Teaching doesn't have to be complicated.
Elementary School is a strange world. Lots of life happens there and not all of it is pretty. In fact, it's a pretty rough place where kids learn hard lessons about what it means to live life, and just as with adults some kids are more naturally adaptive than others. Kids are people, after all, they are just smaller about it.
Yes indeed, it's a snapshot of the adult world writ in markers and crayons in 500 pt. type. The wrong person gets set up, takes the fall, and when justice arrives too late the damage is done. Good guys win and bad guys do, too. There are really nice people, and really not- nice people. Sometimes the lines between them can be fuzzy. Food is food, it can be awesome, and it can suck. Everybody poops.
As well, elementary is a beautiful place where amazing things happen. Kids learn to read and write. Kids who can't learn to read or write learn to comprehend and often surprise everyone with their solutions. There are crushes. Real relationships are formed, often leading to life-long friends. And there are butterflies. Not just the scratch-and sniff rainbow ones but larva, chrysalis, and imago. Awareness happens, and it can be magical.
I'm originally from Eastern Massachusetts. When I was in elementary school, learning about the american Revolution was experiential. We ran across the Old North Bridge shooting pretend muskets at each other and drew beads on waiting bus drivers from behind the stone walls at the ambush zone on Battle road in Lincoln. Though I now live and love in Texas my heart has always been buried somewhere just outside of home plate off Yawkey Way. Until Friday, when it was delivered back to me by a little girl from Ciudad Nezahualcóyotl, Mexico State, Mexico.
Nezahualcóyotl El Rey Poeta
Now, here I am in Texas thirty some-odd years later, living and teaching East of the shadow of the Capital, 180 days a year. Austin is a
sanctuary city. If you aren't familiar, that means the police are humane toward the undocumented and
refuse to function as a de facto arm of the INS and turn people over for deportation. In fact, Austin City Government is hostile to this right wing agenda even as they are nonchalant about it. Under
pressure from an ambitious Rick Perry, in full wingnut political regalia and running for President, Austin (and Houston and Dallas) refused to play ball. The linked article understates this sentiment, quoting then-APD Chief of Staff (now UT Police Chief) David Carter:
"A police officer in Austin or anywhere else in the United States does not automatically have (federal) authority to enforce immigration rules," Austin police Chief of Staff David Carter said. "And therefore, we do not enforce United States immigration rules. It is our strong belief that is the role of the federal government to do so, as well as enforce the border."
The short version, in Austin speak? "Uh, no."
This is important because teachers in Texas come into contact with undocumented families all the time, even if they never know it. Especially in the poor communities like where I teach. Sleepy, bleary eyed Austin is no exception. I imagine many people personally unfamiliar with this reality form a mental picture of what undocumented children look like and what their lives are like, and that image is guided by stereotypes learned in the MSM, where false political equivalence trumps reality. This is forgivable.
Even when explored with compassion and armed with data, excellent journalism on this subject is limited by word counts. Without somehow becoming directly connected we can only ever be observers. Like many, many teachers across this country I do not have the luxury of remaining an observer. I have known undocumented children and their families over the years. Theirs are stories of hope and tragedy, perseverance and ingenuity and are as varied as the number of people involved. 11 million stories by the latest best count. That is the population of NYC and Chicago combined. Let that sink in for a moment before considering the rest of my story.
Quetzalli is pretty sure Cortés was NOT Quetzalcoatl.
Friday after school I was chatting on the phone with a buddy of mine who teaches elsewhere in Austin and I started telling her about my 5th grade lesson on el diez y seis de septiembre, Mexican Independence Day. I had been playing with the idea that behind the scenes, in the conspiracy beyond
Fr. Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla and
Ignacio Allende what we were looking at was a
Criollo Revolution.
"The hell is that?" she asked, a first glass of wine audibly washing away the strains of her long September week. "Is this a GOYA marketing campaign or what?" Three minutes into my answer she stopped me. "Where are you driving right now? I want you to come to my place and meet somebody." This was not a suggestion but a directive. Unusual. I didn't need convincing.
Her apartment is small and tidy, full of books. Her partner is an academic and the pair amount to a regular army of knowledge. I am a pretty smart guy but I don't even try to get over on these two veterans, so I was a little surprised by her reaction when she opened the door, glass in hand. "Tell her, " she says unceremoniously, nodding me through toward her better half.
"It was a Criollo Revolution," I said.
"You mean Mexican Independence. I'm Mexican. I've never heard that before." she said, not entirely irritated. She had clearly been briefed.
"Independence for who?" I asked.
"Independence from whom?, "she teased. "My parent's would throw you out of their house and let the dogs after you. You are so subversive. I love it."
I thought they were humoring me because this really is not my area of expertise. I do not have her degree in Pre-Colombian AND Colonial History from UNAM Still, they were taking me seriously. "We want you to do your class again today."
"Who do you want me to tell this to?" I asked.
"Quetzalli" they said in unison, my buddy pulling up her pant leg to reveal a tattoo of Quetzalcoatl on her calf, and taking my hand to the door. They were laughing, a little drunk, but not joking. I was game as hell.
Walking up a flight of stairs, she motioned for me to sit on a chair and knocked on the door, entering without hesitation. Someone was cooking and the smells came out. This was a kitchen door and my stomach responded that I was home. Before long she was back with a friend. I had seen this child before, I had spoken to her. I knew her by another name entirely. "Hello again." she said to me with a little waive and a confident awkwardness that was all aged 10.
Quetzalli and her parents had come here to escape the crushing violence of Ciudad Neza when she was 2, making their way to Texas using well travelled networks in order to be with family who had already made it. They had sent money to help them pay the Coyote that would bring them into the United States. This journey is dangerous for anyone, for a 2 year old it is something else altogether. How the hell they even did it at all is the unanswered question.
Nezahualcóyotl, it turns out, means "Coyote who Fasts" in Nahuat the ancient Aztec language, and the irony of this was not lost on me hours later as I considered my encounter. He was the revered Poet-King of the ancient city-state of Texcoco and arguably the most loved of any historical figure of pre-colombian mesoamerica as a peace-maker and a thinker. His namesake city is no such peaceful place. It is among the most chaotic and violent slums in greater Mexico City, but it does have an important artistic element that I'll leave to the reader to discover on your own.
So there we sat outside Quetzalli's kitchen door and I did my best to summon the mojo. I had had this conversations with 2 classes not a few hours before. The material was fluid, but audiences feed you their energy. Teachers rely on it for momentum. I felt a little awkward. "What do you know about the Aztecs?" I asked. "My uncle's dog is named "Cuauhtémoc." she offered smiling through thick frames. Oh oh, I thought. I am in over my head.
We talked about Hernán Cortés de Monroy y Pizarro, and how he came for Empire and leveraged the political divisions in The Valley of Mexico against the Aztec ruler Cuauhtémoc, relying on the poor and their numbers to turn their ire into power, backing the Spanish and sacking Tenochitlan.
"He tricked them!," she yelled at me, slapping her thighs with her hands and giving me, "What the..?" the Jr unfinished version of WTF (I scold my students for this, hypocritically). "I wish the kings had listened to Nezahualcóyotl. If they had united they could have stopped Cortés when he came later. And Cortés was NOT Quetzalcoatl!" she demanded, though I had not suggested any such thing.
This is a sore point for Quetzalli. See, an overly simplified version of the pervading narrative (dating supposedly to Moctezuma II) is that Cortés was Quetzalcoatl returning to the people, a creator of the universe and symbol of cycles, making an incarnation as Cortés a full cycle of life and death of the empires. Essentially a message to the people that their time was up. The charge that Cortés "tricked" the people was loaded. Even if unintentional on her part, even if coincidental, it is astounding to me. "It messes with my name, man!" Quetzalli told the universe, hands outstretched, begging for acknowledgment, maybe from Qutezalcoatl himself. Nothing would have surprised me at this point. (See the further irony here.)
¡Viva la Independencia!: Casta
Our conversation moved to the cruelty of life for the poor and indigenous in
Nueva España under the
Penisulares, the Spanish-born ruling class. We discussed the
Casta, the hierarchical system of rights and privileges enforced by Spain in the New World. We talked about
Criollos (Spaniards and other Whites born in the Americas), Castizos (White with some Amerindian) and Indios (Amerindians) and the topic naturally morphed into feelings about race and inequality in The United States. We agreed that the whole issue was "very messed up".
"How about Hidalgo?" I asked. "He was criollo, and the people pushing war with Spain were criollos" I said. "Do you think he was doing the same thing as Cortés, just relying on the numbers of poor and disenfranchised to drive a revolution they so they could have a turn at power?"
"NO." said Quetzalli. She was adamant. Indignant, even. It pissed her off. "Hidalgo is a hero. I don't care who he was, he cared about the poor. He wanted them to grow grapes and the Spanish wouldn't let him teach that. He loved people. He was not a racist."
I had not thought this through carefully enough and had hung my own ass out to dry. My friends had let me do it, too. I looked over at my buddy and her partner. They had not been absent in this conversation. In fact they had led parts of it, filling gaps in my knowledge and helping me refine my understanding of this complicated and nuanced history. Her partner raised her eyebrows and smiled. The look said "Quetzalli knows her stuff, dude."
Then two things happened. My buddy's phone rang and she answered it, and the kitchen door opened and very quickly closed. Quetzalli stood up and smoothed her pants. "I have to go inside. It's time to eat." she said. Everyone stood up. I was at a loss for words. I felt embarrassed, wondered if I had offended her. I'm open with my emotions in school and students have seen tears of passion in my eyes, hot flashes of frustration and apologetic embarrassment for mistakes. This felt different to me, though, somehow personal. "I wish you were in my class." I finally said, and she smiled broadly.
"That would be so cool! You are an awesome teacher" she beamed, bouncing a little. "Next time, I want you to tell me about Massachusetts. I gotta go. Bye!," she said, backing into the apartment, waving and closing the door behind her.
"You are an awesome teacher," my friends said over her shoulder, heading down the stairs. "And you" I replied,"are an awesome friend."
Resplendent Quetzal and his long quetzalli
Los mexicanos!
¡Vivan los héroes que nos dieron la Patria!
¡Viva Hidalgo!
¡Viva Morelos!
¡Viva Josefa Ortiz de Domínguez!
¡Viva Allende!
Viva Galena y los Bravos!
¡Viva Aldama y Matamoros!
¡Viva la Independencia Nacional!
¡Viva México! ¡Viva México! ¡Viva México!
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bastrop
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UPDATE: Thank you for the rescue, thanks to all who have read and rec'cd. I want to call attention to a comment that likely speaks for other readers confused by the context of this diary. I am happy to entertain any questions or perspectives on these issues. This whole affair is a work in progress for me, it is actively organic.
Perhaps I am dense but ...
what exactly are you trying to say? Perhaps you need to spell it out a little more for me ... a revolution of the criollos? How, why did you come to that conclusion? It boggles my mind.
And yes, you are right about the 1776 Revolution ... I am cannot call it the "American" revolution since there were so many revolutions in the Americas ... 1776 in the British colonies, Bolivar, the Mexican Revolution, etc. Anyway, the history that you can touch and see is so much more moving that the one we only read about and think we understand.
by CorinaR on Sun Sep 15, 2013 at 12:10:29 PM CDT
so, the idea is
that while Hidalgo and his co-conspirators were indeed concerned about the condition of los indios, mestizos, poor people lower on the cast ladder, the larger revolution against Spain was politically driven by the desire of the criollo class to wrest control for themselves. They were tired of paying taxes to Spain and having people who were not born in the New World administrate their lives.
We know this is true, but a controversial part of that idea is that the criollo powerful across el Virreinato de Nueva España relied upon the masses of the poor in exactly the same way, though with different motivators, as Hernán Cortés did when toppling the Aztecs. Because Hidalgo is so loved some people find that offensive. It is my initial insensitivity to this offense, and my not having considered that angle, that is the crux of it.
I am not surprised this is not clear to you, I'm sure you are not the only one. For me, this diary is an emotional response to my interaction with Quetzalli. I wrote it fairly quickly. The meat is in the links, which in some ways is unfair to the reader. OTOH, this is a diary, it's personal, and it is what it is. Thanks for reading and recci'ng it I appreciate you taking the time.
I will likely be exploring the historical contexts piece by piece in a diary series, for anyone who is interested. There is so much there. If I had included it here, Quetzalli would have been lost in the shuffle.
by bastrop on Sun Sep 15, 2013 at 02:03:39 PM CDT
FINAL UPDATE: I want to thank everyone for making this such a rich diary experience. Great discussions in comments as well by Kosmail. Made some new friends. Such wonderful and caring people here. Thanks to everyone who queued and republished this diary. I know it had an impact for a number of you, and that's what this is all about. Hey-want to see the real impact? Check out 1st grade, who can not only pronounce Quetzalcoatl but can explain him to you and spell his name. ¡Feliz dieciséis de septiembre!
1st Grade Rocks.