Ethnography on the Edge (AAA, 2011)

Los Tres Amigos: 40 Years with Michael Higgins In Oaxaca De Juarez. Arthur D Murphy (University of North Carolina Greensboro) and Alex Stepick (Florida International University). For 40 years engaged in a conversation with Michael Higgins over community, ethnicity, change, gender, family, households, politics and economics in and around Oaxaca de Juarez. In this paper we explore the city as we found it in the late 1960s and the changes we along with Michael witnessed in the ensuing years. We will specifically discuss how his views on family structure and roles, class, community and identity influenced our thinking about the city and its inhabitants. We will pay particular attention to changes in community life after the presidential elections of 1988 and the changed relationship between the people, the city, the state and the nation.


The Extraordinariness of the Ordinary: An Ethnographer At the Seams and Edges of Urban Mexican Life. Kristin Norget (McGill University). This paper uses the work of Michael James Higgins as a platform for exploring the changing landscape of urban anthropology in Oaxaca, Mexico and its recent extensions into some of the most innovative fields of research and theorizing of transculturalism and globalism, “from the margins”. Departing from a consideration of the “ordinariness of diversity”, in Michael's coinage, I trace the legacy of Michael Higgins's ethnography both in terms of the substantive contribution of his writings, and of Michael's singular praxis as ethnographer, and “colleague”-friend and mentor.


Las Ondas De Atzompa: the Politics of Peri-Urban Growth, Identity, and Representation. Ramona L Perez (San Diego State University). Invoking Higgins' call for a depth of responsibility in ethnography that “pushes applied anthropology into more direct political concerns”, this research discusses the current political tensions between the colonias and the cabecera in Atzompa. Beginning with the land reforms triggered by changes to Article 27 of the Mexican Constitution in 1993, the community of 5279 people re-imagined their future as one physically touching the capitol of Oaxaca while remaining rural at the center. The idea was to provide a space for their youth that allowed them to integrate with the economic opportunities of the city while remaining within the community. Dry ejido lands were converted but were not purchased by Atzompa youth; rather, disenchanted urbanites moved to the area who sought “country living in the city.” Since 1993 the community has grown to 30,000 and demands from the colonias for voice and participation have overwhelmed the main pueblo. The research provides insight into how the colonias of Atzompa, once the imagined future of the community, are now considered “un cancer del hueso” in response to their demands for representation. Invoking more than ten years of research in both locations, I provide insight into how these spaces were initially perceived and how they have evolved into contested and separate areas replete with borders, boundaries, and social rules of inclusion and exclusion


Cambios En El Teatro Urbano: Women’s Schooling and Social Change In Oaxaca. Jayne Howell (CSULB). Neoliberal discourse promotes education as a route to national progress and individual social mobility. In Mexico, schooling is widely touted as leading to gender role change even as statistics indicate that women – and particularly poorer women in rural areas – are those least likely to attend schools and universities. Michael Higgins' pioneering research regarding the complexities of daily life of gente humilde (humble people) in Oaxaca City underscores residents' desire for schooling as a way to “get ahead” in a state marked by low schooling levels, limited opportunities for gainful professional employment, and widespread poverty. Higgins acknowledged women's idealized household roles while emphasizing the critical economic responsibilities of women vendors, domestic servants and prostitutes – many of whom are cityward migrants lacking schooling – who struggled to support themselves and provide their children with greater opportunities in the urban milieu. Relying on ethnographic data collected over the past two decades, this discussion builds on these themes to explore ways that schooling has changed the lives of women migrants who prioritized schooling and the better life it promises. Although patriarchy and poverty continue, the compelling narratives of women including Imelda (a mother who financed her daughters' university education while working as a domestic servant), Erica (a psychologist who works with battered women) and Monserrat (a teacher and entrepreneur) speak to the aspirations and realities of individual Oaxaqueñas who reject the false consciousness that underpins class and gender oppression.


The Ordinariness of Violence: Central American Migration and the Struggle for Human Rights In Oaxaca. Wendy A Vogt (University of Arizona). In recent years, the state of Oaxaca has become one of the most feared regions for Central American migrants in transit to the United States. During the journey north, they are targeted by organized criminals, gangs, corrupt authorities, local residents and even other migrants who abuse, extort, exploit, kidnap, rape and murder. Such violence is not random but rather closely bound up with local industries that profit off vulnerability and the interpenetration of human and drug smuggling in Mexico. As the train route through the Isthmus of Tehuantepec to Veracruz has become the heart of much of this violence, increasing numbers of migrants choose to abandon the train and go through Oaxaca City on their way north. A network of migrant shelters has been critical to creating safer passage for migrants, offering humanitarian aid and working to expose the violations against them. Inspired by the work of Michael Higgins who sought to make visible the ordinariness of marginalized groups and their struggles for social justice, this paper examines the lived experiences of undocumented migrants and shelter workers. I explore how violence operates and is reproduced at the local level, the complex social dynamics within migrant shelters and the social movement that has emerged in defense of migrant rights. In parallel with Higgins' earlier work, migrants and everyday Oaxacans currently struggle to create social spaces of civility and tolerance to combat what has become ordinary violence in people's lives.

Discussant
Martha W Rees (Agnes Scott College)

November 2011

As I'm pulling together the events of the last year in order to prepare my comments for the ETHNOGRAPHY ON THE EDGE session at the AAAs in Montreal next week, I have reviewed the blog, the Welte symposium FORO and my thoughts for Michael's family.

I continue to have conversations with Michael--the last one was in the Carroll Street Cafe in Cabbagetown when Michael, Angeles, Siobhan and Rebecca came through. I pulled him aside and said, 'I have this situation, what do you think?' He said, 'do whatever makes you feel comfortable.'

Erika Santiago

“El viaje no termina jamás, sólo los viajeros terminan. Y también ellos pueden subsistir en memoria, en recuerdo, en narración… El objetivo de un viaje es solo el inicio de otro viaje.” Saramago

Pensé mucho sobre lo que iba a escribir y decidí que hoy no quiero llorar porque no estás. Voy a sonreír porque estuviste en nuestras vidas Michael.

Antes que nada quiero agradecerte por haber hecho inmensamente feliz a mi mamá y por haber sido su media naranja. Yo aprendí a quererte en el momento que me di cuenta de estas dos cosas. En este momento sé que mi mamá es muy feliz por el simple hecho de haberte conocido. Eso le dará fuerzas para seguir adelante. Baby (Rebeca) sabe muchas cosas de la vida gracias a ti. Tú eras su enciclopedia y algo más. Pero no sólo ella fue feliz al conocerte. También hiciste feliz a esta familia Clemente, “en las que hay muchas mentes”, sobre todo mentes complicadas. Como García Márquez, tú creías que “el amor es tan importante como la comida  pero no alimenta”. Gracias por las dos cosas.

Me dejaste una tarea muy dura, la de hacer pavo todas las navidades. Espero prepararlo tan bien como tú, o al menos que mi pavo sea comible.

Deseo que el mundo disfrute la diversidad del planeta como tú lo hiciste. Estoy segura que si se hubiera presentado la oportunidad de ir a otros planetas, hubieras tenido amigos ahí.  Gracias pro darme la oportunidad de diseñar tu libro sobre las calles cuartos y patios de Oaxaca. Conocí tu trabajo más de cerca y supe que este libro y los otros que escribiste nos dirán lo que García Márquez “la vida no es la que uno vivió, si no la que uno recuerda, y cómo la recuerda para contarla.” Gracias por hacerme entender que esta vida hay que vivirla disfrutarla al máximo, que hay que ser “gente”, que todo mundo necesita de alguien, y que lo poco o mucho que puedas hacer por las personas hacen la diferencia.

Siempre me asomaré a las finales de beisbol a ver el resultado sólo por ti. Cualquier home run sabré que es para ti  por que va directo hacia arriba.  

García Márquez alguna vez escribió: “Me desconcierta tanto pensar que Dios existe, como que no existe”. Creo que si existe, tú estás con él (tú no creías en él y al mismo tiempo afirmabas que era ella) platicando.  Más bien, eras como Saramago: “No creo en dios y no me hace ninguna falta. Por lo menos estoy a salvo de ser intolerante. Los ateos somos las personas más tolerantes del mundo. Un creyente fácilmente pasa a la intolerancia. En ningún momento de la historia, en ningún lugar del planeta, las religiones han servido para que los seres humanos se acerquen unos a los otros. Por el contrario, sólo han servido para separar, para quemar, para torturar. No creo en dios, no lo necesito y además soy buena persona.”

Me mandaste la Rolling Stone, me preparaste un cosmo,  pensaste en mí. 

Ah, y gracias por agrandar la familia con Tristan y Siobhan. Ellos ahora están muy cerca de nosotros.

Erika Santiago

Gerardo Juarez

mi querida doctora... un abrazo. Jodorowsky perdio a su hijo mateo y entonces se desplomó, la vida perdió sentido para él. Viajó a buscar a su maestro Zen para que lo iluminara y cuando lo tuvo enfrente, el maestro sólo dijo: ¨duele¨.

A Michael

Eres Sir Michael . . .

Eres buscador

Eres tu sonrisa, que se inserta

Eres tu pulsera metálica

Eres tus amigos, de todos los colores

Eres tus palabras

Eres tu inglés incomprensible

Eres tu sarcasmo

Eres tus buenas intenciones

Eres tu academicidad

Eres tu simpleza

Eres tu enseñanza

Eres Lindavista

Eres referencia

Eres tu música

Eres ciudadano del mundo

Eres tus libros

Eres tus platillos

Eres tus manos

Eres tu alegría

Eres tu vino tinto

Eres recuerdos

Eres tus fotografías

Eres tu generosidad

Eres tu misterio

Eres mi alter ego

Eres un ángel para Ángeles

Eres, fuiste y serás siempre.

 

[Si  no crees. . . no hay milagro.]

Gone Again (Patti Smith)

I'm not sure this song is the right song, but I've been thinking about you Michael, how you'd call me when I needed it; how you called Siobhan every week; about the stories that your family and friends tell. Over the years, I've often been in a politically or personally difficult situation, and I think, what would Michael say? Sometimes you were around, so you'd say something like, do what you feel comfortable with. I just can't believe that you're gone.

De Rebeca

Yo te conocí cuando apenas tenia 6 años (just a kiddo) y me acuerdo perfectamente que ese dia jugamos “I spy with my little eye” y despues de varios años me confesaste que no te gustaba ese juego, pero a pesar de eso lo jugaste para complacerme. Otro ejemplo fue la famosa historia de “Mike”, que despues de 2 años descubrimos que no te gustaba y mira que ya nos los habias dicho varias veces pero al final nos cayó el veinte, y asi con el paso del tiempo fuiste conquistando a toda la familia ganandote el cariño de cada uno de nosotros and let me tell you something… we aint easy.

Mi mama y yo aprendimos tantas cosas gracias a ti. Siempre que teniamos duda de algo te preguntabamos y si no sabias la respuesta imediatamente decias “Do I look like a fucking enciclopedia?” con una sonrisa. Aunque la verdad la maryoria de las veces nos contestabas. Ya ves, ahora en dia los antropologos se meten a estudiar de todo. Tu hasta decias que tu religion era la antropologia y mira que la practicabas muy bien que hasta ya perdi la cuenta de cuentos libros publicaste y la verdad no tenia ni puta idea de lo que escribias, la unica cosa que sabia es que eras muy feliz haciendolo.

Recuerdo que cada vez que tenia examen de geopolitica o historia siempre recurria a ti para que me ayudaras a explicar lo que no entendia y siempre me decias “why do you study? Ii’s easier if you cheat”.  Y por supuesto que nunca olvidare la primera vez que tuve dettention y que llegue a la casa con un reporte, y en vez de ser como todos los padres comun y corrientes de regañarlos y castigarlos, tú en vez de eso me felicitaste y me dijiste “Don´t pay attention what the principal says, rules where ment to be broken”.

Quien iba a decir que por la gran diferencia de edad tuvieramos los mismos gustos por varias cosas como la musica por ejemplo que hasta teniamos que enseñarle a mi mama de las buenas bandas. Y por supuesto por ser unos foodies de lo peor.

Gracias a ti aprendi that life is very short and there’s no time for fuzzing and fighting! -(The Beatles)

Gracias por haberme querido como tu propia hija y por darme consejos, escucharme y apoyarme con mis sueños y creer que puedo llegar muy lejos en lo que me proponga!

Pero tengo que agradecerte por lo mas importante que hiciste y eso fue habernos hecho tan felices a mi mama y a mi!

Most people walk in and out of your life, but only the really important people that you loved leave footprints in your heart.

Thank you Michael!

Una persona no se muere hasta que la olvidas asi que tu nunca moriras de esa forma!

 I love you!

Bex with an “x” (Rebeca)

Ed Higgins

Of the many things we all admired about Michael one of the foremost was his long term commitment to social activism. It is certainly one of the things I have always admired and respected about my brother. From his early 60s college days in San Francisco helping ferry food to the American Indian Movement occupation of Alcatraz Island, to his participating in the 70s Vietnam-era anti-war march on Washington, D. C., to his more recent literacy work with Angeles encouraging self-liberating poems and stories from inmates through a creative writing class in Oaxaca state prison, to so much more. Michael has always been a fighter for resistance against any politics or injustice or marginalization he encountered or ever learned about.

I suspect Michael became a fighter against power structures and injustices because, as the youngest of three brothers, he had to become a scraper to survive. His oldest brother, I like to think I helped instilled this quality in him early on. We three brothers came from a blue-collar working class family and grew up in a small suburban neighborhood in the San Francisco Bay Area where we three boys shared the same bedroom. Our father build bunkbeds onto opposite walls, and as the oldest I not only had the bunkbed with no one sleeping over me, but I also had the only study desk, also built by dad. I was top dog, for sure. But Michael and Frank were always getting into my stuff. I had to spend a good bit of my pre-teen and teen years beating the crap out of my brothers: for disturbing my Mickey Spillane books, Wonder Woman comics and my Elvis, and other 45s Rock & Roll record collection--or whatever else was MINE in those keep-out drawers of my desk.

As any sensible accused or threatened younger brother, my brother Frank could usually blame such riflings or, worse, the outright theft of a missing Snickers bar on Michael. But beating the shit out of Michael was never an easy task. Although growing up four years behind me and the smaller of the three of us then, he was stubbornly tough in a fight. Just taking a few swipes at Frank and he would retreat to his own side of the bedroom. But Michael was never this sensible. While not always innocent, he always resisted energetically the imbalance of power from an older brother bent on his destruction. No matter how pummeled or tearful Michael became, he simply would not accept the humiliation of surrender. He would continue fighting until he exhausted me or I would have to back off at his unrelenting fighting spirit.

Fortunately, for his continued existence (as well as saving me from many a near fratricide) our bedroom—where most of our fights took place—had a very large dirty clothes hamper our dad had also built, matching the rest of our room’s furnishings. The clothes hamper was always a perfect, although somewhat obvious, hiding place for younger hide-and-seek games. But it also saved Michael’s life on numerous occasions when he just wouldn’t give up when I was trying to beat him into confession or surrender for transgressing my desk. Despairing of Michael ever yielding, despite the clearly overwhelming odds against him, I developed the technique of tossing him into the large hamper and sitting on the lid until we both realized the futility of continuing our no-win conflict.

Those early hamper lessons, I’m sure, were formative for both of us. The bigger the force arrayed against you, the harder you resisted and fought it. Yet peaceful reconciliation was always a possibility after any confrontation, if both sides could find a face-saving way out of the dirty laundry, so to speak. Such was my youthful influence on my little brother, and he on me.

One of my fondest adult memories of Michael is our meeting some years ago at an academic conference in New Orleans. While both academics, he an anthropologist, me a literature professor, we had never met professionally together, although we knew and discussed one another’s work over the years. I don’t remember either of the brilliant papers we both presented there—brilliant non-rememberable papers being the usual function of academic conferences.

But, aside from the formal academic excuse we just wanted to get together and enjoy one another’s company—which over the years didn’t happen that often since us three brothers had basically scattered to different worlds once we left home in our teens.

New Orleans is a fun place to be with someone fun-loving (a basic Higgins genetic trait). Michael and I both love Creole food and New Orleans, of course, is famous for such spicy delights. Over several days of gumbo, crawfish etoufee, jambalaya, and powdered sugar-heaped beignets with chicory coffee we spend hours of catch-up conversation solving the geopolitical woes and injustices of the world from our varying points of view. Very heady stuff, especially at our food-memorable evening restaurant meet-ups. After two or three double-rum-over-ice cocktails that Michael introduced me to as a favorite drink of his—although decidedly non-Creole—we could, predictably, wax witty and humorous, as well as brotherly brilliant. Anyone who’s heard Michael’s smile-inducing giggle-to-laughter knows what a fine time we had together into the late hours of the morning.

Before we left New Orleans I went for a brief solo shopping trip in the French Quarter, where I stumbled on a small boutique that sold only Hawaiian-print shirts. Now I think Hawaiian shirts are butt-ugly with their gaudy Polynesian floral patterns and shapeless, straight-cut style. Seriously ugly. But Michael loved Hawaiian shirts—or maybe it was only the one Hawaiian shirt he seemingly wore all the time—including there in New Orleans. As I stumbled into the boutique, nearly overwhelmed with bright-colors nausea and aloha overload I experienced a near evil glee at the thought of buying Michael a gift of our New Orleans time together. I started looking through the racks of abundant floral patterns for the ugliest damn Hawaiian shirt I could find. Not an easy task with so much overflowing ugly to choose from. Finally I found it: an exceptionally gaudy, super-bright Gauguin-yellow, cliched floral pattern that had to be slipped into a dark plastic bag so I wouldn’t be arrested for offending the entire aesthetic world on my way back to my hotel.

Later that afternoon I presented my butt-ugly gag-gift to Michael at his hotel as he packed to return to Colorado (and who the hell wears a Hawaiian shirt in Greeley, CO.!). Michael loved the shirt. He immediately shed his other butt-ugly Hawaiian shirt for my gaudy-gift one. He wore it back to Greely. He wore it to Oaxaca. He probably wore it to Cuba and Nicaragua. For years, every time he’d send me a picture of himself from whereever he was, he’d have that damn super-bright yellow Polynesian shirt on. He loved it. He also loved teasing me for buying it for him.

Michael clearly had no taste in shirts. But he love the incongruous. And he loved the bright colors of life and love and laughter. We’ll all miss the bright gift he was himself.