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Identifying Mestizo Phenomena:
Representation and Reclamation of Mestisaje’s Foothold
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Estévan Rael-Gálvez, Ph.D, In Serge Gruzinski’s
recently released book, The Mestizo Mind, he addresses
the difficulty scholars “experience in ‘seeing’ mestizo
phenomena, much less analyzing them.”
[1] Gruzinski goes on to describe this “mestizo
phenomena,” in terms of the effects of centuries of contact
and colonization. In this way, mestizo phenomena is much
more than the resulting mixture and hybridization that has
come to characterize mestisaje, but is instead, all of the
effects of these contacts upon people and places alike. The
effects and legacies are thus as much institutional as they
are biological, aesthetic as much as they are ideological.
Seeing will thus require a critical reading and an understanding
of layers and the move toward interpretation, therefore demands
looking deeper still. In the larger
study that this paper is drawn from, I am interested in numerous
transitional moments, as focal points of marking and recording
absence and loss as much as about recovering and inscribing
presence. I begin the study, however, by focusing on the
1930s and moving backwards chronologically. Certainly a transitional
moment, the 1930s was also contemporary moment of introspection
across the nation, evoking a newly heightened interest in
the American past, where images were taken throughout these
communities, photographed and inscribed alike. Like the censuses
and ecclesiastical records of previous generations, these
representations allow us the opportunity to see the effects
of previous centuries, to see the mestizo phenomena. It was at
this time that Charles E. Gibson was hired as an amateur ethnographer
by the Civil Works Administration to conduct several interviews
in the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado, a valley once
settled as part of northern New Mexico, but later annexed
in 1861 with the making of the Colorado territory. Following
his visit to one such household in Guadalupe, Colorado, in
1934, Gibson wrote the following:
Yesterday, when I called on Epifanio
Valdez, grandson of Seledonio, with whom Luis now lives, Epifanio
and his son were sitting in the sunshine visiting with a neighbor.
At some distance sat Luis, alone and silent. When I began
asking questions, Mr. Valdez called Luis over to us. He stood
by, quiet and respectful taking no part in the general conversation,
only replying to direct questions. I was interested in his
attitude, which put me in mind of a well-trained negro servant
of the old south, rather than an old Indian, who had spent
his life herding sheep.
[2]
Gibson’s image of this community and household
is a perfect illustration of Gruzinski’s assertion that, indeed,
it is difficult to see mestizo phenomena. What is clear,
however, is that the mestizo phenomenon of this place is intricately
bound, however, to mestisaje’s foothold in the history of
New Mexico—narrative histories of American Indian captivity
and slavery. In other words, the mestizo phenomenon references
the narrative of what it means to be Indian in the wrong place.
In the same interview,
Gibson goes on to write that the Indian Luis was “originally
the property of Seledonio Valdez,” and had been “acquired,”
as had been the “custom” by “purchase from men who made regular
raids into the Navajo country for the purpose of capturing
slaves.” Gibson further notes that Luis, who himself claims
eighty years, “has been in the Valdez family all his life.” [3] While there is much more to
be noted about this peculiar narrative of slavery, which I
do in the larger study, tracing this 1934 representation to
an 1865 representation of this same Valdez household, where
the five-year-old Luis Valdez is listed among one hundred
and forty-nine other Indian captives in this valley. Yet,
for the purposes of this paper and presentation, I introduce
this inscription here simply to address the politics of representation,
the politics of what is seen, interpreted and ultimately inscribed. This observation
reveals that indigenous captivity and servitude is, in many
ways, a narrative about the positioning of subjects. Thus,
while Gibson implies the very real social positions created
in servitude, his inscription also captures in a broad stroke,
the whole of this study, concomitantly accentuating the way
in which this story is also about representation. Yet, even
now, this particular representation of servitude, just as
it appears to Gibson in 1934, is seemingly out of place
as a slave narrative of the United States of America, which
not only continues to echo of another place, but of another
people. This obscurity exists, in 1934 as it may now, given
the fact that the narratives of enslaved and emancipated Africans
have largely defined nearly every aspect of our nation’s history,
including, according to Robin D. G. Kelley, “today’s various
racial constructions—whiteness, blackness, and an Other
category that persistently renders nonwhites and nonblacks
invisible.” [4]
This obscurity
is precisely what makes reading the old Indian Luis as a “slave”
both so challenging and yet so remarkable. Hence, as Gibson
reads Luis’s “attitude” and position, he is, as he notes “put
in mind” of two distinctive, if not foundational images—“a
well trained negro servant of the old south” on the one hand
and “an old Indian, who had spent his life herding sheep”
on the other. It is precisely the imperatives, defining “slavery”
and “indianness” alike, that come to be structured and assigned
along a temporal and spatial specificity. Because a critical
understanding of reading as well as writing practices and
their effects is one of the concerns and basic premises in
this paper, an understanding of what informs Gibson’s reading
is thus paramount. Here where one stands, faces, sees and
ultimately writes the Indian subject, matters. Hence, beyond
Gibson’s represented subject positions of seemingly idle nuevomexicanos,
a subservient indigenous subject and even, of the superimposing
image of “negro” servitude, the inscription, even if inadvertently,
also points back to Gibson himself, an Anglo-American agent
of the U.S. Civil Works Administration,whose position in this story as author, is
equally subject or at the very least, should be. Therefore, what
Gibson sees and writes may essentially reveal more about his
own standing than about the images he interprets, seeing the
“old Indian” Luis, even if being “put in mind” of something,
someone and somewhere else. Yet, Gibson leaves nothing
else, neither what constitutes his reading nor his relation
to it. For this reason, it remains difficult to say exactly
what information and writings would have informed Gibson’s
knowledge of Indians, Mexicans, and slavery, of the U.S. South
or otherwise. As such, in my encounter with Gibson’s text
I am left only with a series of questions: What did he omit?
How did his perception of either the nuevomexicano
community or of Indians influence what he recorded? Who did
he see as his audience and how did this influence his recording?
What role, if any, did the Civil Works Administration, as
his pseudo-publisher, play in this direction? What writings
influenced his imagery and perception of slavery? Nothing;
of this the text says nothing and so in my encounter with
it, my reading of it, I can say nothing but point to its silence.
The representation by Gibson thus obscures what Johannes Fabian
describes as “a personally situated process of knowing.”
[5] This is, however, part of the politics of writing
and representation that obscures the subject as much as it
does the one who has inscribed it.
Listening for Mestizo Phenomena
The invisibility
of this particular mestizo phenomena—the presence of indigenous
captives, servants and slaves in the history of our communities—however,
is precisely why recovery and a full understanding of the
history, legacy, and memory of colonialism will not only require
putting slavery in its place, but will also entail recognizing
that the place of slavery is not solely defined by the U.S.
South, nor by its subjects. Even if distinct, there are parallel
stories throughout the Americas, even in what is now referred
to as the U.S. Southwest. Yet, these understandings have
cast long shadows nonetheless in our contemporary perceptions
of slavery, but for many, the delicacy and strength of memory
has been longer still and recovery remains all the more critical.
While I agree with Gruzinski that the interpretive move necessitates being
able to see mestizo phenomena, reclamation will also
necessitate more than seeing and observing, but listening
as well. This is important because, mestizo experience
and history is subaltern history and as such is not only about
invisibility, but is also about silence. Reclamation, like
storytelling, necessitates an understanding of the importance
of listening. My research, in identifying captivity and capturing
identity, has demanded not only seeing these images of mestisaje
and slavery, but diligently listening to the language and
stories embodied in memory still.
Toward these ends, learning how to look at what is seen and learning
how to read what is inscribed, let me return to an image,
albeit different from the one I began of Gibson’s seeing Luis
Valdez, but still of a household and one of several stories
of research that have contributed to my dissertation. In
1995, while conducting interviews throughout Taos County I
found my way into Costilla —a small farming village located
on the north central most edge of New Mexico. There, Mrs.,
Martinez, presented me with a photograph. It is an image,
as she told me of her family— of her great great grandfather’s
household, Juan Andres Bernal, a house, ya caida, fallen,
she said pointing with her lips through the window, toward
the houses down the road.
Although a sheepherder whose income and property value in the late nineteenth
century would have comparatively identified him as one of
the poorest citizens of Taos county, Juan Andres is pictured
here with coat and tie and is positioned almost in the center
of the photograph with the male members to his right. His
wife, Cornelia is positioned to his left along with three
of the daughters. However, even more than this positioned
story of gender and age or even my thoughts about the photographer’s
position; what caught my attention, was that to the distant
left, seemingly hidden into the shadows of one of the household’s
entrances was yet another family. “Y la otra familia,”
I asked pointing toward the shadows. “No mijo no son familia,
they are not family. Yet, having said this, she paused and
began again, accentuating the subtle nuance that had long
characterized this story of indigenous peoples being held
within nuevomexicano households: bueno, si
eran como familia, well, they were like
family,” she then explained, proceeding to point to what this
seemingly subtle difference being family and
being like family meant precisely to her. “Esa
mujer era una de las yutas criadas de los Bernales,” the
woman was a Ute servant belonging to the Bernal family. It
was in this qualification, that Mrs. Martinez had also accentuated
the stark contrast and differences, however that had similarly
characterized this story.
The reality was that this woman might have actually been one of several
indigenous women or children entered into and living in the
community of Costilla in the 19th century. And
yet, one of the difficulties in the recovery of any indigenous
histories and certainly of one that in stark contrasts, accentuates
the reality of what it meant to be entre-metido or
mal-criado— that is, entered into and or raised Indian,
in the wrong place, is that if recovery is possible at all,
it often emerges with a great deal of ambivalence.
Later, drawing from Mrs. Martinez’s recollections, I was able to
search through various records to reveal that the woman whose
face is here half-concealed by her shawl and distanced against
the Bernal family home, may indeed have been one of many entered
into the official record. The first, is of a captive Ute
whose name was interestingly enough scratched off the ecclesiastical
record, yet baptized in 1850 into the household of Juan de
Jesus Bernal (Juan Andres’ father). The second returned me
to 1865 listing of captives, wherein Margarita, a 25-year-old
Navajo is identified, but unlike many on this list, wishing
to return. The final is of a daughter of Margarita, who is
noted as “la india de JJ Bernal.” Her child’s father is listed
simply as “no conocido,” unknown in the 1875 record. The
census records are just as telling. A “Margarita” shows up
in the household of Juan de Jesus Bernal, racially described
as Indian with her occupation listed as “dms” or domestic
servant in 1870. By 1880, however, another, perhaps the same
Margarita is listed similarly in the household of Juan Andres
Bernal along with a man by the surname “Aguilar” listed simply
as a “peon.”
Beyond my efforts to accurately identify this woman’s identity obscured
into these records, I realized then as I do now that this
image, much like the records, has everything to do with distance,
position and representation. These positions, experienced,
identified, imagined and passed down through both text and
story, do not simply reveal peculiar subjectivities and social
distances, but identities, which gradually have become contemporary
communities. Part of the politics
of representation, as I pointed to with Gibson, is often the
failure of the scholar to identify their own subjectivity.
I raise this point to note that my own distance may not be
exactly as it would seem from this picture. I have known
Mrs. Martinez all my life. I was in fact raised in this community
and on these storied memories, having inherited these very
struggles over identity— over the images of the Indian other
captured within the images. Even my move into Mrs. Martinez’s
home, like many of those I entered, from the very beginning
came from a recognition that, as Greg Sarris writes, this
is “a story for me, not only as a story that positions me
in certain ways but also a story that can inform me about
that position.” [6] Although I was
too young to understand how these stories of my youth were
filled with meaning, the reality was, that it was these stories
of intercultural violence and mixture that raised me up knowing,
perhaps without the language, but knowing, that stark
contrasts and subtle nuances carried the image of identity,
even here, in these houses. For me to dismiss this knowing,
would be to dismiss the opportunity to discuss why this is
important, however, where we stand in relation to the images,
to the stories that we tell, inside and out. Representation
is after all, also about standing and position; where you
come from and stand always matters, despite the mythology
of objectivity. Without exception, many of the images of
northern New Mexican and Colorado villages and families are
predominantly by outsiders. The project of reclamation should
not discount these perspectives; it should in fact, accentuate
them all the more. Yet, it should also neither discount native
perspectives as well. Recently, during a residential fellowship
held at the School of American Research and following my colloquium
presentation, an anthropologist approached me and felt it
necessary to say, “It must be difficult, if not impossible
to tell the History accurately since you are so close to it.”
It is quite clear what I was being told that day; however,
make no mistake about it, my telling was already cast as illegitimate,
not rigorous enough, not just so close, but too
close. The measure of distance itself in this case is what
determines not only what counts as legitimate research but
who can count as a legitimate researcher. This is not to
say that insider research, as such cannot engage in these
same questionable practices of the past. Learning how to
see mestisaje and its foothold in captivity should
not be about evoking nostalgia, where images can be as romanticized
as they have been in the past. For those few researchers
that have emerged from these communities, there is a delicacy
to this type of research. Being an insider does not carry
the privilege of going away; home and the field are not distinct
and telling stories has a consequence, if not for me, then
for my own family and community. Failure to recognize this
risks an appropriation, as it has in the past, which can be
used by the dominant society to justify a continuing material
and ideologogical marginalization. Yet it is this type of
writing on the edges of the contradictions and tensions of
our communities, imagined and or otherwise realized, that
we must account for, while continuing to realize that our
reach may sometimes exceed our grasp. Seeing, listening,
understanding mestizo phenomena in the worlds we study,
past and present, and in the worlds we live in, past and present,
will, I think reveal reflections of this community that are
not fixed or static, but instead alive with change, accommodation
and imbued even with contradiction, which in the end may well
provide counter points to the representations. Indeed, the
most telling aspects of any deep and sustained study of the
nuevomejicano Indo-Hispano culture, in fact reveals
how the long story of the people itself rises from beneath
layers of histories formed somewhere in-between erasure and
memory—histories experienced, imagined and passed down through
story, telling, as it is, identities. After
all, identity, is no museum piece sitting stock still in glass
cases, no singular archival document, no manifest monument,
but instead is, as Eduardo Galeano writes, the astonishing
synthesis of the contradictions of everyday life. Understanding
this means keeping our senses vigilant, eyes wide open, seeing,
listening, and feeling the amazing delicacy and strength of
the mestizo phenomena that is around us.
Copyright © 2003
Smithsonian Institution |
