital.

Like city people the world over, they tend to speak with a certain condescension about las provincias, the provinces, by which they mean anywhere outside Mexico City.

Many in Mexico's middle and professional classes are not in touch with the indigenous elements of their culture. Almost like foreign tourists, they visit places like Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, to gain experience with this 'exotic' way of life.

Still yet another layer of cultural complication:

Mexico today faces the increasing Americanization of its culture, a phenomenon accelerated and strengthened by the Internet with its social media.

So here we find ourselves in a cultural tangle between modern Mexico and traditional, indigenous Mexico. Fortunately, we are not alone.

After the Mexican Revolution (1910-1920), Secretary of Public Education José Vasconcelos (1921-1924) espoused a new, "modern" mestizo (mixed blood, Spanish-Indigenous) and called for the cultural assimilation of all ethnic groups. In recent times, this philosophy has been attacked by Native North, Central and South Americans because of its negative implications for native peoples throughout the Americas.

In Mexico, the Zapatista movement in Chiapas and the defense of natural resources (minerals, oil, wind, corn, timber — all sought by transnational companies) on the ancestral lands of indigenous peoples across Mexico has stoked a fierce pride in indigenous culture. Part of the bitter conflict over the so-called Reform of Public Education enacted during the administration of Enrique Peña Nieto, 2012-2018, hinges on this very issue:

acculturation to modernity versus adherence to indigenous culture and values.

With this context firmly in mind, we now return to the concluding lines of Ortiz Pinchetti's article, where he cites the "irretrievable class bias" epitomized in "Karen's" tweet:

'Unfortunately, we are mixed in with closed-minded pueblo (village) and neighborhood people. It's all a matter of education.'

Ortiz Pinchetti concludes his article with a heartfelt plea, "God help us!"

Karen's tweet has all the elements:

this thoroughly modern Mexican woman finds herself and her friends "mixed in with close-minded pueblo [indigenous] and neighborhood peoples"; that is, with those who insist on maintaining the original, indigenous traditions of their people and their pueblo, or more stridently, those who refuse to accept 'modern' culture.

But most poignant of all is the last line of Karen's tweet:

"It's all a matter of education."

The educator José Vasconcelos would be proud.

But not so Francisco Ortiz Pinchetti, who in concluding "God help us!" gives us outsiders a brief peek into the depths of a profound split in Mexican society and culture.

The Activists Using Embroidery to Protest Mexico's Murder Epidemic

Broadly.VICE, July 3, 2018 | Lauren Cocking

For Fuentes Rojas, a collective that reclaims public space through peaceful protest, stitching is one way to remember those who have been disappeared or killed in their country.

A member of the Fuentes Rojas collective holds up a handkerchief stitched in memory of an anonymous victim from Chihuahua, murdered in 2011. Photo courtesy of the Fuentes Rojas Archives

Jenny's translation of bordado text displayed in above photo: 

A man traveling through the streets of the Colonia Altavista, 

was killed by bullets fired by a group of armed subjects. 

Chihuahua, Chihuahua. 04 January 2011. 

[His Death is Number] 3063 / 168,000 [Total Violent Deaths up to 2011]

Rows of handkerchiefs are strung between the trees, fluttering in the early Sunday afternoon breeze. Some are simple, threaded with stark block black letters, while others bear an elaborate, blood-red outline of Mexico. Each one carefully spells out a name and tells a story.  One reads:

“Anabel Flores Salazar, a reporter for the

crime beat of the Sol de Orizaba, was

taken from her home by a group of armed

men on February 8th. The victim’s body was

found with the head covered by a bag,

handcuffed and with the feet tied.”

Referencing the 2015 forced disappearance of 43 students in Guerrero, another reads:

“Mauricio Ortega Valerio, 18 years.

Ayotzinapa, Mexico.

Alive they were taken,

alive we want them back.

Never again.”

I’m in Coyoacán, Mexico City and in front of this patchworked web of handkerchiefs, some black, some white, some pink, sit a group of women — Elia Andrade, her sister Tania Andrade and Regina Méndez (plus her tiny xoloitzcuintle dog, Tonalli) — who together make up the founding members of the Fuentes Rojas collective, a group dedicated to reclaiming public space through peaceful protest.

Their method of choice? Embroidery.

“Sometimes [the sewing sessions are] really peaceful, sometimes we stitch alone”, Elia Andrade tells me. 

“The minute people come closer to read the handkerchiefs, and they realize what they say, there are many people that reject it [and then] there are people that start talking to us.”

Originally, the Fuentes Rojas focus was on homicide victims, of which there were roughly 70 per day in Mexico in 2017. They’d stitch the names and stories in vibrant red thread—naming the dead is a technique also employed by Chiapas’ radical resistance movement, the Zapatistas, Andrade told me. 

Creating a captivating, tangible memorial that was hard to ignore was just the point, especially in a country with such a high track record of impunity.

“Many people wander through Coyoacán and many people, many families, try not to hear about these things, or they don’t want to open their eyes to the true situation in which the country finds itself; so it seems to us very important that we disrupt these spaces and not in a violent way, but a peaceful way… because we must find other ways to relate to one another that go beyond violence,” Andrade notes.

As time went by, the group broadened their focus:

“more people joined and there were many who’d experienced the disappearance of children or parents.”

In response, and although color codes aren’t always rigidly adhered to, Fuentes Rojas introduced green thread (“for hope”, explains Andrade), pinks for femicide victims—in 2016, at least seven women a day were murdered in gender-based killings—and black for deceased journalists (six reporters have died in 2018 alone).

And while the occupation of public space was always high on the agenda for Fuentes Rojas (“Public space only exists when one inhabits and occupies it, no?” Andrade points out), embroidery wasn’t always their calling, something at which their name—literally ‘Red Fountains’ in Spanish—suggests. 

Inaugurated in 2011, the collective first grew out of a Mexico City march held by the poet Javier Sicilia in memory of his murdered son, Juan Francisco. (This march in itself would flourish into the Movement for Peace with Justice and Dignity [MPJD], a.k.a. the Mexican Indignados Movement.) The Andrade sisters and Méndez were invited to participate in peaceful but public protests, during which they would dye the fountains red; however, after several meetings they found themselves warming to the idea of needlework instead.

Tania Andrade carries some of Fuentes Rojas' handkerchiefs on a 2017 march in protest of the 2015 Ayotzinapa student disappearances. The green thread signifies hope for their safe return. Photo courtesy of Fuentes Rojas Archives

Turning craft into a political statement might be nothing new—the Suffragettes could tell you that—but in Mexico, Fuentes Rojas gave rise to a new wave of craftivism. Much like the stories woven into each handkerchief, the word about Fuentes Rojas’ project spun a web across the country, beginning in Guadalajara, then Puebla, and making its way into other towns and cities from there.

Andrade notes that “the initiative comes from us, from this collective,” but some of the contacts they’d invited to stitch with them formed “break-off cells and collectives, dubbing themselves ‘Bordando por la Paz’ (‘Stitching for Peace’).”

I spoke via email with Teresa Sordo, the coordinator of one of these groups, Bordamos por la Paz Guadalajara. The

“intention from the beginning was to denounce [the killings and disappearances], go out into parks to find people that needed to talk about the topic that until now had been silenced by the government with the help of the media.”

Meanwhile, Hazel Dávalos of the similarly aligned Bordeamos por la Paz [Let's Embroider for Peace] in Ciudad Juárez, adds that the handkerchiefs work to remind the viewer that victims

“are people, not numbers.”

It’s clear that their craft is political, but is it ‘art?’

No, came the resounding answer, from Dávalos at least:

“Our work is a political statement. We prefer not to call it art,” before elaborating that “by calling it art, we’d be closing off our protest to elitist spaces.”

Other public protest movements in Mexico do consider their work ‘art.’ Take the yarn bombing collective Lana Desastre, pioneers of the phenomenon in Mexico. They’ve embroidered everything from Mexico City metro cars to Day of the Dead altars, and even displayed 52 giant woolen breasts (under the Spanish pun ‘Lactejiendo’; ‘Lac-knitting’ which, unfortunately, doesn’t have quite the same ring to it in English) in the garden of Mexico City’s Vasconcelos Library. Their work is both to “protest and beautify public spaces” Miriam Mabel Martínez, a member of Lana Desastre, writes to me.

Art or not then, all of these collectives, by weaponizing and politicizing a medium so typically associated with the ‘feminine,’ one that is in and of itself intricately linked to the storied Mexican textile tradition of elaborate embroidery and needlework, potently condemn Mexican impunity while lending a voice to the silenced.

As Andrade puts it,

“every stitch, every breath, every emotion, every chat; what we’re interested in is empathy. We appeal to the emotions, completely different from those of power or violence. Yes, it’s a peaceful protest, but it’s also hard-hitting.”

My Great-Grandfather Found Buried in U.S. Military Cemetery in Mexico City!

Last fall, our seven-year-old grandson in Chicago brought home a school assignment to construct a Family Tree, which prompted his maternal grandmother (maiden name, Kingman; born in Chicago, raised in California) to dig out the Kingman Geneology prepared decades ago by my aunt (father's sister).

I read with interest of the arrival of Henry Kingman and his family, listed as members of the 'Hull Party' that landed in Massachusetts in 1635. Setting aside for the moment the displacement of Native Americans, I noted their settlement of land in what is today the town of Weymouth—after Plymouth, the oldest town in Massachusetts. I read of the successive generations of Kingmans living and farming in Massachusetts and of their eventual relocation to Clifton, a farming community in southern Illinois.

But the next entry simply stopped me in my tracks:

In the 1890's, Charles Henry Kingman worked for Lewis Co., mine operators, in Mexico City; died of pneumonia and buried in Mexico City. Died March 19, 1900. A gentle and good-natured man. 

It is hard enough to take in that I wasn't aware that my great-grandfather is buried in Mexico City, but it turns out that there's more:

Barry Kingman [my grandfather] born March 19, 1875, went to Mexico with his father and worked for Lewis Co. at Zacatecas [famous for its mines of silver, lead, gold, copper, zinc and cadmium]; when he heard of his father's illness, Barry went down to Mexico City to be with him; Charles died on Barry's twenty-fifth birthday.

I wonder what father and son might think of the fact that 118 years later their great-granddaughter and granddaughter would be about to complete ten years of living in Mexico. What greater testimony could be offered of the many links between our two countries than this—the internment in Mexico of a U.S. citizen coupled with the long-term Mexican residency of his great-granddaughter?

Quite naturally, the first question that popped into my head was:

What on earth was great-grandfather Charles Henry doing in Mexico? 

We are familiar with mining's difficult, painful history in Mexico—a business practice still carried on by today's transnational mining companies. But it began five hundred years ago with the Spanish subjugation of the land's indigenous peoples, pressing the men into forced labor in the gold and silver mines. The extracted wealth was sent back to Spain, where the monarchy used it to finance their imperial exploits. It is understandable, then, my first thought was, 'Oh, no—not mining!'

Fortunately, I am married to a real history buff. When I gave Reed the date of Charles Henry's death, he was quick to pinpoint it as taking place during the 35-year dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz—the period known as the 'Porfiriato'. [For more information, see post in Reed's Mexico Ambles blog.]

Díaz got himself "re-elected" president of Mexico over a thirty-five year period (1877-1911). For the upper-class, it was an era of political stability, industrialization and economic growth. For the lower classes, it was a time of exclusion and suppression of protests.

Díaz maintained control through "Pan o palo", "bread or stick", an informal system based on personal loyalty using patronage and repression. His motto was "little politics and plenty of administration."

The epoch was suddenly brought to an end with the outbreak of the Mexican Revolution in November 1910, when various forces of social, political and economic opposition exploded. [Emphasis added.]

So it seems that the business activity of the Lewis Mining Co. took place at the invitation of Porfirio Díaz, part of his strategy to bring in foreign expertise to assist in industrializing Mexico for the purpose of promoting economic growth. In yet another historical twist, twenty years ago (1992-1994), I had a two-year consulting project with the Subdirectorate of Natural Gas at Pemex (Mexican Oil Company) that focused on improving work efficiency.

It seems that the more this story unfolds, the more layers are uncovered—even including a certain ironic twist. To wit, I discovered a newspaper article titled 'Ruined by a Wicked Partner', dated November 25, 1889, reporting the filing of a legal action by Charles Henry Kingman in Chicago Superior Court against his business partner. The article gives Charles Henry's account of how the partner defrauded and bankrupted the Kingmans' thriving wholesale grocery business.

Hence, in an ironic reversal of today's dominant reality, it seems that in the wake of the devastating business loss, Charles Henry and his elder son came to Mexico to recoup the family's finances.

A little more digging, and I quickly discovered that great-grandfather is buried in the Mexico City National Cemetery. It should be quickly noted that 'National' is from a U.S. perspective. In Spanish, its name is the Panteón Norteamericano, North American [i.e., U.S.] Cemetery. It is maintained by the American Battle Monuments Commission, ABMC, under the Department of Defense of the U.S. government.

A recent visit by our elder daughter, who lives in Chicago, seemed like a perfect time to make a visit.  So on a sunny Sunday morning, we all headed to the cemetery in the San Rafael neighborhood, which is one of the upscale neighborhoods created just west of Mexico City's Historic Center toward the end of the Porfiriato to provide housing for the Mexican and foreign business class. 

Stepping through the gate, visitors are greeted by plants trimmed to spell out the acronym: ABMC.

ABMC
American Battle Monuments Commission

The rectangular one-acre space that makes up the cemetery is beautifully landscaped and meticulously maintained.

The white stone monument at the south end is flanked by two flagpoles, each flying the U.S. flag.

It is forbidden to walk on the grass, so any capture of the monument
flanked by U.S. flags, of necessity, includes the gardener's lawnmower. 

It seems somehow fitting for the lawnmower to be part of the photo. The gardener, a kindly man, turned off the sprinklers so we could walk along the sidewalk, looking for my great-grandfather's crypt. He also tried to help us locate the crypt, but, in the end, it was our elder daughter who found it.

Charles Henry Kingman
Born, January 8, 1845; he spent his childhood on a farm in Southern Illinois.
He served in the Civil War (Illinois Regiment, Union Army),
which made him eligible to be buried in the U.S. military cemetery.
He died on March 19, 1900.

Monument to unidentified U.S. Soldiers killed
During Mexican-American War (1846-1848),
known in Mexico as the American Intervention. 

From the ABMC website:

"The Mexico City National Cemetery was established in 1851 by the U.S. Congress to gather the dead of the Mexican-American War (1846-1848) that lay in the nearby fields and to provide burial space for Americans that died in the vicinity. In 1851, the remains of 750 U.S. dead were gathered and buried in a common grave at this cemetery.

Buried at the Mexico City National Cemetery are American servicemen who served either during the Mexican-American War (1846-1848), Civil War or Spanish American War [Cuba]. 

The remains of 813 Americans are bruied in wall crypts lining two sides of the cemetery. The cemetery was closed to further burials in 1923."

East Crypt Wall viewed from West Crypt Wall.

The sidewalks around the park are lined by park benches which invite quiet reflection.

Mexican couple walking slowly along the West Wall,
reading the markers as they go.

Toward the end of our visit, a middle-aged, probably professional Mexican couple arrived and began walking slowly along the sidewalks, taking time to read names on the crypts. After I took this photo, I approached the couple and asked whether they had a relative buried in the cemetery.  When they answered in the negative, I couldn't help blurting out, "My great-grandfather is buried here. He worked in Mexico City near the end of the Porfiriato and died here of pneumonia."

Their gentle acceptance of my information was yet one more reminder of the tremendous amabilidad, kindness the vast majority of Mexicans accord to USians who show respect and demonstrate interest in Mexico's culture, history, and people.

On this note, we concluded our visit to the final resting place of my great-grandfather, our two daughters' great-great-grandfather, and our grandchildren's great-great-great-grandfather. 

We leave the cemetery carrying with us all that the cycle in our family history connotes—a kind of ironic turning of the tables that upends many of the assumptions about the relations between people in the country of our birth and those of our host country.

Related posts in our family of blogs:

• Geography: Ground of Mexico's History and Culture (Voices for Mother Earth);
• Mexico Culture: ex-Convento Churubusco - Part II Military History (Jenny's Journal of Mexican Culture);
• The Porfiriato: French Culture Conquers Mexico City (Mexico City Ambles).

Mexico's Public Markets: World of Colors, Aromas, Sounds, Tastes — and Community!

La Jornada: Ángeles González Gamio

Walking through a Mexican market is one of the richest cultural and sensual experiences you can have. Dating back to pre-Hispanic times, they persist even today, despite the onslaught of supermarkets. There is a marked difference in the quality and offering between public markets and the supermarkets.

Mercado San Juan Pugibet
Centro West

Supermarkets offer only one quality of pumpkin, onion, apples, peppers, tomatoes and other products of the earth. If they are ugly, you put up with it, since that's all there is. But the supers make up for it by offering 20 different types of deodorant and, if they are lucky, even some gringo brands, which are the same as the ones here but cost twice as much—and, yes!—the labels are in English.

Supermarkets never offer the rich variety of products found only in the markets. Besides fruits, vegetables and all kinds of food, there are piñatas, crafts, flowers, medicinal herbs, clothing and pretty much anything else that comes to mind. Eating in one of the fonditas [lunch counters] guarantees tasty, economical dishes with the freshest ingredients.

Markets have been an essential part of life in Mexico City, although the growth of markets hasn't kept pace with the capital's steady growth. In recent decades, they stopped building public markets even as a thousand facilities for large supermarket chains were constructed.

The disappearance of public markets has resulted not only in the loss of many job opportunities but of the warm, personal treatment provided by the sellers—not to mention the richness of having several options of the same produce! The markets are places of community, of socialization—where networks are woven of kinship and cronyism that create a strong communal solidarity.

"Fondita" 

Fresh chicken breasts

Now we are seeing emergence of a hope that the market decline might be reversed. A few days ago [August 2016], a declaration was signed naming as an intangible cultural heritage these traditional expressions that take place in Mexico City's public markets.

One important aspect is that the markets are recognized not only as supply centers, but as custodians of traditions. Suffice it to recall Christmas. Where would we buy everything needed for that celebration? Figurines for the Nativity scene, hay, moss, poinsettias, corn husks for tamales, brown sugar and fruit for the punch served at the posadas and, of course, the piñatas, to mention just a few of the many products not found in the supermarkets.

See: Mexican Traditions: Las Posadas

It was announced that in 2017 the budget will be tripled in order to rescue the 329 traditional and specialized public markets found in Mexico City's 16 boroughs. The public markets employ 280,000 people, who annually hold more than 1,300 romerías [open-air festivities celebrating a religious event]. This means that every day there are at least three anniversary festivities in the markets of Mexico's capital city.

The declaration regards these public spaces as living and dynamic entities, with an ancient tradition fostering the development of Mexican culture by being the supply channel for 46 percent of Mexico City households.

Eduardo Vázquez, Mexico City's Secretary of Culture, explained that the declaration basically grants to the public markets an active role in the development of the social fabric by integrating and reflecting the ethnic, social and cultural diversity that has built Mexico City.

They are going to dedicate 200 million pesos [11 million USD] for the preservation of public markets; however, given the [deteriorated] state of many markets, a much larger amount is surely going to be needed in the near future.

Take the Merced Market, which some time ago suffered a fire that affected part of the nave, which measures the impressive length of 400 meters [437 yards] with 3,205 puestos [sellers' stalls]. Then there is the smaller nave, which sells meat and poultry and has an annex for meals. Around the outside is the pavilion for popular toys and such typical items as clothing, flowers and candy ...

A world of colors, aromas, sounds and tastes that awaken all the senses. In his memoirs, Chilean poet Pablo Neruda declared:

"Mexico is in the markets."

Spanish original

Related articles:

• Tlatelolco: Twin City of Aztec Capital—located about a mile from Tenochtitlan, today the Historic Center of Mexico City—was the market center of the Aztec Empire;
• Saturday Market in Coyoacán.