Luis Alberto Urrea really said it best, didn't he?
In class this week we discuss the direction in which we believe Chicano/a literature will be going in the future. We read excerpts from Brides and Sinners in El Chuco, we read about Scenic Drive, the days when going to Juarez for a drink before your 21st birthday was a right of passage.
We all nod our heads in agreement as as someone talks about the sorrows of this generation of Chicanos and Chicanas living along the border: the memories of Mexico, dentists/doctors/pharmacies we visited, the places we like to shop/drink/dance/eat, the little half-built, salmon or sky-colored houses we lived in as children, the families we haven't seen in years, the home we cannot return to. Her voice cracks and she says it breaks her heart to abandon Mexico, the shame in giving in, the shame in being afraid.
"I hope this is over by the time I have children, I don't want them know Juarez like this; I want them to know Mexico as I once did, I want don't want this for them."
"Even when it's over," someone adds, "even when it's over, it won't be the same."
We all nod in agreement.
A Community Divided
Teresa Urrea: Saint and Revolutionary
On October 15, 1873, on the edge of an arroyo in the pre-revolutionary land of Mexico, “Santa Teresa” Urrea was brought humbly into the world. While her childhood would prove turbulent to say the least, her biographer, William Curry Holden, describes her as a “happy and carefree” girl (11). Holden reports that Teresa Urrea was born Niña Garcia Nona Maria Rebecca Chavez (it is unclear how she became “Teresa”) on Don Tomas Urrea’s Rancho de Santana in Ocoroni, Sinaloa, Mexico (Holden 10). David Romo, an expert on the Mexican Revolution and its key revolutionaries on a local (El Paso/Juarez) level, notes that unlike most daughters of a well-to-do hacendado (an owner of a hacienda) Teresa Urrea was born into the life of a poor Indian. Her mother, Cayetana Chavez was a fourteen-year-old Tahueco (that is, part Tarahumara and part Cahita) Indian girl who worked for Don Tomas Urrea. While Teresita was young, her mother abandoned her for unclear reasons (Holden 27). She became apprentice to Huila, who Holden describes as a highly respected Yaqui medicine woman at Rancho de Santana. From Huila, Urrea learned the art of healing called curanderismo, which is defined by Eliseo Torres and Timothy L. Sawyer, authors of Curandero: A Life in Mexican Folk Healing as a term derived from he Spanish word “curar” which means “to heal”.
After Tomas Urrea had become “marked” by the president of Mexico, Porfirio Diaz, for supporting the former presidency of one Sebastian Lerdo de Tejuda (whom Diaz overthrew), he relocated himself and his large staff of men, women and children north to his Rancho Aquihuiquichi in Cabora, in the northern state of Chihuahua (Holden 13-18). Holden explains that shortly after the migration, in 1888, Urrea moved from her aunt’s meek hut into her father’s hacienda home (28). “From that point forward,” explain Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur, who wrote a short biographical book on the life and medicine of Santa Teresa, “and for the rest of her life, Teresita would live with a foot in both worlds, that of her father and that of the poor mestizos and indigenous people who worked on his ranch”(n.p.). Suddenly, as Holden tells us, when she was sixteen, Urrea fell into a coma of which the details are shrouded in obscurity. After lying unconscious for three months, she was thought to have died. During her wake, however, Urrea rose and announced to the stunned lamenters that someone would soon die. Three days later, Huila was dead (51). In an article in the September 23, 1896 issue of the El Paso Herald Post, Urrea claimed that in her comatose state, she received instructions from God urging “all to believe in Jesus and… be cured from sickness” [microfilm].
After her coma, it would seem that Urrea’s gifts were strangely refined; it was obvious that something had changed within Teresita. Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur quote Teresita as saying “I do not know what it is. It came to me without my knowledge and while I was in a trance”(n.p.).
When word spread of the girl who had risen from the dead, people from all over sought guidance, blessings, and healing from the girl they now called “la Santa de Cabora” (Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur). “The people believed I was a saint…” Urrea recalls in the September 23, 1896 issue of the El Paso Herald Post, “and I felt that God willed I should heal them” (qtd. in “Santa Teresa”). She dedicated her life from that point forward to healing those who sought her help. Romo claims that during her time in Cabora, some 200,000 people visited Urrea, 50,000 of which she cured (23). This young Santa Teresa Urrea would become renowned among her people for her wise foundation of both spiritual and political beliefs that were founded in her indigenous roots; she would prove a powerful curandera as well as a key player in the Mexican Revolution who would have a resounding influence everywhere she went, even our own El Paso, Texas.
Urrea established a particularly strong bond with the Indian cultures of Mexico. These Indian cultures, according to Edward Spicer, author of The Yaquis: a Cultural History, would be defined chiefly as the Mayo and Yaqui Indians of northern Mexico. The Mayos, Spicer explains, “probably mingled and were absorbed by the Yaquis…” whom were “culturally very similar” (134). Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur shed light on the relationship between Urrea and her Indian patrons, saying, “having grown up in a culture that was rooted in Native ways, her words and actions resonated with other indigenous peoples” (n.p). Her native roots undoubtedly influenced her beliefs and gave Urrea a great empathy for the struggles of the Yaqui and Mayo Indians of Mexico against Porfirio Diaz, who had become president in 1876.
Upon becoming president, Diaz began executing his plan to “modernize” Mexico. Alexander S. Dawson, who wrote Indian and Nation in Revolutionary Mexico, writes that during the Diaz presidency, the Indians of Mexico had “more or less disappeared from the public sphere” (3). Apparently, under his command, the land of poor farmers was being sold to foreign investors and rather than being reserved for feeding his own hungry people, Diaz sold the land for the production of exportable goods. What’s more, thousands of Yaqui Indians (along with other native peoples) were sold to the Yucatan into slavery (Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p.). They were, as Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur note, also often forced into concentration camps or killed on plantation and in mines (n.p.). Urrea often publicly spoke out against these injustices against the poor population of Mexico, as Romo affirms. He claims Urrea “denounced priests for charging money to the poor for performing their religious rites” (24). Furthermore, according to the El Paso Herald Post “she believes…there is no man who is mediator between God and man. For that reason she has no use for the Catholic Church” (“The Mexican Schlatter”). These bold statements caused a surge of support from her followers; meanwhile attracting the scorn of the church and the government to them all. As Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur report, when rebellions against the government began breaking out among Indian villages in the 1890’s, Urrea was held accountable. In fact, Urrea proved so effective in stirring insurgence within the northern Indian villagers of Mexico that she became known as the “Indian Joan of Arc” (n.p).
The insurgencies climaxed in October of 1892 when the small mountain village of Tomochic was destroyed in one of the bloodiest massacres of the Mexican Revolution. As the El Paso Herald Post reports in an article in its September 8,1896 issue, the outburst began when Governor Carillo of Chihuahua forcibly removed cherished Murillo paintings from the church altars (“Teresa Urrea”). Then, as Romo explains, one Padre Manuel Castelo preached to the Tomochictecos that Urrea performed “the work of the Devil”. This prompted the enraged villagers (who were loyal supporters of Santa Teresa) to run him out of town. When local authorities tried to intervene, the Tomochictecos challenged the government’s authority over their religious affairs; the dispute escalated and Governor Carillo of Chihuahua ordered a “siege” on Tomochic (24). In an article published in 1896, the El Paso Herald Post reports “Women and children were shamelessly butchered and Tomochic burnt…they fought not like men, but demons, shouting the names of Maria Santisma and Teresa until they were exterminated” (“Teresa Urrea”). When it was over it was said that “one Tomochic rebel was worth ten federal soldiers”(24). It was clear that the battle of Tomochic would go down as a “symbol of popular resistance against the Mexican Government” (Romo 24).
After the massacre, Mexican authorities apprehend Urrea in Cabora upon which her father denied her involvement, saying she had not “further inflamed or led” the villagers into revolt (“Santa Teresa”). Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur say, however, it was rumored that Tomas and Teresa Urrea, along with a revolutionary and friend of the family, a man named Lauro Aguirre, wrote El Plan de Tomochic which made allegations that the Mexican government was guilty of “murdering indigenous people” including Yaqui and Mayo Indians. Encouraged by her compassion, Romo says the Indians continued rebelling. In fact, he says, according to the New York Times, Urrea was to blame for the deaths of over 1,000 people (23). In 1892, a group of Mayo Indians attacked San Ignacio and Navajoa, Sonora while shouting “Viva Santa Teresa!” (Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p.). The El Paso Herald Post reports that there were also uprisings in her name in Coyame and Presidio del Norte, Chihuahua; she denied involvement completely (“No Part In Them”). Thus, it would appear that while Urrea claimed not to have been directly involved in the early rebellions of the Mexican Revolution, she harbored a deep empathy for the plight of the indigenous villagers who sought justice in her name.
Blaming the Urrea’s for the revolts, Diaz took action. The El Paso Herald Post reports that on May 19, 1892, Urrea and her father received a telegraph informing them that they were to be “expatriated” from Mexico. She and her Father fled Mexico for Arizona. Urrea claimed to have been victimized for being exiled from Mexico without a “judicial investigation” as to whether the allegations that she was involved in the uprisings were true (“No Part In Them”). Before finding herself in El Paso, Urrea settled first in Nogales, El Bosque, and Solomonville, Arizona. Santa Teresa, as Romo tells, arrived in El Paso on June 13, 1896 when she was 22 years old (21). When she arrived, thousands of people waited for her at Overland and Campbell where her first home in El Paso was located; it was clear that her reputation as a curandera had preceded her (Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p).
While Urrea primarily dedicated her time in El Paso to her patients, she still could not escape the controversy– political and otherwise– that surrounded her. In fact, an article in the El Paso Herald Post suggests that Urrea was brought to El Paso on behalf of El Independiente, an El Paso newspaper run by Lauro Aguirre, her old friend, for which he hoped Urea would help raise funds. The El Paso Herald Post writes also that El Independiente was printed (in Spanish) for the purpose of invoking “discontent with President Diaz” (“Santa Teresa”). Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur add that she was named co-editor of the newspaper (n.p.).
In its June 17, 1896 issue, the El Paso Herald Post writes: “[Urrea’s] movements are supposed… to be shrouded more or less with revolutionary surroundings, and… there is liable to be an outbreak” (“The Mexican Schlatter”). Indeed, shortly after Santa Teresa’s arrival, a group of Yaqui Indians attacked Nogales, Arizona, once again in the name of Urrea. While she denied any association with the assailants, as she and Aguirre report in El Independiente on August 21, 1896, she still believed the Yaquis were “justified” in their attacks (Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p.). Urrea expressed great empathy toward the Indians. She is quoted in the New York Journal saying: “My poor Indians! They are the bravest and most persecuted people on the Earth. They will fight for their rights until they win or are exterminated. God Help Them! There are few of them left” (qtd. in Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p.). Not everyone shared Urrea’s sympathy for her follorwes, however, as is demonstrated in the El Paso Herald Post in an article that spoke ill of the “Mexicans of all degrees of rags and tatters…[which] jam the porch, squat around in the yard…block the sidewalks…and make nuisances of themselves generally” (“The Mexican Schlatter”). The article insinuates resentment toward Urrea and her followers from a part of the community, a resentment that according to Romo would force her to relocate. She moved into the red brick building at 500 S. Oregon in El Paso’s Second Ward, or Segundo Barrio.
While there could be no denying that not everyone appreciated Santa Teresa’s presence in El Paso, there were still those who were intrigued by her, and those who adored her. Even despite the scandal, Urrea continued to tirelessly heal her many believers. It is said in the El Paso Herald Post that she treated 175 to 250 people a day while in El Paso, working long days from six o’clock in the mornings to nine o’clock at night (“Santa Teresa”). Despite the strenuous nature of her work, however, Urrea worked for free. The El Paso Herald Post affirms that “she never charged for her services. “If a rich patron donated money to her, she would distribute it among the poor” (qtd. in Romo 24). The newspaper also claims in its June 17, 1896 issue that “her treatment is as free as the aromatic atmosphere pervading the south side of the town” (“The Mexican Schlatter”). She healed diligently, massaging the aching bodies of her followers, using oils and herb medicines to cure a variety of ailments (“Santa Teresa”). A reporter for the El Paso Herald suggests the pettiness of the comments made about Urrea describing her as “comely…despite the cruel pock marks from which few of her people escape.” The same article conveys her humble nature when it stated Urrea did not claim she was a saint. “I am Teresa,” the article quotes, “but I am not a saint, that is what my friends call me because I am able to help some of them” (“Santa Teresa”). On September 8, 1896, the El Paso Herald Post praises Santa Teresa, saying she “embodies charity, love, self abnegation and all those cardinal virtues which orators bepraise” (“Teresa Urrea”).
It became increasingly obvious however, that Urrea could never be safe in the border city. Romo notes that there were three attempts to kill her while she lived in El Paso (24). He adds that informants for the Mexican government regularly visited her. In fact, the El Paso Times says, former Governor Carillo (the same governor who executed the siege on Tomochic) himself brought her a message from President Diaz saying she was welcome to return from exile. She replied she would “never set foot on Mexican soil so long as Mr. Diaz was in power” (qtd in Romo 26). Because of incidents like these, it would appear a fear was growing that Urrea could be kidnapped. The El Paso Herald Post corroborates this in its September 23, 1896 issue, explaining that there was speculation that the Mexican government would attempt to kidnap the young lady (“Santa Teresa”). According to Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur, “Teresa and her family left El Paso on June 11, 1897 for safer places,” and just as there had been hundreds there when she arrived, there were hundreds gathered watch Santa Teresa leave. Upon her departure, Urrea said she hoped she would return (n.p.).
Though she is gone, her presence forever echoes through the streets of El Paso. In fact, Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur point out that every place Urrea lived while in El Paso hold strong connections to “healing and history”. The Tillman Health Center is located at her residence on Campbell, her house on Oregon was turned into the ladies hospital, and her residence on Yandell (where she resided briefly) is now the El Paso Historical Society (n.p.). Romo adds “it’s as if the spirit of Teresita left her mark on the urban landscape of our city where history keeps repeating itself” (qtd. in Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p.). After leaving El Paso, Urrea traveled the United States practicing her medicine. She died at the age of 33 for unclear reasons in Clifton Arizona, where she is buried. Santa Teresa, it is said, “has returned to the border city,” as she hoped to, “brought back by the artists, the poets, the historians, the healers, and the storytellers who believe that a curandera can be the revolutionary who changes the world” (Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p).
Teresa Urrea’s power as a curandera, as well her role in sparking the Mexican Revolution, left an impact everywhere she went. Unfortunately, the revolution Mexico experienced during Urrea’s time has not yet been won. While the revolution of Urrea’s day ended in the early 1900’s, according to Noam Chomsky, a professor of linguistics at MIT University, things like the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) are once again stripping the indigenous people of Mexico of their land (Rage Against The Machine: The battle of Mexico City). The battle against foreign corporations invading Mexico’s farmlands still wages, and the Indians continue to prove themselves, as Santa Teresa herself put it, “the bravest and most persecuted people on the Earth. They will fight for their rights until they win or are exterminated. God Help Them!” (qtd. in Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p.).
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| Figure 1 Urrea Home |
The building at 500 S. Oregon where she lived is still standing, and is decorated by plaque in memory of the Saint (see Figure 1). Luis Alberto Urrea, author and great grandnephew to Santa Teresa, claims that this building is that last existing residence of Teresa Urrea (qtd. in Circula Zihuatekpahtzin and Paso del Sur n.p.). With this in mind, I took the trip downtown to visit the inconspicuous home of the saint. I was astonished to find that, although I’d never before noticed the building, it sits directly across the street from the flea market where my mother and I have spent countless weekends. The house sits quietly on the corner, amidst the other old, seemingly abandoned, mural-ridden buildings of El Paso's Second Ward, otherwise known as Segundo Barrio. It was easy to imagine, when standing on the adjacent sidewalk, the masses of Santa Teresa’s followers who once crowded the very ground on which I stood. As I looked up at the windows of the house, a curtain rustled as someone peered down at me and for a moment, I thought it might be her– Santa Teresita herself– escaping death once again to smile down on me.
El Paso’s Segundo Barrio is currently facing demolition, according to Circula Zihuatekpahtzin, Paso del Sur, which is unfortunate because it is still a bustling neighborhood; rich with the chicano culture that sets our city apart (n.p.). In fact, I have never felt my own chicana heritage so vividly as when I stood at Santa Teresa’s corner home. The term chicano was explained to me in my youth by my Uncle Chuy in the best way I’ve ever heard. “You know you’re a chicana,” he said, “if when you’re in Mexico, they call you a gringa, (a Spanish term meaning “white girl”) and when you’re in he United States, they call you a Mexican.” At the time I hated the word; it displaced me, made me lose my identity and feel that I had nowhere I truly belonged. Standing on that corner, however, knowing what I know now about the things that have happened where I stood, I realized that being called chicana does not remove my identity, it is my identity. Suddenly, I realized that this bustling neighborhood which I always all but disregarded is where I have always belonged.
References
Circula Zihuatekpahtzin, Paso del Sur. Her Medicine Is Still Strong: Teresita Urrea, La Santa de Cabora: Circula Zihuatekpahtzin, Paso del Sur, 2007. Print
Dawson, Alexander S. Indian and Nation In Revolutionary Mexico. Tucson: U Arizona P, 2004. Print.
Holden, William Curry. Teresita. Illus. Jose Cisneros. Owning Mills, Maryland: Stemmer House Publishers, 1978. Print.
Rage Against The Machine: The Battle of Mexico City. Art Dir. Rage Against The Machine, Aimee Macauley. Perf. Rage Against the Machine. DVD. Sony Music Entertainment Inc, 2000.
Romo, David. Ringside Seat to a Revolution. El Paso: Cinco Punto Press, 2005. Print.
“No Part In Them.” El Paso Herald Post. 11 Sep. 1896. Microfilm.
“Santa Teresa.” El Paso Herald Post. 23 Sep. 1896. Microfilm.
Spicer, Edward H. The Yaquis: a Cultural History. Tucson: U Arizona P, 1980. Print.
“Teresa Urrea.” El Paso Herald Post. 8 Sep. 1896. Microfilm.
“The Mexican Schlatter.” El Paso Herald Post. 17 June 1896. Microfilm.
“The Revolution?” El Paso Herald Post. 10 Sep. 1896. Microfilm.
Torres, Eliseo, Sawyer, Timothy L. Curandero: A Life in Mexican Folk Healing. Albuquerque: U New Mexico P, 2005. Print.
La Malinche and la Llorona as Chicana Archetypes: History, Symbolism, and Influence on Chicana/o Culture and Literature
In traditional Mexican and Chicano/a culture, gender roles have been defined in a skewed, phallocentric way that has severely limited the options of a woman to define herself within the culture. One figure of Chicano folklore who has been essential in not only defining, but in redefining Chicana gender roles is the Malinche/ Llorona archetype that is derived of both historical fact and folkloric legend. While these legendary figures have helped oppress and devalue women, contemporary Chicanas have begun to claim these figures as role models by re-defining the stories and reshaping the role of women in Mexican and Chicano history and folklore.
The story of La Malinche had been told many ways, and the details of the story vary. Cordelia Candelaria author of Letting La Lorrona go or re/reading the history’s tender mercies describes a story that “emerge[s] from the era of the Spanish Conquest of Tenochtitlan (now Mexico City) in 1521. La Malinche, according to Mary Louise Pratt, author of “Yo soy la Malinche”: Chicana writers and the poetics of ethnonationalism, was a citizen under the rule of Moctezuma, ruler of the Aztecs, from Teticpac and was “of noble birth.” While many versions of the story of La Malinche describe her as being of royal or noble birth, there are also conflicting reports of this detail. Leslie Petty, referencing Rachel Phillips, argues that “although she was from an indigenous Mexican tribe, she was far from royalty” (Petty also reports that she was born in Painala, not Teticpac).
The circumstances under which La Malinche found herself in association with Hernan Cortes, however, have also been debated. In some versions, the young girl “(also known as Dona Marina, Marina, Malinalli, and Malintzin) . . . was given by her chief to assist Hernan Cortes in what resulted in conquest of Mexico in 1519-21” (Canderlaria). In another version of the story derived from the accounts of historian and member of the Cortes excursion Bernal Diaz del Castillo, Marina was born into nobility, but when her father died and her mother remarried and had a son with her new husband, Marina was sold into slavery by her mother to funnel the family inheritance to her newborn son rather than her daughter (Pratt).
Petty reports that she “grew up speaking Nahuatl and was either sold or given away as a child . . . [then was] moved to Tabasco where she learned to speak Mayan.” It was this proficiency in learning languages that would lead la Malinche to become a key historical and subsequently archetypal, figure in the story of the Spanish Conquest of Moctezuma and the Aztec empire.
“Marina was used to provide the missing link by translating the Nahuatl into Mayan . . . [she] soon learned Spanish and became Cortes’s primary translator . . . [thereby] help[ing] him defeat Monteczuma” (Petty). “She,” as Pratt elaborates, “obeying men obeyed her father’s [or chief’s, or master’s, etc] wishes to be given to Cortez and gave him Mexico.” Her help, Pratt reinforces, was undoubtedly “absolutely essential to Cortes’s successions at forging alliances with indigenous groups who opposed Aztec domination.”
While Marina’s role in the historical aspects of the defeat of the Aztecs is clear, her transition from historical figure to archetypal icon stems, apparently, from her personal relationship with Hernan Cortes. According to Petty, “historical writings confirm that Cortes and Marina had a sexual relationship; she gave birth to his son, Martin.” This relationship, when considered along with her role in helping Cortes in his conquest-centered efforts, sow the seeds for an image and stigma that would plague Marina’s name for centuries to come. Pratt poses questions that were imaginably in the minds of Marina’s Aztecs, questions that have been echoed in the minds of generations of Mexicans to come: “Why was she helping them forge an army . . .? Why did she save them from ambushes, attacks, misunderstandings likely to prove her undoing? . . . [W]as she simply a traitor?”
While this sexual relationship between Cortes and Marina certainly denotes treachery in the eyes of many Mexicans, said Mexicans have struggled with the fact that they are, biologically, children of this affair. Pratt points out an assertion made by Octavio Paz: La Malinche, traitor or no, represents “the symbolic mother of the Mexican people. Her illicit relationship with Cortes defined Mexicans as a mestizo people and the illegitimate offspring of colonial rape and/or sexual betrayal.” Therefore, Marina is not only symbolic of treachery, passive femininity, and motherhood simultaneously, but she has in addition been associated with the violated, raped, and dishonored woman.
The legend of la Malinche, more so than the facts of Marina’s life, have contributed in many ways and over many centuries to the overall culture of Mexican and Chicana/o culture and folklore. For example, “the terms malinche and malinchista survive in Mexican vernacular as derisive terms meaning ‘traitor’” (Pratt). Also, these terms have in subsequent years been attributed to women of Mexican or indigenous ancestry who marry out of the race, particularly into the Anglo culture: “the 16th century relation between indigenous woman and Spanish man is ‘read’ onto the 20th century relation between Anglo American man and Mexican American woman” (Pratt). Even more recently, it has been associated with “Chicanas who left the community to seek higher education” or become associated with “feminism” (Pratt).
The Legend of Marina/ la Malinche has also been transposed and weaved into more folkloric mediums of Chicano/a culture, as can be seen in the Mexican folk tale of La Lorrona, the Weeping Woman. The details of the story vary even more so than those of the life of Marina, but every version has the following general story line: it is the story of “ the Weeping Woman who kills (or in some versions abandons) her children and forever after wanders the world in punishing anguish for her sins” (Candelaria).
The most common version of La Llorona involves a woman who is usually of mestizo or indigenous origin who becomes sexually/ romantically involved with a man, usually of higher social class and of Spanish ancestry and bears his children. In one way or another, due variably to reasons involving social caste and/or infidelity the man leaves/ abandons the woman and her children. In any case, the heart-broken woman, in a fit of what is commonly accepted as insanity, drowns/kills/abandons her children. In some versions, she also commits suicide, in others it is not entirely explained how she makes the transformation into La Llorona. Then, and this detail is definitive in the legend, “[her soul] is condemned to earth to roam, childless and crying in eternal torture for her unpardonable sins” (Candelaria).
The story of La Llorona has traditionally been used as a cautionary tale aimed toward children. Legend has it, as most children in Mexican and Chicano cultures find out, that La Llorona wanders the earth near bodies of water in search of her lost children, and if she happens to come across a living child who is not her own, she snatches them up as replacements for her own lost babies. The idea is, according to Candelaria, that it teaches children to “repress their sexual longings.”
Rudolfo Anaya agrees that La Llorona as a cautionary tale aims to “teach sexual taboos . . . [and] warn the child not to indulge in sexual practices. . . . Their role is to frighten the young and keep them in within the fold of family, community, and religious dogma.”
The parallels between the stories of Marina and la Llorona have not escaped Chicano/a writers over the course of time. In Fact, Ana Maria Corbonell, author of From Llorona to Gritona: Coatlicue In Feminist Tales by Viramontes and Cisneros asserts that “La Llorona . . . has been linked to the highly denigrated La Malinche [who] was [also] used as a sexual object by the Spanish.” Both stories have traditionally depicted women in the Mexican and Chicana culture as passive, sexual, and violated creatures, dependent on and abused by men. Pratt describes some of the symbolism and connotations commonly derived from both stories as follows: the women are depicted as representing “the passion-driven acts of a woman in love; as the inevitable playing out of female subordination, as revenge on the society that devalued and objectified her . . . [and] as an archetypal manifestation of female treachery and woman’s inconsistency.”
Both women and their stories have also worked to define gender roles for Mexican women and Chicanas. For example, in reference to the fact that “malinche” has become synonymous with “traitor” in Mexican and Chicano/a culture, Pratt points out that “whether committed by a man or woman, betrayal is coded in the language as female. To be a traitor is by implication to become female, while to be a female is to be inherently a potential traitor.” Pratt also points out the juxtaposition of la Malinche to another iconic archetype of Chicana and Mexican culture: “She plays a negative role opposite . . . The Virgin of Guadalupe, the national saint created out of the intersection of Christianity and Aztec religion” (Pratt). This juxtaposition creates a virgin/whore dichotomy that is prevalent in Mexican and Chicano/a culture that limits women to only two lifestyles and identities, something that contemporary Chicana writers have expressed a desire to change.
The political Chicano movement, like the Chicano and Mexican culture from which it stems, is and has been “masculinist in its conception and tended to unreflectively reproduce the subordination of women. . . [Therefore] Chicana writers often invoke the figure of la Malinche as a vital, resonant site through which to respond to androcentric ethno-nationalism and to claim gendered oppositional identity and history” (Pratt). In their writings, as can be seen from Pratt’s examples of Sosa Riddell’s poetry, they have begun to “not reject the label of la Malinche, but to assume it” (Pratt). Pratt points out that “many poets have sought to reverse the Malinche myth this way.” Referencing Naomi Quinonez, she describes the new myth of la Malinche as “far from betraying her culture, in submitting to Cortes, she was doing exactly what her culture taught her to do. [Quinonez] rescues her from a depressing picture of helplessness . . . [and] restores Malinche to power and agency; from her position as submissive object, she exerted world-historic power.”
In her analysis of Sandra Cisneros’s Woman Hollering Creek, Ana Maria Carbonell has explored the ways in which Cisnero’s has attempted to re-write the story of La Llorona. In this revision, Cleofilas, the Llorona figure and protagonist, “regains her voice by transforming herself from a stereotypical Llorrona figure, a weeping victim, to a gritona, a hollering warrior.” She, rather than being abandoned by her abusive husband, leaves him, thereby “allowing her to shed her previous illusions that welcomed male dependency. . . . She makes the self-reliant choice to protect herself and her children by leaving him” (Carbonell).
Therefore, Chicanas have begun to redefine the legends of both la Malinche and la Llorona. La Malinche, Marina, is no longer the submissive, violated traitor, but the intelligent, talented, and strategic woman behind the power that was Cortes: she is the “visionary” who united cultures, the mother of the Mexican race (Pratt). La Llorrona, similarly, is no longer the compulsive, irresponsible, insane, selfish, jilted woman who is dependent on a man for happiness, but an independent, brave, matriarchal and protective figure: she has not only saved herself, but her child.
References:
Anaya, Rudolfo. “La Llorona, El Kookooee, and sexuality.” Bilingual Review 17.1 (1992): 50-56. Web. 17 Nov 2010.
Candelaria, Cordelia. “Letting La Lorrona go or re/reading the history’s tender mercies.” Heresies 7.27(1993): 111-116. Web. 17 Nov. 2010.
Carbonell, Ana Maria. “From Llorona to Gritona: Coatlicue In Feminist Tales by Viramontes and Cisneros” MELUS 24.n2 (1999): 53-74. Web. 17 Nov. 2010.
Petty, Leslie. “The ‘dual’-ing Images of la Malinche and la Virgen de Guadalupe in Cisnero’s The House on Mange Street.” MELUS 25.2 (200): 119-133. Web. 17 Nov. 2010.
Pratt, Mary Louise. "’Yo Soy La Malinche’:Chicana writers and the poetics of ethnonationalsim.." Callaloo. 16.n4 (1993): 859(15). Gale. NMSU Las Cruces. Web. 17 Nov. 2010.
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