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SAIL

Studies in American Indian Literatures
Series 2                 Volume 7, Number 4                 Winter 1995



David Halliburton, Guest Editor



CONTENTS



Introduction
        David Halliburton     .                   .                  .                  .                  .         1

Transethnic Anthropologism: Comparative Ethnic Studies at Berkeley
        Gerald Vizenor         .                  .                  .                  .                  .         3

Spatial Narrative: Aural and Visual Construction in the Musical Narrative of Minority Discourse
        Servio Marín            .                  .                  .                  .                  .         9

Reflections on Manifest Destiny
        Gail Tremblay          .                  .                  .                  .                  .         35

The Anasazi Legacy Is the Light of the Jurassic Sun
        William Willard       .                   .                  .                  .                  .         37

Entitlement of Women in Latin America
        Helia M. Corral       .                   .                  .                  .                  .         51

Unravelling Cruelty
        Gail Tremblay          .                  .                  .                  .                  .         69

Feminist Neo-Indigenism in Chicana Aztlán
        Arthur Ramirez       .                   .                  .                  .                  .         71

Teaching "Multicultural" Perspectives: All Not Present and Accounted For
        Bruce McKenna      .                   .                  .                  .                  .         79

Essentially, It's Spring
        Paula Gunn Allen    .                   .                  .                  .                  .         87

FORUM
Sessions at 1995 MLA   .                   .                  .                  .                  .         88
Call for Submissions     .                   .                  .                  .                  .         90

CONTRIBUTORS          .                  .                  .                  .                  .         91





1995 ASAIL Patrons:

University College of the University of Cincinnati
California State University, San Bernardino
Western Washington University
University of Richmond
Karl Kroeber
A. LaVonne Brown Ruoff
and others who wish to remain anonymous



1995 Sponsors:

D. L. Birchfield
Margaret C. Kingsland
Arnold Krupat
Andrea Lerner
and others who wish to remain anonymous


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Introduction

David Halliburton         

        In the summer of 1994 the Program for Faculty Renewal, sponsored alternately since 1975 by the Lilly Endowment and the Mellon Foundation, held a weeklong residential workshop at Stanford on "Multiculturalism, Technology, and the Arts," following a similar workshop it had held in San Diego. Gerald Vizenor, Gail Tremblay, and Servio Marín served as discussion leaders at Stanford. All three contribute articles to this issue of SAIL, as do several particip
        Although both events ranged widely in subject matter and approach, indigenous peoples, and in particular American Indians, were leading themes in both workshops. To promote continuity of dialogue on these themes a significant number of San Diego participants also took part in the Stanford activities.

[Editor's Note: In April 1994 I stepped off a plane in San Diego, traveling to a workshop funded through the Program for Faculty Renewal, directed by David Halliburton, who is guest editing this issue of SAIL. As I waited for the shuttle to La Jolla, I was joined by Paula Gunn Allen and Jane Caputi, who proposed and directed the workshop. As we drove northward, I quizzed them about the subject for the weekend's discussion, intriguingly entitled "Indians and Technicity." My interest was piqued, but their first words describing their topic did little to clarify their purpose. It was not until the next morning-- joining colleagues from fields as diverse as accounting, toxicology, and philosophy, as well as literary studies--that I came to imagine the scope of the issues that were encompassed by that simple, innovative title.
{2}
        In brief, the workshop was the first of two to explore the history of exploitation in this hemisphere: the power of economics and philosophy and government to combine into a behavior called, by some, "eco-racism." This blend of story and profit, of environment and politics, is a center for the work being accomplished in numerous disciplines throughout this hemisphere. The essays included in this volume, with their diverse subjects and ways of communicating them, are but one short piece of what Paula and Jane were really after: the transformation of history lessons into a call for the future, a mythology to heal the ecological state of our world today. --John Purdy
]


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Transethnic Anthropologism: Comparative Ethnic Studies at Berkeley

Gerald Vizenor         

        The American Revolution, that celebrated war of independence, was not the first, but the second revolution on this continent; these comparative chronicles of sovereignty are historical contradictions and the everlasting cause of resistance in a constitutional democracy.
        The first revolution was native, a war of independence from the rush of missionaries and colonial domination, and that war was launched almost a century before the second historical revolution of the thirteen colonies and the formation of the United States.
        The Southwestern native communities initiated the first united revolution on August 10, 1680, and defeated the Spanish Kingdom of New Mexico. "This dramatic episode represented one of the bloodiest defeats ever experienced by Spain in her overseas empire," Marc Simmons wrote in the introduction to The Pueblo Revolt. "And, as historians are accustomed to say, it was the first successful battle for independence fought against a European colonial power in what was to become the United States" (v).
        The unities of that native revolution, and others since then, are the foundational histories of survivance in this nation; whatever the course of sovereignties, native resistance, then and now, has been contrived too many times in the extreme as either incertitude, necromancy, or mere victimery.
        The converse histories of dominance rather than native survivance have been secured in museums and at universities by several generations of academic masters. The natives were studied and established as abstruse cultures and then embodied in motion pictures as the simulated burdens of civilization. These adversities became moral grievances and caused a turn in the notions, courses, and literary canons at universities, but the treacheries and dominance of anthropolog-{4}gism, the obsessive studies of natives by social scientists, have not been overturned in comparative ethnic studies.
        "Anthropology's alliance with the forces of oppression is neither a simple or recent one," wrote Johannes Fabian in Time and the Other. "The relationships between anthropology and its object are inevitably political; production of knowledge occurs in a public forum of intergroup, interclass, and international relations. Among the historical conditions under which our discipline emerged and which affected its growth and differentiation were the rise of capitalism and its colonialist-imperialist expansion into the very societies which became the target of our inquiries" (143-44). The dominance of that alliance is evermore political in ethnic studies.
        The Ethnic Studies Department at the University of California, Berkeley, inherited, in a curious sense, a new narrative enactment of the agonistic abstraction of two historical revolutions; three centuries later the misnomers and contradictions of independence are redoubled in an academic union of learned natives and newcomers, socialists, separatists, cultural essentialists, narcissists, anarchists, and even those shriven with aesthetic victimery.
        The Ethnic Studies Department was constituted at the time of civil rights activism, the peace movement, ethnic and cultural nominalism, and radical turns of racial consciousness in the late '60s. At that moment of social transformation this new academic enterprise embraced four ethnic programs in an uncommon political and cultural union, and the appearance of internal congruence soon became a national model of reciprocal ideologies and racial identities; the enterprise has been a crucial advance in conservative academic conventions. Since then the academic missions and contradictions have widened in a new comparative, or transethnic, graduate studies program. Comparative practices are never certain, as the ethnic narratives, subjects, objects, theories, and methodologies are seldom comparable; the discrepancies coalesce as ethnic similarities, or transethnic redactions, rather than closer studies of dissimilarities. Comparative and transethnic theories, in this sense, transcend the significance and diversities of native cultures.
        African American Studies was the first of the four programs to separate and reorganize two decades ago as an independent department. Ethnic Studies, in an associable action, voted recently to recast the other programs as independent departments. Asian Studies, Native American Studies, and Chicano Studies would have disconnected with an association in a fourth department of comparative ethnic studies if the university administration had supported the proposal. The new scheme was seen by some as separatism, a clever partition of ideologies, historical revisions, and the end of ethnic studies.
        Native American Studies resisted any division of the department; {5} however, if separation was inevitable, the program faculty voted to choose other academic associations. The native resistance was a notable reversal of the political sentiments of separatism in the international shadow of ethnic nationalism. This was not a revolution, but a resistance that would later prove to be a wiser academic course than ethnic separatism. Meanwhile, the other programs persisted with the reorganization proposal, and some administrators and faculty members maligned the resistance and counteractions of Native American Studies.
        In one generation the faculty of the department had established a new discipline and an imperative academic presence on the campus; the outstanding research, instruction, and publications of the faculty have influenced the perceptions, ideas, and interests of thousands of students. The department was assured, and the faculty, without a doubt, was the most eminent in the world of ethnic studies. Why then was there such a rush to separatism in the department? Could it have been that ethnic unities were mere poses and political expediencies?
        Native American Studies counteracted with a proposal to establish a new academic union and commensurate mission with American Studies. The action was denied, as were the other proposals for independent departments, but this new association would have been named the Center for the Study of the Americas.
        American Studies was not a theoretical contrivance but the courtesies of diverse academic interests on campus; however, some faculty were very concerned that this new association would displace the established acceptance of Ethnic Studies. That substitution, however, had already been announced in the reorganization proposal by the faculty of Asian and Chicano Studies.
        American Studies was established to ascertain various research interests and methods "drawn from a variety of disciplines" and "recognizes that political, cultural and economic patterns do not stop at national borders."
        Native American Studies has a similar eclectic mission that considers the situational interpretations of resistance, traditional oral performances, critical studies of histories, literatures, autobiographies, and other narratives in translation; the mission convenes diverse faculty research on comparative governments, tribal sovereignty, reservations, education, environmental studies, crossblood identities, and third gender tribal communities.
        Native American Studies is comparative by reason of cultural differences not ethnic similarities. This eclectic representation of diverse histories has been reduced by anthropologism and those who use natives as transethnic scapegoats. "Anthropology as the study of cultural difference can be productive only if difference is drawn into {6} the arena of dialectical contradiction" (144), wrote Johannes Fabian.
        The Center for the Study of the Americas would have maintained these academic interests and research as a common mission of American Studies and Native American Studies in the Division of Undergraduate and Interdisciplinary Studies.
        Native American cultures and communities are the very foundational histories of the Americas. The presence and resistance of these cultures is an immeasurable native survivance over the dominance of colonial discoveries; therefore, the basic academic mission of the program is inherent and sovereign in the sense of the first revolution on this continent and the conceivable emendations in a constitutional democracy.
        "We affirm the right of individual faculty members in the Native American Studies Program to pursue their research interests outside of the existing structure of the Ethnic Studies Department," wrote the departmental chair, Margarita Melville. "Just as strongly, however, we affirm the importance of protecting the curricular integrity of the Ethnic Studies undergraduate major, which was designed with the course contributions of Native American Studies faculty in mind, and in accordance with the principle of cross-ethnic cooperation that informed the creation of the [Ethnic Studies Department] and its survival after the departure of African American Studies."
        Melville, an anthropologist, held a faculty position in the Chicano Studies Program. She did not mention at the time that Native American Studies had only three permanent faculty members, compared to twice that number in Chicano Studies. Native American Studies lost faculty positions while there was an increase of faculty in Chicano Studies.
        Vice Chancellor Carol Christ and the chair of the Academic Senate at the University of California, Berkeley, reported that there was "strong sentiment against the separate departmental status" among the various committees that studied the proposed reorganization. Ethnic Studies would be weakened by a separation and "it would have detrimental intellectual consequences. There are fixed costs to running a department. The smaller the department, the more time individual faculty spend meeting these costs." Native American Studies programs and departments were established at many colleges and universities in the past two decades. However, few of these new programs survived the racial politics, the criticism of academic research and publications, or the race to transethnic studies. The Ethnic Studies Department, once more on the rebound, has become a national graduate center of comparative or transethnic studies, a distinction that could be a new measure of dominance. For instance, the notions of aesthetic borderlands would erase the presence, resistance, and traditional histories of {7} native communities. The first native revolution that overturned the cross and crown of colonialism would be twice silenced in transethnic borderlands. The burdens of discoveries, simulations, and anthropologism have roused an academic resistance, the essence of native survivance.
        Transethnic
studies are travels with the other on ethic borderlands; travel, to be sure, in the literature of anthropologism and dominance. "Travel was once a means of being elsewhere, or of being nowhere," wrote Jean Baudrillard in The Transparency of Evil. "Today it is the only way we have of feeling that we are somewhere. At home, surrounded by information, by screens, I am no longer anywhere, but rather everywhere in the world at once, in the midst of a universal banality--a banality that is the same in every country" (151). The notion of a banal borderland as "somewhere" is the transposition of native territories and resistance.
        The representations of native cultural differences are obscured as the other in anthropologism and transethnic comparative studies; the natural reason and contradictions of the native are transposed, but as the simulations of the exotic other are redoubled in museums and motion pictures, the natives and their narratives are erased on transethnic borderlands at universities.
        In the "symbolic universe there is no place for the otherness of difference. Neither animals, nor gods, nor the dead, are other. All are caught up in the same cycle. If you are outside the cycle, however, you do not even exist," wrote Jean Baudrillard. "Everyone wants their other. Everyone has an imperious need to put the other at their mercy, along with a heady urge to make the other last as long as possible so as to savour him" (159). And this "other is the locus of what escapes us, and the way whereby we escape from ourselves. The other here is not the locus of desire, nor the locus of alienation, but the locus of vertiginousness, of eclipse, of appearing and disappearing" (159). The other "is what allows me not to repeat myself for ever" (159).
        Baudrillard argues that the simulation of the other is a "Great Game. . . . Racial otherness survives everything: conquest, racialism, extermination, the virus of difference, the psychodrama of alienation. On the one hand, the Other is always-already dead; on the other hand, the Other is indestructible" (146). The native otherness of multiculturalism and aesthetic victimery survives anthropologism and transethnic studies.
        The rise of anthropologism is a banal encore of the other; the episodes of the other in the ethnic simulations of multiculturalism are transethnic revisions of native resistance and the first revolution on this continent. The causes of ethnic separatism and transethnic studies are contradictions; the basic theoretical maneuvers are not resistance but a {8} mere academic presence. Whatever were the academic burdens of departments founded on the politics of racial resistance are now the banal virtues of multiculturalism.
        Perhaps, in a literary sense, an ethnic presence in transethnic studies is an unmeant comedy; not a tragedy, but a faux comedy of the ethnic clerisy and their incessant desire for academic recognition, compensation, and salvation at the university.
        "Tragedies end badly," wrote George Steiner in The Death of Tragedy. "The tragic personage is broken by forces which can neither be fully understood nor overcome by rational prudence. This again is crucial. Where the causes of disaster are temporal, where the conflict can be resolved through technical or social means, we may have serious drama, but not tragedy. . . . Tragedy is irreparable. It cannot lead to just and material compensation for past suffering" (8).
        Comedy seems to be derived from tragedy, a sublime contradiction. Comedy, even the faux comedies of native trickster stories, is the credence of native survivance in literature. The trickster is nowhere when the stories are told at universities. Tragedy is dominance and victimery.
        "Tragedy is the form that promises us a happy ending" (36), wrote Walter Kerr in Tragedy and Comedy. "Comedy is not a relief, it is the rest of the bitter truth, a holy impropriety. . . . Why should tragedy have more of a future than comedy? And why should comedy be happy enough without one?" (28, 80). The natural reason is that the dialectical contradiction of native survivance is more comic than tragic prudence. Comparative studies and transethnic comedies have no need for a future of tragic victimery.





WORKS CITED

Baudrillard, Jean. The Transparency of Evil. New York: Routledge, 1992.

Fabian, Johannes. Time and the Other. New York: Columbia U P, 1983.

Kerr, Walter. Tragedy and Comedy. New York: Da Capo, 1985.

Simmons, Marc. "Introduction." The Pueblo Revolt. Robert Silverberg. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1994.

Steiner, George. The Death of Tragedy. New York: Knopf, 1961.


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Spatial Narrative: Aural and Visual Construction in the Musical Narrative of Minority Discourse

Servio Marín         

Introduction
        As a professional musician from Venezuela, I have experienced the silent struggles and the social, cultural tensions dividing folk music, popular music, and "classical music" or "musica culta"--a term that some middle- and upper-class people use to describe the music played on Sundays by the symphonic orchestra at the "Aula Magna" theatre in Universidad Central de Venezuela, Caracas. While reading this essay please keep in mind that the five points presented below are personal ideas and observations based on my own cultural-artistic experience. They constitute the framework for this paper.
        1. Independently from, and regardless of, any ideology or theory, and any postindustrial, structural, modern, or postmodern analysis, people have to eat and, because of that, society members are divided into power-holders and providers. Power-holders are indeed the real minority and operate as the divider of providers. Providers are the real majority divided by power-holders.
        The main objective of power-holders is to differentiate providers from themselves, thus inventing providers' identity. In urban-rural settings, differentiation is based on skin color, last name, nose shape, accent, religion, et cetera, while in international settings it is based on geography and the type of natural resource found in the providers' land. Power-holders identify and gain control of the resources for providers' needs, desires, dreams, and fears. Power-holders will eventually create rules, norms, canons, laws, and finally an apparatus of consent that will maintain their power over providers. Obviously, to a certain degree, and depending on status, social class, race, and gender, the same person could be both power-holder and provider since these roles can be inherited, borrowed, achieved, assumed, or imposed.
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        Minority
is the qualifying term constructed by power-holders and applied to providers. Dominant culture is the term constructed by a real minority of intellectual power-holders who as providers, in academic settings, need to speak the tongue of power-holders in order to get the illusion that their "voice" will be heard and that change will take place.
        2. I was taught that there are two forms of art, divided into art and Art--with capital "A." The former art, I hear, is dying. The latter (Art) is alive (?) and, I learned the hard way, it has been developed and controlled by the dominant culture. Most people, providers and power-holders included, were taught to think that Art is more "elevated," "noble," or "dignified" than art. Not long ago, I became aware that the form of art that constitutes a cosmology connecting humans, land, labor, spiritual life, death, future, past, religion, animals, superstition, rain, fire, thunder, forests, mountains, rocks, planets, et cetera is art--the lowercase art developed by minority cultures. The other one (Art), the one I was told is superior, has been reduced from art-cosmology to a tool for "spiritual contemplation" (in the new-wave sense) and/or entertainment. Yes, Art is alive today, but in galleries, concert halls, museums, shows, television, radio, CD players, computers, and printed media.
        3. In this article I discuss art mostly in relation to the use of voice and body in labor activities, dance, and instrument performance. I refer indifferently to song, dance, singing, and dancing under the assumption that sound and movement are integral elements of art expression. Any dance, as well as any labor activity or any human or animal social interaction, implies some form of choreography; this idea is further developed below. Therefore, in my discussion about the music of minority cultures I deliberately obliterate the traditional meaning of sound, voice, singing, dance, movement, and instrument performance as a way of asserting that they are different manifestations of the same unity.
        4. Several musical examples are discussed here including, among others, flamenco singing and dancing, Venezuelan coplas, Colombian vaquerias, Anlo music from Ghana, and Venda music from South Africa. My intention is not to generalize or homogenize, with these and a few other examples, a "minority musical discourse" but to illustrate some common threads shared in different ways and proportions. For instance, many musical narratives of minority cultures express lamentation and rebellion. I recognize in the singers' voices the sound of oppressed cultures. However, to reduce the transcendental function that art occupies in the core of minority cultures to a sort of "art of protest" would be very naive. Certainly, acting from within, oppression generates the signs of "protest" that reach the surface of the {11} discourse but only as subproducts of daily "telling," through a musical narrative that, while maintaining its main role of ancestral connection, also provides catharsis. Two examples clearly illustrate this process: first, Brazilian carnival, by which people disguise with dance and colors the pain and misery inflicted by political corruption; and second, rap music, which combines electronic technology with the traditional African music's technique of cyclical interlocking in order to narrate current neighborhood stories conveying anger, pride, and rebellion. In the first case, pain is transformed into kinetic, dancing energy while strengthening collective identity bonds. In the second case, oppression is transcended by bridging the technology of the present with the "old ways" of minority musical discourse. The power and strength of minority musical discourses such as reggae, rap, blues, jazz, salsa, and samba influence cultural marketing and are recuperated by the dominant culture.
        5. In this essay I submit that the products of art act as seeds or embryonic representations of the past, the present, and the future of a collective. The cultural seeds of a collective can be transported by and disseminated through the color and inflection of the singing voice, the stressed portions of pulsed rhythms, and the choreographic interactions between body and environment. Another point presented in this essay is that singing, in itself, is a choreography engaging voice production, body, environment, cultural heritage, social struggle, and social status. A good singer knows that only by combining all these materials and intangible elements can the voice reach a spiritual level of intimate expression.

Singing, Dancing, and Minority Discourse
        
Songs and dances allow for the construction of cultural identity. Songs and dances are indeed the most used forms of expression for most cultures around the world. Songs and dances are so deeply embedded in the core of the so-called minority cultures that they are inseparable from daily life--ironically, the mainstream's rhetorical association of bodily expressivity with "primitive" cultures corroborates this statement.1 Based on the previous thoughts, we can assert that the construction of identity of minority cultures is largely determined by singing and dancing. A superficial reader, overlooking the psychoacoustic and motor-spatial implications of singing and dancing, may think this claim reinforces the stereotyped vision of minority cultures. I think, however, that a serious analysis of singing and dancing is essential. This form of analysis not only offers a complementary alternative to binary interpretative models (dominant-oppressed, majority-minority) as applied to culture but also, and most importantly, it adds an extra element to the list of shared experiences that contrib-{12}utes to and expands the notion of "minority discourse."2
        Singing, as popularly known to us through the media, implies the melodic articulation of time and pitch, but it also implies a participation of the human body; therefore, singing implies an articulation of space.3 However, the metaphorical power of melodic singing is not exclusively constrained to the domains of beauty, expression of emotions, and religious veneration, as we traditionally tend to think. Melody is also a tool for communication through time and space, in particular for members of minority cultures participating in ritual, social, or personal experiences. Melody, the simple articulation of time and pitch as developed by European cultures, is only one of the many possible forms of vocal expression. Other vocal expressions that relate to singing may include articulation of time and timbre, slow or fast repetitions of sounds or melodic cells, and extensive use and exploration of sounds, noises, or articulations created with the tongue and/or with different parts of the vocal apparatus including nasal cavities, throat, chest, and abdomen.
        If, as indicated above, different parts of the body are used by different cultures for singing, then obviously different kinds of sounds are generated. Several factors such as language, needs, taste, or religious beliefs of the members of a group determine sound selection. As a result each particular culture articulates a different set of vocal sounds and this set of vocal sounds, in turn, represents the choice of the collective. In this sense, singing is not only the articulation of the space connected to the body but also the articulation of the cultural space defined by the collective. Thus, the collective's identity is represented by the set of vocal sounds used in singing. Likewise, the sounds produced and heard by the collective influence the forms of dance of the group, and conversely the movement of dance will influence the choice of sound in performance and singing. Finally, daily life movements related to labor, social interaction, and geography, combined with the sounds of the environment, create a form of natural choreography that also influences singing and dancing.
        We can conclude, then, that cultural identity, as well as singing and dancing, are ontologically defined by spatial construction because space articulation is what makes possible human representation, communication, and understanding of elements from abstract and concrete worlds. Singing and dancing, in turn, are forms of spatial-musical narrative that help to construct the cultural identity of members of a collective. Although singing and dancing vary from culture to culture, by expanding the model of spatial construction it is possible to identify common narrative elements that unify the minority discourse.

{13}
The Spatial Construction of Singing and Dancing
        Spatial construction determines the ontological, mutual influences between singing and dancing. In fact, any good dancer or singer knows that the spatial nature of dance permeates singing. Likewise, the act of singing itself implies movement. The movement of body parts involved in producing sound, as well as body language, or gestures that convey expressive visual meaning, are probably the obvious types of movements, but other forms of movement are also psychologically and culturally manifested in singing. In this sense, singing implies moving between imaginary landscapes as well as changing speed, slope, moving back and forward, left, right, up-front, up, and down. Traditional European singing may include all or some of this type of psychological, cultural, and imaginary moving embedded in melodic contours, or as a complementary result from the meaning of a text. But in many other cultures, the spatial-temporal dimension created through sound is mainly what singing is about--as examples, see below my discussion on the use of Colombian "vaquerias" and Venezuelan "coplas." Spatial construction in the musical narrative of minority cultures determines the reciprocal influences between singing and dancing, and as an extension of it, between sound and movement.

The Visonual and the Irreducible Multiple Aspect of Spatial Construction
        Spatial construction in minority cultures determines a set of cultural parameters, shared by people, that influences songs and dances. Conversely, singing and dancing is a means for spatial construction. Apparently this process is not unique to minority cultures, and it may look similar to that of European music-dance traditions, but I submit that there are two basic differences between them. First, in the musical narrative of minority discourse, singing and dancing function as a single identity--not separated by concert halls or ballet spectacle. Second, the spatial construction of musical narrative of minority discourse is predetermined by an aural-visual unity or by what I call the visonual.4 These two ideas are explained below.
        As a form of expression, both singing and dancing constitute shared elements of minority cultures. I would like to stress the fact that, for most cultures in Africa and South America, for instance, songs and dances are not only important parts of daily life but constitute indeed an irreducible multiple. In the discourse of minority cultures singing and dancing blend and combine indistinctly into a unity. The unification of dancing and singing relies on aural and visual interrelations. Culturally speaking, aural and visual interrelations determine and are in turn determined by spatial construction. Spatial construction of visual-aural quality is commonly found in the use of singing to {14} facilitate group labor. For example, in the Atlantic littoral region of Colombia, "copla" texts are used in cattle-herding songs known as vaquerias (List 118). "The cattle herders of Colombia sing coplas stanzas back and forth to each other to keep the herd moving" (Olsen 391). In the llanos or plains region of Venezuela the llaneros or cowboys also sing coplas to quiet the cattle and to keep them together (Ramón y Rivera 23).
        Some important questions emerge from the previous examples. How do vaquerias help Colombian cowboys to keep the herd moving? How do Venezuelan coplas quiet and keep cattle together? How did cowboys and cattle develop their communication through coplas and vaquerias? What do the melody, the inflections and timbre of the voices, and the rhythms of coplas and vaquerias convey to the cattle? How did the cowboys discover this applied use of singing? With the exception of the last question, whose answer can be "constructed" by avoiding a real explanation and saying that "these songs originated in Spain,"5 most of these questions may remain forever unanswered. Nevertheless we can advance some general explanations about them. Evidently, we are dealing here with a form of spatial construction between the cowboys, the cattle, the landscape or physical space where they move, and the cultural-mental space that determines the musical relationship between cattle and singers. Therefore I think we can address these questions and get a better understanding of their implications through the model of spatial construction.

Spatial Construction and Interlocking
        Like most Venezuelans, I have been exposed to and sometimes I sing "coplas" and "tonadas." Even though I have never participated in cattle herding, I perceive in that music a strong connection between voice and landscape that conveys the quietness of vast lands. We could say, and this may be true, that my understanding and feelings about those forms of singing have been shaped by practice, by readings, by TV and movies, and by the lyrics of Venezuelan songs that refer us back to the land, the llanero, and the cattle. In other words, I learned how to feel about those songs. This may be true and could be used, in turn, as an argument to demonstrate that there is nothing about the copla itself that directly relates to herding. My response to that is a question. How many books, movies, or TV shows did the cattle watch before the copla became meaningful to them? In conclusion, each form of music originates from spatial construction and carries within itself the spatial meaning from which it generated. Hence, the coplas, resulting from sound-movement interaction in the labor field, get impregnated by this interaction. Coplas carry within their musical structure, melody, and voice inflections the visonual elements that the {15} listener recognizes as visual and aural evocations of landscapes, cattle, llaneros, and quietness.
        The copla is a space shared by llanero, cattle, landscape, people like me, and now people like you--the reader of this essay. We all are part of the spatial construction of the copla; even if you have never heard a copla before you are now part of the verbal space-arrow that points to the territory of the copla, somewhere in your mental archives of Venezuela. I define and explain below why I called this process Spatial Narrative. Here, I am providing you with a glimpse of its meaning. Everyone sharing the space of the copla is at a different spatial and temporal slot. The original singer-cowboy is an entity that generates the actual sounds that help him to get his job done. The sounds he learned from other cowboys, which, of course, some historian has probably demonstrated came from Spain, allow him to communicate with the cattle whenever he feels it is necessary. Until we are able to conduct an experiment in which a group of Venezuelan cowboys would try to pacify cattle in the United States of America and in other countries, we cannot know for sure if the copla has universal influence or if only Venezuelan cattle understand coplas.6 The sounds related to herding made their ways into the melody of the copla, determining its shape, its contour, and its tempo. Aural and visual associations are determined by energy shape (Marín 32). It is interesting to notice that the melodic shape of phrases in the copla as well as in the tonada is downward-curved as is the shape of cow mooing. Probably cattle like to be treated with respect and they enjoy the fact that the cowboys are making an effort in learning, or imitating, their language. These few lines above illustrate through facts, irony, and what Deleuze and Guattari call "rhizomic reasoning" the different spaces interlocking the space of the copla. More than a song, the copla is also a representation of non-linear thinking, which is the way most minority cultures establish their spatial constructions.
        The melodies of coplas and tonadas have travelled from rural space to urban space via local weekend parties, yearly regional celebrations, radio, television, writers, migration, and the transformation of llanero into citizen. These melodies might have been changed by each of the spaces they have travelled through, but their essence prevails, probably because of the endurance of their structure and raw sound material as well as their power to evoke quietness. The coplas are seeds carrying the sounds and images of the space that generated them.
        In the case of minority discourse, visual and aural narratives blend in the rhythms and colors of the music not through "orchestration," as it would be the case of Sibelius' sound landscapes, but rather through the human voice. As opposed to the Italian bel canto style, used in European opera singing, the voices of singers from diverse cultures in {16} the planet reveal, through their color, the drama of their present and ancestral lives, as well as the visonual history of stones, rivers, forests, rains, and mountains. It could be argued that this is also an image portrayed by the media. Even were that the case, it would confirm my claim that the voice of singers from minority cultures is trained to convey the aural-visual unity imbedded in their cultural, musical narratives, because otherwise this could not have been portrayed by the media.

Spatial Narrative: The Many Spaces Determining Spatial Construction
        Spatial construction originates from the visonual--the unity between aural and visual perception--and characterizes the musical narratives of minority discourse. That explains how almost all the music produced on the planet has derived from the combination of sound and movement. The articulation of space is indeed the general principle animating musical narratives of minority discourse. However, space, in the musical narratives of minority discourse, is irreducible-multiple. In that sense, space can be thought of as a contained element when referred to the body, as volume in relation to the psyche, as vector in relation to feelings, or as ancestral memory in relation to individual or cultural identity. In order to explain the role of spatial construction in the musical narratives of minority discourse, I will classify these interpretations of space-contained, space-volume, space-vector, space-memory, and any other forms of space which are manifested within the psychological realm of a person, and limited by the physicality of the body, as inner space. Outer space, on the other hand, starts at the border of air and human skin and expands to the surrounding environment, including the geography or places that can be read through the senses with or without tools. At this point this binary inner-outer classification ends, but in order to describe the irreducible-multiple space that defines minority narratives we still need at least a third and a fourth category. The third category of space has been in many instances defined with correlative terms such as magic, imaginary, real-magic, fantastic, primitive, and so on. I call it simply immaterial space, and I call the fourth one residual space.
        Before I explain further immaterial space, I will describe residual space. This fourth category encompasses the space created by gradual but permanent change, resembling the Deleuze and Guatari "becoming lines" but different. This fourth category of space originates by combination of local and legendary narratives. This space is a sort of footprint or trace, in the poetical sense of the Spanish word huellas. This space also represents the residue of diffuse cultural signs resulting from the passage of oral narratives. It combines orature, rhythms, {17} sounds, and gestures that simultaneously belong to local and legendary narratives. This is the space where mythology and daily events collapse and fragment. That is why I call it residual space. Immaterial space, on the other hand, transcends the physicality of outer space, the psychological nature of inner space, and the temporary, cultural aspect of residual space mainly because immaterial space transcends time. Immaterial space transcends time because it is simultaneously container and arrow. As container it encompasses inner, outer, and residual spaces. As arrow, it transverses, travels, and points indistinctly and concurrently to places belonging to the three other space categories. Subsequently, for the purpose of this discussion, I will use the expression Spatial Narrative in order to represent the irreducible-multiple spatial construction that characterizes the musical narrative of the minority discourse. Later I will contrast Spatial Narrative and the expression Discrete Narrative as applied to the discourse of dominant culture.

Spatial Narrative: Visual and Aural Perception and the Construction of Identity
        As I mentioned above, Spatial Narrative originates from the unity between aural and visual perception. This unity is in fact musical, aural-visual, and I defined it as the visonual. Sound and movement coexist at the core of Spatial Narrative simultaneously as voice and actor. As voice they substantiate and recreate the past through sound, noise, and words. As actor they redefine the congruence between gestures and space, and between words recounting the past, rediscovering meaning and validating the present. Do sound and movement also define our sense of the future? Yes, they do, because the immaterial space of Spatial Narrative transcends time. Sound and movement are indeed forms of immaterial space transcending the physicality of outer space, the psychological nature of inner space, and the temporary, cultural aspect of residual space. Depending upon which culture you grow up in, your notion of the future varies. In fact, the notion of time altogether depends on your identity, but your own identity is in turn embedded in the sense of time generated by Spatial Narrative. In other words, what we hear and how we move construct our identity or Narrativity.7 Our notion of time is shaped by spatial construction, or the narratives of sound and movement; this is in fact our identity.
        Being an immaterial space, sound not only draws up in front of us the elements of outer space, allowing us to recreate a mental picture of our surroundings, but also transcends the psychological nature of inner space. Indeed, sound activates simultaneously multiple layers of meaning, memory, feelings, and even physiological responses. Through its immateriality, sound is coextensively ephemeral and {18} permanent--ephemeral, because we can hear short or long sounds as they vanish in the outer space; permanent, because we can remember, forget, recognize, or discover sounds as they are, become, or were part of our inner space. In short, what we see points to the present but what we hear points at once to the present, the past, and the future. Whereas what we see in front of us reminds us where we are, what we hear reminds us where we were. The spatial-temporal duality characteristic of sound and movement is always expressed in the Spatial Narrative.
        Linear thinking is deeply founded in a Narrativity that negates the Spatial Narrative's spatial-temporal duality, and thereby the duality sound-movement, as elements of cultural spatial construction. For some reason, the dominant culture's way of thinking in many instances reduces the Narrativity of minority cultures with terms such as superstitious, primitive, and, when the comment is "generous," "poetical." The fact is that a narrow vision of the future is an indicator of inactivity (there is not movement) and deafness (there is not sound). Following the vision of progress, you can move toward your pre-established goals and "construct the future" but still you are not going anywhere because your are ignoring the surrounding voices telling you "the way to go." Why is that "Indian" singing and playing a maracas? This is not going to bring down the fever or kill the microbe. Why are those "Indians" dancing and playing drums? This is not going to make it rain. The immediate reason is the core of dominant culture's Narrativity. Outside the circle of Philosophy departments, transcendental reason is not an essential part of dominant culture's discourse because sound and movement are "too general" terms that, actually, "can mean anything." From my personal, limited perspective, history and future are inscribed in sound and movement.
        Naturally, the dominant culture maintains "clean" contact with spatial-temporal duality. The contact is there in Saturday's and Sunday's religious activities or in Friday night's dancing. It is in front of the fireplaces, between armchairs and novels, or between marijuana and new wave, jazz, or any other "exotic" music. It comes and goes as an accessory or commodity, as an electronic device that can be turned on and off.
        The construction of identity through visual-aural correlations can be an intrinsic, fundamental part or a subsidiary part of the collective's Narrativity. Whether you are aware of it or not, your identity is intangibly dictated by the narratives of sound and movement. Whether you get it from Coca-Cola advertisements or from Buddhist meditation, the process of visual and aural construction of identity is rooted in human Narrativity.

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Time and Spatial Narrative: Sound and Movement Creating Residual Space

        Sound does not allow us to predict the future but guides us toward it. The future is connected with what we are and with our ancestral lives through choice. Each sound we encounter confronts us with a choice: we like this sound better than that one, we love this sound, we hate the other, we fear this sound but we are attracted to it. This sound makes us relax, the other one brings us tension. But, isn't that the same case with everything we are confronted with? We make choices based on the things we interact with. So, why should sound be a particular case? We can love this person, fear this animal, be attracted to that painting, et cetera. In fact everything that surround us confronts us with a choice. Besides, what does choice have to do with the future? All these questions have the same answer: sound (or movement) is the only vehicle between things and human beings. Does this mean that deaf people are disconnected from things they cannot hear? No, it does not mean that. Is sound what creates our notion of the future? Is sound relevant for defining our sense of time?
        The Narrativity of Central European civilizations has historically tended to separate time and space. "In the early mythological cosmologies, time and space were not generalized, independent concepts but, like most other mental constructions, were human symbols carrying emotional significance" (qtd. by Szamosi 59). I argue that, still today, people sharing Spatial Narrative continue to endow space and time with emotional significance. Ancient humans felt the need to endow space with particular emotional meanings: "Day and night give to east and west a correlation with life and death" (qtd. by Szamosi 60). As a form of immaterial space, sound continues to be endowed with particular emotional meaning. Whereas the notion of past could be endowed with nostalgia or other feelings, the notion of future could be thought of as just a promise. In that sense, we can feel stimulated by the sense of a better or prosperous future, or we can be made to feel uneasy by the idea of a somber future. We could reduce the notion of future to a mere plan that shall be accomplished, but still this would not mitigate the emotional bearings attached to plan success or plan failure. Sound can convey the senses of nostalgia, promise and uncertainty, and therefore sound can represent the past and the future.
        Sound, by its ephemeral-permanent quality, is somehow inscribed between space and time. The certainty of death instills humans' sense of duration. Human life is short in comparison to space and time. However, time goes by with the spatial qualities that relate to the body, so we tend to forget the transcendental aspect of time. As we become older our sense of duration transforms together with gray hair, wrinkles, and our collection of memories, but space remains relatively {20} unchanged; space becomes then a permanent referent. For a middle-class old person, living in an urban area, listening to the music of her teens will stir up good memories and nostalgia. For citizens of a world in which fashion and technology are in constant evolution, this is not a transcendental experience. This is just association of the sounds produced by a record player with the events, friends, and emotions of the "times" evoked by the music. What is the vision of this process from the point of view of a culture where such evolution of sound, rhythms, and melodies does not take place with the same speed of the new wave? In other words, if the music performed and interpreted today was the same as 150 years ago, how would this affect us? Sound is always pointing between space and time, and depending on each cultural approach the effect of sound will be interpreted differently. In conclusion, the ephemeral quality of sound makes possible the changes in style and use; its permanent quality defines its relation to residual space.
        Sound and movement allow us to explore outer space, to perceive and internalize time, and to transcend the temporary, cultural aspect of residual space. In general, oral narrative, film, and literature could be described as having a beginning (or a referent pointer to the past), an onward movement, and a direction toward a goal or end. However, this concept of lineal narrative is at best incomplete because it does not account for the hidden role of sound and movement as the determinant factor that actually puts the narrative process in motion. The coexistence of sound and movement is what defines the motion and the sense of direction of narrative even before meaning is established. Spatial Narrative is a visonual articulation of the space where the unity sound-image delineates areas for construction of meaning. For example, in a European-style film if an actor says "yes" with confidence the "narrative arrow" will point to a different direction than if the actor says "yes" with hesitation. The sounds of confidence and hesitation are indeed signs belonging to borrowed narratives--human beings can feel fear or be courageous, they can also hide the truth, et cetera. With the exception of experienced directors and good actors, people do not pay much attention to the power of voice sound in defining narrative motion and direction. Some people will use triumphal trumpets or sweet violins to transform the meaning of "yes." Another example could be borrowed from flamenco singing. By combining the length of a melismatic melodic phrase with downward or upward direction, and by adding to the pitches some accentuated short noises created by exhaling air, the singer can convey feelings of pain, passion, desire, anguish, and veneration. The point here is that a very clear and strong message can be conveyed in a few seconds without the need for word-meaning.

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Minority Discourse: Songs and Construction of Musical Narrative

        A good example of the unity between aural and visual perception is the construction of identity through songs and dances in flamenco music. Concerning the use of the voice, the high-pitched sustained sound of a flamenco singer immediately connects us with the ancestral callings of Islamic voices that seem to travel through space and time. The color of the voice itself evokes long, faraway, open distances. The vocal production of the sounds carries the fleeting tension of laments. Rapid ornamental voice sounds are subtly intense, and florid, instilling unsuspected anxiety through their movement while the frenzied rhythm and the cheerful melodic line redefine an ambience of jubilation.
        In only a few bars of music, flamenco singing reveals the irreducible-multiple spatial construction of a manifold narrative. Multiplicity of meaning created by aural and visual associations characterizes flamenco singing as well as such different musical expressions as the blues, the Venezuelan joropo, tonada and copla, the Colombian vaquerias, the male choruses of robust "outdoor" voices of North American Native Music (McAllester 307), the danced pantomime, fire-knives, and vocal dramatizations of Polynesian music and dance (Kaeppler 135), and the "infinite melodic variation" of the music of Ethiopia (Pound 125), to mention only few.
        We know that the highly dramatic character of flamenco music originates from the interlocking of zapateo, guitars, handclapping, singing and dancing. Interlocking is indeed a general characteristic of Spatial Narrative. Many musical cultures in the world share the principle of interlocking, which is also a strong characteristic of non-competitive, cooperative social interaction. In Anlo music from Ghana, drumming, dancing, singing, and handclapping are a single whole (Ladzekpo and Ladzekpo 221). Venda music of South Africa is "a shared experience founded on a rhythmical stirring of the whole body of which singing is but one extension" (Blacking 203). Musical interlocking during performance of flamenco music or the music of many other minority cultures results from the spatial construction of community interaction. In that sense a performer carries within himself the Spatial Narrative defined by the group he belongs to. "Venda music is obviously a shared experience, no matter how alone a performer may be" (Blacking 203). Spatial construction blends individual and community contributions; "although most music is composed by individuals whose names may not be known, it is modified by the collective during the course of trial performances and subsequent oral transmission" (Blacking 203). Interlocking in Spatial Narrative is also a collective consciousness experience. "As a special kind of communion of bodies in space and time, the world of African music can also promote a shared experience of becoming, in which {22} individuals venture into the reality of the world of the spirit through the collective consciousness of the community--they both experience and become the source of richer cultural forms" (Blacking 203-04). The philosophy of oneness, characterizing interlocking performance, is also expressed through the language, as in the Nigerian proverb Igi kan kì s'igbo (one tree cannot make a forest [Thompson ix]) or in the Zulu version umuntu ungumuntu ngabantu (man can only become fully human through his relationships with his fellow men).

Spatial Narrative, Discrete Narrative, Interlocking and Collective Direction
        Interlocking and collective direction, important characteristics of Spatial Narrative, are not exclusively determined by social or cultural factors. They are indeed mental processes ingrained in our nervous system and they determine the way humans make sense of the world; scientific evidence supporting this statement is presented below. However, I claim that culture determines the way humans learn to interact with the environment and this in turn determines that some functions of the nervous system are used more frequently than others. In order to support this speculation I will analyze both a dominant-culture's and a minority-culture's approach to dancing and performing. Obviously, we all know that it is not the color or the culture of a person but all the factors of the cultural environment as a whole, shaping natural, personal, and learning abilities, that really determine how well a person dances or performs. Needless to say, I am not interested in showing the best approach to dance or performance but in finding the factors that create their difference.
        I will start by discussing the basic contexts that differentiate the learning and the practice of dance and performance as related to Spatial Narrative and Discrete Narrative. I use the term Discrete Narrative to describe the spatial construction of dominant culture that promotes lineal thinking, individualism, and discrete definition of elements of the world.
        Interlocking in Spatial Narrative implies that each individual is able to internalize the collective direction of the group. It is a basic principle of African socialism, and its musical consequences are found all over sub-Saharan Africa whenever different parts are combined in polyrhythm and polyphony. Such musical structures cannot be correctly performed unless each individual conducts himself and at the same time submits to the "invisible conductor" of the collective. The idea of submission to an invisible conductor could be misinterpreted if you have never performed this type of music. The reference to an invisible conductor here is an analogy borrowed from European performance techniques. It does not indicate that each performer {23} "counts" a certain number of beats provided by the whole group, nor does it indicate the presence of a plan prescribing how the group will proceed and therefore bringing coherence and synchronization. Any type of translation can create distortions of the essential differences in music performance. Here the idea of invisible conductor refers to a collective force that is generated by all the individuals participating as one.
        Again, there is some danger in interpreting collective performance without having experienced it. The wrong question would be: How do you create a sense of unity without a set of rules? The answer is by focusing in sound. Intensive listening, and not just hearing, is required. In addition to the way in which a traditional European performer pays attention to the pitch and the exact production of sound on the beat, collective performance requires that each musician concentrate on and control other aspects of the sound. Some of these aspects may include sound color or timbre, the actual mechanical response of the material used to produce the sound, the particular relationship between the areas you can hit and the unexpected variations in duration introduced by the natural inertia of such areas, and the variations in duration introduced by combination of accents and timbre. The control of individual sound production plus the intensive listening to the dynamic interaction among members of the group determines the continuous transformation of local narratives into collective performance. This process is explained in more detail below.
        Another aspect of performance that may be totally overlooked behind the analogy of an invisible conductor is the direct participation of the mechanics of the body. Most of the rhythms played by a European performer are thought of as a combination of actual notes plus "rests." The performer counts the values of notes and rests in order to reproduce the written rhythms, creating in this way a discrete narrative. In the case of collective performance the relationship between the body of the performer and his instrument is totally spatial. The form of the instrument and the mechanical act of playing are what generates the rhythm. The performer is not counting rests; rather, the rest is automatically created by the time it takes to go from hitting one area of a drum to hitting the next one. The performer follows the flow of the music and produces the sound material that matches that flow by actively engaging himself in a choreography between his body and his instrument. The "dancing" that pervades instrumental and vocal performance in collective playing gives its essential quality to this music. It is dance that imparts the sense of direction in the musical narrative of minority discourse.
        In collective performance the sense of attainment is determined by the balance between individual and ensemble. "Successful performance {24} depends on the mutual interaction of players" (Blacking 204). Interlocking in Spatial Narrative relates to the ability each individual has for finding and being able to stay in the right "slot" by constantly adapting his performance to the general movement of the ensemble. "Anyone who has performed in such ensembles will know just how the music generates a change of somatic state when all the players or singers of different parts `slot into' a common movement" (Blacking 204). Interlocking in Spatial Narrative is underlined by a cooperative contextual space.

Generation of Local Narratives in Visonual Music, Descriptive Analysis
        Visonual objects are visual aural entities that act as linking elements of the musical narrative and represent the kernel of the narrative process. Each visonual object, which can be a rhythmical pattern, a melodic cell, or a particular movement, is endowed with a meaning within the visonual narrative. The visonual has influenced the way music theatre is done today.
        The development of Visonual Music is composed of four main stages: Creative Rehearsal, Observation and Interaction, Story Creation, and Real Time Improvisation. The first of these, Creative Rehearsal, begins with the social interaction of performers and creators. Each performer creates a set of visonual objects. In the Observation and Interaction stage, the performers perceive the objects created in stage 1. Each performer becomes familiar with the visonual object created by the others; thus, they share a common knowledge and become competent with respect to these objects. This competence allows for the transformation and integration of existing objects, and for the creation of new objects, both of which occur within the temporal domain. At this point Story Creation is underway. The story is internally articulated by this system alone: there are no external elements, no plot, nor ideas outside the system. Then, these different types of performer interactions are systematized as patterns of behavior which are in turn used during the Real Time Improvisation stage. As we can see here, the performers learn these behaviors as local social rules and then these rules are applied as mutual responses in real time improvisation (in much the way everyone, in real life, uses the social rules they have learned, when confronted with a particular situation). As a result, an elaborated version of the piece is generated in which meaning and human experience merge. This chain of events regulated by Narrativity becomes a piece.

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Diagram of a Creation-Performance Field





Notice that stages 3 and 4 overlap with part of stage 2 in the temporal domain. The cycle of interaction itself becomes Story when new and already existing objects are progressively transformed.

The Visonual Field of Performance: Ontology of Spatial Construction
        Traditionally the dominant culture model of education emphasizes individualism, visual thinking, lineal thinking, and the so-called "critical thinking." Likewise, dominant culture's research apparatus emphasizes the "scientific method" as almost the only legitimate method of research. Interlocking stands in opposition to those cultural values as a determinant of collective direction.  Interlocking and collective direction characterize the visonual field of performance. They are determined by social and cultural factors as well as by mental processes ingrained in our nervous system as indicated by the philosophic and scientific evidence presented below.
        Spatial construction is based on the visonual, which originates in the interaction of the aural and visual senses. In order to explain that, I use and restrict the meanings of Deleuze's territorialization and deterritorialization to the realm of the senses. From a philosophic and cultural perspective the visonual is originated through the mutual deterritorialization of the visual and aural senses. In order to comprehend this statement we must understand the visonual from the perspective that relates the subject to his experience of the world.
        First of all, it is very important to mention that the territory of the visual and aural senses is not defined at the level of the receptors, namely the ear and the eye. The eye captures light energy and the ears capture sound energy. Both forms of energy are then transduced into wave patterns that create particular "shapes" in their neuronal paths. {26} As indicated by Horning, "the abilities which we usually attribute to sensation are not performed by the senses but by higher neurological process" (170). In 1961 Nobel Laureate George von Bekesy demonstrated that we do not hear with our ears, we do not hear anything as it is, but rather we recreate it. The sensation of sound only begins with our ears. We hear very little and we make up the rest. In my opinion the functions of making up and recreating described by Bekesy are fundamental in defining what I call the territory of the senses.
        The territory of the senses is, then, a mental space in which we process the information patterns transduced by our receptors. In that space, patterns are recognized, predicted (making up), recreated and interpreted (recreating), and even complemented by the addition of information that is not originally present at the receptor level (complementarity). An example that can be used to illustrate this notion of complementarity, which is characteristic of what I call the territory of the senses, is presented by Horning based on Helmoltz's experiments.
        Horning says that "the auditory system is able to identify the periodic repetition rate of a given vibration pattern even if no energy is present at that frequency and, therefore, no resonance at the corresponding place on the basilar membrane" (85). In other words, the territory of the senses complements the information received, as in the case explained by Horning in which only two tones were presented to the ear and a third tone was created. This tone, which happens to be the "missing fundamental" of the two tones, demonstrates the ability of the auditory system known as "fundamental tracking" (86). Not only absent tones can be recreated but also the sensation of loudness. As Horning points out, "the sensation of loudness, therefore, could not come from the ear. It must be the product of some higher neuro-psychological process" (86).
        I claim that the territory of the senses is the mental space where this neuro-psychological process of complementarity takes place and also that cultural influences modify not only its functions but also the physio-anatomic structures of neural patterns. Evidence of this last assertion comes from Martin Albert and Loraine Obler. They say that "the sounds of different languages shape the brain in different ways . . . and that people who know different languages think in different ways and even show evidence of anatomical brain difference" (qtd. by Horning 91). In this sense different forms of music-making, singing and dancing, would also affect in different ways the structure of neuronal patterns. The best example of this is a person who has never performed or listened to a particular type of music belonging to a culture using very different instruments, rhythms, melodies, and noises. This person would be "lost" or unable to "make sense" of the music until a necessary period of adaptation, time to allow his brain to {27} identify the new patterns, had elapsed.
        Performance of and listening to different musical styles require that our brain become familiar with a copious number of events that easily overcome the capacity of the human brain--at least of the brains of people who participated on the experiments of Ernst Pöppel. Pöppel defined an upper temporal limit for the identification of events in the 30 to 40 thousandths of a second. As he points out, "our brain would be overtaxed were it required for example to apprehend 100 events per second, since each event would command only 10 thousandths of a second, which would not suffice. The stream of events to be assimilated cannot flow faster than 30 events per second in order for us to apprehend it" (22). The lack of understanding of the music of minority cultures is due to both the natural incapacity of the brain to apprehend more than 30 events per second and the lack of a bank of cultural data where "copies" of the events are stored. If the brain has copies of the data then the time of perception is reduced, because it does not need to scan each event to "make up" its pattern--this can be explained through Dennett's Multiple Drafts model, presented below. Easily more than 100 events per second can take place in flamenco singing alone, without even taking into consideration the sound of the instruments and the noises of handclapping and zapateo. The inflections of the "vibrato" voice by itself can easily generate at least 40 events per second; add to that the rapid changes of color imparted to the vowels, plus the rapid movement of ornaments, plus the changes of the melody itself, and we are talking about a large package of information to be processed every second. For an untrained ear, the creation of patterns will be initially directed to patterns which are familiar, such as the surface of the melodic-harmonic contour. Hence, European ears will identify first the repetitions of rhythms, melodic motifs, and the harmonic patterns moving in the "surface" of the music, ignoring the flow of information that overtaxes their brains and which is an essential part of the musical structure. "It sounds always the same" is the frequent complaint about any music we do not understand.
        Another type of aural complementarity, or the capacity of the human brain for providing contextual information to what is perceived, is found in the visual field. An example of this is what Pöppel defined as virtual contours. Reporting on the visual perception of a square which is not actually drawn but outlined by the brain, he indicates that "the particular arrangement of lines creates a situation suggesting a square to the viewer. The hypothesis that the square is present results in its actually being seen. In order for it to be perceived, an outline is furnished by the brain (hence virtual contour) that is not physically present. Especially noteworthy is that the nonexistent square is even emphasized by greater brightness" (Pöppel 67). Pöppel explains that {28} this type of perception, called "top-down," is determined from the brain down to the sensory organs. In other words, our spatial construction of reality can be determined both ways: from the sensory organs to the brain and from the brain to the receptors.
        We are confronted here with the fact that an increasing amount of contemporary scientific evidence is providing means for expanding our narrow views of the art of minority cultures. Daniel C. Dennett provides additional information that helps us to understand top-down perception from a different perspective which he defines as editorial processes. Dennett says that "all varieties of perception--indeed all varieties of thought or mental activity--are accomplished in the brain by parallel, multitrack processes of interpretation and elaboration of sensory inputs" (111). Among other things this implies that the nervous system is continuously "editing" and "revising" the information it receives before it reaches our consciousness. "We don't directly experience what happens on our retinas, in our ears, [or] on the surface of our skin. What we actually experience is a product of many processes of interpretation--editorial processes, in effect" (112). As suggested by Dennett's Multiple Drafts model, the "editorial revision" only has to be made once and "when a particular `observation' of some feature has been made, by a specialized, localized portion of the brain, the information content thus fixed does not have to be sent somewhere else to be rediscriminated by some `master' discriminator" (113). This last point is very important because it explains how very complex music structures carrying multiple information can be or cannot be perceived depending on the cultural development of "multiple drafting" and "editorial revision."
        Consequently, spatial construction can result from sequential "editorial revision" of an irreducible-multiple space constituted by aural and visual interactions. A minority culture's singers and dancers inhabit a territory that combines metaphorical and physical "editorial revisions" of the actual sounds and movements they create at instantaneous time and the sounds and movement that constitute the symbols operating as the internal kernel of their narrative. Each kernel, acting as a link from one instant to the next, carries the essence of multiple levels of information. These levels of information include, first, the narrative of the piece itself, which moves the performance to its end; second, the narrative of the collective, which transforms sounds and movements into meaning or symbols understood by the members of the collective; and finally, the narrative of musical patterns, which informs the performers how far or how close they are from each other, allowing for a continuous adjusting of their movements and the sounds they produce.
        When confronted with music produced in minority narrative {29} contexts, some listeners, whose ears and brains have been structured through European harmonic and rhythmical patterns, will try to project those patterns in a top-down fashion. They also may identify and label other patterns that look familiar in a bottom-up fashion. History corroborates that music which did not fit European patterns and music with patterns more or less similar to European ones have been dismissed as "primitive."
        Based on Dennett's Multiple Drafts model, as well as Horning's and Pöppel's models, we can say that the territory of the senses is the mental space where neuro-psychological processes, such as aural complementarity and virtual contour, take place. The territory of the senses is a space for these and other sensory interrelations but also for spatial cultural construction. Thus, contrarily to what we may have been trained to think, the territory of the senses is what determines both experience and meaning.

Narrativity, Meaning, and Continuity
        Each culture "fills" and inhabits the territory of the senses with different metaphors integrating, in different degrees of complexity, sound, images, and their narratives. In this sense, spatial representation as well as actual meaning become subordinated to the ways in which top-down and bottom-up interpretations of reality interact. Automatic associative processes are directly tied to aural and visual perception, which implies that the metaphorical constructions stirred by some sounds have a cultural as well as a psychoacoustical basis. "The apparent distancing of a sound, perceived through the signs that have just been described,8 is not the result of a deduction, any more than the distancing of an object is with the diminution of visual angle. It is rather the product of automatic associative processes" (Francès 277-78). Visual and aural domains permeate human experience and provide the raw material for the spatial and metaphorical construction that creates meaning. It is not a coincidence, for instance, that children represent the sound of an approaching or departing train by raising up or bringing down the dynamic or loudness of the sound. These forms of representation of images from the "visual domain" by manipulation of sound images or the suggestion of sound images through pantomime are frequently found in all kinds of metaphorical constructions that eventually reach language and create verbal meaning.
        The ability of humans to create meaning is mediated by their ability to recognize, associate, and identify implications and applications of the patterns they perceive. This is what creates an inseparable bond between meaning and experience. It is paradoxical to think that meaning, as Greimas points out (187), is undefinable. Anything we can say about meaning has to be explained as a function of the way {30} meaning is experienced, because meaning and human experience are dependent variables. In studying meaning, Follesdal says, we must take into account how meaning is connected with the whole variety of human experience. It includes the study of sensory experience as well as human beliefs, values and actions.

Social Interaction and the Visonual Music of Minority Discourse
        As we have discussed, visual and aural meaning are exchangeable. This exchange of modalities can be compared to social interaction in the sense that, like the combination of elements exchanged in social interactions, the total contribution of performers never equals the sum of each element--there is always a resulting extra element that does not account for the whole. For instance, when two new performers incorporate their playing into a group, the nature of the music produced by the group changes and expands into something else. The new musical product does not follow from the direct contribution of each individual but from the continual transformation of "musical objects" generated from the narrative of the group. This model could be generally applied to any kind of musical performance. However, while a group of European performers will influence each other's performance, they would be committed to respect "the score" or the rules of improvisation. In visonual music, performers' interactions define a creation-performance field continually changing and expanding through the interrelation of sound, movement, local narratives, and social rules. Analyzing this field requires a natural approach to musical creation in which the social reality of music is what determines a performer-creator exchange of competencies.

Some Concluding Thoughts
        Searching for musical meaning through human experience confronts us with the social reality of musical activity defined by the exchange of competencies generated by the performer-creator interaction. Within this exchange of competencies the physical reality of the performers (their bodies, the particular way they perform, and the particular timbre or color of their instruments and voices) is connected with the physical and social realities that surround them. In the case of minority cultures these realities include their roots, their beliefs, their ideas, and their feelings, as well as the social injuries inflicted by their oppressors. Searching for musical meaning through human experience becomes then a powerful way to discover old and new forms of local narratives. A local musical narrative constitutes to a certain extent an "inner city" language because it has local social rules that have been created through musical meaning. In this local musical narrative, values and beliefs, as well as sensory experience and {31} perception, are constantly shaping the process of creation-performance as the product of a natural interaction.
        The openness toward other cultures we are witnessing at the end of the Twentieth Century provides opportunities for us to go back to the sources and analyze the abandoned roads of the past. However, this poetically nostalgic opportunity should not trick us into thinking that "change is taking place" and that the results of searching for musical meaning through human experience will culminate in intellectual, moral, and political transformation for the benefit of minority cultures. Power-holders control the rules of the game, and by the time most minority-culture intellectuals, who have been forced to learn the language and modes of logocentric expression of the dominant culture, become proficient in articulating their views and proving their point, the rules of the game will be changed again.
        The imminent devastation of our planet inflicted by the dominant culture has pushed it to construct "global economy"--their latest apparatus of consent. The fashion of diversity will die away soon, together with the opportunities of studying minority cultures' songs and dances. The power and strength of those musical forms are only good if they can be recuperated, reproduced, and sold in multiple millions of copies. The myth of "discovery" that moved from the Columbus model to "travel agency" emblems is now being transformed into "experiencing otherness." Since 1990 the middle- and upper-class clubs in San Diego, California, are teaching the "counting" steps of salsa dancing. The "burrito" and "enchilada" experience is being moved into college experience in the form of "cultural studies." Chicano dance courses presented in the catalogs of community colleges are never offered because of lack of enrollment. However, African drumming courses have become very popular among white students at the University of California, San Diego.
        The ability to transduce social pressure and cultural transformation into economic power is the real secret of power-holders. It is not difficult to understand, since the real majority of races and peoples in the world are the providers. They provide the work force, they provide the business profit, and when they get mad, depressed, or angry they provide creative, social, or political energy that can be transduced into money. The music of minority cultures was integrated into the inner space because their culture itself was an integral part of it--they would sing while working, or celebrating life or death. The music of the dominant culture developed from leisure time, "aesthetic" pleasure and indulgence--from people who were not working in fields or mines. The music and art of the dominant culture remind us how good it is not to be poor. The musical narrative of minority discourse reminds us how good it is to be alive.
{32}
        Probably the saddest aspect of writing such essays as this one is that the people who are being exploited are not the ones writing them --although their children and grandchildren may do it one day. On the other hand, the real power-holders would never read these essays. So the writer feels as if he is having a conversation in a cafe or bar with friends or people who may be impressed or insulted by its content without further repercussions. Meanwhile, in our universities, the intellectual power-holders listen to everyone's music while trying to survive and protect their prophylactic territory. Universities are not providing real ground for analysis and improvement of social conditions but a platform of absorption and diversion of the energy created by social pressures and oppression. Most minority-culture members who obtain university positions by learning to play the music of the dominant culture maintain the silent-secret desire of being accepted as one of their fellows. Likewise, silent-secret, false promises of acceptance restrain them from speaking "too loud."
        The joyful part of writing about music that not many people care for is the hope that new generations of scholars will turn their interest to it. Their souls may be contaminated by the spirit of freedom found in the melodies carved by working bodies and voices. Their voice may eventually reach university Music departments, but before that could be possible it would have probably reached the Cultural Studies departments.





NOTES

        1In particular the post-Enlightenment scholarly tradition developing from European sources, as Jane C. Desmond points out.

        2As explained by A. R. Janmohamed, minority discourse is "a theoretical articulation of the political and cultural structures that connect different minority cultures in their subjugation and opposition to the dominant culture . . . minority groups, despite all diversity and specificity of their cultures, share the common experience of domination and exclusion by the majority . . . the common experience does not induce any kind of homogenization, but it does provide the grounds for a certain thinking in solidarity across the boundaries of different identities" (Janmohamed and Lloyd ix).

        3This point, further explained below, refers to the use of air, lungs, vocal apparatus, abdominal muscles, facial expressions, etc.; in short it refers to the relation between body and environment, including mental space.

        4I coined the term visonual by combining the words visual and the French word son (sound). The concept of the visonual allows for an interpretation of {33} the unifying interrelation between visual and aural perception.

        5This is a very common explanation given by many researchers of folk music from Latin America. Does mentioning where the music may have originated really add anything valuable to the research? In my opinion it does not--unless serious musicological research is available on the alleged "mother music," and that is hardly the case. Most of the so-called "originating" forms of music are always reported as having disappeared. So, the reader is left with the sense that "you do not have to worry, this music came from abroad, from the mother culture, that is all you need to know." The products of minority cultures are constantly relegated to second-hand observation through dominant culture paradigms.

        6This humorous note illustrates the fundamental methodological differences underlying cultural analysis. It does not matter at all whether the cattle can really understand what a copla is. The point is that the llanero believes the copla creates a bridge between his soul and his environment. The copla empowers him. It strengthens his pride and love for working. The cattle do not get hypnotized by the copla but they actually like it and enjoy working with the llanero because they can feel that when he sings he is a true person in touch with his soul. Cattle like that! By the way, cattle in Europe give better milk when they listen to Mozart. Of course this you must believe because it was scientifically proven.

       7Within the context of this paper, Narrativity provides the common set of cultural knowledge shared by a collective. Narrativity is the common background where meaning finds its roots. Things make sense in different ways to different people depending on the Narrativity or background in which they are projected.

        8Robert Francès explains that the actual "sound space" corresponds either to features of objective distance of the source with respect to the subject or to features projected on the source by the context. The former will be on a reflexive level; the latter will be what Piéron called "inferences," though this last term raises the same problems as Helmholtz's "unconscious inferences" did in the visual domain.





WORKS CITED

Albert, Martin L. and Loraine K. Obler. The Bilingual Brain: Neuropsychological and Neurolinguistic Aspects of Bilingualism. New York: Academic, 1978.

Blacking, John. "Trends in the Black Music of South Africa, 1959-1969." May. 195-215.

Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. Mille Plateaux. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1980.

Dennett, Daniel C. Consciousness Explained. Boston: Little Brown, 1992.

Desmond, Jane C. "Embodying Difference: Issues in Dance and Cultural Studies." Unpublished paper, Duke University.

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Francès, Robert. The Perception of Music. Trans. W. Jay Dowling. Hillsdale NJ: L. Erlbaum, 1988.

Follesdal, Dagfinn. "Meaning and Experience." Mind and Language. Oxford: Clarendon, 1975.

Greimas, A. J. and J. Courtés. Semiotics and Language. Indianapolis: Indiana U P, 1982.

Horning, Thomas M. "The Development of a Model of the Psychological Process which Translates Musical Stimuli into Affective Experience." Diss. Case Western Reserve U, 1982.

Janmohamed, A. R. and David Lloyd. The Nature and Context of Minority Discourse. London: Oxford U P, 1990.

Kaeppler, Adrienne L. "Polynesian Music and Dance." May. 134-53.

Ladzekpo, Alfred K. and Kobla Ladzekpo. "Anlo Ewe Music in Anyako, Volta Region, Ghana." May. 216-31.

List, George. "The Folk Music of the Atlantic Littoral of Colombia, an Introduction." Music in The Americas. The Hague: Indiana U Research Center in Anthropology, Folklore, and Linguistics, 1967. 115-22.

McAllester, David P. "North American Native Music." May. 307-31.

Marín, Servio. "The Concept of the Visonual: Aural and Visual Associations in Twentieth Century Music Theater." Diss. U of California, San Diego, 1994.

May, Elizabeth, ed. Musics of Many Cultures: An Introduction. Berkeley: U of California P, 1980.

Olsen, Dale A. "Folk Music of South America--A Musical Mosaic." May. 386-426.

Pound, Michael. Ethiopian Music: An Introduction. London: Oxford U P, 1968.

Pöppel, Ernst. Mindworks: Time and Conscious Experience. Orlando: Harbrace, 1988.

Ramón y Rivera, Luis Felipe. La Música Folklórica de Venezuela. Caracas: Monte Avila, 1969.

Szamosi, Géza. Inventing Time and Space. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1986.

Thompson, Robert F. Flash of the Spirit. New York: Random House, 1983.


{35}

Reflections on Manifest Destiny

Gail Tremblay         

        Only in those bright moments
        when the hunger to shut
        the dear, dark world away
        is made manifest by the tortured
        bodies of those who love the land--
        only then is it clear that the destiny
        at work is the destruction
        of the nurturing Earth
        by those whose vision
        makes them meditate on the end.
        The rest of us, not working
        to create some inevitable apocalypse,
        mourn and count the days.
        No millenium looms on our ancient
        calendars; time rocks us
        in other dreams, moon and stars
        marking the moment to plant
        or the weeks to hold the ceremonies
        that thank each growing thing
        which roots itself or moves
        across the planet in its own special
        pattern. There are a million
        things we choose not to create.
        Amid the chaos, we try to remember
        balance, that simple dance
        that moves lightly, takes little
        space, that celebrates the possibility
        for breath. We know the conquerors'
{36}
        fascination when they fondle death;
        we've seen them strip the dirt
        off bones, caress grave goods,
        display remains, as surely as we've seen
        them profit from sweet
        fruit they tear from trees. They rape
        the ground to manufacture impossible
        dreams. Glittering nightmares grow
        up around us; each year more guns
        and bombs increase the terror.
        We know the path "from sea
        to shining sea" was never long
        enough, and now the surface
        of the water hides great, garbage
        dumps where poison leaks, a steady
        drip so soundless, death whispers
        as it kills. In large cities, air
        suffocates as particles hang visible,
        glowing in the sun. Confusion dances
        in this buzzing light trying to distract
        us, to make us believe that power lives
        in their desperate vision. Still,
        in many nations, there are those
        who cherish what makes life possible.
        Some prepare to gather where the world
        will start again, many wait for new
        revelation that will lay to rest
        the memory of a tortured god
        who found returning to his torturers
        was more than he could bear.




{37}

The Anasazi Legacy Is the Light of the Jurassic Sun

William Willard         

        The Anasazi are a people who by 300 BC had adapted to life on the high, arid Colorado Plateau. Their legacy of the light of the Jurassic sun is in the power stored in coal, petroleum, and uranium. Beneath the feet of the Anasazi there were geologic layers of limestone put down in lake beds, carbonaceous sandstone, lignite, coal and shale formed at the edge of a sea, sandstone from wind blown deposits, petrified wood from long fallen forests, and the fossil bones of dinosaurs. In those sedimentary cross-bedded and conglomerite sandstone rocks of Jurassic age (more than 130 million years old) the Morrison Formation, host rock in the southern part of the San Juan Basin, contains the largest known uranium deposits. This is the Anasazi legacy of the Jurassic sun.
        The Anasazi had constructed settlements at Chaco Canyon, the San Juan River Basin in northwestern New Mexico, later at Mesa Verde in southwestern Colorado, at Canyon de Chelly in northeastern Arizona, and many other places by the end of the first millenium AD. The Plateau is not an ideal farming region. It is dotted with isolated mountains, mountain chains and higher mesas where precipitation is more abundant. The superficially flat surface is actually lined with deep canyons carved through many-colored rocks. Sparse short plants adapted to the arid soils and prevailing southeast winds grow in this arid region. The Anasazi farmers adjusted to the environmental limitations of the region through an intensive rainfall-based agriculture. Rain usually arrives in late summer when towering thunderstorms fill the air with lightning, thunder, and short powerful bursts of rain. The Anasazi irrigation systems were planned on the management of the sudden appearance of the rain, through stream diversion and flood control to send the water to where there was enough good soil to plant their crops.
{38}
        The physical reality of the success of their adaptations is that by archeological estimates there are more than a hundred thousand archaeological sites built over a thousand years in this region. For over two millenia the summer rains allowed corn to grow on this harsh, arid plateau. Corn, the most important food source and the provider of sacred meal and pollen for religious worship, was their most important crop.
        The Anasazi people succeeded in developing what is called the Chaco Phenomenon between AD 900 and AD 1020. In planned stages, they reached a time of greatness between AD 1020 and AD 1120. The remnants of the Chaco Phenomenon remain in immense ruined towns, villages, earthen mounds, roads, and irrigation works, which were population, cultural, and marketing centers for the whole region.
        Apparently, Pueblo Alto was the most important crossroads or terminus for the entire Chaco road system.
        It is easy to make the case for its importance as a trading or redistribution center.
        Pueblo Alto occupies a magnificent setting two-thirds of a mile back from the rim of Chaco Canyon north of Pueblo Bonito. Here is where The Gambler, a legendary person of great wealth and importance lived at some time in the past. Navajo and Pueblo legends refer to his control over Pueblo Alto and other nearby towns through magic and success in gambling. Many of the long, high ceilinged rooms seemed to have been used solely for storage, most probably for excess foodstuffs, corn, beans, dried squash and pumpkins. It looks as though much of the space within Pueblo Alto was given over to specialized activities. In fact, the ratio of storerooms and work rooms to living quarters suggests the resident population may have been fairly small. A few dates in the early 1200s probably represent the final use of the structure during its declining days. (Lister and Lister 162)
        The Gambler could scan a grand full-circle vista of the Anasazi world, from the lofty position of Pueblo Alto. He saw all the uninterrupted expanses of the Chaco Plateau, to the snow-clad San Juan Mountains to the north, the Chuskas to the west, Hosta Butte and Mount Taylor in the south, and the Jemez Mountains in the east (Fox 36-37).
        A reality of the Anasazi legacy is that there is a cultural core of mythology of the places of origin for some Navajo clans and for some Pueblos. The cultural core of the legacy is transmitted through the work of writers, poets, historians, storytellers, folklorists, and film-makers to new generations and to new non-Anasazi people.
{39}
        Each morning the First People sang and prayed to the Sun for bringing them to the light. They offered sacred pollen and cornmeal from their outstretched hands. "Sunrise accept our offering. Sunrise."
        The important themes of rain, fertility, curing, and assocating with the ancestors are universally connected with the kacina. They are ancestors, messengers, and rainmakers, coming as clouds to the villages when they are summoned each year:

Before dawn, southeast of the village, the bells would announce their approach, the sound shimmering across the sand hills, followed by the clacking of turtle shell rattles --all these sounds gathering with the dawn. Coming closer to the river, faintly at first, faint as the pale light emerging across the southeast horizon, the sounds gathered intensity from the swelling colors of dawn. And at the moment the sun came over the edge of the horizon, they suddenly appeared on the river bank, the Ka't'sina approaching the river crossing.
        Sunrise!
        We come at sunrise
        to greet you.
        We call you
        at sunrise,
        Father of the clouds
        you are beautiful
        at sunrise.
        Sunrise! (Silko 182)

        Remote sensing surveys exploring for oil, gas, and uranium in the San Juan Basin revealed the physical evidence of an Anasazi network of over 500 miles of roads worn into the sandstone. Chaco-centered roads go from the towns in the canyon, with staircases, up over the canyon walls to other villages and to dozens of shrine-signal sites, extending far to the south, west, and northwest of the San Juan Basin, in west-central New Mexico, eastern Arizona, and southwestern Utah.
        One of the trails leads to Aacqumeh:

Aacqumeh hanoh came to their valley from a direction spoken of as the northwest. The place they came to had been prepared for them, and the name Aacqu, therefore means That Which Is Prepared. When they arrived in the flat valley sheltered by red and orange cliffs, they knew they had found what had been prepared by their leaders and instructions from earlier generations of the people. The valley of Aacqu is a beautiful and peaceful place. It must have been wealthy with grass growing in the dark fertile soil nourished by the nearby volcanic mountain {40} slopes and a number of perennial springs gushing forth. It must have been cool and restful in the shade of the tall mesa which would be their eventual home. Their journey had been long and difficult from the northwest through vast experience, trials, and crises. Kaashkatruti, that's where we lived before, the people say in their oral tradition, pointing northwestward. (Ortiz 338)

        An origin myth for Aacqumeh is re-told to beyond-the-pueblo audiences in the 1992 film Surviving Columbus and in the 1991 book When Jesus Came, The Corn Mothers Went Away:

Before the sisters climbed up the tree from the underworld, Thought Woman taught them how to praise the Sun with prayer and song. Every morning as the Sun rose, they would thank him for bringing them to the light by offering with out stretched hands sacred cornmeal and pollen. To the tones of the creation song, they would blow the offering to the sky, asking for long life, happiness, and success in all their endeavours. (Gutierrez 3)

Pilgrimages to the places where the mythological events happened continue (see Fox, esp. 36-41).

        I became aware of, but did not yet understand, the Anasazi legacy of the light of the Jurassic sun one Saturday afternoon at Intertribal Friendship House in Oakland, California. Some of the Navajo Club members were painting the first-floor rooms that day. Two men came in about the time people were having a lunch break. I knew both of them, but had never talked with one of them. I will call him Harrison Begay, because that wasn't his name.
        Harrison seemed to be in a trance-like state from the interactions of sleeplessness and alcohol. We sat at a table in the front room of the House; Harrison began talking. He said he had heard that I was getting an education and he wished he could, too; then, among other things, he said:

I was raised tough. I hate the way I was raised. I hate the place I was raised. I hate everything about it. I never want to see that country again. I hate the goddam Navajos. I hate my own people. I don't like to see them. I don't like to be around them. The white people always stick together. One of them gets something he helps the others out. But not the goddam Navajo. A Navajo makes out all right he is satisfied. You know why? Because they are so chicken. Sometimes when I get to thinking about how tough I have it I cry all night just thinking {41} about it. I hate people, especially I hate Navajos. If they hadn't been so goddam dumb I wouldn't have it so tough. Look at how long they had this country. What did they do with it? Nothing. Look at the white man. They just been here a little while and look at all they have now.

The way everybody scattered they must have heard this speech before. It was an interesting speech, considering that almost all the people within earshot were Diné.
        I heard a lot about Harrison. The technical sum of what was said was that he had a skin allergy with an erratic pattern of remission and re-occurrence. A physician was said to have made a diagnoses of neuro-dermatitis with a psychosomatic origin. Some Diné thought his disorder had its source in his rejection of his family. He had denounced them as stupid and dumb, because they could neither speak nor read English, and never leave their home area in Monument Valley. They had never lived in anything but a hogan. Other Diné, including his wife, wanted him to go home for a traditional healing ritual sponsored by his relatives. Before he came to Oakland he had had a traditional ceremony which had been successful for a while. This Saturday he was resisting social pressure to accept treatment through Native American Church rituals. The social pressure to try the Native American Church treatment was more intolerable than the skin condition the Saturday he talked to me. People said that some days he couldn't even put on a shirt because of the pain.
        Harrison's wife, Margaret (not her name either), said she frequently was dizzy with headaches and saw double in bright light. She had an examination which showed low blood pressure. She passed her drivers license exam by squinting her left eye. She said doctors do not know what is wrong with her. She thought it was her eyes. Their children had health problems: one child was said to have grand mal seizures, another had impetigo, and the youngest one had gum infections.
        Margaret said that before they came to California they lived in Arizona. Harrison had a job driving a dump truck for a uranium mine. He had the job but the two of them drove the truck. She drove, he slept; she slept, he drove.
        Since that time I have learned that the Monument Valley area, the country Harrison didn't want to ever see again, is where vanadium and uranium mining went on from 1942 until the uranium boom ended (Eichstaedt 43). One result of the mining activity is that it is tougher to live there now than it was when Harrison lived there. The Navajo Nation's Abandoned Mines Land Reclamation Program lists 62 abandoned uranium mines in Monument Valley alone.
        Uranium mining began on the Navajo reservation in 1920, stopped {42} for a while, then resumed in 1943 to supply the Manhattan Project. Uranium for the Manhattan Project produced the material for

the first atomic-bomb test against the backdrop of White Sands, the pale blue backcloth of the mountains and hundreds of miles of white sand--the blinding artificial light of the bomb against the blinding light of the ground. (Baudrillard 4)

        Reactions to this first test were diverse. Some were frightened by the destructive power unleashed; others saw great hope in the uses of that great power. William Lawrence, because he was Science editor for the New York Times, was a selected witness to the first test explosion of an atomic bomb:

I remember saying to myself "This is the Second Coming of Prometheus, unbound at last after some half a million years, bringing down a fire from the original flame that lighted the stars from the beginning." Man had found a way to create an atmosphere of neutrons, in which he could build an atomic fire more powerful than any fire ever built before on earth. With it he could create a new civilization, transform the earth into a paradise of plenty, abolish poverty and disease, and return to the Eden he had lost. (Lawrence 6-7, sentence order reversed)

        Simon Ortiz, poet and worker in uranium mines and mills, asks a question:

        There should be
        moments of true terror
        that would make men think
        and that would cause women
        to grab hold of children,
        loving them, and saving them
        for the generations
        who would enjoy the rain.
        . . .
        [W]ho are these scientists,
        who are those soldiers
        with cold flashing brilliance
        . . .
              Who struck aside
        the sacred dawn
        and was not ashamed
        before the natural sun and dew? (Ortiz, From Sand Creek 89)

        The Atomic Energy Commision began a federal uranium purchasing program in 1948, which intensified federal exploration for uranium {43} deposits. When the surveys located promising sites, the federal government contracted with private corporations to open the new mines. Then the corporations produced uranium to sell to the A.E.C.
        Diné provided a ready source of mine workers. Subsistence farming and livestock herding was a tough way to live. One way to stay at home or at least close by was to work in the uranium mines and mills (Dawson 392-93).
        Many Acoma, Laguna, and Navajo people whose homeland is mid-northwest New Mexico worked in the underground and open pit mines, in the processing mills, and in the service industry in the nearby small towns, Grants and Milan. (Ortiz 293)
        They worked to mine uranium, to send the ore on to the mills to be ground into yellowcake. Yellowcake went on to other places to be processed into plutonium.
        There were mines all over the Colorado Plateau, from just west of the Hopi villages on western Navajo land, across southern Utah, southern Colorado, northern Arizona into northwestern New Mexico, to the edge of the Rio Grande valley. There were about 2,500 mines opened in this Four Corners area, approximately 1,104 of them on Navajo Nation Land. In addition to the mines seven uranium processing mills operated on the reservation. It was an anthill society of men laboring under very dangerous conditions for very little money: "We never made more than $1.88 an hour. Most of the money was spent on food and transportation" (Eichstaedt 216).
        The majority of the people I knew had worked at the Jackpile and Paguate mines on Laguna Pueblo land.

        When the mines came
        to the Laguna and Acoma land,
        the men and their families were glad
        in a way because
        the men wouldn't have to go so far to work
        for the railroad in Barstow,
        Richmond, Flagstaff, Needles. (Ortiz 298)

They worked in the mines during the 1950s when the uranium boom was at its height. Some left the mines when their health failed. One man who came on the federal relocation program to San Jose, California said he worked for Anaconda at the Jackpile mine, until he developed tuberculosis. Then he was in treatment for two years in Albuquerque. He said the doctor told him he couldn't work anymore; he had to take it easy. The only means he had to take it easy was a government check every month for $66. The only way he could make it at all was if his wife had a job. So he came as a dependent of his {44} wife on a federal vocational training program to San Jose. His wife could then train for a job that would pay enough for them to have a better income than $66 per month1 (Interview 6/30/1962).2
        The Jackpile and the Paguate uranium mines are located on the Laguna Pueblo Reservation, 40 miles west of Albuquerque, New Mexico. They are three open-pit mines and nine underground mines. Open-pit mining was done with large front-end loaders and trucks. The overburden, topsoil, alluvium, shale, and sandstone were blasted or ripped, removed from the open pits, and piled in waste dumps. The uranium ore was sorted according to grade and stockpiled for shipment by shortline railroad to be ground into yellowcake by the mill at Bluewater, New Mexico.

        The companies just couldn't mine fast enough
        to keep up with the demand
        for yellowcake the Atomic Energy Commision
        was buying and stockpiling then. (Ortiz 297)

        In 1960 there was a lay-off at the Jackpile and Paguate mines. Men who were laid off tried and failed to find jobs at another mine in Colorado, then any job, but they found nothing that lasted very long. When there was nothing left in New Mexico even to apply for, they signed up for the B.I.A. relocation program to go to Oakland, California.
        In September 1962 I went to Laguna Pueblo as a fieldworker for the American Indian Urban Integration project, to see what kind of a place it was that they had come from. I talked to Governor Daily of Laguna Pueblo. He said that the Jackpile mine had been operating six days a week, with two shifts and overtime during the 1950s. But the mine work had been cut to eight-hour shifts and a five-day week. Governor Daily said that he told the men who are now in Oakland there was no use staying in Laguna, there was nothing for them here. He said that I could tell them when I got back that there still wasn't anything for them.
        The Pueblo treasurer gave me statistics on employment in Laguna village: 484 unemployed, 398 employed full-time, and 201 unemployable.
        On my way into the Pueblo Administrative Building I saw a long line of people, Anglos, Hispanos, and Indians. They were standing in the shade of the roof overhang and inside the new Pueblo government building. Inside, people sat on metal chairs behind tables checking through paperwork with the people at the head of the line. Once the paperwork had been done the line moved on to the next stops in the line, where they received packages and cans from cardboard boxes wth USDA markings. This was a federal surplus food commodities {45} distribution center for the unemployed of the area. From the looks of that line, and regardless of ethnic group, it appeared that Governor Daily was correct: if a person wasn't working at the mine, they were not working.
        The United Pueblos Agency gave me the population figure for Laguna Pueblo. The population was located in seven settlements:

        Casa Blanca     216 in 43 family groups
        Encinal             312 in 63 family groups
        Laguna         1,126 in 225 family groups
        Mesita              516 in 103 family groups
        Paguate         1,034 in 207 family groups
        Paraje              456 in 91 family groups
        Seama             645 in 91 family groups
        Total            4,305 in 861 family groups

        For nearly 30 years the Pueblo of Laguna depended almost exclusively on the Jackpile and Paguate mines for employment, because subsistence farming and livestock raising were no longer sufficient. Laguna village, the principle population center of the Pueblo, was an economically deprived mining-company town dependent for cash income on the 398 out of 884 employable persons who were working for Anaconda.
        I came back to Laguna in September 1963 to interview more people for the Urban Integration project. I went out to see what the Jackpile mine looked like. The EIS report says the Jackpile operation is about 1.5 miles long and more than 5 miles wide. The Paguate mine is 2 miles long and several hundred feet wide. Paguate Village was very close to the mines (a thousand yards, the EIS report says). Paguate didn't look like 1,034 people lived there. It appeared almost deserted. There were some patches of corn down the hill. I followed a dirt road from Paguate to the small Hispano settlement of Bibo. I had heard about a bar at Bibo where miners stopped after coming off their shifts at the Jackpile. There were two stores here. One was the famous bar. There was a visible attempt at farming, fruit trees, corn fields. Further on, at the end of the road, there is another Hispano town, Seboyeta (Cebolleta). There was a store in an adobe building, which was also the post office. There were many fallen-in adobe ruins around to indicate that Seboyeta used to be a much larger settlement. Here, as around Bibo, there were the remnants of cultivated fields. The most noticeable thing about Seboyeta in 1963 was a large sign on a post at the edge of the settlement that read "No Trespassing by order of the heirs of the Chavez Land Grant!" The land grant claim is disputed by the Pueblo of Laguna and the Navajo Nation, on the grounds of the land grant being a forgery written long after Spain and its successor, Mexico, had been replaced by the United States. The case has been in federal courts since early in this century.
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        Aacqumeh poet Simon Ortiz put the reasons for working in the mines or going on the federal relocation program in the first person:

Some Aacqumeh high school graduates went on BIA relocation or entered military service, which is another refuge of the poor, but I decided to work.
     Mostly, I worked at the Kerr-McGee millsite although several times I went underground into the mines. At the mill I worked in crushing, leaching, and yellow cake, usually at various labor positions but later as an operator which was not much different or more skilled than laborer. I had a job, and for poor people with low education and no skills and high unemployment that is the important thing: a job. (Ortiz 356)

        The mines are ranked as among the world's largest uranium open pit operations covering more than 2,700 acres of disturbed land. The mines were operated by Anaconda Minerals Company, a division of the Atlantic Richfield Company. Mining operations were conducted under three uranium mining leases between the Pueblo of Laguna and Anaconda. The leases cover about 7,868 acres.
        Underground mining was conducted by driving adits, or declines, to the ore zones; drifts were driven through the ore zone, and the ore removed by modified room-and-pillar methods. Ventilation holes were drilled to maintain a fresh air supply. Mine water was collected in sumps and pumped to ponds in the open pits. Waste rock was placed in waste dumps, and the ore was stockpiled for shipment to the mill.
        Income for the years of the mine employment are reported as less than one half of the median income for New Mexicans in 1950 and 1960. In 1970 the median income reported by Lagunas was $2,661, just under 75% of the median income reported by other New Mexicans.
        In 1979 the incumbent governer (who had been Lieutenant Governer when I interviewed him in 1962), Floyd Correa, said:

I'm for the development of our resources. It was a decision made by our council over 25 years ago, and it is my responsibilty to follow through on that decision and to see that the proper mitigation measures and safety and health regulations are being followed. The mine is a source of income and jobs for our people. Therefore, it has affected a very positive economic development for my reservation and has met the various needs of our people.

He went on to say:

Our uranium is a world resource. If the market slows down in this country, we can sell somewhere else in the world. There's always going to be a need for nuclear {47} power and the demand for it will keep growing. (Barry 14)

Operations in the Jackpile and Paguate mines came to an end on 31 March 1982, when the mines were closed because of depressed world-wide uranium market conditions.
        There are hundreds of abandoned mines and tons of radioactive minewaste littering the Navajo reservation. Water supplies are polluted with radioactive drainage from mines and tailings piles. Many Diné families are living in the midst of abandoned mines and tailings piles. Diné homes, land, and livestock are surrounded by the nuclear legacy. Diné miners and mill workers are dying or already dead. There are many questions about the good health of their survivors and those who live in the midst of this waste land. Research studies should answer some of the questions:

This study centers on Navajo men with lung cancer who were admitted to the hospital from February 1965 to May 1979. 16 of 17 patients were uranium miners. The low frequency of cigarette smoking in this group supports the view that radiation is the primary cause of lung cancer among uranium miners. (Gottlieb and Husen 449)
We performed a population-based case-control study to examine the association between uranium mining and lung cancer in Navajo men. 72% of the Navajo patients had been employed as uranium miners. These results demonstrate that in a rural nonsmoking population most of the lung cancer may be attributible to one hazardous occupation (uranium mining). (Samet et al. 1481)

        Reclamation has started on the worst of the abandoned mines and mill sites, but will have to continue for years.

From 1982 to 1989 the mine lay open and exposed until the reclamation project was launched by Laguna Pueblo and its Laguna Construction Company, with about $40 million from Atlantic Richfield and the Anaconda Mining Company which merged in 1970. Although about 650 miners were employed at the peak of its operation, just 60 are used for the reclamation work. (Eichstaedt 173)

        In an essentialist sense all of them--Acoma, Laguna, Diné, and the Hispano men (with their Pueblo and Diné ancestors, cousins, and in-laws) from the land grant villages--are heirs of the persistent cultural core of the Anasazi legacy.
        A part of that legacy is in the story about Pueblo Alto and "The Gambler." When the ancestors of those who became the Diné came to {48} Kin nteel, as they call Pueblo Alto, they found the local men building a great village, a race track, and a playing area. They were doing this work for He Always Wins, The Gambler. The Gambler had arrived there to issue challenges to everyone to play against him in all kinds of gambling games. He, as his name says, always won. He had won everything the local men had, their property, their wives, their children, and themselves. If they would build the things he asked for he would return some of what he had won.
        The Gambler of the legend is an individual predecessor to the great corporations which have exploited the products of the light of the Jurassic sun: coal, gas, oil, uranium. Those corporations, unlike The Gambler, are not mythological. They, like The Gambler, have taken everything the children of the Anasazi had, put them to work in mines, mills, and oil fields, and given them back a little of what they took in the form of low wages for their work.3



NOTES

        1This couple were successful in improving their incomes. The wife did go through a training program and get a job which paid much more than her previous jobs in New Mexico. The husband began to feel better. He, too, found a training program. He went out to find a job, even working for no pay to gain work experience. He was hired and was a salesman for a design company when I last saw him.

        2All of the interviews cited for 1960-64 were done as part of the Social Survey of American Indian Urban Integration project, which was funded by the National Institute of Health. The project was concerned with the impacts of the federal American Indian Voluntary Relocation program which was renamed the Employment Assistance program. The program under whichever name was a continuation of the long term federal effort to disperse American Indians into urban places as far as possible from their original communities. The origin of this population dispersal program is in the Outing Program of the carceral U.S. Semi-Industrial Indian Training School located at Carlisle, Pennsylvania from 1879 to 1918. The programs are partially responsible for the 1990 federal census figures which show that more than 60% of the American Indian population is now urban.

        3Other products of the light of the Jurassic Sun have been used by corporations to profane holy places with roads, drip tanks, well heads, and pipelines. In Tony Hillerman's A Thief of Time, the Diné evangelist, Reverend Slick Nakai, says:

"Right up the highway here, right up here you have Huerfano Mesa. We have been taught, us Navajos, that's where First Woman lived, and First Man, and some of the other Holy People, they lived there. But I want you to remember some-{1}thing about Huerfano Mesa. Just close your eyes now and remember how that holy place looked the last time you saw it. Truck road runs up there. It's got radio towers built all over the top of it. Oil companies built 'em. Whole forest of those antennae all along the top of our holy place. I can't pray to the mountain no more. Not after the white man built all over the top of it. Remember what the stories tell us. Changing Woman left us. She's gone away" (48-49).



WORKS CITED

Bachman, Ronet. Death and Violence On the Reservation: Homicide, Family Violence, and Suicide in American Indian Populations. Westport CT: Auburn House, 1992.

Barker, Rodney. The Broken Circle: A True Story of Murder and Magic in Indian Country. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992.

Barry, Tom. "New Mexican Pueblos Confront the Atomic Age." American Indian Journal 1.12 (December 1979): 11-17.

Baudrillard, Jean. America. London: Verso, 1988.

Dawson, Susan E. "Navajo Uranium Workers and the Effects of Occupational Illnesses: A Case Study." Human Organization 51.4 (Winter 1992): 389-97.

Eichstaedt, Peter H. If You Poison Us: Uranium and Native Americans. Santa Fe: Red Crane, 1994.

Fox, Steve. "Sacred Pedestrians: The Many Faces of Southwest Pilgrimage." Journal of the Southwest 36.1 (Spring 1994): 33-53.

Gottlieb, L. F. and L. A. Husen. Chest 4 (April 1981): 449-452.

Gutierrez, Ramon A. When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and Power in New Mexico, 1500-1846. Stanford CA: Stanford U P, 1991.

Hillerman, Tony. A Thief of Time. New York: Harper and Row, 1988.

House of Representatives. One Hundred Third Congress. "First Session on Cleanup of Abandoned Uranium Mines and Mine Waste on the Navajo Reservation." Hearings held in Washington DC, 4 November 1993. Serial No. 103-58. Washington DC: GPO, 1994.

Lister, Robert H. and Florence C. Lister. Chaco Canyon: Archaeology and Archaeologists. Albuquerque: U of New Mexico P, 1981.

Ortiz, Simon J. From Sand Creek. Oak Park IL: Thunder's Mouth, 1981.

---. Woven Stone. Tucson: U of Arizona P 1992.

Samet, J. M., D. M. Kurtvert, R. J. Waxweiler, and C. R. Rey. "Uranium Mining and Lung Cancer in Navajo Men." New England Journal of Medicine 310 (1984): 1481-84.

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

US Department of the Interior. Bureau of Land Management Albuquerque Office. Bureau of Indian Affairs Albuquerque Area Office. "Draft: Jackpile-Paguate Uranium Mine Reclamation Project. Environmental Impact Statement." February 1985.


{51}

Entitlement of Women in Latin America

Helia M. Corral         



I. Introduction
        Another title for this work might have been "Women's Rights in Latin America," a topic extremely difficult to approach without first clarifying at least a couple of points, the first one being a common misconception regarding Latin American women, who to some extent are perceived as incapable of taking care of themselves. The next one recognizes the need to point out some of the basic differences between Latin American and American realities, which render quite different the respective perceptions of the meaning of the word entitlement in both geographical areas, making it impossible to discuss the subject in the same light.
        The first factor to consider about Latin America is that it often is mistakenly perceived as a single geographic, political, and ethnological unit. Latin America does not always represent such a unit, but twenty-one socio-political and geographical identities. It is, in fact, so diverse that the word "entitlement" may have totally different meanings to an Argentinean, a Mexican, a Bolivian, a Cuban, an Equatorial, etc., and all of these meanings will differ from the one in the United States.
        Rather than discuss specific problems of entitlement in Latin America at this point, it is necessary to focus on both the role of Latin American diversity and its repercussions on some prominent historical figures that challenge the belief that Latin American women are by nature submissive and/or incapable of taking care of themselves.

II. Diversity of Latin America
        Let us begin, then, by establishing the fact that Latin America is extremely diverse. One could say, in fact, that there are many Latin Americas, and that they differ greatly. For instance, only one Latin {52} American nation, Mexico, is in North America. There are five countries in Central America, three in the West Indies and ten in South America. These areas represent varied geographical environments: the tropical jungles and rain forests; the Caribbean islands; the high elevations of the Andean countries; the Pampa of Argentina and the Llano of Venezuela; the Riverplate region of Argentina; the great deserts of Mexico; and the immense coastal areas of Chile and Peru. The linguistic diversity is also great: Spanish, Indian languages and dialects, Portuguese, French, Italian, German, Dutch, English, and Papiamento (a combination of Spanish, Dutch and English spoken in the island of Aruba) are enough to suggest the cultural and ethnic diversity of Latin America, along with the extremely diverse indigenous populations and the degree of their intermingling or mestizaje, cultural and ethnic.
        But one cannot forget that diversity also exists when it comes to socioeconomic classes, as in the oligarchy of Argentina, Bolivia and other countries; the landowners of Nicaragua and Mexico; the growing middle class of most countries; the poor of all countries. In sum, when attempting to understand Latin America one is to keep in mind what a very well-known American anthropologist (Lesley Bird Simpson) who studied Mexico discovered: that just as there are Many Mexicos so there are many Latin Americas.
        Nevertheless, these nations have many characteristics in common, one of them of extreme importance: that it was in their land that Western Civilization was first transplanted to this continent in 1492 when the arrival of Christopher Columbus and his men, and later on the arrival of Cortés and his men, initiated the mingling of different races, cultures and traditions of Europe with the indigenous cultures of the "New World."
        As we speak of Columbus, we are transported to fifteenth-century Spain where we contemplate the impressive personality of Isabella of Castille, one of the best feminine figures in world history, whose marriage to Ferdinand of Aragon consolidated their kingdoms into the single kingdom of Spain. It is worth noting that Isabella brought more to the marriage than Ferdinand, making her his equal rather than his subordinate by virtue of her being a woman. Their motto, displayed on the canopy of the royal throne, was tanto monta, monta tanto, isabel como fernando, which reveals the fact that the worth and the power of each of the Catholic kings was exactly the same. No one was superior in power or personality to the other.
        While the power and responsibility were to be shared equally by both royal figures, it is important to point out that Isabella was largely responsible for sponsoring the enterprise of discovering the "New World." Tradition has it that she sold her jewels to finance Columbus' {53} ambitious undertaking. But it has also been said that she needed the money to recover Granada from the Moors in order to complete the reunification of Spain and that, therefore, that money did not serve the purpose of Columbus' enterprise. Nevertheless, if one considers that the fall of Granada took place in January 1492, there doesn't seem to be a contradiction to the original theory. And it was then, and only after the fall of Granada, on the third day of August of the same year, that she was able to provide the financial support Columbus needed for his expedition. If successful, the project offered a great deal of financial and political gain. Isabella, a well-informed, intelligent and ambitious woman, thought Columbus' project made sense.

III. Seventeenth-century Spain
        But Isabella's display of a tremendous vision and ability is not an isolated case in Spanish history. Her personality represents, in fact, a culmination of a series of Spanish feminine personalities of strong political and historical influence. Her character is an integral part of Spanish tradition as she also succeeded in endowing her ill-fated daughter Catherine of Aragon with the same qualities, as attested by her historical role and personality, revindicated by Salvador de Madariaga, the great Spanish essayist, in his book Mujeres españolas.
        Based on these Spanish historical facts and traditions, the male dramatists of seventeenth-century Spain wrote historical as well as fictitious plays that can be considered today as strongly feminist, creating a typical character of the theater of the Seventeenth Century, the "mujer varonil" (the manly woman).1 In Lope de Vega's The Sheepwell there is a heroine who rebels against the whole town, calling on her fellow women to stand up for their rights and to challenge, in no uncertain terms, the neglectful attitude of the men of the town whom she calls, among other things, cowards and sheep.
        In Life is a Dream by Pedro Calderón de la Barca, another one of the giants of Spanish drama, one finds the character of Rosaura, another "mujer varonil" who dresses as a man and leaves not only her own home but her own country in order to vindicate her honor and her name. She, in fact, speaks to her King, Segismundo, as both a man and a woman in her self-defense:

        As a woman, I persuade you
        to mend my honor,
        as man I come to encourage you
        to recover your crown.

        I come to move you as a woman,
        when I place myself at your feet.
        As a man, I'm here to serve you
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        with my sword and my life.

        And now think that if today,
        you woo me as a woman,
        I shall give you, as a man,
        death in honest defense
        of my honor,

        because I shall be
        in its loving conquest,
        a woman to beg your kindness,
        a man to win my honor. (783)

        If Rosaura's words are impressive, one must not forget the famous Trickster of Seville by Tirso de Molina, based on the medieval legend of Don Juan, which condemns male infidelity and deceit of women, making this male stereotype a universal depiction, and one of the strongest condemnations of masculine abuse of power.
        Not only the playwrights of that era portray these characters. Cervantes in his Exemplary Novels depicts Preciosilla, the wise Gypsy, as extremely bright and in possession of her free will, and in Don Quijote portrays the shepherdess Marcela, who refuses to give her love to someone who loves her but she does not love back. Cervantes is always respectful of women and often portrays their ability to defend their own rights.
        If there are many such examples of feminine exaltation in the Golden Age of Spanish literature, Spanish social reality provides us, among others, with an outstanding example of feminine ability, self-confidence, and respect: Saint Teresa of Avila, a reformer of the Carmelite religious order, a founder of numerous convents, a promoter, a rector, a poet, a theologian, and a doctor of the Catholic Church, is an extraordinary example of true human greatness.2

IV. Malintzi
        While it may not be too difficult to think of strong capable women in the European world, it may be almost impossible for some to think of any such personality in the New World, particularly in indigenous Mexico. But indeed there is, at the very beginning of the conquest of Mexico, an Indian noblewoman born in Painala who learned Spanish so rapidly that she played an instrumental role in the dramatic changes that European contact brought. Her personality has been surrounded by controversy. But much has to be reassessed regarding Mexican history and much more when it comes to the topic of women. Malintzi propitiated the conquest and bore a child of Cortés, but her merit was not fairly recognized then or now.3

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V. Seventeenth-century Colonial Mexico (New Spain)

        If sixteenth-century indigenous Mexico had Doña Marina, the Seventeenth Century had Sor Juana. Born in San Miguel Nepantla, near Mexico City, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651-1695), a Creole nun, is not only considered the greatest lyric poet of the Colonial period but the first feminist of the New World and among the greatest poets of her time. Octavio Paz compares her poetry to the poetry of John Donne, closing his remarks with the following words: "The English poet is incomparably richer, freer and sensual but, I shall dare say, he's neither more intelligent nor more acute" (44). Paz also states that her poetry, except in "El primero sueño," does not go further than her time and that what distinguishes her is her intellectual perspective, her inquisitiveness: "She sees the world as an object to be known, to be studied. Some of her finest poems deal with religious and profane love placing her as the foremost feminist of her age" (56). In addition, Sor Juana composed many musical pieces and sacred and secular plays.
        Of special interest and a typical example of Sor Juana's prose is the candid epistle entitled Respuesta a Sor Filotea de la Cruz (Response to Sister Filotea of the Cross) dated at the convent of San Heronimous in Mexico City, March, 1691. "Sor Filotea de la Cruz" is said to have been a pseudonym of the Bishop of Puebla who had written to Sor Juana asking her to stop reading, studying, searching and researching subjects that were mundane rather than devoting herself to the exclusive reading of the Bible as was suited to a nun. Sor Juana gave up her books. In this letter she states, among many other things, that she found in the most trivial things reasons to use her intellect, that she learned to read at three and that she was so interested in learning as a young girl, that she would not eat cheese because it was believed to decrease the ability to think, that she disciplined herself buy cutting her beautiful hair so her head would not be occupied with vain thoughts. At six she wanted to attend the University. She dressed herself as a boy in order to be admitted and, of course, she would have not been admitted. In sum, Sor Juana answered by defending her calling, not so much as a nun as an intellectual.
        As an intellectual, Sor Juana not only understood that the prejudices regarding the supposed inferiority of women were caused, to a great extent, by the socioeconomic structure of the colonial period, but that they were also caused by the shortsightedness of men. In 1982, Octavio Paz wrote a long-promised work, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz or The Traps of the Faith, in which he discusses Sor Juana's personality and its relevance to the understanding of colonial Mexico by careful speculation on how she, the genius, allows her reader to know this extremely important period of Mexican history by what she says and does and by what she fails to say and do, as a consequence of her {56} surrounding environment and the opportunities and limitations society placed upon her.

VI. Modern Times
        While Sor Juana's true genius could not be totally suppressed in seventeenth-century colonial Mexico, the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries in Latin America are nearly devoid of written evidence of intellectual feminism, but are not lacking in feminine socio-political action. It is a widely known fact that women participated directly, and indirectly, in the wars of independence of Latin America from Spain. Inspired in the wars of Independence of the United States and the French Revolution, Latin America pursued the ideals of these two great countries: constitutionalism, federalism, republicanism, democracy. These ideals prevailed in Latin America and propitiated the wars of Independence from Spain. Most of them took place between 1810 and 1821.
        Many women in Latin America helped their husbands in their tasks of liberation. In New Spain, now Mexico, we find such names as Josefa Ortíz de Domínguez, Leona Vicario, María Petra Teruel de Velasco, Gertrudis Ruedaravo, Altagracia Mercado, Josefa Martínez, María Soto la Marina, Rafaela López Aguado de Rayón, Manuela Medina, Manuela Taboada, Mariana R. del Toro de Lazarín, and others.4
        Time and space force us to skip the period of legal and social Reform and the defense of the new Latin American nations against European invaders in which women helped and supported their men. We must move toward the time in history when, after thirty years of dictatorship, in 1910, one of the most outstanding historical wars of Latin America took place: the Mexican Revolution. This social revolution had a far-reaching socioeconomic and political impact, not only on Mexico but on Latin America and the world, that cannot be discussed here, but the famous soldaderas (soldier women) supported and fought in this war along with their men.
        In the Nineteenth Century, as well as the beginning of the Twentieth Century, Latin America lived a period of tremendous political and social unrest. Perhaps the best way to assess entitlement of women in Latin America is to point out when Latin American women first demanded the right to vote. It is important to keep in mind that ideas of political entitlement of women arose in Europe in the Nineteenth Century and that, in the United States, women first received the right to vote in 1919. Latin America, disturbed by multiple social struggles such as the Mexican Revolution and coups d'etat to overthrow dictatorships throughout the area, was slower in granting individual independence as symbolized by the ballot.

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VII. Twentieth-century Ecuador and Mexico
        
It is often the case that there is an enormous distance between the legal and the political realities in Latin America and it may come to the reader's surprise to know that the first country in Latin America to allow women to vote was Ecuador in 1926, but that Mexico did not take the same step for all elections until over 25 years later. The Revolution had been slow in entitling women. It is important to remind ourselves of the fact that during a revolt everything deteriorates or comes to a standstill. The sources of labor decline and, if there isn't enough work for men, there are less working opportunities for women.
        On 12 December 1914, Carranza's decree gave women new rights. In 1928 married women were allowed to dispose of their own patrimony. For the first time, in 1931, the First Convention of Factory and Country Women Workers, took place in Mexico City, followed by similar conventions until all was interrupted by World War II.
        In 1940, Mexican President Lázaro Cárdenas approved the Judicial Decree that protected Mexican workers, women included. Cárdenas had taken a step in the right direction, but it wasn't until 17 October 1953 that women received the privilege to vote. In 1955, four million women and five million men voted in the first Mexican election in which women could take part. President Adolfo Ruiz Cortines had given women the right to vote and Adolfo López Mateos, the next president of Mexico, who was married to a highly educated woman, assigned women to important posts in his cabinet and approved labor laws for their protection.5

VIII. Argentina, Nicaragua, and El Salvador
        The previous examples illustrate that not only do national socio-political conditions have an impact on the implementation of laws protective of and entitling women, but that it is also important to stress the fact that economic, financial and industrial development play an important role as they have a repercussion on employment. Argentina, which in many respects parallels the United States, and is without a doubt one of the most progressive Latin American countries, has nevertheless been plagued with unfair labor practices, a poor record in human rights in general as well as in the area of women's rights, in spite of their having had women rulers, such as the two women supported by Juan Domingo Perón: Evita and Isabelita.
        Yes, Argentinean women have enjoyed greater freedoms, but their country has failed to sustain the march initiated by Perón. One of the most interesting examples of this prevailing condition is Argentina's best representative of a woman of letters: Victoria Ocampo (1891-1977).
        Best known as a cultural entrepreneur and founder of the influential {58} literary review SUR and of the publishing house of the same name, Victoria Ocampo, highly regarded by great men and women of universal recognition, wrote ten volumes of Testimonies (essays about her personal experience) in which she expresses some of her concerns about Latin America. Her list of friends included Rabindranath Tagore, Gabriela Mistral, Albert Camus, Aldous Huxley, Virginia Woolf, José Ortega y Gasset, Alfonso Reyes and Igor Stravinsky. She devoted her life to promoting cultural understanding between Latin America and the rest of the world, especially Europe and the United States, and was the first woman to belong to the Argentine Academy of Letters. Ironically, she was often criticized for her cultural interests, and many of her honors did not come to her until shortly before her death (Lyn and Heyck 51).
        As the reader knows, there are great differences between Argentina, Nicaragua, and El Salvador, and for the purpose of this work it has been decided to single out the personality of Miriam Laso Laguna (1946- ) from Nicaragua and of Claribel Alegría of El Salvador. These outstanding women differ greatly from Victoria Ocampo both in generation and in personality, but they are also women of letters.
        Let us consider first Miriam Laso Laguna, who was a professor of literature at the University of Nicaragua in 1979. Her career has changed greatly as she is now the Director of Technical and Financial Cooperation of the Nicaraguan Institute of Social Security and Welfare. While not a militant Sandinista, her motivation stems from a religious attitude, and she identifies with the social goals of the Nicaraguan revolution. Her sympathy toward the needy singles her out as an outstanding defender of a class to which she does not belong, since she recognizes that only social and economic stability can allow culture to flourish. She believes that favorable changes have taken place since the revolution and that, in time, Nicaragua will move toward democracy. It is also interesting to point out that women have been appointed to public positions since the revolution (Mirandé and Enríquez 24-27).
        It is ironic that the land named after The Saviour is soaked with the blood and bodies of those who die in their strife. But Claribel Alegría speaks of another phenomenon of Latin America, the adverse environment that does not contribute to socioeconomic stability, in her poem "Flowers from the Volcano":

        Fourteen volcanos rise
        in my mythical country.
        Fourteen volcanos of foliage and stone
        where strange clouds hold back
        the screech of a homeless bird.
        Who said that my country was green?
              It is more red, more gray, more violent:
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              Izalco roars,
              taking more lives.
              Eternal Chacmol collects blood,
              the gray orphans
              the volcano spitting bright lava
              and the dead guerrillero
              and the thousand betrayed faces,
              the children who are watching
              so they can tell of it. (43)

IX. Women of Color from Puerto Rico and Brazil
        If anyone tells us that Latin America does not have its share of racial problems, we can't help but know that it is not true. If being Indian or black is a source of pride, it may also be under certain circumstances a source of grief.
        Julia de Burgos (1914-53) is a famous Puertorrican poet who exalts the black race in Latin America. In her poem "Ay, ay, ay" she speaks about the pride of being black: "I laugh, I cry, my body trembles out of pride of being a black statue. Ay, ay, ay. My grandfather was a slave, and he is my pride. Had he been the master, he would be my shame" (Lyn and Heyck 77). Carolina María de Jesús (1914-1977), a black writer from the slums of Sao Paulo, Brazil, speaks in her diary of how she would look for paper to write on by picking up trash from the streets. Hers is an example of love for writing, and of the poor: "There are times when I rebel against all the injustices of life. And then, I discover that a white woman who is bringing up a colored baby, really loves her. In the past the blacks took care of the white. Today the white take care of the blacks" (Lyn and Heyck 83).

X. The First Indigenist (Pro-Indian) Novel in Latin America
        A number of books have been written in defense of the Latin American Indian. We must not overlook the fact that a woman, a Colombian author, Clorinda Matto de Turner (1909- ), wrote the first indigenist--i.e., pro-Indian--novel in Latin America, Aves sin nido (Birds Without a Nest), published in 1889. And some of the best examples in this genre in the Twentieth Century are Balún Canán and Oficio de tinieblas, two novels by the novelist, essayist, poet, and diplomat Rosario Castellanos, from the State of Chiapas, Mexico. The author protests the form in which Indian people are treated and in Balún Canán she protests the manner in which her own mother treats her Indian nannie. She laments the attitude of superiority that prevailed among the mestizos of the time of her parents and how, though she loves her nannie very much, her nannie chooses not to speak to her when she meets her in the Plaza of San Cristóbal de las Casas,{60} Chiapas. Castellanos disapproves of this attitude that brings about a separation, based on discrimination, of two beings who love one another.

XI. Latin American Realities
        While concentrating on our goal of depicting the gradual implementation of the right of women to vote in Latin America, we have also introduced our reader to a few of the most outstanding Hispanic women of all times and have shown the prevailing distance between decreed laws that protect and elevate women's rights to vote and their implementation. Some historical and political problems have been illustrated.
        Lourdes Arizpe, studying the correlation between economical marginalization, cultural identity, and ethnicity, concluded that sub-employment has nothing to do with any of these factors, but that they do relate to economic conditions. Her work focuses on Mexican marginal populations, specifically on women known as "Marías" who walk the streets of the capital and who supplement their family income by working as street vendors.
        Ms. Arizpe has discovered that it is meaningless to speak of sex discrimination in marginal populations since the "Marías" are usually married to men who are also underemployed or unemployed and unless economic conditions are improved, both genders will continue to be equally affected. There is no doubt that it is necessary to make available to them some educational opportunities. At this time some are offered through the Department of the Federal District, which also has many centers of occupational training, but they are insufficient (Lyn and Heyck 149).
        Alejandra Rangel, Professor of Philosophy and Letters in Monterrey, Mexico, offers in one of her short-story collections a number of considerations regarding the life of women of marginal groups. These stories are the product of Alejandra's contact with these groups, of her intense research and of her caring attitude and fine education.
        Feminine reality is approached from the historical, philosophical, and sociological standpoints. In "The souls of the river" the problem of alcoholism is discussed, while in "Newborn" the central character states: "Ah, darned life! Woman, alone, lost with sixteen children and without a husband" (Rangel 69). Both Lourdes and Alejandra conclude that the cultural identity of these women affects them mildly and that their main problem is economic.

XII. The Nobel Prize
        One should not overlook the fact that the first Latin American to receive the Nobel Prize, in 1945, was a woman: the Chilean poet {61} Gabriela Mistral. A rural teacher herself, Ms. Mistral exalted the teaching profession. Her true merit, according to the critic Fernando Alegría, rests in her prose writings from which her doctrine of human rights emerges with clarity and courage. She never married but adopted her nephew and she exalted the maternal role in one of her best works dedicated to her own deceased mother:

     Mother: I have grown like a fruit in a thick branch, on your knees. They carry the shape of my body; another child has not altered it. There is no softer rhythm, among the first hundred rhythms esparced by the first musician than that of your rocking chair, mother, an all pleasant feeling in my soul jelled with that swing of your arms and your knees. . . .
     Everyone else who follows in your footsteps, mother, teaches about that which you have taught and says with many words that which you said with only a few; they tire our ears and blur the joy of hearing your voice. (F. Alegría 94-95)

XIII. The Andean Region
        Another tremendous leap takes us from Chile and the Nobel Prize to the dramatically different geographic and social environment of Bolivia. There, Domitila Barrios de Chungara, born in 1937 in a mining town, addressed the problems she had when, after her mother's death, she took care of her little sisters. Later, she founded the Committee of Housewives of the Twentieth Century and negotiated a number of socioeconomic benefits for women workers in her country, one of the poorest in Latin America. Young Domitila, in order to continue her education, which her father could not afford, had to take her little sisters along as she continued her education in spite of the fact that she did not even have enough money to buy her books. Her father's moral support encouraged her as he would tell her and her sisters that women were as entitled to an education as men (F. Alegría 172).

XIV. The Portuguese-speaking
        From the Portuguese-speaking world we have chosen the internationally acclaimed novelist and short story writer from Brazil, Clarice Lispenor, whose work, among other topics, discusses the problem of middle class women who find themselves trapped in a senseless domestic situation and who live totally dependent on their husbands and family, without ever exerting their own will.
        In "Happy Birthday," the author discusses the dynamics of a Brazilian family. In this short story, the relationships between a {62} daughter-in-law and her mother and sisters-in-law stress the fact that human relations within the family can be extremely destructive, specially among women. At the birthday celebration, Olaria, the daughter-in-law, assumes her role of victim in front of everybody in order to make her position clear to the world. Everyone is unhappy, even the children are affected by the situation. Needless to say that, although this may not be an exclusive characteristic of a Brazilian family, this kind of dysfunctional behavior does not help the feminine cause anywhere in the world.

XV. Machismo and Marianismo (or Hembrismo) in Latin America
        One of the functional imperatives of human society is a division of labor according to a set of criteria generally accepted by most members of the group. Some of the most obvious and widely used criteria for deciding who shall do what are age, sex, and class. But these categories may be manipulated in different ways by societies in different parts of the world. Perhaps one of the best ways of approaching the topic of machismo is by mentioning that this phenomenon is sometimes codependent with Hembrismo (or Marianismo).
        The passive female image is also the concern of political scientists. Some of them state that "Latin American women have been more comfortable in their roles than their Anglo-American counterparts" (116). Hembrismo (or Marianismo) or the cult of feminine spiritual superiority is as prevalent as and symbiotic with machismo. Less understood, and far from being victims, Latin American women are conscious beneficiaries of that cultural tradition.
        It is important to note that machismo, a term familiar to area specialists, has passed into the vocabulary of the general public, where it has suffered a semantic deformation. In the Spanish language and particularly in Mexico, the term does not always have a negative connotation. It may be safely said that machismo is the cult of virility. A man is a macho to the extent of his possessing all the virtues attributed to being a man, and the negative connotation that is almost exclusively assigned today to this word, particularly in the United States, is not exclusively so in Mexico.
        The chief negative characteristics of being a macho may be exaggerated: aggressiveness and intransigence in male-to-male interpersonal relations, and arrogance and sexual aggression in male-to-female relations. Another side to the picture is the fact that women generally have maintained a discreet reserve with respect to the subject of Hembrismo. They have also enjoyed a certain degree of protection from men, due to their attributed spirituality, that they sometimes hesitate to lose.
        Maruja Barrig, Peruvian feminist, criticizes the system that {63} supports machismo by describing the significant changes that took place in the decade of the '60s in Peru. She mentions the progressive attitude of the Church, the social programs of the military junta, the democratic reforms in education, the expansion of the urban sector and the opportunities for women, along with the birth control pill. In "Chastity Belt" Maruja Barrig states that Latin American women suffer from a mental chastity belt that does not allow them to discuss freely and openly some of their problems. But she also regrets the fact that mass communication seems to be replacing the social control exercised by parents and family in the past. Many freedoms are supposedly open to women but there are also many contradictions to these freedoms. In the first place it is important to remember that if there isn't enough employment for men, there is going to be less work for women.

XVI. From Chaos to Order?
        In Las buenas mujeres, a fragment from her poetic collection Circuito Amores y Anexas, Elena Milán, from Mexico, rejects the Hembrismo that spoiled the full development of women of the generation of her mother and her grandmother (Lyn and Heyck 343), and in her poem "Valium 10" Rosario Castellanos expresses the conflict of contemporary women of the middle class who leave work to return home tired but unable to rest, because more work is waiting for them. "Valium 10" expresses the solitude and the internal conflict of a professional woman who leads an unfulfilled life:

        Sometimes, (and don't try to diminish its importance
        saying that it does not happen often)
        your measuring stick breaks,
        you misplace the compass
        and you have nothing left.

        The day turns into a mere succession
        of incoherent facts and functions
        that you perform through habit and inertia.

        And you live it. And you dictate the letter
        to whom it may concern. And teach the class,
        the same, to the auditor as to those who are registered.
        And that same evening you write the text
        the printing press will devour the next morning.
        And you keep an eye (Oh, just superficially)
        on how things are running at home, the perfect
        coordination of multiple programs
        --because your oldest son now dresses
        up in order to attend a "quinceañera" dance
        and the youngest wants to be a football player
        and the middle one has a poster of Che near his record player.
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        And you go over the expense account and reflect
        with the cook, about the cost of life and the
        "ars magna combinatoria" from which the daily menu emerges.

        And you still have strength left to remove your make-up
        and to put on the nurturing creme and even read
        a few lines before turning off the lamp.

        And in the dark, at the beginning of your sleep,
        you realize what has been lost:
        the most expensive diamond,
        the navigating map, the book
        with one hundred basic questions (and its respective answers)
        for at least a basic, simple, elemental dialogue with the Sphinx.

        And you have the painful sensation
        that in the crossword puzzle
        an error slipped,
        that made it impossible to solve.

        And you spell out the name of Chaos,
        unless you take the cap off the pill container and
        swallow the one that condenses,
        chemically pure, the order of the world. (Lyn and Heyck 191)

Rushed, anxious, frustrated, the professional woman and housewife has been depicted. Diplomat, poet, and author of fiction, essays, and drama, Castellanos uses irony to express her concem with issues linking women to the realities of gender, race, and class. In her poem "Meditation on the Brink," Castellanos rejects methods which real women, as well as female fictional characters, have devised to respond to the limitations placed upon them by society:

        No, it's not a solution
        to throw oneself under a train like Tolstoy' s Anna
        or gulp down Madame Bovary's arsenic
        or await on the barren heights of Avila
        the visit of the angel with the fiery dart
        before finding the cloak back over one's head
        and starting to act.

        Nor to deduce geometry laws by counting
        the beams of one's solitary confinement cell
        like Sor Juana did. . . It is not a solution
        to write while company arrives,
        in the Austen family living room
        or to shut oneself up in the attic
        of some New England house and dream,
        with the Dickinson's family Bible
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        under a spinster's pillow.

        There must be another way that's not named Sappho
        or Mesalina or Mary of Egypt
        or Magdalene or Clemencia Isaura.

        Another way to be human and free.
        Another way to be. ("Meditation" 49)

Rosario Castellanos taught at the University of Mexico, worked for Excelsior, one of the most important newspapers of Mexico, wrote two novels, three collections of short stories, four volumes of essays and criticism, several plays, and a dozen books of poems. She expresses her concerns about the many varieties of domination around her, such as men over women; whites over Indians; North Americans and Europeans over Mexicans; the upper classes over the lower classes; parents over children.
        One of the themes that had literally been buried in Latin American literature is the status of women as expressed by women in protest. Castellanos' poetry voices a protest about the condition of women. In poems such as "Meditation on the Brink," the message of Castellanos is quite clear and without a doubt one of the strongest feminist protests of Latin America, to the degree that she has been compared to her fellow feminist of the Seventeenth Century, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.
        Entitlement is still, to a great extent, something hoped for and it has been long in coming to Latin America. Many young men and women writers, politicians and promoters are working diligently to make it a reality. The harmonious reconciliation and mingling of different socio-cultural, political, and ethnic traditions does not happen from one day to the next. Neither does an area of rapidly increasing population readily avail itself of financial and economic means. In this essay it has been argued that there is no innate incapacity in Latin American women to exert and to know their rights and their place in Latin American society.





NOTES

        1See Melvina McKendrick's study of the "mujer varonil," Woman and Society in the Spanish Drama of the Golden Age.

        2See Angel del Río, "Santa Teresa de Avila."

        3For a good biography of Malintzi, see Gustavo Rodriguez' Doña Marina.

        4See Mujeres mexicanas.

        5See Mujeres mexicanas.

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WORKS CITED

Alegría, Claribel. Flowers from the Volcano. Trans. Carolyn Forché. Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 1982.

Alegría, Fernando. Retratos contemporáneos. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1979.

Barrig, Maruja. "Chastity Belt." Lyn and Heyck. 337-41.

Calderón de la Barca, Pedro. La vida es sueño. del Río and del Río. I: 765-87.

Castellanos, Rosario. Balún-Canán. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1968.

---. "Meditation on the Brink." Poesía no eres tú. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1972. 49.

---. Oficio de tinieblas. México: J. Mortiz, 1962.

---. "Valium 10." Lyn and Heyck. 191.

Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de. El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha. México: Porrúa, 1985.

---. Novelas ejemplares. México: Porrúa, 1983.

Lispenor, Clarice. "Happy Birthday." Lyn and Heyck. 177-86.

Lyn, Denis and Daly Heyck, eds. Tradición y cambio. New York: Random House, 1988.

Madariaga, Salvador de. Mujeres españolas. Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1972.

Matto de Turner, Clorinda. Aves sin nido. 1889. Caracas: biblioteca Ayacucho, 1994.

McKendrick, Melveena. Woman and Society in the Spanish Drama of the Golden Age: A Study of the "Mujer Varonil." Cambridge: Cambridge U P, 1974.

Milán, Elena. "Las buenas mujeres." Lyn and Heyck. 343-46.

Mirandé, Alfredo and Evangelina Enriquez. La Chicana. The Mexican-American Woman. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1979.

Molina, Tirso de. "El burlador de Sevilla." del Río and del Río. I: 565-80.

Mujeres mexicanas. México: Publicación del Partido Revolucionario Institucional, 1971.

Paz, Octavio. "Orfandad y Legitimidad." El ogro filantrópico. Barcelona: Seix-Barral, 1990.

---. Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz o Las trampas de la fe. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1983.

Rangel, Alejandra and Lidia Rodríguez. De mujeres y otros cuentos. Monterrey, N.L., México: Universidad Autónoma de Nuevo León, 1989.

del Río, Angel. "Santa Teresa de Avila." del Río and del Río. I: 378-87.

---, and Amelia A. de del Río, eds. Antología General de la Literatura Española. 2nd edn. 2 vols. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1963.

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Rodríguez, Gustavo. Doña Marina. México: Imprenta de la Secretária de Relaciones Exteriores, 1935.

Simpson, Lesley Bird. Many Mexicos. 4th edn. Berkeley: U of California P, 1966.

Vega, Lope de. Fuenteovejuna. Clásicos Ebro. Madrid: Ebro, 1972.




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{69}

Unravelling Cruelty

Gail Tremblay         



        Sometimes I wake; there is so much
        wanting in me, hunger, an insatiable
        dance rocking more need than could ever
        make sense. No taste or touch or intimate
        explosion between my legs could fill
        the empty well of my being. I stare
        into space and shiver before the hollow
        throats of thousands starving on an earth
        parched by too much pillaging. I long for
        clean rain, for living water not killed
        by chemicals, to wash all this sorrow away,
        to quench the thirst of this circling planet
        so that every creature could drink
        the titillating nectar that makes life possible.
        It worries me that so much of human work
        has become an irrational act done without
        thought to profit a few. So many of those
        that nurture the land are hunted, rounded up,
        punished for daring to remember how to love,
        how to maintain ancient relationships
        between themselves and other beings who allow
        community to live in balance. I fear
        those that don't recognize the sacredness
        in plants, who create deserts, mowing trees
        so ancient that their knowing has sheltered
        generations of lovers from hundreds
        of species. So often, I see my own complicity,
        my inability to simplify my life in holy ways
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        that will free us from this galloping plunge
        toward oblivion. I long to give an image,
        to sing a rich, convoluted song that vibrates
        until knowing is born, until we learn the thing
        we need will entail a patient unravelling
        of this cruelty some think is human nature.


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Feminist Neo-Indigenism in Chicana Aztlán

Arthur Ramirez         

        The resurgence of Indigenism in Latin America, particularly in the arts and humanities, has had wide-ranging ramifications in Mexico and Latin America for over a century. Archaeological excavations in the late Eighteenth Century and early Nineteenth Century first gave the impetus for a re-evaluation of the Pre-Columbian past of Latin America. The discovery of antique ruins and art, remnants of an indigenous legacy that had previously been ignored, neglected, or even unknown, stirred an emerging and well-founded revision of Native American cultures that had been ruthlessly marginalized, suppressed, or destroyed.
        The publication in the 1880s of Aves sin nido (Birds Without a Nest) brought forth the first truly Indianist work in Latin America. A new perspective, full of sympathy and empathy, continued the revisionism and reevaluation. From this point, for this last century, important cycles of indigenist art and thought have generated more and more works that have transformed the Europeanized cosmovision securely in place among the power elite and the educated circles of Latin America in the Nineteenth Century.
        The result has been a significant diffusion of Indigenism, contending with the formerly secret, hidden Latin American self. The idols behind altars that had been there all along became manifest. The great influence of Indigenism is ever more clear in many realms of contemporary life, including political rhetoric and ideology, revolutionary thought, and attempts to return to an Indigenist past that encompass, for example, land reform, collectivism in working the land, and an almost mystical telluric attachment to the land. Yet, beyond such "practicalities," there are deep-structured essences that serve as underpinnings, ideologically and philosophically.
{72}
        In Mexico in 1904, several years before the Mexican Revolution, Dr. Atl (Gerardo Trujillo, who renamed himself using the Nahuatl term for "water") served as a catalyst, a pioneer, and began to define an Indigenist philosophy and ideology and how it could concretely be implemented. After the end of the Mexican Revolution in 1920, various aspects of Indigenism moved from the realm of ideals and ideology to practical applications. José Vasconcelos, as Secretary of Public Education, author of Indology (1925) and of The Cosmic Race (1927), promoted miscegenation, while still holding deep reservations about the Indigenist past and present. Nevertheless, it was Vasconcelos who in 1921 first commissioned a mural from Diego Rivera, who was to become the leader for the next twenty years of a very significant transformation in aesthetic thought and art works in Mexico. Broad areas of intellectual life were also to be affected.
        A generation later, in the 1960s, Chicanos resurrected Indigenism as a powerful force. The influence of Jack Forbes and his book Aztecas del Norte spread far and wide among Chicano artists and intellectuals. The concept of Aztlán, the original historical, legendary, mythical, and symbolic homeland of the Aztecs to the north of the Aztec Empire as it was established in the Valley of Mexico in 1325, was revived among Chicanos. Old links with the glory and grandeur of ancient Mexican civilizations were reborn. Perhaps it was Alurista who best embodied this influence in his poetry. Cultural nationalists such as Rodolfo "Corky" Gonzales also began to develop an indigenous perspective in thought, literature, and social-political-cultural programs. Particularly in California, but later spreading to other parts of the Southwest and the Chicano Diaspora, Indigenism, as art and philosophy especially, was revitalized. Chicanos felt empowered in the very real force of Indigenism and its continuing permutations and present-day vitality. Indigenism persists as an outburst that coincides with radical views, the "New Age," ecological concerns, and a renewed interest in spirituality and the significant connections between mind and body and the filling in of gaps left by science and technology.
        To be sure, Indigenism itself has also been at times overly idealized, romanticized, made to hark back to a "paradise lost" that never was. For some it provides a refuge from a harsh reality, affording escapism, at times more cosmetic than concrete. Some Marxists charged that past glories among indigenous cultures were built on the backs of slave labor. Also looming was that scorned image of the noble savage, of a pristine purity incarnate, that patronizingly scorned the indigenous way of life just as it held it up as an inspiring model. In addition, the difference between an Indigenist political rhetoric, as in the case of the Mexican government, and the reality of its lack of implementation, has been only too real.
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        Nevertheless, a deeply rooted desire on the part of many Chicano artists, humanists, and intellectuals to return to the ideals of the origins of the indigenous past represented an urgent desire and even need. Yet, idealism endured. Indigenism could raise an individual or collective self-esteem while combating alienation. Indigenism offered an inspiring role model and guide. The generalized amnesia obscuring history could began to lift. The creation of an identity, the resolution of an identity crisis, could not but be helped by an awareness and appreciation of the links to the past. How else to understand the present and forge a future? However, after a while, Indigenism among Chicanos seemed to fade, the trend became a self-parody, the distortions too excessive to even possibly serve as a legitimate trend, much less as a possible path toward a return to authenticity.
        Though never completely fading away, Indigenism barely persisted. It was more a question of nuance and impact, of relative importance or perhaps lesser impact, of the degree of its significance or the intensity of its expression. Isolated instances of an undercurrent continued, but the great, and perhaps overly serious manner in which it had been taken before, was no longer present. The viability of Indigenism withered, its vitality virtually as marginalized as it had been before.
        However, in recent Chicana literature, Indigenism has reappeared with force, power, vigor, and intensity. A new Chicana Renaissance has emerged in recent years to add to the development of the Chicano Renaissance of the '60s and its original adoption of Indigenism as a significant force in art, literature and philosophy. The impact of such seminal books as Alurista's Floricanto en Aztlán or NationChild Plumaroja which had been softened with time, with an inevitable cooling urgency, has now been taken up once again by feminist writers seeking similar impact and empowerment on their own terms.
        By the mid-'80s in Chicano/-a literature, then, the Indigenist theme seemed to have run its course, but a new re-emergence among Chicana feminist writers would carry the theme forward toward a new development as it became a main element appropriated for specific purposes. Present long before, Chicana feminist writers in fact became overwhelmingly important in the mid-'80s. As Nicolás Kanellos, editor of the Americas Review and publisher of Arte Publico Press put it in the 1986-87 Arte Publico brochure, "The best thing about Chicano literature is Chicana literature." And Chicanas were taking up the Indigenist theme as their own and in an entirely new way.
        Already a pioneer Chicana feminist, Estela Portillo, who had first come to the fore in the early '70s, had included Indigenism in her works. For example, her play Blacklight, focusing on poor Mexican migrants, incorporates quite a few references to Mayan thought and culture. At a reading of the play, Portillo was asked how this could {74} possibly be: it was unrealistic to consider that these underclass characters would hark back to Mayan references, which had in more recent times become part of the domain of the intelligentsia. The question was: how can these characters show these links? How can the play sustain these "intellectual" references? Portillo, on the advice of the director, Ruben Sierra, stated, "Why not?" After all, there are ancestral links, a part of the Mayan legacy that persists, that still lives.
        Especially important to this neo-Indigenist trend in Chicana literature was the emergence of highly significant Chicana writers, such as Sandra Cisneros, Denise Chavez, and Lorna Dee Cervantes. The latter's first collection of poetry, Emplumada (Plumed; Feathered), demonstrated many subtle references to neo-Indigenism, glimmerings indicating Cervantes' affinity for and identification with a renewed, revitalized sense of neo-Indigenism. Cervantes' sense of identity was intertwined with both feminism and neo-Indigenism, each elaborately expressed as a means to pursue not ideology but poetic truth. Cervantes expressed a deep subjectivity by means of an objective heritage embodied in neo-Indigenism.
        By such means Indigenism took a new turn, strongly nuanced with feminism and advancing the argument further of how neo-Indigenism could have a vital function in Chicano/-a literature. Simultaneously, feminism took a vivid new direction and a dramatically enhanced expressiveness.
        Neo-Indigenism arose again in a new and transformed way as part of a resurgence in feminism, and vice versa. The two, it turned out, fit together because Chicana feminist writers had re-interpreted Aztlán to join these two trends in a synergistic manner. The two became greater when together. How, one might ask, could these two concepts and literary currents be interrelated to form a powerful new reinterpretation, a strong innovative force? To answer that we must go back to history and revisionism, to ideology and scholarship, and, ultimately, to advocacy.
        Chicana feminists in various disciplines had begun a major study, largely revisionist, of women and their roles in history, individually and as a collectivity. In the late '70s La Chicana, a book by Alfredo Mirandé and Evangelina Enríquez, took a multi-focal approach to the study of Chicanas in several areas, including history, literature, and the social sciences. Idealization was everywhere present, advocacy scholarship prevailed, and points were scored in favor of an Indigenist-based origin to feminism; i.e., an original matriarchal system; the importance of fertility goddesses; a male and female dualistic principle as central to Aztec thought; unrealistic, overstated interpretations of female equality in the structure of the family, or in the Aztec social order. Research was clearly exploited to support ideology, to score {75} points as part of advocacy scholarship.
        Something similar occurred around the same time in the groundbreaking article by Adelaida del Castillo on La Malinche, who was the lover and translator of Hernán Cortez and who helped in overthrowing the Aztec Empire. Previously considered by most Mexicans and Mexican intellectuals such as Octavio Paz (in The Labyrinth of Solitude) as a traitor, a betrayer of her own people, La Malinche in Del Castillo's revisioned view in her self-proclaimed "mystical" history turned the tables. In the absence of documentation, Del Castillo undertook a bold and innovative revisionist view: La Malinche was not evil, not a traitor, but, on the contrary, an idealist, unselfishly converting the Indians to a more "compassionate" religion, propelled by the zeal of her recent conversion. La Malinche, according to Del Castillo, was her own person, not a puppet, not an exploiter, but nobly accomplishing her own purposes. La Malinche, by means of Del Castillo's speculation and a kind of literary analysis based on very sketchy historical documentation, emerges as an embodiment of a new feminist neo-Indigenist ideal role model: talent, intelligence, resourcefulness, resilience, strength of character, charisma, power, vision, idealism, independent-minded thinking, and strong individualism. La Malinche, then, represents the perfect union between feminism and neo-Indigenism. The two, in short, are joined together to overthrow the shackles of at least 500 years of oppression.
        Chicana feminists were able to move south of the border with their revisionism and act as powerful catalysts in bringing about a complete turnabout in the image of La Malinche in Mexican feminist literature as in Chicana literature. The powerful and pervasive folk figure of La Llorona also underwent a similar reinterpretation. Outmoded notions were swept aside; passé references were no longer congruent with the new cosmovision posited by Chicana neo-Indigenist feminists.
        Yet another different adaptation emerged, especially among lesbian feminist Chicana writers who militantly promote a neo-Indigenist point of view. Gloria Anzaldúa and Cherrie Moraga in This Bridge Called My Back (and later in Making Face) tie together the power and autonomy of feminists with the feminist principle of indigenous earth goddesses. The emphasis is on the positing of a "Coatlicue state," something Gloria Anzaldúa incorporates into her book Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987), where Coatlicue, the Aztec earth goddess, promotes the creation of work in the "deep, dark earth of the unconscious. . . . A seeming stasis or immobility is broken by underground activity that bursts through, a highly dynamic energy that cannot accept interference from the conscious mind" (47). Such evocations of goddesses represent the creative process, or by extension, an individual's Life Force--which ultimately cannot be repressed. A {76} new world view emerges, generated by feminist neo-Indigenism.
        From poetry and bold, even aggressive, originality to ideology and philosophy, a new weltanshauung is imaginatively created: a matriarchal point of departure emerges from an evocation of indigenous cultures. Neo-Indigenism implies a profound transformation of identity and consciousness, a neo-Indigenism that is far from cosmetic; it is fundamental, totally integral. It is a matter of conviction, as much a constituent element as culture and religion, with a new epistemology, a new aesthetics, a new politics, all elements fusing in neo-Indigenist feminism, a non-Western, non-empirical innovative essence that stresses mysticism, intuition, a sensibility full of feelings and nuances, of a virtually intangible yet bold feminist attitude, a vindication and validation of a feminist underclass that has boiled to the surface. Aggression in this case implies the exploration of previously unrecognized realms of reality. A spiritual and emotional subjectivity pervades this revisionist union of feminism and neo-Indigenism.
        The feminism carried forward by Gloria Anzaldúa in Borderlands/ La Frontera is far more encompassing than lesbianism. Coatlicue, as Anzaldúa states, "da luz a todo y a todo devora" ("sheds light on everything and devours everything"). Coatlicue is a powerful archetype "that inhabits, or passes through my psyche," in the words of Anzaldúa. She continues, Coatlicue is "a consuming internal whirlwind, the symbol of the underground aspects of the psyche," "the incarnation of cosmic processes" (46). Coatlicue represents duality, and even beyond that, a third perspective--she is "life-in-death" and "death-in-life"--"life and death together as one process" (47). Coatlicue is the contradictory "fusion of opposites, similar to the Greek Medusa, the Gorgon" (47).
        Anzaldúa's artistic and philosophical construct, then, is more than the mere positing of a concept--it is incarnate. Feminist neo-Indigenism is a way of life. If this sounds like a new Eden, a new return to paradise in an archetypical unconscious, so be it.
        Feminist neo-Indigenism in this sense is not an "alternative" means of interpretation but a new central hypothesis with ancient roots. Power and feelings create a new ambiance from which to view feminist neo-Indigenism. Its potential substantive nature is creative, forceful, significant. The very union of widely varied elements serves to generate strength and vitality. Sophistication of an artistic and philosophical nature join in a framework of life, vitality, authenticity.
        Heterogeneity, contradictions, and ambiguities only serve to bolster this reinterpretation because that is the nature of life itself. Hidden memories, barely palpable, perhaps intangible, impinge on the moment, as Anzaldúa makes clear. A harmonious ideology is given impetus to go beyond the seeming (and real) contradictions. Interestingly, a tabula rasa sort of empty mind and stasis are the necessary conditions for {77} creativity. Insights, epiphanies, incisive revisionism make conventional "common sense" nonsense--or, at least, common sense is marked as an obstacle to new revelations and discoveries, to linkages previously ignored.
        Not surprisingly, neo-Indigenism as a resurgent force is also a part of the work of Chicano writers. However, it is Chicana feminists who have seized the essence of what may merely constitute, in the broad scheme of things, another cyclical development of neo-Indigenism. Meanwhile, the influence is full of impact and vitality. Is there, still, one wonders, a new kind of idealization? How would one judge matters of balance and "authenticity" (whatever that is) with distortion and exaggeration? Does more fruitful contextualization transcend notions of escapism? Does a sense of proportion overcome the narrower feminist focus? Is the depth of feminist neo-Indigenism congruent with not just an internal, universal essence of being, ontologically speaking, but with a scrupulous historical accuracy? In short, do the old gods encounter the New Age, though not without a little sham mixed in with shamanism?
        Linking ancient roots with the present, illuminating the contemporary era with old traditions, feminist neo-Indigenism contributes significantly to Chicana Aztlán.





WORKS CITED

Alurista [Alberto Urista de Heredia]. Floricanto en Aztlán. Los Angeles: UCLA Chicano Studies Center Publications, 1971.

---. NationChild Plumaroja. San Diego: Toltecas en Aztlán, 1972.

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

---, ed. Making Face, Making Soul/ Haciendo Caras: Creative and Critical Perspectives by Feminists of Color. San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 1990.

del Castillo, Adelaida R. "Malintzin Tenépal: A Preliminary Look into a New Perspective." 1974. Between Borders: Essays on Mexican American/ Chicano History. Adelaida R. Castillo et al., eds. Encino CA: Floricanto, 1990. 124-49.

Cervantes, Lorna Dee. Emplumada. Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 1981.

Forbes, Jack. Aztecas del Norte. Greenwich CT: Fawcett, 1973.

Matteo de Turner, Clorinda. Aves sin nido (Birds Without a Nest). Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1994.

Mirandé, Alfredo and Evangelina Enríquez. La Chicana. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1981.

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Moraga, Cherrie and Gloria Anzaldúa, eds. This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color. Latham NY: Kitchen Table, 1984.

Paz, Octavio. The Labyrinth of Solitude. New York: Grove, 1989.

Trombley, Estela Portillo. Blacklight. Sor Juana and Other Plays. Ypsilanti MI: Bilingual P/Editorial bilingue, 1983. 101-42.

Vasconcelos, José. Indologia: Una interpretacion de la cultura ibero-americana. (Indology). Paris: Agencia Mundial de Libreria, 1925.

---. La Raza Cosmica: Mision de la raza iberoamericana; notas de viajes a la America del Sur (The Cosmic Race). Paris: Agencia Mundial de Libreria, 1927.




{79}

Teaching "Multicultural" Perspectives: All Not Present and Accounted For

Bruce McKenna

{Permission to reprint this article has not been received.}




{87}

Essentially, It's Spring

Paula Gunn Allen         

for David Halliburton        

{Permission to reprint this article has not been received.}






{88}

FORUM





Upcoming Sessions at MLA (Chicago, December 1995)

        The following are MLA sessions that have been scheduled by both the MLA Division on American Indian Literatures (Ken Roemer, Chair, Division Executive Committee) and ASAIL. Special thanks to Kim Blaeser, Jim Ruppert, LaVonne Ruoff, and Betty Bell for organizing these sessions.



25. Native American Voices of the Midwest: Readings. Wed. 27th, 7-9 p.m., Newberry Library.
        Presiding
: A. LaVonne Brown Ruoff, U of Illinois at Chicago (emerita)
        1. Betty Louise Bell, U of Michigan.
        2. Kimberly M. Blaeser, U of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.
        3. William Penn, Michigan State U.
        4. Roberta Hill Whiteman, U of Wisconsin-Eau Claire.
        5. Carter Revard, Washington U.

198. Native American Literature: Seeking a Critical Center. Thu. 28th, 12:00-1:15, Truffles, Hyatt Regency.
        Presiding
: Kimberly Blaeser, U of Wisconsin--Milwaukee.
        1. "Heart Metaphors in American Indian Thought and Literature," Kathryn Shanley, Cornell U.
        2. "American Indian Centers: The Unacknowledged Requisite for Concentric American Literatures," Gordon Henry, Michigan State U.

{89}
Joint Business Meeting: American Indian Literature Division & Assn. for the Study of American Indian Literatures.
Thu. 28th, 7:15 p.m., Stetson B&C.
        Presiding
: Kathryn Shanley, Cornell U and Kenneth Roemer, U of Texas at Arlington.

391. Identity and Intentionality: Native Language Presence in Contemporary Texts. Fri. 29th, Columbus Hall B, Hyatt Regency.
        Presiding
: Frederick H. White, Azusa Pacific U.
        1. `Ark' Idáá Jiní': Conversive Language Use in Contemporary Navajo Poetry," Susan B. Brill, Bradley U.
        2. "`I'll Talk Indian': The Addition of Ojibwa Language and Mythology in Erdrich's Love Medicine," Karah Stokes, U of Miami.
        3. "Louise Erdrich's Tracks: Anishinabe Storytelling," Niki Lee Manos, Marymount College.
        4. "A Native American Aesthetic Approach to Native Language Texts: An Introduction to the Dauenhauers' Haa Shuka, Our Ancestors: Tlingit Oral Narratives," Gloria Bird, Inst. of American Indian Arts.

409. Teaching Native American Texts in Introductory Literature Courses. Fri. 29th, 10:15-11:30 a.m., Atlanta, Hyatt Regency.
Presiding: James Ruppert, U of Alaska, Fairbanks.
        1. "Breaking Our Necks: Incorporating Native American Texts in American Literature Surveys," Chris LaLonde, North Carolina Wesleyan
        2. "Ants in the System: Beginning to Think Strongly about Stories," Robert Gregory, U of Miami.
        3. "The Multicultural Canon, The Sacred Hoop, and Ceremony: Teaching the Native American Novel," Lou Caton, U of Oregon
        4. "Chona and Thoreau: The View from Another Culture," Cheryl Brown, U of Texas at Arlington.

738. Regionalism in American Indian Literature. Sat. 30th, 1:45-3:00 p.m., Columbus Hall A, Hyatt Regency.
Presiding: Melissa Hearn, Northern Michigan U.
        1. "Nature and the Land in Pauline Johnson's The Moccasin Maker," Lee Schweninger, U of North Carolina.
        2. "Anishinaabe Tradition versus Anglo-American Law in Gerald Vizenor's Heirs of Columbus," Stephen Osborne, U of California, Los Angeles.



{90}
Call for Submissions

CIMARRON REVIEW SPECIAL ISSUE
        The Cimarron Review
, a national journal of arts, letters, and opinions published at Oklahoma State University, will devote an issue to American Indian poetry, fiction, criticism, and essays in the Fall of 1996. In this issue, the editors hope to combine the works of established writers with the works of emerging contemporary American Indian writers. The editors therefore strongly encourage poets and writers with little or no publication experience to submit their work for this upcoming issue.
        Please send your work to the following address before July 1, 1996:
              Michael Wilson
              Dept. of English and Comparative Literature
              P.O. Box 413
              The University of Wisconsin--Milwaukee
              Milwaukee, Wisconsin 53201
                  mwilson@csd.uwm.edu
Manuscripts will be returned when accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope.




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CONTRIBUTORS



Paula Gunn Allen, professor of English at the University of California, Los Angeles, is known primarily as the author of several volumes of poems, many gathered in Shadow Country (1982); a novel entitled The Woman Who Owned the Shadows (1983); and a feminist study of American Indian culture, The Sacred Hoop (1986).

Helia M. Corral teaches in the Department of Foreign Languages, California State University, Bakersfield, where she does research on and teaches women's experiences in Hispanic and especially Latin American contexts.

David Halliburton, Stanford professor of English, Comparative Literature, and Modern Thought and Literature, is the founder of the Program for Faculty Renewal. His most recent book is The Fateful Discourse of Worldly Things (forthcoming from Stanford U P).

Servio Marín, who teaches at National University, San Diego, is a Venezuela-born musician and musicologist. He is perhaps best known for installation-cum-performance activities that he composed and conducted at Stanford and in Caracas.

Bruce McKenna is a Sacramento-based teacher of writing and a veteran of the multicultural classroom and the multicultural curriculum.

Arthur Ramirez, a professor in the Department of Mexican-American Studies at Sonoma State University, is interested in approaches to the study of indigenous culture, with emphasis on recent Chicana developments.

Gail Tremblay is an artist and poet teaching at the Evergreen State College. For the workshop at Stanford she created, and recorded for posterity, a large multimedia installation on environmental pollution from an American Indian perspective.

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Gerald Vizenor
, novelist, fiction writer, poet, essayist and playwright, teaches in, and here writes about, ethnic studies at the University of California, Berkeley. In the fall issue of 1993 SAIL published Vizenor's screenplay Harold of Orange. Other of his writings include the novel Griever: An American Monkey King in China (1987) and the non-fiction Wordarrows (1978), Earthdivers (1981), and The People Named the Chippewa (1984).

William Willard, who teaches in the Department of Comparative American Cultures, Washington State University (Pullman), has studied firsthand the effects of industrial "progress" in areas of the Southwest long inhabited by American Indians.



Contact: Robert Nelson
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