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.

Diego G. Algara

Muy querida Ángeles,

Te mandamos nuevamente nuestro cariño/amistad/apoyo eres alguien muy especial e importante en nuestras vidas...un pequeño poema-verso de aquella tarde en que conocimos a michael.

Aquella tarde

A Michael H. con respeto y cariño,

Aunque
No puedo decir mucho
Porque no mucho
Lo tengo,
Pero lo poco
Que digo
Con mucho cariño.

Por aquella tarde maravillosa,
Rodeada de sonrisas infinitas,
Y sueños perfectos,
Porque llenas
De vida a tanta gente en
Colorado, en Colombia,
En Oaxaca, en Brazil y más
En cada instante y momento
En que tu sabio consejo,
En que tu sabias palabras,
En que tus bromas
Llenaron y viven
En los corazones
De muchos en
Latinoamérica,
En Estados Unidos,
Y en cada rincón que
Tiene
Bibliotecas
Decentes.

Por aquella tarde
Que fue suficiente
Para tenerte en el
Alma
Y llenarnos
De vida
Con tus
Palabras
Con tus
Sonrisas
Con tu tranquilidad
Constante
Con tu plática
Perfecta.

Por aquella tarde en
Que el viento
Nos llevo
A conocerte
Por aquella tarde que huyó
Y no regresará más
Que en los
Recuerdos
Tiernos
Del verano
Pasado
Mientras llenos
De amigos
Nos
Conocimos.

Por aquélla tarde
Que nos es nada
Pero
Es cada instante,
Cada recuerdo,
Cada añoranza,
Por aquella tarde que es todo.

Nuestros recuerdos perennes.

--
Diego G. Algara

From Diana Milstein

Queridas, esta es una de las fotos que más nos gustó a los cuatro, va como recuerdo de nuestros amigos comunes

Diana

 

Second "misa"/mass for Michael

The second "misa"/mass for Michael will be held this Friday, February 25th at 7PM at the chapel/"capilla" which is attached to the Guadalupe Church on the Llano where the first one was held.

Map to Vilma Barahona's house in San Agustín, Etla

Party to celebrate Michael's life

The party to celebrate Michael's life will be held on the grounds of Vilma Barahona's home in San Agustín, Etla, this Saturday, February 26th at 3PM. We are asking those who wish to attend to bring/take a "cazuela" which will be enough to serve several people or your own family. You should also take whatever it is you will be drinking. Please wear white or colorful clothes, as it is a celebration, not a wake. Contact me if you need transportation.  We will be meeting at Conzatti Park at 2PM and those with room in their cars will pass by there to fill their cars.  I will post the address and a map or "croquis" in a couple of days. My phone numbers are: (house) 515-1458 & (cell) 951-188-0424. 
Don Kissinger

Bill Sughrua

Another email to Michael:

Hello. Hi there. Saludos. Greetings. Hey there. Hey. Un saludo. With one of those words or phrases, Michael, our emails to each other have always begun, and for this present email, I’ve pulled out all those terms. As you know, Michael, we haven’t seen each in person for over two-and-a-half years because during this time I’ve been on leave from the Facultad at the UABJO and outside of Mexico with my family. However, I’ve had frequent and extensive email correspondence with you and Angeles with regard to the various articles and book chapters that we’ve been working on together during these past two-plus years. Well, “working on together” is a ‘euphemism’, as it applies to me -- because my involvement in your and Angeles’ projects simply started with me as a very interested reader who dabbled with surface things. I still remember the moment as I sat in the library in Canterbury, outside the wind howling and sleet hitting the windows, and I opened your email and read: “Hi there. Angeles and I have been talking. With all the work you’ve been doing, we want to make you co-author. We’re serious about this.” And from that email, the byline Clemente, Higgins & Sughrua emerged. As I told you back then, this was a very kind, gracious, and selfless gesture on your and Angeles’ part, because my so-called “work” on the projects was, and still is, merely as a very interested and finicky reader, one who (as Don has jokingly scolded me on more than one occasion) borders on the downright neurotic. It all has been such a fun ride.

Fun but intellectually enriching -- as has been our other academic work together. Do you remember, Michael, the October 2008 international symposium on ethnography that Angeles and the Cuerpo Academico of the Facultad organized? You, Angeles, and I presented a collective paper that attempted to profile and illustrate experimental narrative writing as a type of research repertoire to dialogue with an ethnographic portrait approach. I remember the roundtable discussion was very favorable and enthusiastic towards the ethnographic portrait ‘side’ of the paper (you and Angeles) and bewildering if not completely negative for the experimental narrative stuff (me). Nonetheless, you spent your allotted time of the presentation defending me and the experimental narrative – just as both you and Angeles had done on my behalf on various previous occasions. And after we had finished our collective presentation at that ethnography symposium, and as we stood up from the table, you told me, “Nothing at all to worry about.  Everything’s okay. You know, it’s just a matter of space and time.” And you continued, saying, “Space. You just need to put something in the introduction, opening up some space in the introduction, in order to say directly what the experimental stuff is for. No problem.”  I was going to ask you about what you meant by “time”, but you then immediately said, “And ‘time’.  Well, about that additional stuff you’ll put in the intro section, the people’ll have to take the ‘time’ to read it.”

I thought that was funny. It made the day for me. I mean, it was really clear, direct, and practical advice, but also funny.  A few weeks later that same Fall, we all (the Cuerpo Academico) were up at a university in a somewhat northernmost country.  Each of us was slated to give a presentation, one immediately after the other, in a three-hour meeting with the faculty members of this university. I remember, right before this was to start, we were all huddled around a table in an office area, checking over the PowerPoint presentations on our laptops, and chatting. There was a notable pause, and for some reason we all fell silent. I would have to check with Angeles and Mario, but my recollection is that we were just cold. Two or three of us were warming our hands on the electric space-heater near the table. It was about 2 minutes before the meeting was to start. And you suddenly said, “Well, let’s get this ‘dog and pony show’ going.” We all laughed; and that set us in the groove for what turned out to be an engaging collective presentation and follow up discussion with the language faculty of the university  --  but not without the chuckles and the hip and jazzy attitude a-la-Michael.

It has been a really good ride -- and, as I mentioned above, really moving and inspiring. From you and Angeles, I’ve learned a lot about postcolonialism, coeval ethnography, the crossing of epistemological borders, and the like; and I’ve also been very inspired about the way you and Angeles carefully and meticulously develop the ethnographic portraits of your research participants, such as the young Triqui woman and her family in “Yolanda’s Portrait” [main title] (2010) as well as the students in the creative writing course at the Ixcotel prison in “Thanks for the Blanket you Lent Me on the First Night” [main title] (currently under final review at a journal).  The way you and Angeles have written so compassionately, humanely, and respectfully about your research participants  --  to be blunt, it just blows me away.  It leaves me in awe.  You and Angeles, the perfect couple, the couple sharing an internal glow, perfect and complete ‘soul mates’, co-authors and researchers who have shared an authentically felt identification with the people they write about. 

In all these recent months, Michael, we’ve continued to be in touch -- regarding two other projects, one in which we’re also working with Don, and the other in which we’re also working with both Don and Mario. A few months into this collaborative work, I opened an email from you, Michael. It was a type of chill-out space within our fun bantering ‘back and forth’ about things to be glossed, biblios to be checked, and so on and so forth, and abstracts to be reduced, and a deadline chasing us down, and so on. In the midst of this, you wedged a space. Your email on that night didn’t mention anything about the ongoing projects. It simply read … no more, no less: “Hi. How’re you doing? How’s things?”  That three-line email has really resonated with me. Its directness, its simplicity, its sincerity, the vast ‘whiteness’ or empty space that surrounds all sides of those three lines, its “tip of the iceberg” effect (sorry for the literary cliché)   --  all that speaks to your greatness as a person, Michael. 

Seriously:  receiving such ‘asides’ from you in our email correspondence; working with you and Angeles on the projects over these two-and-a-half years; experiencing a “politics of affinity” (to borrow one of your phrases) with you and Angeles over the ‘performativity’ in research; having always received your and Angeles’ moral support and encouragement for my own work and ideas; and of course maintaining an epistolary academic relationship with you, Michael -- yes, it has been such a wonderful and inspiring journey. It has been really great. Words fail me as I try to articulate my gratitude. Just let me say: many thanks. 

And thanks for your email about three weeks ago. This was in acknowledgement of the latest project, the first of the two projects referred to above, the one you, Angeles, Don, and I did. I had written you, the day before, in order to confirm that (on behalf of you, Angeles, and Don) I had sent in the proofread copy to the respective editor. And in your reply email to me, you comment, at the very end: “That was a lot of effort for 1,000 words.” I really liked that line. It’s vintage ‘you,’ Michael. It’s a discourse that is direct, funny, ‘mock’ poker-faced, and hip -- but also, very considerate and sincere, sending thanks all around to all those involved.  And now to you, Michael, the friend, colleague, and mentor to me and so many others … thanks again.  Heartfelt thanks. 

Very best, 

Bill.

Pascual I. Rodríguez Cruz

Santa María Ixcotel

Como empezar una carta cuando la persona que lo leerá ni una palabra consuela su dolor y podríamos culpar a la vida y hasta Dios. Pero sólo él sabe por qué pasan las cosas.

En el poco tiempo que llevo de conocerlo he podido percibir esa forma única de regalar alegría y esperanza. Dado que el lugar donde tuve el placer y el privilegio de conocerlos recordándome que en este mundo tan mezquino todavía hay personas buenas, llegaron a nuestras vidas dando a nuestras almas rayos de luz sin importarles nuestro pasado ni el motivo por el cual estábamos en este lugar llamado prisión.

Doctora, sé que la partida de su esposo deja en todos un gran vació pero sé también que él nos ve desde lo alto con esa sonrisa tan peculiar, porque sabe que no lo recordamos tristeza sino como el hombre feliz, impetuoso y dedicado, a cada uno de sus proyectos; esperando siempre dar lo mejor de sí mismo, claro que lo vamos a extrañar, pero también que a él le gustaría que lo recordemos con una sonrisa. Como la que él le gustaría regalar a quien se le acercara, esa calidad humana la he visto en muy pocas personas.

Por ello, con el corazón en la mano le digo, que aunque miles de kilómetros nos separen desde aquí, le mando a usted y a su familia un fuerte pero sincero abrazo, y mi más sentido pésame y recuerden:

HAY PENAS QUE NO SE CURAN, SÓLO SE PUEDEN COMPARTIR.

Atentamente:

Pascual I. Rodríguez Cruz      

El Preso

Belem

Michael: It is hard to write knowing that you´re not here anymore. When mi papá died, it took me a while to write to him as well because that made it real. Quiero escribir esto en Spanglish, so I can honor the two languages you knew. Unfortuantely I don’t speak any Portuguese as you and Angeles do, so I´ll stick with Spanish and English. Tengo una lluvia de recuerdos tuyos “Vaticito” (como solía yo decirte) y esos recuerdos te mantienen presente y con nosotros aunque tú no estés aquí. Recuerdo cuando me apodaste “Vaticita” porque un día me saludaste y me dijiste:”Qué onda Vata” corregiste y me dijiste:”Perdón Vaticita porque estás chiquita.” Since then we called each other like that.

You were such a humble, honest, happy and wonderful person. Siempre me pregunto y me lo pregunté cuando mi papá murió: “Why do good people die?” Now I think I have the answer. Porque la gente buena son ángeles que solo vienen a la tierra de paso a darnos felicidad y a cumplir una misión y tú la cumpliste Vaticito. That´s why you´re resting in peace. You made so many people happy and changed their lifes for good. Gracias por escogernos y ser parte de esas personas y compartir tantos bellos momentos juntos, pero sobre todo gracias por hacer feliz a nuestra querida amiga Angeles, a la cual quiero mucho porque ha sido mas que my teacher, my mentor and a great professor, ha sido una gran AMIGA al igual que tú.

Te acuerdas como  nos divertimos en Inglaterra? Ahí fue realmente donde te empecé a conocer y es un recuerdo que guardo en mi mente y mi corazón. Recuerdo el susto que nos diste cuando decidiste manejar en Bristol. You were a cafre!!! I was scared, but it was so much fun! Mario y yo siempre recordamos esa anécdota. Qué divertido fue ese viaje contigo, Angeles y Rebe. También cuando nos vimos en Fredonia, Wisconsin and when you and Angeles arrived, Mario and I knew it was going to be fun! You both had una luz especial que los hacía brillar como uno solo. Por eso siempre pasamos momentos muy lindos con ustedes. I also remember cuando un día te dije que me encantaba la comida Indú y tú como el gran chef que eras me dijiste “I´ll teach you an Indian recipe” y así lo hiciste y cocinamos juntos un platillo Indú delicioso! I still have the especies you gave me para que yo lo cocinara en mi casa. Such many memories of you… You know what´s funny? Que solo te conocí por unos años y siento que te conozco de siempre porque así eras tú: una gran persona que era fácil de querer en poco tiempo.

Vaticito, thank you for your nice words when my dad died. Thank you por mostrar interés en mi papá y querer saber mas de él. I remember la plática que tuvimos en tu casa poco después de que mi papá muriera. You told me that you wanted to meet him, but it was too late. He was a wonderful músico y compartían los mismos gustos de la música de los 60s. Ahora ya se conocen y de seguro you both are bonding because of this music. Sabes? Cuando Mario me dijo que habías muerto me dio mucha tristeza y le rogué a mi papá que te ayudara para que todo fuera más fácil y encontraras la luz y la paz que te mereces. I´m sure he helped you porque el era un ángel como tú y ahora están los dos descansando y en un lugar hermoso.

You´ll always be in our mind, memories, but most of all, in our hearts.

Descansa en paz Vaticito.

Belem

Mario

Michael, pocas personas me han enseñado tanto como tú. Tenías el don de saber combinar la felicidad, el gusto por la comida y la buena bebida, y el humor con la academia y el compromiso con los que menos tienen. Tu éxito como antropólogo no debe sólo medirse por el número de comadres y compadres que acumulaste, sino por el gran cariño que inspiraste en todas ellas y todos ellos.

Quiero que sepas que me dolió mucho perderte. Como dicen los gringos “Shit comes in threes.” Primero mi padre, luego mi suegro y ahora tú. Perdí un gran amigo, un colega, pero sobre todo un maestro que me enseñaba con el ejemplo. Gracias por ser mi asesor externo y darme “pep talks” justo cuando más lo necesitaba.

Belem y yo siempre recordaremos los buenos momentos que pasamos contigo en Oaxaca y fuera de México. Viajar contigo siempre era interesante pues sabías encontrar lo mejor de cada lugar. Nuestro viaje a New Orleans simplemente lo pondremos en pausa para cuando llegue el momento de encontrarnos de nuevo. Mientras tanto disfruta de las pláticas de mi padre que es bien platicón y del buen Rock & Roll de mi suegro. Un fuerte abrazo, vato.

Con cariño, respeto y admiración,

Mario

Nuestra primera gran aventura con el vato

Vilma Barahona

Queridisimas todas:
Michael fue un gran amigo, voy a extrañarlo siempre.
Su eterna sonrisa, amabilidad, su entusiasmo al cooperar
en todas las causa justas y la eterna disposición de
compartir con sus amigos. Recuerdo cuando nos conocimos,
por supuesto, en el bar jardín,  hace mas de 30 años,
y desde entonces compartimos alegrías y vicisitudes.
No olvido el festejo de su cumpleaños en casa de Martha Rees:
 "la mitad de negro y la mitad de rojo", con sus invitados
transvestis; el entusiasmo al impartir las clases de
rock en la universidad; cuando fuimos a comer
tamales con su "comadre de la Lindavista" una mujer que
le apoyaba en sus entrevistas.  Los fines de año  que
compartimos..... toda una vida  tuve la fortuna de ser
su amiga.

Vilma

Angeles

Michael, mi esposo, mi amigo, mi amante, mi parceiro, mi hommie,

Todavía no entiendo tu partida. Eu acho que nunca la entenderé.

Este texto va dirigido a ti y está escrito en la forma peculiar en que hablábamos todos los días, that is, mumbling in three languages. Este texto es para darte las gracias….

Gracias por sharing your life with me, y por haber entrado en la mía. Me hiciste la mujer más feliz del mundo.

Gracias for making me feel safe. That has been the best feeling ever. A tu lado crecí, reí, llore, cambie, aprendí, experimente, viví, me sentí mujer. Ame con pasión y me sentí tan, tan amada. Obrigada por a casa segura.

Gracias por ser mi maestro. Mi amor nació de la gran admiración que siento por ti y que día a día crece al saber que tu knowledge, and wisdom, and kindness, and passion and wit, no parecen tener límite. Obrigada por encontrar as palabras quando eu não as tenía. As I always told you: ‘Michael, you’re my framework’.

Gracias por haber entrado en mi mundo y hecho que mi familia amara al ‘pinche gringo’ (como tú mismo te apodabas). Gracias por hacernos reír y pensar. Gracias por jugar futebol y golf sólo para complacer a tus cuñados. Obrigada por enseñar a la familia a jugar poker the right way. Te prometemos no apostar frijoles nunca más! Eu se que “en los Clementes hay muchas mentes”, y sé que a todos los hiciste felices, especialmente a your stepdaughters.  

 Gracias por enseñarme tus pasiones and por the non-requested, out of the blue oficinas on Springsteen and Miles, por explaning once and again the good politics of Marley and Dylan, for introducing me to música rara and for not giving up on me. Thank you for making me regresar a mis tiempos de Jara y Sosa y Parra. Thank you for always reminding that “por la calle, codo a codo, somos mucho más que dos”. Thank you for las “sorpresas que da la vida”. Totalmente de acuerdo: our happiness was the best surprise life gave to us.

Gracias por haber formado el trio Rebeca-Michael-Angeles. Eramos perfectos, o trio moito legal, ne? especially when le dabas a Bex (with an x) lecciones de vida “estilo Michael”. Ela adorava!! And now we know what is your secret power Michael: Making people happy!

And thank you for the last adventure ….

Y siempre gracias for describing our love as “being painted with the entire explosive colours of the jacaranda and the framboyan flowers”.

Eu fico desolada mas agradecida demais…..

Te amo, your hommie

Angeles

una de las ultimas fotos que nos tomamos

Funeral Mass

A funeral mass for Michael will be held on Wednesday, February 16 at 7PM at the Guadalupe Church (el Templo de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe), which is located at the north end of the Llano Park in the city of Oaxaca.  Everyone is invited.

To MICHAEL From Don

Shit, Michael, this sucks!  (I can just hear you saying, “What’s wrong with sucking, anyway? The most maligned word in the English language!)  It just isn’t fair!  (I know, Michael,  “Who says life has to be fair?”  You always did have a way with a cliché. How many times did you say: “Many are called but few are chosen.” Whatever the fuck that means!  I’d like to say that somehow you imbued it with some profound wisdom, but in reality it’s a perfect example of your renowned flippancy.)  The fact is that I could always depend on you to say (directly and wittily) exactly what I needed to hear.  Like the time, after I had finally, definitively (I like to think) stopped drinking, and I said that everyone was telling me how I hadn’t changed, which I took to mean that I was still the nice guy I’d always been, drunk or sober.  You said: “Well as my father, a reformed alcoholic, always said, ‘once an asshole, always an asshole.’

I sure will miss you, Michael.  I’ve seen you in all kinds of moods but never angry; never have I seen you lose that innate ‘cool’ that was such a remarkable aspect of your character. Easy-going, unflappable Michael.  I’ve spent some of the most memorable moments of my life in your company with a group of extraordinary people, which includes, among others, Jane, Adam & Alba (or Eve, as you invariably called her), Lupe, Peter, Mario & Belem, Matthew and, of course, Angeles, and her beautiful family. I marveled at the tenderness with which you treated your godchild, Francisco; the playful yet supportive rapport you developed with Rebeca and your other step-daughters, Jessica and Erika; your immense generosity of spirit, spirits, food, etc. (you certainly helped me through some economically dicey times!); the agility of your mind and the finesse with which you merged your anthropological skills and socialistic background with Angeles’ applied linguistic research and socialistic idealism; and, well, wow, am I ever amazed at your seemingly absolutely perfect relationship with Angeles.  (As you know I often jokingly referred to her as a bitch, and I when she reported to me all the chores you were constantly running for her and Rebeca, I would tell her: “He’s a saint”, and, in fact, she recently wrote to me saying what a saint you are.)  This is not only a tribute to you, old man, but to your wonderful wife, Angeles, as well!  You two were made for each other.

One of the most important aspects of our friendship was our love of music.  Not only did you encourage me to revisit and embrace a lot of music from the past (artists, groups and genres), but you were incredibly open to many ‘genders’ of music (as you would say) and artists I introduced you to, only balking  at Balkan and Celtic (with a hard initial ‘c’, please!)  Our relationship in terms of music was reciprocal, for which I will always be extremely proud.  I’ll never forget the time you called to tell me about a new group from one of the Congos that you’d just read about in Songlines (a world music magazine from Britain), Staff Benda Bilili, a group made up of “incapacitados” in motorcycle-like wheelchairs, and I told you that not only had I heard of them, but had just that morning burned you a copy of their CD.  It felt so good to be able to astonish you for a change.  Something else for which I feel proud is that at the time of your death you had pretty much listened your way through the 20-disc care package I sent y’all for Christmas and commented favorably on all of them.  You know how when a particular artist died, you always listened to his or her discs, asked me if I had anything by that person, or if I could get something by that artist?  Well, for the past week I’ve been listening to a variety of music that I know you loved.  From now on I will always wonder if you would like this or that disc and if you would like for me to burn it for you.  Just one of the many ways you will live on in my memory and my life.

Michael, my dear friend, I will miss you more than you could ever imagine.  And I’ll never forget you, the finest person I’ve ever known.  So many of us have been blessed by your presence in our lives. 
Love,     
Don    

 PS:  Today is MY 65^th birthday.  You’ll be pleased to know that the  inmates are planning a “convivio” for me today at the prison.