by Ernest Hogan
There’s this silly belief circulating among Americanos, with a “spiritual” bent, that refuses to die. Some of these folks are in awe of the “Mayans” (note: the people are the Maya, Mayan refers to things that belong to them), not just for their art, and religion, but the assumption that they escaped being exterminated by the Spanish by “disappearing” which can mean anything from leaving the planet in flying saucers, to vibrating away to a higher plain of existence.
Meanwhile, not far from those who espouse this belief, Maya-looking people are mowing their lawns, cleaning their houses, and helping them take care of business at banks and other businesses.
Also, the Maya still live in Southern Mexico and Central America.
There are even movies about them.
One can be seen on Kanopy, called Ixcanul, which means “volcano,” directed by Guatemalan filmmaker Jayro Bustamante. In it you can see Maya playing Maya, and hear them speaking the Kaqchikel Mayan dialect. It is a story of how they live in modern times.
Maria is set to marry Igancio, a boy from her village. It’s a deal made by the parents of the couple. Unfortunately, Maria has other ideas.
She likes another boy, Pepe, who is going to the United States, which seems to be a magical place, across the desert where the snake repellent and other amazing things come from. Maria would like to go there with Pepe.
After a scene of Maria masterbating with a tree, outside a sleazy bar she has sex with Pepe and becomes pregnant, but things do not go as she had planned. Pepe isn’t interested in making the dangerous trip to the U.S. with Maria or marrying her and starting a family. The wedding with Ignacio is canceled. Her parents are mad, but agree to take care of her and the baby.
Mayan spirituality abounds, but it doesn’t work the way New Age Americanos would like it to. Rituals to abort the fetus and drive snakes out of farmland don’t work. The volcano is a god, whose presence is felt like the mist crawling up from the lava, but the modern world keeps intruding, a hypnotic rasquache mix, especially when they go to a city for the child’s birth.
Something to think about as the U.S./Mexico border once again becomes a political hot spot. Ever wonder where your coffee comes from? Or the Maya-looking young women we keep seeing in offices all over Aztlán, working at computers, keeping our unsteady civilization going . . . ?
Ernest Hogan lives and writes in Aztlán, and sees Mayan faces every day.
Chicanos all over use Mayan incorrectly as a noun, like you point. And as in your post here, Mayan correctly refers to the languages, too.
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