Micki Baldwin, from "Ancient Mexico and Native American Spirituality"

The Hopis call any spirit of any kind—whether it be of a star, mountain, idea, plan, or animal—a Kachina. Kachinas are taken from the Mayan concept of a spirit time manifestation. “Ka,” means respect and “China” means spirit. In the Hopi language, a Kachina is also a man who impersonates any spirit during a ceremony, wearing the sacred mask and costume which invests him with his power. Frank Waters in The Book of the Hopi (New York: Penguin Books, 1977, 38) writes:

When the people (the Hopis) moved off on their migrations over the continent, they carved pictographs of him (the humpbacked flute player better known as Kokópilau, taken from kokoó-wood; pilau-hump) on rocks all the way from the tip of South America up to Canada, and it was for these two máhuas that the Blue Flute and Gray Flute Clans and Societies were named.

Kokópilan carries seed in his hump. This seed represents the first aspect of the Mayan concept of time—the intent. The Hopis’ migration portrays the essence of the second aspect of time—the realization. According to legend, the Hopis moved four times, and in the end, they returned to their starting point. The Hopis travelled in a large circle.

According to this legend, several Hopi clans spread out over the continent. The Spider, Blue Flute, Fire, and Snake clans traveled upward over North America. They traversed the continent, as far north as Canada and to the eastern seaboard and back. Many Hopis believe that the great Serpent Mound near Louden, Ohio, may have been created by their ancestors. The Serpent Mound symbolizes the Aztec concept of the Uroboros—a circle formed by a snake eating its own tail. The great round of the Uroboros is the symbol of primordial unity, which encloses the infinitude of all space and time, spread through America to Indian nations.

The Sun, Bear, Parrot, and Eagle clans moved southward. Some Hopis believe that the Sun Clan constructed a huge city of stone and left images of the sun and the condor, who were their chief deities, everywhere. Hopi migration myths represent ancient Mexico’s influence over the Hopi nation. The mission of the Hopi clans was to complete the four rounds of migration which symbolize the four worlds. The Hopis believe that three previous worlds existed before our present world, the fourth world. Waters notes, “To some Hopis the coyote figure reported found at Guatemala City indicates the started place of the migrations (106).” It is no wonder that the national emblems of the United States and Mexico both contain the eagle, as other legends of indigenous tribes, both above and below the border, mention migratory patterns of early people as well. The idea of many worlds is a Mayan concept. Time repeats itself and does not end, but begins anew.

Bob Haozous in conversation with Guy Cross ("The Magazine"), "Cultural Crossroads of the Americas"

TM: Do you consider your art to be religious or spiritual in nature?
BH: I don’t use those words. I’m trying to inspire people to come up with questions like: What is art? What is the value of art? What is the meaning of cultural art? I chose to be more than a decorator, or an illustrator, of Indian themes early in my career and have always attempted to inspire questions about cultural identity and purpose.

TM: Your art is politically orientated though, isn’t it?
BH: Absolutely.

TM: Talk about the political implications of your older work—like the piece at the University of New Mexico and the new work you are showing at Shidoni.
BH: The piece, Cultural Crossroads of the Americas at UNM, is concerned with the loss of the Mother Earth consciousness—it’s about the child of nature coming to the North and losing something important. The premise of the artwork concerns the migration of indigenous people to the North—to America—where you don’t need a mother.

TM: Why wouldn’t one need a mother, and when you say indigenous people, do you just mean Native Americans?
BH: I use the metaphor of the mother to denote the earth relationship that defines all life. Indigenous man commonly shares a multi-generational relationship with the earth that extends over a long period of time. Modern man’s identity is commonly called two-generational. We are all modern man, or becoming so.

TM: What is the two-generational viewpoint?
BH: The two-generational viewpoint is about caring for yourself, your children, and your elders, and having no concern beyond that. It ignores the long-range relationship of seven generations of the past and seven generations into the future that should define mankind. Instead, it’s a viewpoint based on individuality, ego, and economics.

TM: Are you saying that the seven generations viewpoint has been lost?
BH: Not lost, becoming lost. My statement is that indigenous man is becoming two-generational. For my exhibition at Shidoni, I am showing a limestone sculpture called Two Generation Woman—a woman who has gone from a seven-generation to a two-generation viewpoint, to the viewpoint of modern man. The seven-generation concept is based on a position of environmental responsibility that frames the compromises of destructiveness, necessity for our survival, and stewardship of the earth. The two-generation concept has removed the long-term obligation we have to the earth and places the focus on self. The woman is pure on one side and decorated on the other side. One hand is holding an object and the other hand isn’t. And the viewers can decide whatever they want.

TM: The new chrome- and gold-plated pieces are completely different than the limestone works—they’re circular, totem-like shapes with highly polished surfaces. The reality is that wherever they are shown, the surface acts as a mirror. Is what is reflected in the surface of the sculptures, which always changes, a part of the piece?
BH: Absolutely. They are a statement about identity. In the past I’ve worked with the Walt Disney depiction of an extremely sexualized Pocahontas that was forced upon us and has become a part of our contemporary Native identity. I mean, what can you do? That’s the way they think about us. My goal is to look in the mirror and not to see myself. Indigenous man sees everything that makes him, but the White Man sees only himself and he doesn’t see what makes him. I want people to understand that we are not standing on this earth—it’s holding us up. I also want to see the problems of Indian people—diet, alcohol, drugs, diabetes, suicide, violence, and ignorance, among other things—come through Indian people as a healing element of their art, because those things are such a prevalent part of our lives.

TM: And if that were accomplished, what kind of changes would occur in the world?
BH: I don’t know. I’m not really worried about that. I just think that the arts should play an important role in the education and redirection of Indian people into a positive and important future role concerning environmental philosophy. My current work is focused on an anti-war statement that should hopefully bring up questions about our participation as Native people in this nation and its continued war policies. When I asked a tribal chat group why we were fighting in America’s wars, worshiping America’s religions, and desperately seeking economic answers by parroting America’s destructive environmental and economic positions, I was quietly ousted from the dialogue.

TM: A moment ago you said, “that’s the way they think about us.” By they, do you mean the White Man?
BH: I mean the White Man in all of us.

TM: Are you saying that there is a White Man inside the Native person, and a Native person inside the White Man?
BH: There is the potential for both. We can go back to an earth relationship from either side. Native people are losing that relationship, and the White Man is farther along in that loss. It’s human nature to separate from nature because of our ego and self-worship. The tribal chat group on the Internet offered an opportunity to talk to one another and so I started asking the central questions an older person should ask younger people.

TM: Questions like?
BH: Is it your bloodline or skin color that makes you Apache? If not, what is it? Why do we think we are no different than those of our Indian past even though we don’t have the same nature-based values of our indigenous ancestors? Instead, we now base our identity on money, history, and ego. They got angry when I questioned their Christian values, which are human-based. All modern religions are based on the needs of humanity instead of nature. And yet all religions come from a nature basis. That basis is what is being lost. At the same time it’s something you really can’t lose because nature is the ultimate basis. If you breathe air, you’re a product of nature. But we pretend that we’re not a product of nature because our ego tells us that we’re superior or dominant to nature.

TM: Back to the circular shapes.
BH: I use the circle and the sphere as the female symbol or the living earth concept. And I’ve decorated it. The decoration is in the reflection of the viewer that includes our physical image and all that surrounds us. Long ago, I painted beautiful woods white and called it whitewashing, simply because we think that we control nature and in doing so we whitewash it. People actually think that the white concept has to do with skin color, but it doesn’t. We’re all the same. I use pure gold, which is the most hated object of the Apaches, on the reflecting surfaces. The nature standard is being given up by most indigenous people and replaced by a gold standard. We have accepted gold—or casino profits—as our identity basis. So we stand in line with our hand out because we have a bloodline right to take the money without earning it. Working for it means returning to a consciousness of the importance of nature and then actively repairing the damage. There is still a chance to do this.

TM: Do you think the casinos push Native people further away from nature?
BH: If it is acknowledged from the beginning that the casinos are just a way of making money dependent upon human weakness, then no. But it certainly seems to put you further away from nature. What really bothers me more than anything is that Native American art is based on the history, romance, and decoration of the past, or on the art dictates of modern man. Our art isn’t dealing with the profound problems or the complex people we are today. Why shouldn’t an honest self-portrait be the foundation of contemporary Indian art today?

Donna J. Snyder, "coyote"

When you were born your twin's soul
disappeared inside you
You still carry that sadness
a sadness so profound
that each subsequent pain
you've been dealt
multiplies within you a rage
so deep that you cannot but be a comic
All comics are enraged
tu amigo me explicó
and here you are
tan triste
tan enojado
that you cannot but laugh
You struggled
Traps at every corner of tu barrio
el Barrio Campana
fled to beergardens and cemetaries
Tripping on the occult
So far out there
you saw spirits dancing with the grace
of your little twin
whose aura took you back en utero
where you absorbed her life force
How can she forgive you
if you do not forgive yourself?
Can you forgive yourself
if you do not look her in the eye
and say you're sorry?
Your twin was there on the corner
when you kicked the shit
out of kids from the other barrios
She kissed you when you fled
the neighbor's groping fingers
his probing tongue
You fled
Followed the trails of campesinos
like your father the bracero
who dropped pieces of corn and tortilla
to lead you to el otro lado
El norte
where los mexicanos call themselves spanish
Tus carnales tenían abrazos para tí
abrazos y chingasos para el cómico
Pero how could you be expected to laugh
when they called you mojado?
You close your eyes and dream in Spanglish
No eres pocho
pero you're not
the same wild gúero mexicano who fled
the ghost of that girl laughing
her tears in your veins

Chavela Vargas, La Llorona

Joe Hayes, La Llorona

Three Ballads from the 19th-Century Scottish Borderlands, edited by Francis James Child

THE WATER O' WEARIE'S WELL.

From Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, ii. 201. Repeated in Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads, Percy Society, xvii. 63.

The three ballads which follow, diverse as they may now appear, after undergoing successive corruptions, were primarily of the same type. In the first (which may be a compound of two ballads, like the preceding, the conclusion being taken from a story of the character of May Colvin in the next volume) the Merman or Nix may be easily recognized: in the second he is metamorphosed into the Devil; and in the third, into a ghost. Full details upon the corresponding Scandinavian, German, and Slavic legends, are given by Grundtvig, in the preface to Noekkens Svig, Danmarks G. Folkeviser, ii. 57: translated by Jamieson, i. 210, and by Monk Lewis, Tales of Wonder, No. 11.

There came a bird out o' a bush,

On water for to dine;

And sighing sair, says the king's daughter,

"O waes this heart o' mine!"

He's taen a harp into his hand,

He's harped them all asleep;

Except it was the king's daughter,

Who ae wink cou'dna get.

He's luppen on his berry-brown steed,

Taen her on behind himsell;

Then baith rade down to that water,

That they ca' Wearie's well.

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

Nae harm shall thee befall;

Aft times hae I water'd my steed,

Wi' the water o' Wearie's well."

The first step that she stepped in,

She stepped to the knee;

And sighing sair, says this lady fair,

"This water's nae for me."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

Nae harm shall thee befall;

Aft times hae I water'd my steed,

Wi' the water o' Wearie's well."

The next step that she stepped in,

She stepped to the middle;

And sighing, says, this lady fair,

"I've wat my gowden girdle."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

Nae harm shall thee befall;

Aft times hae I water'd my steed,

Wi' the water o' Wearie's well."

The niest step that she stepped in,

She stepped to the chin;

And sighing, says, this lady fair,

"They shou'd gar twa loves twine."

"Seven king's-daughters I've drown'd there,

In the water o' Wearie's well;

And I'll make you the eight o' them,

And ring the common bell."

"Sin' I am standing here," she says,

"This dowie death to die;

Ae kiss o' your comely mouth

I'm sure wou'd comfort me."

He louted him ower his saddle bow,

To kiss her cheek and chin;

She's taen him in her arms twa,

And thrown him headlang in.

"Sin' seven king's daughters ye've drown'd there,

In the water o' Wearie's well,

I'll make you bridegroom to them a',

An' ring the bell mysell."

And aye she warsled, and aye she swam,

Till she swam to dry land;

Then thanked God most cheerfully,

The dangers she'd ower came.

THE DÆMON LOVER.

This ballad was communicated to Sir Walter Scott, (Minstrelsy, iii. 195,) by Mr. William Laidlaw, who took it down from recitation. A fragment of the same legend, recovered by Motherwell, is given in the Appendix to this volume, and another version, in which the hero is not a dæmon, but the ghost of an injured lover, is placed directly after the present.

The Devil (Auld Nick) here takes the place of the Merman (Nix) of the ancient ballad. See p. 198, and the same natural substitution noted in K.u.H.—Märchen, 3d ed. iii. 253.

"O where have you been, my long, long love,

This long seven years and more?"—

"O I'm come to seek my former vows

Ye granted me before."—

"O hold your tongue of your former vows,

For they will breed sad strife;

O hold your tongue of your former vows,

For I am become a wife."

He turn'd him right and round about,

And the tear blinded his ee;

"I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground,

If it had not been for thee.

"I might hae had a king's daughter,

Far, far beyond the sea;

I might have had a king's daughter,

Had it not been for love o' thee."—

"If ye might have had a king's daughter,

Yer sell ye had to blame;

Ye might have taken the king's daughter,

For ye kend that I was nane."—

"O faulse are the vows of womankind,

But fair is their faulse bodie;

I never wad hae trodden on Irish ground,

Had it not been for love o' thee."—

"If I was to leave my husband dear,

And my two babes also,

O what have you to take me to,

If with you I should go?"—

"I hae seven ships upon the sea,

The eighth brought me to land;

With four-and-twenty bold mariners,

And music on every hand."

She has taken up her two little babes,

Kiss'd them baith cheek and chin;

"O fair ye weel, my ain two babes,

For I'll never see you again."

She set her foot upon the ship,

No mariners could she behold;

But the sails were o' the taffetie,

And the masts o' the beaten gold.

She had not sail'd a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

When dismal grew his countenance,

And drumlie grew his ee.

The masts that were like the beaten gold,

Bent not on the heaving seas;

But the sails, that were o' the taffetie,

Fill'd not in the east land breeze.—

They had not sailed a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

Until she espied his cloven foot,

And she wept right bitterlie.

"O hold your tongue of your weeping," says he,

"Of your weeping now let me be;

I will show you how the lilies grow

On the banks of Italy."—

"O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,

That the sun shines sweetly on?"—

"O yon are the hills of heaven," he said,

"Where you will never win."—

"O whaten a mountain is yon," she said,

"All so dreary wi' frost and snow?"—

"O yon is the mountain of hell," he cried,

"Where you and I will go."

And aye when she turn'd her round about,

Aye taller he seem'd for to be;

Until that the tops o' that gallant ship

Nae taller were than he.

The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud,

And the levin fill'd her ee;

And waesome wail'd the snaw-white sprites

Upon the gurlie sea.

He strack the tap-mast wi' his hand,

The fore-mast wi' his knee;

And he brake that gallant ship in twain,

And sank her in the sea.

JAMES HERRIES.

From Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, (i. 214.)

(See the preface to the last ballad but one.)

"O are ye my father, or are ye my mother?

Or are ye my brother John?

Or are ye James Herries, my first true love,

Come back to Scotland again?"

"I am not your father, I am not your mother,

Nor am I your brother John;

But I'm James Herries, your first true love,

Come back to Scotland again."

"Awa', awa', ye former lovers,

Had far awa' frae me;

For now I am another man's wife,

Ye'll ne'er see joy o' me."

"Had I kent that ere I came here,

I ne'er had come to thee;

For I might hae married the king's daughter,

Sae fain she wou'd had me.

"I despised the crown o' gold,

The yellow silk also;

And I am come to my true love,

But with me she'll not go."

"My husband he is a carpenter,

Makes his bread on dry land,

And I hae born him a young son,—

Wi' you I will not gang."

"You must forsake your dear husband,

Your little young son also,

Wi' me to sail the raging seas,

Where the stormy winds do blow."

"O what hae you to keep me wi',

If I should with you go?

If I'd forsake my dear husband,

My little young son also?"

"See ye not yon seven pretty ships,

The eighth brought me to land;

With merchandize and mariners,

And wealth in every hand?"

She turn'd her round upon the shore,

Her love's ships to behold;

Their topmasts and their mainyards

Were cover'd o'er wi' gold.

Then she's gane to her little young son,

And kiss'd him cheek and chin;

Sae has she to her sleeping husband,

And dune the same to him.

"O sleep ye, wake ye, my husband,

I wish ye wake in time;

I woudna for ten thousand pounds,

This night ye knew my mind."

She's drawn the slippers on her feet,

Were cover'd o'er wi' gold;

Well lined within wi' velvet fine,

To had her frae the cold.

She hadna sailed upon the sea

A league but barely three,

Till she minded on her dear husband,

Her little young son tee.

"O gin I were at land again,

At land where I wou'd be,

The woman ne'er shou'd bear the son,

Shou'd gar me sail the sea."

"O hold your tongue, my sprightly flower,

Let a' your mourning be;

I'll show you how the lilies grow

On the banks o' Italy."

She hadna sailed on the sea

A day but barely ane,

Till the thoughts o' grief came in her mind,

And she lang'd for to be hame.

"O gentle death, come cut my breath,

I may be dead ere morn;

I may be buried in Scottish ground,

Where I was bred and born."

"O hold your tongue, my lily leesome thing,

Let a' your mourning be;

But for a while we'll stay at Rose Isle,

Then see a far countrie.

"Ye'se ne'er be buried in Scottish ground,

Nor land ye's nae mair see;

I brought you away to punish you,

For the breaking your vows to me.

"I said ye shou'd see the lilies grow

On the banks o' Italy;

But I'll let you see the fishes swim,

In the bottom o' the sea."

He reached his band to the topmast,

Made a' the sails gae down;

And in the twinkling o' an e'e,

Baith ship and crew did drown.

The fatal flight o' this wretched maid

Did reach her ain countrie;

Her husband then distracted ran,

And this lament made he:—

"O wae be to the ship, the ship,

And wae be to the sea,

And wae be to the mariners,

Took Jeanie Douglas frae me!

"O bonny, bonny was my love,

A pleasure to behold;

The very hair o' my love's head

Was like the threads o' gold.

"O bonny was her cheek, her cheek,

And bonny was her chin;

And bonny was the bride she was,

The day she was made mine!"

*** The following stanzas from a version of this ballad printed at Philadelphia (and called The House Carpenter) are given in Graham's Illustrated Magazine, Sept. 1858.

"I might have married the king's daughter dear;"

"You might have married her," cried she,

"For I am married to a House Carpenter,

And a fine young man is he."

"Oh dry up your tears, my own true love,

And cease your weeping," cried he;

"For soon you'll see your own happy home,

On the banks of old Tennessee."

Rudolfo Anaya, from Bless Me, Ultima

Father says that the town steals our freedom; he says that we must build a castle across the river, on the lonely hill of the mockingbirds. I think it was León who spoke first, he was the eldest, and his voice always had a sad note to it. But in the dark mist of the dream I could not be sure. 

His heart had been heavy since we came to the town, the second figure spoke, his forefathers were men of the sea, the Márez people, they were conquistadors, men whose freedom was unbounded.

It was Andrew who said that! It was Andrew! I was sure because his voice was husky like his thick and sturdy body.

Father says the freedom of the wild horse is in the Márez blood, and his gaze is always westward. His father before him were vaqueros, and so he expects us to be men of the llano. I was sure the third voice belonged to Eugene.

I longed to touch them. I was hungry for their company. Instead I spoke.

We must all gather around our father, I heard myself say. His dream is to ride westward in search of new adventure. He builds highways that stretch into the sun, and we must travel that road with him.

My brothers frowned. You are a Luna, they chanted in unison, you are to be a farmer-priest for mother!

The doves came to drink in the still pools of the river and their cry was mournful in the darkness of my dream.

My brothers laughed. You are but a baby, Tony, you are our mother's dream. Stay and sleep to the doves cou-rou while we cross the mighty River of the Carp to build our father's castle in the hills.

I must go! I cried to the three dark figures. I must lift the muddy waters of the river in blessing to our new home!

Along the river the tormented cry of a lonely goddess filled the valley. The winding wail made the blood of men run cold.

It is la llorona, my brothers cried in fear, the old witch who cries along the river banks and seeks the blood of boys and men to drink!

La llorona seeks the soul of Antoniooooooooo...

It is the soul of Lupito, they cried in fear, doomed to wander the river at night because the waters washed his soul away!

Lupito seeks his blessinggggggggg...

It is neither! I shouted. I swung the dark robe of the priest over my shoulders then lifted my hands in the air. The mist swirled around me and sparks flew when I spoke. It is the presence of the river!

Save us, my brothers cried and cowered at my words.

I spoke to the presence of the river and it allowed my brothers to cross with their carpenter tools to build our castle on the hill.

Behind us I heard my mother moan and cry because with each turning of the sun her son was growing old...

Culture Fix: Judithe Hernandez (de los Four) on the Role of Women in the Chicano Art Movement

Los Four, Murals of Aztlan: The Street Painters of East Los Angeles

Miguel Méndez, from Pilgrims in Aztlán

I FELL ON THE PLAINS that divide the border like someone falling into a no-man’s-land. In the desert, virgin in the absence of any will toward the creative, my words threaded their way among the dust storm. The sky became tinged with a black wind that cloaked the dunes with layers of pale sand. I turned to see my tightly spaced steps, and they had already disappeared. Any innovation was answered by nothingness with its dead bell towers. And I was God writing pages in the wind so that my words would fly away. In the mysterious loneliness I sought the traces of His look. I only knew it, like an unspeaking child, intuiting fire in order to form worlds, planets, galaxies, with its little hands, urging on the life with which the clay animates itself, with water the color of the dawn. I wanted Him to say something to me. Now I know that He creates life with which the clay animates itself, with water the color of the dawn. I wanted Him to say something to me. Now I know that He creates life and I invent the language with which one speaks. Nevertheless, I lose myself in the tangle of vocabulary and the words that still are not born of thought and that make one's heart ache. I lost myself among the sand drifts of the Sonoran desert, seeking Him so that he might teach me the language of silence. I sought Him so that He might tell me what He asked the stars, feeling my heart so alone on that surface so full of sand and in that sky so full of lights. I was overwhelmed with feeling, and I cried to see in the desert the dreamed-of fatherland that would take me in its bosom, like a mother who loves and watches over all of her children equally. No more would my soul be wounded by the thorns of scorn and indifference. In the future I would be a true citizen requesting and receiving justice. I was overtaken by illusion, and I saw in Yuma the cosmic solitude of the Sonoran desert, the Republic we wetbacks would inhabit, Indians sunk in misfortune and enslaved Chicanos. Ours would be the “Republic of Despised Mexicans.” Our houses would emerge from the dunes that rise up to look like tombs, and the nomadic race, its feet wounded by centuries of pilgrimages, would finally have a roof crowned by good fortune. From the immensity of the sterile sand, bread would be born like grace. The lakes that magic paints from a distance, as though they had only been lighted by the centuries, would suddenly take on the life that would return them to the reality of the movement that animates the fountains and the rivers. Scourged by the tenebrous winds that roast with the cruelty of pyres, the voices of the deceitful would flee, bearing with them tribunes of hypocrites who betray the trust of both their children and their forebears.  I was overtaken by imagination, and I saw in my pilgrimage many Indian peoples reduced by the torture of hunger and the humiliation of plunder, traveling backwards along the ancient roads in search of their remote origin. They ended up downcast, ceremonious in their gait and with the ritual gestures of beings who know the depths of human secrets. They came to seek life and the worthy embrace of the graveyards. I was overtaken by the enthusiasm of dreaming with my eyes open, and I saw that through the wide doors of the unploughed lands there entered multitudes of Chicano brothers who made paths and roads to peace and tranquility from the immense sandy plains. Their backs were bent and there was bitterness on their faces and the infinite weariness of slaves. They embrace their Indian forebears, and together they all cry in silence, burying those who have been killed, who are so many that no one can ever count them. I began to drown in feeling, and I cried over that warped wasteland with its outcroppings. Sand and moon dripped from their clothes, and driven by the thirst of the winds, the exodus of wetbacks dragged its feet because of the greed of the powerful. And behind them, the life of their families was conditioned to the adventure that they would experience in a strange land. I was hurt by the despair of feeling that utopia is ever a burning coal in consciousness tortured by the denial of sublime aspirations, and I fell to my knees begging for mercy.