My family, on my father’s side came to this country from France. They quickly settled in central Mexico and became a well to do family in the small town of Zinapecuaro. After the war with France (Yes, Mexico had a war with France, it’s were the Cinco de Mayo celebration comes from), given that French weren’t highly regarded during that time, my family adopted the Flores last name.
Having white skin in Mexico was a guarantee of position and status. The dividing line of color and features made it easy to distinguish who was who. Although this presents the easy option to forgo any moral or conscious stance, when you’re on the European side, it certainly does not remove the tragic nature of the conquest. Nor does it remove the obvious subjugation of a culture and a people to the forced semblance of integration which really meant you were the one saddling my horse and shoveling the shit. My Grandfather who was raised by Indians, the caretakers, the dark skinned, felt the growing urge to even out the incongruous rules that made it ok for you to clean up after me, but not to eat at my table with me.
This was the beginning of the wonderful divide that is my family, my heritage, my unraveling. I shouldn't’t have much to worry about, cuz between you and me, the dice were rolled, and I came out whiter than my brother, whiter than most in my family. But the crux of the matter, for me, is my heart. My heart has been seasoned by the dusty streets. Mis tacos de perro. The earth drawn heart that is open, pulses, and drips slowly in the delicious agony of its sensitivity. The biggest subversion of the human spirit is not its divisiveness, but rather, its inclusiveness. The rebellion of the Indian was not to fight back, after all, it was a doomed effort. The Aztecs themselves, just one of the many conquered nations, had foreseen their collapse and had predicted it to the day. The Indian and the European were destined to meet. It had been seen as an unmistakable marker in the future of the Aztecs. The seers had long ago known of the calamitous days that would lead up to the arrival of the bearded men. Quetzalcoatl was returning; The feathered serpent that represents the unification of Heaven and Earth and which is emblazoned in the Mexican flag was coming back on this day to bring and end to the days that once were.
The signs were all around us as they led up to the portentous day when the bearded ones arrived. The comet that hovered over the city of Tenochtitlan which lit up the sky with its surreal glow for hours on end, immobile. The deformed human being, that wandered about the outskirts of Tenochtitlan, showing his dog like face and bulbous deformities in a gleeful dance of revenge. The knowledge, with the accuracy of the stars, that on Good Friday of 1519 Quetzalcoatl would return from exile to stake his claim to his land and his people. On that day, the Aztec sentries saw the massive sights of the Spanish galleons and the armored soldiers as they landed on the sandy beaches of Veracruz. There were negotiations and battles; Manipulations and coups. It was all part of the inevitable events of the “conquest.”
The true coup was not in the subjugation of the people or the destruction of a culture by some marauding Spaniards who were hungry for gold. It has been told time and again: The story of the conquest as a collision between contending cultures, worlds, philosophies. In this version, the two worlds are represented by the misunderstood enigmas that were Cuautemoc and Cortez. I offer you a different version of past events: The true coup was in the planting of the seed of the Indian heart within the souls of this new way that is our modern world. My Grandfather would always say “I have the heart of an Indian.” This was no lie. The Heart of an Indian is that incisive part of us that does not use words but enjoys silence. It is the part that removes its shoes to walk in the dirt. The part that does not run for cover when it rains. The Heart of the Indian is the heart of the Earth. The pulsating certainty that comes when I feel the Wind God stroking my face, letting me know just how I’m doing and what’s in store for me next. Anyone who understands sacrifice and loss will know exactly what I mean. The Sun still rises for us, We are still here.
