Presented to Funders’ Committee for Civic Participation
Santa Fe, New Mexico March 1, 2007
Since early in my life, I have been attuned to the north-south
flow of peoples and cultures in this beautiful state of ours. A
major reason for that is the Rio Grande, which meanders
for 450 miles from north to south through the heart of our state.
The Rio has had the strongest geographic impact on our
lives, dating back to Mesoamerican times.
As a child growing up in Española, I
learned to swim in the Rio Grande and would spend many hours just watching
the river flow south. I would gather twigs and toss them into the Rio,
imagining they were small boats traveling south to explore new
places. In fact, my dreams would float south down the Rio on
those twigs, enticing me to follow a few years later.
Because of the Rio Grande, we have a deep human imprint
on our state of pathways and dreamways that flow along a north-south
axis.
While we are bombarded daily through the media
with the glossy façade of Euro-American culture, we are
blessed in this state to still have among us the cultural and
spiritual guides who can show us the north-south pathways to
a sustainable future.
New Mexico has a spiritual power emanating
from the landscape—its
rios, mesas, llanos, sierras—that inform our traditional
cultures.
New Mexicans are spiritual peoples. Native Americans know that
our landscape is sacred and alive. They live each day in a vibrant
relationship to everything around them. For them, New Mexico is
not just a place to live. It is a way to live.
Similarly, Indo-Hispanos have created an intimate relationship
with the landscape over the past three or four centuries. They
built acequias not only to sustain an agricultural lifestyle,
but also to caress and sustain the Earth and its natural creatures.
It is no accident that artists and writers—the most sensitive
souls—were among the first US colonists to arrive in New
Mexico. More than most, they sensed the spirituality of our place.
We not only live in the United States of America. We also live
in Native America and in Latino America.
I want to spend a few minutes describing just how strong the north-south
human imprint is on our state.
For thousands of years, Native Americans took to the trails in
the name of the harvest, the hunt, commerce, plunder, warfare,
religious fervor and celebration. They may have forged trails as
least as far back as eight or nine millennia ago. Native Americans
forged thousands of miles of trails from Mexico to San Juan Pueblo,
now renamed by its Native American residents as Ohkay Owinge.
It lies along the Rio Grande near the confluence with the Rio Chama,
just about 30 miles north of here. (1)
At least three well-documented major north-to-south
arteries—or
connected segments of trails—began in Mexico.
One 1,500 mile trail began in Mexico City and
ran generally northward for more than 1,000 miles across Mexico’s
central highlands and through the Chihuahuan Desert basin to
the RioGrande’sPaso
del Norte (today’s El Paso, Texas) crossing. It followed
the Rio Grande upstream for about 400 miles to the upper
drainage basin.
With the emergence of settled villages of farmers, traders likely
became the primary authors of the trails of the Southwest.
In his book, “Traders of the Western Morning,” John
Upton Terrell itemized nearly 250 trade items which fueled the
commerce of the Native American trails and markets of the Southwest.
Primary trading centers arose, including Pecos Pueblo just
20 miles east of here; Gran Quivira in central New Mexico
and the San José junction near northern Chihuahua’s
Villa Ahumada.
Some communities like Taos and Abiquiu Pueblos in
northern New Mexico, staged trade fairs where vendors from across
the Southwest gathered to display and exchange their commodities.
After Spanish conquest of the Americas, the Spaniards used existing
Native American trails as the basis of the Caminos Reales—the
Royal Roads—that emanated from Mexico City throughout Mexico
and what is now the Southwestern US.
The 1,500 mile road that connected New Mexico to Mexico City was
called “el Camino Real de Tierra Adentro”, also
known as the Silver Road or Road to Santa Fe. This road
was protected by Spanish armies against attack and was maintained
by order of the Viceroy in Mexico City.
As the Spaniards built the Camino Real on existing Native
American trails, they built strongholds and missions, as defensive
measures against existing tribes. These still existing settlements
today include Querétaro, Durango, Sombrerete, Chihuahua,
El Paso, Albuquerque and Santa Fe.
Including its branches, the Camino Real extends for nearly
2000 miles. In the late Spanish colonial period and through the
Mexican period, the northernmost part of the Camino Real between
Santa Fe and Chihuahua became a significant commercial
route, especially since the Camino Real connected in Santa
Fe with the Santa Fe Trail from Missouri.
Among the major impacts of the Camino Real were the introduction
of land grants, acequia irrigation systems, and legal
concepts still used in the American legal system, including community
property rights, land grant administration, first priority in terms
of water usage, mining claims and the idea of sovereignty, especially
as applied to Native American land claims. (2)
When I grew up in Española—just north of
here—I was integrated fully into a long tradition of communal
living.
We were a nuclear family, but we belonged to an extended family
along bloodlines, and then to the larger community of villagers
through thevecino system of the land
grants. That is, our land and water rights were defined by communal
law.
Both land and water rights were communal rights, and personal
rights to both land and water were subsumed by the larger rights
of the community.
In the spring, every able-bodied male was required to show up
on the appointed day and time to clean and repair the acequia
madre—the mother ditch from which each individual plot
received irrigation water.
In land grants, each family received an irrigated plot of land
on which to grow vegetables and plant orchards. The much larger
grazing lands and timber lands were owned jointly by the community,
and an elected board apportioned these lands to each family according
to need.
This communal value was played out in other institutional settings
as well.
Even though I have spent my entire adult life as a secular humanist,
I was born and raised in a strong Catholic family. One of the most
enduring memories of my childhood was the Feast Day of Los
Reyes Magos, held each year in early January.
To celebrate the Reyes Magos, all
of the boys and young men in Española would spend the
week or so between Christmas and the Feast Day gathering the
used Christmas trees from villagers.
In an open field behind the Church, we would pile hundreds of
trees into a huge mound.
The evening of the Feast Day, the entire village would gather
around the trees and we would set off a huge bonfire. While the
flames reached 50 feet into the dark night, we would gather in
a circle and sing alabados and other religious songs.
Finally, as the bonfire abated, we would march in procession down
several streets and into the Church. As we marched, we sang more
songs and carried banners proclaiming our devotion to La Virgen and
other santos.
What is seared into my memory is not the religious aspects of
the celebration, but the communal power this celebration unleashed.
I felt completely at home with the several hundred other people
participating in the event. I felt I belonged to something much
larger than just me, or my family.
It is precisely that communal feeling—that
deep resonance of my being with a larger community and a larger
purpose, that I have sought to recreate in my social justice
work.
With US Occupation came rejection of Spanish
law governing land grants; communal lands became public lands—so
the vast Forest Service and BLM lands in New Mexico were once
probably communal land grants. In all, more than 70% of all surface
lands in New Mexico now belong to government.
This communal model lives today in the 22 land grants still functioning;
together, they own more than 250,000 acres of common land.
Similarly, there are tens of thousands of parciantes—individuals
and families who own water rights and belong to acequias in
New Mexico.
Even more astonishing is the survival of Native American communal
systems in New Mexico.
In almost every Pueblo in New Mexico, every single person is tied
to every other person in the Pueblo. If not through bloodlines,
then everyone is tied through the padrino/madrina system—godfather
or godmother at baptism. If those two systems don’t complete
the personal connection, the Pueblos also have their ancient clans,
into which every single Pueblo person is born.
Ultimately, in both Pueblo and Hispano cultures here in New Mexico,
our world view is a communal world view.
I don’t want to leave you with the impression that because
of that, either Hispanos or Native Americans here are living an
exceptional lifestyle. We are materially poor; we suffer from drug
abuse, especially alcohol abuse; we have higher infant mortality
rates—in some areas—than most third-world countries.
Some of that is due to our own human frailties; some of it, however,
is due to the ugly boot heel of oppression brought and still maintained,
however subtly, by US Conquest.
Since American Occupation—now in its 161st year—our
traditional communal systems have been stretched to the breaking
point. It is not clear how much longer we can hold on. It’s
not even clear that we are holding on; we may be in a cultural
freefall that will end with our complete assimilation into US society.
I personally believe we are holding on; I even dare to hope we
may be on the verge of a comeback.
Why?
For one thing, Mexican immigrants have had a positive cultural
impact on our existing Indo-Hispano communities. Because we have
historically maintained strong north-south ties to Mexico, the
influx of significant numbers of Mexicanos—most
from our neighboring state of Chihuahua—is not cause
for alarm, but rather a cause for celebration. These neighbors
have helped revive our traditional Spanish language, as well as
our cultural traditions, including music and dance.
Fueled by the need to educate these new neighbors and also by
the rising cultural pride of Indo-Hispanos, dual language (English/Spanish)
immersion programs are spreading throughout our public schools
systems.
We may eventually—despite our xenophobia--end
up with a fully bilingual population.
Similarly, Native Americans are engaging in
language preservation programs—teaching their youth the
ancient Amerindian languages of their ancestors. In all, there
are about 15-18 different indigenous languages alive in New Mexico.
In addition, more than 10 New Mexico tribes are engaged in gaming,
and the proceeds from that economic activity are providing growing
political muscle for them. They are also building schools, health
clinics, housing, and other infrastructure for their people. Still
in play is whether they will be able to sustain their spiritual
beliefs in the flood of material plenty that now washes over them.
We are entering what author James Howard Kunstler
calls “The
Long Emergency.” Basically, he argues that world oil production
is peaking and that the remaining oil left to be exploited is geometrically
more difficult to find and extract.
He argues that this long emergency into an oil-depleted economy
will change forever everything about how we live.
Kunstler presents a bleak future for all of us.
He does, however, offer one ray of hope: Permit me to quote what
he concludes:
“The Long Emergency is going to be a tremendous trauma for
the human race. We will not believe that this is happening to us,
that 200 years of modernity can be brought to its knees by a world-wide
power shortage. The survivors will have to cultivate a religion
of hope—that is, a deep and comprehensive belief that humanity
is worth carrying on. If there is any positive side to stark changes
coming our way, it may be in the benefits of close communal relations,
of having to really work intimately (and physically) with our neighbors,
to be part of an enterprise that really matters and to be fully
engaged in meaningful social enactments instead of being merely
entertained to avoid boredom…”
I would argue that we already have those conditions for post modernity
in New Mexico. We have those close communal relationships; we have
those spiritual and community leaders who can show us the path
to what I call the Circle of Hope.
We need to look to our pueblo communities for models for the best
way to live in the future. We need to study our acequias and
our land grant communities to see how people find a livable future
with the most effective power source available—local communal
vision and hands-on work.
To do that, we need to learn how to celebrate our roots and culture
and still cross our individual cultural boundaries in hopes of
building successful collaborations. We all want healthy peoples
and communities; we all want good health care; we all want a good
education for our children; we all want decent housing; we all
want justice and peace in our lives.
But for us to be successful, especially in New Mexico, we all
have to examine our own practices and beliefs. We must root out
those negative behaviors that limit our capacity to grow and to
give; and we must give light to the positive values that permit
us to embrace each other despite our fears and biases.
Just how do we achieve peer-to-peer relationships?
How do we become better people in the process of trying to create
better communities? I
don’t know the answers, but I’m really interested in
helping to find them and to begin the search collaboratively.
We are blessed to have living among us a native
son, our Chicano poet laureate, Jimmy Santiago Baca. For
him too, the Rio Grande is sacred. I want to end with a piece
from his latest work, entitled, “WinterPoems Along the Rio Grande”:
“Sometimes I stand on the river bank
and feel the water take my pain,
allow my nostalgic brooding
a reprieve.
The water flows south,
constantly redrafting its story
which is my story,
rising and lowering with glimmering meanings—
here nations drown their stupid babbling,
bragging senators are mere geese droppings in the mud,
radicals and conservatives are stands of island grass,
and the water flows on,
cleansing, baptizing Muslims, Jews and Christians alike.
I yearn to move past these days of hate and racism.
That is why this Rio Grande,
these trees and sage bushes
the geese, horses, dogs and river stones
are so important
to me—
with them
I go on altering my reptilian self,
reaching higher notes of being
on my trombone heart,
pulsing out into the universe, my music
according to the leaf’s music sheet,
working, with a vague indulgence toward a song
called
we the people.”
NOTES
1. “Desert Trails” by Jay W. Sharp. 2. “Web Page.” El
Camino Real Heritage Center
