39 pages • 1 hour read
The epigraph for Chapter 5 is by Ray Gwyn Smith, sharing an anecdote of being at a dentist who keeps declaring, “We’re going to have to do something about your tongue.” (75). The closing sentence reads, “Who is to say that robbing a people of its language is less violent than war?” (75).
Anzaldúa describes getting in trouble for speaking Spanish in elementary school; at Pan American University, she had to take speech classes to get rid of her accent. She then lists off various idiomatic expressions and words that decry women for talking too much. “Language is a male discourse” (76), says Anzaldúa.
Chicano Spanish, with its mix of English and Spanish, is a border tongue, sometimes derided by Latinx people. It is a patois, a “forked tongue” that identifies Chicanos as a people, becoming the homeland they lack. She lists the various forms of official and vernacular English and Spanish she speaks, explaining that “Tex-Mex, or Spanglish” comes most naturally to her (78). She acutely details all the linguistic specificities of Chicano Spanish: the collapsing of syllables, the shifting of stresses, and the use of words brought over from medieval Spain due to South Texas’s geographic isolation.
Chicano Spanish speakers are deslenguadas—foul-mouthed. Even when they speak with other Chicano people, language is a source of discomfort; often, they speak English as a neutral territory. Yet, Anzaldúa clarifies: “There is no one Chicano language just as there is no one Chicano identity” (80). For Chicano people, language and ethnicity are virtually one and the same.
Anzaldúa tells of personal experiences with language and identity. While teaching high school English to Chicano students, she “illegally” snuck in texts by Chicano authors. Growing up watching Mexican movies, she felt simultaneous homecoming and alienation because “people who were to amount to something didn’t go to Mexican movies” (82). In terms of music, she grew up listening to corridios, “songs of love and death on the Texas-Mexican borderlands” (83). She felt ambivalent about this music despite tapping her foot along to it. The smell of tortillas also makes her think of home.
Ultimately, Anzaldúa ties these experiences to the formation of identity. She writes, “Being Mexican is a state of soul, not one of mind, not one of citizenship” (84). Sometimes, she explains, Chicano people cop out, denying their heritage and culture. However, upon recognizing they were a people in 1965, when César Chávez began organizing farmworkers, they began to get a glimpse of liberation. Stubborn yet malleable, they have maintained their language over the years; they, the mestizos and mestizas, are unbreakable.
Anzaldúa opens the chapter by reflecting on her experiences staying up late with her sister telling stories, preferring waking imagination to sleep. She describes the links between art and religion in shamanism, reflecting on Borderlands as a book, in which Anzaldúa is obsessed with structure, texture, and the hybridization of metaphor. Describing her writing process, Anzaldúa tells of an “induction period” in which she goes through various rituals and then, once writing, can stay immersed for 15 or 16 hours.
Anzaldúa describes her stories as performances that are enacted through reading. They are not “inert and ‘dead’ objects” as prescribed by Western culture (89). Instead, they are invoked art: communal, speaking of everyday life, and dedicated to the validation of humans. Western art, by contrast, is always in power and is dedicated to the validation of itself. Its ethnocentrism is tyrannical; Anzaldúa calls on white people instead to “share and exchange and learn from us in a respectful way” (90).
Anzaldúa cites the ancient Aztecs’ tradition of writing in red and black ink on codices and their belief in communion with the divine through metaphor and symbol. She links this tradition to the shamanic state. When she imagines stories, she goes into a trance, requiring sensory deprivation to become both actor and director in these “awakened dreams” that are all about shifts. When she goes to write, picking images from her mind’s eye, it is with the ink of her blood.
Writing is inspired by the musa bruja, the witch-muse. It feels similar to being a Chicana or being queer: It engenders anxiety and squirming but can also feel boundless and floating. Writing, to Anzaldúa, is a borderland; it is a path to something else. Anzaldúa links her writer’s blocks (or Coatlicue states) to a larger process of cultural shifting. By submitting to this state, she gains power from it as a mestiza. The pain and work of writing are her “offerings, are [her] Aztec blood sacrifices” (97).
This section marks Anzaldúa’s most explicit consideration of Language as Identity and Performance. Chapter 5 concentrates on the Chicano language and its wildness, contending that language is ethnicity for Chicano people. Chicano Spanish is complex, comprising various layers of languages to create a messy web of colonial and Indigenous histories. Anzaldúa acknowledges these complexities, both in terms of the language’s cultural position and its literal approach to Spanish and English grammar. In linking language to the broader Chicano experience, Anzaldúa thus indicates the ontological questions inherent in Chicano identity. Even as the Chicano language has amalgamated so many different ethnic groups and histories, it remains, thanks to the stubbornness of its people—the mestizos and mestizas.
Once again, however, Anzaldúa’s discussion has implications that extend beyond culture and ethnicity to encompass other facets of experience—e.g., gender. With the image of the wild tongue at the fore, Anzaldúa draws a picture of the dominant language as patriarchy, with Tex-Mex Spanish positioned as the outsider mestiza. In fact, Anzaldúa at one point describes language itself as “male,” implying that any woman using it must contend with the kind of split consciousness she has earlier associated with mestiza identity in particular.
This context lends insight into both the struggles and the unconventionalities of Anzaldúa’s own writing process. The hybrid experience of metaphor and the vivid relationship between image and text that her writing process entails create a clear parallel with the borderland as a mystical performative space. Anzaldúa proposes her texts as performances, a perspective that alludes to the field of performance studies, which border studies is closely linked, as interdisciplinary fields linking sociocultural analysis and subjective experience. Indeed, in linking her subjective experience with a larger social phenomenon, Anzaldúa makes the personal political, her writing serving as a form of action. Through such means, Anzaldúa strives both to decolonize language and to feminize it.
Writing is painful for Anzaldúa, not least because of how language intersects with systems of oppression, and yet, that pain seems to be an important part of the journey toward the joy of writing. Yet again, paradox emerges as the defining feature of Anzaldúa’s life, developing the theme of Contradiction as Mestiza Consciousness. The Coatlicue state, embodied in Anzaldúa as writer’s block, is indicative of a larger cultural shift in Anzaldúa and in the broader population. Citing these experiences as her own Aztec blood sacrifices, Anzaldúa unites the past with the present, threading her Indigenous heritage into her contemporary writing practice.
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