Liza Bakewell takes us where we may never have thought to go: Down Mexico’s dusty back roads and cobblestone alleys, across neighborhood plazas lined with madre-derrogatory grafitti, through bustling markets, in a high speed car zig-zagging the wrong way down a one-way street, in provocative conversation with wise and deferential men, sequestered on the coast of Maine deep in contemplation, in lively debate with feminists, and befuddled and amused by encounters with people at all social and economic levels, including one’s own children.
Madre: Perilous Journeys with a Spanish Noun is not your everyday discussion about Mexico – her culture, history, politics, women’s issues (and men’s, too), language, social structure, and how a people come to define and understand self. Yet it includes all of this! Bakewell’s premise is that language informs culture and vice versa. After reading this book, I understand and agree. It opened my eyes. Mexico is an idiomatic maze and “madre” plunges us into the cultural and linguistic depths, revealing the mysteries and idiosyncracies of this most beloved and maligned noun. And, this most beloved and maligned country!
Some have described this book as a “memoir,” and in some limited respect that is true. Yet it is much more than that because the academic discussion (Bakewell is a professor of linguistic anthropology at Brown University) about the etymology of “madre” prevails throughout. But the book is flavored with slang, the vernacular, curse words, and romance. It describes her personal and professional quest to understand this most complex of Spanish nouns. It is human, engaging and real.
Most importantly, this book is entertaining, witty, clear and insightful. It is a must-read for anyone who is thinking about visiting Mexico or who is living there. Understanding the culture helps one enjoy the travel, and this will definitely bring you enjoyment before or during your stay.
Bakewell examines what the word “madre” conjures up in Mexican society, and how it defines manhood and womanhood. She takes us on a journey to explore gender roles, relationships, customs, traditions, church doctrine, and stereotypes. The perilous journey is a metaphor, I believe, for the evolution of the word — one small, simple word now infused with powerful emotion: manhood, womanhood, honor, obedience, pride, machismo, “fight to the death,” and identity, plus all that is disparaging, insulting and base.
I love Bakewell’s discussion about the dualities and conflicts of Mexican identity and womanhood as exemplified by “The Malinche” and her alter-ego counterpart, Dona Marina. They are one and the same woman, the first “bad and forbidden” and the second “baptized, good and pure.” I see this drama danced out every year in the Danza de la Pluma that reenacts the Spanish conquest of the Aztecs. Through this description, we come to understand who is the whore and who is the virgin, the themes that recur in the recesses of the language and icons hanging from every rear view mirror.
Bakewell explores the mixed messages and signals, expected behaviors, and role definitions for women and what constitutes femininity. She describes Malinche, the translator for Cortes, and how her name became synonymous with traitor and betrayal. An indigenous woman from the southern coast of Mexico enslaved since childhood, passed from one tribal group to another, she was given to Cortes by her captors. She was multilingual because of her circumstances. Yet, she was redefined during the 1857 revolution as the antithesis of the good Mexican woman. Mexican feminists are branded as Malinchistas.
Madre is about paternal creation and the power of the church to define and control. It explores the subtle meaning of Virgin and Eve, and what constitutes purity. The dilemma of madre in Mexico, according to Bakewell, is that the church believes the bride, once married is Eve, not the Virgin, and vulnerable to all the transgressions put before her. Like Eve, Malinche was the mother of the first mestizo (indigenous Indian and Spanish blend), child of Cortes. While Eve listened to the snake, Malinche listened to Cortes, betraying her people.
I imagine Liza Bakewell asked me to review this book because of my association with Oaxaca and love for Mexico. In 2009, she spent the year there on sabbatical as a single mom with her twin daughters finishing up the manuscript in preparation for publication. She talks about it being a warm, welcoming, safe and nurturing place for herself and her young children where she could bring her madre journey to a close.
Here, while she wrote, she also discovered that the liberal revolutionaries of 1857 – Benito Juarez, Melchor Ocampo, and Justo Sierra — politically reinterpreted what it meant to be a woman in Mexico. In their endeavor to liberate Mexico from the stranglehold of the Catholic church they replaced one set of padres for another.
Ocampo, in his “Epistle,” defined the virtues of woman to be “self-abnegation, beauty, compassion, shrewdness and tenderness, and must give and shall always give her husband obedience, affability, attention, comfort, advice and treat him with reverence due to the person who supports and defends us.” Ocampo’s “Epistle” became required reading at state civil marriage ceremonies until 2007, when Mexican feminists asked individual states to replace it. Most have, but Oaxaca has not. The Epistle outlines perfection and impossible expectations for women to achieve.
The quest for the meaning of “Madre” was not a straight path. Just like the taxi driver zigzagging the wrong way down a one-way street, “Madre” the book takes one turn and then another, to describe how “madre” the word came to include derogatory meanings in the Mexican Spanish language. It caused me to sit up and take notice about our own gender slurs and how we casually use them until they become embedded in the vernacular and we are no longer conscious of the meaning.
Just as you are beginning to think that you understand, Bakewell starts a discussion about the articles “el” and “la” and “los.” Spanish is organized by the system of la and el,” she says. If you are confused about which article to use, consider el amor (love), el sexo (sex), el matrimonio (marriage), el prenado (pregnancy), el embarazo (pregnancy), el parto (childbirth) and el nacimiento (birth). Why are these words “masculine?” she asks. A friend of Bakewell’s who studied Indo-European languages, traces it to the concern about descent lines – the patrilineage. Culture and language are powerful padres.
Finally, Bakewell asks us to consider the origins of madre and padre. She delves into the sounds of mmmmmm and ppppppp. MMMMMmadre. PPPPPPPPpadre. She takes us to the very essence of birth, identity, survival and continuity. She describes the mmmm sound as internal, humming, soothing, nurturing and nourishing. Pppppppppadre is the force of spitting out, putting one’s imprimatur in the world, the first attempt at aggressiveness for what we must do to make our way as human beings. One is internal and the other external, almost synonymous with how our bodies and reproductive organs are purposed. She describes how the sound origins across languages and cultures are consistent. Fascinating. Try these sounds and you’ll see what I mean.
Anyone who travels to or lives in Mexico, studies Latin American culture, history, art, Spanish language, or anything related MUST read this book. Furthermore, there are no madre insults in Italy and very few in Columbia, Chile and Argentina.
Madre IS made in Mexico.
And, if you want to know the expletives, you’ll have to read the book! They are plentiful.
Madre: Perilous Journeys with a Spanish Noun, by Liza Bakewell, W.W. Norton & Company, 2011. ISBN 978-0-393-07642-4. You can order the book direct from Dr. Bakewell.
Mascaras Mexicanas: Mexican Masks — Dances, Dieties, Identity
A new temporary special exhibition at the Palacio Nacional (National Palace) on the Zocalo in Mexico City features hundreds of hand-made masks from towns and villages throughout Mexico.
This is the same building that houses Diego Rivera murals, so if you go there soon, don’t miss this. Enter on side street through security, go to second floor.
I returned on my last day in the Federal District and spent about an hour-and-a-half learning more about Mexican art and culture. Open Tuesday through Sunday, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.
In ancient civilizations one of the main functions of ritual masks was to represent gods to worship them in religious celebrations. This was designed to support natural and social equilibrium.
In pre-Hispanic Mexico, masks served as elements of transformation that allowed rulers and priests to assume the identity of their gods during ritual ceremonies. This helped bridge communication between the spiritual and natural world.
Sculptures, reliefs, murals and figurines from throughout Mesoamerica show ancient members of the elite personifying deities with the masks and attire that empowered them.
If you come with us on Looking for Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera Art History Study Tour in February or March, you can drop in to see this show.
According to the exhibition curators, since the time of the Spanish conquest in 1521, the invaders prevented pre-Hispanic civilizations from freely practicing their religious customs. The conquistadores imposed their will by force. The Catholic religious friars sought to supplant native ancestral traditions by incorporating Christian ideas into native rituals.
Despite these efforts, pre-Hispanic symbols survived and indigenous people continue to observe their ancient religion under the veil of Catholicism. New masks arose from this cultural mixing (mestizaje) with an original combination of symbols that continue to the present in many regions throughout Mexico.
This provides continuity for ceremonial and celebratory traditions. Many communities throughout Mexico, such as Teotitlan del Valle, where I live, practice rites and dances like Dance of the Feather (Danza de la Pluma) from viceregal times in which costumes and masks play a central role in the celebrations.
The masks are handmade from gold, precious stones such as jade, turquoise, malachite and coral, wood, paper, straw, textiles and other materials. All the indigenous people of Mexico, including Aztecs, Mayans, Zapotecs, Purepechas and others used them.
Sacred dances in pre-Hispanic Mexico were ceremonies of invocation that found resonance in Catholicism as indigenous people were folded into the Spanish concept of small towns or barrios under the sponsorship of patron saints.
Indigenous people adopted and venerated these saint along with their own ancestors and pre-Hispanic deities. Friars promoted village feast days during the liturgical calendar and introduced morality plays. These were dramas based on sacred history and events that focused on the struggle between good and evil.
Often featured in these dances are masks representing Judas, Jews, Moors and the devil. The purpose of this was to instill fear and respect in the local population along with the message that they were defeated and obliged to strictly obey the new religion. I have no personal evidence today of any anti-Semitism in Mexico, that continues to welcome dissidents and disenfranchised.
We see in the Hall of Festivals at the Secretary of Public Education Building in Mexico City, many of these celebrations painted by Diego Rivera in his murals. Masks in this exhibit depict the Deer Dance from Sinaloa, also featured by Rivera.
La mascara posee un extraño poder de sugestiøn sobre la imaginaciøn … es la sintesis, la esencia de la deidad, del demonio, muerto o héroe qu se trata de representar. — Miguel Covarrubias
The mask has a strange power of suggestion on the imagination … it is the synthesis, and represents the essence of deity, demon, death or hero. — Miguel Covarrubias
The exhibition takes a step beyond the traditional to include the work of Mexican contemporary artists who work in various media. This painting (below) by Frida Kahlo, My Nanny and Me, is on loan for this exhibition from its home at the Dolores Olmedo Museum.
Evoking Frida Kahlo: Making Altars and Shrines Art Workshop
The painting is part of this exhibition because of the masked wet-nurse representing indigenous culture that provides sustenance.
Also included are the work of artists Francisco Toledo (paper mask) and Germån Cueto (wood mask), and painters and printmakers whose names I didn’t record (sorry).
Today, we often hide behind the mask we present to the world as a way of self-protection, self-preservation. In the days before the popularity of mask-wearing for Halloween, the mask was a symbol for deception, hypocrisy, and lies.
Like this:
6 Comments
Posted in Cultural Commentary, Travel & Tourism, Workshops and Retreats
Tagged art, culture, exhibit, Frida Kahlo, gallery, indigenous, masks, mestizo, Mexican, Mexico, Mexico City, mixed media, pre-Hispanic, Spanish, syncretism