Preserving and promoting the cultures, traditions, ceremonies, and languages of Native Americans indigenous to Texas and Northeastern Mexico.

Tucson’s Maiz-Based Curriculum: MAS-TUSD Profundo

By: Roberto Dr. Cintli Rodríguez

1. At a time of sky-high dropout rates nationwide, the Mexican American Studies (MAS-TUSD) K-12 program in Tucson Unified School District is a highly successful department that graduates nearly 95% of its students and sends more than 70% of them to college.1 MAS-TUSD students also score higher on state-mandated standardized tests in English, History and Math.2 By all rights, the nation’s premiere Mexican American Studies K-12 program should be exported nationwide; instead, it is embattled and on an inexplicable path to eventual extermination. The conflict over Tucson’s Mexican American Studies has been a six-year-long struggle, including several courtroom battles, and continues with no end in sight. Despite its phenomenal success, the MAS-TUSD curriculum has raised the ire of the state of Arizona because, according to the former State Schools’ Superintendent Tom Horne, the intellectual author of the anti-ethnic studies measure HB 2281, it purportedly teaches hate and separatism and advocates the violent overthrow of the U.S. government. The objective of this essay is thus to examine the MAS-TUSD curriculum, a curriculum that Horne as well as Governor Jan Brewer and current Superintendent John Huppenthal have actively disparaged for the past several years, and one that is generally unknown to the public because the media deals primarily in sound bites. As a result, few people other than TUSD educators are familiar with its contents beyond the caricature, an effect I hope to correct in this essay.

2. Before proceeding further, I should mention that I have been far from a disinterested observer on this topic. I have actually been associated with the program by way of the curriculum, even before the creation of MAS-TUSD in 1997 when its founders worked at a Tucson charter school called Calli Ollin. Much of my association with MAS-TUSD has been as a writer and as a nationally syndicated columnist who has written on this topic for more than a generation. My involvement today with MAS-TUSD is in the realm of defending not just this program, but the discipline (Raza-Indigenous-Ethnic Studies) as well. I teach at the University of Arizona’s Department of Mexican American Studies and am a member of the TUSD-Mexican American Studies Community Advisory Board. In response to the attacks, those of us involved in defending and supporting MAS- TUSD, particularly students, community members and the teachers, contribute daily to the development of the MAS-TUSD discipline.

3. At the core of the MAS-TUSD conflict are Tom Horne’s arguments that the program’s success is irrelevant. What is important to him and his supporters is that the curriculum teaches an American and Indigenous-based knowledge rather than Greco-Roman knowledge. As such, he has argued for the elimination of the MAS-TUSD department for years because the curriculum lies outside of “Western Civilization,” meaning, implicitly, European civilization, and therefore purportedly teaches hate and anti-Americanism. For instance, in 2007, Horne addressed the conservative Heritage Foundation, where he said, “I am a proponent of a curriculum developed by E. D. Hirsch, called Core Knowledge. Students get a content-rich curriculum in American history, the Greco-Roman basis for Western civilization, and science beginning in kindergarten, first and second grades” (Lecture #1023). While Tom Horne has been attacking Raza Studies since 2006, it was in 2008, 2009 and 2010 that he engineered legislation that would declare Ethnic Studies illegal, culminating with Gov. Jan Brewer signing the anti-Ethnic Studies bill HB 2281 in May 2010.

4. The day after Brewer signed the bill, Horne came to Tucson to TUSD headquarters, but was met by close to a thousand students who had circled and surrounded both the building and the block. He called an impromptu press conference at the state building where hundreds of students and community members followed him. Fifteen students and several community members were arrested that day. The previous week, students had staged a 24-hour vigil in front of Tucson High School. A few months before that, MAS-TUSD high school students marched 13 miles from one end of the city to the other to bring attention to the battle to defend Ethnic Studies. From 2006 to the present, students have continued to protest the criminalization of their Mexican American Studies curriculum in one form or another.

5. But as I will demonstrate throughout this essay, the students’ determination to save their curriculum does not support Horne’s arguments. Indeed, a 2011 independent Cambium (Curriculum Audit of the Mexican American Studies Department Tucson Unified School District) study of MAS-TUSD concluded that, contrary to what Horne had long asserted,3 there is no evidence that hate is being taught and that the program is in full compliance with HB 2281.4 On the contrary, the philosophical foundation of the MAS-TUSD curriculum is similar to, if not an extension of, Guillermo Bonfil Batalla’s concept of “México Profundo,” introduced in his book of the same title. That is, at the root of Mexican American culture and knowledge is Indigenous or maiz-based culture and knowledge. The MAS-TUSD curriculum is also deeply profound: more than history, MAS-TUSD educators teach critical thinking and, in effect, a respectful way to live. The MAS-TUSD curriculum defies simple characterization or description because, metaphorically, the MAS-TUSD curriculum is derived from 7,000 years of maiz-based or Mesoamerican knowledge.5

6. The concept of Mesoamerica is not a Native concept. It was first advanced by Paul Kirchhoff in 1943. Its general meaning is Middle America, alluding to the ancient cultures of this continent that share similar characteristics, with the primary ones being Nahua-Maya societies organized around maiz. His definition includes: maiz cultivation, similar political organization, the use of calendars, similar writing systems, similar myth-origin stories and the playing of the ballgame. While the definition is limiting, he advised his colleagues to challenge his definition (Florescano, 2006). In effect, his colleagues to this day have not generally challenged the definition of Mesoamerica, instead generally accepting it as fact. In Un continente y una cultura (1960), Maya scholar, Domingo Martinez Paredez, does challenge the artificial concept, arguing that virtually the entire continent is culturally one, with maiz as the common denominator. This idea that essentially all peoples of this continent are united by corn, or that they are part of maiz-based cultures, is much broader than Kirchhoff’s conception of “Mesoamerica.” Whether accepting Kirchhoff’s or Paredez’s arguments, both point to rich and unique civilizations that developed for millennia, independent of Europe.

7. MAS-TUSD educator Norma Gonzalez characterizes the Indigenous component of the MAS-TUSD curriculum as a form of decolonization of Chicano Studies. More than that, she says, “it provides students a path toward humanization” (personal communication, August 2011). Indeed, the MAS-TUSD curriculum does differ from other public Mexican American Studies programs. Traditionally, the discipline, created in the 1960s, traces the beginnings of Mexican Americans to 1848 and the Mexican American War. A second wave of primarily feminist scholars pushed the date back in the late 1970s to 1519 and the creation of the first mestizo/mestiza. The MAS-TUSD program, on the other hand, is anchored in maiz-based knowledge that is part of a lived experience, rather than limited to myth-legend. Most people of Mexican-Central American and Chicana-Chicano descent continue to adhere to this maiz-based knowledge. For example, they continue to enjoy the ancient maiz-beans-squash and chile diet. This form of knowledge promotes an identity not based on war or conquest, but on that which defines a large part of the continent: maiz. MAS-TUSD anchors its curriculum around the maiz-derived concepts of In Lak Ech (You are my other Self), Panche Be (To seek the root of the Truth), and Hunab Ku (Grand Architect of the Universe). These three concepts form the philosophical foundation for the program and are metaphorically traced back 7,000 years to the creation of maiz. While these ideas, associated with the ancient Maya, have been given wider exposure in the 2011 Precious Knowledge documentary, the concepts are still not well known by the general public, especially in their relationship to each other and their connection to other maiz-based knowledge. The documentary has given nationwide exposure to the MAS program, countering, in effect, unchallenged media distortions that have falsely depicted both the MAS program and its curriculum. Much of the knowledge of these three concepts in this country comes from the works of Yucatec Maya scholar, Domingo Martinez Paredez. Additionally, Florencio Yescas and Maestra Angelbertha Cobb (Aztec-Mexica tradition), Andres Segura (Conchero tradition) and Tlakaele (Mexicayotl tradition) are other Indigenous elders from Mexico who have given and shared over the past generation the same or similar concepts to Indigenous peoples in the United States, including Mexican-Chicana-Chicano and Central American peoples.

8. Other maiz-based knowledge includes the Four Tezcatlipocas, also known as the four compañeros. They include: Tezcatlipoca-reflection, Quetzalcoatl-wisdom, Huichtlipochtli-will and Xipetotec-transformation. These ideas are associated with the Aztec-Mexica peoples, who are also maiz-based peoples. While the concepts are normally associated with the transformation of human beings, at MAS-TUSD, the Four Tezcatlipocas are also associated with a transformative educational process, a process that results in the creation of academically superior and critically compassionate students.

9. Still yet another form of maiz-based knowledge that is incorporated into the MAS-TUSD curriculum is the study of the Aztec Calendar. Well-known Mexican scholar Enrique Florescano has observed that the most radical disruption that the ancient Mexicans experienced after the arrival of Europeans to this continent, beyond their language, was their disconnection from their daily calendar (2006, 124). The peoples’ disconnection from it was the result of both a very violent process and the literal demonization of the knowledge. At MAS-TUSD, educators, who co-create the curriculum, team up with Calpolli Teoxicalli to teach the significance and relevance of the ceremonial Aztec Calendar today.6

10. That said, it is important to note that the conflict in Arizona involving Mexican American Studies includes but is not limited to the curriculum. By way of the heated immigration debate, Mexicans/Mexican Americans and virtually everything associated with Mexicans and Mexican American culture is under constant attack there. In terms of the MAS-TUSD conflict, attacks are directed against Mexican American history and terms of identification such as Mexican-American, Raza, Aztlán, organizations such as the National Council of La Raza (NCLR), the Brown Berets and Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán or MEChA, and even certain books and popular musical groups.7

11. In Arizona, demonization of maiz-based or Mesoamerican knowledge continues to this day, much of it based on malicious distortion and outright deception. For example, the term Raza has been distorted to the point that the Mexican American Studies Department-TUSD, formerly known as the Raza Studies- Department-TUSD, was forced to drop the term Raza from its name. The anti-Mexican political right wing in the United States appears to be ignorant of both the meaning and origin of the word. Raza translates to “people,” not “race,” and its usage on paper, in reference to Mexican peoples, goes back to the early 20th century Mexican education minister, José Vasconcelos. In 1925 he wrote a book and coined the term by the same name: La Raza Cósmica or “the cosmic race,” meaning the amalgamation of all the peoples of the world, forming one new mixed race. Contrary to what MAS-TUSD opponents assert, it is the antithesis of racial purity. The idea is that Mexican peoples are a combination of Indigenous, Asian (by way of ancient migration from Asia to the Americas), European and African. The name change does not appear to have affected the attempts to eliminate MAS-TUSD.

12. The topic of Aztlán, the purported homeland of the Aztec-Mexica, has also been badly distorted. The Aztlán to Tenochtitlan (Mexico City) migration story is actually complex, with a myth-history at least 1,000 years old (Boturini Codex, 1746). Even before the arrival of Europeans, the Mexica were preoccupied with knowing their origins. Through the 1960s and 1970s, some historians and many activists argued that Aztlán was located in what is today the U.S. Southwest; this idea was central to the Chicano Movement.8 The idea was handed down in codices and chronicles such as Cronica Mexicayotl (1576) that located Aztlán in the Southwest. In the United States, the anti-Mexican political right wing has distorted virtually everything about the topic, equating it simplistically with the idea of the “reconquista” or the reconquest of the lands Mexico lost to the United States in the war of 1846-1848. Because Aztlán was reputedly in the same region, the two concepts were in fact merged by Chicanos such as Alurista in his 1969 El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán (Aztlán, 1970). Today MAS-TUSD opponents cite the teaching of Aztlán as evidence that its educators are inculcating students and recruiting them to reclaim those lost lands. However, this idea of Chicanos one day reclaiming the land and reuniting it with Mexico has few adherents in 2011. It appears to have more adherents among, and functions more as a straw man argument, for the political right wing. Right wing groups such as American Patrol cite the organization MEChA as the prime mover in the so-called reconquista. This student group, like the term Raza, has also been demonized to the point that it is viewed as seditious and anti-American and the one group paving the way for the future Chicano homeland of Aztlán.

13. Another element of the attack against Mexican American Studies has been to mischaracterize and misconstrue virtually everything else about MAS-TUSD. Both Horne and Huppenthal have repeatedly stated that the only way to bring MAS-TUSD into compliance is its elimination. The objective of the essay here is to bring clarity to the MAS-TUSD controversy. Aside from distorting topics such as Aztlan, part of the drive, primarily by non-educators, to ban Ethnic Studies, has involved also singling out books such as Rodolfo Acuña’s Occupied America (2010), Paolo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed (2000), and The Mexican American Heritage (2nd ed. 1994). Horne did this on Dec. 30, 2010 when he created a report finding MAS-TUSD out of compliance with HB 2281. He even pointed to lyrics from hip hop groups El Vuh9 and Aztlán Underground10 (misidentifying songs as poems) as further evidence that MAS-TUSD is plotting to overthrow the U.S. government. That a state superintendent would attempt to cite lyrics as evidence of a massive conspiracy to overthrow the government points to the silliness of the debate. The Cambium Study exonerated MAS-TUSD of all charges, and in particular, in response to the study, even Huppenthal found that charge without merit.

14. In response to the heated political controversy that has resulted from the distortion of the mission of MAS-TUSD, countless protests, marches, rallies and vigils in defense of the program and discipline have been held over the past several years. Some of the events have resulted in arrests, the use of excessive force, and the issuance of numerous death threats against both high school students and community members.11 More importantly, the attacks against MAS-TUSD have given rise to not simply a resistance culture, but what I term a creation-resistance culture. In the face of continual attacks, the teachers and students of MAS-TUSD continue to create in this hostile atmosphere. In what follows, I focus on the relationship between the curriculum and its creative forces, that is, how and why the students and community relentlessly fight in defense of the program.

In Lak Ech, Panche Be and Hunab Ku: Philosophical Bases for the MAS-TUSD Curriculum

15. At MAS-TUSD many of the classes begin with the concept of In Lak Ech. Maya scholar Domingo Martinez Paredez writes of this and the other two concepts that form the basis for the curriculum in Un Continente y Una Cultura (1960).12 This is how many of the MAS-TUSD educators begin their classes:

In Lak Ech
Tú eres mi otro yo.
Si te hago daño a ti, me hago daño a mí mismo.
Si te amo y respeto, me amo y respeto yo
You are my other me.
If I do harm to you, I do harm to myself.
If I love and respect you, I love and respect myself.13

This ethos forms part of the philosophical foundation for MAS-TUSD. As such, it is difficult to find the “hate” that the program is accused of teaching. In Lak Ech actually resembles what is universally referred to as “The Golden Rule.” Virtually all cultures have a similar concept, such as the Judeo-Christian ethos: “Do unto others as you would have them do onto you.”

16. University of Texas professor Dr. Arnoldo Vento, who has studied with a number of the aforementioned elders since the 1970s, describes In Lak Ech in the following manner: “In Lak Ech is the principle of love and respect for your fellow human being. It humanizes humankind by eliminating the ego. It unites as opposed to disuniting; it humanizes as opposed to dehumanization and fragmentation. It is the ultimate principle of spiritual love” (Rodriguez 2010, 7). In Lak Ech actually is a concept that goes beyond human relations and teaches about one’s relationship to all living things. Finding no grounds by which to label it as hate, critics of MAS-TUSD have instead decided to rule it outside of the bounds of Western Civilization. What MAS-TUSD is guilty of is teaching a concept that is technically not in the Bible, though because of the universality of the In Lak Ech ethos (The Golden Rule), in a sense, it is absolutely the same ethos as found in the “Good Book.”14

17. The second concept that forms the philosophical basis of the MAS-TUSD curriculum is Panche Be. It perhaps is more objectionable to MAS-TUSD critics because beyond teaching students “to seek the root of the truth,” students also interpret it as a call to social justice. Norma Gonzalez, a teacher with MAS-TUSD for eight years, says that the call to justice comes from the work of Paolo Freire, who teaches that the purpose of education isn’t simply to know things, but about praxis or action, which leads to change. Translated into Indigenous concepts, this is also Panche Be (Norma Gonzalez, in conversation with author, August, 2011.

18. Within the context of the battle to defend Ethnic/Indigenous or Mexican American Studies, TUSD students have valiantly defended their own program since 2006. No one has told them that they have to do so, yet doing so appears to be a seamless extension of their studies. Students read and learn about In Lak Ech, but they also learn about Panche Be. As they read and learn about oppression and social injustices and in times of intense conflict, the students often take it upon themselves to do something about these social injustices. The majority of those arrested (or publicly threatened with arrest) in defense of MAS-TUSD, at the state building in 2010 and at TUSD headquarters in 2011, have ranged from middle school to high school to college students. They have all been taught or have been exposed to the concepts of In Lak Ech, but also Panche Be.

19. MAS-TUSD Pueblo High School teacher Sally Rusk says that if the students did not act upon an injustice, that would equal failure on the part of MAS-TUSD educators. Rusk scoffs at critics who say that MAS-TUSD teachers brainwash their students. Students on their own understand that it is their responsibility to act upon an injustice, but as far as students acting during any given situation, that is up to the students. For example, in the battle to defend Ethnic Studies, most of the protests, rallies, runs, walks, and vigils take place in the evening or on weekends. No one forces the students to attend, she says, and yet, most of the major actions the past several years have been student led and initiated (Sally Rusk, in conversation with author, August, 2011).

20. All of these forms of protest have relied on the kind of moral power that Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta used in fighting for the rights of farm workers or that students used during the nationwide 1968-1969 walkouts throughout the U.S. Southwest, including in Tucson. This is taught in current MAS-TUSD classes. Rusk says that what motivates students to defend their program is not one thing, but a combination of the foundational teachings of In Lak Ech and Panche Be and the Four Tezcatlipocas, in combination with the Paulo Freireian concept of concientizacion (becoming conscious).For Rusk, she says not a day goes by that she doesn’t go over one of those concepts in her class.

21. Regarding the third concept in the curriculum, Hunab Ku, Vento writes:

In Native American traditions, the teachings of the Four Directions (Aztec Nahpatekuhtli) takes many years to comprehend and yet, it is only a fragment of the understanding of Hunab Ku, Manitou, Ipalnemouani. (Rodriguez 2010, 8 )

Such a concept can be construed or misconstrued as a religious concept, but as Vento further explains: “[T]here are no Gods as Western man has reiterated conveniently through the years. This notion has regrettably remained ingrained in the Western mind and is applied erroneously to all cultures” (Rodriguez 2010, 8). Hunab Ku is not taught at the University of Arizona or at MAS-TUSD for its theological dimensions, but rather as simple evidence that all peoples and all cultures have developed an explanation for how the universe functions. In many societies, God functions as the answer as to how the universe functions. In other societies, different names and concepts provide the same answer. Martinez Paredez explains that Hunab Ku is not the name for the Maya God:

That is, Hunab Ku was not conceived of as a God, specifically for the Maya, in the same way that there is a Hebrew, German, Assyrian, Chaldean, Greek or Roman God(s). No. That Creator of the Maya as conceived by them was for everyone. The Supreme Being of the Maya unquestionably represented the dynamic energy of the cosmos, and the unity and totality that Hunab Ku represented, was cosmic. (Martinez Paredez 1963, 59-60).

When Europeans first came to the Americas, Indigenous peoples were viewed as heathen, pagan, godless and demonic. The purpose of teaching Hunab Ku is to teach all students and to reassure young Mexican American/Central American students that like other peoples and cultures, they are not “godless” nor do they have demonic roots. Beyond that, to teach In Lak Ech and Panche Be without teaching Hunab Ku is to take the concepts out of their proper context. The three combine to give an AmerIndigenous definition to what it means to be human.15

The Meaning of The Four Tezcatlipocas

22. Students learn the concepts of the Four Tezcatlipocas in MAS-TUSD classes. In some classes, they recite the concepts from memory. Tezcatlipoca has four manifestations related to the transformation of human beings and each is related to a direction—east, west, north and south. The four include: Tezcatlipoca-reflection, Quetzalcoatl-wisdom, Huichtlipochtli-will and Xipetotec-transformation. Their meanings, according to the MAS-TUSD (unpublished) curriculum, created in 2006 primarily by MAS-TUSD teacher Norma Gonzalez are listed below, in collaboration with Tupac Enrique Acosta of Tonatierra in Phoenix, Arizona.16 Also below are quotes by Acosta, which help explain the concepts:

Gonzalez: The first concept is Tezcatlipoca and is primarily associated with memory. Tezcatlipoca: Tezcatl = Mirror Popoca = Smoke. Tezcatl + Popoca = The Smoking Mirror: A concept meaning memory as well as self-reflection.

Acosta: A reflection, a moment of reconciliation of the past with the possibilities of the future—not a vision of light but an awareness of the shadow that is the smoke of light’s passing. It is the smoking mirror into which the individual, the family, the clan, the barrio, the tribe and the nation must gaze to acquire the sense of history that calls for liberation.

Gonzalez: The second concept is Quezalcoatl: A title given to those who achieved the highest understanding of righteousness and humility. Quetzal = Precious/Beautiful and Coatl = Serpent (symbolic of knowledge). Combined: Quetzal + Coatl = The beautiful Serpent or Precious/Beautiful Knowledge[,] a concept meaning beautiful knowledge.

Acosta: From the memory of our identity, the knowledge of our collective history we draw the perspective that draws us to the contemporary reality. From this orientation we achieve stability, a direction found in time tested precepts that allows our awareness and knowledge of the surrounding environment to develop. This awareness and knowledge merge to form the “conciencia” of a mature human being …. (Gonzalez 2006, 1)

The third concept is Huizilopochtli, the hummingbird that guided the Mexica on their migration journey. Gonzalez explains:

Huitzilin = Hummingbird and Opochtli = Left. Huitzilin + Opochtli = Hummingbird to the left. A hummingbird representing inner strength because of its efforts to hover while maintaining a sense of balance and stability. To the left refers to and is symbolic of the sun rising in the wintertime. Left also referring to the physical location of the human heart, which is where human desire and passion derives from. This concept has meaning for the will of a person or people to be positive, progressive, and creative.

In Tenochtitlan, the Teocalli or temple-pyramid on the left was dedicated to Huizilopochtli. The one on the right was dedicated to Tlaloc (water). A further explanation of the concept of Huizilopochtli by Acosta:

La Voluntad. Will: The Warrior spirit born with the first breath taken by each newborn infant in the realization that this human life we are blessed with is a struggle requiring physical effort for survival. The exertion of this life sustaining effort evolves into a discipline, a means of maximizing the energy resources available at the human command which in order to have their full effect must be synchronized natural cycles …. (Gonzalez, 2006 1)

Finally, the concept of Xipetotec is one that is generally misunderstood and misinterpreted by western scholars, beginning with the earliest Catholic friars.17 Regarding its meaning, Gonzalez writes: “Xipe (from Xipehua)= Shedding of skin(symbolic of transformation); To = Our; Tec (from Tecultli) = Guide.” She further explains: “Xipe + To + Tec = Our guide of shedding and transformation: A concept meaning shedding of the old; leaving behind that which hinders us. An acceptance of the new; embracing and utilizing that which evolves us and prepares us for progress” (2006, 1). Acosta describes Xipetotec in this way:

The constant rejuvenating energy that brings new life, a new start, and hope. Just as nature is affected by this energy during the annual Equinox of the Spring season, we as individuals are affected during milestone phases in our lives. With new eyes we are able to see things por la primera vez … Primavera. (Gonzalez, 2006 1)

While the concepts are ancient, they are also dynamic, adapted to our present day reality. For example, MAS-TUSD teacher, Curtis Acosta offers his 2007 interpretation of the Four Tezcatlipocas.

Tezkatlipoka – self-reflection. Smoking mirror. We must vigorously search within ourselves, by silencing the distractions and obstacles in our lives, in order to be warriors for our gente and justice.
Quetzalkoatl – precious and beautiful knowledge. Gaining perspective on events and experiences that our ancestors endured, allows us to become more fully realized human beings. We must listen to each other and our elders with humility and love in order to hear the indigenous wisdom in our hearts.
Huitzilopochtli – the will to act. As we grow in consciousness, we must be willing to act with a revolutionary spirit that is positive, progressive and creative.
Xipe Totek – transformation. Our source of strength that allows us to transform and renew. We must have the strength to shed the old, which may hinder us, while embracing and accepting our new consciousness in order to transform the world. (C. Acosta qtd. in Gonzalez 2006, 1)

The above version is the one I heard students at Wakefield Middle School recite from memory, after first reciting In Lak Ech from memory at an assembly in May 2011.18

23. The MAS-TUSD curriculum is always evolving. These four compañeros are masculine energies. Also taught at different levels, are the feminine energies or personages of Coatlicue: Earth Mother; her name means “lady of the serpent skirt” (Carrasco, 2000); Coyolxauqui: she is considered to be a dismembered goddess of the moon (Carrasco, 2000); Tlazoteotl: she is associated with fertility and cleansing and is considered protector of midwives (Lopez Austin, 1997); and, Tonantzin-Guadalupe (Tonantzin or “Our Venerable Mother” continues to this day to be associated with the Virgen de Guadalupe, “The Patroness of the Americas”(Lopez Austin, 1997). While they are taught individually, at the moment, to my knowledge, they are not yet taught collectively as feminine energies as part of MAS-TUSD curriculum by MAS-TUSD educators.19

The Nahuatl Language and the Aztec Calendar

24. At MAS-TUSD, students are also taught the Nahuatl language, much of it which contains the root of Mesoamerican or maiz-based knowledge.20 They are basic lessons, as opposed to complete immersion. Lessons include numbers, plants, foods and animals. The Nahuatl language was the lingua franca of Mesoamerica and several languages belonging to the same family group (Uto-Azteca) were spoken and understood from Canada to Central America.21 In learning Nahuatl, students are able to access not simply a language, but also a worldview that is not generally taught in U.S. schools. While one can learn to “read” or interpret the Aztec Calendar (Tonalmachiotl) without the knowledge of Nahuatl, doing so brings the student closer to that worldview or cosmovision. For someone who has never learned to read or interpret it, it may appear to be simply a piece of artwork, yet the Tonalmachiotl has a logic to it and it is complex. What is referred to as the calendar is actually two calendars. One is the Tonalpoualli or sacred calendar, which measures 260 ritual days (human gestation) and the other one, Xiuhpohualli, counts the days of the sun, 365.25 days. When the two are meshed or joined (numbers and days), they create what is called a calendar round of 52 years. MAS-TUSD teachers consult with a number of experts in reference to teaching the Aztec Calendar. The MAS-TUSD educators utilize the expertise of Calpolli Teoxicalli and collaborate with them in the presentation of the knowledge within the calendar. Knowledge about the calendar is not new and is easily accessible via the internet or a whole array of books, but the source and the philosophy behind the teaching is what makes the MAS-TUSD-Aztec calendar curriculum unique.

25. Students are taught the science (astronomy and math) behind the calendar in addition to the meaning associated with each day of the calendar. Each of these days has characteristics attributed to it. Chucho Ruiz of Calpolli Teoxicalli, who teaches and collaborates with the MAS-TUSD teachers, says that the characteristics attributed to each day contain values that are taught to the students. The following are the twenty day signs taken from Codex Magliabechiano:

cipactli-crocodile-cocodrilo, ehecatl-wind-viento, calli-house-casa, cuetzpallin-lizard-lagartija, coatl-serpent-serpiente, miquitzli-death-muerte, mazatl-deer-venado, tochtli-rabbit-conejo, atl-water-agua, itzcuintli-dog-perro, ozomatli-monkey-mono, malinalli-grass-zacate, acatl-reed-carrizo, ocelotl-jaguar-jaguar, cuauhtli-eagle-aguila, cozcacuauhtli-vulture-zopilote, ollin-movement-movimiento, tecpatl-flint-pedernal, quiahuitl-rain-lluvia, xochitl-flower-flor.

Neither the teachers nor the Calpolli expect that all those who learn the calendar will live or regulate their lives by it, but Ruiz says that by giving students the knowledge of the calendar, they are giving them back something that is theirs, something they can call their very own; “They get their stories and memory back” (Chucho Ruiz , email message to author, in discussion with author, Aug 13, 2011).

26. Maria Molina, also a member of Calpolli Teoxicalli explains the importance of the calendar in this manner:

The calendar system is referred to as the Cuauhxxicalli eagle bowl, which refers to the bend in the fabric of space/time created by the earth and the influence of solar/cosmic (eagle) energy on the earth’s atmosphere. Cuauhxxicalli is the story of creation beginning with the vastness and darkness of space; it is the testament to our existence, and the predictor of future events. All this information delivered to us in the language of harmony, Nahuatl, the lens of our Indigenous human insight. Aside from its complex mathematics and science, following the calendar brings about a beautiful philosophy and structure for teaching/learning and life. (Maria Molina, email message to author, Aug 17, 2011).

What is important about the calendar is that teaching it isn’t simply a rote task, but it centers students in ancient knowledge and connects them to the entire continent.

27. That is, knowledge of the calendar is not actually uniquely Aztec in origin. Martinez Paredez (1960) refers to it as Maya-Nahua knowledge, thousands of years of accumulated knowledge all based on maiz. Citing petroglyph evidence, retired California State University Fresno professor Cecilio Orozco has written that the Aztec calendar, or the book of Tonatiuh or the Book of the Sun, as he refers to it, is actually a calendrical system that developed on different parts of the continent over the course of several thousand years. 22 He also posits that it is a book and device that documents the ancient north to south migrations and the five ages (The Five Suns), spanning the Americas, including what is today the United States (Orozco 1992). Mexican scholar Enrique Florescano argues that despite efforts to destroy them, the calendrical systems, most often referred to as the Aztec or Maya calendars, continue to be a part of this continent’s landscape (Florescano 2006). Certainly, they are part of MAS-TUSD.

28. Maria Molina of the Teoxicalli Calpolli says that it is easy to understand why the state would suppress the knowledge of the calendar. Teaching the calendar, she says:

…would open eyes to the oppression of the collective knowledge of a people that surpasses the achievements of today’s science, and to the psychological genocide in the form of disgusting lies taught in today’s schools about our respected intellectual ancestors. It is a threat to the linear thought, underlying the American dream. People feel this knowledge is history although it is evolution and the reality of our physical and cosmic existence. Some might not think it relevant because we have a modern version of science explaining our reality. However, this is a colonized explanation translated in a language missing the element of harmony and beauty. Some may not identify with the calendar, yet the knowledge is universal and Indigenous to the planet. (Maria Molina, email message to author, Aug 17, 2011).

Teaching the calendar, Molina adds, permits students to build their characters based on this complex culture, knowledge and history. Those opposed to MAS-TUSD perhaps see the Aztec Calendar as further evidence of teaching things that are not only unrelated to “Western Civilization,” but also relics from a conquered people.

Aztlán

29. For peoples who trace their ancestry to Mesoamerica, Aztlán is a complex, serious and legitimate topic to research and teach. In effect, as a field of study, it can be divided into at least three basic topics. 1) History-myth-legend of Aztlán; 2) 1960s-1970s Aztlán and the Chicano Movement; and 3) The future of Aztlán. All three of these areas have always been contentious and there is no shortage of literature on them; however, for opponents of Mexican American Studies, the very notion of Aztlán appears to cause great anger and discomfort. 23

30. A serious scholarly study of the topic would not dismiss the history-myth-legend of Aztlán as something fanciful. Whether one agrees with the 1960s-1970s Chicano context of the topic, there should be no legitimate grounds to oppose or discourage the teaching of the complex ancient history-myth-legend of Aztlán in U.S. schools. It would be akin to prohibiting the teaching of Greek-Roman myths and legends in high school classes. Virtually every Mesoamerican codex mentions the topic, though not all the accounts are uniform. However, the Aztlán migration story is undeniably embedded within the Mexican/Mexican American psyche and consciousness. To the chagrin of right wing opponents of Aztlán and MAS-TUSD, the vast majority of 16th-19th century chronicles regarding what is today Mexico, written either by Spanish friars or Indigenous writers, located Aztlán, the purported homeland of the Aztec-Mexica, in what was then referred to as the territory of New Mexico or what we today call the greater U.S. Southwest or the Northwest part of Mexico.24 Whether the codices or chronicles are accurate is a separate and complicated research topic. However, there is no denying that many maps, codices, and chronicles from that era do in fact cite the ancient homeland of the ancient Mexicans or Aztecs in what is today the U.S. Southwest.25 Modern Mexican scholars tend to locate Aztlán in Northwest Mexico, in Mexcaltitlán, Nayarit. Manuel Orozco y Berra (1880) is credited with pinpointing this location in the 19th century. Mexican scholar Alfonso Rivas Salmon, who has dedicated his life to the topic of Aztlán, also concurs with the island of Mexcaltitlán, Nayarit as the location of Aztlán (Orozco 1997).

31. On the topic of Aztlán, right wing opposition appears to stem more from the 1960s-1970s interpretation of Aztlán as the former homeland of the Aztecs being equated with the lands Mexico lost to the United States as a result of the U.S./Mexico War of 1846-1848. However, opponents of MAS-TUSD dismiss the topic of the origins of Aztlán as, at best, the product of a drug-induced hallucination. The militant era of the 1960s and 1970s did in fact look at the land lost by Mexico as Aztlán, yet no major national organization developed that espoused the actual “taking back of Aztlán.” Aztlán, more than anything, appeared to be part of a poetic longing and imaginings of the era. Two of the most well-known writings on this subtopic are The Mexican Heritage of Aztlán (1961-1962), written by the late, foremost American Indian scholar, Jack Forbes. He wrote his treatise, which connects Mesoamerica to the U.S. Southwest, almost 10 years before Alurista’s historic “El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán,” written during the 1969 Chicano Youth Liberation Conference in Denver. The document does engage in revolutionary musings and leanings, however, what the right wing never seems to comprehend is that a serious political movement or national organization with the goal of taking back or liberating Aztlán never emerged. The relative exception would be MEChA or Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán, a student organization that is found on most college campuses nationwide with a substantial enrollment of Mexican/Mexican American students. However, MEChA was never the student wing of a major national organization with that goal in mind; upon graduation, there was/is no post-MEChA.

32. If there could be such a thing as post-MEChA, the right wing might find it in the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund, the National Council of La Raza or the Brown Berets.26 The two corporate funded organizations, while mainstream organizations within the “Hispanic/Latino” community, hardly qualify as separatist or organizations that will lead Mexicans in the “reconquista.” Beyond that, they have no linkages to MAS-TUSD and its educators do not promote the idea of a “reconquista,” though like any demographer, they are not oblivious to the nation’s changing demographics. Much of the rhetoric of the right wing in Arizona always alludes to the “browning of America,” and invasions, whether the topic is immigration or education.

33. Aztlán in 2011 does not serve the same function as in the 1960s-1970s where much of its relevancy stemmed from the need to belong in lands where Mexicans/Mexican Americans were treated as hostile aliens. Politically, these populations are still treated in the same manner, but the idea of Aztlán as a future homeland no longer resonates for several reasons. Within the territory generally defined as Aztlán lie hundreds of Indigenous nations, peoples and pueblos. The idea of Chicanos/Chicanas using colonial borders to create a nation within this territory is not likely. Such an impetus would have to come from the Indigenous nations of the region, in conjunction with Chicanos/Chicanas, and since the 1970s, there has been little or no enthusiasm for such a nation. The issue is a complex one, but another reason Aztlán does not resonate in the same way as the 1960s-1970s is because Mexicans/Mexican Americans no longer are confined to what is today the U.S. Southwest. They live in every part of the United States, and thus Aztlán as the Southwest does not resonate with all Mexicans/Mexican Americans in this country. In that context, Aztlán would be viewed as something regional, not representing the reality of all of Mexicans/Mexican Americans in the United States. Beyond that, the emergence of the Peace and Dignity Journeys in 1992 have created, minimally, a continental consciousness among Mexicans/Mexican Americans, as opposed to an Aztlán-U.S. Southwest consciousness.27 This change in consciousness has come about through direct relations with Indigenous peoples across the continent, as opposed to simply issuing unilateral proclamations.

34. This continental consciousness affects the notion of a future Aztlán; no one can say with certainty what could happen in the future, but a 1960s-1970s vision of a future Aztlán is probably no longer on the horizon.28 The right wing, of course, appears to be ignorant of this reality and these developments since the 1970s, so for them, the idea of Aztlán, as a 1960s-1970s separatist scheme, conveniently continues to function as a political piñata.

Conclusion

35. At the root of the problem in regard to the Mexican American Studies conflict is the issue of demographics; the increase in the Mexican/Latino populations in this country leads to fears of the browning of the state and nation. Couple these fears with the volatile migration issues that are central to Arizona, and the result is not simply rabid xenophobia but the attempt to eliminate Mexican American Studies. It can also be interpreted as an effort to silence peoples. In effect, the battle over the MAS-TUSD curriculum can be seen as part of a proxy war over memory and over the control of “The Master Narrative of History.” MAS-TUSD educators are not interested in controlling or competing with that Master Narrative nor are they interested in eliminating Greco-Roman knowledge or culture. However, conscious of the thousands-of-years maiz narrative of this continent, neither MAS-TUSD educators nor students are willing to give up that maiz narrative or memory. This consciousness and this will to defend MAS-TUSD and its curriculum is arguably part of the ethos learned as a result of knowing In Lak Ech-Panche Be-Hunab Ku. While students have been taught to see themselves in all of humanity, they have also been taught to seek the root of the truth. In the context of attempts to eliminate Mexican American Studies, and given the six-year struggle to defend the program, most likely means that this battle will not end anytime soon.

Notes

1.TUSD March 11, 2011 Study : Save Ethnic Studies.
2.I should note that MAS-TUSD does not teach math. See TUSD March 11, 2011 Study: Save Ethnic Studies.
3.On Jan. 3, 2011, outgoing state superintendent Horne made public his Dec. 30, 2010 report that purportedly found MAS- TUSD out of compliance with HB 2281.
4.The Cambium audit was commissioned in March 2011 by Arizona State Superintendent John Huppenthal to determine whether MAS was out of compliance with HB 2281. This measure prohibits the teaching of topics that: (1) Promote overthrowing the U.S. government; (2) Promote resentment towards a race or class of people; (3) Are designed primarily for pupils of a particular ethnic race; and (4) Advocate ethnic solidarity instead of the treatment of pupils as individuals.” In June 2011, Huppenthal distorted the audit’s findings, claiming that the audit had found MAS-TUSD out of compliance. The audit’s findings, released the following day, found the opposite; MAS-TUSD was in full compliance.
5. Hugh Iltis, a leading botanist and foremost expert on the subject of maiz origins agrees that maiz was created in Southern Mexico some 7,000 years ago (Iltis, 2000). Many Mexican historians, such as Enrique Florescano, also believe that the continent was radically altered as a result of the introduction of maiz, which resulted in the eventual creation of large-scale cities and civilizations (Florescano, 2006). It is generally believed that maiz has been present in what is today the United States for at least 6,000 years. The oldest corn has been found at Bat Cave, New Mexico (Fussell, 1992).
6. Calpolli Teoxicalli is a group of families in Tucson or Tlamanalca that live ceremonial lives, based on the Aztec-Mexica calendar, also known as the Tonalmachiotl. The Calpolli teaches the calendar to the community, including to MAS-TUSD students.
7. The anti-Mexican political right wing in Arizona, similar to the rest of the nation, includes extremist political groups such as neo-Nazis, anti-immigrant militias, patriot networks, Tea Party members and members of the Republican Party, including elected officials. One local group that continually distorts the work of and attacks MAS-TUSD-TUSD is TU4SD or Tucsonans United for Sound Districts. Websites that continually distort things related to Mexican American Studies, Aztlán, the Brown Berets, La Raza and MEChA include the American Patrol Report, which is fairly representative of the many U.S.-right-wing groups: americanpatrol.com
8. While the poet Alurista is credited with popularizing the idea of Aztl´an in 1969, locating it in the U.S. Southwest, (Aztlán, 1970), there are other references to Aztlán by Jack Forbes in The Mexican Heritage of Aztlán, as part of his work with the Southern California-based Native American Movement (1961-1962).
9. These are the cited lyrics from Victor E and the group El Vuh’s “Going Back”:
“We’re going back, back to where we came from, back to where the truth dwells,
AZTLAN…We suffer colonial incarceration so we foster resistance of our own
Occupation” (as cited in Horne, 2010).
10. These are the cited lyrics from the group Aztlán Underground’s “Decolonize”:
“Some feel this oppression no longer exists Well here’s something they missed – Self D means self determination…Stranger in your own land under exploitation…This is the state of the indigena today…WE DIDN’T CROSS THE BORDERS, THE BORDERS CROSSED US! YET THE SETTLER NATION LIVES IN DISGUST! The American dream only for some WASP – White Anglo Saxon Protestant…the frame of mind that keeps our oppression constant…Cihuatl is reclaiming…We have returned to Aztlán!!! We have returned to Aztlán!!!” (as cited in Horne, 2010).
11. I was arrested along with 14 other students and community activists the day after HB 2281 was signed in May 2010. Having been isolated by the right wing as “the ringleader,” I also received a series of death threats in 2011. In a related situation, a colleague, Dr. Sandy Soto was booed off the stage and received plenty of hate mail as a result of bringing up the issue of the Ethnic Studies controversy at the College of Social and Behavioral Science 2010 graduation ceremony (Soto and Joseph, 2010).
12. Martinez Paredez had an association with Luis Valdez and Teatro Campesino in the 1960s. Many people know of In Lak Ech through the work of Valdez.
13. I have seen and heard this recited in high school classrooms, at middle school assemblies, at a national conference (by pre-schoolers) and even at protests. Precisely because of this political controversy in which media consumers are misinformed about the MAS-TUSD curriculum, in 2011, I wrote Amoxtli X – The X Codex. This small book more fully discusses these three concepts, including the 1524 debate between 12 Spanish friars and several Indigenous elders on the topic of theology.
14. Dr. Vento interprets the Maya concept of In Lak Ech in Nahuatl as Tloque Nauake. “It referred to the natural force connecting humanity, to live close and together, like the fingers of the hand with mutual respect and love for one another” (Rodriguez 2010, 7). In Nahuatl, the equivalent concept for Panche Be is Neltilitzli, and the equivalent concept for Hunab Ku is The Grand Architect of the Universe or the Giver of Life or Ipalnemouani.
15. I borrow the term AmerIndigenous from Yaqui scholar, Dr. Vivian Garcia Lopez, who uses it to refer to the Indigenous peoples of what is today known as the Americas (Dr. Vivian Lopez, in conversation with author, January, 2010).
16. Gonzalez is a member of Calpoli Teoxicalli; her understanding of these concepts comes from interaction with Tupak Enrique Acosta and other elders, such as Arturo Meza of Kalpulli Toltecayotl. Tonatierra is a collective of Nican Tlaca or Indigenous families in Phoenix, Arizona. Acosta has been an integral part of the Indigenous Rights movement throughout Abya Yalla (Americas) and the world, culminating with the passage of the UN Declaration on the rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007).
17. Spanish friars from the 16th century and many anthropologists today associate Xipetotec with human sacrifice and the wearing of the skin of sacrificial victims.
18. It was students from Wakefield Middle School who participated in large numbers on May 12 when Superintendent Horne came to Tucson the day after Governor Brewer signed the anti-Ethnic Studies HB 2281. Several were arrested.
19. Oftentimes, the three feminine energies or personages that are taught together in Chicana Studies classes are Malinztin (or La Malinche), La Llorona and Tonantzin or the Virgen de Guadalupe (Anzaldua, 2007). The attacks against the MAS-TUSD curriculum are generic, objecting to its Mesoamerican roots, as opposed to singling out pre-Colombian masculine or feminine concepts.
20. In a state that abhors the Spanish language, it must be presumed that the teaching of Mesoamerican knowledge, including the Nahuatl language, must bring discomfort to the opponents of MAS-TUSD.
21. Uto-Azteca or Uto-Nahuatl is still spoken by many dozens of peoples from the same region. Peoples from what is today the U.S. Southwest or Northwest Mexico that are part of the same language family include, the Utes, the Paiutes, Shoshone, Comanche, the Hopi, Papago, Opata, Yaqui, Mayo, Concho, Huichol and Tepehuán. Peoples from Central and Southern Mexico include: Tepaneca, Xochimilca, Tlahuica, Matlatzinca, and the Tlaxcalans, along with many others. For more information on the evolution of these language families, see Jack Forbes (1973).
22. The teaching of the Aztec Calendar is complex, and there are various disagreements about aspects of the calendar. For instance, not all agree that the central figure of the calendar represents the sun. Mazatzin Aztekayolokalli, who also collaborates with MAS-TUSD educators, asserts that the central figure is actually Tlaltecuhtli, who represents the earth. Mazatzin Aztekayolokalli, in discussion with the author, December, 2010.
23. Sources on Aztlán are too numerous to cite in full, but one book that generally reflects the accumulated thinking by Chicanos/Chicanas on the topic from the 1960s-1980s is Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland (1989). Another book from a decade later that advances many of the ideas in the aforementioned book is The Road to Aztlán: Art From a Mythic Homeland (2001). On the topic of Aztlán, numerous right wing websites predominate which make oft-discredited claims associated with the impending “reconquista.” Here are several sites: Illegal Aliens; American Patrol; and Immigration Watchdog Video. All repeat outlandish claims of invasions, reconquests, sedition and general anti-Americanism.
24. Primary codices that mention Aztlán include Codex Aubin and Codex Boturini. Chronicles that point to New Mexico as the location of Aztlán or Aztatlán are many, including Fernando Alvarado Tezozomoc’s Cronica Mexicayotl (1576) and Codice Ramirez (anonymous Indigenous writer, 16th century).
25. The topic of Aztlán was a tangential research interest relative to my Master’s and Ph.D. work on the origins of maiz. My Master’s project resulted in the documentary, Amoxtli San Ce Tojuan – We Are One (Rodriguez, R. and Gonzales, P. 2005). This research project located some 200 maps from the 1500s-1800s that make notations in reference to ancient homelands or ancient residences of Mexican Indians or Aztecs, all in what is today the U.S. Southwest. This is not offered as proof regarding the location of Aztlán, but rather as acknowledgment that these maps, similar to the codices and chronicles, do exist.
26. Because of its name, the right wing assumes that the National Council of La Raza is the leader of “La Raza.” The right wing likes to demonize the Brown Berets as that “radical” organization that will lead to the “reconquista”; however, the organization was always small, and is even smaller now than it was in the 1960s and ‘70s. There is no infrastructure in place for the endeavor that the right wing imagines as a reconquista.
27. The Peace and Dignity Journeys are runs that begin on both ends of the continent, Alaska and Argentina, and end in the center. In 1992, the P&D Journeys met in Teotihuacan, Mexico. The runs, which take place every four years, are reputed to be part of a prophesy of uniting the eagle and the condor, or North and South America (Gustavo Gutierrez, founder of the P&D Journeys), in conversation with author, August, 2011).
28. There are individuals and groups that still adhere to the idea of a future homeland of Aztlán, but the idea does not predominate in Mexican/Mexican American circles. One related idea, the future “Republica del Norte,” offered up by University of New Mexico professor Charles Truxillo since at least 2000, envisions a Hispanic nation, comprised of Northwest Mexico and what is today the U.S. Southwest. While it appears to have few adherents, the right wing uses it as evidence of a future Aztlán on U.S. land (Truxillo, pers. comm. 2000).

Works Cited

Acuña, R. 2007. Occupied America, (6th edition). Upper Saddle River, N.J.: Pearson Education.

Alurista, A. U. 1970. “El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán.” Aztlán: Chicano Journal of the Social Sciences and the Arts. 1:1.

Anaya, R. and Lomeli, F. 1989. Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland. Albuquerque: Academia/El Norte Publications.

Anzaldúa, Gloria. 1987. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books.

Aubin Códice. 1963. Ed. and Trans. Charles E. Dibble. Madrid: Ediciones Jose Porrúa Turanzas.

Bonfil Batalla, Guillermo. 1996. México Profundo. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Boturini Codex – La Tira de le Peregrinación. 2000. Deciphered by Joaquin Galarza and Krystyna Libura. Mexico City: Ediciones Tecolote.

Boturini, B.L. 1746. Idea de una nueva historia general de la America Septentrional. Madrid: En la Imprenta de Juan de Zuñiga.

Carrasco, D. 2000. Quetzalcoatl and the Irony of Empire: Myths and Prophecies in the Aztec Tradition. Boulder: University Press of Colorado.

Codice Ramirez. 1944. Ed. Manuel Orozco y Berra. Mexico City: Editorial Leyenda.

Crónica Mexicayotl. 1998. Trans. Adrian Leon. Mexico City: UNAM.

Castillo, C. 1991. Historia de la venida de los Mexicanos y otros pueblos e historia de la conquista. Trans. Federico Navarette Linares. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia.

Florescano, Enrique. 2006. National Narratives in Mexico. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

Forbes, Jack. 1961. The Mexican Heritage of Aztlán (The Southwest). Los Angeles: Native American Movement (NAM).

—. 1973. Aztecas del Norte: The Chicanos of Aztlán. Greenwich, CT: Fawcett.

Freire, Paolo. 1993. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York: Continuum.

Fussel, B. 1992. The Story of Corn. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.

Horne, Tom. 2007. “Lecture #1023.” Heritage Foundation. 14 May, 2007..

Iltis, H. 2000. “Humeotic sexual translocations and the Origin of Maiz (Zea Mays, Poacaceae): A new look at an old problem.” Economic Botany. 54:1.

Jimenez, C. 1994. The Mexican American Heritage. 2nd ed. Berkeley: TQS Publications.

Lopez Austin, A. 1994/1997. Tamoanchan, Tlalocan: Places of Mist. Trans. B.R. Ortiz de Montellano and T. Ortiz de Montellano. Niwot: University Press of Colorado .

Martinez Paredez, D.M. 1960. Un continente y una cultura: Unidad filologica de la America pre-hispanica. Mexico City: Editoral Poesia de America.

—. 1963. Hunab Ku: Sintesis del pensamiento filosofico Maya. Mexico City: Editorial Orion.

McGuiness, E. and Palos, A. 2011. Precious Knowledge. Tucson: Dos Vatos Productions.

Orozco, C. 1992. The Book of the Sun: Tonatiuh. Fresno, CA: Self-published.

—. 1997. Las letras del Licenciado Alfonso Rivas Salmon. San Diego: Marin Publications.

Orozco y Berra, M. 1880. Historia Antigua de la Historia de Mexico. Mexico City: Tip. de G.A. Esteva.

Rodriguez, R. and Gonzalez, P. 2005. Amoxtli San Ce Tojuan. Los Angeles: Xicano Records & Film.

Rodriguezs, R. 2010. Amoxtli X – The X Codex. Austin, TX: Eagle Feather Research Institute.

Soto, S. and Miranda Joseph. 2010. “Neoliberalism and the Battle Over Ethnic Studies in Arizona.” NEA Journal of Higher Education. 26 (2010): 45-56.

Vasconcelos, José. 1997. La Raza Cósmica. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP.

Letter from the Editor

Kāmmam Manām, Welcome to Nakum

1. The year since we launched Nakum has been one of tremendous growth and excitement for both the journal and the Indigenous Cultures Institute. Because of the almost-immediate positive response from readers and contributors, the Institute was able to host many of the authors in this issue at a Native American-Hispanic Heritage Festival and Symposium on October 1st. During the symposium, three of our authors, Roberto Dr. Cintli Rodríguez, Dr. Nicole Guidotti-Hernández, and Margaret Cantú-Sánchez, each presented on aspects of their work to a local San Marcos audience. The papers were enthusiastically received, and we’re happy to present them in full to you in this issue.

2. The weekend of the symposium was capped off with the debut performance of Asawan, a moving collaboration of Native musicians, dancers, storytellers, and singers. “Asawan” means “heart” in Coahuiltecan, and the performance delved into the heart of Indigenous America throughout. But it was during the last number, when the trio that forms the Hakloka Music Ensemble, along with Apache storyteller Emma Ortega and Indigenous Cultures Chair Mario Garza joined Cuicani in Xochitl, the Aztec dance company, that I truly felt the heartbeat in that space. For the entirety of the last song, the audience got up and stomped to the rhythm of the drums and the harmonies of the flute blending with Ortega’s beautiful voice. Anyone who may have walked in at that moment would have known immediately what “Asawan” means; the heartbeat was palpable.

3. The intensity of Asawan continues in this issue of Nakum, as Katie Valenzuela, Margaret Cantú-Sánchez, Roberto Rodríguez, Nicole Guidotti-Hernández, and myself join our voices to that heartfelt chorus. Though from places as disparate as Oildale, California, San Antonio, Texas, and Tucson, Arizona, we gather in this space so that we may, in the tradition of Nakum, share our voices with you.

LF
21 December 2011
Austin, Texas

A Mestizaje of Epistemologies in American Indian Stories and Ceremony

By: Margaret Cantú Sánchez

1. A close examination of Native American literature reveals that some Native Americans find it difficult to retain ties to their cultural epistemologies once introduced to the assimilationist pedagogies of U.S. schools.1 In some cases, their cultures, ethnicities, and communal epistemologies are completely rejected by U.S. school systems. Such rejections have created feelings of regret, alienation, fear of failure, and confusion. For the purposes of this article, I focus on the alienation that Native Americans, specifically members of the Dakota and Laguna Pueblo tribes,2 experience once they are subjected to the assimilationist, patriarchal methods of the U.S. education system. I frame my exploration of this dilemma with the following questions: how do U.S. school systems affect Native Americans’ tribal identity and the Native student’s interaction with his/her family and community, and what can Native American do to reconcile the institutional education they achieve in school with indigenous knowledge? A possible solution emerges when Native Americans encounter the education/indigenous knowledge conflict, an imbalance of epistemologies caused by the clash between U.S. institutional education and indigenous knowledge, an imbalance leading to alienation from school and/or Native students’ home/cultural communities. Acknowledgement of this conflict is the first step towards one solution embodied in a mestizaje of epistemologies, a balance of institutional education and indigenous knowledge.3

2. An examination of Native American literature demonstrates how protagonists and writers alike attempt to resolve the education/indigenous knowledge conflict. Works such as American Indian Stories, by Dakota writer and activist Zitkala-Ŝa, and Ceremony, by Laguna Pueblo writer Leslie Marmon Silko, are two examples of Native American literature that wrestle with complex identity conflict experienced by Native Americans of various tribes. Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo, the protagonists of American Indian Stories and Ceremony respectively, describe their encounters with the education/indigenous knowledge conflict when they reach awareness of their positions as Dakota and Laguna Pueblo tribal members who are locked in a society dominated by Anglocentric epistemologies. Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo begin to resolve this conflict once they develop a survival strategy, a mestizaje of epistemologies, which allows them to negotiate between the multiple knowledges of their home/cultural community and institutions of learning. Consciousness of their tribal status compels them to move into the third space of education, beyond the first and second spaces represented by the dominant Anglocentric culture and their own. Rather than choosing one space or another, they shift into a third space, a state of identity in which plural elements of both their Anglocentric and tribal identities become singular.

3. In order to understand what the education/indigenous knowledge conflict entails it is necessary to define what I mean by the terms education, indigenous knowledge, and identity, I use the term education to refer to institutional education of the U.S. This type of education in relation to Native Americans has its origins in religious missionary schools that dominated the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries. Sandy Grande states that the overall objective of such institutions of learning was “saving and colonizing minds [which] became part and parcel of the same colonialist project” (2004, 12). Over time, however, the U.S. government replaced the missionary system in the education of Native American students. The late nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries saw the emergence of boarding schools which were “designed first and foremost, to serve the purposes of the federal government and only secondarily the needs of American Indian students. Such imperialistic purposes were reflected in curricula that included teaching allegiance to the U.S. government, exterminating the use of Native languages, and destroying Indian customs, particularly Native religions” (Grande 2004, 13). The era of boarding schools lasted from the nineteenth century tot he early twentieth century until several factors such as mandatory school attendance, a lack of funding, and growing resistance from tribes, signaled their end.

4. Public education soon replaced boarding schools. The U.S. began relocating Native Americans to urban areas and relinquished the responsibility of their education to the states (Grande 2004, 15). The goal of such relocation was meant to “support any action that would assimilate the Indian into urban society” (15). Native Americans soon began to resist their relocation and responded by engaging in an agenda of “self-determination,” which established Native American publications, organizations, studies, etc. It is also during the 1960s and ’70s that studies regarding Native American students emerged indicating that

in addition to exhibiting the highest dropout and lowest achievement rates, American Indian, Alaska Native students were reported to endure Euro-centric curriculums, high faculty and staff turnover rates, underprepared teachers, limited access to relevant cultural library and learning resources, limited access to computers, and other technologies, and overt and subtle forms of racism found in schools. (17).

Despite reports of Indian education including “The National Study of American Indian Education” and attempts to alter the problems Native American students endure, Native populations continue to be affected by poverty, low educational attainment, and limited access to educational opportunities.4

5. In short, institutional education in relation to Native American students has transitioned from “saving and colonizing minds” to teaching allegiance to the U.S. government, to assimilation into urban society, and lastly ending in racist, oppressive curricula today. I thus define the term “education” utilizing historical context to mean Eurocentric, oppressive pedagogies and curricula that undermine Native American students’ identities and cultures.

6. In contrast to institutional education is the concept of indigenous knowledge (IK).5 Melissa K. Nelson, of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians, explains that there are multiple definitions of indigenous knowledge. Some definitions include: “a local knowledge that is unique to a culture or a society and outside of the formal educational system. IK is that knowledge that allows communities to survive and is the basis for decision-making in the arenas of health, agriculture, food preparation, natural resource management, and education” and “knowledge of community life, well-being, and shared values” (2005, 26). In short, indigenous knowledge can be described as the knowledge derived from one’s cultural community, including everything from one’s understanding of history and art to one’s relationship with the natural and scientific worlds.

7. The concepts associated with indigenous knowledge often come into conflict with institutional education defined by assimilationist pedagogy. Such a divergence creates a confusion of identity, alienation from one’s cultural community, and school failure for some Native American students. Jon Allen Reyhner explains that school success is often related to people’s identity, arguing that “educators not only need to teach academics but also help students retain and develop their identity as members of an ethnic group, as Americans, and as citizens of the world” (2006, 41). Without such a balance, Native American students run the risk of failing in school. Especially significant is the fact that

direction instruction, a teaching approach using lectures and textbooks that forms the indoctrinating teaching methods and materials of many schools today, does not help develop truly strong identities. Rather, giving students an engaging framework where they can thoughtfully experience and interact with their social and physical environment produces in them a strong personal and cultural identity. (41)

To participate in an engaging framework that encourages a strengthening of cultural identity, a new type of epistemology must emerge, one that both embraces the traditions of one’s culture (indigenous knowledge) and also implements elements of institutional education, including literary traditions. This concept is embodied in a mestizaje of epistemologies, which I locate in the merging of Chicana Third Space Feminism (CTSF) and Native American theories. To truly understand what a mestizaje of epistemologies encompasses, it is necessary to define the term itself and which theoretical strategies I employ to describe it. Especially important is an explanation of my use of CTSF to examine texts by Dakota writer Zitkala-Ŝa and Laguna Pueblo author, Leslie Marmon Silko.

8. The term “mestizaje” has been used in multiple ways to describe a mixture of many cultures, a commingling of the oppressor/oppressed paradigm, and an experience of doubleness. The concept of mestizaje has been discussed and examined by historians for a long time and in many contexts. I draw from Gloria Anzaldúa’s notion of “mestizaje,” which she describes as “the continual intermarriage between Mexican and American Indians and Spaniards” and extend this definition to describe the multiple cultural epistemologies encountered and developed by Native Americans as they interact in and with institutions of U.S. learning and in the home/cultural environments (Anzaldúa 1999, 27).

9. Though I utilize and add to Anzaldúa’s notion of “mestizaje,” I recognize that the history of the term is fraught with controversial definitions. Marilyn Grace Miller’s exploration of the origins of the term refers to texts written by Simón Bolívar in 1815 about America. In one text, Bolívar explains his dream of the Americas becoming the greatest nations in the world. Such a dream, he explains, can only occur when everyone realizes “we [Americans] scarcely retain a vestige of what once was; we are, moreover, neither Indian nor European, but a species midway between the legitimate proprietors of this country and the Spanish usurpers” (qtd. in Miller 2004, 8). Like Anzaldúa, Bolívar notes that many individuals in the U.S., as throughout the Americas, must accept that they are a mixture of multiple cultures. At the same time, they must struggle with being both a part of the culture of the oppressed and the oppressors. Similarly, Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo must come to terms with existing and negotiating their way through multiple cultures and epistemologies, especially once they are introduced to Anglocentric pedagogies.

10. Another theorist of mestizaje, Rafael Pérez-Torres, also introduced the notion as a strategy that balances the epistemologies of oppressor and oppressed. Pérez-Torres explains that the term “mestizaje” implies a

doubleness experienced through the mixed-race bodies of the mestiza and mestizo, one in which a sense of belonging coexists with an awareness of exclusion. Where mestizo identity in a Latin American context simultaneously evokes and erases the place of the indigenous, mestizo identity in a U.S. context promises and denies a sense of citizenship, enfranchisement, and belonging. (2006, 12).

Pérez-Torres speaks of mestizaje both in terms of the physically racialized body and identity. I am particularly interested in his discussion of the doubleness, especially in regard to the multiple and often oppositional epistemologies encountered at home and school. However, as Anzaldúa and other scholars reveal, to truly encompass a mestizaje of epistemologies means working outside of the oppressor/oppressed paradigm, which requires a true blending of multiple epistemologies.

11. Though the theories of mestizaje utilized by the aforementioned authors are primarily used to describe the experiences of Latinos/as, the term can also be used to explain the unique position in which Native Americans find themselves. I must also acknowledge the past and current debates regarding the concept of mestizaje. Marilyn Miller explains, for instance, “late in the twentieth century, scholars began to reveal the links between the cult of mestizaje and earlier forms of colonial domination” (2004, 4). Though the term “mestizaje” has associations with racism and colonial domination, I use the term as Anzaldúa and Pérez-Torres uses it to decribe individuals of mixed cultural backgrounds and epistemologies. By extending Anzaldúa’s use of the term to include individuals who must negotiate between multiple epistemologies that may often conflict with one another, I may then include Native Americans in my study of a mestizaje of epistemologies.

12. Just as the term mestizaje of epistemologies implies a blending of multiple epistemologies, or world views, it is also a blending of Anzaldúa’s “new mestiza” and Robert Warrior’s (Osage) intellectual trade routes. Warrior argues that though the Osages have been

more interested in developing knowledge of their own traditions than in incorporating new ideas into their world, [. . .] clearly by the time of their constitution, their leaders knew the way tot he knowledge centers of the old enemies, the Cherokees. Their embrace of democracy was as much a means of maintaining their identity as a way to erase it. But more than providing a way to hold on to their ancient integrity as a people, their constitution was also an attempt to negotiate the exigencies of modernity in a way akin to how the Osages had done so in trading and dealing with the French and Spanish. (2005, 183-84)

Warrior reveals that the Osage combine the traditions, or indigenous knowledge, of their people with an embrace of democracy to demonstrate the need for adaptation. It is ultimately this negotiation that allows the Osage to maintain their identity, while also successfully navigating through the modern world. In the same way, a mestizaje of epistemologies also acknowledges the need to maintain a balance between indigenous knowledge and the epistemologies acquired in institutions of learning. Similarly, Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo learn how to adapt their epistemologies, especially through the use of writing and reflection, to maintain ties to their cultural identities and knowledge, while navigating through an Anglocentric world.

13. In my own analysis, I combine Warrior’s theory of intellectual trade routes with the concepts of Chicana Third Space Feminism such as la facultad (Anzaldúa), differential consciousness (Chela Sandoval), and the decolonial imaginary (Emma Pérez). I find it necessary to bring in CTSF because the theory itself and the aforementioned concepts help to describe the situation many Native Americans find themselves in, especially once they are exposed to assimilationist pedagogies. Once exposed to such pedagogies, Native Americans position themselves in an in between space, the decolonial imaginary, where they develop survival strategies like la facultad and differential consciousness. Though these concepts are used primarily to describe the experiences of Chicanas, a combination of Native theories and strategies can accurately describe some of the unique experiences Native Americans endure.

14. At the same time, the concepts of hybridity and mestizaje are sometimes questioned within the realm of Native American studies because they are often seen as theories that privilege mixed-bloodedness over full-bloodedness and that do no emphasize the material, historical differences that exist between tribes or between Native peoples and other ethnic groups. However, as Warrior indicates, ideas that can travel across geographical or cultural divides are also transformed in the process of traveling. Similarly, the sharing and “traveling” of strategies like la facultad and differential consciousness across cultural divides can help us better understand the education experiences of Native Americans from diverse tribes.

15. In particular, Anzaldúa’s concept of la facultad and Chela Sandoval’s differential consciousness reveal how individuals faced with coping with multiple cultures, epistemologies, and cultural identities negotiate between them. Anzaldúa argues that la facultad is “the capacity to see in surface phenomena the meaning of deeper realities, to see the deep structure below the surface. It is an instant ‘sensing,’ a quick perception arrived at without conscious reasoning” (1999, 60). The development of la facultad emerges in people like Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo as “a kind of survival tactic that people, caught between the worlds, unknowingly cultivate” (61). Such consciousness emerges in response to existing between multiple worlds and epistemologies. In the case of Zitkala-Ŝa, la facultad allows her the opportunity to successfully negotiate her experiences while in her cultural community and school.

16. Sandoval takes this concept of negotiating between multiple worlds further by arguing that a shift in an individual’s consciousness “enables movement ‘between and among’ ideological positioning” (2000, 30). This differential consciousness emerges for both Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo when they realize that there is a need to succeed academically, while also retaining ties to their cultural communities. Both differential consciousness and la facultad ultimately emerge through Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo’s reflection on their experiences as portrayed through their writings. Through such writing and reflection, Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo choose to write/reflect themselves and their respective tribe’s culture back into history. Part of re-inscribing one’s self back into history begins with what Emma Pérez proposes is the time lag that occurs between a colonial and a postcolonial state: the decolonial imaginary, “that interstitial space where differential politics and social dilemmas are negotiated” (1999, 6). As Pérez notes, we must examine the stories and histories of Chicanas (I would add Latins and Native Americans) and focus on “taking the ‘his’ out of the ‘story,’ the story that often becomes the universalist narrative in which women’s experience is negated” (xiv).

17. An exploration of Zitkala-Ŝa’s American Indian Stories utilizing CTSF and Warrior’s intellectual trade routes reveals how the education/indigenous knowledge conflict arises for Zitkala-Ŝa and how she develops a mestizaje of epistemologies as a possible solution. In American Indian Stories, Zitkala-Ŝa, a former boarding school student and teacher, chooses to use her experiences as a means of empowerment and healing. Her story begins with her initial desire to attend school, though ironically it is there that she is separated from family, culture, and identity. The young Zitkala-Ŝa does not reach this realization until she begins college and works as a teacher herself. As a teacher in a boarding school, however, she realizes that, “in the process of my education I had lost all consciousness of the nature world about me” (96). The recognition that her school began to separate her from nature and her culture indicates a development of la facultad. It is at this point in her career that Zitkala-Ŝa senses the true objective of the boarding schools, to eradicate ties to Native American cultures. Such awareness allows her to understand that through her institutional education she began to lose ties to her culture and her family. Once this realization is achieved, Zitkala-Ŝa resigns from her post and decides to challenge Captain Richard Henry Pratt, the administrator of the boarding schools, by returning to her home and telling/sharing the stories of her people, including her own. Zitkala-Ŝa manages to break free from her prison by using the education of the hegemony to chronicle her counter-narrative and offer healing for her community. She is then propelled into the third space of education, a place where she combines cultural traditions (indigenous knowledge) with the epistemologies attained in U.S. school systems to form a mestizaje of epistemologies that allows her to remember, heal, and attain agency.

18. Zitkala-Ŝa’s text begins with her discussion of the lessons she learned from her mother and cultural community, which is then contrasted with the next section focusing on her school days. The first section, entitled “Impressions of an Indian Childhood” opens with a focus on women’s work. She reveals, “[h]ere, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the muddy stream for our household use” (7). She begins her stories with this image of women’s work to contest the European Americans’ criticism that such work was “evidence of the [Dakota] women’s enslaved position and reflective of the men’s debased state” (Spack 2002, 154). Zitkala-Ŝa works against the European Americans’ image of Dakota women’s work as she proudly asserts, “mother, when I am tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you shall not have to come for water. I will do it for you” (9). Ruth Spack indicates that Zitkala-Ŝa’s admiration for her cousin and her desire to engage in such work reveals that drawing water was “an activity of high status, to which a young girl could aspire” (2002, 154). By setting up the contrasting perspective that Dakota women’s work was in fact something young girls aspired to and learned from, Zitkala-Ŝa begins to contest the image that European Americans hold regarding the Dakotas specifically and Native Americans more generally.

19. Similarly, Zitkala-Ŝa also describes the farm work she and her mother engage in to yet again contest European Americans’ belief that such work was evidence of the Dakota woman’s “slave status” (Spack 2002, 154). After her mother and aunt gathered a supply of corn, Zitkala-Ŝa was left with the task of watching the corn to ensure it was not disturbed by anything. This revelation is yet again a strategic move on the author’s part because it “challenges the prevailing notion that Native women without formal schooling were uneducated, for she demonstrates the experiential way Sioux girls learned from female elders” (154). Zitkala-Ŝa uses these small glimpses into the lives of Dakota women as a means to contest the images of Native American women as slaves and their men as lazy. Such information also shows how the indigenous knowledge of certain tribes like the Dakotas is articulated and preserved. Zitkala-Ŝa’s decision to portray the experiences of Dakota women is critical in defining their identity, which is deeply steeped in the education they acquire from their tribes. Due to the dominance of Anglo American, patriarchal attitudes at the time, the work Dakota women engaged in was not see in a positive light. Despite this, Zitkala-Ŝa’s portrayal of these women’s experiences redefines their work as respectable, indeed critical towards the survival of the tribe.

20. While the first section of American Indian Stories focuses on the education in which Dakota children engage, the second section, “The School Days of an Indian Girl,” emphasizes the institutional education of Anglo/European Americans. Yet again, Zitkala-Ŝa contrasts the education received from her Dakota tribe with that of the boarding school. Her schooling experience begins with a desire to escape all the confusion of the noises and people as she arrives at the boarding school. She explains that just as she is about to make her escape, “two warm hands grasped me firmly, and in the same moment I was tossed high in midair . . . I was both frightened and insulted by such trifling” (50). Zitkala-Ŝa sees this treatment as insulting and immediately contrasts the woman with her own mother who would never have treated her so improperly. At the same time, she uses this instance to demonstrate the irony of her situation; it is the Anglo/European American who is acting like a savage though it is to Native Americans that such a description was attributed.

21. Zitkala-Ŝa also points out other indignities she is forced to endure as a result of the Anglo Americans’ savagery. She explains that on her journey to school, children stared at her: “sometimes they took their forefingers out of their mouths and pointed at my moccasined feet. Their mothers, instead of reproving such rude curiosity, looked closely at me, and attracted their children’s notice to my blanket” (48). Zitkala-Ŝa’s description of her embarrassment also reveals her perspective regarding the uncivil behavior of Anglo Americans. She uses this technique to demonstrate that though Anglo Americans claim to be devoid of savagery, they exhibit disrespectful behavior toward her, which she deems as “savage.”

22. Zitkala-Ŝa’s first few encounters with the U.S. school system are especially upsetting for her because she is forced to participate in a strict, disciplined daily regimen. The prescribed schedule, especially the bell technique used to seat the students at mealtime, is meant to control both the bodies and minds of Zitkala-Ŝa and her fellow peers. She explains, “a small bell was tapped, and each of the pupils drew a chair from under the table” (53). The first day of school Zitkala-Ŝa is summoned to breakfast by a bell and is forced to march in line to the dining room. She briefly comments on the girls dressed in “tightly fitting clothes,” which in her opinion are “immodest” (53). Another bell is rung to indicate that the students must pull out their chairs, followed by a third bell which indicates that they are to be seated. A fourth bell signals that everyone may begin eating. Zitkala-Ŝa describes this “eating by formula” as quite a traumatic experience. She initially does not understand that it is necessary to wait for each bell to signal the next movement; thus, when she makes a wrong move, she feels embarrassed and frightened.

23. Zitkala-Ŝa’s description of the bell technique which is used to control the students’ every move is similar to Michel Foucault’s discussion of the docile body of the soldier. Foucault describes the body of the soldier as one that is malleable, that is, it is ready to be molded into the ideal soldier as defined by those in power. Though Foucault’s description of the ideal soldier is eventually used as a model for prisoners, we can easily apply his discussion of these disciplinary measures to those used in Indian boarding schools. For instance, Zitkala-Ŝa and her fellow students are forcibly removed from their homes and placed in schools that they did not want to attend, essentially becoming imprisoned there. As prisoners they are subjected to being molded into “model citizens” and students. This molding includes everything from the outward appearance of Native American students to their languages and cultures. Native American students had their hair forcibly cut, were imprisoned within the clothes of the white man, forbidden to speak their languages, and prohibited from any attempts to maintain cultural ties. Equally important are those people in control of these movements, that is, the school teachers and administrators. Each of these people attempts to control every part of the Native American body in an effort to mold them into the likeness of an Anglo American.

24. The first thing to be molded is the outward appearance of the student prisoner. Zitkala-Ŝa describes her horror as she learns that her hair will have to be cut off: “our mothers had taught us that only unskilled warriors who were captured had their hair shingled by the enemy. Among our people, short hair was worn by mourners, and shingled hair by cowards!” (54). The cutting of Native American students’ hair is symbolic in many ways. Zitkala-Ŝa explains first that the cutting of the hair often meant that one was an unskilled warrior incapable of fighting back effectively against one’s enemy. Anglo Americans become her enemy because of the proposed act of cutting her hair. Secondly, short hair is described as a way of expressing a state of mourning. This description is accurate: Zitkala-Ŝa has already begun to mourn her former way of life. The short hair further signals the power and control that school officials hold over the children. They are able to mold their physical appearance to emulate Anglo Americans, bringing the Native American children one step closer to forgetting their ways of life.

25. Zitkala-Ŝa is so frightened by the prospect of having her hair cut that she decides to take matters into her own hands. Rather than succumb to such indignity, Zitkala-Ŝa attempts to resist. Though she chooses to remain at school to learn, Zitkala-Ŝa begins to implement a mestizaje of epistemologies when she incorporates the education of Anglo Americans with the indigenous knowledge (manners) she attained from her community. She views the act of cutting her hair as a disrespectful action that she believes her people would never have exerted upon anyone else without just cause. In response to her friend Judéwin’s conclusion that “‘We have to submit, because they are strong,’” Zitkala-Ŝa explains, “I rebelled. ‘No, I will not submit! I will struggle first!’” (54). With that statement, Zitkala-Ŝa runs upstairs, finds an empty room and hides under a bed. Eventually discovered, she was “dragged out, though [she] resisted by kicking and scratching wildly. In spite of myself, I was carried downstairs and tied fast in a chair” (55). Zitkala-Ŝa’s description of this ordeal reverses the stereotype of the Native American as savage by turning it around and instead demonstrating the savagery of the Anglo Americans’ actions. Although her hair is eventually cut and she is dressed in the white man’s clothes, as Zitkala-Ŝa is educated in Anglo American ways, she does not become a “docile body” that can be easily molded. Instead, she uses the education of Anglo Americans as a means of resistance and survival.

26. Specifically, Zitkala-Ŝa resists and counters the cultural genocide of Native Americans through the development of la facultad, which allows the formation of a differential consciousness of resistance. That is, she forms this awareness, this ability to sense and understand that the boarding schools were more than what they appeared to be. Once she reaches this awareness she emerges in a third space of education where she realizes it is possible to negotiate between multiple educations and epistemologies. In this third space, Zitkala-Ŝa enters into the Coatlicue state where she must “make ‘sense’ of something[;]she has to ‘cross over,’ kicking a hole out of the old boundaries of the self and slipping under cover, dragging the old skin along, stumbling over it” (Anzaldúa 1999, 71). Similar to Anzaldúa’s Coatlicue state, Zitkala-Ŝa realizes that she must embrace her institutional education and indigenous knowledge in order to survive.

27. Zitkala-Ŝa reaches the awareness that the education she was supposedly attaining is actually an attempt to eradicate her Dakota culture. Zitkala-Ŝa finally resigns and reflects on the absurdity of the Anglo Americans’ wonder at Native American children’s ability to learn: “but few there are who have paused to question whether real life or long-lasting death lies beneath this semblance of civilization” (91). Zitkala-Ŝa finally realizes that the boarding schools were doing nothing positive for the Native Americans; instead, they were only slowly destroying their culture and people.

28. Like many Native American women before her, Zitkala-Ŝa employs la facultad in order to survive and resist boarding schools and the cultural genocide of Native Americans. The development of la facultad in people like Zitkala-Ŝa emerges as a survival strategy that allows her to negotiate between multiple worlds. Her emergence from the ignorance of her identity and position in society allows Zitkala-Ŝa to engage in acts of resistance that begin with la facultad. Specifically, she begins to write down her experiences as a student-prisoner and teacher in Indian boarding schools in order to reveal their true objectives. Jessica Enoch’s analysis of Zitkala-Ŝa’s essays and letters to her fiancé, Carlos Montezuma, reveal her desire to bring to light the atrocities of the boarding schools. These unapologetic essays are printed and distributed much to the disappointment of Pratt and the school officials of Carlisle. Though she meets resistance from Pratt, Zitkala-Ŝa explains in a letter to Montezuma that “she ‘won’t be another’s mouthpiece–[she] will say just what [she] things’” (Enoch 2002, 117). Zitkala-Ŝa’s ability to use the education that Anglo Americans forced upon her to resist and contest the teachings of boarding schools further demonstrates her ability to weave between oppositional ideologies.

29. Chela Sandoval calls for a necessary mixture or mestizaje of ideas, knowledge and theories in order to negotiate between these worlds. Such differential consciousness allows those who have been marginalized, like Zitkala-Ŝa, to surive the Anglo hegemony. Through strategies akin to Sandoval’s differential consciousness, Zitkala-Ŝa uses whatever means necessary to counter Pratt’s boarding schools. While she is in school, she must yield to the Anglocentric hegemony’s education, culture, and even clothing; but even this is an example of differential consciousness because Zitkala-Ŝa chooses to abide by these rules in order to survive. At the same time, she uses the Anglo hegemony’s language to discredit Pratt and his schools not only to survive but also resist. Creek poet, musician, and critic Joy Harjo explains that resistance can take place through the re-appropriation of the “enemy’s language,” specifically by using it, as Zitkala-Ŝa has done, to speak out against injustices against Dakotas and to reinscribe Dakota women’s stories into history.

30. Zitkala-Ŝa directly challenges Pratt and his school system by refusing to remain a silent, submissive teacher. Enoch explains that Zitkala-Ŝa is an “Indian teacher who challenged and countered educational norms that silenced Indian voices and erased Indian culture” (2002, 119). Zitkala-Ŝa chooses to write herself and her people back into history by contesting Pratt’s education techniques. She explains in a letter Montezuma, “I do not mean to give up my literary work–but while the old people last, I want to get from them their treasured ideas of life. This I can do by being among them” (120). Zitkala-Ŝa’s decision to return home to her people after she has attained her education allows her to record their traditions and stories, ensuring their cultural survival. Through the writing of these narratives, she decolonizes history from a uniquely female and Dakota point of view. The use of the “enemy’s language” to re-inscribe her people’s history, traditions, and culture into world discourse moves her into the third space of education where she embraces the traditions of her tribe, shares them via writing, and learns that they are ultimately necessary to help her embrace her identity as a Dakota woman.

31. Though Zitkala-Ŝa relates her experiences in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, themes of identity and education conflicts continue to exist in contemporary literature. Specifically, Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony, which takes place just after the end of World War II, examines the identity crisis and war sickness that Tayo, a mixed-blooded Laguna Pueblo endures after he returns home from the war. The war sickness causes Tayo to reflect on his own identity and place in the world. Especially significant is the education/indigenous knowledge conflict Tayo encounters, which is identified by the constant battling between multiple cultural positions because is both Anglo and Laguna Pueblo. Throughout the text, Tayo attempts to come to terms with this conflict. Tayo does not begin the healing process until he performs a specific ceremony as revealed to him by Betonie, a Navajo medicine man. It is this ceremony and Tayo’s encounters with Betonie, Night Swan, and Ts’eh that help him adopt a mestizaje of epistemologies. This mestizaje of epistemologies ultimately helps Tayo resolve his identity conflict so that he may not only heal himself but his tribal community as well.

32. Tayo does not recognize how dire his identity conflict really is until he becomes aware of being caught between multiple cultural identities. Part of Tayo’s identity conflict includes his metaphysical struggles. Cherokee scholar, Sean Kicummah Teutone reveals that “[b]ecause Tayo has forgotten his cultural training to accept and understand these [metaphysical] experiences, he begins to believe that he has lost his purchase on reality” (2008, 121). Teuton further notes that Western views of human experience often disregard the “metaphysical as a source of knowledge,” which becomes problematic for tribal people because “such mystical experiences are often indispensable to understanding oneself in the world” (120). Because Tayo has lost his way in terms of forgetting his cultural understanding of life and identity, he believes he has lost his mind. This loss of Tayo’s Laguna Pueblo identity and understanding of the world reveals how the education/indigenous knowledge conflict emerges. Tayo has begun to lose his comprehension of these things because of his immersion in the education and epistemologies of the Western/Anglocentric way of thinking.

33. As a result of his inability to understand his metaphysical experience, Tayo endures extreme “bewilderment.” Because of the various losses Tayo has experienced–the deaths of his surrogate father, Josiah, his cousin, Rocky, and his mother–he experiences a sense of invisibility. This invisibility exhibits itself through a “void characterized by silence: ‘He can’t talk to you,’ Tayo’s dislocated voice tells the doctor, ‘He is invisible. His words are formed with an invisible tongue’” (Roberts 1995, 81). Jill Roberts indicates that this loss of language represents the “dissociation of identity-forming constructs” while also pointing to marginalization and oppression (81). Thus, from the beginning of Ceremony, Tayo is unable to clearly identify who he is or where he belongs. Not only is he unable to voice who he is, he also finds himself at a point in life where he is unsure of whom he is. Tayo’s uncertainly of identity shifts him into the third space of education, a place where he is no longer the person he once was because of his exposure to Anglo Americans and Western epistemologies. At the same time, he is unable to move forward and re-identify who he is until he contemplates his identity and understands who he is in relation to his worlds.

34. Tayo’s emergence in the third space of education arises when he is forced to recognize the conflict with his bicultural self once he and his cousin Rocky attend boarding school. Rocky receives respect and praise from his teachers and coach because is an A-student and all-state in football and track. His teachers and coach begin to give him advice regarding getting ahead in the world, “[t]hey told him, ‘Nothing can stop you now except one thing: don’t let the people back home hold you back” (47). In order to succeed in the Anglo world, Rocky begins to deliberately avoid the old-time ways, referring to such knowledge as superstition.

35. Rocky also reveres the Anglo way of knowing, while disparaging his Laguna epistemologies when his uncle, Josiah, asks for his opinion regarding the raising of cattle. Josiah concludes that the texts on cattle-raising must be incorrect because his own experience indicates this. However, when he voices his opinion Rocky responds by indicating, “[t]hose books are written by scientists. They know everything there is to know about beef cattle. That’s the trouble with the way the people around here have always done things–they never knew what they were doing” (70). Rocky’s rejection of Laguna knowledge and ways of life reveals his disdain for the old ways and traditions, while also revealing his admiration of Anglo epistemologies. Thus, for Rocky, no education/indigenous knowledge conflict exists. He chooses instead to reject his tribal cultural epistemologies in lieu of the Anglo way of life.

36. In contrast to Rocky, Tayo finds himself struggling between Western/Anglo epistemologies and indigenous knowledge of his Laguna community. Tayo reflects on the various stories and myths that the Laguna people shared and contrasts them with the Anglo people’s views:

He knew what white people thought about the stories. In school the science teacher had explained what superstition was, and then held the science textbook up for the class to see the true source of explanations. He had studied those books, and he had no reasons to believe the stories any more. The science books explained the causes and effects. But old Grandma always used to say, “Back in time immemorial, things were different, animals could talk to human beings and many magical things still happened.” He never lost the feeling he had in his chest when he spoke those words, as she did each time she told them stories; and he still felt it was true, despite all they had taught him in school. (1977, 87)

Tayo’s uncertainty regarding what he is taught in school versus his desire to accept the stories of his people signal the struggle he endures because of the education/indigenous knowledge conflict. Tayo’s personal struggle is also indicative of the larger problems his community faces. Teuton argues that ultimately Ceremony is built “philosophically around a crucial moral debate among Lagunas: whether cultural change will cause either the destruction or the flourishing of the people. Though change has always been a part of Indigenous living, here the colonial stakes are most critical–they must clarify a theory of cultural development to evaluate and determine exactly which changes to accept” (2008, 145). Thus, throughout the text, Tayo is representative of the larger community of Laguna people who are struggling to adapt their cultural identity in such a way that allows for the retention of certain traditions balanced with Anglocentric knowledge.

37. Part of Tayo’s conflict also emerges as a result of Auntie’s refusal to acknowledge him as legitimately Laguna because he is half Anglo. This is similar to the struggle that many Chicanos endure because of their ties to multiple cultures including Indian, Spanish, Mexican, and American. Similar to Tayo, the Chicano/a must work through the “commonly held beliefs of the white culture attack[ing] commonly held beliefs of the Mexican culture, and both attack[ing] commonly held beliefs of the indigenous culture” (Anzaldúa 1999, 100). Tayo must also deal with his Laguna friends attacking his Anglo American heritage. Particularly significant is the fact that part of those attacks come from his own aunt because she dismisses his claim to Laguna roots.

38. Auntie is also ashamed of Tayo because of his mother’s actions and the people’s perceptions of her as revealed by Silko: “when Little Sister [Tayo's mother] had started drinking wine and riding in cars with white men and Mexicans, the people could not define their feeling about her. The Catholic priest shook his finger at the drunkenness and lust, but the people felt something deeper: they were losing her, they were losing part of themselves” (63). Auntie realizes that she must act in order to save her sister; however, she does not realize how complex her sister’s problems really are. Little Sister may have been saved had she “not been ashamed of herself. Shamed by what they taught her in school about the deplorable ways of the Indian people; holy missionary white people who wanted only good for the Indians, these people urged her to break away from her home” (63). Because Tayo’s mother has begun to internalize the racism she feels in school and society, she is unable to reconcile her multiple epistemologies.

39. Unlike his mother, Tayo learns how to cope with his multiple identities and epistemologies because of the “ways he straddles two warring genetic identities, in the betweenness inherent in his displacement[,] in the sense of belonging he must find before he can claim his voice not only as an individual but as a member of a particular community (Roberts 1995, 82). In contrast to his mother, who does not have the opportunity to reconcile the multiple epistemologies she encounters, Tayo encounters people who help him negotiate between his multiple selves and epistemologies. Tayo does not begin to reflect on his multiple selves and reconcile them until several key women enter his life.

40. Women play a vital role in helping Tayo recognize, embrace, and balance his multiple identities and knowledge. As Tayo struggles to locate his origins, he becomes tangled in a web of discourse where he

heard the women’s voices then; they faded in and out until he was frantic because he thought the Laguna words were his mother’s but when he was about to make out the meaning of the words, the voice suddenly broke into a language he could not understand; and it was then that all the voices were drowned out by the music–loud, loud music from a big juke box, its flashing red and blue lights pulling the darkness closer. (5)

Though Tayo initially thinks he has made a connection with his origins, as represented by his mother’s voice, he is suddenly unable to hear her clearly. The disarticulation becomes even more pronounced when the voice breaks into a language Tayo cannot decipher until he can no longer hear the voices. Tayo exhibits this fear and shame at not being able to understand or accurately speak the Laguna language in his dream and when he is unable to answer the Laguna medicine man, Old Ku’oosh. This shame helps Tayo realize his identity conflict, which also encourages him to seek help from the Diné healer Betonie, a different kind of medicine man.

41. Betonie, who is described as green-eyed like Tayo, helps the protagonist accomplish his healing ceremony. Betonie is especially significant because he symbolizes the people’s ability to adapt and survive. He is able to hold on to the old traditions of his people, while adapting to the new ones. At the same time, Betonie is able to balance his cultural knowledge with the knowledge of the Anglo world. In short, Betonie embodies the third space of education because he attempts to preserve the ancestral traditions of his people, thought with a few adaptations, while also using knowledge attained from the Anglo American world to heal. Both Betonie and Night Swan, a flamenco dancer, reveal that change is ultimately necessary in order to survive. However, they also acknowledge that it is equally important to remember history and traditions. Though the traditions may be adapted and seem different, this does not mean that they are insignificant; instead it means that they continue to thrive.

42. Tayo does not transcend his former self and accept hybridity as a solution until he finally meets Ts’eh. Ts’eh is at first only known as “the woman”; however, she represents, Yellow Woman, a sacred figure in Laguna spirituality. Ts’eh also guides Tayo in understanding who he is by showing him where to find wild herbs, warning him of danger, and encouraging him to contemplate his identity and place in his tribe. With her help, Tayo engages in his own ceremony where he discovers Josiah’s lost cattle and a plant designated by Ts’eh to create “light.” Tayo’s discovery of the cattle and the boundary crossing he must engage in as represented through the cutting through Floyd Lee’s fence represents Silko’s message. Tayo’s cutting of the fence helps to re-establish fair boundaries between the Lagunas and the Anglo Americans, while also establishing “Indian survival as dependent on the maintenance of cultural boundaries that must both separate–protect against the encroachments of the dominant culture–and connect–join with the dominant culture in recognition that mutual survival is interdependent and dependent on the stories, both old and new, tribal and Western, that can map that survival” (Arnold 1999, 83). The discovery of the lost cattle symbolizes a discovery of the “lost Laguna people” and the root represents Tayo’s “ability to achieve a rootedness in his ‘adoptive’ community” (Roberts 1995, 87). The journey Tayo embarks on allows him to reflect on his position between the Western/Anglo American and Laguna espistemologies, the third space of education. While in this space, Tayo realizes, with the help of Betonie, that he cannot retain the traditions of the Laguna people without some adaptations. Once Tayo completes his ceremony he begins to daydream “that he was wrapped in a blanket in the back of Josiah’s wagon, crossing the sandy flat below Paguate Hill. . . . Josiah was driving the wagon, old Grandma was holding him, and Rockety whispered ‘my brother.’ They were taking him home” (236). Tayo’s dream foreshadows his acceptance of his Laguna identity as well as the acceptance that a mestizaje of epistemologies is necessary for his tribal traditions to survive and thrive.

43. Tayo’s ceremony allows him to shift into a third space of education, where he begins to adopt a mestizaje of epistemologies. It is in this third space that Tayo realizes he can embrace adaptations of Laguna traditions while balancing them with certain Western/Anglo ways of knowing. Such acceptance signals a shift in consciousness, what Sandoval refers to as a differential consciousness. Tayo’s development of a differential consciousness gives him the ability to weave between multiple epistemologies, primarily those of the Laguna Pueblo and Anglo Americans’. This differential consciousness also allows Tayo the ability to balance his multiple identities, without forsaking one for another, thereby signaling one possible solution to the education/indigenous knowledge conflict.

44. Ultimately, Tayo learns of the necessity of balancing and embracing multiple cultures and epistemologies. This is especially evident in the fact that “[t]he English language, as the dominant language of most American Indians and the Laguna people, is now and Indian and world language and–despite mythologies that would confine Indians to the oral–writing has long been an Indian and multicultural medium” (Parker 2003, 133). Even the structure of Ceremony itself indicates the necessity of mixing multiple ways of knowing including the Laguna traditions of oral storytelling with written prose and poetics.6 Silko’s blending of “poetry and prose, including its dialogue with traditions that call on storytelling, orality, or the poetic to legitimize and establish Native American literature” represents her own mestizaje of epistemologies (134). Such transitions between poetry, prose, and oral storytelling demonstrate exactly what Betonie has prescribed for Tayo’s ceremony, an adaptation of the traditions with the epistemologies of Western/Anglo Americans. Furthermore, Silko’s use of transitioning between prose, poetry, and oral storytelling is representative of her differential consciousness as well as offering it as a solution to Tayo’s education/indigenous knowledge dilemma. Silko’s ability to weave/transition between multiple epistemologies characterized by prose, poetry, and oral storytelling ultimately demonstrates the need for adaptation, while also preserving traditions. In the same way, Tayo learns that such a mestizaje of epistemologies is necessary to truly begin to heal and overcome his conflicts.

45. Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo are two figures from very different tribes and time periods who share a common dilemma, the education/indigenous knowledge conflict. While Zitkala-Ŝa’s narrative takes place during the boarding school era of Native American education, Tayo’s education is markedly different in that he is not forcibly removed from his home and culture. Though years separate Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo’s narratives, it is important to focus on the similarities of their lives especially regarding the implications that U.S. institutional education has on their lives.

46. Zitkala-Ŝa’s education/indigenous conflict is revealed in the structure of her story as indicated by the two distinct sections on Dakota education and boarding school. Especially significant is the traumatic encounter she endures at the boarding school, including having her hair cut, being forced to wear Anglo American clothing, and of course suffering assimilationist pedagogies. Despite the trauma encountered at school, Zitkala-Ŝa manages to succeed in school though at the risk of losing ties to her culture. It isn’t until Zitkala-Ŝa is a teacher at a boarding school herself that she realizes the implications of her Anglocentric schooling. Such awareness propels her into the third space of education, a place where she understands that multiple epistemologies can ensure survival in multiple situations. She soon becomes aware of the need to utilize her Anglocentric education to retain ties to her Dakota community through activism and the preservation of traditions and histories via the written word. Zitkala-Ŝa’s decision to retain aspects of her indigenous knowledge and the Anglocentric education signals her adoption of a mestizaje of epistemologies which occurs through the development of la facultad and differential consciousness. Both survival strategies allow Zitkala-Ŝa to negotiate successfully through multiple worlds, thereby providing a solution to her education/indigenous knowledge conflict.

47. Tayo’s story differs in many ways from Zitkala-Ŝa’s; however, he also encounters the education/indigenous knowledge conflict, which leads to an uncertainty of identity and alienation from the Laguna Pueblo community. Unlike Zitkala-Ŝa, the traumatic encounter that propels Tayo into the third space of education begins at school but is solidified once he begins to attain awareness of his position while away at war. Upon his return, Tayo is unable to resume his former life and identity.

48. For a while, Tayo is left to flounder about until he resolves to seek a solution from the Diné medicine man, Betonie. Betonie sets Tayo upon his journey, or ceremony of self-discovery, beginning first with the recovery of his uncle’s cattle. After the recovery of the cattle, Tayo finally realizes his ties to the Laguna people and begins to accept his identity. At the same time, Tayo understands that the traditions of his people must adapt in order to truly survive. Such awareness indicates an adoption of a mestizaje of epistemologies as revealed through the differential consciousness Tayo employs.

49. Furthermore, by engaging in the telling and reflection of their stories, Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo are able to balance multiple cultures, identities, and epistemologies. They both choose to resist the Anglocentric pedagogies that insist they completely assimilate and instead understand that a bridging of elements of their institutional education and indigenous knowledge is needed. Such understanding, which takes place through a mestizaje of epistemologies and in the third space of education, establishes a space where a call for social justice can be enacted. Through their acceptance of a mestizaje of epistemologies, Zitkala-Ŝa and Tayo call others to reject the simplistic solution of choosing one type of epistemology over the other, thereby ensuring a preservation of culture and rejection of complete assimilation.

Notes

1. For the purposes of this paper, I will use the term Native American. However, I am aware that controversies exist among Native American scholars regarding which identifier they prefer to use. In many cases, though not all, Native American scholars prefer the term American Indian, but there are also just as many academics that dislike the term. I draw these conclusions from Michael Yellow Bird’s “What We Want to be Called: Indigenous Peoples’ Perspectives on Racial and Ethnic Identity Labels.”
2. Though my argument reveals that two Native American protagonists from different tribes share similar experiences regarding the education/indigenous knowledge conflict, I by no means am implying that all Native American experiences can be, nor should be, conflated. Instead. I recognize that as members of different tribes, these protagonists provide unique experiences that include some similarities in regard to the multiple epistemologies they encounter.
3. I use the term “epistemology” as Dolores Delgado Bernal uses it to refer to a “‘system of knowing’ that is linked to worldviews based on the conditions under which people live and learn” (2002, 106).
4. Grande indicates that in the 1990s several documents and reports, such as “Indian Nations at Risk,” the “White House Conference on Indian Education Policy Statement,” and the “Comprehensive Federal Indian Education Policy Statement,” revealed that though much progress had been made for Indian education, high dropout and low achievement rates continued (Grande 2004, 17).
5. I do not mean to imply that U.S. institutional education is the direct opposite of indigenous knowledge; rather, I am attempting to demonstrate how the two approaches to education often conflict with one another.
6. Silko’s Ceremony, though often celebrated as a significant text in Native American literature, has also been criticized by Native scholars, like Paula Gunn Allen of Laguna Pueblo, for utilizing old stories inappropriately and for simply revealing them at all to the outside world.

Works Cited

Anzaldúa, Gloria. 1999. Borderlands/La Frontera. San Francisco, CA: Aunt Lute Books.

Arnold, Ellen L. 1999. “An Ear for the Story, an Eye for the Pattern: Rereading Ceremony.” Modern Fiction Studies 45 (1): 69-92.

Bernal, Dolores Delgado. 2002. “Critical Race Theory, Latino Critical Theory, and Critical Race-Gendered Epistemologies: Recognizing Students of Color as Holders and Creators of Knowledge.” Qualitative Inquiry 8: 105-126.

Enoch, Jessica. 2002. “Resisting the Script of Indian Education: Zitkala-Ŝa and the Carlisle Indian School.” College English 65 (2):117-141.

Foucault, Michel. 1995. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Vintage Books.

Grande, Sandy. 2004. Red Pedagogy: Native American Social and Political Thought. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.

Harjo, Joy and Gloria Bird, eds. 1998. Reinventing the Enemy’s Language. New York: W.W. Norton & Co.

Miller, Marilyn Grace. 2004. Rise and fall of the Cosmic Race. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Nelson, Melissa K. 2008. Original Instructions: Indigenous Teachings for a Suitable Future. Vermont: Bear and Company.

Parker, Robert Dalte. 2003. The Reinvention of Restless Young Men: Storytelling and Poetry in Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony and Thomas King’s Medicine River. Ithaca: Cornell UP.

Pérez, Emma. 1999. The Decolonial Imaginary Bloomington: Indiana UP.

Pérez-Torres, Rafael. 2006. Mestizaje: Critical Uses of Race in Chicano Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Reyhner, Jon Allan and Jeanne M. Eder. 2004. American Indian Education: A History. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

Reyhner, Jon Allan. 2006. Contemporary Native American Issues: Education and Language Restoration. NY: Chelsea House Publishers.

Roberts, Jill. 1995. “Between Two ‘Darknesses’: The Adoptive Condition in Ceremony and Jasmine.” Modern Language Studies 25 (Summer): 77-97.

Sandoval, Chela. 2000. Methodology of the Oppressed. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Silko, Leslie Marmon. 1977. Ceremony New York: Viking.

Spack, Ruth. 2002. “Transforming Women: Zitkala-Ŝa’s American Indian Stories.” American’s Second Tongue: American Indian Education and the Ownership of English, 1860-1900. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press.

Teuton, Christopher B. 2008. “Theorizing American Indian Literature: Applying Oral Concepts to Written Traditions.” Reasoning Together: The Native Critics Collective. Edited by Craig S. Womack, et. al. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

Teuton, Sean Kicummah. 2008. Red Land, Red Power: Grounding Knowledge in the American Indian Novel. Durham: Duke UP.

Warrior, Robert. 2005. The People and the Word: Reading Native Nonfiction. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Yellow Bird, Michael. 1999. “What We Want to Be Called: Indigenous Peoples’ Perspectives on Racial and Ethnic Identity Labels.” American Indian Quarterly. 23 (2): 1-22.

Zitkala-Ŝa. 2003. American Indian Stories. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press.

Imputing Out the Natives: How Census Practices Can Fuel Native American Population Decline

By Katherine Valenzuela

Introduction

1. I have struggled to understand my Native identity for most of my life. Growing up in the Central Valley of California, my education taught me that Native Americans were a group of the past, leading me not to identify as such just as historical fear from persecution taught my ancestors to abandon their Native identities.1 Upon reaching adolescence and learning of our family’s minimum of 400 years of history in this region, I began consciously questioning not only my own identity, but also the forces which influenced its formation. I soon observed that Natives had been almost completely erased from the current social and political landscape in the Central Valley, even though we still existed in great number. Furthermore, I recognized the resistance my friends and family had to my shift in identity, for they strongly believed that all of the brown-skinned people in the Central Valley were descendent from the Latina/o population.

2. It is important for me to preface this paper by explaining that my experience may differ greatly from that of many other Native peoples. I happen to be living in a region where boarding schools, Spanish missions, the Gold Rush, oil harvesting, and agricultural activities have created a very unique historical and present context for Native Americans. Further, I descend from a tribe that has been broken into several smaller bands for several different reasons, making identification, membership and federal recognition incredibly difficult to establish. While my experience may be unique when compared to that of Native people throughout the United States, I fee it is an accurate representation of the experiences of tribal people in the Central Valley who—like myself—have found their histories and identities contested by internal and external forces and whose experiences may present principles applicable to the experiences of Natives everywhere.

3. The conflict between internal and external racial classifications of Natives in the Central Valley, and the impact of this on identity formation, led me to focus my analysis on the impact of the Census on this process. In an effort to accurately count the population, the Census, I argue, instead serves to perpetuate dominant norms and ideas about our communities. My analysis of the Census on Native communities will come in three parts: first, I will introduce the Census and its imputation practices, particularly focusing on the impact imputation has in the Central Valley as an exaggerated case study of the Native American identity phenomena I am describing; secondly, I will discuss practices of nation-building, particularly as concerned with minority group integration; and, finally, I will specifically explore the Native American experience, particularly regarding the statistical extinction of Native Americans as a result of external and internal processes, concluding with a potential alternative to the current, racially homogenizing Census practice through citizenship and Native nationalism.

Imputation and the Census

Significance of the Census

4. Since our nation was first founded upon the idea of representative government, the Census has been an integral part of our political system. The United States was one of the first world governments to institute such a population count, claimed to be “perhaps some of the most reliable information the nation has,” as a structural part of the government (Anderson 1988, 2). Long felt within the United States to be a cornerstone of creating and maintaining national image (see “Nation-Building and Minority Group Integration” below), some politicians even believed that the Census prevented the complete dissolution of the Union during times of conflict (32).

5. Since our political system and our social world are so intertwined, the extraordinary role of the Census in our political system comes with a potentially great impact on how we define social progress. As Anderson (1988) states,

The census is deeply embedded in American political life through myriad apportionment mechanisms; it is also a crucial marker for American history. We date the end of the frontier from the 1890 census, the creation of the urban nation at the 1920 census. We use it to project the population into the future—what will the population be in ten years, a generation, a century? (2)

As such, the Census holds great weight in the determination of our very conceptualizations of social change. As a seemingly unbiased measure of communities, the weight of Census information also has an unparalleled ability to determine and influence social norms. According to Anderson, “It is the census that triggers increased (or decreased) power or resources for a geographic region, and thus it is the census that has been used to illustrate the virtues or vices of particular regions, peoples, or ways of life in America” (22). Since, for instance, the Census came to fruition in a time when African Americans were considered three-fifths of a person and Native Americans were actively being pushed from the realms of new settlements, it has evolved as a tool of colonialism and other racially based ideas.

6. The group charged with Census process and analysis placed “an irrevocable stamp on what we know about the American people at any time” (Anderson 1988, 2). Each member, as a participant in the social structures of the dominant society, had personal investment in each question of personal status and wealth as they pertained to the different social groups (60). In fact, rather than function as a method to understand and document the current status of residents within the nation, the Census has served to justify and strengthen social stereotypes based on race or income. The Census was even used at one time to argue against the emancipation of African American slaves, arguing that “Black Americans would thus suffer the same fate as the Indians,” for their small number would make them irrevocably “subordinate to the white race” and thus guarantee their absorption or extinction (69).

7. Far short of being an impartial report of data, the Census is thus a device used to perpetuate popular conceptions of who and what constitutes “America.” As stated so astutely in Anderson’s The American Census: A Social History,

Americans have argued, struggled, and died for their vision of the “American way of life,” to include or exclude various people from the American polity and American dream

In other words, the counting of the population and the measurement of the population’s growth and spread has also entailed its classification into its heterogeneous groups and the comparison of the demographic “progress” of the groups with one another. . . . [Census] questions, though they seem to lead to objective answers, are politically charged and controversial. Their answers contain implications for social, economic, and political power. (4)

Contrary to popular opinion, our nation is incredibly heterogeneous, diverse, and mobile, which is perhaps why social conflict is so fiercely avoided.

Native Americans and the Census

8. To give a very brief overview of the role of Native Americans in the Census, it is important to note that this role has evolved over time. Starting in 1789, the United States Constitution recognized its complex relationship with tribal nations thus:

Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States which may be included within this Union, according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three-fifths of all other Persons. The actual Enumeration shall be made within three Years after the first Meeting of the Congress of the United States, and within every subsequent Term of ten Years, in such Manner as they shall by Law direct. (Bureau of the Census 1989, 1)

“Indians not taxed,” at that time, literally meant Native Americans living outside of settled areas who did not pay any taxes. However, as the Native community and its relationship with the federal government evolved, so did the Census, and the original requirements as laid out in the Constitution were changed.

9. By 1880, the Bureau of the Census differentiated between Native Americans living on tribal land and those who “are found mingled with the white population,” who were officially counted as a part of the enumeration (Bureau of the Census 1989, 30). In 1890 all Native Americans were enumerated, with notations made to distinguish between those taxed and not taxed (34). The 1900 Census started to track whether Natives had United States citizenship (47), and the 1910 Census tracked the proportions of Indian and “other blood” as well as whether Native peoples lived on allotments or their own land in either a civilized or “aboriginal” dwelling (57). By the 1940 Census, all Native Americans were considered to be taxed for the purpose of enumeration (1).

10. Prior to 1950, Census identification of Native Americans happened largely from observation; in other words, the enumerators would count one as Native is s/he looked it (U.S. Census Bureau 1999, 3). As of the 1950 Census, the Census changed to one of self-identification. In 1980, the Census Bureau sought input from Native Americans on the Census practice, and by 1990 the Bureau started organizational collaboration with tribes in an effort to better enumerate Native people (3). For the 2000 Census, the U.S. Census Bureau launched a nationwide campaign to identify Native people, resulting in a huge spike in Native population growth (U.S. Census Bureau 207, 6). Needless to say, with the changes that have happened to date, the relationship between the Census and Native Americans is nothing if not ambiguous.

Defining Imputation

11. Due to the essentially inaccurate nature of its data collection practice, Census data analysis involves a little known practice called imputation. Argued by many as essential to accurate census counts, imputation involves the filling in of missing data under the guise of accounting for the undercount of certain people or populations (Ronzio 2009, 6). This process involves using data from other people within the household (whose information was filled out completely) or from neighboring households. There are three types of imputation, which “represent the level of confidence we have in the imputed data representing the ‘true’ value” (Zajac 2003, 11):

  1. An assignment is performed when a response for a data item is either missing or not consistent with other responses, and an item value can be determined based on information provided by that same person.
  2. Allocations are performed when a response for a data item is either missing or not consistent with other responses, and an item value CANNOT be determined based on information provided from within that same person or housing unit.2
  3. A substitution occurs when all the . . . characteristics for every person in the household are either missing or not consistent with other responses. To remedy this, a nearby housing unit with complete . . . data is selected to represent the missing or inconsistent person data items. (Zajac, 11; emphasis added)

Outside of copying data from surrounding households, imputation occurs through demographic analysis (DA) or sampling surveys (Ronzio 2009, 2). Data that is not imputed in these specific manners is considered to be “as reported,” even though “pre-edits” may have been done to “standardize” the data (the standards by which those edits are performed are not outlined; Zajac, 12).

12. Imputation became standard practice through the advocacy of minority groups. After the era of Civil Rights and Affirmative Action, minorities feared that Census undercounts could put their communities at a disadvantage for resources (Skerry 2000, 1). While not a universal sentiment among all minority advocates, a strong number felt that imputation was the best bet to ensure accurate counts among their communities. In reality, though, Census data about race and ethnicity is inherently “unreliable,” and imputation—as something that ends up being merely an exercise in statistical sampling—could end up hurting minorities more than it could potentially help them (1, 3).

Rates of Imputation

13. Imputation occurs at varying levels and largely depends on the characteristic being imputed and who recorded that characteristic in the first place. See Table A below:

Table A. 1980 and 1990 Census Allocation Rates for 100 Percent Person and Housing Unit Items

(In percent; Source: U.S. Census Bureau (2001a); as cited in Zajac 2003, 13)

Item

1980

1990

Relationship

2.1

2.6

Sex

0.8

1.2

Age

2.9

2.4

Hispanic Origin

4.2

10.0

Race

1.5

2.0

Tenure

2.0

2.4

Zajac notes that the discrepancy in imputation rates between 1980 and 1990 was due to budget cutbacks, which didn’t allow for adequate follow-up of questionnaire responses by Census personnel (2003, 13).

 

Table B. Number and Percent of Occupied Housing Unit and Person Substitutions for Census 2000

(Source: Hundred Percent Census Edited File with the reinstated housing units (HCEF_D’); as cited in Zajac 2003, 22)

Occupied Housing Units

Persons

Number

Percent

Number

Percent

TOTAL

105,480,101

100.00

273,643,273

100.00

Substituted

1,464,793

1.39

3,441,154

1.26

Not Substituted

104,015,308

98.61

270,202,119

98.74

Seen in Table B, while the percentage of imputation rates seems small, it actually occurs with regard to millions of citizens each year.

Table C. Imputation Rates by Item in Census 2000

(In percent; source HCEF_D’; does not include substitution rates; as cited in Zajac 2003, 23)

Imputed

Item

As Reported

Total

Assigned

Allocated

Relationship

97.43

2.57

0.39

2.18

Sex

98.02

1.98

0.88

1.10

Age

94.92

5.08

1.45

3.63

Hispanic Origin

95.63

4.37

0.15

4.22

Race

96.04

3.96

0.02

3.94

Tenure*

94.52

5.48

0.66

4.82

Person Base: 270,202,119

*Housing Base: 105,480,101

Imputation rates were generally higher when an enumerator or proxy recorded the information versus self-reporting (Zajac 2003, 24, 28), with the highest rates focusing around tenure (home ownership), language (specifically Spanish speakers), and Hispanic origin (Zajac 2003, 36, 40, 45, 54).

14. Of most significance, however, is the ways in which the racial imputation figures are distributed around particular groups. The table below (Table D) breaks down rates of undercounting in the U.S. Census, as determined from the Post-Enumeration Survey (PES) and the Accuracy Coverage Evaluation (ACE)—both of which compare enumerator surveys with Census results.

Table D. Estimated Undercounts, 1980-2000

(based on PES and ACE Surveys; Ronzio 2009, 3)

Race/Ethnicity

1980 (%)

1990 (%)

2000 (%)

White or some other race (Not Hispanic)

0.40

0.68

0.67

Black or African American (Not Hispanic)

4.50

4.57

2.17

Hispanic Origins (Of Any Race)

N/A

4.99

2.85

American Indian or Alaskan Native

-         On Reservation

N/A

12.22

4.74

-         Off Reservation

N/A

N/A

3.28

Asian (Not Hispanic)

N/A

2.36

0.96

While still arguably flawed in their methods (in other words, reliant on enumerator information, and thus potentially undercounting the actual discrepancy between the real population and Census data), these two surveys illustrate the stark difference in accuracy among varying racial groups, which begs the question: if white people are the only ones not being drastically undercounted, what does this show about the potential racial bias of Census design and practice?

15. The largest question for me when looking at Table D, however, is not regarding the accuracy of white population counts, but the extreme inaccuracy in Native American population counts. According to Lujan, errors in Native American Census data are due to the high mobility of the population (and overall lack of concentrated locations), direct resistance stemming from their historic relationship with the U.S.), and methodological issues which allowed for gross errors to occur (1990, 8). While seemingly a case for imputation, Lujan points out that such methods for statistical sampling have increased likeliness for error due to the small population size (7).

16. The methodological flaws within Census procedures for Native Americans are deeply rooted in our history with the United States government. Through the treaties signed, tribal leaders gave up a degree of their external sovereignty in return for land, the right to self-governance, and social services from the U.S. (US Civil Rights Commission 1981, as cited in Lujan 1990, 1-2). Therefore, since tribal lands were not taxable, Natives were not at all counted by the Census until 1890, and even then not universally. According to Lujan, only those who were considered to be “assimilated” or “mixed blood” were counted as residents of the United States, with full-blood or those living on reservations remaining excluded from the overall population count. While fully included by 1940, the haphazard evolution of Native inclusion in the Census meant that “population estimates for Indians is more an approximation of their numbers rather than an accurate count” (5). This has extreme implications for federal recognition, a basic right many tribes are still trying to regain.

The Case of the Central Valley

17. My hometown region, the Central Valley of California, is an exaggerated example of the impact of imputation practices. As earlier implied, it is crucial to realize that the specific growth of any one ethnic population has just as much to do with actual population data, as it does with one’s personal or perceived choice of ethnic identification. In the table below I have isolated information on both Latina/o and Native American populations.3

Table E. Census Demographic Data for California and Kern County4

(Source: U.S. Census Bureau Factfinder)

1980 Census

1990 Census

2000 Census

2010 Census

CA

Kern

CA

Kern

CA

Kern

CA

Kern

Total Population

23,667,902

403,089

37,447,959

695,472

33,871,648

661,645

37,253,956

839,631

# Latina/o

4,541,300 (19.2%)

87,119 (21.6%)

7,687,938 (20.5%)

151,995 (21.8%)

10,966,556 (32.4%)

254,036 (38.4%)

14,013,719 (37.6%)

413,033 (49.2%)

# Native American

189,700 (0.8%)

5,989 (1.5%)

242,164 (0.6%)

7,026 (1.0%)

333,346 (1.0%)

9,999 (1.5%)

362,801 (1.0%)

12,676 (1.5%)

18. Table E shows that the 1980 Latina/o population in California was roughly 24 times larger than the Native American population. In Kern County, the Latina/o population was approximately 14.5 times larger than the Native American population, which, while a smaller ratio compared with the rest of the state , was still a considerable difference. In 1990, the Latina/o population in California had grown to be approximately thirty-two times larger than the Native American population, and in Kern County it was twenty-two times larger. By 2000 the Latina/o population in California was thirty-three times larger and twenty-five times larger in Kern County, and by 2010 the Latina/o population in California was roughly thirty-nine times larger and approximately thirty-three times larger in Kern County. In sum, not only has the Latina/o population been growing, but the Latina/o population continues to grow at a greater rate than the Native American population.

Table F. Population Growth Rates

(Source: U.S. Census Bureau, Factfinder)

Growth,

1980-1990

Growth,

1990-2000

Growth,

2000-2010

Latina/o Growth, Kern County

74.5%

67.1%

62.6%

Latina/o Growth, California

69.3%

42.6%

27.8%

Native American Growth, Kern County

17.3%

42.3%

26.7%

Native American Growth, California

27.7%

37.7%

8.8%

19. Table F shows growth rates for Latinas/os and Native American in California and Kern County, as measured by the change in population recorded by the United States Census in 1980, 1990, 2000, and 2010. The Latina/o population is growing twice as quickly as the Native American population in California and over three times faster than the Native American population in Kern County—and this is before any rate of undocumented immigration is taken into account

20. Looking specifically at the growth between 1980 and 1990, national Census data actually shows that between 1980 and 1990, Native American grew at a higher rate than any other ethnic group—even after imputation has occurred. According to Snip, “[t]his growth rate indicates that although their numbers are small at present, American Indian and Alaska Native populations may eventually regain the numbers (around 5 million) that are estimated to have been in existence when the first European explorers made contact” (qtd. in Choney et. al. 1995, 74). The case is different in California, however, where the Latina/o population grew at four times the Native population, and especially in Kern County, where Latina/o population growth was two and half times that of the Native population. Considering the higher rates of imputation in 1990 versus 1980 and in 200 versus 1990, this can be reflective of population changes, personal identity changes, and/or the general shift of opinions of enumerators in the Central Valley who may have increasingly allocated brown-skinned people the label of “Latina/o” instead of “Native American.”

21. Looking specifically at the 2000 Census, the spike in Native American population growth is quite notable, and this is due to several anomalies in Census practice. As described earlier, the U.S. Census Bureau has undergone several changes with regard to classifying and counting Native Americans, culminating in a nationwide drive to identify more Native Americans for the 2000 Census. As seen in Table D, the huge number of undercounted Native Americans on reservations prompted this campaign. While this campaign may lead one to believe the previously described phenomenon around Census practices is in decline, actually that is not the case. Looking back at earlier tables showing imputation rates, those rates have steadily climbed since 1980; 2000 was no exception to that trend. And while the number uncounted declined between the 1990 and 2000 Census, Native Americans were still undercounted to a higher level than any other racial group. So, even though the campaign in 2000 is notable, it is important to be aware that it was just a one-time deal, not a complete change in course.

22. As for other factors that may influence Native identity in the Central Valley, besides the high influx of Latina/o immigrants, there is also Wyman’s concept of the ideal rural lifestyle (2005, 38). According to Waters (1990), pre-1950 there was a tendency for white identity to be defined as the dominant practices in areas of concentrated white population. Agriculture and its associated rural lifestyle (the dominant norm for the first part of U.S. history) came to embody what many Americans see as a pure and whole tradition of many Euro-derived cultures, creating an ideal vision of rural American life.5 The drawback of such an idyllic portrayal of this trade is that it tends to blur out the role of financial struggle, large scale corporatization, and the essential function of a low-wage, mainly minority labor force (Holloway 2007, 7). As agriculture is such a land-intensive activity, the threat of Tribal claims to some of the most agriculturally profitable land in the Central Valley is what I argue has led to the subsequent “mistaken” classification of Native Americans as Latina/o migrants; such a classification—further instilled and perpetuated by imputation—allows for a devalued role for Native people in the region’s culture and economy, and the upholding of the region’s dominant imaginary (discussed in greater detail below).

23. Another possibility for the prevalence of a dominant imaginary within any region is the correlation of physical markers of ethnicity with different physical localities. Some literature suggests that each region determines which racial characteristics tend to be generally associated with specific ethnic identities (Castillo 1990, n.p). For example, brown-skinned individuals—be it for the strong history of Latina/o immigration or the social invisibility of Native groups—tend to be classified as Latina/o in the Central Valley, which could be a major factor behind the incredibly rapid growth of that population and the related decline of Native community numbers. In turn, this phenomenon decreases the legitimacy of those, like members of my family, who choose to identify as Native American despite their external classification as Latina/o. As the Latina/o population continues to outpace Native groups in size and pervasiveness, the perceived veracity of Census data will most likely mean that this trend will only increase.

Nation-Building and Minority Group Identity

The Symbolic Nature of Race and Ethnicity

24. Race and ethnicity, while commonly assumed to be stagnant characteristics (see Barth 1969), are in reality highly socialized notions of identity. Race, and the associated racism, is in fact a part of culture (Berger 1995, 10). The more recent notion of “symbolic ethnicity,” (Waters 1990, 14) also described as “ethnic switching” (Garroutte 2003, 96), has stood in direct contrast to “real” ethnicity. Ethnicity is perceived to be a tangible characteristic, just like height or weight, rather than a social construct. This bar of realism, when applied to ethnicity, serves as a basis for discounting certain identities when they do not conform to social norms. Rather than being passed down through generation, ethnicity is instead based on a complicated interplay between how you perceive yourself and how others perceive you (Waters 1990, 81, 150). Furthermore, Waters’ study of ethnicity among white individuals found that thirty to sixty percent of children were labeled as an ethnicity other than the logical combination of their parents’ ethnicities, leading her to conclude that people generally view certain identities as more favorable than others (Waters 1990, 36).6

25. Identity in itself is far more complex than meets the eye. behind identity is a host of factors, which brings one to question how “authentic” any one identity could possibly be. As Anishinaabe scholar Scott Lyons discusses:

Identities always serve particular interests, and that’s probably the most important thing to figure out: just whose interests do they serve? Within reason, all identities can be challenged and redefined; a successful assertion of identity depends mainly on its recognition by someone else. This is because identity is intersubjective, which means I can be whatever I want to be so long as you agree that I am what I say. And if you don’t recognize my identity, especially if you are that thing I claim to be (or maybe you’re just bigger than me and saying no), well, then it’s hard to argue that I really am that thing. Things become definitive when there are lots of you, or lots of “us,” weighing in on the matter, because identity is ultimately a communal thing. (2010, 37)

Like “real” ethnicity, identity is merely the intersection of internal and external perceptions—all influenced by surrounding cultural and demographic norms. With such a convoluted array of factors influencing any one person’s identity, it is hard to imagine that any one person could be any one identity in more than one context.

26. What I have found to be largely missing from this new ethnic debate has been the tendency for non-white people to attempt to join more socially acceptable minority groups within the United States through symbolic ethnicity. Even though Waters mentions that “whites enjoy a great deal of freedom in these choices; those defined in ‘racial terms as non-whites much less,” the movement of her observed ethnic hierarchy has yet to be fully translated to minority groups within a predominantly white society (1990, 18). Ethnic identification holds the potential to be socially advantageous, as in the case of the Bakersfield band of Chumash people (my ancestors) who attempted to avoid further violence by blending into the Latina/o population after their captivity at Fort Tejon (Silvas 2009, interview).7 Since Latinas/os were more socially accepted in the Central Valley due to their essential role in agriculture and established social networks, “becoming” Latina/o allows my family an easier life in the region. As Waters notes in her study, symbolic ethnicity would cease to exist if it did not conform to racist beliefs (1990, 147).

27. These multiple forms of identities were labeled by Manuel Castells in The Power of Identity. By his reasoning, there were three main types of identity, all of which serve a political function:

  1. Legitimizing: an identity that extends and rationalizes dominant institutions and structures of society.
  2. Resistance: an identity formed in opposition to the mainstream culture, which is seen as oppressive.
  3. Project: a new identity formed to redefine one’s position in society. (cited in Lyons 2010, 60-61, 64-66)

It is in this third identity that Native peoples fall in our quest for “respectful coexistence” (64). As Lyons argues, “This is project identity: historically ambitious, globally connected, radically inclusive, and passionately geared toward justice and social change” (65). It is this identity to which I’ll return later in this paper.

28. Ethnic identification across minority groups takes place on individual as well as group levels. As Berger explains:

I understand culture not as something transcendent, sacred, or otherwise ethereal . . . but as a set of tools, or . . . a set of strategic constituting a repertoire—instruments, like hammers, wristwatches, and bureaucratic memos that get us through our days and help us make it through the night. This usage is not unfamiliar to anthropologists who have long regarded baskets, pots, and arrowheads as pieces of “material culture.” But sociologists and humanist scholars have often balked at extending this usage to “ideal” or symbolic culture, to the meanings we carry in our heads and (culturally speaking) our “hearts.”

I want not to balk. I want to assert, argue, persuade that such such symbols/meanings, like baskets, pots, and watches, are getting us through the days and nights we are more or less stuck with, and in doing so providing us with a sense of having got through with some dignity—dignity itself, of course, being a precious piece of culture. (1995, 8-9)

Since adopting the Latina/o identity, my cousins have come to embody the characteristics they feel are expected of them by speaking Spanish and changing the way they dress. By fitting these stereotypical views of that community, they gain membership into that group and, thus, the dignity associated with being a member of our region’s wider society.8

29. Outside of specific decisions on group membership, one’s identity can also gradually change over time. As Lyons describes,

. . . it seems true to me that our cultures, like all cultures, are constantly changing, adapting, and evolving as time goes by; that they are doing so largely as a direct result of contact with other cultures; and that they are changing precisely as Franz Boas said they would—through adaptation to the historical and environmental conditions of our lives. (2010, 104)

For instance, some who belong to a minority culture will sometimes disavow certain aspects of that culture in exchange for more “mainstream” values and practices, resulting in a gradual shift in identity—a process called acculturation.9 This gradual change for many can allow for a certain level of ascription to their minority cultural values to be maintained while gaining acceptance into the larger society, but for others it results in a gradual abandonment of their minority identity, as in my family’s loss of Native identity in favor of a Latina/o one. Acculturation is generally a slow and intergenerational process, experienced through a gradual loss of one’s own culture in exchange for attributes of another.

30. Since Native Americans experience some of the highest poverty rates and lowest levels of educational attainment of any ethnic group in America (Choney et. al. 1995, 74), I feel that Native communities—perhaps more so in the Central Valley than in other regions—experience acculturation at a higher rate than other groups. Many Natives find it difficult to achieve socioeconomic success in the dominant society while maintaining membership with their tribes, because the identity of a group continuing to struggle for basic rights and recognition from the government is increasingly difficult to reconcile with personal success.

31. In summary, as it influences ethnic and identity classifications, the Census becomes an illuminating exercise, for it requires either the external classification of someone by an enumerator, Census statistician, or demographer (who may base his/her conclusions on the surrounding social climate) or the internal identity shown through self-classification (which reveals one’s ethnic choice within said social climate). Even with such apparent challenges, the Census plays a more critical public policy role than ever before.

Nationalism Through Minority Group Integration

32. To promote a nation-state, a sense of community must be manufactured individually or collectively, or “imagined,” to garner loyalty. According to Benedict Anderson,

It is imagined because the members of even the smallest nation will never know their fellow members, meet them, or even hear of them, yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion. . . . In fact, all communities larger than villages of face-to-face contact (and perhaps even these) are imagined. Communities are not judged by falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined. (1991, 6)

When referring to the “style in which they are imagined,” Anderson theorizes that there are certain tools required to promote imagined communities. At the national level, these tools include the census defining the nature of the nation’s population, maps delineating the geography of the nation’s domain, and museums creating the legitimacy of the nations ancestry (1991, 163-85). Each of these tools have been used in interactions with the Native population: the Census undercounts and drastically mislabels many Natives, maps do not include the limited land of Native Americans within American “territory,” and museums depict Native peoples as a historical artifact, much like the dinosaurs. While this seems excessive, the measures make more sense when one considers the perceived threat to existing cities, towns, and economic activities if Native populations in areas like the Central Valley were fully recognized.

33. Further, the true nature of imaginaries is seen in how they intersect. Conflicting imaginaries require the clear dominance of one group over the other to prevent social chaos, a particularly salient point when you apply it to the creation and maintenance of a nation like the United States. This rests upon what Seyla Benhabib calls three “faulty epistemic premises”:

(1)that cultures are clearly dlineable wholes; (2) that cultures are congruent with population groups and that a noncontroversial description of the culture of a human group is possible; and (3) that even if culture and groups do not stand in one-to-one correspondence, even if there is more than one culture in a human group and more than one group that may possess the same cultural traits, this poses no important problems for politics and policy. (qtd. in Lyons 2010, 82)

This political nature of identity, as discussed earlier, creates certain practices to both initiate and protect the nation which can be referred to as nationalism. For example, Benedict Andersion argues that the racial imaginaries of America—particularly when compared to those in Europe—due to the stark contrast in physical appearances of the groups involved (1991, 202). Since those racial characteristics have not ocmpletely faded away, the perceived threat to dominant group members of divergent group perspectives becomes only more pronounced as the nation continues to build itself; hence, Anderson argues that “cultural knowledge” (or its converse, “cultural forgetting”) has been utilized as a tool of nationalism to an incredible degree to negate potentially detrimental tendencies of divergence from national identity. Our nation’s culture thus encourages forgetting—and thereby, indirectly, integrating—divergent groups. This may offer one explanation for why Native Americans tend to identify with other, racially similar, groups, such as Latinas/os in the Central Valley. The Census was and is a major tool of nationalism, particularly, in this case, an “American nationalism” that will differ greatly from the Native nationalism I discuss below.

The Native American Experience

A Brief Overview of Native History with the United States with an Emphasis on the Central Valley

34. Native Americans have a unique and perilous history with the United States. Before Columbus arrived in the New World, there were over ten million Natives residing in North America, speaking at least 300 languages associated with more than fifty “language families” (in contrast, European languages are only associated with three “language families”; Lyons 2010, 114). By 1990, there were only 250,000 Native Americans in North America (7). In addition to population decline, tribes have suffered a range of injustices varying from outright theft and exploitation to more insidious policies in the legislative arena, which have left us with most of our rights revoked in a way that has made an irreparable impact on our cultural sustainability. While many tribes have regained a formal government structure or lands, several are still failing to gain Federal recognition. Since many cultural groups are associated with a particular geographic space or origin, thus allowing for a certain degree of cultural continuity or ease of identification, tribes without land now see a great impact on the identity of their tribal members. It is this groups of Native peoples without recognized geographic territory to which I belong, and that is the focus of this essay.

35. Following the spectrum from federally recognized or unrecognized to those with reservations and/or allotments to those with no land to claim, it is clear that tribal people across the nation experience their cultures and traditions through varying levels of intensity and pervasiveness depending on their particular circumstances. As Waters explains,

In addition to changes in self-identification owing to changes in the political significance of various categories, actual political changes can lead to changing self-identification. When boundaries change as the result of wars or conquest, the ethnic identifications of individuals can change too. (1990, 87)

While the gradual loss of ethnic space was felt throughout the nation, California Natives suffered particularly under the Spanish mission system and the Gold Rush. Starting in 1769 with the mission in San Diego, Franciscans moved up the coast of California establishing similar missions (Castillo 1998). Attempting to civilize, Christianize, and domesticate the Natives, the Franciscans brought California Natives to work at the missions as servants, slaves, or captives. This trend of forcibly removing Natives from their communities continued for many decades, wreaking irreversible havoc on our people and cultures.

36. The Gold Rush of 1848, just two years before California was admitted as a state into the Union, continued the Spaniards’ practice of forcible removal, but now for the sake of obtaining Native lands rather than saving souls (Reynolds 1996, 212). The impacts of an inequitable land parceling system and the making of over a dozen treaties that were never presented to Congress, escalated after the Gold Rush as agriculture and oil became the new leading industries in California (Parsell 2002, 6). These trends, combined with national policies towards Native peoples (generally centered around assimilation and extermination, all of which are too numerous to include here), created a unique situation for California Natives particularly in the Central Valley, arguably the home of some of the most fertile agricultural and oil lands in the world and, thus, a location where very few tribes have been able to gain back recognition and land.

37. For tribes in particular, geographic lands (or lack thereof) are inherently connected to ethnic identification. In Kern County, where my Central Valley hometown of Oildale is located, there are no federally recognized tribes. Since land acquisition for tribes is most often linked to those federal relationships, the status of these groups is seen in the void of tribal lands in our county (save for a few allotments in the surrounding mountain communities). My band, from the Chumash Tribe, is among those in the region seeking their recognition status.9 Currently, the geographic area of my band consists of their meeting space in my cousin’s apartment on the east side of Bakersfield. As the ability to be “successful” with one’s symbolic identity is intrinsically linked to access to cultural knowledge (Barth 1969, 25), the lack of defined cultural space presents obstacles to Native identity in that it decentralizes the elders and traditional practices. Hence, the struggle for Native identity is indelibly linked to our history with the United States and the exclusive logic of nation-building, both of which continue to influence our ability for survival and self-determination.

Implications of the Census and Imputation

38. Imputation has long been defended as the best method to compensate for potential undercounts of certain people or communities in the Census (and thus a potential under-allocation of resources). However,

[a]djusting the undercount does not have a large impact on federal spending for several reasons. The federal government has a set amount to allocate so a state would have to have proportionately more people in need of these services than other states. Secondly, the equations for allocations use many variables in addition to population counts, yielding equations, and final dollar amounts, that are not sensitive to population changes (Steffey 1994; cited in Ronzio 2009, 2).

So, if not to accomplish further equity and representation through the Census process, imputation may only accomplish one end: to rework data to fit traditional power and social norms (2000, 4), but it is also the main method for politicians to alter data for marginal gains in their agenda or political influence (2).

39. While “emphasizing their politically neutral role as ‘factfinders for the nation,’” (Skerry 2000, 4), the Census has incredible power over American citizens, determining political representation, allocated resources, and taxation (9). The Census also serves to draw boundaries in the geographic, temporal, and social realms. As Skerry discusses, geographically speaking, the Census serves to draw national boundaries by determining who counts as a citizen while also drawing internal boundaries around jurisdictions and states; temporally speaking, the timing of the Census drastically impacts the numbers obtained (for instance, if conducted during the summer months, counts would be much lower as many people are out of the country on vacation); and finally, socially speaking, the Census is used to define the characteristics of our society.

The Constitution, it will be recalled, drew the first such boundaries. As stipulated in Article I, Section 2, state census totals were to be obtained by “adding to the whole Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other Persons.” In other words, at the founding of our republic, census boundaries were drawn around Indians not under U.S. jurisdiction and slaves. (Skerry 2000, 13-14)

Even the Fourteenth Amendment (1868), which counted all persons as whole, still excluded Native peoples not taxed (U.S. Census Bureau 1989, 1). It wasn’t until 1890 that the Census began to attempt to count all Natives, thus considering them a part of the social and political landscape (U.S. Census Bureau 1989, 34).

40. Rather than admitting the growing discrepancy between what is reported by the Census and reality, imputation is increasingly used to “rectify” those errors. After all, “The essential defining characteristic of any census id the drawing of boundaries”; without these boundaries some fear that our nation would become disunited (Skerry 2000, 11). According to American FactFinder, the public web interface for Census data,

when information is missing or inconsistent, the Census Bureau uses . . . imputation to assign values. Imputation relies on the statistical principle of “homogeneity,” or the tendency of households within a small geographic area to be similar in most characteristics. (cited in Zajac 2003, 11)

Hence, imputation practices can be used to drastically change public perception of certain groups or certain geographic regions. For instance, while imputation rates in most areas don’t exceed three percent, Native communities are often much less than three percent of their area’s population—meaning that simple imputation procedures could potentially eliminate Natives completely from Census analysis of a region. Census date, however flawed, then directly informs political and social justifications for stereotypes or other social norms, which may in some areas—both rural and urban—deem Native American people to be virtually extinct.

41. Skerry discusses this conflict, saying that the changing boundaries of racial groups led to a general public outcry for changing racial definitions on the Census (2000, 111). Thus, to accommodate those blurring lines, in 2000 the Census implemented multi-racial options for their surveys. Some saw this change favorably, particularly smaller communities facing extinction; for instance, one Native leader expressed his opinion that “mixed-bloods could exploit their intermediate status for the benefit of American Indians” (qtd. in Skerry 2000, 113). Others, though, point out with dismay how multi-racial grouping serves as ammunition for arguing that racial barriers no longer exist; claiming that we are entering a “post-racial” future, some argue that the inter-marriage between whites and non-whites illustrates that lack of social barriers between those groups, and thus the lack of need for measures such as Affirmative Action (113). Furthermore, “In the wake of the civil rights legislation passed in the 1960s and early 1970s, the collection of data on race became an important instrument for monitoring the social and economic outcomes of American racial minorities” (111). While such analysis can be useful for certain communities, it can also be quite detrimental. Besides the case for the demise of racial barriers discussed below, racial information in the Census—however inaccurate—is often used to make generalized conclusions about the culture or other aspects of any one group, meaning that racial information in the Census, while useful for the advocacy of equal rights and opportunities, can potential work against the needs and representations of minority groups to an extreme degree.

Politics of Native Identity

42. For those who have not interacted with Native communities, it is hard to comprehend the multitude of barriers that prevent full group membership and acceptance within some tribes. Whether fueled by a desire to protect their cultural knowledge or financial resources, I have found members to be welcoming of strangers—but only to a point. Outside of physical appearance, a general knowledge of your specific ancestors and the tribe’s traditions and stories is generally required before one can be considered a true member. Many, such as Lyons, have issued warnings about these very practices:

Now, many thinkers today are deeply invested in traditionalism, and this is not necessarily a problem. it can become a problem, however, when the tradition is transformed into a fetish, loses its realism, denies the actually existing diversity of Indian life, and/or confuses modern practices and institutions with the assimilation of a “white” or “Western” identity. There’s a baby here and some bath water too, and we must be careful about throwing things out. (2010, 12)

As with other minority groups, such exclusionary tendencies can “actively discourage the very processes by which Indian people and communities might heal themselves and others” (Christina West, qtd. in Garroutte 2003, 80). This context is pervasive, hitting all parts of who we as Native people are; as Lyons describes, “When the Indian speaks, it always speaks as an Indian, and it must do so in a discursive context that, thanks to colonization, is never of pure Native origin” (25).

43. On top of those obstacles to membership in their own groups, the general absence of Natives from dominant society means that tribal members often have to choose between wider social acceptance and their identity with a minority group. Thus, those who are separated from their tribal groups for one reason or another—as my family has been—are increasingly likely to continue to separate themselves from their Native identities as they acculturate towards more Western ways of living and lose precise knowledge of their ancestors.10

44. As Garroutte notes, the process of defining tribal identity is a complex and political one, ranging from imposed Federal guidelines to internal tribal requirements for certain degrees of Native ancestry as determined by blood quantum (2003, 15). The problematic history of record-keeping within a tribe (often fueled by non-Native actions and practices, such as the mission system in California) combines with membership requirements to prevent many rightful descendents from reuniting with the tribes of their ancestors. As Garroutte notes, “Indian people are often heard to complain that they constitute the only racial group that is required to produce documentation of their identity—a standard that many or most members of other racial groups need not (or could not) meet” (29). Such membership practices drive wedges between already dwindling tribal groups, promoting disunity among the groups.

45. The origins of this phenomenon trace back to all of the factors I have discussed above. American nationalism and our defense against it has even created “culture cops” within our ranks. According to Lyons, “If modernity doesn’t make space for the Indian, the Indian may respond by denying the validity of modernity and becoming a culture cop. At least in that role he or she will be valued” (2010, 96). These people are those within any group who “police” that group’s identities and practices. These people can be those who prevent tribal people from being “legitimate” in the name of cultural preservation, often setting bars so high that only a few can be viewed as acceptable members. It is ironic to think that we have become the agents of the very cultural and nationalist practices that have led to our demise by the creation of membership criterion that reinforces popular society’s notions of how Natives “should” look and behave.11

46. These cultural practices within tribes have combined with nationalistic practices of the United States to advance the potential for technical (or statistical) extermination of Native Americans. The Census’s ability to perpetuate dominant society by creating the illusion that minority community membership is decreasing exacerbates the decline of those populations’ numbers. Requirements of belonging, imposed either from inside or outside of ethnic groups, could continue to fractionalize our communities, leading to more people (like myself) to struggle to gain the acceptance of their ancestral groups and the related notions of culture and identity.

Alternatives to the Census

47. The Census, while essential to the nation’s current political and social system, serves mainly to perpetuate existing social norms and stereotypical ideas of communities. Native community practices have influenced and been influenced by Federal practices such as the Census’ internal and external classifications of group membership. Many feel it is time for this to change and that such change is possible. As Lyons asserts:

We fight over identity because we know that the meaning of Indianness—those all-important “cultural attributes”—are not only human inventions but irreducibly slipper, unstable, and always open to contest. Saying so is not to diminish their worth; to the contrary, it attests to the creative possibilities that exist in our own historical moment, and in ourselves, to make good decisions. Future definitions of Indian identity should (and will) be made by Indian people. (2010, 70)

As a part of this process toward new structures, I argue for the decentralization of the Census with each community being allowed to count their own citizens by standards they are allowed to set. While I fully realize that this may throw the Census Bureau’s ability to make generalized statements about our society into question, it is foolish to assume that the Bureau can, in fact, effectively generalize such a proudly diverse population; in fact, as I have shown, that must have never been the objective in the first place.

48. Eva Marie Garroutte and others call for a reformation of how tribal descent and membership are determined, which can be extended to Census practices. Specifically, Garroutte advocates for a new form of academia, a “Radical Indigenism,” that allows interpretations of identity that may differ from traditional academic and political norms (2003, 101). It is from such scholarship that we can genuinely construct and embrace a new, non-European notion of identity, one that dictates that “individuals belong to those communities because they carry the essential nature that binds them to The People and because they are willing to behave in ways that the communities define as responsible” (134). It could be argued that this reform would bring a better sense of belonging withing Native communities, making it easier for people like myself, who must constantly assert and contest the external forces influencing how we are defined, to obtain some level of confirmation of that identity from our Tribal brothers and sisters. However, Lyons argues that Radical Indigenism will exacerbate, not resolve, the Native American identity crisis (Lyons 2010, 51); defining membership based on behaviors means that people may lose membership for bad behavior, just as defining membership by kinship does not necessarily ensure traditions are upheld.

49. Perhaps a better alternative is to define identity in a way that promotes tradition: through citizenship. Lyons states:

Our goal should be the development of definitions of Native identity that would keep “Indians” viable for at least seven generations, strengthen existing communities, enhance our political independence, and provide the greatest degree of happiness for the greatest number of Indians (whatever those things turn out to be). (2010, 50)

As Lyons argues, “Membership has its ‘privileges,’ but citizenship has its ‘duties’ and ‘rights.’ No one is ever called an enrolled member of France.’ I say not enough Indians are ‘citizens’” (171). A “citizen is a member of a political community” (171), and citizenship produces three things: political identity, roles, and the nation (74). That’s correct: citizens produce a nation, not the other way around. And in this conception, citizenship poses a potential solution for those of us who find ourselves not “belonging” tot he Tribal nation (by either external or internal criteria).

50. Citizenship gives Native Americans something that we have lacked, and that is flexibility to incorporate diversity and change. Native cultures have, at times, insisted on remaining static, even as the society that surrounds and encompasses us continues to change. Rather than fight the changing contexts that influence who we are (both internally and externally), we must create structures that incorporate new forces in a way that preserves our traditions while allowing us to adapt to those changes. This hybridity of traditional and modern is not a threat to Native existence; it is, in fact, the only way we can survive. Acoma Pueblo poet and scholar Simon J. Ortiz once exclaimed, “all those alien languages and cultural forms you imposed on us are now ours, and now we’re all the more Indian for it!” (qtd. in Lyons 2010, 155). Lyons elaborates on that statement with the qualification that “[t]he hybridity haters should reread Ortiz and note not only a complete absence of an attack on hybridity—much to the contrary, his entire argument about the continuation of Indianness rests on it—but also his appreciation of the mixed-blood” (157).

51. The evolution of culture is beyond our control. As Lyons asserts, hybridity in terms of cultural change is “simply to point out the continuity that carries forth nonetheless” (157). However, Native cultures have been portrayed—in many cases, by both external and internal actors—as a static entity. It is that portrayal that is perpetuated by the Census, and which allows for the discounting of members who do not fit into previous notions of their communities, as in the case of Native peoples asserting their identities in a context of increasing correlation between our racial characteristics and Latina/o communities in the Central valley. It is time for this to end.

For far too long Natives have been discussed exclusively in the past tense, and for far too long modernity has been discussed as if it were strictly a Western imposition. It is time to acknowledge not only our continued presence in history, but also the reality of Indian time on the move. (Lyons 2010, 13)

Culture is a process, not a thing. Returning to my earlier discussion of identity types, the “project identity” seeks to transform existing social structures. That in mind, I completely agree with Lyons’s conclusion that indigenism is a project identity, and we must be open to change in order to adjust to our surrounding culture for the sake of not disappearing into the history books.

52. While I have focused in this paper so far primarily on American nationalism, the truth is that nationalism can take many forms, the determination of which is based on our perceptions of culture. Hence, while we explore an alternative to the Census—a convention which I argue constricts our ability to embrace the inherent hybrid and evolutionary state of our cultures—I say we take this opportunity to promote a new nationalism: a Native nationalism. As Lyons discusses, nationalism, particularly Native nationalisms, can take many forms. Any form of nationalism comes with its share of potential hazards, so the promotion of a Native nationalism must be intentional in the allowance of change and evolution; as our culture evolves, our ignorance of this will only continue to harm us.

53. In this new structure for a nation, it is only within those individual communities that identity is really formed and influenced, and thus it is within those communities that citizens should be counted. Even with these reforms, the Census will stillhave accurate population numbers, income, and home-ownership rates, which is really all they need be concerned with in the first place. Increased community control over Census practices will allow for greater increase in general accuracy and thus more equitable distribution of resources, which was the original purpose of adding imputation to Census practices. As Ronzio states, “Indeed, race/ethnicity and class are complex constructs who social influences vary over time, by location, by domain of influence, and by specific group membership. These two concepts in particular require greater precision in measurement” (2009, 1). Of course, increased accuracy in counting Natives would also require a reformation of internal tribal practices of citizenship, which I hope would be enabled through a minimized government role in that process.

54. This is not to say that we abandon our tradition. As Mohawk philosopher Taiaiake Alfred wrote in Peace, Power, Righteousness: An Indigenous Manifesto,

It is incumbent on this generation of Native people to heal the colonial sickness through the re-creation of sound communities, individual empowerment, and the re-establishment of relationships based on traditional values. This is a burden placed on young shoulders by the elders and ancestors who carried the torch through many years of darkness. it is not enough to survive and heal; there is also a responsibility to rebuild the foundations of nationhood by recovering a holistic and traditional philosophy, reconnecting with our spirituality and culture, and infusing our politics and relationships with traditional values. (qtd. in Lyons 2010, 112)

This is to say that we must allow our traditions to be honored through these new structures that we must create to survive.

55. And this is also not to say all tribes, as Native people, must come to embrace one concept as our “nation.” While we hold many things in common, we are also quite diverse. I feel that we should each open ourselves to a concept of “nation” that is broad enough to include all who should belong, while defining it in a way to establish some differentiation from the larger American society. It is, after all, that American society that has sought to directly or indirectly “integrate” Native people as a means to achieve greater national identity, and it is that American society that has led to colonized labels such as “Native American” and “American Indian,” labels devoid of our unique tribal identifiers. By changing the tools by which we identify and take stock of ourselves, we open the possibility of discussing Native peoples, both within and outside of our communities, in a way that reinforces who we are today rather than who the dominant social norms say we should be. And this data will give us the ability to fight those oppressive social norms in a way we have never been able to before.

56. Time is a linear thing, and to resist change means we are dooming ourselves not only to succumb to these dominant forces, but also to lose out on the good those changes could have done for our people. I write this fully cognizant of the extreme nature of my suggestions; however, it is the burden we must carry as stewards of our culture and in the interest of survival. As Aimè Cèsaire said in his 1950 Discourse on Colonialism,

For us, the problem is not to make a utopian and sterile attempt to repeat the past, but to go beyond. It is not a dead society that we want to revive. We leave that to those who go in for exoticism. Nor is it the present colonial society that we wish to prolong, the most putrid carrion that ever rotted under the sun. It is a new society that we must create, with the help of all our brother slaves, a society rich with all the productive power of modern times, warm with the fraternity of olden days. (qtd. in Lyons 2010, 111)

Conclusion

57. The Census, rather than functioning as an objective measure of our society and its members, serves to perpetuate homogenizing and racialized norms. Besides being based upon a false notion of one survey or methodology being adequate to measure an incredibly large and diverse population, the Census’s methods of anlyais leave too much room for interpretation bias to be anything but a tool used to realize the imaginaries of those who participate in its implementation. As seen in my case study of certain Native groups in the Central Valley of California, such tools of nation-building can have a direct and significant impact on small minority communities. The appearance of racial superiority of certain groups over others can be perpetuated through a quasi-racial hierarchy. Fueling existing social phenomena such as acculturation, symbolic identities, nationalism, imaginaries, cultural memory/forgetting, boundary creation, and the relationship between agriculture and the ideal vision of rural life, Census imputation practices allow for the statistical extinction of small minority groups, including but not limited to Native Americans.

58. One has to wonder at the influence that a practice, such as the Census—the primary function of which is arguably to classify community well-being along racial lines—can have on historically disadvantaged Native American communities. The Central Valley of California is an exaggerated example of how the Census functions to perpetuate racial ideals, for its incredibly high prevalence of non-white and migrant workers makes it an excellent case of how race is utilized to reinforce traditional economic and social power. Hence, rather than function as a tool for the U.S. government to judge which ethnic and racial groups are more thriving, or deserving, than others, I feel that the Census should be decentralized to become a community tool. This tool could be utilized to educate and discuss race in a new way—one that seeks to understand our identities as a project rather than merely reinforce our existing ideals—while still providing a powerful voice for fighting discrimination or other structural inequalities. In fact, I feel that the true power to fight such discrimination comes not from those within the structure, but from those outside of it: the communities who both help determine and are victim to our nation’s ideals of belonging and identity.

59. Such community practice would help people to understand that, despite our dominant culture’s ideals of an American meritocracy, we still live in a society that determines membership and acceptance in racial terms. It is then incumbent upon us, as a smaller community within that larger society, to heal ourselves through the creation of a new citizenship, a new nationalism that can transcend the limitations of the practices of American nationalism. Then we can hope to use Census data to truly advocate for minority communities and prevent the statistical extinction of groups, like Native Americans, who would otherwise fall victim to state-nationalistic efforts to obtain homogeneity. The biggest challenge of this generation will be to redefine identity and difference in a way that does not perpetuate socioeconomic limitations and social stereotypes, and I feel that the Census is a logical place to start.

60. Lyons argues that you can’t have a nation if membership can be granted to members in varying degrees; in other words, you can’t have a nation if you can have partial membership (2010, 180). While many will contend that we do have an Indian Nation, or more properly, Indian Nations, today, I believe that the very foundations of the nation are unstable. And unless we are willing to critically examine our criteria for citizenship through the lens of a Native nationalism, we might become the very agents of the demise we claim to be fighting against.

Notes

I would like to thank Beth Rose Middleton for her invaluable knowledge and assistance with this paper.
1. I intentionally use the phrase “Native American” instead of “American Indian” throughout this essay. I am fully aware of the colonized connotations associated with both labels, but have always been uncomfortable with using the term “Indian” for the association it has with Christopher Columbus and his “discovery” of America.
2. This differs from substitution (below) because it only covers a few characteristics, not ALL. Being “totally allocated” means that a completely allocated person is within a household with a non-allocated one (Zajac 2003, 16).
3. It is possible that some variance in these numbers is due to the ability to select multiple race categories (not initiated until the 2000 census) as well as with more accurate tracking of undocumented immigrants from Central and South America. I must also mention the inherent colonial ideals in the label “Latina/o,” a category which is actually composed of a multitude of unique groups indigenous to the Indo-American region south of the United States. Please know that, just as in my use of “Native American,” I use the label of “Latina/o full cognizant of that history and do so solely from a lack of an appropriate alternative.
4. Kern County is where my hometown is located, so this choice is due equally to the context of my personal history as to the high level of agricultural activity (making it representative of the larger region) and the mostly urban population (which would ideally result in more accurate Census data).
5. For an extended discussion of this idea, see Wyman (2005).
6.For an extended discussion on this topic, see also How Jews Became White Folks and What That Says about Race in America by Karen Brodkin (1998).
7. Located just thirty miles south of Bakersfield.
8. A similar case has been documented by E.R. Leech in Political Systems of the Highland Burma: A Study of Kachin Social Structure (1954), where groups were observed to change village affiliations for direct economic advantage due to their similar physical appearance to those other family groups.
9. I should note, also, that recognition of one band does not mean recognition of the entire tribe.
10. Although, this does not prevent any expression of Native pride, even when one’s Native roots are unclear.
11. As Garroutte says, in wider society, “Often, an Indian who is not an unreconstructible historical relic is no Indian at all” (2003, 68).

Works Cited

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Anderson, M.J. 1988. The American Census: A Social History. New Haven: Yale UP.

Barajas, Manuel. 2009. The Xaripu Community Across Borders: Labor Migration, Community, and Family. Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press.

Barth, Fredrick, ed. 1969. Introd. to Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company.

Berger, Bennett M. 1995. An Essay on Culture: Symbolic Structure and Social Structure. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Castillo, Edward D. 1998. “Short Overview of California Indian History.” http://ceres.ca.gov/nahc/califindian.html (accessed October 26, 2008).

Choney, Sandra K., Elise Berryhill Paapke, and Rockey P. Robbins. 1995. “The Acculturation of American Indians: Developing Frameworks for Research and Practice.” First edition. Handbook of Multicultural Counseling. Eds. Joseph G. Ponterotto, J. Manuel Casas, Lisa A. Suzuki, and Charlene M. Alexander, 73-92. Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications.

Garroutte, Eva Marie. 2003. Real Indians: Identity and Survival of Native America Berkeley: University of California Press.

Holloway, Sarah L. 2007. “Burning Issues: Whiteness, rurality, and the politics of difference.” Geoforum 38(1): 7-20.

Lujan, Carol. “As Simple as One, Two, Three.” Census Undernumeration Among the American Indians and Alaska Natives.” Undercount Behavioral Research Group Staff Working Paper #2, May 1990.http://www.census.gov/srd/papers/pdf/ev90-19.pdf (accessed May 8, 2009).

Lyons, Scott Richard. 2010. X-Marks: Native Signatures of Assent. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.

Parsell, Alfred P. 2002. Stories and Scholarship: From the Social Science Field Laboratory, Ukaih, California, 1939-1948. Mendocino County Museum Grassroots History (19).

Reynolds, Linda A. 1996. “The Role of Indian Tribal Governments and Communities in Regional Land Management.” Sierra Nevada Ecosystems Project: Final Report to Congress, vol II. Assessments and scientific basis for management options. Davis: University of California, Centers for Water and Wildlife Resources.

Ronzio, C. 2009. “Ambiguity and discord in U.S. Census data on the undercount, race/ethnicity and SES: Responding to the challenge of complexity.” DataCritica: International Journal of Critical Statistics, 1 (1): 11-18.

Silvas, Linda. Interview by Katherine Valenzuela. April 14, 2009.

Skerry, S. 2000. Counting on the Census? Race, Group Identity, and the Evasion of Politics Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution Press.

U.S. Census Bureau. 200 Years of U.S. Census Taking: Population and Housing Questions, 1790-1990. Prepared by the Data User Services Division. Washington, DC, 1989. http://www.census.gov/history/pdf/200years.pdf (accessed November 20, 2011).

—. Data generated by Katherine Valenzuela using American FactFinder. http://factfinder.census.gov (accessed November 14, 2011).

—. The 2010 Census: American Indian/Alaska Native Consultations. Prepared by the U.S. Department of Commerce and the Economics and Statistics Administration. Washington, DC, 2007. http://factfinder.census.gov/home/aian/Appendix-B.pdf (accessed December 16, 2011).

—. United States Census 2000: Tribal Governments Liaison Program Handbook Prepared by the U.S. Department of Commerce and the Economics and Statistics Administration. Washington, DC, 1999. .http://www.census.gov/prod/cen2000/d-3288.pdf (accessed November 20, 2011).

Waters, Mary. 1990. Ethnic Options: Choosing Identities in America. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Wyman, Marilyn. 2005. “Affirming Whiteness: Visualizing California Agriculture.” Steinbeck Studies 16 (1-2): 32-55.

Zajac, K.J. 2003. “Analysis of Imputation rates for the 100 Percent Person and Housing Unit Data Items from Census 2000.” Census 2000 Evaluation B.1.a, U.S. Census Bureau.

Amoxtli: An Indigenous American Rhetoric and Poetics

Review by Lydia French*

Mestiz@ Scripts, Digital Migrations, and the Territories of Writing
Damián Baca
Palgrave Macmillan, 2008
210 pages
$80.00

1. As he emerges from the pages of Mestiz@ Scripts, Digital Migrations, and the Territories of Writing, Damián Baca is the consummate Mestiz@ pedagogue, reminding readers that education cannot be divorced from politics. Using Walter Mignolo’s The Darker Side of the Renaissance (1995), Baca aligns the politics of contemporary rhetoric and writing instruction with a legacy of imperialism that ignores the contributions of pre-colonial and colonial Mesoamerican amoxtli, or codices, in histories of writing. Intervening in the conventional history of rhetoric that begins in ancient Greece and flows linearly through Europe into the Americas, Baca describes Mesoamerican writing practices as parellel or “coevolutionary” rhetorical trajectories, attention to which opposes progressive literacy narratives. Baca employs history, historiography, and rhetorical analysis in order to redefine how twenty-first century readers conceptualize “text” within the coevolutionary trajectory he proposes.

2. Baca’s intervention into the Euro-Western history of rhetoric and writing takes as its overarching analytic framework Gloria Anzaldúa’s “mestiza consciousness” as theorized in her path-breaking work, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987). In suggesting mestiza consciousness as a theoretical “origin point” to a rhetorical understanding of Mestiz@ scripts, he also performs a temporal movement that implicitly eschews the kind of linearity he critiques. The stakes of tracing both conventional and alternate historical trajectories, Baca explains, are grounded in the enunciation of new rhetorical understandings that reposition writing as an enduring Amerindigenous tradition rather than a means of colonial assimilation. “No longer limited by parochial assumptions about writing as the representation of speech through alphabetic or syllabic systems,” he writes, “new studies could examine the construction of knowledge through various practices of information storage and transmission, whether one writes with letters or with pictographs.”

3. The project of Mestiz@ Scripts, however, is not to essentialize writing instruction for ethnic Mexican students. Rather, as he surveys trends in rhetoric and writing instruction through the lens of the conventional Euro-Western history of writing, Baca calls attention to the fact that ethnic Mexican people rarely enter the narrative except as “problems” in first-year writing courses. Remarking, for example, that “while attention to Mestiz@ scholars in English composition is scarce [and] research on Mexican and Mesoamerican history is virtually absent,” Baca demonstrates that when the field does engage Mesoamerican writing practices, they are frequently construed as “preliterate.” Thus, the linearity of the dominant history of rhetoric and writing, Mestiz@ Scripts suggests, mirrors the equally linear and unidirectional trajectory of assimilation.

4. Although Chapter Three, “Mestiz@: A Brief History, For Mexicatl to Chican@,” risks historical gaps in its movement across centuries in so limited a space, Baca’s history once again performs the kind of disjuncture it narrates. In order to abide by the study’s twin projects of linking rhetorical and compositional practices to material histories and analyzing the kinds of negotiations between sustaining ancient Mesoamerican rhetorical practices and incorporating innovative Western forms, Baca makes manifest the history he recognizes as absent from conventional histories of rhetoric and writing. That said, readers would benefit from approaching this chapter as context for the analyses of contemporary Mestiz@ scripts in Chapters Four and Five rather than as an exhaustive history of Greater Mexico.

5. Though the book splits evenly between the literature review and history/historiography of the first half and analysis and curricular application in the second half, the study coheres through Baca’s incorporation throughout of Huehuetlahtolli, a Nahuatl word meaning “discourse of the elders.” Huehuelahtolli is the basis of Mesoamerican pedagogical practice, comprising education in the arts, the sciences, government, philosophy, religion, and ethics. As such, drawing on the extensive work of Mexican historian and anthropologist Miguel León-Portilla, Baca argues that the Huehuetlahtolli constitute a rhetorical practice alternative to the Aristotelian model of rhetoric as the art of persuasion. As with any rhetorical practice, the formal characteristics of Huehuetlahtolli at once emerge from and mirror the worldview of which they are a part. Although an extensive examination of Mesoamerican pantheons lies outside the scope of the study, Baca recognizes duality and balance as central features of the Mesoamerican worldview. Since “at the roots of Mexican consciousness is a belief in divine pairs,” he argues, the Huehuetlahtolli rely upon corresponding stylistic devices, including “parallel expressions, repetitive and recurrent phrases, and a stylistic device know as difrasismo, the blending of two concrete terms to convey an abstraction.”

6. Continued use of these stylistic devices on linguistic and pictographic levels enable contemporary Mestiz@ authors and artists to create what León-Portilla and Inés Hernández-Avila term Yancuic Tlahtolli, “the new word.” Whereas León-Portilla explores Yancuic Tlahtolli in contemporary Nahuatl, Yucatec, and Mixtec writers from Mexico, Baca traces the maintenance and “reactivation” of the formal properties of Huehuetlahtolli in the hybrid texts of predominantly U.S. Mestiz@s. Thus, in Chapter Four, “Codex Scripts of Resistance: From Columbus to the Border Patrol,” Baca reads the dynamic “text” collaboratively constructed by Guillermo Gómez-Peña, Enrique Chagoya, and Felicia Rice, Codex Espangliensis: From Columbus to the Border Patrol (2000). By directing attention to its construction in the tradition of Mesoamerican amoxtli, Codex Espangliensis subverts colonial trajectories through satire and farce, but also through the “reactivation and variation” of the stylistic devices conveyed in the arts of Huehuetlahtolli. In both Codex Espangliensis and Frederico Vigil’s “The Genesis of the Rio Grande,” the subject of Chapter Five, Baca seizes on the correspondence of writing and painting in the Nahuatl word Taquilolitztli, “to spread color on hard surfaces.” In Chapter Five, the focus of the analysis is on the historicity of Vigil’s artistic material and technique as the artist “invents between” the European buon fresco style and the Aztec-Mexican historical figures of Moctezuma and La Malinche in the ritual dance of the New Mexican Pueblos, Los Matachínes. Eschewing linearity, Baca argues, Vigil’s mural enacts a dynamic and variable historicity.

7. In the final two chapters, Baca returns to the questions of writing instruction with which Mestiz@ Scripts begins. In Chapter Six, Baca illustrates the ways in which Anzaldúa’s writings are frequently implemented in rhetoric and writing textbooks as he performs an analysis of “How to Tame a Wild Tongue,” a chapter excerpted from Borderlands, alongside Mary Louise Pratt’s “Arts of the Contact Zone” (1991). Responding to the pairing of the two in the reading and writing assignments of a particular rhetoric textbook, Baca uses this reading as a foundation for a revised curriculum, one that “would emphasize connections, comparisons, and interpretative frameworks across and beyond national boundaries.” In the interest of divorcing rhetoric’s disciplinary narrative from progressive temporal structures and an east-west imperialist movement, Baca suggests organizing curricula around three alternative structural concepts: specialization, periodization, and region versus nation. Working from the foundation that Anzaldúa’s new mestiza consciousness lays, each offers “a more coevolutionary and expansive configuration of the curriculum.” A dual evolutionary model–recognizing the territorialities, temporalities, and localities inscribed rhetorically by both the colonized and the colonizers–implicitly recalls the duality of Huehuetlahtolli, indicating its enduring pedagogical potential.

8. Mestiz@ Scripts marks a significant intervention in the field of rhetoric and composition. Because it breaks new ground, it also invites much-needed dialogue about writing in the Americas both before and after colonization. That invitation is constituted as much by the subject itself as by Damián Baca’s commitment to making manifest the politics of pedagogy.

*This review is published with permission from the Ethnic and Third World Literatures group at the University of Texas at Austin. It will appear, in slightly modified form, in their annual publication, E3W Review of Books, in Spring 2012.

Emergent Readings of the Post-Conquest: Indigeneity and Mestizaje in the Texas Borderlands

By Sheila Marie Contreras

1. Chicana/o literary studies is taking account of the ideological underpinnings of indigenism, indebted as it is to narratives of conquest and exploration, post-revolutionary Mexican nationalism, and to the ethnographic, travel, and journalistic writings of U.S. and British writers in the early twentieth century. Underscored in discussions of the modalities of Chicana/o indigenism are the complex and conflicted implications of mestiza history in the present moment. My own work has explored the ways in which articulations of Chicana/o racial identity in, for example, political statements, movement poetry, and Chicana feminist theory, are at times inflected by certain conventions of primitivism from both sides of the U.S./Mexico border even as they counter racist discourses of Anglo-domination and white supremacy. The issue at hand, therefore, is one of contradiction. The presence of such contradictions, however, does not negate the oppositional value of works such as Elena Zamora O’Shea’s El Mesquite (1935) or Gloria Anzaldúa’s Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987). As they unsettle assumptions and expose tensions, these contradictions resist our attempts at resolution. In doing so, they generate new thinking, enlivening scholarship in Chicana/o Studies and deepening awareness of lived experience. While the essays by Kirby Brown (Cherokee) and Lydia French approach the topics of indigenismo, mestizaje, and indigeneity from alternate, and some might even say competing, perspectives, they also offer possibilities for a relational and critical understanding of Chicana/o indigeneity. This critical perspective allows the contradictions to stand—to be sustained in ways that Anzaldúa might well have appreciated and even understood as a goal of Borderlands.

*    *    *    *    *    

2. Kirby Brown’s “Historical Recovery, Colonial Mimicry, and Thoughts on Disappearing Indians in Elena Zamora O’Shea’s El Mesquite” intervenes in scholarship on its subject, offering a fresh look at O’Shea’s fictional account of Spanish and mestizo settlement of the trans-Nueces region of Texas as told from the perspective of an old mesquite tree. Brown complicates readings of the text as a narrative of Tejano dispossession, while also recognizing its place as a precursor to Chicana/o narrative. El Mesquite provides us with a fictional account of a historical cycle of settlement in which mestizo settlers were made to experience the trauma of dispossession at the hands of more recent arrivals—Anglos. The history recorded by the old tree privileges first the Spanish and then the mestizo settlers of Texas, ultimately elevating the influence and accomplishments of Tejanos. Brown emphasizes the fact that the tree’s presence precedes Spanish settlement, naming el Mesquite as Indigenous, even if that is the only cycle of settlement left unacknowledged in the narrative. The history of Native presence in South Texas is a glaring absence in Zamora O’Shea’s novel, one that underscores the tough task of reconciling El Mesquite with the more-recent Borderlands, although both authors share the purpose of writing Tejanas/os into the historical archive.

3. But Brown readily confirms the significance of el Mesquite’s role as a recorder of the Tejano place in the larger history of the U.S. Southwest and its colonial past. The political intentionality of O’Shea’s publication of the book at the time of the Texas Centennial, and the symbolic value of that act have a place in Brown’s reading, even if aimed centrally at examining the narrative voice in its moments of “colonial mimicry.” The analysis calls our attention to the narrator’s need for acknowledgement and recognition of its value from the settler-colonists, Spanish or Tejano, whose development of the land ultimately destroys the old tree, when it is cut down to make railroad ties. El Mesquite’s inability to draw value solely from its indigenous status—its overidentification with the Spanish, and, later, the mestizo settlers—reminds us of the long history of mestiza/o denial of the affiliation with Native communities, as well as the overt denigration that can and has characterized mestizo discourse, public and private. El Mesquite does challenge the Anglo-dominant historical narratives of South Texas, inserting Texas Mexicans as agents, even if at the same time it diminishes possibilities for representing Native autonomy in the region. Brown’s recognition of mestizo complicity in the oppression (or, in Zamora O’Shea’s case, at least devaluation) of Indigenous communities is generous and thoughtful, bringing the lessons of American Indian literary studies and historical methods to bear upon Chicana/o literature. At the same time, Brown easily acknowledges the unique pressures of Chicana/o representation, and the ideological significance of writing mestizas/os into the history of Texas. Clearly, Zamora O’Shea can represent—even in ways fictional and imagined—the transformation of the colonial mestizo other into the Native. Such narrative facts also prompt questions about the ability of a Tejana daughter of ranchers deeded land after Mexican independence in 1821 to represent the subjective process by which the Native becomes the “Other.”

4. El Mesquite’s narrative is pro-missionary, at times acknowledging the presence of “Indians,” but also explicitly dismissing the “peones” whom Brown also reads as Native. While Zamora O’Shea tries to rectify the lack of attention to her area of the American West, she repeats a well-known gesture of erasure in her failure to acknowledge the fact of Native settlement of South Texas prior to the arrival of the Spanish. The first sentence of her Introduction to the novel redeploys the mythic image of an isolated, empty American West: “From my earliest childhood I remember the open country between the Nueces River and the Rio Grande; that vast expanse of territory that our early historians do not mention in the days of early history” (np).

5. Brown notes the romantic qualities of Zamora O’Shea’s novel in its representation of “imperial benevolence” and a naturalized “‘native’ colonial presence” (Brown, para. 3). The narrator does speak of the presence of Indians, as in “The Indians used the young shoots of the sentinel plant for food” (5), or “During the summer an Indian chief came to see my master” (26). The old tree that chronicles the history of Zamora O’Shea’s South Texas, however, is the central Indigenous presence in the novel, even if “interpellated as a colonized subject” (Brown, para. 8). Perhaps the most powerful evidence of Zamora O’Shea’s allegiance to representational strategies of narrating the West, however, is her conflation of indigeneity and nature.

6. The mesquite tree, when read as Indigenous presence, becomes part of a larger, longer representational history that assigns to Native people a role of such intimate stewardship that they become a part of the land itself. The old tree provides for migrating animals a resting place, shade, and, when able, food. Its knowledge of the local flora and fauna is unrivaled, although references to Native use of natural resources (the sentinel roots and animal skins) admit to the fact that Native people have information useful to the settlers. The settlers eventually incorporate this knowledge into their own ways of life: “These men learned to use some of the things that the Indians had used. At first they all dressed in soft cottons. Now some of the men use deer skins for their clothes as the Indians do” (12). Grateful for the company of humans who ease its loneliness, most importantly missionaries and settlers, el Mesquite takes great pride in its ability to extend these same comforts to them: “They rested under my friendly shade. How eagerly I listened to their talk!” (3). Brown’s reading of El Mesquite instructs us well in this regard, the “colonial mimicry” of the Indigenous narrator. The fact of Zamora O’Shea’s contribution to a literary and popular history of naturalizing Indigenous people as a means of asserting the value of the “civilizing” missions of colonization and expansion may trouble slightly el Mesquite’s status as Indigenous. Ultimately, however, this corollary recognition opens possibilities for understanding El Mesquite the novel as inheritor of and participant in broader traditions of literature in the Americas.

7. The essays by Kirby Brown and Lydia French engage Chicana/o Studies critical perspectives that have in the past seemed at odds with each other. What I means is that attempts to explicate Anzaldúa’s New Mestiza project and its attendant reliance on Mesoamerican, particularly Aztec, iconography would not appear to have much in common with critiques that expose strategies—however unconscious—by which mestizas/os have asserted their place in history without narrating mestizo participation in Indian removal and mestizo domination of Native land and communities. While Brown’s essay addresses a textual erasure of Indigenous communities at the time of colonization, Lydia French examines the assertion or reclamation of Indigenous identity in the present. The intertextuality between the two essays exists, on the one hand, in the conscious, overt references to each other. The implicit intertextuality, on the other hand, lies in the fact that Brown’s critique of textual appropriation of indigeneity could extend to Anzaldúa, who might be seen as continuing the erasure of Zamora O’Shea and others even as she asserted the centrality of Native cultural formations.

8. French’s essay, “The Borderlands of Borderlands: Tres Vistas,” adds useful and important insights to Anzaldúa scholarship, putting Anzaldúa’s choice of “mestiza,” as in “The New Mestiza,” in the context of a history of scholarship that includes Jack Forbes’ critique of the political implications of the term. In historicizing “mestiza” in this way, French amplifies our perception of Anzaldúa’s insight and creativity, arguing that Borderlands appropriates language with full intention and sharp cognizance of the effects of conceptual alterations. She argues that Anzaldúa consciously and correctly recognizes the limitations and resists the apparent logic of using “Indian” where “Mestiza” appears in the title of Borderlands. “Indian” as a term cannot accommodate the social and historical transformations contained in the word “mestiza,” even if another of Anzaldúa’s goals is to locate Texas as a site of indigeneity, revising and reframing indigenist discourse.

9. “Refraction” is the critical enterprise of value in French’s analysis. Anzaldúa, according to French, exposes ideological systems and the conceptual frameworks, and then redirects or “refracts” them to create new iterations implicitly challenging the colonial ideologies that necessarily remain. Creativity, insight, and resistance lie in the space between the discursive object and its refraction, says French. Her idea reminds of another element in Anzaldúa’s borderlands theory, the idea of balanced opposition, or sustained contradictions, the latter perhaps more accurately describing a significant feature of Anzaldúa’s work in Borderlands. The idea of sustained contradictions can accommodate French’s concept of refraction for it is in the space of contradiction, the tension between the opposing ideas, that we can imagine refraction to occur. Ultimately, the sustained contradiction may be one of the most enduring forms of praxis that Anzaldúa has modeled.

10. In Chapter Three of Borderlands, Anzaldúa identifies the loss of balanced opposition with the militarization of Aztec society and the masculinization of religious and social power. The loss of this balance also finds expression in a shifting Aztec pantheon that diminished and simplified the roles of female deities (32). Balanced opposition existed, in Anzaldúa’s account, at a time before the Aztecs migrated to the Central Valley of Mexico. In retrieving the ancestral past, Anzaldúa acknowledges the brutality of Aztec civilization, even as she tries to recapture an ancestral past that she locates in the Aztecs. It is here that we find one of the contradictions, one of the exposed tension in the Borderlands project.

11. Anzaldúa writes: “Not only was the brain split into two functions but so was reality. Thus people who inhabit both realities are forced to live in the interface between the two, forced to become adept at switching modes. Such is the case with the india and the mestiza” (37). In her discussion of “los arrebatos” as “sudden attacks or shocks,” French assserts that these moments of disrupture become “crucial . . . only when one recognizes them as such,” another idea that can be considered in relation to contradiction (para. 4). It is the recognition of the contradictory moment that initiates the new knowledge. The contradiction is a site of tension or conflict and also a site of productive creativity. It is the contradiction that enables the arrebato and the refraction.

12. We can think of refractions, as they occur in the space of the contradiction, as sustaining the contradiction, even as those refractions occur multiply, unpredictably, differently. Refractions emerge in the space where “decolonial strategies” exist at once with “complicity in colonial discourse” (French, para. 3). There is no need to resolve the contradiction present; in fact, its sharper focus, its demands on our attention, force us to confront the tension that holds the contradiction in place. The space of contradiction is where Chicanas can inhabit at once the identity of the mestiza, whose ancestors may well have helped drive Native people off of their land, and also the mestiza who is undeniably, unarguably descended from Indigenous people. But it is only there in the space between asserting the fully-fledged, recuperated Mexica, for example, and rejecting a valued Indigenous patrimony, that the insight and the logic holds. Anzaldúa’s insistence on the term “mestiza” is not a rejection of the Indigenous, as it has been in other cases in the past (for instance, Vasconcelos), and French seeks a reorganization that includes the Native in the mestiza/o. The effective sustaining of the contradiction—the contradiction that mestizos/as could be both the descendants of Indians as well as their historic and present-day oppressors—requires a delicate balance. To make the contradiction disappear altogether would diminish the potential for the arrebatos and refractions that move thinking forward.

13. Mestiza/o history exists as a contradiction, and it goes something like this: Mestizos participated in the destruction and/or domination of the Indigenous people who made mestizo existence possible. Borderlands remains foundational precisely because of the appearance of this vibrant tension in the book. Borderlands, in particular, is instructive not only because it was one of the first texts to introduce the idea of Chicana/o indigeneity in a specifically South Texas context, but also because it demonstrates, because it resides in one of the greatest contradictions of Chicana/o literary history in the U.S. Southwest. At a symbolic level (and probably close to accurate historically), the first mother of a mestizo is conceived of as Indian. The internalized racism that Brown calls our attention to in the figure of the narrator el Mesquite is an example of the mestizo rejection of indigeneity that Anzaldúa tries later to reverse.

14. It may seem impossible to resolve Elena Zamora O’Shea’s elite narrative of Tejano landholding history with Anzaldúa’s narrative of dispossession. One could argue, in fact, that, even if Anzaldúa never read El Mesquite, Borderlands recovers the presences of the “peones” almost completely absent in Zamora O’Shea’s text. Zamora O’Shea intended to write Tejanos into history, but as Brown points out, her text enacts another, perhaps unintentional, effect, which is the erasure of Native presences that precede mestizo settlement of South Texas. Reading these essays on two texts, El Mesquite and Borderlands, together highlights a fraught negotiation of the relationship between racial identity and land in Chicana/o theory and narrative. Furthermore, they illustrate processes through which Tejanas/os emerge in U.S. narrative and theoretical projects across the 20th century—from the time of the Texas Centennial to the publication of Borderlands and beyond.

Works Cited

Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 1987.

O’Shea, Elena Zamora. El Mesquite. 1935. College Station: Texas A&M UP, 2000.

Letter from the Chair

By Dr. Mario Garza

1. Welcome, or as we say in our Coahuiltecan language, Kāmmam Manām. This translates into “enter well” or “enter in a good way”. We want to welcome you to Indigenous Cultures Institute’s first issue of our new on-line journal, Nakum. Our mission at Indigenous Culture Institute is to preserve and promote the cultures, traditions, ceremonies, and languages of Native Americans indigenous to Texas and northeastern Mexico. Most of the descendants of these indigenous people are now called Hispanics, Latinas/os, or Chicanas/os, and this journal is especially for them, although you will see and hear in the journal many diverse voices. We welcome all of you in a good way.

2. In spite of, or maybe because of, extremely brutal colonization systems and processes our cultures, traditions, ceremonies, and languages have managed to survive. For hundreds of years, even though we have been acculturating to changes and advances in technological and material culture, we have been resisting and surviving as indigenous people. We started this journal not only to promote our mission, but to offer a public forum through which our people can speak with their own voice, from their own perspectives.
This journal is our newest project since we incorporated four years ago. Indigenous Cultures Institute organized the local Native community to provide education and information about Native Americans, particularly from this area, southern Texas, and northern Mexico.

3. Our first major event in San Marcos, “Songs of the Seven Directions” music festival, was held at the Aquarena Center’s Earth Day Celebration in 2009. We have since produced several Native functions including the “Eagle and Condor” dance exhibition, the “Hispanic’s Indigenous Identity” lecture series, the “Tracing Indigenous Ancestry” genealogy workshop, the “Seven Directions Art Exhibit, and the May 2010 Sacred Springs Powwow.

4. While all of our programs and projects promote our mission, we have concentrated on two that are more directly related to our indigenous identity. One is our “Hispanics’ Indigenous Identity” lecture series and genealogy workshops which we present to Hispanic communities. The other is “Powwow in the Schools,” which we are conducting in the only public high school here in San Marcos, Texas which is composed of predominantly Hispanic students.

5. Our Hispanic Indigenous Identity lecture series covers the different social and political factors that influenced Mexican Americans to reject their Native American heritage and embrace the Spanish-European identity. This lecture series is divided into three lectures. The first, “Untold Truths” starts by explaining the Discovery Doctrine and the Age of Imperialism by discussing Christendom’s principles of discovery and the early Papal Bulls of Popes Nicholas V and Pope Alexander VI.In 1452, Pope Nicholas V issued the bull Romanus Pontifex, declaring war against all non-Christians throughout the world, and specifically sanctioning and promoting the “conquest, colonization, and exploitation” of non-Christian nations and their territories. This bull directed Portugal to “capture, vanquish, and subdue the Saracens, pagans, and other enemies of Christ,” to “put them into perpetual slavery,” and “to take all their possessions and property.”

6. After Columbus returned to Europe, Pope Alexander VI issued papal bull Inter cetera in 1493 granting to Spain the right to conquer the lands which Columbus had already found, as well as any lands which Spain might “discover” in the future. These papal documents of 1452 and 1493 were used by the Christian European conquerors to justify an incredibly brutal system of colonization. The Christian “Law of Nations” asserted that Christian nations had a divine right based on the Bible to claim absolute title to and ultimate authority over newly “discovered” Non-Christian inhabitants and their lands and passions.

7. This lecture also examines the Spaniards’ genocidal project; they would kill leaders by burning them alive or hanging them, and they enslaved virtually the entire population. The Spaniards set out to destroy the natives’ religious temples of worship, their language, history, customs and values, in fact, all of their culture. By destroying their entire world, they sought to Christianize them and to wipe out the indigenous identity. This lecture dispels the “mestizaje” myth as part of this erasure of indigeneity.

8. The second lecture, “We Have Survived” is about how the cultures of resistance are characterized by changes that are indispensible for survival. It discusses the three main processes that have made possible the persistence of Indian cultures. These three processes are resistance, appropriation, and innovation. It includes a special section on Nahuatl and other Indigenous words and languages that have remained part of Mexican Spanish. There is a discussion of the three Native American cultural practices have endured through prehistoric, colonial, and modern periods and continue to be practiced by Mexican and Texas Indians today. These are the cultural reproduction of purification sweat lodges, Native American dance societies, and the religious use of peyote. In spite of our sacred ceremonies being outlawed by the U.S. government, we have kept our ceremonies. A bonus section on contributions has been added to this lecture.

9. The third and last lecture “We Shall Remain” is about how unlike the other European nations who used their own people to colonize the new world, lacking Spaniards to colonize the Americas, Spain would colonize them with the natives themselves. This was accomplished primarily by two political pioneering institutions or systems. The first system was the encomienda system which was actually a slavery system. The second system was the mission system. This system was responsible for the most important means of assimilation and for the firmness of the hold of the Spanish language upon any land touched by Spain.

10. This lecture also includes a discussion of the Hispanic social movements both assimilation and nationalistic. Groups discussed include: LULAC, American GI Forum, MAYO-Mexican American Youth Organization, Raza Unida Party, Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (MEChA), El Plan de Aztlán, and El Plan de Santa Barbara. The lecture ends with a discussion of “Where do we go from here?”

11. Our “Powwow in the Schools” program is a once-a-month cultural awareness and appreciation program to educate Hispanic youth about their indigenous heritage. “Powwow in the Schools” offers eight luncheon sessions at San Marcos High School and culminates in an art exhibit at Centro Cultural Hispano de San Marcos in June. Each monthly session includes cultural components—Aztec, Mayan, and Plains Indians culture, Native American flute playing, and storytelling—and provides information on the indigenous identity of Hispanics.

12. After each of the presentations, we host an evening for the students’ parents and families to experience the same presenters, in a full, cultural event—Noche de Cultura—at the Centro Cultural Hispano de San Marcos, which is also open to the public. The students are asked to invite their parents and families to attend the Friday evening performances for free.

13. This program includes two special workshops.The first one is “Ancient Symbols Art Workshop.” The students create a final project—artistic works based on ancient symbols—through a workshop conducted by El Paso, renowned artist Gabriel S. Gaytan. After the workshop, the art work is displayed during the month of May at the High School, and then exhibited at the Centro Cultural Hispano de San Marcos during the month of June. There is a reception for the Centro exhibit opening, honoring the students and their year-long achievement. Texas State University Hispanic students volunteer to help facilitate these sessions.

14. The second special workshop is conducted by Carlos Aceves also from El Paso, Texas. Mr. Aceves presents his Xinachtli Project teachings based on the Aztec calendar. This is a very special indigenous teaching method that he has been teaching successfully for over fifteen years.

15. We are working on developing other projects, such as starting a Xinachtli school for kindergarten, first and second grades in 2014, a Hispanic Youth Leadership Program, and expanding our “Powwow in the Schools” to the elementary level and other program.

16. As you can see, so much of our mission cultivates education that this scholarly journal provides a natural extension of our programs into the realm of scholarship. In our inaugural issue, Cherokee Two-Spirit poet and scholar, Dr. Qwo-Li Driskill sets the tone with his poem, “In Xochitl, In Cuicatl.” Written during the period marked by passage of Arizona’s SB1070 as well as the BP oil spill, “In Xochitl, In Cuicatl” provocatively and passionately explores the violent legacy of imperial conquest. The essays by Kirby Brown (Cherokee) and Lydia French emerged from a panel on which the three of us presented at the National Association for Chicana and Chicano Studies Tejas Foco conference in February 2010. Our theme was Tejano Indigenismo / Indigenous Tejanismo, and each author develops papers that speak to the complex nature of Mexican American and Native identities in Texas literature and scholarship. Furthering the conversations begun at the conference and continuing on the page and screen, Sheila Marie Contreras responds to the two essays in her piece, “Emergent Readings of the Post-Conquest: Indigeneity and Mestizaje in the Texas Borderlands.”Finally, Dr. T. Jackie Cuevas fills out the issue with her review of María Cotera’s Native Speakers; Jackie’s review, “Nepantleras in the ‘Borderlands of Difference’” brings together many of the thematic threads running throughout this issue.

17. Again, kāmmam, (welcome). We welcome you to our journal, Nakum. With this journal, “We speak to you” and we hope that not only will you listen to our voices, but add your voice as well.

In Xochitl, In Cuicatl

In memory of Gloria E. Anzaldúa, Patlache Warrior-Poet

By Qwo-Li Driskill

Ce/One: Tlamantinime

O my sisters!
O my brothers!

While we speak
War blooms like jaguar blood
in our living rooms and SUVs
Seductive and insatiable it slithers into
our hearts hisses

Sleep
sleep in a world of flowers
Outside your window
osbsidian night will
slice you open

Sleep
while I lift Earth’s burning
heart from her chest

Sleep and pretend
you do not love
her blood smeared on your
lips and face
Pretend you do not demand it to pull your care like ghosts of horses
make it cradle your water and food
in unholy embrace

Convince yourself you do not love me

Sleep


O my brothers and sisters!
The poets have warned you!
This nation will soon fall!

These are the signs:
It will crumple like hot steel
It will fall into the boiling ocean
It will burn from the center of its map-cold heart
It will freeze from the wrath of wind

When we speak of these things the leaders
will burn us like faggots at the feet of resistance
They will wiretap our hearts
firebomb our spirits
terrorize our dreams
burn memory to the ground

O my relatives!
I too love this choker of oil
serpent plumes of smoke
like copal
to cloak me

Tonight I sleep
under the gentle sssshhhh sssshhhh of war

Ome/Two: Huehuetlatolli

They came with their dogs hungry for flesh. First in Borikén, Kiskeia, Kuba, Ichirouagana. Then everywhere: the lands of Ani Giduwa, Mvskoke, Mexica, Maya, Aymara. Perros de guerra cleared a path straight through our stomachs. Straight through a Kentucky forest hungry on the heels of a runaway Igbo woman. Slathered into the stone streets of Warsaw’s Muranowski Square. Into Birmingham, Detroit, L.A. Snarled into Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran. Their dogs, lips smeared with foam, teeth like mancana, tear through the navel of the earth.

Yei/Three: Saasaanili

#1

plane fly low hide trap
bone crush blood red sap
shriek bleed starve dark cell
steel bar burn truth map

#2

dog guard hood hide shame
law war rogue king blame
choke shout shove down heart
pain rape brown life game

#3

A fierce and giant    brown snake
licks wounds                     off her children’s skin
      slashes from razor              built to the sky,
               bites from wolves            playing soldier
                         Starfish people          are cut in half,
                             but hearts in tact          grow back again.
                                     Tarantula eyes       burn through black
                                     wait to pounce                 on spined bodies
                                             with arms raised       in surrender or resistance
                                                         or prayer.

Nahui/Four: The Poetry of War

Tonight a serpentine line forms
outside Celebration Cinema to witness
people like us
die

O my darlings
How they love to see us dead
They dab their eyes discreetly
with a Kleenex
hope our deaths make them more human

Just one Queer corpse garners
billions of dollars and gilded awards
so my dreams fill with riches
as war constricts around me

I want to pound my metaphors into ploughshares
But tonight my dears
Soldiers are ripening jaguars that wait on my body’s border
They lace up their jackboots
with sinew of people I love

They teach their dogs to sniff out
each desire to tear still beating from our chests

The Poetry of War
shots baritone staccato
from throats of children
masquerading as monsters

The Poetry of War
fills coffee breaks
and radio debates

The Poetry of War
lulls us to forgetting

I weave armor from prayer
hush my heart’s keening
all day long
come home to let it flap on
obsidian wings
while the clink of sharp iron
grows outside my door

Our bodies are songs
remembering other empires that fell

Tonight while red and black ink
blooms escape routes into my skin
I will sleep
under the gentle sssshhhh of war

Historical Recovery, Colonial Mimicry, and Thoughts on Disappearing Indians in Elena Zamora O’Shea’s El Mesquite

By Kirby Brown

Sometimes I have wondered why it is that our forefathers who helped with their money, their supplies, and their own energies have been entirely forgotten. History should be told as a fact, pleasant or unpleasant.

Elena Zamora O’Shea, “The Ranches of South Texas as They Were in the ’80s and ’90s” in El Mesquite

[A] substantial portion of the ethnic conflict that has occurred historically in the American West has involved subject peoples’ efforts to contest and resist efforts to impose ascriptive social judgments on them, particularly by interpreting and representing their histories in certain ways.

David Gutierrez, “Significant to Whom?: Mexican Americans and the History of the American West”

But Mr. Kirby, aren’t all the Indians dead?

First Grader, Cowan Elementary School, Austin, Texas

Convergences and Departures

1. In the fall of 2009, I participated in a curriculum intervention at Cowan Elementary School in Austin, Texas, jointly conducted by the Center for Mexican American Studies and the Indigenous Studies Initiative at the University of Texas at Austin. Our initial work to provide historically accurate, tribally-specific revisions to the annual Thanksgiving pageant developed into a week-long interventionist program the following spring, which exposed six first-grade classes to the histories, oral traditions, languages, and contemporary cultural practices of individual tribal communities and nations.1 Early in my own session on the Cherokee Nation, one student interjected, “But Mr. Kirby, aren’t all the Indians dead?” I smiled and replied, “Boy I hope not because I know a bunch of Cherokees who will be very sad to hear that they’re not alive. I sure will be.” The response got a good laugh from the other students and provided an interesting critical context for the rest of my time there, which included oral narratives, a language lesson, and a discussion of symbolism in the Cherokee national flag. Though under no illusion that I had forever changed how those students would view Indians, I felt confident that I had at least partially accomplished what we set out to do: to bring historical “Indians” of the Thanksgiving narrative into the present, to “recover” them, so to speak, as contemporary peoples possessing both a distinct relationship to the Americas and a shared history with others who also now call Diné, Kituah, Aztlán, and Turtle Island home.

2. I preface my meditation on disappearing Indians in a Mexican American novel of the 1930s with a vignette about indigenous pedagogical intervention partially because it intersects with Elena Zamora O’Shea’s own pedagogy of recovery, revision, and reconciliation. Written just over seventy-five years ago at the height of Anglo-Texas centennial nationalism as intense segregation, racial violence, and anti-Mexican xenophobia consumed much of the state, El Mesquite: A Story of the Early Spanish Settlements Between the Nueces and the Rio Grande (2000) tells the story of one Spanish-Mexican frontier family’s over two hundred year history in the trans-Nueces. Narrated through the persona of a centuries-old mesquite tree, named el Palo Alto by Spanish priests, the novella “roots” the Garcia family and their Spanish-Mexican neighbors deeply in the historically transnational landscape of South Texas.2 Its documentation of a long history of Spanish-Mexican settlement, economic development, and gradual dispossession recasts South Texas historiography not as the “natural” culmination of a grand moral drama of racial selection, but as the result of material and social consequences wrought by imperialist conflict, racist violence, and radical socio-economic transformations attending the modernization of the South Texas economy.3 Though levying a strong critique against a naïve, positivist confidence in technological innovation, free-market capitalism, and democratic liberalism which underwrite ideologies of Manifest Destiny, the text also holds out hope for nonviolent reconciliation through education and cooperative cross-cultural exchange.4 Part and parcel of a larger project conducted by middle-class Texas Mexicans in the 1930s and 40s to redirect Mexican American identity away from Mexico and toward the U.S., El Mesquite makes strong claims to historical place and contemporary citizen-subjectivity for Texas Mexicans as citizens of both Texas and the United States.5

3. Approaching the text strictly as a counter-narrative to Anglo-authored historiography, however, ignores the extent to which El Mesquite, in its privileging of state-imperialist histories and identities, reinforces colonial dominance even as it intervenes in racist, anti-Mexican discourses.6 Whether romanticizing imperial benevolence and racial harmony on the Garcia rancho or naturalizing a “native” colonial presence, the narrator becomes, in effect, what decolonization critics of the mid-twentieth century described as a “mimic,” a colonized subject whose ontological and epistemological existence is overdetermined by colonialist ideology and who, as a result, becomes complicit in its own subjugation. One early comment, “Since I was given a name by the kind fathers, I take more pride in myself” (8), illustrates the extent to which Palo Alto’s sense of itself as a historical subject emerges only upon its interpellation into a colonial order by the arrival of agents of an imperialist state. Narrative authority itself is ceded in the final pages as the narrator, soon to be uprooted and transformed into a railroad tie in service to the inexorable forces of modernity, is “captured” in a photo by a Garcia descendant, standing as both confirmation of and testament not to its own history but that of the Garcia family.

4. What Homi Bhabha identifies as a persistent ambivalence inherent to colonialist discourse is most evident in this progressive narrative of indigenous absence that runs parallel to and in many ways substantiates the narrative of Mexican presence throughout the novel.7 As the narrative embeds Texas Mexicans deeper and deeper into the historical fabric of South Texas, peoples and things indigenous to the region slowly fade away. This erasure of “the Indian” serves two functions: to disrupt totalizing Anglo appropriations of history and modernity on one hand and to substantiate the claims to history, place, and contemporary citizen-subjectivity the text makes for Texas Mexicans on the other.8 By engaging, however problematically, the complex ways in which palimpsestic identities are inscribed through narrative in the multiply occupied region Gloria Anzaldúa famously described as “una herida abierta” (25), El Mesquite speaks to the complicated and contradictory processes that authorize first graders to advance narratives of indigenous erasure despite the presence of a contemporary Cherokee man and clearly indigenous brown faces at every turn.

Historical Recovery and the Question of Mimicry

5. The opening pages of El Mesquite introduce readers to a narrator with deep roots in the trans-Nueces region preceding those of the families its narrative documents and attempts to recover.9 An androgynous, centuries-old mesquite tree who locates the historical narrative within a longer, “premodern,” cyclical history, Palo Alto is unquestionably indigenous to the region. The scope that this centuries-old indigenous perspective provides serves the narrative’s purposes well. In addition to its long tenure in the trans-Nueces, the seeming objectivity provided by a static narrator that relates what it sees and hears presents readers with observational “facts” that confirm a Texas Mexican presence which counter the historical fictions of absence and foreignness propagated at the time by Texas romantic nationalists. While drawing upon the institutional authority granted to academic history’s claims to objectivity, the narrator also asserts orality—so important to communities erased by “official” histories—as a reliable and legitimate source of historical information.

6. Considering Zamora O’Shea’s stated intention to challenge the erasure of Texas Mexicans from Anglo-authored cultural and material histories of the state, and to encourage Texas Mexicans themselves “to teach their children as my father taught me that this is our grand Lone Star State,” the novella’s indigenous narrator provides a narrative device by which to substantiate its author’s pedagogical project of recovery, revision and reconciliation (lxxvi). Consequently, scholars often equate/conflate the narrator with the families and histories it re-members. Leticia Garza-Falcón, for instance, describes Palo Alto as an ideal vehicle for “memory and renewal,” “a perfect vessel for passing on the oral histories, songs, and folktales of the early settlers” (2000, liii). Noting the mesquite’s “naturalized metonymic relationship to the South Texas landscape,” John González positions Palo Alto as “the organic marker of Texas-Mexican history, personifying the community’s living consciousness of its own past” (2009, 70, 87). Though Palo Alto indeed serves as audience, witness and oral/textual documentarian to the history of the Texas Mexican communities whose story it tells, its seemingly organic relationship to settler-colonial families is more complicated. Holding the narrator’s indigeneity at the center of the analysis and interrogating the narrative of Spanish-Mexican imperial nostalgia it advances raises important questions concerning the narrative function of “the Indian” with respect to competing and contested claims to place in the multiply-occupied space of the trans-Nueces. From this refracted position, the ostensible objectivity of the narrator is called seriously into question. In fact, from the first words Palo Alto utters it becomes clear that the entire narrative is already refracted through an identifiably colonialist lens.

7. The quote referenced in the introduction above—“Since I was given a name by the kind fathers, I take more pride in myself”—occurs at the beginning of chapter two which chronicles the arrival of Spanish priests to the trans-Nueces. It is situated between early statements asserting Palo Alto’s superiority to other strains of mesquite trees and an explanation of the pride the name engenders in the narrator:

I am of the highest quality of Mesquites. There are three members of our family in the Southwest. The arrastrado, or spreading after the fashion of a common rambler, which furnishes very small beans and now shadows for beast or mankind; the Mesquite, which grows to some height, furnishing abundant shade in the summer and food during drouths for beasts; and my kind, which the Spaniards, the first white men to recognize my quality, gave the name of “Mesquite Rosillo.” This was because my wood has a roan color and is excellent for cabinet work. (1)

While both scholars have interpreted this passage as reflecting a privileged class hierarchy already developing in the Mexican American community in the early twentieth century, the passage also eerily echoes the racialized overtones common to discourses of cultural evolutionism.10

8. Assuming a progressivist vision of human history, cultural evolutionists held that human societies proceeded in a linear progression from the abject darkness of savagery and barbarism into the light of civilization. In this model, the least impressive, most unproductive strain, the arrastrado, might be said to constitute the “savage slot” in the narrator’s botanical hierarchy, providing neither shelter nor nourishment. Producing larger fruit and better shade, the common mesquite stands as a more “useful” cousin (though still “backward” precisely because of its commonality), mediating between the relatively uselessness of the arrastrado and the plenitude of the narrator’s species, the noticeably capitalized Mesquite Rosillo. Taller, stronger, and more productive, it is valued not only for its shelter, shade and large beans, but also for its beauty and use-value as a raw material for manufacturing. Though all three constitute a doggedly persistent indigenous species not easily removed from its homelands—González’s “naturalized metonym” for the narrative of Texas Mexican persistence the text advances—the narrator clearly considers itself if not more “civilized,” at least the species most conducive to the civilizing influences of its Spanish “masters.” As the moral justification for imperial conquest, civilizing the savages functions here as the ideological site into which the indigenous narrator is interpellated as a colonized subject.

9. It is not so much that such attitudes and beliefs themselves suggest a colonized subject as it is the source from which they come and the arbitrary system of hierarchical value they engender. As the italicized passage in the quotation above attests, the entire system of meaning and value through which the narrator assumes its significance is an importation (and, perhaps, imposition), arriving only with “the Spaniards, the first white men to recognize my quality” (1). The issue of quality is itself instructive as it has nothing to do with the relationships between each species of mesquite and the landscape or other indigenous life in the region. Rather, value is determined by the extent to which the narrator offers comfort and aesthetic pleasure to Spanish colonists, a decidedly unidirectional relationship internalized by the narrator as pride and reflected in Palo Alto’s surrender of self-definition to the objectifying processes of colonial inscription: “I have been very proud of that name, as it gave me an idea of my grandeur. As there are no other high trees within miles of me, I cannot judge whereby I deserve it, but to know that those men who went everywhere would give me that name fills me with pride” (14, emphasis added). Acknowledging that it has no frame of reference through which to legitimize such praise, the narrator nonetheless accepts its privileged place in the hierarchy as a retrospective fact. Having been shown its “grandeur,” Palo Alto cedes authority to determine worth and ascribe value to Spanish colonizers based solely upon the extent of their travels and technological prowess.

10. Palo Alto’s loss of self-definition is further evident in its passivity in being named by the Spanish priests. It is not, in fact, until the narrator is given a name and lent a measure of its own significance that it attains any sense of its own historicity and subjectivity.11 Lest we are tempted to read this as a naïve adoption of colonialist ascription, Palo Alto exhibits a critical understanding of the relationship between race, power and naming elsewhere in the text. Following the Mexican Revolution in 1821, the narrator laments that some Anglo-Texan colonists have adopted a pejorative attitude toward their Spanish-turned-Mexican neighbors, noting that “Some say the word in such a bitter way that it sounds as if it were a crime to be a Mexican” (59). The narrator sharpens its critique of the prejudicial power dynamics embedded in the U.S. racial hierarchy imposed upon former Mexican citizens following the Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo twenty-seven years later. Further capturing the contradictions, ambiguities, and arbitrariness of national identities, Palo Alto asks, “If they were Spaniards when governed by Spain, and Mexicans when governed by Mexico, why can they not be Americans now that they are under the American Government? . . . Or perhaps they are like me, I was a Mesquite to the Indians, a Mesquite to the Spaniards and to the Mexicans, but I am a Mesquit to the Americans” (61). Connecting the decline of its own value to the oppression experienced by Texas Mexican families, Palo Alto seems to understand that the violence of both processes are at once inscribed and reflected in the pejorative bastardization of Spanish by Anglo racists. Having yoked itself to a Spanish colonial ideology and assumed the colonized subjectivity which recognizes and ostensibly confirms its privileged place in that hierarchy, Palo Alto identifies a “natural” or “organic” kinship with Spanish/Mexican-American families now finding themselves in a similar position outside of an Anglo dominated racist order. In an incisive example of ideological circumscription, Palo Alto’s imagined relationships to the Garcias and other families in no way squares with the real conditions of existence that should align it with those whose fate it ultimately shares: the always-already vanishing Indians and detribalized peones that inhabit the narrative margins.

11. This inability of colonized subjects to penetrate colonialist ideology was described by anticolonial critics of the mid-twentieth century as the “white masks” of colonial mimicry. A particularly insidious and inherently self-destructive psychic state rooted in a series of negations, denials, and alienations from all things indigenous, the colonized mimic imitates colonial ideals, languages, appearances, and cultural practices as a means of gaining legitimacy in a relationship of dominance and violence. Writing in 1957, Tunisian intellectual Albert Memmi described the colonized subject as a figure defined primarily in terms of absence. “The colonized is not this, is not that,” he writes. “He is never considered in a positive light; or if he is, the quality which is conceded is the result of a psychological or ethical failing” (84-85). Antillean critic and anti-colonial revolutionary Frantz Fanon famously characterized this state of confusion and ambivalence as a “Manichean delirium” which pits the forces of European enlightenment, civilization, philosophy, and technological progress against the benighted darkness of savage barbarism, atavisitic superstition, and cultural stagnation (1952/67, 183). In contrast, the figure of the white colonizer comes to represent everything that the “native” can never be: explorer, philosopher, citizen, statesman, entrepreneur, bringer of civilization and possessor of truth. Unable to find a productive space for self-actualization and confronted with the repressive power of the colonial state, the colonized subject is forced to choose between two kinds of suicide: one, a literal suicide resulting from militant resistance; the other, an assimilative psychic suicide in which “the colonized subject . . . turns into a kind of mimic man who nods his assent to every word by the people, transformed by him into an arbiter of truth” (Fanon 1963/2004, 13). In a process Aimé Césaire terms “thingification” (1972/2007, 42), such concessions force the colonized subject to surrender her position as a historical agent for the reified identity as a dehumanized object of colonial oppression and exploitation. Effectively removed from history and denied the possibility of locating anything of value within herself, the colonized exists “only as a function of the needs of the colonizer” (Memmi, 86) and derives her senses of purpose and place strictly through the histories, values, and beliefs authorized by the colonial state.

12. The numerous parallels between Palo Alto’s sense of its own historicity and subjectivity and that of the colonial mimic are striking, and force a reconsideration of the relationship between the narrator and the Texas Mexicans whose history it relates. The narrator’s privileged identity in the colonial hierarchy is based not so much on what it is, but what it is not, not so much on its more “natural” kinship with other mesquite trees but on its superior difference from them and its “imagined” kinship with the Garcias. The narrator’s Others—whether mesquites, Indians or Anglos—in effect become the negations through which Palo Alto’s sense of subjectivity is constituted. Though perhaps not Fanon’s “quintessence of evil” (1963/2004, 6), they are nonetheless viewed by Palo Alto as holding little value, a condition against which its own plentitude—itself a function of colonial use-value—can be conveniently opposed. Though having at least a quasi-critical understanding of the racialized power dynamics driving international conflict, the narrator fails to interrogate the ideological foundations of its own conditions of existence. Nowhere does Palo Alto examine its initial interpolation into the colonial order; it simply adopts it in retrospect as a predetermined fact. Nowhere does it interrogate the relationship between its own self-aggrandizement and the deprecation of other members of its “family”; rather, it assumes as a given the Otherness upon which its own arbitrary sense of value and worth depends. And nowhere does it connect the rhetorics and practices of dominance that contribute to the disenfranchisement and dispossession of Texas Mexicans to the same processes enacted upon indigenous peoples at the margins of the narrative, much less upon itself as an indigenous subject.

13. Absent the critical understanding the text itself possesses, the consequences of the disruption of that order for the narrator are catastrophic. After the third generation of Garcias move from Palo Alto to Mier to escape the violence and depredations of cattle rustlers and criminal smugglers, the narrator laments that “[t]he rancho was surely a dead thing without the master and his family. The white crosses on the hillside were my only real companions” (48). In a strange kind of colonial necrophilia, the narrator can only identify with generations of long-dead Garcias rather than establish relations with either the peones in whose capable hands the rancho has been entrusted or the Indigenous peoples who pass by to engage in trade or diplomacy. Consequently, we hear little of their experiences on the rancho unless mediated by the presence of a Garcia family member. This sense of loneliness and loss is intensified following the devastation and dislocation experienced by Texas Mexicans following the Civil War. While many Texas Mexicans who fled the conflict eventually returned, the Garcias were not among them. As a result, the entire social order through which the narrator obtained honor and value has been turned upside down:

Many have settled close to me who were complete strangers to me, but who are now my owners. I have not seen my real owners for years and years . . . The passing years have played havoc with me. I am old, many of my branches are dying. A traveler who watched me a few days ago, commented that I could tell a lot if I could speak . . . And I, once the proud chronicler of the deeds of my dear master’s family have become a scaffold. (63)

Existing solely “as a function of the needs of the colonizer” (Memmi, 86), the “once . . . proud chronicler of the deeds of my dear master’s family” experiences a profound existential crisis in the Garcia’s absence. Echoing the psychic breakdown Fanon describes, Palo Alto loses all sense of self and purpose without the family whose presence confirms the narrator’s own sense of pride and place. Like the Texas Mexicans with whom it identifies, Palo Alto becomes unmoored in its own homeland, despite being deeply rooted in the region for centuries.

14. While Palo Alto might, in this sense, function as an ideal metonym for Texas Mexicans within the novella’s pedagogical project of recovery, revision, and reconciliation within a Texas/U.S. state context, as an indigenous narrator thoroughly interpellated into a colonial ideology as an imitative subject, there can be nothing organic about that relationship. Whatever “natural” affinity exists between the narrator and the Texas Mexican families with whom it identifies must be interpreted within the colonial context that overdetermines those relations, regardless of whether it is experienced or understood by the narrator in terms of violence or benevolence.

Colonialist Nostalgia and Indigenous Erasure

15. In order to rationalize its privileged position in a colonial hierarchy and to reinforce its imagined relationship to Texas Mexicans, the narrator must necessarily distinguish itself from the indigenous inhabitants with more substantial historical claims to place. Both the narrator’s project of memory and the text’s project of recovery, depends at least partially upon a two-pronged discursive strategy that valorizes an idealized vision of the Spanish-Mexican past while naturalizing the displacement and disappearance of Indian peoples as a tragic but unavoidable consequence of modernity. In its confinement of Native characters to the historical and narrative margins, its idealization of the Spanish colonial project as a kind of “humanitarian imperialism,” and its romanticization of the innocence of the rancho pastoral order, El Mesquite advances a nostalgic narrative of the lost innocence of a simpler time.12 By situating an idealized Spanish-Mexican historical presence in relation to an inevitable indigenous passing, the narrator opens the historical space necessary to allow for the recovery of Texas Mexicans as historical actors and for their emergence as modern subjects and contemporary agents of change.

16. My use of nostalgia draws upon Renato Rosaldo’s critique of imperialist nostalgia in his landmark essay of the same name. For Rosaldo, imperialist nostalgia describes a contradictory tone in colonial cultural production which laments the tragic, though necessary, destruction of indigenous cultures colonialism itself perpetrated, even as it celebrates the order, benevolence, and good intentions of “white colonial societies” and their efforts to “civilize the savages” (107). Rather than depicting the violence, corruption, and moral bankruptcy of imperial projects, nostalgic narratives advance instead “an elegiac mode of perception,” a mourning for colonial innocence and benevolence which “makes racial domination appear innocent and pure.” Colonial Others function at once “as a stable reference point for defining (the felicitious progress of) civilized identity” and as a site where the disjunctures, disruptions, and dislocations wrought by colonialism and modernity can be mourned as a personal loss, “whether these reside in our own past, in other cultures, or in the conflation of the two.” A strategy of mystification, imperalist nostalgia forwards “a pose of ‘innocent yearning,’” in order “to capture people’s imaginations and to conceal its complicity with often brutal domination” (108). In narratives of imperialist nostalgia, “the Indigenous” becomes the site upon which the accomplishments, failures, and brutality of the imperial project are ideologically projected and materially inscribed. In the process, colonized peoples are relegated to the narrative margins, if not ignored entirely, and replaced with the constructed simulation of their presence necessary to explain away the violence and exploitation of the colonial endeavor.

17. Read as a kind of colonial mimic, it is perhaps not surprising that while Palo Alto imagines quasi-personal relationships both with the Catholic priests and generations of Garcias and other Texas Mexicans who settle the region, little is said of the indigenous peoples who occupied that land prior to Spanish arrival. The “premodern” accounts of life in the region make no mention of Indian communities; in fact, it is only upon contact with the Spanish and what González characterizes as the narrator’s own “fall into history” that they are similarly rescued, however briefly and intermittently, from the savage confines of prehistory (38).13 What information we do receive is conveyed through a series of brief vignettes documenting Indian trade, diplomacy, and labor on Spanish-Mexican rancherías and ranchos. In these passages, Indians are almost always described as racial or ethnic groups and rarely as nations, families, or individuals, the only exception occurring in the context of conflict that erupts between the resistant Karankawas and Spanish-Mexican settlers incited by Anglo opportunists. Rather, adopting the Eurocentric discourse of noble savagery, the narrator repeatedly positions friendly, civilized Indians against their savage, “naked,” cannibalistic alter-egos, and depicts the Catholic civilizing program as a relatively innocuous project of European benevolence (3-4). In the former, distinct tribal presences are exchanged for racialized “Indian” anonymities, while in the latter ideological state apparatuses responsible for colonial violence and dispossession—the Church and the imperial-turned-colonial state—are transformed into explicitly apolitical vehicles of religious and cultural “instruction” to ostensibly desiring, receptive, and docile indigenous subjects.14

18. This move to substantiate the moral claims of the civilizing project is evident from the first arrival of Spanish priests to the region roughly around 1575, as Palo Alto describes the colonial project almost exclusively as an exercise of moral improvement and imperial benevolence. Documenting the priests’ kindness toward Native peoples and their genuine desire to raise them out of the benighted darkness of savagery and into the light of Euro-Christian modernity, Palo Alto observes that “these kind old men in long robes . . . treated the naked Indian with the same tenderness that they accorded their own men,” bringing them the message of Christ, European agricultural practices, domestic skills, formal education, and an overall improved condition (3). The Spanish priests are willing also to negotiate with the Indians at least as nominal equals, respecting their mandate not to “settle any of our people among them” in exchange for peace, trade, and protection from hostile, cannibalistic tribes “across the next river … treacherous even among themselves” (5). Compared to the depredations and violence perpetrated by Mexican state soldiers and Anglo settlers who would later arrive in the region, the narrator’s assertion that “[t]hese Fathers are always doing kind deeds to all” is perhaps not that much of a stretch (11).

19. Despite the narrator’s attempt to idealize Spanish-Native relations, ruptures in this narrative of “humanitarian imperialism” betray their real motivations: conquest and the reducción—detribalization—of indigenous communities. Recalling a conversation between two priests debating the most judicious means to effect their civilizing project, Palo Alto relates one priest’s understanding of negotiation as a function of imperial demographics: “I have tried to conquer them, and they do not respond. We have their assurance that if we do not try to locate among them they will not molest us . . . I have agreed to do this; as for the present we are not in condition to refuse his terms” (5, emphasis added). Without sufficient forces to exact a complete, coercive conquest, clearly the preferred option here, negotiation becomes a practical necessity to ensure survival and the continued work of the missions. In an almost textbook statement of the function of ideological state apparatuses in the consolidation of hegemonic power, the priest illustrates the nature of the Church’s mission: “We can establish schools, build churches, teach them trades, and improve their general condition. We can also combine several of the friendly tribes” (4). This policy of reducción would not only undermine indigenous political autonomy and cultural continuity; it would also provide a convenient labor force upon whose backs and homelands both the mission system and Escandon’s settlement program would be built. Indeed, soon after their arrival, the fathers send for the Garcias and other families to come and select “servants of peones from the tame Indians” who would make “good workers even if they were a little lazy” (12-13). Later, when describing the Great Missions whose presence signaled the immense growth of settlements in the area, Palo Alto confirms how the Fathers “tell of the great numbers of Indians who have been set to work digging ditches, building houses, and making the settlement the best in Texas” (44).

20. When peaceful measures to detribalize and incorporate Native peoples into the socio-spiritual apparatus of the Church and state fail, the priests are not above turning to corporal punishment as a disciplinary vehicle to enforce order and authority. In a seemingly throw-away line comparing the damaging effects of strong winds on Palo Alto’s structure to the priest’s treatment of its Native charges, the narrator points to the coercion that lies just underneath the Church’s “civilizing” campaign: “They [strong winds] shake me as thoroughly as the kind Fathers shook the Indians who stole some of their bright beads from their bags” (10). That such measures were not always received with passive acceptance by the ostensibly reduced peones is confirmed in at least one account where they abandon an abusive Anglo settler and rejoin their indigenous kin on the other side of the Nueces (23). While the narrator fails to indict instances of Spanish abuse in the same way that it criticizes Anglo violence against Indians, peones, and Texas Mexicans, the juxtaposition of exploitation and abuse by priests and racist Anglos alike suggests a correlation, one which Palo Alto itself never fully makes explicit. To do so would undermine the nostalgic narrative of Spanish-Mexican benevolence for which the arrival of the Spanish priests serves as origin, effectively fracturing Palo Alto’s subjectivity, making visible the “Manichean delirium” through which it perceives the world, and provoking the existential crisis to which it ultimately succumbs as the narrative draws to a close.

21. As the influence of the priests and the Church gradually give way to the Spanish and Irish families who arrive as part of Escandon’s settlement program, such contradictions are effectively displaced from Spanish/Texas-Mexican families and projected onto corrupt Mexican army officers and unscrupulous Anglos. Held in stark contrast to the latter, the Garcias and other Texas Mexican families take on the paternalistic role of father-figure, educator, and provider to surrounding indigenous communities and peones without any of the priests’ imperialist baggage. In addition to honoring the peace agreements between the Spanish fathers and the indigenous peoples who insist upon remaining autonomous, the Garcias also freely trade with indigenous communities, exchanging hides and pelts for the material accoutrements of European domesticity, and provide educational access and the promise of private property ownership for the detribalized peones under their care/rule. Palo Alto relates:

The last [Father] who came [ca. 1840s] was very much pleased to learn that my mistress had a regular school for all the children of the peones. The young women are taught to sew, weave, crochet, and tat. The boys are taught to read and write, then all the work that is necessary for them to know. For the old peones my master has obtained small grants of land, where they begin in a small way to gain a little independence. (47)

Noting the quid pro quo embedded in relations with both Indians and peones, the narrator observes that so long as the peones are treated fairly, respectfully, and are well cared for, “they are forever the master’s servants. But if they have some grievance they are the worst foes a man can have” (47). The fact that none of the Garcias’ peones desert the rancho or revolt against the family is testament to their honor and benevolence. Indeed, exploited by the racialized political economy of the post-1848 trans-Nueces, and apparently lacking the capacity to manage their own independence, many of those granted individual parcels of land by the Garcias return to work for their patrón, since “It was hard to make a living away from the old Master” (51). The Garcias’ refusal to break solemn agreements with the Indians and their consistently honorable behavior toward their peones provides an idealized, nostalgic counterpoint to the moral relativism and rampant self-interest of Anglo settlers and Mexican state officials, both of whom readily marshal racial prejudice and violence as vehicles for exploitation and dispossession. Recalling Rosaldo’s explanation of how colonial nostalgia allows the colonizer to appropriate the trauma and loss of the colonized at its own, Indians and peones are collapsed with Texas Mexicans as a common family of the dispossessed so that loss experienced by one community is mapped onto and equated to loss by the others.

22. This appropriation of the indigenous into narratives of colonial “loss” is also typical of narratives of Native absence, defined by James Cox as deterministic stories operating via an “annihilation imperative” that construct Native presences only to confine them in declension plots that move inexorably toward their predetermined disappearance or death (2006, 208, 243). In such narratives, “the Indian” functions strictly as a colonial place-holder, signifying on one hand what colonialists desire most—a legitimate claim to land—and, on the other, both the threat to and the means of solidifying those claims. Set in explicit opposition to both history and progress, Indian resistance to religious zealotry or to territorial colonization is explicitly foreclosed. Whether through gestures to the harsh treatment misbehaving or otherwise resistant indigenous peones receive at the hands of the Catholic priests, or the very real threat of annihilation accompanying any attempt to resist Anglo domination, Indians are prevented from playing anything but their predetermined vanishing role in colonialist script.

23. And disappear they do. Their homelands caught once again in the middle of an international territorial conflict attending the U.S-Mexico war, indigenous peoples and Texas-Mexicans are pitted against one another by Anglo opportunists hoping to rid both from the trans-Nueces region of the newly annexed State of Texas. Though Palo Alto notes that “[i]f the Indians behave themselves and not war against the settlers they will not be molested, but if they start mischief most likely they will be driven away,” Indian retaliation by those “across the river” is a foregone conclusion (59). Indeed, at the same time that Anglo power brokers were attempting to undercut the power and influence of Texas Mexicans who had fought for Texas independence and advocated statehood, the administration of Mirabeau B. Lamar adopted a violent policy of absolute Indian removal and extermination.15 The disappearance of Indians following a raid on the Garcia rancho after page fifty-eight coinciding with the appearance of Texas Rangers as a “pacifying” force no doubt reflects this historical reality. The Rangers, depicted in corridos and elsewhere as murderous rinches by many those victimized by their racist violence, are counterintuitively seen by Palo Alto as heroic defenders of frontier law and order: “There are men who are called Rangers who try hard to stop the wholesale slaughtering [of cattle herds]. But they cannot be everywhere at once” (60). Though ostensibly targeting rustlers, thieves, and other derelicts, the Rangers were also engaged in a systematic project of indigenous genocide; a half a century later, they would turn their ire toward people of Mexican descent in the reprisal killings following the los sedicios uprising. Here, however, violence is elided in favor of the romantic heroism typical of stories of frontier settlement.16

24. Like the elision of exploitation and violence on the part of Spanish priests, the narrator similarly elides the historical role of another apparatus of the state as perpetrator of ethnic cleansing. Following this final account of militant resistance, Native peoples disappear from the narrative—either as a consequence of military defeat or detribalization—suggesting both the effectiveness of the Rangers’ genocidal project and the narrator’s acceptance of it as a fait accompli. Having dispensed with the indigenous actors in the colonial drama, both narrator and narrative move into their central critique of Anglo-Texan anti-Mexican xenophobia, dispossession, and violence; their recovery of Texans of Spanish-Mexican descent as historical actors; and their assertion of a contemporary subjectivity for Texas Mexicans.

25. This move away from the past and toward the future culminates in the return to Agua Dulce by an educated, bilingual and distinctly modern descendant of the Garcia family, Anita. A “smart girl” from a settlement to the south, Anita’s return is prompted by the opening of a new public school in Agua Dulce, now a township a few miles away from what was once the Garcia’s land-grant rancho of the same name, of which she will be the new teacher: “She is going to be the one who can talk both languages so that she can explain and teach these simple-minded sons of toil what it is all about” (76). At least partially an autobiographical projection of Zamora O’Shea, Anita is the modern, emergent Texas Mexican subject: higher educated, bilingual, liberated from restrictive gender roles, and armed with a critical understanding of Texas Mexican history which she recuperates as a vehicle to lay claim to a present and a future as an equal citizen-subject of both Texas and the U.S. Anita is thus both product and producer of Zamora O’Shea’s pedagogy of recovery, revision and reconciliation, a figure capable of drawing upon both educación (cultural/familial instruction) and preparación (formal education) to unite the past and the present as a means of articulating a hopeful future of interracial cooperation and co-existence in the transnational borderlands of South Texas.17

26. This hopeful message of recovery and reconciliation finds its most explicit expression in the final pages of the text as Anita confirms her family’s history by matching a centuries-old illustration of Palo Alto with the ragged remainder of the ancient tree itself. Though no physical markers remain identifying the rancho’s existence—“there are not signs of the graves now . . . Of the walls of the old houses nothing is left” (79)—the tree itself stands as confirmation of that history, both in its very presence as well as in the inscriptions carved on its trunk by generations of Garcias. For the narrator, Anita’s return is rejuvenating, reminding Palo Alto of the family it loved and of its own significance as unofficial chronicler of their history. This reunion is short-lived, however, as plans to reroute the railroad through Agua Dulce necessitates the narrator’s removal, its final uprooting from its homeland and its commodification as a railroad tie, a raw material for modernity’s advancement. In an attempt to preserve a record of its presence, Anita takes its photograph, capturing its image for posterity. It is at this moment where past, present and future come together, as Anita reveals the aforementioned illustration of Palo Alto, likely composed either by Spanish priests or Don Rafael Garcia, dated 1575.18 This revelation has a profound effect on the narrator: “I saw myself as I appeared to my first master, Don Rafael Garcia, as he stood under me while he examined the best site for his home” (80). For the narrator, this final act of cultural preservation shores up its existence against the forces of modernity, confirming at least for the foreseeable future its long relationship with the Garcia family. For Anita Garcia, the photo stands as both a “concrete” visual confirmation of family oral narratives and material ephemera, and a synchronic representation of historical origins and a point of departure into the contemporary moment. Anita’s visit to Palo Alto on the eve of its destruction, her possession of her ancestor’s illustration of the tree, and her own use of photographic technology to corroborate both oral narratives and the illustration, signals for many the salvation of Texas Mexican communal memory and the bestowal of self-recognition for the first time upon the narrator. Read in such terms, the narrator can ostensibly meet its inexorable fate with the assurance that its beloved family enters modernity armed with confirmation of the history it has dedicated its life to documenting.19

27. If, as I have argued, we read the narrator as a colonized subject—unquestionably indigenous yet alienated by that reality by the colonial ideology within which it is interpellated—then this final image of redemption is rendered more complex. Specifically, Palo Alto’s cession of narrative and representational authority to Anita might be read as another instance in a long tradition of aestheticizing indigenous peoples as prehistoric, pre-modern objects of colonial nostalgia, denied both the power of self-representation and the right to exists as contemporary subjects.20 After all, the image of itself the narrator sees confirms less its history than the Garcias’, less its claim to place in its homeland than the continued colonization of indigenous land, albeit no longer in the possession of the Garcia family. This final act of cultural preservation through technological representation signals not the narrator’s long-awaited moment of self-actualization and self-recognition, but its confirmation of a life of mimicry. At the end of the text, Palo Alto is still defined as much by its use-value to a colonial narrative as by its indigenous relationship the natural and human communities that preceded Spanish contact. Because el Palo Alto will literally soon cease to speak, will be violently silenced by modernity, there will be no one else to connect its “indigenous” presence to the multiply-occupied history of the trans-Nueces. Forever removed from the multiply intersecting historical and social contexts which are only accessible through Palo Alto’s narrative and which, for the reader, lend the narrative meaning, the photo itself is now fully a part of Anita’s narrative, Anita’s communal memory of possession and place. The photo will thus be situated in a state-national narrative of opposition populated strictly by Anglo-Texans and Texas Mexicans. Palo Alto’s martyrdom in the face of modernity’s onslaught results neither in a heroic narrative of resistance nor one of pragmatic accommodation and survival. Those stories are reserved for historical agents. Rather, the narrator’s indigenous voice is silenced as its photographic representation confines it forever to the only place afforded Indigenous peoples in the colonial script: the nostalgic historical past.

Contingent Thoughts and Possibilities

28. By maintaining a colonialist frame which assumes that the history of the region starts with the arrival of civilization, law and literacy, the narrative ultimately guarantees its indigenous narrator no viable subjectivity outside of Fanon’s Manichean delirium. Readers are thus presented with a text whose pedagogical project to inscribe a Tejano presence in Texas history, to document the dispossession of Tejano lands, and to chronicle the contributions and sacrifices of Tejanos in Texas history in the early 20th century rests at least partially on its denial of those same privileges to the perpetually vanishing first Americans who might challenge those claims. This is not to say, however, that the text itself fails to decolonize Anglo-dominated historiography of Texas Mexicans in the South Texas borderlands, and it has not been my intention to indict Zamora O’Shea for failing to deal explicitly with the various ways in which the narrative is complicit in the erasure of indigenous peoples from the region. Quite the contrary. Considering the social contexts in which both artist and text were positioned, the narrative forwards a profoundly powerful challenge to the narratives of Anglo racial triumphalism against Spanish-Mexican decadence and ineptitude with which Zamora O’Shea had to contend. By making visible the gaps in the Anglo historical records, and by making audible some of the voices in those gaps, the text unquestionably operates within what Emma Pérez terms a decolonial imaginary, “a rupturing . . . interstitial space where differential politics and social dilemmas are negotiated” (6). Explicitly challenging the received categories of Mexican identity available in Anglo historiography, El Mesquite goes a long way toward decolonizing Mexican alterity by wresting it from its Anglo-essentialist frame.

29. That said, we still have to contend with the implications of the text’s appropriation of indigeneity into what is still largely an imperial state-national narrative of citizen-subjectitvity as means of legitimizing its own claims to historicity and contemporary agency in that order. The strategic reorientation of a Mexican American identity from Mexico to the United States advanced by middle-class Mexicans of Zamora O’Shea’s generation necessitated that they position themselves within Texas and U.S. national histories in order to claim an equal place at the table as fully participating citizen-subjects. Though, as an American Indian scholar, I cringe at any narratives which erase indigenous peoples as historical actors and contemporary agents, as a Native Texan cross-trained in Mexican-American and Native America studies, I can certainly sympathize with the pressures Native and Mexican American intellectuals across history have confronted in their attempts to subvert and reform an oppressive racial order.

30. To this point, continued interrogations of texts like El Mesquite, or the largely neglected later essays of Gloria Anzaldúa examined by Lydia French, open the door for gaining a more complex critical understanding of the complicated histories of emergent identities and their legacies for the contemporary moment for all communities residing in multiply-occupied spaces not only in South Texas but throughout the Americas. Indeed, despite the narrative of indigenous erasure that underwrites the emergence of the text’s modern Texas Mexican subject, the narrator’s own narrative of subjectivity reveals the historical processes by which “the Indigenous” becomes Other/mimic and the colonial Other becomes “Native” to both the land and its history. Despite efforts to naturalize the erasure of the Indian, the text undermines its own process by complicating narratives of religious benevolence and tracking the reification of indigenous communities as an objectified peón class exploited by both Spanish-Mexican pastoral and U.S. capitalist economies. El Mesquite thus makes visible the historical, material, and narrative processes by which indigenous peoples are transformed into racialized national subjects as Mexicans, Mexican Americans, mestizos, and peones. In many ways, then, the novel’s pedagogical project of recovery, revision and reconciliation documents not the disappearance of indigenous peoples, but the persistence of indigeneity in the multiply-colonized, transnational geography of South Texas.

31. If anything, the ambivalence and ambiguity embedded in revisionist texts like El Mesquite encourage further work excavating the histories, experiences and voices of those who have been rendered absent or silent and critically examining the relationship between the liberation of one community and the continued domination of another. Such projects will take as their primary assumption the fact that when dealing with texts emerging from multiply-occupied geographies, there will necessarily exist an equal number of decolonial imaginaries that must be excavated in order to truly understand the political stakes and claims of all communities living there. In a time when ethnic studies departments are being eviscerated nationwide and when state boards of education stand idly by while a new generation of ideologues attempt to erase peoples of color from the historical record, it is perhaps more important now than ever to critically confront and engage the subtle and insidious ways in which still-colonized peoples remain complicit in one another’s continued oppression under the rhetorics and practices of colonial dominance.

Notes

1. Our choices about which nations to represent reflected our commitment to tribal diversity; they also mirrored the communities from which many of us came: Cherokee Nation, Council of the Three Fires Anishinaabe, Diné/Navajo, and Pine Ridge Lakota. Non-Native and Chicana/o allies emphasized the transnational indigeneity of the Americas in their lessons about Inuit and Nahua peoples, respectively.
2. I use “transnational” here to refer both the communities that move within and across imperialist territories (Spain, France, United States) and nation-state borders (Mexico/United States) and to highlight the region’s history preceding and continuing across the emergence of the nation in the Americas.
3. For discussions of the social, political, and economic impacts of modernity on Mexican American communities and Anglo-Mexican relations, see David Montejano (1987); Arnoldo DeLeón (1999); and Douglas E. Foley, et al. (1988). For an examination of Mexican American responses to such conditions through cultural production, see John Moran González (2009).
4. See Garza-Falcón 2000, xxix.
5. See González, esp. pp. 1-10.
6. For treatments of Mexican-American literature as resistant counter-narratives to colonial dominance, see Ramón Saldívar (1990); Louis Mendoza (2001); and Leticia M. Garza-Falcón (1998).
7. For Babha, this ambivalence exists in the space between “official” historical accounts of national origins and the lived experiences of those existing outside of the national order whose very presence challenges the legitimacy of both “the nation” and “the people.” It is precisely in these lived margins of negotiation, contention, and contestation where the “discursive ambivalence” of the nation-as-narration becomes visible (1990/1995b, 299). I here refract Babha’s concept of colonial ambivalence through the multiply-occupied South Texas and the narratives of national belonging that emerge there. The narrator in this case negotiates the ambivalence of not one but four colonial-national narratives.
8. In her examination of the colonial roots of indigenism in revolutionary Mexico and U.S. anthropology and its appropriation by Chicanas/os as a discursive strategy of empowerment, Sheila Conteras (2008) demonstrates that the exchange of the Indigenous Real for the Imagined “Indian” of mythology are not incompatible projects. While problematically recuperating the ahistorical narratives of indigeneity many contemporary Native peoples work to subvert, it nonetheless provides a critical site for Chicanas/os to assert a claim to history, place, and contemporary subjectivity, a fact she reminded me might pertain to Zamora O’Shea’s own project.
9. The trans-Nueces is that region between the Rio Grande and the Nueces River in the present-date U.S. state of Texas.
10. See Garza-Falcón 2000, xliv; and González, 89.
11. Both Garza-Falcón and González rightly view the text’s attention to the power dynamics embedded in the privilege of naming as a critique of anti-Mexican racism contemporary with the text’s production. I am interested here in the distance between the text’s critical attitude toward such processes and the narrator’s naïve passivity in the face of colonial inscription. See Garza-Falcón 2000, lviii; and González, 80-81.
12. Though I borrow the term “humanitarian imperialism” from Renato Rosaldo’s analysis of imperialist nostalgia discussed below, I am fully aware that the narrator’s colonized subjectivity prevents an easy one-to-one analogy with Rosaldo’s term.
13. González rightly argues that “El Palo Alto enters history at the moment Spanish explorers searching for ‘some place which they called Florida’ rest under its shade (3). Prior to that moment, the mesquite tree had only experienced the indeterminate flow of the seasons marked by bird migrations” (87).
14. See also González, 88.
15. Lamar’s policy advocated “a rigorous war against [Indians]; pursuing them to their hiding places without mitigation or compassion, until they shall be made to feel that flight from our borders without hope of return, is preferable to the scourges of war” (qtd. in Fehrenbach 453).
16. In Regeneration Through Violence:The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600-1860, Richard Slotkin argues that the frontier mythology of white progress and expansion advances an ideal hero sympathetic to the “creatures of the wilderness” with whom he interacts but who ultimately serve as disposable adjuncts to his own ambitions and self-actualization. The practical skills and spiritual knowledge gained strengthens the frontier hero and embeds him progressively deeper into the indigenous landscape from which the actual indigenous inexorably and inevitably disappears (555). Palo Alto and the indigenous peoples on the margins serve a similar function in El Mesquite, acting for the settlers as guides to the landscape and its fauna only to vanish—either through military defeat or detribalization—so that settlers of all kinds can assume their historical place in the region’s narrative geography.
17. For three angles on this interpretation, see Andrés Tijerina, ix-x; Garza-Falcón 2000, xxxi, xxxviii; and González, 93.
18. Garza-Falcón posits two possible explanations for this early date: either Spanish priests drew the illustration and handed it down to subsequent generations of Garcias, or the typesetter of the manuscript inadvertently transposed the date of the Garcias’ arrival as part of the Escandon settlement from 1755 to 1575 (2000, xlii-xliii). Believing the former to be more plausible, González suggests that it was Don Rafael Garcia, and not the Spanish priests, who composed the illustration and handed it down directly to his descendants (92).
19. See González, 93.
20. All three critics of the text note its problematic reproduction of race- and class-based hierarchies which they locate within the complicated and often violent racial politics of the 1920s and 30s. As it relates specifically to indigenous peoples, González rightly observes that the text’s confinement of Indian peoples to a pre-modern past and its “celebration of colonial rule . . . reenact[s] the colonial dispossession of indigenous tribal nations while nativizing Spanish colonizers” (88). Reading the narrator as a natural metonym for Texas Mexican persistence and dispossession, however, he does not account for the narrator’s problematic position as an indigenous subject and the celebratory narrative of Spanish history it relates.

Works Cited

Anzaldúa, Gloria E. 1987/1999. Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza. 2nd Ed. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books.

Bhabha, Homi K. 1990/1995a. “Introduction: narrating the nation.” In Nation and Narration. Ed. Homi K. Bhabha. London: Routledge. 1-7.

—. 1990/1995b. “DissemiNation: Time, Narrative, and the Margins of the Modern Nation.” In Nation and Narration. Ed. Homi K. Bhabha. London: Routledge. 291-322.

Césaire, Aimé. 1972/2007. Discourse on Colonialism. New York: Monthly Review Press.

Contreras, Sheila Marie. 2008. Blood Lines: Myth, Indigenism, and Chicana/o Literature. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Cox, James. 2006. Muting White Noise: Native American and European American Novel Traditions. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

DeLeón, Arnoldo. 1999. Mexican Americans in Texas: A Brief History. 2nd Ed. Wheeling, IL: Harlan Davidson.

Fanon, Frantz. 1952/1967. Black Skin, White Masks. New York: Grove Press.

—. 1963/2004. The Wretched of the Earth. New York: Grove Press.

Fehrenbach, T.R. 1968/2000. Lone Star: A History of Texas and the Texans. New York: DaCapo Press.

Foley, Douglas E. et al. 1988. From Peones to Politicos: Ethnic Relations in a South Texas Town, 1900-1977. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Garza-Falcón, Leticia M. 1998. Gente Decente: A Borderlands Response to the Rhetoric of Dominance. Austin: University of Texas Press.

—. 2000. “Critical Introduction.” In El Mesquite: A Story of the Early Spanish Settlements Between the Nueces and the Rio Grande. College Station: Texas A&M UP. xxiii-lxxx.

González, John Moran. 2009. Border Renaissance: The Texas Centennial and the Emergence of Mexican American Literature. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Gutierrez, David G. 1993. “Significant to Whom?: Mexican Americans and the History of the American West.” Western Historical Quarterly 24.4: 519-539.

Memmi, Albert. 1967/1991. The Colonizer and the Colonized. Boston: Beacon Press.

Mendoza, Louis. 2001. Historia: The Literary Making of Chicana and Chicano History. College Station: Texas A&M UP.

Montejano, David. 1987. Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836-1986. Austin: University of Texas Press.

O’Shea, Elena Zamora. 2000. El Mesquite: A Story of the Early Spanish Settlements Between the Nueces and the Rio Grande. College Station: Texas A&M UP.

Pérez, Emma. 1999. The Decolonial Imaginary: Writing Chicanas Into History. Bloomington: Indiana UP.

Rosaldo, Renato. 1989. “Imperialist Nostalgia.” Representations 26: 107-22.

Saldívar, Ramón. 1990. Chicano Narrative: The Dialectics of Difference. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Slotkin, Richard. 1975/2000. Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600-1860. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

Tijerina, Andrés. 2000. “Historical Introduction.” In El Mesquite: A Story of the Early Spanish Settlements Between the Nueces and the Rio Grande. College Station: Texas A&M UP.

The Borderlands of Borderlands: Tres Vistas

By Lydia A. French

I come from a state (Texas) that decimated every Indian group including the Mexican indigenous. I don’t look European, but I can’t say I’m Indian even though I’m three-quarters Indian.

Gloria Anzaldúa, from “Speaking Across the Divide,” an interview with Domino R. Perez and Inés Hernández-Avila

Native scholars often make a case for engagement in discussions of nation and nationalism in Native American literary studies. Because Native peoples continue to have political status as nations, at least in the United States and Canada, many Native scholars remain committed to regarding their work in those terms. Transnational discourse has often opposed any kind of nationalism, a concept that is, of course, easy to critique from many perspectives. . . . I can say that many Native people, including Native scholars, rely on the language of nationalism, the language in which the political struggle for their actual social world is being waged.

Robert Warrior (Osage), from “Native American Critical Responses to Transnational Discourse,” Warrior’s contribution to a Modern Language Association Forum on “Ethnic Studies in the Age of Transnationalism”

1. If to theorize is to make concepts visible, then Gloria E. Anzaldúa’s borderlands/mestiza/multicultural theory visualizes through refraction.1 Imagine placing your hand in a pool of water. Looking down upon it, it appears disconnected from your arm and the rest of your body. The light travels through the water creating a space, a break, between the refracted image of your hand and what you know and feel as its actual handness. Anzaldúan theory similarly refracts the discursive and conceptual frameworks it makes visible. Articulating models of community and identity that speak to her experience and the experiences of women of color, Chicana/o communities, and queer communities, Anzaldúa takes terms already available to her, terms like “tribalism,” “mestiza,” and “multicultural,” and refracts them through the murky waters of loss, of absence that often characterize the multiply colonized geographies of the borderlands. With both the refracted discourse and her experience of it in view, Anzaldúa places herself in the space between.

2. In this essay, I trace Anzaldúa’s refractory theory as it engages the relationships between the local, as articulated in her renditions of Tejana/o indigeneity and mestizaje, and the trans- or post-national, as articulated in her understanding of “new tribalism” and multiculturalism. Among some Chicana/o and American Indian critics, Anzaldúa’s embrace of mestizaje and hybridity threatens the self-determination and autonomy of Native communities throughout North America; that the “new mestiza” emerges out of a blend of indigenous Mexican spirituality and custom on one hand and U.S. developmentalism on the other perpetuates essentializing rifts between indigeneity and modernity that fail to encompass the histories of contemporary Native experience.2 In an effort to theorize and celebrate a particular kind of Mexican-American subjectivity, these critics argue, Anzaldúa forecloses on the possibility of contemporary indigenous practice, always relegating indigeneity to some nebulous past that nevertheless influences individual personhood.

3. Anzaldúa herself, forced to reconcile her Tejana indigeneity with its colonial delegitimization, did not agree. She saw her writing as building coalitions between Chicana/o and American Indian communities, between Chicana/o and migrant Mexican (often indigenous) communities in the United States. In response to a question about accusations of appropriation of indigenous identity and thought, she urges Chicanas/os to be more critical of how we use Native culture, but she also encourages critics to read more of her work, saying:

I think it’s important to consider the uses that appropriations serve. . . . We [Chicanas/os] do to Indian cultures what museums do—impose Western attitudes, categories, and terms by decontextualizing objects, symbols and isolating them, disconnecting them from their cultural meaning or intentions, and then reclassifying them within western terms and contexts. In my own work I’ve experienced both a colonization and a decolonization by first being marginalized then by being elevated into the “mainstream.” But it’s an elevation that reproduces the dynamics of colonialism since that mainstream continues to control, to give or withhold what’s labeled art or theory. . . . I am cited by “whites” mostly for my work in Borderlands and This Bridge Called My Back, but often it’s a mere referencing and not a deep exploration. (2003-04 14)

As a corrective to the tokenizing process she describes, in the present essay I read both deeply and widely in order to candidly and rigorously address the role of indigenismo and mestizaje in Anzaldúa’s work and to unearth the decolonial strategies that may be lurking beneath what appears at times as complicity in colonial discourse. Though I am compelled to return to Borderlands, which has received by far the most critical attention of any of Anzaldúa’s works, I do so from three unique perspectives, or vistas. I first analyze Anzaldúa’s strategy of discursive refraction in the essay that concludes this bridge we call home (2002), “now let us shift . . . the path of conocimiento . . . inner works, public acts.” I continue this analysis in an understudied yet provocative part of Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987), the “Notes,” which, I argue, self-consciously performs a textual evocation of borderlands theory that leads readers to the refraction of the concept of mestizaje. Finally, I unite the first two perspectives, suggesting that in its very resistance to naming, Anzaldúa’s work bridges the transnationalist-nationalist divide that Robert Warrior identifies in the passage above. In an intellectual and economic climate dominated by discourses of trans- and post-nationalism, Anzaldúa’s refractory theorization reveals strategies for forging cross-border alliances while maintaining local differences.

External Borderlands

4. In “now let us shift . . . the path of conocimiento . . . inner works, public acts,” Anzaldúa mobilizes a series of concepts that extend the theoretical work of Borderlands. Nepantla, conocimiento, and the Coyolxauhqui imperative provide the theoretical apparatus with which she here approaches embodied response to change, which occurs in the form of an “arrebato,” a sudden attack or shock. Los arrebatos, which appear in the essay as earthquakes, armed robberies, disease, and feminist dissension, become crucial (in the sense of placing one at a crossroads) only when one recognizes them as such. That is, one needs the deep awareness of conocimiento to recognize the shock of an arrebato as an initiator of difference, a deeply experiential moment that demarcates an old from a new self. That recognition (reconocimiento) suggests that what Anzaldúa names the path of conocimiento has neither beginning nor end. Like the camino itself, each of the seven stages in the development of conocimiento, what in Borderlands she has called “new mestiza consciousness,” are recursive rather than teleological.

5. Anzaldúa’s structure of recursivity in “now let us shift” along with the coincidence of the seven stages on the path to conocimiento with the seven chapters of the “prose” section of Borderlands / La Frontera impels a return to the latter through the lens of the former. Reading backward from Anzaldúa’s later work also reveals some of the strategies she has used throughout her oeuvre to form and perform the development of a queer-feminist-of-color consciousness. As she continues to grapple with the dynamic between shared oppression and racialized, sexed, gendered, and classed difference in this bridge we call home, for example, Anzaldúa appropriates the term “new tribalism” to theorize what Ana-Louise Keating calls “affinity-driven identities” (13, n.6). Both the appropriation itself and how she uses the term impinges, ultimately, on how we read mestizaje and indigenismo in Borderlands.

6. When Anzaldúa first uses “new tribalism” in “now let us shift,” she says explicitly that she “borrows” the term from David Rieff’s 1991 article, “Professional Aztecs and Popular Culture,” which criticizes Borderlands’ embrace of collective rather than individual identity. Though, as Anzaldúa remarks in her note, Rieff makes the claim that “Americans should think a little less about race and a little more about class” (2002, 578 n. 17), the article itself conceptualizes “class” through uncritical faith in an emergent post-nationalism brought about by European, Asian, and impending North American economic alliances (46). Decrying the collectivist tendencies of U.S. ethnic, gender, and sexuality civil rights movements as unrealistic and anti-individualist, Rieff’s comment does not call for class consciousness as such; instead, he expresses a philosophy of bourgeois globalization. In the context of a 1991 New Perspectives Quarterly issue about the possibility of a free trade agreement between the United States and Mexico (what would, the following year, become NAFTA), Rieff professes a faith in global capitalism’s re-formation of national structures: “What is being created throughout the world, as the nation state is gradually eclipsed by multi-national capitalist structures more akin to a space age feudalism than to modernity as we have known it, is a new bourgeois world. This is why Americans should think a little less about race and a little more about class” (46). “Professional Aztecs” thus champions bourgeois individualism as the ideological vanguard of global cultural expression, which, in turn, leads him to denigrate the “new tribalism” specifically of Chicana/o art and literature.

7. Anzaldúa’s avowed appropriation of the term “new tribalism” underscores her strategic refraction of a conceptual framework completely antithetical to her political and theoretical position. As she says explicitly in the interview “Speaking Across the Divide,” “I use the term ‘new tribalism’ to formulate a more inclusive identity, one that’s based on many features and not solely on race” (9). Creating a positive conception of what was originally intended as a slur, Anzaldúa radically re-signifies “new tribalism,” shifting Rieff’s conceptual object (of derision) and positioning herself—as a nepantlera—in the break. No longer does it carry the negative connotations of “tribalism” as Rieff problematically employed the term; instead, it carries possibility for an understanding of “a social identity that could motivate subordinated communities to work together in coalition” (2003-4, 9).

8. Ironically, where Rieff accuses Anzaldúa of motivating a “new tribalism” that echoes, in many ways the nationalist movements of the 1960s and 70s, Anzaldúa’s use of the term resists inscription into nationalist narratives in a restrictive sense.3 Though communitarian and social in nature, Anzaldúa’s “new tribalism” bridges racial and ethnic identities, class hierarchies, and gender and sexuality categories in a move that might today be called post-nationalist.4 It is, above all, a social identity based on a political awareness of the imposition of identities. Where Rieff’s “new tribalism” denigrates ethnic collectivism in order to uphold a post-nationalist vision of a global bourgeoisie, once refracted, Anzaldúa’s “new tribalism” retains an element of post-nationalism (though, for Anzaldúa, it becomes post-U.S.-cultural-nationalism), but in order to build new collectivities through political affinity within the United States. Marking the distance between the discursive object and its refracted image is a heightened awareness of the political work of bourgeois individualism as an arrebato that enables the formation of a new body politic. In her refraction of an irrevocably loaded term such as “tribalism,” Anzaldúa thus demonstrates at once her awareness of the discourses into which her theories enter and her willingness to trespass upon the sanctity of discourse in general. Acknowledging its potentially damning effects, Anzaldúa nevertheless inhabits the discursive borderland or bridge between competing conceptual landscapes in the same way that she urges we inhabit the daily arrebatos that open up to paths of conocimiento.

Internal Borderlands

10. Such an arrebato leads us to recognize how she strategically refracts “mestizaje” in Borderlands as well. The limited scope of this essay prevents an exhaustive treatment of the “Notes”; however, as a rhetorical document this liminal section of Borderlands merits continued attention. Demonstrating her agency in creatively compiling fragmented interlocutors, there are moments when the author densely populates the text with other scholarly, musical, or poetic voices; on the other hand, there are moments when she cites nothing at all, when the only voice is her own. This attention to source material and the conventions of scholarly reference in, for instance, “Entering Into the Serpent,” which, with thirty-four citations contains the most notes of any chapter,5 makes their absence all the more notable in, say, “Movimientos de rebeldía y los culturas que traicionan,” which, despite its historical traversals only includes one citation. This dynamic in the “Notes” suggests that Anzaldúa selectively incorporates dialogue with other scholars that affects not only what she says but also how she says it.

11. Beginning with the historical arrebato that opens the book, I focus on the intertextual relationship between Borderlands and Jack Forbes’s Aztecas del Norte: The Chicanos of Aztlán. Anzaldúa’s history begins with Aztlán and a dual claim to indigeneity through continued habitation and return migration; thus, the narrative is, at least superficially, already fractured by competing notions of migration and indigeneity.6 María Josefina Saldaña-Portillo seizes on the distance between the material histories of these two distinct subject positions in her critique of Anzaldúa’s erasure of contemporary indigenous peoples and lived realities: “According to Anzaldúa,” Saldaña-Portillo explains,

Chicanas/os are originally indigenous to the area because of our biological tie to the first Indians who inhabited it some 37,000 years ago (her date), the mythical Indian tribe that traveled from Aztlán in the U.S. Southwest to Mexico City and subsequently formed the Aztec empire.7 And we are secondarily indigenous through our “return” to this homeland with the Spaniards as Indians and mestizos. . . . mestizaje is once again deployed to produce a biological tie with pre-Aztec Indians rather than a political tie with contemporary U.S. Native Americans or Mexican Indians. (2003, 281-82)

Saldaña-Portillo’s critique reveals the political stakes of indigenismo and mestizaje in general, but it also bespeaks a need to carefully examine how Anzaldúa wields mestizaje and the indigenism it entails. While I agree with Saldaña-Portillo’s assessment that Anzaldúa puts contemporary political affiliations at risk by consigning Chicana/o indigeneity to a mythical past, I want to suggest that a close examination of the source material for this early history reveals a far more sophisticated deployment of mestizaje than Saldaña-Portillo’s critique allows. In particular, the textual presence of Jack Forbes’s Aztecas del Norte highlights fissures between Anzaldúa’s new mestiza consciousness and the political deployment of discursive mestizaje that, in Saldaña-Portillo’s words, puts indigenous subjectivity under erasure.

12. The epigraph from Aztecas that prefaces the chapter “The Homeland, Aztlán: El Otro México” anchors the path toward new mestiza consciousness in Chicanas/os’ indigenismo. Anzaldúa quotes for the epigraph from the lines that open Aztecas:

The Aztecas del norte . . . compose the largest single tribe or nation of Anishinabeg (Indians) found in the United States today . . . . Some call themselves Chicanos and see themselves as a people whose true homeland is Aztlán [the U.S. Southwest]. (1987, 24)8

In a fascinating move, Anzaldúa cites the appropriate page number from Aztecas, page thirteen, but she then follows it with an ostensible non-sequitur, a reference to Forbes’s page 183. Seemingly inconsequential, this brief citation takes the interested reader to one of the most incredible documents in Forbes’s compilation of Movimiento-era essays, poems, and manifestos: his own essay, “The Mestizo Concept: A Product of European Imperialism.”

13. In “The Mestizo Concept” Forbes (Powhatan, Delaware) argues that mestizaje is an imperialist imposition on nations with significant indigenous populations, ultimately claiming that Spain is more mestizo than Mexico. In a move that resonates with Simon Ortiz’s (Acoma Pueblo) 1981 essay, “Towards a National Indian Literature,” which for many contemporary Native scholars inaugurated the nationalist turn in American Indian literary studies,9 Forbes claims that Mexico, like the Cherokee Nation which has also been subject to discourses of mixed-blood, is an Indian nation. Contrasting Mexicano and Chicano identities with Spaniards’, Forbes contends that only because of the colonial history of the New World are the former interpellated as “mixed” while the latter are considered unmarked.

14. Indeed, on the very page to which Anzaldúa directs us, Forbes lays out some of the contradictions in naming a certain ethnic group or nation “mestizo” while refuting the designation for others. To cite only the two examples that appear fully on that page:

(1) The Mexicans and Chicanos of today are perhaps eighty percent native Anishinabe descent, while only twenty percent of their ancestry is of European-North African, African, and Asian descent. In contrast, it is likely that Spaniards possess relatively little pre-Roman ancestry (native Iberian), certainly less than eighty percent.
(2) The Mexican and Chicano peoples’ modern language, Spanish, possesses several thousand native Mexican words, while the Spanish of Spain is wholly non-Iberian in origin. (183)

Contrasting Mexico with Spain as a European nation that remains historically more “mixed” and less indigenous, Forbes makes visible the power dynamics that accompany the practice of colonial naming. Positing Mexico as one of many nations in Anishinabe-waki (the Indian world), Forbes locates in the mestizo concept a colonial desire for indigenous erasure through equation of mestizaje with proletarianization (195, 198, 200), exclusion (185, 188, 202), and, ultimately, nothingness (202). Mestizaje’s nihilism results from its discursive embrace of a “confused in between” state on the one hand and the recognition that because all peoples are mixed to varying degrees, “to be mestizo is to be nothing in particular” (202).

15. Anzaldúa’s citation of this particular essay is significant insofar as it indicates that she continues to use the term “mestiza” in spite of Forbes’s critique of its colonial tenor. Here again, Anzaldúa appropriates and refracts a term the discursive violence of which she implicitly recognizes. Though Forbes argues that the interpellation of mestizo states relies on the absence of indigenous citizens in the naming process, Anzaldúa elects to foreground mestizaje in her borderlands theory. The question is: why continue to use a concept that one of your documented sources has decried as an imperial tool? Though I can only speculate about her intentions, Anzaldúa’s evocation of the “new mestiza” in the company of “The Mestizo Concept” has the effect of directing our attention to the similarities and differences between “old” (read colonial) and “new” (read decolonizing) discourses of mestizaje.

16. One such “old” discourse comes from the usage to which Mexican nationalists have put the concept of mestizaje in the interests of state formation. In post-revolutionary Mexico, that is, mestizaje and indigenismo formed the twin discourses through which architects of nationalism such as Manuel Gamio and José Vasconcelos sought to reconcile the promises of the Revolution with a modernizing economic project. In art, music, commemorative history, anthropology, and education, the story of Mexicanidad was one of a glorious Aztec past and a modernizing mestizo future.10 As the governing tropes of the post-revolutionary nation-state, mestizaje and indigenismo confined indigeneity to history, archaeology, and anthropology, thus erasing indigenous (political) presence. As Sheila Contreras contends, “critical understandings of indigenista policies reveal the strategies of inclusion to be aimed at deracinating Indians, rather than redefining social legitimacy to include Indigenous communities and rectify the deep inequities in Mexican society” (24). Like Saldaña-Portillo, Contreras argues that the evolution of a similarly indigenist mytho-poiesis in Chicana/o visual culture, literature, and theory implicates Chicanismo in the denial of indigenous political efficacy across the Americas.

17. Problems arise, however, when we consider the multiply colonized space of the United States that allows a borderlands theorist like Anzaldúa to pit “Chicanas/os in the borderlands as the ‘us’ against the Anglo ‘them’” (Saldaña-Portillo 2003, 281). We might consider, for example, the contradictory deployments of Indianness in the revolutionary periods of colonial-to-national emergence, deployments which ultimately dictated who was defined as Indian and how. When the United States was fighting the British colonial power, it joined forces with Native communities as nations; theirs was a diplomatic accord between “white” and “red” sovereign political bodies.11 When Mexican Creole elites began fighting for independence from Spain, on the other hand, their stake in the New World led them to appropriate indigeneity through mestizaje, conflating race and rebellion.12 In the multiply colonized space of the Texas-Mexico borderlands, each trajectory of state-defined Indian identity overlap to exclude the possibility of defining many Native Texans as indigenous peoples.

18. In the absence of legal recognition that can unify and encode specific indigenous identity, Anzaldúa legitimizes her identity through other political means, namely utilizing the political discourses of the Mexican nation, in the face of erasure. In combination with her citation of Forbes and the oppositional critical stance she seems to take with respect to his disavowal of mestizaje in the interests of self-determination, this critical awareness suggests that instead of a one-to-one correlation between Anzaldúa’s elaboration of a new mestiza consciousness and Mexican republican or nationalist mestizaje, for instance, the former refracts rather than reflects the latter. By using the “master’s tools” at the same time that she announces her expulsion from the master’s house, Anzaldúa implicitly refers to the process(es) of colonization that have, in her words, “decimated” the knowledge bases of Texas Natives.

19. Here again, she makes visible the political work that marks the distance between the discursive object and its refraction through the multiple colonial histories of the borderlands, but only when we view it as such. That distance traces the migration of mestizaje from a Mexican nationalist context to a U.S. borderlands context through the pairing of indigeneity and migration. This tropic coupling of migration with indigeneity allows Anzaldúa to contemporize the latter in a manner that speaks back to her mytho-poetic rendition of the indigenous “half” of the new mestiza as evoked by “the” Indian woman. Or rather, the two speak to each other across a divide that Anzaldúa recognizes as herself, her own bridged subjectivity. In the poem that itself bridges the epigraphs and the opening of the chapter proper, Anzaldúa writes:

Yo soy un puente tendido

del mundo gabacho al del mojado,

lo pasado me estra pa’ ‘tras

y lo presente pa’ ‘delante

Que la Virgen de Guadalupe me cuide

Ay, ay, ay, soy Mexicana de este lado. (25)

If we read “back” as toward el “mundo gabacho,” the white world, and “forward” as el mundo “mojado,” the migrant world, then the pastness of Anzaldúa’s Aztec-Mexica mytho-poeisis belongs in the white world, a move that links Borderlands to both Forbes’ denunciation of mestizaje as an imperial imposition and to Saldaña-Portillo’s critique. By reversing the temporal movement of Mexican nationalist discourses of indigenismo-mestizaje, Anzaldúa refracts the terms through the whitewater of colonial history, allowing her to reposition them as mestizaje-indigenismo.

Locating Borders

20. Although I argue here that her later work, particularly “now let us shift,” offers insights as to the theoretical strategies of Borderlands, I also recognize that, far more than in her later work, Anzaldúa locates her theory in the geographical space that is the Texas-Mexico border. Indeed, much of her post-Borderlands writing moves away from the explicitly local experiences of South Texas. In another essay, begun in 1992 and revised into the early 2000s, however, Anzaldúa bridges the new mestiza concept envisioned out of her Tejana border experience and the later, more cosmopolitan “new tribalism” through the interpolation of two equally loaded terms: nation and multicultural. Although Anzaldúa refracts mestizaje and indigenismo in order to claim them as Native Tejana or Native borderlands characteristics, her usage nevertheless maintains a border between nationalism, both state- and cultural, and multiculturalism. As it has frequently been understood, the “new mestiza” represents an idealized hybrid subject(ivity) more in line with a multiculturalist perception of contemporary U.S. national identity, or, indeed, with a post-national framework. Although her strategic deployment of mestizaje and indigenismo intervenes in the sometimes binaristic dissensions between liberal multiculturalism (as state-nationalism) on one hand and ethnic or cultural nationalism on the other, Anzaldúa remained deeply skeptical of nationalisms of any variety because of their frequent exclusion of women and queer people of color. But Anzaldúa linked both nation and multicultural in her essay, “The New Mestiza Nation: A Multicultural Approach.” The conjoining of the terms “mestiza,” “nation,” and “multicultural” again threatens a return to the pluralistic discourses of both Mexico and the United States; however, the work of refractory theorization that I have thus far identified in her writing allows us to hear in those words not neo-liberalism, but a radically new articulation of one’s role in her/his community, a community recognized to extend across borders.

21. “The New Mestiza” reclaims “multiculturalism” from what Anzaldúa identifies as the movement’s co-optation into a commodification of ethnic differences. As opposed to the diversity initiatives that have come to define multiculturalism, Anzaldúa maintains that “these radical multiculturalists seek to split open the fantasy of a monocultural nation, interrogate the history of internal and external colonialism by the U.S. government, and protest U.S. wars against the Third World and imperialist domination of the Americas. We stress that Others can’t be lumped together, our issues collapsed, our differences erased” (203-04). Invoking a hemispheric vision of las Américas in the context of a critique of U.S. melting-pot ideology implicitly imbues the world “multicultural” with the tenor of “multi-national.” That is, Anzaldúa here defines multicultural according to a political stance that, in an earlier era, would have been described as nationalist.

22. By refracting the words “nation” and “multicultural” in this context, Anzaldúa implicitly enters into contemporary debates about the line between ethnic or cultural nationalisms and the post/transnationalist turn in American studies today. The essay poses the question: Is there a border between nationalism and post/transnationalisms that a contemporary Chicana/Tejana scholar can inhabit? The short answer that Anzaldúa’s refractory theorization suggests is, yes, the theoretical space that we inhabit is precisely on a border between the two discourses. To borrow from one of Anzaldúa’s poems, “to live in [this discursive] borderlands means you” must make meaning out of the space between the discursive object and its refraction through experience (1987, 216). Recognizing that refraction means also accounting for the historical and material specificity of the political, social, and cultural losses and absences that encode certain terms.

23. For instance, in his summary of Janice Radway’s 1998 Presidential address to the American Studies Association, Donald Pease quotes her as saying, “The United States ‘is relationally defined and historically and situationally variable . . . because it is dependent upon and therefore intertwined with those affiliations, identities, and communities it must actively subordinate’” (79). Pease cites this relationality as one of the reasons Radway gives for promoting a post-nationalist American studies; the logic of the argument suggests that while absolute autonomy and independence are requisites for nationalism, the fact of interdependence means that the United States is actually post-nationalist. On the other hand, Muskogee Creek scholar Craig Womack makes the claim that “sovereignty (by definition, government-to-government relations) has a profound cosmopolitanism at its core—a genuine cosmopolitanism that can be claimed for its Indian integrity rather than as a hybrid mess that is constantly measured in relation to other ethnographic rather than legal criteria” (2006, 37). In this sense, the kind of interdependency that Radway describes is actually highly nationalist; to claim it as post-nationalism is to ignore the histories of nations both within the legal contours of the United States and across the Americas. The distance between nationalism as independent and nationalism as interdependent is one that demands continued measurement. That there remain differences in how historically subordinated communities define “nation” bespeaks a need to further interrogate the national as such; Anzaldúan refractory theory offers a means of continuing dialogue and debate about precisely such discursive disjunctures.

24. What Anzaldúan theory and contemporary American Indian nationalist theory share is a commitment to challenging the similitude of language. Linguistic similitude relies on a recognition of sameness in language usage. Like Simon Ortiz, Robert Warrior, Craig Womack, and a cadre of other contemporary Native scholars for whom re-assessing the meaning of “nation” for Native communities has become imperative to American Indian studies, Anzaldúa not only revisits familiar colonial terms, she refracts them through difference. She defines her political and pedagogical project as such in “The New Mestiza Nation”: “I am involved in the anti-colonial struggle against literary assimilation, claiming linguistic space to validate my personal language and history” (204). Though Anzaldúa may ultimately articulate a position more akin to post-nationalism in its reclamation of multiculturalism as mestiza nationalism while some (though certainly not all) Native scholars would counter the hegemony of post/transnationalist discourse in their advocacy of nationalism, the two positions share in common a decolonial practice that embraces recognition of local linguistic differences encoded in the single word: nation.

Notes

1. From the Greek θεωρία, to view or contemplate. See, for instance, Eric Havelock’s discussion of the the visible object-as-thought in Platonic theory (270-71).
2. For extended discussions of these threats both in general and as specifically related to Anzaldúa, see Simon Ortiz (1981), María Josefina Saldaña-Portillo (2001, 2003), Craig Womack (2006), and Sheila Marie Contreras (2008).
3. Eschewing historical specificity, Rieff claims at one point in the essay that all movements for the civil and political rights of ethnic minorities, women, and queer communities are derivative of Black nationalism: “Just as all subsequent movements have modeled themselves on radical black politics—there is even a gay splinter faction in New York at present called ‘Queer Nation’—so the entire tendency of radical politics (and, naturally enough, of art that seeks to be ‘politically correct’) has been to think in terms of groups, whether collectivities of oppression or collectivities of the oppressed, rather than in terms of individuals” (43).
4. Ellie D. Hernández (2009), for instance, defines postnationalism as a “global framing of U.S. people of color” (4), but also as “those ideas, experiences, or cultural works in which the connection between two nations plays a central and vital role by offering a new critique” (15). Though her use of the term alludes to the international economic alliances of the late 1980s-1990s that set the stage for twenty-first century global capitalism, Hernández does not address its original provenance in that historical moment, characterized by such optimism over international cooperation.
5. There is also an interesting volley between Geoffrey Parrinder’s encyclopedic volume World Religions: From Ancient History to the Present and June Nash’s feminist intervention, “The Aztecs and the Ideology of Male Dominance” as Anzaldúa narrates Aztec cosmology and the subsumption of balanced duality and the feminine deities.
6. Notably, the epigraph that shares space with Los Aztecas is Los Tigres del Norte’s popular song, “El Otro México,” a song about migration and migrant imaginaries. Thus, even in the paratext, Anzaldúa articulates indigeneity to migration.
7. Note that Anzaldúa references Chávez (1984) as the source for “her date.” See p. 114, n. 3.
8. Anzaldúa excises the following sentences, which occur in the respective ellipses above: “(an Azteca is a person of Aztlán or ‘the Southwest’)”; “Like other Native American groups, the Aztecas of Aztlán are not completely unified or homogeneous people” (Forbes 13).
9. See, for example, Warrior, Weaver, and Womack (2006).
10. See especially Gamio (1916/2010) and Vasconcelos (1925/ 1997). Indeed, Anzaldúa herself explicitly uses Vasconcelos’ racialist, if not racist, framework of the cosmic mixed race in the opening of “La conciencia de la mestiza / Towards a New Consciousness.” Though she reads in Vasconcelos a “theory of inclusivity” in opposition to “the policy of racial purity that white America practices,” she explicitly refracts Vasconcelos’ theory through a feminist lens (100). She translates his “por mi raza hablará el espíritu” into “por la mujer de mi raza / hablará el espíritu” (100), noting that this is her “‘take off’ on José Vasconcelos’ idea” (119 n. 1). The gendering of the idea, I find, does little to ameliorate the erasure of indigeneity in Vasconcelos’ promotion of una raza cósmica. Perhaps, as I suggest below with mestizaje more generally, it is in the migration of the concept into a U.S. discursive framework that Anzaldúa locates the political potency of Vasconcelos; however, Anzaldúa never makes this claim explicitly. She continues to allude to the cosmic race in “The New Mestiza Nation” (2009).
11. See, for example, Jennings C. Wise (1931/1971) and Alan Taylor (2006). Philip Deloria’s (1999) discussion of the Revolutionary Americans’ “playing Indian” as an evocation of desire for national liberty also offers an interesting insight into the unspoken recognition of overlap between indigeneity, tribal-national sovereignty, and American liberty.
12. See, for example, Paz (1961/1985), especially pp. 117-128.

Works Cited

Anzaldúa, Gloria E. 1987/1999. Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza. 2nd Ed. San Francisco: Aunt Lute.

—. 2002. “now let us shift . . . the path of conocimiento . . . inner work, public acts.” In this bridge we call home. Eds. Gloria E. Anzaldúa and AnaLouise Keating. New York: Routledge. 540-578.

—. 2003-4. “Speaking Across the Divide.” Email Interview with Domino R. Perez and Inés Hernández-Avila. Studies in American Indian Literatures 15.3/4: 7-20.

—. 2009. “The New Mestiza Nation: A Multicultural Movement.” In The Gloria Anzaldúa Reader. Ed. AnaLouise Keating. Durham: Duke UP. 203-216

Chávez, John R. 1984. The Lost Land: The Chicano Image of the Southwest. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press.

Contreras, Sheila Marie. 2008. Blood Lines: Myth, Indigenism, and Chicana/o Literature. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Deloria, Philip. 1999. Playing Indian. New Haven: Yale UP.

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Gamio, Manuel. 1916/2010. Forjando Patria: Pro-Nacionalismo. Trans. and Ed. Fernando Armstrong-Fumero. Boulder: University Press of Colorado.

Havelock, Eric. 1963. Preface to Plato. Cambridge: Harvard UP.

Hernández, Ellie D. 2009. Postnationalism in Chicana/o Literature and Culture. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Keatin, AnaLouise. 2009. “Introduction: Reading Gloria Anzaldúa, Reading Ourselves . . . Complex Intimacies, Intricate Connections.” In The Gloria Anzaldúa Reader. Durham: Duke UP.

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Ortiz, Simon. 1981. “Towards a National Indian Literature: Cultural Authenticity in Nationalism.” MELUS 8.2: 7-12.

Parrinder, Geoffrey, ed. 1971. World Religions: From Ancient History to the Present. New York: Facts on File Publications.

Paz, Octavio. 1961/1985. The Labyrinth of Solitude and Other Writings. Trans. Lysander Kemp, Yara Milos, and Rachel Phillips Belash. New York: Grove Weidenfield.

Pease, Donald. 2001. “The Politics of Postnational American Studies.” European Journal of American Culture 20.2 78-90.

Rieff, David. 1991. “Professional Aztecs and Popular Culture.” New Perspectives Quarterly 8.1: 42-46.

Saldaña-Portillo, Josefina. 2001. “Who’s the Indian in Aztlán?: Re-Writing Mestizaje, Indianism, and Chicanismo from the Lacandón.” In The Latin American Subaltern Studies Reader. Ed. Ileana Rodríguez. Durham: Duke UP.

—. 2003. The Revolutionary Imagination in the Americas and the Age of Development. Durham: Duke UP.

Taylor, Alan. 2006. The Divided Ground: Indians, Settlers, and the Northern Borderland of the American Revolution. New York: Random House.

Vasconcelos, José. 1925/1997. The Cosmic Race, a Bilingual Edition. Trans. Didier T. Jaén. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP.

Warrior, Robert. 2007. “Native American Critical Responses to Transnational Discourse.” PMLA 122.3: 807-08.

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Womack, Craig. 2008. “A Single-Decade: Book-Length Native Literary Criticism between 1986 and 1997.” In Reasoning Together: The Native Critics Collective. Eds. Craig S. Womack, Daniel Heath Justice, and Christopher B. Teuton. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.