Ashé-Caribbean Literary Aesthetic in the Cuban, Colombian, Costa Rican, and Panamanian Novel of Resistance 1498597475, 9781498597470

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The Ashé-Caribbean Literary Aesthetic in the Cuban, Colombian, Costa Rican, and Panamanian Novel of Resistance

The Ashé-Caribbean Literary Aesthetic in the Cuban, Colombian, Costa Rican, and Panamanian Novel of Resistance Thomas Wayne Edison

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www​.rowman​.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL, United Kingdom Copyright © 2020 The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Edison, Thomas Wayne, 1963– author. Title: The Ashé-Caribbean literary aesthetic in the Cuban, Colombian, Costa Rican, and Panamanian novel of resistance / Thomas Wayne Edison. Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, [2020] | This book is a substantial reworking of the author’s dissertation titled The Afro-Caribbean Novel of Resistance: African Ontology in the Works of Alejo Carpentier, Quince Duncan, Carlos Guillermo Wilson, and Manuel Zapata Olivella. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “This book contributes to understanding the important role that African-influenced spiritual cultures play in literature that challenges the concept that European aesthetics are superior to African-inspired cultures” — Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2020032820 (print) | LCCN 2020032821 (ebook) | ISBN 9781498597470 (cloth ; alk. paper) | ISBN 9781498597487 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Caribbean fiction (Spanish)—20th century—History and criticism. | Caribbean literature—African influences. | Caribbean Area—Civilization—African influences. | Spirituality in literature. | Resistance (Philosophy) in literature. Classification: LCC PQ7361 .E45 2020 (print) | LCC PQ7361 (ebook) | DDC 863/.6098969729—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032820 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032821 ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Dedicated to Mary Janie Isabel (1858–1906) and John Fletcher Vontress (Jr.) (1848–1910) and all the descendants of their union.

Contents

Prologue ix Acknowledgments xiii Book Structure

xv

PART 1

1

1 Introduction 3 2 (De)constructing the Darker Image of Africa PART 2

11 31

3 El reino de este mundo: The First Ashé-Cuban Novel of Resistance 33 4 Quince Duncan and La paz del pueblo

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5 Cubena and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores 131 6 Manuel Zapata Olivella and Changó: el gran putas 197 Works Cited

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Index 285 About the Author

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vii

Prologue

This book is the result of more than three decades of research and travel to understand the role that African-descended spiritual cultures play within modern society. The assumption that there are no Blacks outside the United States has been challenged by a group of twentieth-century writers across the Caribbean Basin who erode inauthentic images of Blacks. This book focuses on the novels of four Hispanophone Caribbean writers who have used their novels to integrate elements of African ontology with literary techniques, themes, and historical elements to produce an Afro-Caribbean novel of resistance. These Hispanophone novels incorporate characteristics that portray a Black worldview. This book is a substantial reworking of my 2002 dissertation The Afro-Caribbean Novel of Resistance: African Ontology in the Works of Alejo Carpentier, Quince Duncan, Carlos Guillermo Wilson, and Manuel Zapata Olivella. I will employ the term Ashé aesthetics to describe this ­literary subgenre of Hispanophone Caribbean literature that countered the literary canon. Ashé-Caribbean Literary Aesthetic in the Cuban, Colombian, Costa Rican, and Panamanian Novel of Resistance continues the line of research established by various literary scholars such as Eugenio Matibag, Edward J. Mullen, and Shirley Jackson. It investigates the reconfiguration of themes and structural patterns initially found in works of Alejo Carpentier, Ecué-Yambo-O (1933) and El reino de este mundo (1949), which recur in varying forms in the novels of three Afro-Caribbean authors: Manuel Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas, Colombia (1983); Carlos Guillermo Wilson’s Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, Panama (1990); and Quince Duncan’s La paz del pueblo, Costa Rica (1978). These writers have established a literary trajectory that represents, redefines, and unifies Blacks by integrating Ashé-Caribbean literary aesthetics in these novels that resist the traditional Eurocentric foundation. This ix

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Prologue

book contributes to the canon of Afro-Hispanophone literature by applying theoretical foundations outlined by Frantz Fanon and Paulo Freire to explore the major role of resistance literature in four postcolonial settings. By focusing on these principles in these selected novels, as well as identified features of Afro-descended cultures and literatures, the importance of these novels as tools of social and cultural resistance in the African Diaspora will become more evident. PERSONAL REFLECTION One of the important elements that helped me in my research was traveling to Latin America and the Caribbean and learning about the cultural parallels among Blacks in the African Diaspora. Blacks collectively face environmental racism and health disparities, they distrust authority figures (e.g., police officials), and their lack of involvement in the politics because of lack of representation. Another challenge is a struggle to embrace Black identity and appreciate a Black cultural legacy in the face of racism. Blacks in the United States must consistently face microaggressions based on natural hair texture and skin complexion. One of the challenges that face people of African ancestry is to counter internalized shame and self-hatred. In addition to learning of the shared challenges that Blacks encounter, my travels taught me that each nation and Black community faces unique challenges caused by their unique regional idiosyncrasies. Caribbean writers have pointed out unique social problems with race in their works. During the mid-twentieth century, Hispanophone Caribbean writers highlighted some major social issues in their works. Puerto Rican Francisco Arriví’s drama Vejigantes (1958) depicts the erasing of blackness and the consequences of internalized self-hatred. Juan Antonio Alix’s poem “El negro tras de la oreja” (Black behind the ears) (1927) addresses the internalized fear that forces some of his fellow Dominicans to deny their ethnic heritage. Puerto Rico’s Fortunato Vizcarrondo’s poem “Y tu agüela, aonde ejtá?” (And where’s you granny) (1942) underscores the extent to which some Puerto Ricans go to obscure their true heritage with the hope of moving to the upper class. While many works have looked at elements of Black identity, very few have used African-inspired spirituality as an underpinning. Within the United States, terms such as Afro-Costa Rican, AfroPanamanian, and Afro-Colombian are understood clearly, but they sound alien to the ears of a native Spanish speaker. The Civil Rights Movement, which took place in the United States in the 1960s, gave rise to expressions such as I am Black and proud and Black is beautiful. Such slogans helped

Prologue

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Blacks to feel empowered to love themselves. Some miseducated Blacks have been trained to distance themselves from forms of African-inspired cultural expression that might threaten their social status or ethnic identity. In some circles within the Caribbean, there are Blacks that deny their ethnic heritage to such an extent that they refuse to look into the eyes of another Black person from another culture as a way to distance themselves from their shared heritage. Racial attacks are more severe for Blacks in other parts of the African Diaspora, where nationality trumps race. While it continues to be difficult for some individuals in the Caribbean to acknowledge their African ancestry, activists are working hard to encourage their communities to embrace their heritage. My travels also taught me that there is a collective Black consciousness. The Black community shares a spiritual bond as they collectively deal with hostility and aggression by turning to their faith and Ancestors. During the colonial period, in larger Caribbean cities like Havana, mutual-aid societies (cabildos) and escaped-slave communities (palenques) nurtured the retention of some of the most important cultural traditions that were passed down from elders within the community. In the twenty-first century in the Americas, these repositories became the barrios, in large cities in the Caribbean and the United States.

Acknowledgments

I will begin by paying respect to the elders in my life: Clemmont Vontress, Harold Vontress, Barbara Gantt, Paul Edison, Mama Pat, and the Wrights. I dedicate this book to my cousin Louis Matoka Vontress-Nunn, and our familial tribes: the Alexanders, Browns, Cosbys, and Edisons. I also want to thank my friends Zack Hatton, Linda Collins, Frank D’Amato, Kai Aiyetoro, and Kelly Keyes for your friendship and love. I want to thank scholars in the fields of African philosophy, Afro-Hispanic/ Caribbean studies, Latin American studies upon whose research I have built my scholarship. I want to thank the courageous artists who used their novels as resistance instruments to acknowledge the Black experience in their respective nations. I would like to thank my dissertation chair, Dr. Susan de Carvalho, for working with me as I started this line of research in 1996. A special acknowledgment goes to Bonnie H. Reynolds for opening the door to Caribbean literature for me. This work has been very extensive and opened a very interesting path for me on a professional and a personal level. This process has taught me that it takes a village to publish a book. I would like to thank my graduate research assistant, Karla Wilder, and my undergraduate research aids, Evan Clark and Martha Popescu, for their dedicated assistance in proofing chapters. I want to thank Joel Castillo for his generous assistance with translations and Herbert Rogers for his friendship and depth of knowledge regarding Afro-Caribbean scholars. I thank my friend, and fellow gardener, Dr. John Ahrens for his editorial assistance. I thank Dr. Theresa Rajack-Talley, my friend, mentor, and fellow Kentucky wildcat, who gave me support during one of the darkest times of my life. I would also like to thank the University of Louisville for awarding me the African American & Underrepresented Minority Faculty Retention Mini Research Grant in 2019–2020 to support this book project. xiii

Book Structure

The first part of this book will establish a foundation to facilitate making connections with the four chapters in part 2. Chapter 2 titled “(De)constructing the Darker Image of Africa” will serve as a point of departure to look at the historical portrayal of Blacks highlighted by scholars in the area of AfroCaribbean studies, African-oriented theology, and African philosophy. This chapter also defines Ashé-Caribbean aesthetics and it will offer a summary of Afro-Diasporic spiritual practices that will appear in later discussions. These principles served Blacks for centuries in healing themselves physically, ­mentally, and spiritually. This chapter will highlight the fourteen characteristics that all the novels share. Literature plays a major role as a tool of cultural resistance by presenting a full view of the Black existence. Chapter 3, the first chapter of part 1, “El reino de este mundo: The First Ashé Cuban Novel of Resistance” will illustrate how Alejo Carpentier, the only non-Black writer in this group, completed in literature what Fernando Ortiz began in his scientific research. It will focus on the cultural, historical, and literary foundation that led Carpentier to attempt to present Black Cubans in a more authentic manner. His perceived failure in representing Blacks in his first novel Ecué-yamba-O (1933) led him to redeem himself by researching twenty years before writing his second novel El reino de este mundo. Chapter 4, the second chapter of part 2, “Quince Duncan and La paz del pueblo” will focus on Quince Duncan and his contribution to the resistance novel by integrating elements of West Indian identity and spirituality. La paz del pueblo offers a clear projection of the political and social influence of the nation’s fruit industry, which is controlled by the United States. He offers the idea of Samamfo to describe the union of the living with their ancestors in Africa and a way to unity the Black community. Duncan gives the West Indian descended Black community voice in most of his works. xv

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Book Structure

Chapter 5, the third chapter of part 2, “Cubena and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores” will explore Carlos Guillermo Wilson and one of his most provocative novels. His work channels the pain and rejection of West Indians and their descendants in Panama; a nation they helped to build. He turns the table by reversing the negative term imposed on West Indians (chombo) and applies it to whites and colonial Blacks. His novel weaves together the history of the African Diaspora with the concept of sodinu to unify the extended family of the matriarch Felicidad Dolores. Chapter 6, the fourth and final chapter of part 2, “Manuel Zapata Olivella and Changó: el gran putas,” will focus on the most famous novel of AfroColombian writer Manuel Zapata Olivella. This is his most complex and studied work. The novel explores his contribution to the field by offering a wide view of history in the African Diaspora that was rejected by many scholars until after his death. He offers a holistic view of the Diaspora by including the Portuguese, French, and English colonies. While the imposed language may be different, there is a shared bond among Blacks in the Diaspora. I posit that any novel that grows out of the African Diaspora will reject western values that look toward Judeo-Christian religions as the only legitimate forms of spiritual practice. The select group of twentieth-century writers from across the Caribbean Basin use their novels to erode inauthentic images of individuals of African heritage and to establish a fresh perspective. This literary challenge is detailed in the present study, which focuses on the novels of four Hispanophone Caribbean writers who have used their novels to integrate elements of African ontology (worldview) with literary techniques, themes, and historical elements; the resulting literary works shine as examples of Afro-Caribbean novels of resistance. For the outsider, these novels open a window on a history of racism, classicism, and invite the reader to look at the world from Afrocentric perspective.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Introduction

For centuries, individuals of African heritage throughout the African Diaspora have been viewed by their Euro-centric counterparts as members of an alien, backward, and primitive population. While this perception still exists in parts of the world, Caribbean writers continue to use their literary production to erode this unflattering traditional image. The early development of this form of literature can be traced back to courageous writers that countered the traditional literary canon. The early examples of this literary challenge will be reflected in this examination of the novels of four Hispanophone Caribbean writers whose works can be viewed as examples of what I will call Ashé-Caribbean resistance novels. The term resistance is defined by historian and literature professor Selwyn Reginald Cudjoe as “any act or complex of acts designed to rid a people of its oppressors, be they slave masters or multinational corporations” (19). The term resistance literature in this study will refer to literary productions that seek to acknowledge and empower the oppressed by integrating themes and cultural values that belong to the group. This study will discuss the works of four Caribbean novelists who use AfroCaribbean belief systems and symbols to redefine the identity, culture, and sociopolitical status of individuals of African descent. This book will further highlight traditional patterns of the Afro-Caribbean worldview that governs the structure and content of each novel. In this study, the term Caribbean will be used to describe the parts of the Circum-Caribbean, which will be considered as a geographical unit, since the nations of this region share parallel histories of slavery, colonial domination, and transcultural development among European, African, and indigenous populations. This region consists of nations and territories with a shared history and cultural practices that run across language groups. This zone runs from Florida westward along the Gulf coast, then south along the Mexican 3

4

Chapter 1

coast through Central America, eastward across the northern coast of South America and the West Indies, Bermuda, as well as in parts of the United States where there is a high concentration of peoples from the Caribbean. The term ashé1 is a pivotal characteristic in describing this subgenre of narrative because of the spiritual and creative force that this concept envelops. The concept of ashé exists throughout the African Diaspora and among distinct language communities: àse in Yoruba; axé in Brazilian Candomblé; ashe in Haitian Voudoun; ashé in the United States; and aché in Cuban Santería, Palo Monte, and Puerto Rican Espiritismo.2 Ashé is intimately connected with the Caribbean because it is a region with a large concentration of West African culture. Marta Moreno Vega notes that the aforementioned faith practices “share a common aesthetic vision and iconographic narrative that is traceable to origins in traditional West African cultures” (45). Vega also notes that this spiritual system grew and developed as increasing numbers of Western African slaves, arrived bringing their own belief systems (47). As communities of Africans transculturally developed in the Americas, their spiritual culture was nurtured by the sustained arrival of West Africans between the years of 1502 and 1865. Scholar of fine arts and Black studies Rowland Abiodun posits that ashé “is manifested in the United States and, is more implicit than explicit and is felt in churches, ‘the spirit,’ ‘holy ghost,’ or simply ‘power’ embodies an essentially ase-type phenomenon” (2001, 17). Ashé is present in communities of African descent and plays an important role within communities of color, many of which are economically challenged and liminal. This concept has many layers of meaning. The numerous definitions will illustrate the various manners in which it is perceived. Rowland Abiodun has made the following observation: “Without this áṣẹ, many an attractive artefact would fail to make any appreciable religio-aesthetic impact” (1994b, 74). Martha Moreno Vega acknowledges the creative power of ashé within the Caribbean: “The more than thirteen million Africans who survived the Middle Passage carried with them the creative impulse that continues to weave through the aesthetic vision and expressions of African descendants” (1999, 46). Miguel Ramos posits that this creative aesthetic is one of the most important elements in Lukumi: “ashé is the raison d’etre of the universe and the most sacred and revered endowment to humanity” (1999, 4). Theologian and teacher of Biblical spirituality Will Coleman defines the concept in the following manner: “Ashe is the power that animates all of creation; it comes from the source of creation and is available to everything within the universe” (2002, 159). Abiodun describes ashé as the most important religio-aesthetic phenomenon to survive transatlantic slavery almost intact (2001, 20).3 Obá Oriaté4 Miguel Ramos connects ashé with spiritual energies in other cultures: “Hindus call it darsan; the Chinese speak of the Ch’I; in Polynesia it is

Introduction

5

known as mana. Human beings can draw on this energy and use it to suit their needs, ideally for individual and collective material and spiritual advancement” (Ramos 1999, 5). This research is grounded on Ian Smart’s theory that all literature that is created from an Afro-Caribbean perspective will share certain fundamental characteristics and features, which stem from the region’s shared historical, social, and cultural past. Smart asserts that “Literature from Panamá and Costa Rica to be reviewed in this work should be true for analogously produced literature from Nicaragua . . . Guatemala, Honduras, Colombia, Venezuela, Cuba the Dominican Republic, or any land in the general Caribbean region where a peculiar demographic cross-pollination has resulted in the creation of Hispanic literature by Caribbean peoples whose culture and history are profoundly rooted in the English-speaking islands” (1984a, 5). A companion study of literature from Brazil, The Francophone Caribbean, and the United States will find characteristics similar to those outlined in this book. The novels in this book will exhibit many shared elements. The inclusion of African spiritual tropes, icons, and aesthetics offers writers a unique and powerful foundation for their literature. One of the most effective tools to reflect African identity is through spiritual practices. Reseacher Antonio Tillis notes the importance of Africaninfluenced spiritual culture when he writes the following: “The tenacity of Africans is particularly hailed. Evidenced are their efforts to resist Western cultural assimilation through many societal institutions, especially religion” (2005, 103). The Ifá system of the Yoruba of southeast Nigeria was so important that in 2005, the Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove in the state of Osun in Nigeria5 was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in recognition of its global significance and its cultural value (Fortul, 348; Probst 2011). Given Benedict Anderson’s hypothesis of “Imagined Communities,” that all Third World literature is demonstrative of a national or regional view of society, the selected works of these four Caribbean novelists are demonstrative of the worldview of the Afro-Caribbean population. Ernest Renan clearly states, in his essay “Qu’est-ce qu’une nation?” that certain characteristics unify peoples that have never even met: “l’essence d’une nation est que tous les individus aient beaucoup de choses en commun, et aussi que tous aient oublié bien des choses” [The essence of a nation is that all of its citizens have many things in common and have already forgotten many things]6 (Anderson 1991, 6). Ashé-Caribbean literature of resistance thus reflects similar views of an Afro-Caribbean reality. One of the major reasons for this commonality is the area’s shared history of transcultural influence and the pervasiveness of African culture, especially in terms of African spiritual practices. Afro-Caribbean faith practices descend from African cultures that John Mbiti defines as a “notoriously religious” community with a religious

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Chapter 1

influence that “permeates into all the departments of life so fully that it is not easy or possible to isolate it” (1969, 1). It is especially important for the reader to be aware that when discussing African-influenced spiritual culture, the word religion takes on a different meaning than when discussing European-based faith practices. The word religion best describes dominant European-centered religions that frequently have used their influence to do good but have also played a major role in suppressing, mis-educating, and killing others, frequently people of color. Occasionally, the term religion will be used to avoid repetition, but overall I will use the term faith traditions or spiritual practices whenever possible to help the reader recognize that African-influenced traditions are more individual-centered and open to the integration of other faith traditions than Christian religions. One can find research that addresses the presence of African spirituality in Cuban poetry, especially in works of Nicolás Guillén and Nancy Morejón, but criticism is less abundant in the area of prose. Scholar of African literature Josaphat Kubayanda astutely points out that “criticism of Black Latin American and Caribbean literature has been geared more toward the themes than the techniques of that literature; by and large the question of rhetorical mechanics has been ignored as a result” (1984, 5). Focus on aesthetics and ontology began to be more evident in the beginning of the sixth decade of the twentieth century when writers like Alejo Carpentier and Lydia Cabrera went against the traditional Latin American literary canon to include African spiritual elements in their writings. Three contemporary researchers have studied in detail the presence of African-influenced religions in Cuban prose. These critics are Eugenio Matibag, author of Afro-Cuban Religious Experience: Cultural Reflections in Narrative (1996), Edward J. Mullen, who wrote Afro-Cuban Literature: Critical Junctures (1998), and Afro-Hispanic scholar Shirley Jackson, who wrote an informative essay entitled “La tradición religiosa africana en la literatura afro-híspanica actual.” Shirley Jackson wrote a monumental article that has served as a foundational reference in my research: “The African World View in Five Afro-Hispanic Novels.” Her essay identifies the African elements in Manuel Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas and Alejo Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo. These critics examine the role that Afro-Caribbean religion plays in Cuban culture and literature, and its representation in the prose of Cuban writers Alejo Carpentier and Lydia Cabrera. Matibag’s study focuses attention on the connection between the work of Carpentier and the later works of Colombian writer Manuel Zapata Olivella. I have chosen to research the novel because I believe that it is a genre that allows the most multifaceted presentation of the Afro-Caribbean aesthetics. I feel that it is very important to read the studies initiated by Shirley Jackson, Eugenio Matibag, and Edward Mullens and expand them to cover

Introduction

7

the presence of Afro-Caribbean ontology among additional Hispanophone Caribbean prose writers. These novels must be investigated in a multidisciplinary manner to understand the political, historical, literary, anthropological, and social contexts upon which they are constructed. The objective of this study is to explore the narrative strategies of these works as they attempt to accurately present the Afro-Caribbean identity and to promote unity. Mosby notes that in Raymond L. Williams’s The Postmodern Novel in Latin America (1995) and The Modern Latin American Novel (1998) a significant discussion of African Hispanophone writers was omitted (2003, 121–122). In the twenty-first century, more critics are recognizing that Afro-Hispanic writers offer a rich perspective, but there is still room for improvement. The theoretical backdrop of this study will include the observations of Frantz Fanon and Paulo Freire. Frantz Fanon, a distinguished psychiatrist of African descent, was born in Martinique in 1925; he died in 1961 in the United States. He was educated in France and used his personal experience and training in psychiatry to define aspects of the African and African American struggles for liberation. Much of Fanon’s research and career were focused on issues related to what would in 1969 become Algeria. The African nation’s history parallels conflicts within the Caribbean, where a subaltern population was forced to live under a postcolonial hegemonic structure. Fanon’s work Black Skin White Masks (1952) focuses on the identity problem that Black individuals face when confronting white European culture.7 In his study, Fanon declares that his objective is to “help the black man to free himself of the arsenal of complexes that has been developed by the colonial environment” (1967, 30). He makes the following observation: “When the Negro makes contact with the white world, a certain sensitizing action takes place. If his psychic structure is weak, one observes a collapse of the ego” (1967, 154). Fanon adds that Blacks suffer from a “constant preoccupation with attracting the attention of the white man . . . [and] being powerful like the white man” (1967, 51). These problems, which he views as psychological barriers in the development of Black identity, are presented in different forms in the novels addressed in this book. Through a close study of the image of Blacks and the strategic presentation of this group’s problems, one can begin to appreciate the significant role that Ashé-Caribbean literature of resistance plays in helping to socially empower the Caribbean individual of African heritage. Fanon presents possible solutions toward overcoming psychosocial barriers in his second famous study, entitled The Wretched of This Earth (1961). This critical text offers a possible solution for problems facing the Black community. Fanon believes that the only manner in which Blacks can truly become independent of European oppression is to fight intellectually as well as physically. He posits that the intellectual realm of this response is fighting literature. Fighting literature develops after the intellectual writer

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Chapter 1

passes through three phases, each progressively enabling him to overcome the traditional limits imposed by colonial-influenced society, and thus to work toward making individuals of African heritage cognizant of their situation. The first phase is one of assimilation, as the individual adapts to the environment around him. The second phase is one of anger and mourning, as the writer looks at the past and begins to see the present realities of the world that envelops them. In the final stage, the fighting phase, the individual attempts to dislodge peers and provoke them to act, in order to promote change. Fanon argues that, in this third stage, the writer attempts to awaken cohorts and “instead of according the people’s lethargy an honored place in his esteem, he turns himself into an awakener of the people; hence comes a fighting literature” (1963, 222–223). The lives and selected works of the writers highlighted in this book demonstrate the presence of the latter two stages outlined by Fanon. The second theoretical foundation that will be integrated into this study is that of Brazilian educator Paulo Freire. In his 1970 social/educational text entitled Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Freire demonstrates that through education and self-reflection, the underrepresented Brazilian population can empower itself, thereby breaking the social, psychological, and historical chains of oppression that bind it. Freire theorizes that the oppressed population is in a unique position, which allows it to restructure the present system of power, thus establishing a more just and loving system, which Freire sees as more humane than simply inverting the present societal structure.8 Freire’s concepts were written with the impoverished and illiterate Brazilian in mind, but his descriptions of the problems and his proposed solutions are just as relevant to the contemporary Afro-Caribbean situation as they were upon the study’s initial publication. Freire believed that the way to liberate the oppressed is through self-development and empowerment, rather than by looking toward outside populations for assistance. By combining the ideas of these two progressive thinkers as a theoretical backdrop for the four novels analyzed in this book, I will highlight the important role that this literary subgenre plays in countering the logocentric worldview. While Ashé-Caribbean literature of resistance supports Blacks in appreciating their shared cultural aesthetics, heritage, and history, it also benefits humankind, regardless of race. The initial works to be studied are Cuban novelist Alejo Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo (1949) and his first novel Ecué-yamba-O (1933). Looking at both works will facilitate a deeper understanding of his development as a writer and his commitment to rectify the shortcomings of his first novel to produce what I will argue is the first Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. I will then examine selected works of three novelists from other Caribbean nations: Carlos Guillermo Wilson (Panamá), Quince Duncan (Costa Rica), and Manuel Zapata Olivella (Colombia). In the novels of these

Introduction

9

Caribbean writers, one can find similar literary techniques and themes. The similarities are very significant. All four novelists address social, historical, and cultural problems that face individuals of African descendant within their respective nations. These artists honor the population of African ancestry by including elements of the Afro-Caribbean worldview within the content and structure of each novel. Each writer has produced a novel to highlight Afro-Caribbean cultural values and historical events; moreover, these works address common themes and problems in a manner distinct from the superficial presentation of Blacks that appeared in Caribbean novels prior to the avant-garde movement, such as María (1867) by Jorge Isaacs, Sab (1841) by Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda, and Cecilia Valdéz or La Loma del Angel (1882) by Cirilo Villaverde. This study will build upon research conducted by Matibag and Mullen, and will demonstrate the manner in which aspects and themes initially found in Alejo Carpentier’s Ecué-yamba-O (1933) and El reino de este mundo (1949) are also reflected in Quince Duncan’s La paz del pueblo (1978), Carlos Guillermo Wilson’s Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores (1990), and Manuel Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas (1983). These novels include African-inspired religious practices that found new forms of expression in the Caribbean, taking on regional names such as Santería in Cuba, Vodun in Haiti, Obeah in Costa Rica, or Mojo and Voodoo in the United States. This study will make a thorough and significant contribution to the canon of Latin American literature by applying a theoretical foundation that demonstrates the importance of this form of literature to the future development and edification of the individual of African ancestry in the Americas: the true African American. NOTES 1. Robert Farris Thompson notes that spirits “are messengers and embodiments of ashé, spiritual command, the powe-to-make-things-happen” (Thompson 1992, 86). 2. These same characteristics would be visible in Afro-Brazilian literature but will be left as a topic for future research. The indigenous community also had their own unique worldview that would also manifest a form of spiritual energy. The indigenous cultural world and the Americas in general made the Spaniards feel that it was an enchanted land. 3. Different disciplines “When used in the context of Yoruba artistic discourse, àṣà refers to a style or the result of a creative and intelligent combination of styles from a wide range of available options within the culture” (Abiodun 2001, 17). 4. Obá Oriaté is the highest-ranking priest in the Lukumi/Santeria traditions. 5. This is one of the last of the sacred forests, which usually adjoined the edges of most Yoruba cities before extensive urbanization.

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6. In this book, all English translations that are mine will follow the original passage between brackets without quotation marks. 7. Racial purity is a dubious concept in the Caribbean: for this reason, the term white will be synonymous with the racial term mestizo. The term white describes individuals who identify with or define themselves as being of pure European heritage. In postcolonial Spanish America, this group began to amass power previously held by colonial forces. 8. Freire argues that “true revolutionaries must perceive the revolution, because of its creative and liberating nature, as an act of love” (70).

Chapter 2

(De)constructing the Darker Image of Africa

In order to appreciate the African-oriented cultural components of the AshéCaribbean novel of resistance, one must first dispense with traditional negative images of Africa and of African peoples. A complete discussion of the African Diaspora must acknowledge that African culture has suffered attacks at the hands of European colonizers possessing a logocentric or Eurocentric worldview. Ella Shohat recognizes this in the introduction to her text Unthinking Eurocentrism (1994). She states that the underlying base of modern Western society continues to be Eurocentric: “Endemic in present-day thought and education, Eurocentrism is naturalized as ‘common sense.’ Philosophy and literature are assumed to be European philosophy and literature. The ‘best that is thought and written’ is assumed to have been thought and written by Europeans” (Shohat and Stam, 1994, 1). Shohat uses the term European to refer to individuals in and from Europe, as well as neo-Europeans within the Americas, Australia, and other parts of the world considered primarily to be of European ethnic influence (1994, 1). Members of this group have used negative stereotypes and assumptions to support racist hypotheses in regard to the populations of African descent. Such negative attitudes view the African as inferior and justify oppressive, destructive, and patronizing behavior toward this sector of the population. Social historian Lerone Bennett, Jr., also plays a significant role in countering negative views of the individual of African ancestry in his study Before the Mayflower: A History of Black America (1962) by demonstrating that Africa possessed advanced cultures long before

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its encounter with Europe. Bennett offers the following hypothesis as to why the European would nonetheless prefer to view Africa as the dark continent: European penetration and the slave trade debased much that was vital in African culture. The popular myth depicts the conquering European carrying the blessing of civilization to naked ‘savages’ who sat under trees, filed their teeth and waited for fruit to drop into their hands. The truth is less flattering to the European ego. (Bennett 1962, 22)

Scholars have long recognized that Egypt, an African nation, is in fact the cradle of much of Western civilization. But, surprisingly, it has been theoretically detached from the African continent in order to help support hypotheses that African culture has been insignificant in the development of Western civilization. Africans have often been considered to be a primitive ethnic group, requiring European supervision to ensure their protection and survival. African historian Melville Herskovits documents the negative views held by nineteenth-century European investigators. He cites Jerome Dowd, an early twentieth-century sociologist who in 1901 described Blacks in the following manner: “The mind of the Negro can best be understood by likening it to that of a child. For instance, the Negro lives in the present, his interests are objective, and his actions are governed by his emotions. . . . The Negro, like a child, is easily irritated and prone to quarrel and fight” (quoted in Herskovits 1968, 22). Herskovits summarizes another, even less enlightened view proposed by scholar L. C. Copeland in 1939, who lists common views regarding Blacks. The Negro is thought of as a child race, the ward of the civilized white man: The savage and uncivilized black man lacks the ability to organize his social life on the level of the white community. He is unrestrained and requires the constant control of white people to keep him in check. Without the presence of the white police force Negroes would turn upon themselves and destroy each other. The white man is the only authority that he knows. (Herskovits 1968, 20)

Blacks were also said to require supervision to prevent them from being a danger to white and colonial populations. In 1901, Jerome Dowd wrote that, when angered, the Black individual becomes a “raving Amazon, as it were, apparently beyond control, growing madder and madder each moment, eyes rolling, lips protruding, feet stamping, pawing, gesticulating” (quoted in Herskovits 1968, 22). The signifier Amazon promotes the image of Blacks as a group of uncivilized animals in a savage jungle. This image is further reinforced by the verb pawing to depict individuals of African descent as

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animalistic. Such portrayals depict Blacks as beings who possess little or no thought process and only instinctual movements, equated with those of lower-functioning animals, while at the same time presenting Europeans as beings driven primarily by reason and therefore able to control aspects of their behavior, especially carnal impulses. In addition to being viewed as a subhuman species, Blacks were traditionally considered to possess a proclivity toward eroticism and sexual potency. This view is consistent with arguments that equate descendants of Africa with animals. The Europeans’ erotic gaze imposed an identity on Blacks, which even caused them to place such individuals on display, like animals in a carnival. One well-documented example is Saartjie Baartman, also known as the Hottentot Venus, who in 1810 was displayed on the European entertainment circuit: “Although her protrusive buttocks constituted the main attraction, the rumored peculiarities of her genitalia also drew crowds, with her racial/ sexual ‘anomaly’ constantly being associated with animality” (Shohat and Stam 1994, 108). The public’s curiosity with Baartman enabled anatomist George Cuvier to receive official permission to study and thoroughly dissect her body after her death. One of his supposedly dispassionate scientific discoveries was to compare her buttocks to those of female mandrills (baboons), which according to Cuvier possessed truly monstrous buttocks during certain periods of their lives (108). According to Shohat and Stam, even today the Hottentot Venus’s “genitalia still rest on a shelf in the Musée de l’Homme in Paris alongside the genitalia of ‘une négresse’ and ‘une péruvienne’ as monuments to a kind of imperial necrophilia” (108).1 Shohat thus demonstrates the extent to which Europeans of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries viewed Blacks as savage beasts.2 Europeans attempted to justify racist attitudes by applying the superficial rubric of science, placing some African-descended individuals in cages, like animals, to permit them to be safely observed by scholars as well as thrill-seekers: “Lapps, Nubians, and Ethiopians were displayed in Germany in anthropological-zoological exhibits. The conjunction of ‘Darwinism, Barnumism [and] pure and simple racism’ resulted in the exhibition of Ota Benga, a Pygmy from the Kasai region, alongside the animals in the Bronx Zoo” (Shohat and Stam 1994, 108). It must be noted that such exhibits were eventually closed as a result of public outcry, but their existence reflects the patronizing attitudes that facilitated their creation. Many Europeans viewed Blacks as an intellectually inferior and primitive race that would have perished had it not been for the protection and guidance of Europeans. In the Americas in the nineteenth century, one can witness a literary attack on African heritage in the work of Argentine Domingo F. Sarmiento. In his essay, entitled Civilización y babarie: Vida de Juan Facundo Quiroga (1845), Sarmiento uses the politico Juan Facundo Quiroga, known as el tigre

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de los llanos [the tiger of the plains], as a symbol of a barbaric leader who is overthrown by an even more ruthless despotic leader, Juan Manuel de Rosas. According to Sarmiento, both men possessed savage characters, which were influenced by Argentina’s untamed geography and its lack of European heritage. He describes the government of Rosas as a “sistema de asesinatos y crueldades, tolerables tan sólo en Ashanthy o Dahomey, en el interior de Africa!” [system of assassinationes and cruelties, only tolerable in Ashanti or Dahomey, in the heart of Africa] (Sarmiento 1991, 37). By associating African culture with the repressive behavior that took place under the Rosas regime, Sarmiento equates Africa with barbaric, violent, and destructive behaviors. Throughout the Western world, according to Shohat, later movies such as Tarzan (1930–1934) and King Kong (1933) continued to promote the presentation of the African as passive, weak, and inferior to the European. Such movies were produced for a Eurocentric audience and helped to shape and reinforce this popular image of the African. One of the central tools used to misrepresent African-descended people has been attacking their spiritual practices. In 1846, Regino Martín searched for a motivating factor to explain the high suicide rate among African slaves in Havana. This investigator’s conclusion was fairly representative of the colonial mindset: “It is not necessary to have lived very long in the countryside to know that with few, very honorable exceptions, the slaves have hardly more religion than the stupid idolatry which they brought from their country of birth” (Brandon 1993, 63–64). By portraying Afrocentric religious and cultural beliefs as destructive and insignificant, Martín completely overlooks the societal conditions under which these men and women were forced to live, certainly an important factor in their decision to end their own lives. To support attitudes that view Afro-Caribbean religious practices in a negative manner, Europeans often describe them with words such as “crude and simple cults” (Herskovits 1968, 61). To this day, many individuals continue to view particular aspects of African-influenced spiritual traditions as crude and simple demonology. In this study, the terms spiritual traditions and faith practices will be used as synonyms to describe African-oriented religious practices. Religion will be used to refer to Western faith practices associated with colonialism. The use of religion to describe African-oriented faith practices would encourage the reader to equate the two forms of expression. African-influenced faith traditions are practices that are part of daily life and have served as a foundation in helping the Black population throughout the Diaspora to survive geographical displacement and physical and psychological abuse. The Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance portrays characteristics of Afro-Caribbean aesthetics, an area influenced by spiritual cultural practices that belong to the Black Hispanophone population in the Caribbean. This form of literature dispels

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ignorance and legitimizes Afro-Caribbean identity, and will focus attention on the reality of Africa and its influence in looking at reality. Lerone Bennett’s research in the early 1960s, and studies like his, have unearthed affirming and positive aspects of African history and culture which often have been overlooked or ignored by nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury scholars. Bennett notes that great civilizations existed throughout the long history of Africa, such as Mali in the eleventh century. Once a small Mandingo state under the rule of Sundiata Keita and Mansa Musa, Mali flourished as a great African empire and became one of the “greatest countries of the medieval world” under the rule of Musa (Bennett 1982, 17). Musa directed his architects to construct impressive buildings in Timbuktu and other Sudanese cities of the period. After the decline of Timbuktu in 1493, the nation of Songhay became the cultural center under the reign of Askia Mohammed from 1493 until 1512. Bennett credits Askia Mohammed with the reorganization of the army, improvement of credit systems, and the establishment of banking centers (17). Mohammed also played a major role in the development of West Central African cities such as Gao, Walata, Timbuktu, and Jenné into major cultural centers (17). Alexander Chamberlain writes in 1911 that King Askia “was certainly the equal of the average European monarch of the time and superior to many of them” (Bennett 1982, 18). Caribbean history scholar Walter Rodney notes that “several historians of Africa have pointed out that after surveying the developed areas of the continent in the fifteenth century and those within Europe at the same date, the difference between the two was in no way to Africa’s discredit” (1974, 69). It is important to acknowledge that the entire African continent was not developed in this centralized way, just as not all of Europe was uniformly developed. However, the Afrocentric scholar will find that research in the past has tended to focus attention only on the least-developed parts of Africa in order to support the concept that the entire continent was dark and backward, and therefore inferior to Europe. Africa has also played a major economic role in the development of the Western world, particularly through the vigorous cultural centers documented to have existed on the East African coast until the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. For example, the art of reducing iron ores by smelting has been traced back to Africa. Bennett hypothesizes that “neither ancient Europe, nor ancient western Asia, nor ancient China knew iron, and everything points to its introduction from Africa” (23). Until the end of this period, Black and Arab merchants also traded with their counterparts in India and China (22). Traditional African cultures possessed complex social and political structures, which maintained civil order in their communities. Bennett concludes that West African communities had a social system that provided for the poor, sick, and aged. A large number of these social regulations originated

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from doctrines that played a major role in the functioning of society. Many of these civil codes were influenced by African religious values, which were of great importance in daily life. Bennett states that this spiritual philosophy was more complex than the simple label of animism, which outside researchers have used to describe such beliefs (1982, 24). African spiritual cultures rest on a belief in a supreme God, who created Earth, and a pantheon of lesser gods, who are identified with terrestrial objects. Such religions include circles of faith and ancestor worship (24). Bennett notes that such a sophisticated philosophical concept “bears a striking resemblance to Henri Bergson’s élan vital and other modern philosophies and theories” (24). Bennett cites Bernard Fagg, an expert in African history and culture, whose research finds parallels between African philosophy and modern subatomic physics (24). Fagg states that the Afrocentric view of the world is conditioned by their ontology, that is, their theory of the nature of being; for them being is a process and not a mere state, and the nature of things is thought of in terms of force or energy rather than matter; the forces of the spirit, human, animal, vegetable and mineral worlds are all constantly influencing each other, and by a proper knowledge and use of them a man may influence his own life and that of others. (Bennett 1982, 24–25)

Traditionally, Europeans have considered such African religions and attitudes toward daily existence to represent heathenish or primitive behavior. When researchers themselves could not find savage examples of Afrocentric religious practices, they resorted to fabricating such data. In Hayti; or, The Black Republic (1884), Spenser St. John created a great deal of interest in the Caribbean and its religions. In the book, a priest describes in detail religious acts such as human sacrifices and cannibalism, and concludes that Vodun was a profoundly evil religion. This book attracted so much attention within and outside of the Caribbean that some scholars believe that it played a major role in stimulating twentieth-century misinformation and fear regarding Vodun. Ethnobotanist Wade Davis cites this work as one of the key texts, which promoted a sensationalist atmosphere around the nation of Haiti and paved the way for other writers to produce similar works to feed North Americans’ appetite for fantasy: The first of this genre [Voodoo horror novels] appeared in 1880—Spenser St. John’s The Black Republic, with its infamous account of a cannibalistic “Congo Bean Stew”—most books that dealt with vodoun had simply emphasized its role in the slave uprising. But these new and sensational books, [were] packed with references to cult objects such as voodoo dolls that didn’t even exist. (1997, 208)

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Davis states that after the appearance of Hayti; or, The Black Republic, American and European foreign correspondents began to produce works to indulge this popular and perverse infatuation with what was known as the Black Republic. Davis argues that these works were filled with every conceivable figment of the authors’ imaginations: For Americans, in particular, Haiti was like having a little bit of Africa next door, something dark and foreboding, sensual and terribly naughty. Popular books of the day, with such charming titles as Cannibal Cousins and Black Bagdad, cast the entire nation as a caricature, an impoverished land of throbbing drums ruled by pretentious buffoons and populated by swamp doctors, licentious women, and children bred for the cauldron. (1997, 208)

The exaggerated representation of Haitian religion3 and culture was generalized to the entire Caribbean region, leading to the negative portrayal of other forms of African-influenced religions. This study will demonstrate that many aspects of African-influenced spiritual practices are in fact natural and legitimate cultural expressions, which allow a segment of the Afro-Caribbean population to express itself in a meaningful spiritual and social manner. AFRO-CARIBBEAN SPIRITUALISM When Africans arrived in the Americas, many of their beliefs and traditions took root in the Caribbean region and were transmitted via their spiritual cultures. The heart of African influence in the Caribbean can be found in the nation of Cuba. George Brandon asserts that West African cultures survived the institution of slavery and social oppression in Cuba mainly through the Afro-Cuban religious culture known as Lucumi, which transmitted African belief systems and languages secretly across generations (1993, 56). The term Lucumi is generally used to describe cultural practices and beliefs of the major Yoruba groups and their surrounding nations on the island of Cuba. Until recently, many researchers erroneously postulated that upon the arrival of Africans to the Americas, African identity acculturated with that of the European population, and thus vanished. In fact, many cultural forms of expression survived, often through secret organizations. Cuban researcher Fernando Ortiz (1881–1969) opened the doors to the modern study of the Afro-Cuban culture with his numerous anthropological studies, including Hampa afro-cubana: Los negros brujos (1906), Los negro curros (1986), and Contrapunteo cubano del tabaco y el azúcar (1940). Ortiz theorized that contemporary Cuban culture “transculturally” developed through the interplay

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between the empowered European culture and the disenfranchised Black and indigenous populations (Ortiz 1940, 99).4 The collective result of the shared aesthetic elements of this culture appears in novels created by Caribbean writers. Before looking at individual novels, we shall identify fourteen characteristics that make up what I will call the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. These characteristics have been reflected in major works addressing African philosophy and spirituality. The texts that have served as a foundation in identifying these characteristics are John S. Mbiti’s African Religions and Philosophy (1969), Janheinz Jahn’s Muntu: African Culture and the Western World (1961), and Shirley Jackson’s 1986 essay “African World View in Five Afro-Hispanic Novels.” To date, no critic has studied the presence of these fourteen characteristics Caribbean novels published in Spanish. The subsequent chapters of this study will focus on the function of these characteristics in four selected Caribbean novels. The Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance contain the following elements: 1. Combative vision toward African American existence 2. Syncretism between African spirituality and Christianity 3. Presentation of lo real maravilloso 4. Connection between the spiritual and political 5. Integration of heteroglossia and polyphones 6. Influence of the African oral tradition 7. Reliance on non-Western medicine 8. Use of divination and ritual 9. Focus on the power of the nommo (the power inherent in the word) 10. Repetition and cyclic vision of reality 11. Combined presentation of music and dance 12. Focus on the power of the drum 13. Presence of the trickster figure 14. Focus on aspects of the natural environment While this next section will focus primarily on Cuban Santería, the characteristics identified can also be found in other Afro-American and Afro-Caribbean sister religions. The spiritual culture reflected in this section represents a holistic community which plays an important role in many aspects of daily life and combines concepts, which, in other contexts, may appear to be unconnected. African ontology holds that many problems result from the rupture of the relationship between “diverse” aspects of reality, which may be considered polar opposites in logocentric thinking. The Westerner may view the connection between life and death, or the relationship between one religion and another, as totally contrary. Jahn notes the following:

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In modern times, God even has no place in scientific thinking. This was impossible to the Yorubas since from the Olodumare an architectonic of knowledge was built in which the finger of God is manifest in the most rudimentary elements of nature. Philosophy, theology, politics, social theory, land law, medicine, psychology, birth and burial, all find themselves logically concatenated in a system so tight that to subtract one item from the whole is to paralyse the structure of the whole. (Jahn 1961, 97)

In the Western logocentric worldview, life and death are polar states of existence; in contrast, in the Afro-Caribbean worldview, these two states of existence are interconnected. Without intervention, individuals who thus err are believed to suffer continuous misfortune until assistance is sought to help them do the will of the living-dead. Communion between the living and the dead underscores the value that Afro-Caribbean culture places on accepting natural phases of human existence. The holistic vision held by Afro-Caribbean ontology is clearly seen in the manner that believers attempt to solve problems. In the Western worldview, if a person has a conflict with another individual or a group, it is considered wise to consult a lawyer or justice official. In parts of the Caribbean, when a person suffers a similar problem, it is normal for the individual to visit a traditional healer or curandero, rather than, or in addition to, seeking help from a lawyer, doctor, justice official, or mental health professional. Afro-Caribbean ontology invites the individual to consult a local spiritual leader in order to seek divine spiritual advice to understand the situation more fully and take appropriate actions. The problem may be solved, for example, by fulfilling an obligation toward a dead ancestor or by making a sacrifice to a particular deity. Communication between the two worlds is often achieved via divination. In ceremonies, spirits enter the present realm by channeling through a mortal form known as the horse because it is ridden by the spirit, who therefore speaks using the body of the mortal. Lydia Cabrera notes the following: Lo interesante es que la mayoría de los espíritus que se manifiestan a través de tantos mediums de color y de tantos supuestos mediums blancos, son también espíritus de negros de nación, de esclavos africanos, congos reales o angúngas, todos ‘desencarnados’ en tiempos de la trata y que se expresan como bozales. Se llaman Taita José, Ña Francisca, Tá Lorenzo lucumí, Juan Mandinga, o el Mina, el Gangá, el Mancuá. [The most interesting thing is that the majority of the spirits that are manifested by way of mediums of color and so many supposed white mediums are also spirits of powerful Africans, enslaved Africans, royal and Congos or angúngas, all “disembodied” during the slave trade, and express themselves as bozales [raw

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slaves]. They go by the names of Taita José, Ña Francisca, Tá Lorenzo lucumí, Juan Mandinga, o el Mina, el Gangá, el Mancuá.] (Cabrera 1954, 65)

The traditional practices within this community reflect the historical, social, cultural, and economic struggles of this oppressed population. Just as there is a fine line between one realm and another, there is no specifically defined division between the physical world and the spiritual one. SYNCRETISM BETWEEN AFRICAN RELIGIONS AND CHRISTIANITY Afrocentric spiritual practices share similarities with Christianity. Through the use of myth, both systems explain the history of great spiritual forces and of humanity and posit important cultural beliefs. Both share a belief in the existence of a series of saints that may intercede on behalf of the believer. Such similarities between European and African belief systems aided in the syncretism between Christianity and Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions. Traditionally Catholic and African faith practices have employed shared objects and symbols. In modern Afro-Caribbean spiritual ceremonies, alongside traditional African symbols, one can find many items representing Western religious beliefs, such as Christian icons, pictures of Catholic saints, the crucifix, and the Bible. The saints venerated by the Roman Catholic Church easily corresponded with the structure of the Orishas or deities in Santería; as a result, many Afro-Cuban deities today carry the name of saints from Catholicism. Each spiritual tradition has a name for its higher forces, such as Orishas, ochas, dioses, santos, espíritus, mpungas, loas, mystères, or vodun, to name a few. The Santería pantheon in particular names seven great deities or saints, which are known as Las Siete Potencias Africanas. Vodun, the official religion of Haiti, is similar to its Afro-Cuban counterpart, Santería, in the way that it integrates symbols of Christianity with African spiritual traditions. This tradition has been greatly influenced by Dahomey African culture, rather than that of Yoruban origin, the primary cultural antecedents of Afro-Cubans. Religion scholar Janheinz Jahn notes that in Vodun “the initiated believe in the existence of spiritual beings who live partly in the universe, partly in close contact with men, whose activities they control” (Jahn 1990, 32). Existence for the Afro-Caribbean depends on such spiritual deities and on those who communicate with them. Jahn adds that the invisible spiritual beings, loas, form an Olympus of Gods structured in a hierarchical manner, served by a community of believers that create temples, altars, and ceremonies, and value an oral tradition (33).

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Jahn points out that “voodoo is not an arbitrary cult, it is the true state religion of Haiti. Every hounfort is decorated with the coat of arms of the Republic” (1990, 52). The Vodun faith tradition contains two principal gods known as Rada and Petro. Above both Rada and Petro is Bondieu or Grand Met, the chief divinity believed to have created the entire universe. This is the Haitian equivalent of the Yoruban Olodumaré, “the supreme god who knows all and can do all, but he prefers to remain distant from the creation he authored” (Matibag 1996, 192). The highest spiritual level in Vodun is the title of houngan or mambo (priestess), who can serve as a diviner, theologian, storyteller, leader, interpreter, musician, and herbalist-healer (Matibag 1996, 189). Other figures within the hierarchy are the hounsis or female temple initiates and the houguenicon, or female director of the hounsis. Within Vodun, one can find Catholic elements, brought by the French, blending with African spiritual traditions brought by Africans. The resulting faith system felt natural to the population of color because of the surface similarities between the two: African Vodun loas are similar in function to the Catholic cult of saints, who are believed to intercede for the devout Catholic believer in need of spiritual assistance. Jahn highlights the hierarchical structure of both traditions (1990, 35). In the Vodun faith tradition, the papaloa (babaloa) serves as “a high priest, a dignitary of the Voodoo religion, approximately of the rank of a bishop” in the Christian faith (35).5 Jahn documents the origins of Vodun in the Dahomey region of West Africa, the birthplace of a majority of the Africans imported to Haiti (29). He estimates that six to eight thousand individuals were exported yearly from Dahomey to the French Antilles during the period that the nation was known as Saint-Dominique, between 1697 and 1804.6 Despite the hegemonic sociopolitical influence of French colonizers, Vodun survived and continues to thrive in much of Haiti. Despite its structural and spiritual parallels with Christianity, the dominant class made numerous attempts to abolish Afro-Haitian religious expression. One attempt to abolish such religious practices can be seen in the Code Noir of 1685. This law made it mandatory for all slaves to be instructed and baptized in the Catholic religion and forbade Blacks from participating in other religious practices (Jahn 1990, 32). Masters who permitted their slaves to conduct non-Christian ceremonies were considered to be just as guilty as if they had participated in such ceremonies themselves (32). The repression against marginalized spiritual circles became so strong that in 1771 the police of the capital city Port-au-Prince prohibited free Blacks and even those of mixed ethnicity to dance the calenda, a religious dance, which was considered profane (32).7 Such restrictions became more prominent after the success of the Haitian Revolution (1793–1804) (Jackson 1984, 6). However, despite attempts to abolish this faith and its cultural expression, Vodun survived clandestinely.

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As in Cuba, Haitian political power has been won, maintained, and lost with the alleged support of African-inspired practices. The political despot Jean-Claude “Papa Doc” Duvalier (1907–1971) presented himself as the premier houngan (priest) of Haiti and declared himself to be heir to the spiritual forces of great Haitian leaders such as L’Ouverture, Dessalines, Pétion, Chistophe, and Dumarais Estimé. To further reinforce this image, he dressed in black to resemble the image of death (Guédé) symbolized by Baron Samedi (the loa of the cemetery).8 Papa Doc surrounded himself with houngans and established a secret police named Ton Ton Macoute. Many of the members of this security organization belonged to the secret society of Bizango; the original Bizango was inspired by the loup-garou or werewolf, which was believed to prey on children (Matibag 1996, 207). Such ominous parallels helped the leader to ensure his political longevity by taking advantage of the respect and fear of Vodun. Numerous scholars have traveled to Haiti to study the nation’s religion in order to separate fact from fiction. Zora Neale Hurston conducted an indepth investigation entitled Tell My Horse (1938). Another equally significant scholar to offer a more authentic portrayal of Haitian culture is Wade Davis, an ethnobotanist whose research in Haiti led to his study entitled The Serpent and the Rainbow (1985). By comparing the presentation of Vodun in El reino de este mundo with the anthropological studies of Davis and Hurston, one can construct a historical/cultural basis to confirm the accuracy of the literary portrayal of Black spiritual and political life in Carpentier’s second novel. In the Afro-Caribbean worldview, regardless of whether saints are consulted individually or asked to work together, they are believed to be very powerful when summoned. Each deity possesses specific characteristics and areas of particular interest. African and Afro-Cuban folk traditions reflect the specific attributes of each of the deities. While some of these figures can be traced back to specific areas of the African continent, many deities as well as particular practices became altered by the time they appeared in Cuba, which makes finding their true African origin challenging if not impossible. As a result of this integration, enslaved Africans could often continue to practice their own traditions while appearing to celebrate the religion of their masters. Even the name Santería, derived from the Spanish word santo borrowed from Catholicism, means worship of the Saints. Santería also adopted the terminology of the Catholic Church institution of compadrazgo [Godparentship]: making believers ajihado [godson] and ajihada [goddaughter] of the primary orisha. In this capacity, the believers are the godchildren of the santeros, the priests, or intermediaries who protect and guide them spiritually. Within this spiritual world, reality takes on a different tone, and myth and history is unique and important.

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CONNECTION BETWEEN THE SPIRITUAL AND POLITICAL In Latin America, there has traditionally been a connection between the spiritual and political. General Fulgencio Batista (1901–1973) was rumored to have relied on Santeria practices. He owed his miraculous escape from Havana to the protection of the Orishas (Matibag 1996, 49). There have also been claims of Fidel Castro’s involvement with Afro-Cuban Orishas (Matibag 1996, 49). In Jamaica, Protestant Christianity played a key role in the slave rebellion known as the Baptist War of 1931 (Castro 2020, 12). Two historical characters that appear in El reino de este mundo, Mackandal and Bouckman, used African-influenced spirituality to socially and politically unite enslaved Haitians to overthrow colonial French forces. In La paz del pueblo and Changó, el gran putas, characters appear that play a major role in uniting the oppressed and encouraging them to fight for their independence and self-determination. ECO-CULTURAL TRADITIONS, MEDICINE, AND RITUAL One means of making a cure is through the use of medicine, practices, and rituals often conducted by rural peoples who share a close spiritual relationship with the natural environment. By collectively grouping objects, such as fruit, stones, and bones, believers can construct a basic shrine. They may add money and liquor to such altars to appease a specific deity. These items serve as sacrifices, which are required to invoke the deity and feed it. Plants and herbs, used in brews and infusions, serve to summon the deity and thus to cure common illnesses. Each herb is associated with a particular deity and has a particular spiritual value, as well as a specific medicinal benefit: Magic, which includes conjurations or spells and herbal or ethnomedical therapies, is practiced to solve problems or to secure some aim desired by clients, in whom a magical predisposition toward the universe is produced by the myth, ritual, doctrine, and social structure of the religion. (Matibag 1996, 13)

One important plant often used in Afro-Caribbean rituals is the bombax ceiba or five-leaved silk cotton tree, commonly known as the ceiba. Lydia Cabrera offers detailed examples of the role of the ceiba in Afro-Cuban spiritual cultures in her study El monte [The Mountain] (1954). She notes that the sacred tree, when consecrated, is the same as the Iroko tree found in Africa:

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Algunos viejos coinciden al explicarme que en Cuba no había, que es una especie de caoba africana, y que los lucumís llamaban arabbá a la goma francesa, (que Sandoval también conoce por gógó). Sin embargo, la ceiba les recordó a iroko y la demominaron y ‘consagraron’con el nombre que en Africa se daba a un árbol inmenso, muy semejante e igualmente venerado en toda la costa de Guinea. . . . Aunque la Ceiba no es iroko legítimo, se la considera como iroko; y se la conoce unas veces por iroko, y otras por, arabbá. [Some elders have explained to me that in Cuba there was no type of Africana caoba tree, a plant that the Lucumí called the Arabic French gum tree (Sandoval also calls it gógó). But nevertheless, the ceiba tree reminded them of the iroko and they named it and “consecrated” it with the name that they gave an imense tree, similar in appearance and equally respected aloge the entire Guinea Coast. . . . Eventough the Ceiba is not the true iroko, they considerate to be one and the same; and it is known at times as iroko, and at other times as arabbá.] (Cabrera 1954, 150)9

The ceiba’s central role makes it the important center of the shrine, which serves as a depository for sacrificial items that no one would dare touch because of its strong spiritual force (Cabrera 1954, 185). This sacred tree is believed to have spiritual power and its leaves, bark, and roots are believed to have medicinal value. To fell or burn such a tree without consultation would be major spiritual atrocity (149). By respecting the inherent qualities associated with trees and spiritual items, one can produce change. The tree will play a prominent role in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. Cures take place when a Babaloa10 combines the appropriate plant or herb with sacred words and rituals, thus creating an energy, which produces a desired physical or emotional change. Individuals unfamiliar with AfroCaribbean spiritual practices may consider such events or activities to be abnormal or strange, but the devout believer considers them normal. One important element in most of the rituals is water, the basic element of life. Herskovits’s African research points out that “in ceremony after ceremony witnessed among the Yoruba, the Ashanti, and in Dahomey, one invariable element was a visit to a river or some other body of ‘living’ water, such as the ocean, for the purpose of obtaining the liquid indispensable for the rites” (Herskovits 1968, 233). Water is one of the most important elements, along with herbs, and seashells (cowries), and stones; “without these, there can be no Santería” (González-Wippler 1994, 20). The survival of individuals and their collective culture thus rests upon the learning of the mysteries of plants, herbs, and elements of nature. Within the selected novels in this book, there are references to nonWestern medicine. This often appears with the use of ritual. There will not

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be numerous examples of the use of indigenous plants, animals, and other spiritually significant items to help resolve a physical condition. This mirrors the cultural patterns of healing that have thrived in communities of color. This tradition of healing without the use of Western medicine allowed enslaved or disenfranchised people to care for another using plants, ritual, and faith. THE DRUM AND AFRICAN SPIRITUALITY African-inspired faith practices place great emphasis on percussion, especially the drum. Cabrera’s research points out that “en las fiestas lucumís, en los toques de tambor en acción de gracias con que se honra y se divierte a los orichas, la posesión en sugerida por los tambores y las maracas, los cantos y los bailes” [In Lucumi celebrations, in drum ceremonies to thank, honor, and entertain the orishas, possession is invited by the drums, maracas, songs, and dances] (Cabrera 1954, 33).The drum and other percussion instruments of African origin are fundamental in religious celebrations. Many ceremonies cannot take place without the presence of the sacred drum. Kubayanda asserts that in Africa, the drum is used sometimes in place of the human speaking voice to “‘call people or raise alarm,’ to ‘give warning, praise, or congratulations,’ and to produce music for listening and dancing” (quoted in Kubayanda 1990, 92). Kubayanda writes that “the bata drum of Yoruba provenance, the bonkó, contains a mystical, deeply religious tonality; its sounds and pitches are dependent on certain clear-cut conditions: drumsize, technique of drum playing” (1985, 92). He adds that in postcolonial Cuba, the secrets of the drum were kept within the Abakúa Secret Sect. According to Kubayanda, these powerful instruments possess the ability to transcend listeners’ conscious minds and enable them to reach higher psychological and mystical levels (92). THE TRICKSTER FIGURE Fanon and Jahn indicate that laughter plays an important role within African and neo-African communities (Jahn 1990, 139-140; Fanon 1963, 222). One of the traditional manners in which the oppressed have been able to make order out of chaos is by playing tricks. In Santería, Eleggua is viewed as the trickster figure. Contemporary researchers have identified this archetype in Afrocentric literary works and within Afro-Caribbean culture. This figure appears in the Anancy tales of the Antillies, the North American Brer Rabbit tales, and Uncle Remus stories.11 Henry Louis Gates Jr. makes a connection between this folk figure and the loa Legba in Vodun practices, who is represented as an old man on a crutch (Gates 1989). He stands as a messenger

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at the crossroads between this world and the world beyond. In Santería, Eleggua is the trickster figure that stands in corners and at crossroads and guards the home against danger. Eleggua’s acts are mischievous in nature, like the pranks of a naughty child (Gonzalez-Wippler 1994, 29). It is by his very tricks that he mediates between the two worlds, two poles of the inherent, irreconcilable contradiction of the human condition (Smart 1996, 51–52). Henry Louis Gates traces this term to the signifying monkey from the Pan-African trickster figure, Èsù-Elégbára, and demonstrates the extent to which this image appears in canonical Black texts (1984a, 285–321). This figure often appears in the form of Esu, the pícaro trickster, or signifying monkey. Ian Smart defines the trickster as a smart aleck “who utters enigmatic statements, one who essentially provokes laughter. He is the inveterate player or joker” (Smart 1996, 54). This character plays a major role in the community because, during periods of stress or struggle, the trickster helps relieve tension and pokes fun at the hegemonic structure that surrounds the enslaved population. Often the trickster permits the marginalized community to express itself from a position of power or authority. The trickster can be a good or a bad character, but he dominates the forces of chaos, creativity, and conflict. Roger D. Adams suggests that “the joker . . . is the reverser of order, of household values” (quoted in Smart, 1996, 54). This figure thus serves as a catalyst that permits the community collectively to release internalized stress, anger, and fear. Often in religious festivals and celebrations in the Caribbean, the diablo serves as a trickster figure. This figure has played a pivotal role in protecting and shaping the African American psyche. Afro-Caribbean spiritual practices have played an important role as a psycho-spiritual survival mechanism among oppressed and enslaved men, women, and children. Shirley Jackson adds that within these novels, which contain aspects of the African worldview “beliefs are more than just ancient myths and superstition; they are evidence of ancient knowledge that was fostered and preserved by the passing on of this information into the AfroHispanic culture and literature” (S. Jackson 1986a, 41). The elements related to Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions are used in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance for more than adding a touch of local color. Without the values and characteristics connected with this, legacy of African ethnic identity would have disappeared long ago. Dos Santos and Deoscoredes point out that “throughout the entire process of slavery, and even during later interethnic conflicts, religion and the communities observing the religion became the bulwark of the Black psyche and of its cultural dignity and integrity, since, for a long time, they were the only source of inviolable, spiritual freedom” (Dos Santos and Deoscoredes 1984, 71). African-inspired spiritual practices played a paramount role in the development and the survival of the African consciousness in the Americas.

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Spiritual practices helped the slaves not only spiritually but also psychologically. Countless studies demonstrate that individuals suffering from emotional problems have been cured as a result of seeking help from a healer.12 Such healers often find that physical symptoms reflect deeper psychological problems. Dominant cultures often have attacked Afro-Caribbean religious practices because they were identified as important tools in enabling enslaved individuals to maintain their own cultural identity. Afro-Caribbean ontology has always included aspects of Afrocentric religious principals, which have served as protection for a people historically under attack by the culture surrounding them. As a result of this past, the Afro-Caribbean may view his own daily existence as more hostile than individuals from other ethnic groups. In this situation, spirituality was a powerful survival tool. The fourteen characteristics identified in this study exist in different forms throughout the four novels of resistance surveyed. The works serve as effective literary tools, developed in a manner that is reaffirming to values and traditions of the religious belief system of Afro-Caribbean religion. The characteristics of the Afro-Caribbean worldview come together in these novels to create a template that distinguishes them from novels produced from a Western perspective. The novels in this book use the structures of Afro-Caribbean culture not only to identify problems of the Afro-Caribbean but also to do so in a literary form that is consistent with this community. Alejo Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo (1949), Manual Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas (1983), Carlos Guillermo Wilson’s Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores (1990), and Quince Duncan’s La paz del pueblo (1978) reflect African-influenced practices that found new expression in the Caribbean and portray the richness of the Afro-Caribbean worldview. The Hispanic literary canon must continue to regenerate itself by recognizing and celebrating literature from historically underrepresented populations. By replenishing such literary perspectives and cultural values, the canon will be more representative of our modern society, broadening its composition to include literature that best encapsulates the rich cultural elements of the Americas. By understanding literary and cultural elements in the AshéCaribbean novel of resistance, the intellectual community has an opportunity to comprehend the literary aesthetics that seldom have been acknowledged within the mainstream Latin American literary canon. The writers covered in this study have used their literary novels to reflect problems and offer possible solutions. As a result, the reader is able to discover important Africanoriented elements and collective problems they faced and their responses to counter these challenges. My hope is to continue this research and identify new values and criteria that serve as literary links among populations of color in the Americas, and to illustrate how, through literature, the worldview and aesthetics of the

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Afro-Caribbean community can be explored. The literature produced by these four novelists contains structural patterns that play a major role in countering literary shortcomings from the past by using their novels to instruct. This book has outlined patterns of literary expression that are as significant for their thematic format as for their structural elements, and part of a larger literary trajectory that reflects the Afro-Caribbean community’s struggle in the form of narrative to counter the logocentric worldview. These novels belong to a larger group of works published in English and French that allow the Black community to express itself in a manner that is consistent with its values and cultural traditions. Martin-Ogunsola notes the conservative nature of the canon: “Academe has always been tradition-bound in its emphasis on the classics of western literature, whether they were the works of Greco-Roman writers or those of print-culture Europeans and their New World successors; therefore the academy developed an almost impenetrable canon” (1991, 42). Such novels present similar characteristics in reflecting an Afrocentric perspective and culture in a revolutionary mode, which is intended to facilitate the Afro-Caribbean individual in their struggle toward just treatment and their sociocultural identity. Cudjoe states that resistance literature “virtually becomes a process in which man is injected into his past world, and acts to come to grips with that past reality before he can come to terms with the present” (69). In order for Afro-Caribbean individuals to progress toward greater self-awareness and ethnic pride, they must first be made aware of the role that their history has played in the construction of their present reality. NOTES 1. For more information on the Hottentot female image and the “Hottentot Venus,” see Sander L. Gilman’s article entitled “Black Bodies, White Bodies: Toward an Iconography of Female Sexuality in Late Nineteenth-Century Art, Medicine, and Literature,” Critical Inquiry 12.1 (Autumn 1985): 205–242. 2. For the European, the male of African descent has long been associated with lascivious behavior and sexual potency. One long-held myth, debunked by researchers continues to exist: the fallacy that Black men are endowed with larger sexual organs than men of European ancestry. Fanon presents the following scientific results, which put this myth to rest: The average length of the penis among the black men of Africa, Dr. Palès says, rarely exceeds 120 millimeters (4.6244 inches). Testut, in his Traité d’anatomie humaine, offers the same figure for the European. But these are facts that persuade no one. Fanon notes that the white man is convinced that the Negro is a beast; if it is not the length of the penis, then it is the sexual potency that impresses him. (Fanon 1967, 170)

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Despite scientific proof that debunks myths regarding the “sexual abnormality” of Black males, this group still continues to be regarded as being distinct from other male groups. I believe that the reason for this is the influence of the slave owners’ preoccupation with the breeding potential of the slave, similar to that of livestock, making male sexual potency an important economic factor. 3. In this study, when the word religion is used to describe elements of AfroCaribbean, it will be equated with African spiritual culture or spiritual practices. For many, the word religion is quickly equated with a collection of practices to oppress the belief systems and behaviors of others. 4. This concept was developed by Fernando Ortiz to address the importance of cultures merging together, as opposed to “acculturation,” which takes place as one culture fades into or becomes suppressed and disappears within a more dominant culture. 5. Within the Vodun religious tradition, females can hold the position of mambo, which is equal to their male (houngan) counterparts. 6. This was the name given to the region, under French control before the nation gained its independence from France in 1803 (Jahn 1990, 30). 7. The Calenda was a common dance of African origin, considered to be obscene by local authorities. For more detailed information on this dance, also called calínda, see Jahn’s Muntu: African Culture and the Western World (Jahn 1990, 79–80). 8. Baron Samedi, also known as Baron Cimitière, Baron-la-Croix, or MaîtreCimetière-Boumba, is the loa of death and is envisioned as grotesque, absurd, and mostly obscene (Jahn 1990, 45). 9. Carpentier documents the powerful role of the tree when he writes “‘la palabra ceiba’—nombre de un árbol americano al que los negros cubanos llaman ‘la madre de los árboles’—no basta para que las gentes de otras latitudes vean el aspecto de columna rostral de ese árbol gigantesco, adusto y solitario, como sacado de otras edades, sagrado por linaje, cuyas ramas horizontales, casi paralelas, ofrecen al viento unos puñados de hojas tan inalcanzables para el hombre como incapaces de todo mecimiento” [The word ceiba―name of an American tree that Cuban Blacks call “the mother of trees”—is not enough for people from other latitudes to see the rostral column aspect of that gigantic, dreary, and lonely tree, as taken from other ages, sacred by lineage, whose horizontal branches, almost parallel, offer the wind a few handfuls of leaves as unattainable for man as they are unable to rock] (Carpentier 1970, 35–37). 10. In the Yoruba belief system, the babalawo or babaloa is the father (baba) of divination (awo). In the Santeria tradition, the babalawo serves as the high priest. 11. Anancy (Anansi) tales are works that consist of a central character of African origin, extremely popular in Jamaica and in other parts of the Caribbean. In Jamaica Anancy is a little bald-headed man with a falsetto voice and cringing manner. He lives by his wits and treats outrageously anyone on whom he can impose his superior cunning. He is a famous fiddler and something of a magician as well. In some stories he has the form of a man and in others that of a spider. He has a wife and a set of children who share in his exploits, including a quick-witted son who eventually out-does

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Chapter 2 his father. In Haitian folklore, Anancy is the spider trickster-hero and buffoon, although his name occurs rarely. (Duncan and Martin-Ogunsola 1995, 289)

12. In this chapter, the word healer will be used as a synonym to curandero, or any individual that practices “non-traditional” medicine to cure patients.

Part 2

Chapter 3

El reino de este mundo The First Ashé-Cuban Novel of Resistance

Before beginning an analysis of El reino de este mundo, one must be aware of significant cultural and historical events that preceded the novel’s development. In this study, the term Afro-Cuban religious culture will be employed to describe the collective branches of African-influenced religions within the nation. HISTORICAL CONTEXT Like most Caribbean nations, Cuba functioned within a segregated racial system until 1898; as a result, the population of color suffered at the hands of individuals identifying with colonial hegemonic thought and characteristics associated with those considered to be of pure European heritage. Cubans that appeared to have descended from African stock were abused physically, socially, and politically. Among Spanish-speaking Caribbean nations, Cuba has the strongest African cultural influence. This cultural presence began with the importation of slaves from Africa to the Americas.1 The largest African group brought to the Americas came from the Yorubaland region, known today as Southwest Nigeria. When the spiritual practices of these groups arrived on the island, they developed into what would be commonly known as Lucumi2 culture. While the practices that make up Lucumi culture are somewhat distinct, each contains similar characteristics of African-influenced ontology, language, and traditions that bond them. These cultural patterns have been vital in preserving African traditions and characteristics identified as Afro-Cuban culture around the globe, especially in the Caribbean. Many aspects of Yoruba society still exist within Lucumi culture, a culture made up of descendants from 33

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numerous African communities. As a result of African ethnic transculturalization, it is difficult to point to all specific aspects of Afro-Cuban culture and trace them back to a particular African group or region. Research in Afro-Caribbean history and culture concludes that between 1850 and 1870, a majority of the African slaves imported to Cuba were of Yoruban origin (Brandon 1993, 58). According to George Brandon, Cuba became a significant force in solidifying and transmitting cultural values of the Yoruba peoples: Lucumi religion is dominated by Yoruba traits, and Lucumi, the ritual language used in Santeria’s prayers, chants, and songs, is dominated by Yoruba vocabulary and Yoruba phonetics and syntactic structures. Many of the Lucumi claim to be Yoruba descendants. . . . Nevertheless Lucumi religion has traits derived probably from Dahomey and Benin, and from the Hausa and Nupe as well. Some of this borrowing may have occurred in Africa as part of the ongoing evolution of the religions of different Yoruba subgroups in contact with other groups. (1993, 56)

As these African religious traditions developed in Cuba, they played an important role enabling slaves to preserve their ontological perspectives. Brandon argues that “without doubt Lucumi ethnic identity was closely linked with Yoruba culture and descent and forms one basis of Santeria” (56). In Cuban oral tradition, much of the nation’s history of Cuban leadership has relied on aspects of Lucumi culture for survival. General Fulgencio Batista (1901–1973) was rumored to have relied on Santeria practices and to have owed his miraculous escape from Havana to the protection of the Orishas (Matibag 1996, 49). Matibag’s study also reports various claims of Fidel Castro’s involvement with Afro-Cuban spirituality: Some expatriate believers have reported that Castro performed devotions to the warrior Elegguá when he lived and trained in the manigua or jungle of the Sierra Maestra. El Comandante himself supposedly wears two watches to hide his initiation bracelet, and he gains power and protection by bathing in a tub full of sacrificial blood. (49)

In the same vein, González-Wippler states that the famous Cuban musician Tito Puente was an initiated Santero (1982, 191). While documented proof of an individual’s spiritual affiliation is difficult to obtain and verify, the fact that so many individuals hold such beliefs alone demonstrates the significant role of Afro-Cuban spiritual practices within the nation. Historically, Afro-Cuban spiritual traditions played a central role in the lives of Blacks in Cuba. A majority of Cuban slaves traditionally worked on

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sugar and tobacco plantations and suffered physical, mental, and spiritual abuse at the hands of slave owners. Traditional African belief systems and languages were transmitted to successive generations without the knowledge of the white community. African-influenced spiritual cultures in Cuba thrived, much like their sister traditions such as Macumba and Candomblé in Brazil and Vodun in Haiti. While the institution of slavery abducted and imported more than twenty tribal communities into Cuba, four major traditions took form in the nation: Regla de Ocha (Santería), Regla Arará, La sociedad Secreta de Abakuá, and Palo Monte (Palo Mayombe). In each of these belief systems, the Orishas or deities are believed to possess a powerful form of energy known as ashé. The deities are part of a hierarchical structure headed by an all-powerful God known as Olodumaré in Yoruban tradition and Abasí in Abakuá circles (Matibag 1996, 37–38). These spiritual practices value rituals and conduct ceremonies that employ elements such as rum, palm oil, plants, herbs, and cigar smoke to summon powerful forces. The Orishas are believed to carry out the will of the individual who summons them and to assist in solving problems. Such traditions use magic and conduct rituals making use of a fundamento, a spiritual focal point that brings aspects of the divine into the present. Altars and spiritual symbols visually signify the supernatural forces of these deities and their Catholic counterparts. In 1870, slavery officially ended. Despite the nation’s political shifts, Cubans continued to function under the influence of a traditional colonial hegemonic system. As mestizos strove to fill the positions of power left by the former colonial forces, they continued to discriminate against Blacks, especially in urban areas. After the abolition of slavery, one of the major jobs for free Blacks was working in the sugar production industry. Due to the Haitian sugar crisis at the turn of the century, Cuba became the region’s major sugar-producing nation. In 1902, as the island became a protectorate of the United States as part of the declarations within the Platt Amendment, existing racial tensions worsened (Kutzinski 1996, 169). The Platt agreement, lasting until 1934, shifted control of the territory from Spanish authority to that of the United States. During this new postcolonial stage, Cuba not only gained military assistance and economic investments from the United States but also inherited more severe forms of racial intolerance and discrimination. As pressures to abolish African-influenced cultural expression mounted, the Afro-Cubanist movement developed to combat these problems. This movement inspired the creation of the Partido Independiente de Color (PIC), under the leadership of Evaristo Estenoz, former leader of the labor movement, and Pedro Ivonnet, Liberation Army Colonel. Between 1908 and 1913, the organization protested racial injustice, fought to gain equal treatment for people of color, and struggled to abolish the death penalty. The

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group’s objective was to enable Blacks to redefine their identity by fighting for political rights and to establish justice and equality for Cuba’s population of color. As PIC began to develop the foundation of what was to become a political party, the Cuban government began to view the organization as a political and cultural threat. Critics and thinkers of the period debated the merits of the organization, which was considered to be racist for not allowing white members to participate. Cuban historian, Tomás Robaina, argues that the organization consisted of both white and Black members and was far from exclusionary (Robiana 1994, 69–70, 84).3 Although the PIC leaders attempted to demonstrate that their objective was not racist and struggled to maintain the political party, their goals were unsuccessful due to an attack by military officials, which provoked an Afro-Cuban armed revolt in 1912. This massacre, ironically known as “Guerrita de Raza” [The Small Race War], claimed the lives of more than three thousand Blacks (Matibag 1996, 93; Navarro 1998, 92). The commitment of PIC continued to live on within Cuban intellectual circles well after the demise of the organization. Fernando Ortiz (1881–1969) was one of Cuba’s most significant scholars, whose research was instrumental in understanding Cuba’s Black community. Near the beginning of the twentieth century, the Afro-Cuban population was virtually ignored until Ortiz began to conduct his research. This scientist, ethno-musicologist, historian, and linguist began to study the Afro-Cuban community for his work with Cesare Lombroso titled Hampa afro-cubana: Los negros brujos (Apuntes para un estudio de etnologia criminal) [AfroCuban Underworld: The Black Sorcerers (Notes for the study of criminal ethonology)] (1906). His other literary productions include Los negros esclavos [Black Slaves] (1916), a book on Black slaves; the Glosario de afronegrismos [Glossary of Black expressions] (1923), a dictionary of AfroCuban language; and Contrapunteo cubano del tabaco y el azúcar [Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar] (1940). Ortiz’s initial study addressed the connections within Afro-Cuban culture and explored social factors that contributed to the elevated rate of crime within this community. His work acknowledges aspects of Afro-Cuban culture, which were previously overlooked and considered taboo topics of discussion among members of the island’s polite or white community. Matibag asserts that “the result of Ortiz’s labors was to make what was once scorned and dismissed as a bastard culture of a downtrodden people into an object deemed worthy of intellectual scrutiny” (1996, 23). Ortiz’s findings influenced later investigators, such as Lydia Cabrera, Alejo Carpentier, Miguel Barnett, and Rómulo Lachatañeré, to reveal tenets of Afro-Caribbean culture to the “non-Afro-Cuban” community. To better understand and evaluate Afro-Cuban cultural elements, one must devote a considerable amount of time and effort to research, because traditional African spiritual practices are deeply embedded in Caribbean

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language systems and ontological perspectives. Alejo Carpentier published the results of his own research in a study entitled La música en Cuba (1946). The information gathered in his musical and cultural research served as the foundation of his first two novels, Ecué-yamba-O (1933) and El reino de este mundo (1949). His first novel was an attempt to produce an authentic work, but it is in his second novel that one finds the first Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. Prior to the publication of Carpentier’s novels, Afro-Cuban characters in colonial Cuban literary works were distorted or completely ignored in romantic4 novels, such as Gertrudis Gómez de Avelleneda’s novel Sab (1841) and Cirilo Villaverde’s novel Cecilia Valdés (1882). At the beginning of the twentieth century, Black culture rarely appeared in the realist5 novels of Carlos Loveira (1882–1928) and Miguel de Carrión (1875–1924) (Shaw 1985, 11). By the third decade of the twentieth century, the AfroCuban population—previously viewed as marginal—began to be viewed as a more significant sector within the nation. In the Hispanophone Caribbean, this became known as the negrismo movement and was a literary expression of the Afro-Cubanist movement.6 This literary movement, which began in 1932, drew intellectual attention to the African Diaspora. During this period, Hispanophone Caribbean artists incorporated African-based cultural images into their works; Nicolás Guillén and others of the Afrocriollo7 movement stood at the center of a new beginning influenced by the theories of Oswald Spenglar, thus representing, a “‘new spirit’ in America where the African legacy was often set, as we saw, against the cultural failures of Whites” (R. Jackson 1984, 8). In Carpentier’s first novel, Ecué-yamba-O, he attempted to express an authentic literary vision of an Afro-Haitian worldview in content and in structure. Only later did he discover that his research was not as in-depth as he had believed. In the preface to the second edition of Ecué-yamba-O (1989), the writer explains that he opposed the republication of the work because he felt that this initial work had been a failure: “Y digo que me opuse a su reimpresión, porque después de mi ciclo americano que se inicia con El reino de este mundo, veía Ecue-yamba-O como cosa novata, pintoresca, sin profundidad— escalas y arpegios de estudiante” [I said that I opposed its later publications, because after my American cycle which began with El reino de este mundo, I saw Ecue-yamba-O as a naive, picturesque, shallow—the scales and arpeggios of a student] (Carpentier 1989, 8). In an interview, Carpentier acknowledges what he views as shortcomings in the novel: “Esta primera novela mía es tal vez un intento fallido por el abuso de metáforas, de símiles mecánicos, de imágenes de un aborrecible mal gusto futurista y por esa falsa concepción de lo nacional que teníamos entonces los hombres de mi generación” [This first novel of mine is perhaps a failed attempt because of the abusive use of

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metaphors, mechanical similes, images of an abhorrent distasteful futurist work, and this false understanding of national identity that, at the time, men of my generation had] (Lastra 1971, 79). Carpentier echoes this hypothesis in more detail in his collection of essays entitled Tientos y diferencias: “Al cabo de veinte años de investigaciones acerca de las realidades sincréticas de Cuba, me di cuenta de que todo lo hondo, lo verdadero, lo universal, del mundo que había pretendido pintar en mi novela había permanecido fuera del alcance de mi observación” [After twenty years of research on Cuban syncretic realities, I discovered that the full depth, the truth, the universal of the world that I tried to describe in my novel had remained beyond my reach] (Carpentier 1973, 15). Many scholars use Carpentier’s self-criticism to justify discounting his work and overlooking his contribution to the field of Afro-Hispanic literature, while failing to acknowledge the work’s role as a stepping stone to the more-famous El reino de este mundo. Cesar Leante finds Ecué-yamba-O’s presentation of a form of Afro-Cuban religion to be one of the work’s best qualities: “Pero no todo es deplorable en ella. Salvo de la hecatombe los capítulos dedicados al ‘rompimiento’ ñañigo” [But not all aspects are deplorable in it. It was saved from the catastrophe by the chapters dedicated to the ñañigo ceremony] (1970, 22). There is no question that this is the first novel to reveal the Ñáñigo faith tradition to the mainstream Cuban nation. Alejo Carpentier is thoroughly controversial. Some critics debate the quality of his work, while others question his sincerity in focusing on the non-European community. Some Afro-Hispanist scholars refuse to include his early novels in their Afro-Latin literature classes. One reason that some critics have failed to give Carpentier the credit he deserves is their conviction that a white artist is incapable of understanding the Afro-Caribbean perspective and transferring this knowledge into literature. Smart directly bases his criticism of Carpentier and his works on the writer’s ethnicity: Carpentier, the politically liberal, Cuban-born son of a Russian mother and a Swiss father, was just as European and Eurocentric in 1949 as he was in 1933, and as he continued to be in October 1975. . . . The Carpentier who in 1949 presumes to speak on behalf of negritude and to present an authentic vision of the Haitian Revolution is not any closer to a convincing identification with Africans living in the Americas than he was in 1933 when he presumed to speak on behalf of negrismo and to present a putatively “authentic” vision of the worldview of African Cubans. (Smart 1996, 117)

One can question Smart’s use of the heritage of the writer’s parents as a criterion to evaluate his ability to authentically present Black Cuban culture. I do believe that Ecué-yamba-O clearly illustrated Carpentier’s lack of knowledge of Afro-Cuban culture and that the work’s shortcomings motivated

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him to better prepare to present the Afro-Caribbean worldview in El reino de este mundo. This is a perfect moment to remind the reader that the definition of black (blackness) that I will be using in this study, and that most Afro-Hispanic critics now employ, is somewhat different from the traditional univocal North American definition. In the Caribbean, a writer’s phenotype is not an accurate indicator of blackness due to the region’s complex history of hybridization. There are many more complex factors that play a role in defining Black identity, such as cultural experience, economic status, and regional and familial historical factors that influence an individual’s connection with, or awareness of, elements of Afro-Cuban culture. There is no doubt that one can find numerous deficiencies in Carpentier’s first attempt to authentically represent the Afro-Cuban spirit in a Cuban novel, but despite such defects, it is difficult to deny that the work plays an important role in reflecting and acknowledging Afro-Cuban culture as a topic. While his first novel has some serious shortcomings, he is able to look at the world through the eyes of the Black individual. In this sense, his first novel is a significant building block toward the production of his second, more developed novel, El reino de este mundo. Donald Shaw argues that Carpentier strove to identify the spirit of Africa in the Americas and developed an authentic literary style and used the Afro-Cubanist8 tradition to express this spirit. Shaw points out that Carpentier found himself pursuing three aims that even a more seasoned writer would have found “hard to render compatible with one another. These were the search for what was genuinely and uniquely Cuban, the struggle to innovate formally, and the impulse to protest, especially about foreign economic exploitation” (1985, 5–6). Paulo Freire’s study Pedagogy of the Oppressed, first published in 1970, addressed the role of revolutionary literature produced by writers that strive to focus on the oppressed and consider themselves to be part of the community of which they write. While presenting Afro-Cuban communities and their cultures, Alejo Carpentier helps to legitimize this sector, thus offering a form of revolutionary leadership. Freire considers such literature to be revolutionary literature because of its objective of helping oppressed populations to define themselves. Freire argues that the writer must have such a philosophy in order to produce what he calls co-intentional education: Teachers and students (leadership and people), co-intent on reality, are both Subjects, not only in the task of unveiling that reality, and thereby coming to know it critically, but in the task of re-creating that knowledge. As they attain this knowledge of reality through common reflection and action, they discover themselves as its permanent re-creators. In this way, the presence of the oppressed in the struggle for their liberation will be what it should be: not pseudo-participation, but committed involvement. (1997, 51)

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Carpentier believed that he had integrated himself into the surrounding Black community, which enabled him to better understand its worldview. He viewed himself as part of this community and acknowledged this community’s influence on him in the preface to El reino de este mundo. Even though Carpentier was not of African descent, his second novel is significant in its presentation of Afro-Caribbean culture from a more knowledgeable position. Julia Cuervo Hewitt affirms the important role that the incorporation of Afro-Cuban culture plays in literature‫׃‬ Literature, whether oral or written, is the deepest expression of the most vital fibers of a people. Thus, as we become aware of the almost innate necessity to grasp and hold on to cultural origins, we can also understand why Cuban contemporary literature is enriched with Yoruban legends, characters, themes and mythopoetic imagery rooted in the African experience. (1984, 66)

Alejo Carpentier’s early novels support Hewitt’s argument being that his goal was to represent the Afro-Cuban worldview consistently in the context and content of his novels. This chapter will focus on Carpentier’s second novel so that it can be paired with representative novels from three fellow Hispanophone Caribbean writers who include similar elements in their novels to present shared qualities that make the Afro-Caribbean novel of resistance distinct from other literary styles.

CARPENTIER’S NOVEL OF RESISTANCE El reino de este mundo is distinct from Ecué-yamba-O9 in its focus on Haiti and Vodun. The novel serves as the first Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance via its plot, literary structure, and imagery. Most of the novel takes place in Haiti, the first independent Afro-Caribbean nation in the Americas. Most critics agree that El reino de este mundo reflects a more authentic representation of the Afro-Caribbean worldview than did Ecué-Yamba-O. Mayra Beatriz Martínez notes major differences between the two: El reino . . . comienza a superar con creces la limitación capital de Ecué-Yamba O. Los personajes negros empiezan a conocer de una evolución en el plano de su conciencia social al vincularse a su medio, aunque subsiste una óptica racial a la hora de abordar sus conflictos. [El reino . . . begins to surpass the main limitations of Ecué-Yamba-O. The black characters begin to understand the evolution of their social consciousness by becoming connected with their contextual setting, even though a racial gaze subsists at the time to address their conflicts.] (Martínez 1981, 130)

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Carpentier’s second novel presents the Black population in a more collective and organized manner as it struggles to liberate itself from the oppressive powers of colonial forces. Donald Shaw notes that El reino de este mundo places more emphasis on the positive results of the faith of Blacks than in Ecué-yamba-O (Shaw 1985, 22–23). In Carpentier’s second novel, he appears to have better understood the role of African-influenced religion in the Caribbean (Haiti) as an instrument of resistance than he did in his first novel. Much of this transition is the result of his exposure to Haiti and its rich history. When Carpentier visited Haiti in 1943, he was impressed with the history of the nation and documented his experience in the preface of Tientos y diferencias: A fines del año 1943, tuve la suerte de poder visitar el reino de Henri Christophe—las ruinas, tan poéticas, de Sans-Souci; . . . Después de sentir el nada mentido sortilegio de las tierras de Haití, de haber hallado advertencias mágicas en los caminos rojos de la Meseta Central, de haber oído los tambores del Petro y del Rada, me vi llevado a acercar la maravillosa realidad recién vivida a la agotante pretensión de suscitar lo maravilloso que caracterizó ciertas literaturas europeas de estos últimos treinta años. (Carpentier 1970, 114–115) [Near the end of 1943, I was lucky enough to visit Henri Christophe’s kingdom—­such poetic ruins, Sans Souci. . . . After having felt the undeniable spell of the lands of Haiti, after having found magical warnings along the red roads of the Central Meseta, after having heard the drums of the Petro and the Rada, I was moved to set this recently experienced marvelous reality beside the tiresome pretension of creating the marvelous that has characterized certain European literatures over the past thirty years.] (Carpentier 1995, 84)

During his visit, the author appears to have discovered a foundation that would enable him to distinguish Latin American and European literature. Through the literary structure and content of El reino de este mundo, the reader can appreciate the existential elements of the Afro-Caribbean worldview that reject perspectives previously considered the norm for literary characters of African heritage. El reino de este mundo exhibits a perfect unity between the title, content, and artistic inspiration. It questions the traditional dialectical stance toward existence. Márquez Rodríguez notes that the text focuses on eroding many traditional dichotomies: El título de El reino de este Mundo está lleno de sutiles y esenciales implicaciones. Y su significado es, sin duda, polisémico. Dentro del más simple esquema de esta novela, el título alude a la vieja antinomia tierra-cielo, vida-muerte, carne-espíritu. Es la explicación expresa que hallamos en los párrafos finales del libro.

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[The title of El reino de este mundo is filled with subtle and essential implications. And its meaning is, without doubt, polysemic. Within the simplist scheme of this novel, the title alludes to the old antinomy earth-sky, life-death, flesh-spirit. It is the direct explication that we find in the final paragraphs of the book.] (Márquez Rodríguez 1970, 53–54)

As traditional binaries become distorted, they erode the logocentric view of existence. The theoretical foundation of Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance counters the traditional Eurocentric approach to analyzing literary texts. El reino de este mundo spans the volatile period of the Slave Revolts in the nation between the years 1740 and 1889. It is divided into four sections; two of the twenty-six chapters take place in Cuba, and the others in Haiti. The first two sections revolve around Black rebellion leaders Mackandal and Bouckman; both of these mytho-historical figures are renowned for their leadership in motivating the enslaved Haitian population to fight for its freedom. The character that unites the novel is Ti Noel; as a slave, he learns of his cultural past and the power of revolt from his mentor Mackandal. After the French plantocracy10 is overthrown, Ti Noel flees with his master back to Cuba. The third section looks at Henri Christophe’s ascent to power and the return of Ti Noel to the island as a free man. The fourth section covers King Henri Christophe’s rejection of Vodun and his resulting downfall and death. Lo real maravilloso11 Carpentier turns to Haiti because the nation’s dramatic rebellion against colonial hegemony; its achievement encouraged other Latin American nations to fight for their independence. Carpentier acknowledges Haiti’s important role in the Americas in the prologue of the novel: A cada paso hallaba lo real maravilloso. Pero pensaba, además, que esa presencia y vigencia de lo real maravilloso no era privilegio único de Haití, sino patrimonio de la América entera, donde todavía no se ha terminado de establecer, por ejemplo, un recuento de cosmogonías. (Carpentier 1984, 8–9) I found the marvelous real at every turn. Furthermore, I thought, the presence and vitality of this marvelous real was not the unique privilege of Haiti but the heritage of all of America, where we have not yet begun to establish an inventory of our cosmogonies. (Carpentier 1995, 87)

Carpentier concludes that the wonders of this marvelous reality are evident throughout the history of the Caribbean. He departed Cuba after he was imprisoned for forty days for involvement in protest activity against Gerardo Machado. It is during this eleven-year

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self-imposed exile that he began to notice the differences between European and Latin American ideas. Upon his return to Cuba in 1939, the writer began to see the role of the Latin American writer as different from the focus of the European artist. He formally broke with the ideas of André Breton12 regarding surrealism in the 1930s, once he found this form of literary expression limiting (Martínez 1981, 123). One of the reasons for his disenchantment was his belief that surrealism was unable to truly reflect the unique cultural and historical reality of the Caribbean. One of the first works to reject the surrealist concept was Un cadavre (1930), which Carpentier wrote with the collaboration of his friend Robert Desnos and fellow surrealism dissidents.13 Un cadavre attacks Breton for his dictatorial spirit toward surrealism and goes as far as to compare him to Mussolini (Monegal 1971, 623-624). Carpentier later acknowledged how surrealism influenced him while also noting the unique role of the Latin American writer: No negaré que el surrealismo me enseñó muchas cosas; que aún le agradezco ciertas ‘iluminaciones’ que han tenido una considerable influencia en mis libros. Pero siempre pensé que el escritor latinoamericano—sin dejar de ser universal por ello—debía tratar de expresar su mundo, mundo tanto más interesante por cuanto es nuevo, se encuentra poblado de sorpresas, ofrece elementos difíciles de tratar porque aún no han sido explotados por la literatura. [I will not deny that surrealism taught me many things that I thank it for certain “illuminations” that have had a considerable influence in my books. But I always thought that the Latin American writer—without failing to be universal for it—should have tried to express his world, a world that is so interesting because it is new, filled with plenty of surprises, and offers difficult elements to deal with because they still have not been included in literature.] (quoted in Árias 1977, 18–19)

Carpentier believed that the Latin American writer must create a novel that is not only universal but also contains elements that are rarely found in other literary works; these characteristics are fundamental in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. The novel revisits the rich history of Haiti, a nation filled with a history of great Black figures that used Vodun as a tool to unite its people. González Echevarría points out that “in The Kingdom of this World the complicity of history and nature pervades the whole story” (González Echevarría 1977, 136). Historical figures from Haiti’s cultural past which appear include Mackandal, the escaped slave who was believed to be able to change his physical form to that of other living creatures; Henri Christophe, a slave cook that became ruler of the nation; and Bouckman, a Jamaican slave who used his drum to incite slave revolts. Other significant characters include Pauline

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Bonaparte, the sister of Napoleon, and her husband General Leclerc, who were sent to establish order in the unstable French colony. The novel portrays Pauline as an enlightened member of the Age of Reason who turns out to be self-centered and insensitive to the political events surrounding her; Barbara Webb describes her as “the epitome of European decadence and immorality” (1992, 34). The fact that she was Napoleon’s sister also helps to demonstrate how even the French elite sent to oversee the Black colony could not resist the power of Vodun. This illustrates the strength that this spiritual path has to cause outsiders to become believers. González Echevarría’s research concludes that many of the characters in the novel are also based on true historical figures: the wealthy landowner M. Lenormand de Mezy, Corneille Breille (Cornejo Brelle in the novel), Esteban Salas, and even Ti Noel (1977, 131). The fact that these characters have been taken from the nation’s past demonstrates how the work serves as a quasi-historical novel that documents past events of the nation to educate readers about the burdens encountered by Haiti’s Black population. Carpentier uses the legendary-historic personages of Mackandal and Bouckman to illustrate unique realities that make up, in part, what he calls lo real maravilloso. As Matibag notes, “Mackandal is a houngan storyteller . . . and his voice is the very creative force of nommo so named by the Bakongo: he creates worlds in his words, evoking the figure of Kankán Muza, Muslim founder of the Mandinga empire (1297–1332), remembered for bringing writers to his court and for building mosques in his kingdom” (Matibag 1996, 210). By including these significant figures in the oral tales of Mackandal, the writer is able to highlight the feats of great Black leaders. The presentation of these individuals acknowledges the important role of Black-Caribbean leaders in unifying the oppressed. The representation of history in the novel includes not only personages but also events, such as sexual exploitation of the slaves by their overlords. The sexual abuses committed by de Mezy are evident in the second part of chapter two: Una erotomanía perpetua le tenía acechando, a todas horas, a las esclavas adolescentes cuyo pigmento lo excitaba por el olfato. Era cada vez más aficionado a imponer castigos corporales a los hombres, sobre todo cuando los sorprendía fornicando fuera de matrimonio. (Carpentier 1984, 45). He suffered from a perpetual erotomania that kept him panting after adolescent slave girls, the smell of whose skin drove him out of his mind. He multiplied the corporal punishments meted out to the men, especially those guilty of fornication outside the marriage bed. (Carpentier 1994, 60)14

While the master sought young Black females to satisfy his carnal desires, his strict punishments for adulterous slave relationships were fueled by his own

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frustration and jealousy more than by a sense of moral justice. The recollection of such abusive occurrences serves to document the countless horrors that took place under the institution of slavery, thus underscoring the importance of social and political resistance. Carpentier’s insistence on the importance of history is expressed at the end of the novel’s prologue when he asks a provocative question: “¿Pero qué es la historia de América toda sino una crónica de lo real maravilloso” (Carpentier 1984, 11)? “After all, what is the entire history of America if not a chronicle of the marvelous real” (1995, 88)? Many scholars have cited this passage because it clearly reflects the writer’s belief that the history of the Caribbean is rich enough to support lo real maravilloso; the historical past of the region is important enough to serve in itself as a powerful form of resistance. Haitian history is suffused with a strong sense of myth. One good example from the nation’s mytho-historical past includes Mackandal, the cimarrón believed to possess unusual abilities. His lycanthropic powers were believed to have enabled him to metamorphose from human form to that of other living beings. In the novel, Mackandal takes the form of a magical phosphorescent insect in order to wield his power. This recurring image is significant within the Afrocentric spiritual worldview: “Para los haitianos, los insectos fosforescentes son sobrenaturales y los malos espíritus se revisten de ellos cuando quieren satisfacer su sed de sangre” [For Haitians, the phosphoresent insects are supernatural and bad spirits take their form when they want to satisfy their thirst for blood] (Speratti-Piñero 1980, 575–576). References to this insect appear twice in the novel. The first reference appears as Mackandal is about to be executed and his lycanthropic talents are described: “Había sido mosca, ciempiés, falena, comején, tarántula, vaquita de San Antón y hasta cocuyo de grandes luces verdes” (Carpentier 1984, 40). “He had been fly, centipede, moth, ant, tarantula, ladybug, even a glow-worm with phosphorescent green lights” (Carpentier 1994, 50). Reference to the phosphorescent insect highlights his ability to take the form of this symbol of bloodshed. The image appears again as enslaved Blacks storm Henri Christophe’s palace of Sans-Souci: De pronto, muchas luces comenzaron a correr dentro del edificio. Era un baile de teas que iba de la cocina a los desvanes, colándose por las ventanas abiertas, escalando las balaustradas superiores, corriendo por las goteras, como si una increíble cocuyera se hubiera apoderado de los pisos altos. (Carpentier 1984, 102–103) Suddenly lights began to move in the Palace. It was a torch dance winding from kitchen to attics, entering by the open windows, ascending the stairways, running along the gutters, as through myriad glow-worms had taken possession of the upper floors. (Carpentier 1994, 152)

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This chaotic invasion is described as a mass of cocuyos. The critic versed in Afro-Caribbean superstition, customs, and myths of the Caribbean can appreciate the symbolism that such an image reflects. Its presence invites the reader to interpret its meaning from a non-Western perspective. Another example of myth is found in the image of the jimaguas15 or divine twins, who are considered to be the “darlings of santeros and are believed to be the children as well as the messengers of Changó” (González-Wippler 1994, 65).16 In the text, Ti Noel impregnates a servant with twins, an occurrence viewed as a positive event in spiritual terms: “Ti Noel embarazó de jimaguas a una de las fámulas de cocina, trabándola, por tres veces, dentro de uno de los pesebres de la caballería” (Carpentier 1984, 41). “Ti Noël got one of the kitchen wenches with twins, taking her three times in a manger of the stables” (Carpentier 1994, 53). It is important to note that Harriet de Onís’s 1957 English translation of the work overlooks the spiritual aspect of the word jimaguas by rendering it simply as twins (Onís 1994, 53). In Latin America, Jimaguas (also known as Ibeji, Ibejí, Ibeyí in Yoruba) is a pair of divine twins believed to be magical, and protected by Shango. Parents that have twins are considered blessed. This oversight demonstrates the problems that arise when individuals, unaware of the region’s ontology, attempt to accurately translate Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance. The snake is a mythological symbol that is very significant within Vodun.17 It plays an important role in dance movements and visual representations intended to symbolize the loa Damballah’s facial gestures and body movements. Hurston and Jahn both point out that the snake reflects the highest and most powerful of all the gods (Hurston 1990, 118; Jahn 1990, 33–34). In El reino de este mundo, the snake image is often used to reinforce the presence of the powerful loa. Barbara Webb notes the following: “The invocation of the African loas Ogun (god of war) and Damballah (serpent god of fertility, mediator between heaven and earth) proved powerful weapons against the ‘civilized’ decadence of the slaveholders and the European ‘Goddess of Reason’” (1992, 33).18 One of the references to this figure in the novel includes the French colonizers’ attempt to use imported venomous snakes to eradicate the escaped slaves or cimarrones in the Haitian countryside: El día que la nave vista por Ti Noel entró en la rada del Cabo, se emparejó con otro velero que venía de la Martinica, cargado de serpientes venenosas que el general quería soltar en la Llanura para que mordiesen a los campesinos que vivían en casas aisladas y daban ayuda a los cimarrones del monte. (Carpentier 1984, 71) The day the ship Ti Noël had seen rode into the Cap, it tied up alongside another schooner coming from Martinique with a cargo of poisonous snakes which the

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general planned to turn loose on the Plaine so they would bite the peasants who lived in outlying cabins and who gave aid to the runaway slaves in the hills. (Carpentier 1994, 103)

The French army’s plan to use serpents as weapons of genocide proves unsuccessful, since the snakes show their loyalty and obedience to Damballah by dying without propagating young: “Pero esas serpientes, criaturas de Damballah, habrían de morir sin haber puesto huevos, desapareciendo al mismo tiempo que los últimos colonos del antiguo régimen” (Carpentier 1984, 71). “But these snakes, creatures of Damballah, were to die without laying eggs, disappearing together with the last colonists of the ancien régime” (Carpentier 1994, 103). Because the novel’s Black population is favored by the loas, the snakes will not follow the wishes of the colonial French. The French colonizers attempt to destroy the escaped slaves is thwarted by their failure to recognize the influence of this community’s symbols. This serpent image within the novel could be the basis of a lengthy study on its own. In chapter five of this study, we will see that the serpent symbol will also play a major role in Zapata Olivella’s novel Changó, el gran putas. Vodun serves as a weapon for the Black community in El reino. When Mackandal takes Ti Noel to the house of the healer Mama Loi, the neophyte first becomes aware of the magical world of Vodun. He notices an unusual collection of items on the walls: Varios sables colgaban de las paredes, entre banderas encarnadas, de astas pesadas, herraduras, meteoritos y lazos de alambre que apresaban cucharas enmohecidas, puestas en cruz, para ahuyentar al barón Samedi, al barón Piquant, al barón La Croix y otros amos de cementerios. (Carpentier 1984, 24) Several swords hung on the walls among red flags with heavy shafts, horseshoes, meteorites, and wire hooks that held rusty spoons hung to form a cross to keep off Baron Samedi, Baron Piquant, Baron La Croix, and other Lords of the Graveyards. (Carpentier 1994, 25)

Each item corresponds symbolically to different objects that represent distinct loas in Mamá Loi’s faith tradition, and these items play important roles in highlighting different qualities associated with each loa. With the guidance of Mama Loi, Mackandal learns to create poison that will terrorize the plantocracy community. The use of Haitian spiritual expressions as tools of resistance makes the novel unique and powerful in focusing on Afro-Caribbean resistance. Sylvia Carullo notes the following:

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Carpentier demuestra que el vaudoux–y sus vectores, el rito del pacto de sangre, el ritmo en la danza y los tambores, la invocación de los dioses–preside la vida de este pueblo de América; que su gente, su rey, gobernantes y gobernados opresores y oprimidos, se hallan sometidos a sus leyes sobrenaturales y divinas, únicos medios de liberación [Carpentier illustrates that Vodoo—and its vectors, rituals of blood pacts, the dance rhythm and the drums, the invocation of the gods—directs the life of this sector of Americans; its people, king, governors and governed, oppressors and oppressed, all are subject to supernatural and divine laws, the only means of liberation.] (Carullo 1990, 9)

At all levels, the characters are affected by the loas, and they encounter the supernatural and the natural consequences of their actions. When the loas help, or withhold their help, it is in order to guide their followers. The interpretation of the symbols in the novel depends on the reader’s perspective and familiarity with Afro-Caribbean culture and spirituality. Eugenio Matibag notes that the novel’s structure clearly reflects a different mode of looking at reality: “Carpentier’s novella of the Haitian Revolution delivers the same verdict on the impotence of Vaudou to save the Revolution. At the same time . . . . Carpentier’s version of Vaudou in history reiterates at another textual level the mythopoetic power of Vaudou’s signs in order to shake apart the metaphysical scaffolding of the postcolonial world” (1996, 208). El reino de este mundo breaks apart the literary tradition of projecting Western-oriented concepts and practices by focusing on neo-African cultural expressions that are significant to Black communities in the African Diaspora. The divinities do not simply appear in the novel as local color, but rather serve to cut against the grain of the traditional literary canon. The presence of Afro-Haitian spiritual expression exposes the novice reader to a cultural reality that is distinct from traditional European literary interpretations. Syncretism The Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance exhibits syncretism because it was important that elements of European religious traditions integrated with African spiritual practices. The novel presents the two faith traditions side by side. The title of the novel expresses the Christian religious belief that enduring struggles on earth, earns the reward of Heaven, as expressed in the New Testament (Matt. 5:19). The Christian faith tradition is evident in the name Ti Noel. This character’s French name refers to Christmas. By giving the character a name symbolic of Christianity while at the same time presenting

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him as a practitioner of Afro-rooted religious traditions, Carpentier clearly marks him as a syncretic figure. At the end of the novel, Ti Noel discovers that the most important task for the individual of color is to work here on earth for future generations rather than to seek a reward in Heaven: En el Reino de los Cielos no hay grandeza que conquistar, puesto que allá todo es jerarquía establecida, incógnita despejada, existir sin término, imposibilidad de sacrificio, reposo y deleite. . . . El hombre sólo puede hallar su grandeza, su máxima medida, en el Reino de este mundo. (Carpentier 1984, 123–124) In the Kingdom of Heaven there is no grandeur to be won, inasmuch as there all is an established hierarchy, the unknown is revealed, existence is infinite, there is no possibility of sacrifice, all is rest and joy. . . . Man finds his greatness, his fullest measure, only in the Kingdof [sic] of This World. (Carpentier 1994, 185)

The character discovers that his mission is to do all that he can to make the most of his life and help future generations. By rejecting the Christian perspective, the individual assumes the responsibility of making personal sacrifices and fighting for change and justice here on earth. Even when forced to abolish their African traditions and use Christian symbols, devout followers were still able to see the African-inspired power within them. Zora Neale Hurston explains that “even the most illiterate peasant knows that the picture of the saint is only an approximation of the loa” (1990, 114). This concept thus serves as an alternative vision of the image presented in the Judeo-Christian faith tradition. A Biblical tone is reflected on another level, as Ti Noel asks for divine guidance for his life and future: “¡Oh, padre, mi padre, cuán largo es el camino! ¡Oh, padre, mi padre, cuán largo es el penar!” (Carpentier 1984, 38). “Oh, father, my father, how long is the road! Oh, father, my father, how long the suffering!” (Carpentier 1994, 48). Goldberg makes a connection between this reference and the episode from the Gospel’s Palm Sunday, as Ti Noel’s death becomes representative of a universal sacrifice (1991, 34). The novel’s last chapter bears the title Agnus Dei, “nombre con el que compara a Cristo, en forma semiprofanadora-semipiadosa, al propio Ti Noel” [“a name that can be compared with Christ, in a semiprofane semipious manner, directed to Ti Noel”] (Ospovat 1977, 223). Emil Volek interprets the title of the last chapter, which is filled with AfroCaribbean imagery, as a representation of the syncretic nature of the novel: Todo el final de la novela inclusive la metamorfosis en el buitre como una revelación premortal, cuando el héroe se incorpora a la eternidad de su raza y es tragado por la leyenda. Con eso podemos comprender mejor el título simbólico

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del último capítulo: Agnus Dei, que prepara la visión sincrética cristiano“vaudouista.” (Volek 1970, 167) [All the novel’s ending, including the metamorphosis of the vulture as a premortal revelation as the hero goes into eternity with his race and grew into a legend. This allows us to better understand symbolic title of the last chapter: Agnus Dei, that prepares the syncretic Christian ‘voodooist’ vision-.]

Other chapter titles reflect Catholic religious elements: De Profundis (I), Dogón dentro del Arca (II), and Última Ratio Regum (III). The inclusion of La del Justo Juez in the seventh chapter of part two is very symbolic according to Speratti-Piñero, who reveals that “Es muy conocida en Cuba y Puerto Rico. . . . Es antigua y de gran difusión en Europa—España, Italia, Portugal—e Iberoamérica; los brujos negros la adoptaron y todavía goza hoy de popularidad especialmente en el mundo hampa.” [It is well known in Cuba and Puerto Rico. . . . It is ancient and is used widely in Europe—Spain, Italy, and Portugal—and Iberoamerica: the Black witches adopted it and it continues to be popular, especially in the underworld] (Speratti-Piñero 1980, 586). Other Christian prayers that appear in this section include La oración de San Trastorno and San Jorge. While the cultural foundation of these prayers is Christian, they have merged with African spiritual practices. This allowed Blacks to resist the oppressive cultural domination of the West while appearing to follow the religious practices of their overseers. While in the Dominican Church, Ti Noel finds respite in the atmosphere and perceives the common elements shared by the two faiths: “El negro hallaba en las iglesias españolas un calor de vodú que nunca había hallado en los templos sansulpicianos del Cabo” (Carpentier 1984, 60). “The Negro found in the Spanish churches a Voodoo warmth he had never encountered in the Sulpician churches of the Cap” (Carpentier 1994, 86). Ti Noel finds comfort in the Dominican Church because resonates with his own spiritual sensibilities. He feels the presence of the comfort of the Vodun hounfort (temple) when he looks at all the fineries within the Christian Church. The more detailed description points out aspects shared by both traditions: Los oros del barroco, las cabelleras humanas de los Cristos, el misterio de los confesionarios recargados de molduras, el can de los dominicos, los dragones aplastados por santos pies, el cerdo de San Antón, el color quebrado de San Benito, las Vírgenes negras. (Carpentier 1984, 60) The baroque golds, the human hair of the Christs, the mystery of the richly carved confessionals, the guardian dog of the Dominicans, the dragons crushed under saintly feet, the pig of Saint Anthony, the dubious color of St. Benedict, the black Virgins. (Carpentier 1994, 86)

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Both religious traditions are contained in, and expressed through, his personal religious practices; they both share an appreciation for the value of beauty, the role of fetish worship, and respect for rituals and mythology. Because the Vodun believer can see aspects of his own spiritual practices in Christianity, Ti Noel thus becomes empowered on two spiritual levels, while the white characters are confined to only one. Esther P. Mocega-González notes that the text juxtaposes Afro-Cuban spiritual practices and Christianity by making significant events take place on Christian holidays. For example, during the Christmas celebration in chapter seven of part one, the birth of the first white male child of the Dufrené plantation is overshadowed by the initial arrival of Mackandal (1977, 227). The other significant events that occur on the Catholic holidays include Ti Noel’s birth, Mackandal’s appearance, the appearance of Corneille Breille, and the death of M. Lenormand de Mezy’s wife (González Echevarría 1977, 144). This focus on Western religious holidays within an Afro-Caribbean setting helps to underscore the syncretic connection between the two faith traditions. This consolidation of images also demonstrates how the Black population appears to respect the tenets of the Christian faith while secretly expressing its own rituals and ceremonies. In El reino de este mundo, Afro-Haitian religion plays a significant role in unifying the collective psychological spirit of Black resistance against colonial forces: “Los esclavos tenían, pues, una religión secreta que los alentaba y solidarizaba en sus rebeldías” (Carpentier 1984, 55). “The slaves evidently had a secret religion that upheld and united them in their revolts” (Carpentier 1994, 78–79). In secret, these groups shared their common struggles and intended goals. The belief in African-oriented saints granted the fighters the courage, toughness, and faith to fight against Napoleon’s forces, thus resulting in the French monarch’s first defeat after the twelve-year battle beginning in 1791 (Jahn 1990, 52). Spirituality and Resistance The belief that their battle was a holy war aided Haitian freedom fighters in successfully conquering more skilled military troops. Individuals that died in such battles were honored because of their anticipated spiritual reward upon death.19 Jahn notes that the lives of many Blacks were so difficult that the dream of death and a spiritual return to Africa became a more desirable option than accepting their oppressive existence: “Voodoo shares with other faiths, moreover, the custom of promising to fighters who die for their country privileges in the life to come. The bullets of the enemy were to fulfil[l] for them in their death their most longed-for wish: to let them return to their kinsfolk in their homeland, Guinea” (Jahn 1990, 52). Vodun thus plays one of

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the most important roles within the novel by instilling in the enslaved Blacks the impetus to fight for their freedom. The tensions between the Black and white communities explain why the Black community would prefer to minimize its contact with the white population. The novel consistently offers dramatic comparisons between the white characters and their Black counterparts. The latter group suffers under the abusive policies developed by the white plantocracy. This novel does not reflect Blacks as inferior, as seen in other novels produced at the beginning of the twentieth century such as Sab. Instead, it reflects the Black population as being more spiritually and emotionally centered than its white counterpart. Frank Janney notes that the whites that appear in this novel in general “are the dregs of humanity, chained to vices and deteriorating institutions in a kind of forlorn exile. Often only their images or effigies are present, always seen as incongruous and absurd, almost unwanted remainders of a lost civilization” (1981, 519). The Black characters, in contrast, appear more authentic by being presented on a deeper level. Jorge Oscar Pickenhayn notes that the differences between the two populations are symbolized by the characters of Ti Noel and his master Lenormand Mezy. He describes the latter in the following manner: “Hombre que piensa y siente como blanco” [A man that thinks and feels white] (Pickenhayn 1978, 80). Ti Noel and his master are opposites who illustrate the differences between the Afrocentric view and the Eurocentric perspective. As the novel begins in Cabo Francés, the horses that the master and his slave ride underscore the differences in each rider’s masculinity. Ti Noel is riding a fine stallion while his master rides a more delicate sorrel. Later, the work reveals that this slave owner has fathered no children, despite his three marriages, while Ti Noel fathers twelve children with a kitchen maid. Esther P. Mocega-González points out several other examples from the novel in which the white population is reflected as being inferior to the Black community: “En contraposición a esta fe del negro esclavo, el narrador insinúa la desmoralización del blanco, entregado a la bebida, al juego y otros placeres” [In contrast to this faith of the Black slave, the narrator insinuates demoralization of the white man, prone to drinking, gambling, and other vices] (1977, 227). The juxtaposition of Ti Noel and his master Lenormand de Mezy illustrates the Black population’s superiority despite their lowly status in the eyes of their overlords. The golden years of the lives of the two men dramatically differ; while Ti Noel has his progeny to surround him in his advanced years, his master is an aged, alcoholic man who appears to be psychologically displaced (Carpentier 1984, 45). As the white character declines, the Black character thrives, thus resisting the traditional literary presentation of Blacks as inferior beings.

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The major Black character that expresses a conflictive attitude toward fellow Blacks is King Henri Christophe. He initially is faithful to the loas and taps into their power, but when he reaches the height of power, he frowns on these practices and turns to orthodox Christianity. In chapter two of part three, the narrator informs the reader that the ruler includes a Christian theme on the money bearing his image: Ti Noel comprendía que se hallaba en Sans-Souci, la residencia predilecta del rey Henri Christophe, aquel que fuera antaño cocinero en la calle de los Españoles, dueño del albergue de la Corona, y que hoy fundía monedas con sus iniciales, sobre la orgullosa divisa de Dios, mi causa y mi espada. (Carpentier 1984, 79) Ti Noël realized that he was at Sans Souci, the favorite residence of King Henri Christophe, former cook of the rue des Espagnols, master of the Auberge de la Couronne, who now struck off money bearing his initials above the proud motto God, my cause and my sword. (Carpentier 1994, 115)

This message from the Old Testament informs the reader that the monarch has completely rejected Vodun in order to adopt the religion of his former oppressors. This echoes the sociocultural pull that makes some Blacks feel forced to sacrifice their individual cultural identity in order to advance socially. After abandoning his faith in the loas and following a European-centered religion, he begins inflicting the same injustices upon his cohorts as did the French. As his punishment for abandoning Vodun, his downfall will not come from the colonial whites, but rather from his Black peers. Monegal defines the monarch’s error as follows: “Al sustituir la magia negra del vaudou por la magia blanca del catolicismo, Christophe se enajenó los dioses de su pueblo, y fue destruido” [By substituting the black magic of Vodun for the White magic of Catholicism, Christophe distanced himself from the gods of his people, and was destroyed] (1971, 648).20 Christophe soon discovers his fate as he deciphers the messages transmitted through the sound of drums in the distance: Pero, en ese momento, la noche se llenó de tambores. Llamándose unos a otros, respondiéndose de montaña a montaña, subiendo de las playas, saliendo de las cavernas, corriendo debajo de los árboles, descendiendo por las quebradas y cauces, tronaban los tambores radás, los tambores congós, los tambores de Bouckman, los tambores de los Grandes Pactos, los tambores todos del Vodú. Era una vasta percusión en redondo, que avanzaba sobre Sans-Souci, apretando el cerco. Un horizonte de truenos que se estrechaba. (Carpentier 1984, 99) But at that moment the night grew dense with drums. Calling to one another, answering from mountain to mountain, rising from the beaches, issuing from

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the caves, running beneath the trees, descending ravines and riverbeds, the drums boomed, the radas, the congos, the drums of Bouckman, the drums of the Grand Alliances, all the drums of Voodoo. A vast encompassing percussion was advancing on Sans Souci, tightening the circle. A horizon of thunder [was] closing in. (Carpentier 1994, 147–148)

The sound of the drums grows in intensity and drowns out the Latin prayers, thus illustrating the power of Vodun over Christianity. The drums are accompanied by thunder from the heavens, symbolizing the supportive presence of the loas. Christophe decides to take his own life rather than facing the approaching group of Haitian ekobios.21 LO REAL MARAVILLOSO One of the most widely recognized literary qualities of the work is the presentation of the lo real maravilloso.22 Carpentier explains his literary portrayal of a living magical world in the novel’s prologue, as he reflects on his visit to Haiti.23 He notes that the nation of Haiti is filled with magic at all levels. Representations of lo real maravilloso are numerous and have been well documented by many critics. One of the most cited examples of the lo real maravillo is when the priestess, Mamán Loi accomplishes a miraculous feat: Cierta Vez, la Mamán Loi enmudeció de extraña manera cuando se iba llegando a lo mejor de un relato. Respondiendo a una orden misteriosa, corrió a la cocina, hundiendo los brazos en una olla llena de aceite hirviente. Ti Noel observó que su cara reflejaba una tersa indiferencia, y, lo que era más raro, que sus brazos, al ser sacados del aceite, no tenían ampollas ni huellas de quemaduras, a pesar del horroso sonido de fritura que se había escuchado un poco antes. Como Mackandal parecía aceptar el hecho con la más absoluta calma, Ti Noel hizo esfuerzos por ocultar su asombro. (Carpentier 1984, 24–25) Once Maman Loi fell strangely silent as she was reaching the climax of a tale. In response to some mysterious order she ran to the kitchen, sinking her arms in a pot full of boiling oil. Ti Noël observed that her face reflected an unruffled indifference, and—which was stranger—that when she took her arms from the oil they showed no sign of blister or burn, despite the horrible sputter of the frying he had heard a moment before. As Macandal seemed to accept this with complete calm, Ti Noël did his best to hide his amazement. (Carpentier 1994, 25–26)

It is important to note that many of the manifestations of the supernatural are intimately connected to belief systems and worldviews that originated in Africa such as animism, rituals, and the power of the nommo form the African

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foundation of Carpentier’s revolutionary contribution to Latin American narrative. Lo real maravillo is a controversial term that many pair with magical realism, but the popularity of this literary device came from Alejo Carpentier and is a rejection of surrealism, the foundation of magical realism. Oral Tradition Speratti-Piñero sees Ti Noel as a griot in the African tradition and describes him as being an analyst, poet, moralist, and educator of princes (1978, 205). Mackandal plays a similar role as a catalyst for Ti Noel. The vivid stories that he shares with Ti Noel allow the latter to learn of the cultural history of Africans and to appreciate the supernatural powers of the loas. The stories are more than nostalgic tales of days gone by because they allow Mackandal to live in the memory of the community and their thirst for freedom. These stories allow Ti Noel and the reader to escape negative images associated with Africans and recognize the powerful and rich history of African civilization. When Ti Noel first appears in the work, he recalls the stories that Mackandal has relayed to him as he deciphers the images on a copper etching: No hubiera sido necesaria la confirmación de lo que ya pensaba, porque el joven esclavo había recordado, de pronto, aquellos relatos que Mackandal salmodiaba en el molino de cañas, en horas en que el caballo más viejo de la hacienda de Lenormand de Mezy hacía girar los cilindros. Con voz fingidamente cansada para preparar mejor ciertos remates, el mandinga solía referir hechos que habían ocurrido en los grandes reinos de Popo, de Arada, de los Nagós, de los Fulas. Hablaba de vastas migraciones de pueblos, de guerras seculares, de prodigiosas batallas en que los animales habían ayudado a los hombres. (Carpentier 1984, 17–18) This confirmation of what he had supposed was hardly necessary, for the young slave recalled those tales Macandal sing-songed in the sugar mill while the oldest horse on the Lenormand de Mézy plantation turned the cylinders. With deliberately languid tone, the better to secure certain effects, the Mandingue Negro would tell of things that had happened in the great kingdoms of Popo, of Arada, of the Nagos, or the Fulah. He spoke of the great migrations of tribes, of age-long wars, the epic battles in which the animals had been allies of men. (Carpentier 1994, 12–13)

Ti Noel knows about African history from Mackandal’s countless stories: “Aunque sus luces fueran pocas, Ti Noel había sido instruido en esas verdades por el profundo saber de Mackandal” (Carpentier 1984,18). “Although Ti Noël had little learning, he had been instructed in these truths by the deep wisdom of Macandal” (Carpentier 1994, 14). Without such stories, the slave

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would be ignorant of the great kingdoms of Africa and would therefore lack the ancestral wisdom to demand his freedom. After Mackandal’s forced departure, one of the things that Ti Noel misses the most is his mentor’s tales, which had entertained and educated him about the history and culture of his ancestors: Con él se habían ido también Kankán Muza, Adonhueso, los reyes reales y el Arco Iris de Widah. Perdida la sal de la vida, Ti Noel se aburría en las calendas dominicales, viviendo con sus brutos, cuyas orejas y perinés tenía siempre bien limpios de garrapatas. Así transcurrió toda la estación de las lluvias. (Carpentier 1984, 27) With him had gone Kankan Muza, Adonhueso, the royal kings, and the Rainbow of Whidah. Life had lost its savor, and Ti Noël found himself bored by the Sunday dances and by always living with his animals, whose ears and perineums he kept scrupulously free of ticks. The entire rainy season was the same. (Carpentier 1994, 29–30)

While Mackandal is physically absent from this part of the narration, he is recalled in his friend’s thoughts and stories: “Ti Noel, a modo de oración, le recitaba a menudo un viejo canto oído a Mackandal” (Carpentier 1984, 61). “Ti Noël, by the way of prayer, often chanted to him an old song he had learned from Macandal” (Carpentier 1994, 87). In the second chapter of part two, Ti Noel’s progeny also become aware of the great houngan, as the father relates stories to the community’s next generation: Ti Noel transmitía los relatos del mandinga a sus hijos, enseñádoles canciones muy simples que había compuesto a su gloria, en horas de dar peine y almohaza a los caballos. Además, bueno era recordar a menudo al Manco, puesto que el Manco, alejado de estas tierras por tareas de importancia, regresaría a ellas el día menos pensado. (Carpentier 1984, 46) Ti Noël passed on tales of the Mandingue to his children, teaching them simple little songs he had made up in Macandal’s honor while currying and brushing the horses. Besides, it was a good thing to keep green the memory of the OneArmed, for though far away on important duties, he would return to his land when he was least expected. (Carpentier 1994, 62–63)

Within an oral mythical tradition, the enslaved and the reader are instructed about Mackandal’s great feats. The community is spiritually strengthened knowing about his deeds and unified by their belief that the great leader will return.

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Ti Noel understands his responsibility to his community at the end of the novel by recalling the houngan’s stories: A su mente volvían borrosas reminiscencias de cosas contadas por el manco Mackandal hacía tantos años que no acertaba a recordar cuándo había sido. En aquellos días comenzaba a cobrar la certeza de que tenía una misión que cumplir, aunque ninguna advertencia, ningún signo, le hubiera revelado la índole de esa misión. (Carpentier 1984, 115) To his mind came blurred recollections of things told by Macandal, the OneArmed, so many years back that he could not recall when. In those days he began to have the conviction that he had a mission to carry out, although no intimation, no sign, had revealed its nature to him. (Carpentier 1994, 171)

As he recalls his mission, he is able to summon divine forces, which will pave the way for a better future for those yet to be born. In the novel, Ti Noel, his children, and the reader form the collective audience of the griot’s message. As a result of the oral references in the novel, the reader can witness the important role that oral tradition plays in the Afro-Caribbean community and the function of the griot to educate, entertain, and remind the Black population of their unique historical and cultural legacy. Orality is very important in the novel. Through Mackandal’s stories, Ti Noel became aware of the historical differences between the European monarchs and their African counterparts: En el África, el rey era guerrero, cazador, juez y sacerdote; su simiente preciosa engrosaba, en centenares de vientres, una poderosa estirpe de héroes. En Francia, en España, en cambio, el rey enviaba sus generales a combatir; era incompetente para dirimir litigios, se hacía regañar por cualquier fraile confesor, y, en cuanto a riñones, no pasaba de engendrar un príncipe debilucho, incapaz de acabar con un venado sin ayuda de sus monteros, al que designaban, con inconsciente ironía, por el nombre de un pez tan inofensivo y frívolo como era el delfín. (Carpentier 1984, 18–19) In Africa the King was warrior, hunter, judge, and priest; his precious seed distended hundreds of bellies with a mighty strain of heroes. In France, in Spain, the king sent his generals to fight in his stead; he was incompetent to decide legal problems, he allowed himself to be scolded by any trumpery friar. And when it came to a question of virility, the best he could do was engender some puling prince who could not bring down a deer without the help of stalkers, and who, with unconscious irony, bore the name of as harmless and silly a fish as the dolphin. (Carpentier 1994, 14–15)

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Ti Noel sees the Kings of Europe as effeminate, using music and delicate forms of entertainment to fill their days while the Kings of Africa courageously lead their armies into battle: Allá, en cambio—en Gran Allá—, había príncipes duros como el yunque, y príncipes que eran el leopardo, y príncipes que conocían el lenguaje de los árboles, y príncipes que mandaban sobre los cuatro puntos cardinales, dueños de la nube, de la semilla, del bronce y del fuego. (Carpentier 1984, 19) Whereas Back There there were princes as hard as anvils, princes who were leopards, and princes who knew the language of the forest, and princes who ruled the four points of the compass, lords of the clouds, of the seed, of bronze, of fire. (Carpentier 1994, 15)

The narration uses strong images from the natural environment (jungle, leopard, bronze, and fire) to underscore the African rulers’ force and courage. Ti Noel concludes that the manner in which European monarchs spent their leisure time reflects their superficial existence: Más oían esos soberanos blancos las sinfonías de sus violines y las chifonías de los libelos, los chismes de sus queridas y los cantos de sus pájaros de cuerda, que el estampido de cañones disparando sobre el espolón de una media luna. (Carpentier 1984, 18) These white monarchs lent more ear to the symphonies of violins and the whispers of gossip, the tittle-tattle of their mistresses and the warble of their stringed birds, than to the roar of cannon against the spur of the crescent moon. (Carpentier 1994, 14)

His conclusion is projected upon the colonial forces as he thinks of their frivolous preoccupation with powdered wigs and makeup; actions that in his mind call into question their masculinity (Carpentier 1984, 19). The white community suffers its downfall because of its own arrogance and ignorance, which causes the landowners to underestimate the power of Blacks and their spiritual practices. PRACTICES OF RESISTANCE In El reino de este mundo, various practices allow the Black community to communicate with the loas to produce medical cures by the use of folk medicine and rituals. Rituals play an important role in communication between

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the two realms and as a means of transferring energy from the divine universe to this physical world. Because they play such an important role in the Afro-Caribbean, rituals appear frequently throughout the novel. Critic Sylvia Carullo highlights the important role of ritual in the novel when she writes: Los ritos y las ceremonias del vaudoux, magia y creencias litúrgicas aparecen en El reino de este mundo como rasgos africanos tradicionales que iluminan el camino hacia un conocimiento más claro y más preciso del hombre de color y su riqueza cultural. [Vodun rituals and ceremonies, magic, and liturgical beliefs appear in El reino de este mundo as traditional African traits that illuminate the path toward a more precise and clearer understanding of the knowledge of the man of color and his cultural wealth.] (1990, 4)

Through the inclusion of authentic rituals in the novel, the author legitimizes a part of Haitian culture that has been seen historically as dark and negative and previously had been used in literature to project local color. Heteroglossia El reino de este mundo integrates various communicative modes to facilitate the novel’s expression of ideas and themes. The work includes distinct languages and dialects to express the region’s multifaceted cultural and structural content. Such distinct forms of expression illustrate the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance’s inclusion of diverse languages and literary texts to reflect the community’s heterogeneity. The novel includes details taken from Carpentier’s own investigative text La música en Cuba (1946). It also includes references to Joseph Lavallée’s novel Une Nègre comme il y a peu de blancs (1789), Saint-Pierre’s novel Paul et Virginie (1788), Racine’s Phédre (1677), as well as Chateaubriand’s novel Atala (1801). Goldberg notes that the novel includes inter- and intratextual repetitions such as fragments from Chateaubriand’s novel when the slaves are forced to listen to their mistress’s recitations: This “blind” quotation of Atalie exemplifies the technique by which the novel shapes its narrate [sic] as one capable of a very complex reading in which every interrelated detail and its sometimes hidden clues have to be decoded in all their richness. To put it bluntly, in order to enjoy all the beauty of KTW, the reader has to know as much of history, religion, ethnology, music, art, and literature, as the author does. In this sense, undoubtedly, Carpentier is a writer for elites. (Goldberg 1991, 24)

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The reader of El reino de este mundo needs to be aware of the Western literary and cultural traditions, but the novel cannot be fully appreciated by the Western reader without a basic working knowledge of Afro-Caribbean aesthetics. The use of numerous forms of artistic expression reveals the influence of heteroglossia. At the end of part one, fervent disciples of Mackandal sing a Creole folk song to acknowledge his power and remember the leader’s expected return to the community: Yenvaio moin Papa! Moin pas mangé q’m bambó Yanvalou, Papá, yanvalou moin! Ou vlai moin lavé chaudier, Yenvalo moin? (Carpentier 1984, 38) Yenvaló moin Papa! Moin pas mangé q’m bambo Yanvaló, Papa, yanvaló moin! Ou vlai moin lavé chaudier, Yenvaló moin? (Carpentier 1994, 48)

By including Creole in the text, the writer is acknowledging this language’s existence and its role in Haitian society. Songs and incantations in Creole serve to free the reader from the illusion that European languages such as Spanish and French are the only legitimate forms of communication. Because of the rich cultural foundation of Haiti, it is logical that the work would include linguistic forms and dialects to reflect the diverse cultural milieu. There are numerous examples of other languages in the novel. Latin is used to highlight King Henri Christophe’s attraction to Catholicism in sections two and three. The work is very eclectic, with intertextual insertions that recognize the wide range of literary and linguistic trends that influence the global and Haitian community. The inclusion of poems, songs, and intertextual references reflects the heterogeneous nature of the Afro-Caribbean culture. This linguistic diversity is one of the distinguishing aspects of African-inspired culture. Music and Dance Dance and music also appear as powerful tools to gain spiritual direction. Spiritual ceremonies and activities such as music and dance connect followers with higher spiritual forces. Combinations of ritual, music, and dance are

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as important in this novel’s Afro-Caribbean community as they are in the other novels in this study. Music and dance play an important role in transmitting spiritual energy. Ritualistic gatherings traditionally have been important because, in addition to worshipping the loas, they served as a form of cultural resistance for enslaved Blacks. Historically, Saturday evening gatherings filled with dance and worship were occasions for organizing slave revolts (Matibag 1996, 188). The presence of these meetings in the novel serves as a rich reflection of the simultaneous spiritual and political role of Afro-Haitian religious ceremonies. In addition to aguardiente (alcohol) and music, dance is an approved activity for the enslaved to celebrate the birth of the Dufrené child on Christmas Day. The enslaved conduct their own traditional rituals with dancing, gesticulation, and the corporal movements of specific deities, inviting them to possess the bodies of believers: Hacía más de dos horas que los parches tronaban a la luz de las antorchas y que las mujeres repetían en compás de hombros su continuo gesto de lava-lava, cuando un estremecimiento hizo temblar por un instante la voz de los cantadores. (Carpentier 1984, 37) For more than two hours the drums had been booming under the light of the torches, the women’s shoulders kept moving rhythmically in a gesture as though washing clothes, when a momentary tremor shook the voices of the singers. (Carpentier 1994, 46–47)

The resistance element of this celebration becomes more evident after two hours elapse, and Mackandal, after becoming a supernatural being, dramatically appears in human form. Within this polyrhythmic atmosphere, dance serves to unify those present. The rich celebration, intended to celebrate the birth of the master’s first male child, is actually an opportunity for the enslaved to increase the level of spiritual energy and receive spiritual direction by way of music and dance to summon their leader Mackandal. Music is interspersed throughout the work and serves to remind members of the community of Mackandal and his important role as a resistance leader. Ti Noel recalls a song that he learned from Mackandal and sings it to himself while he is in the Dominican Church: Por ello, Ti Noel, a modo de oración, le recitaba a menudo un viejo canto oído a Mackandal: Santiago, soy hijo de la guerra: Santiago, ¿no ves que soy hijo de la guerra? (Carpentier 1984, 61)

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Ti Noël, by the way of prayer, often chanted to him an old song he had learned from Macandal: Santiago, I am the son of war: Santiago, Can’t you see I am the son of war? (Carpentier 1994, 87)

This song honors the loas and their ability to transform spiritual energy into physical strength, to motivate followers to go courageously into battle. While the song carries the name of the Catholic Santiago (Saint James), the reader must also remember that his Vodun counterpart is Ogún, the loa of war. The song speaks at two levels, one completely Christian and one Haitian. Magic and the Nommo The ritual that invokes Bouckman, in the second chapter of part two, demonstrates the role that the nommo plays in summoning the loas. Just before the houci plunges the knife into the belly of the black pig, all gather, to chant the following: Ogún de los hierros, Ogún el guerrero, Ogún de las fraguas, Ogún mariscal, Ogún de las lanzas, Ogún Changó, Ogún-Kankanikán, Ogún-Batalá, OgúnPanamá, Ogún-Bakulé, eran invocados ahora por la sacerdotisa del Radá, en medio de la grita de sombras: Ogún Badagri, Général sanglant, Saizi z’orage Ou scell’orage Ou fait Kataoun z’eclai! (Carpentier 1984, 48–49) Ogoun of the Irons, Ogoun the Warrior, Ogoun of the Forges, Ogoun Marshal, Ogoun of the Lances, Ogoun-Chango, Ogoun-Kankanikan, Ogoun-Batala, Ogoun-Panama, Ogoun-Bakoulé were now invoked by the priestess of the Rada amid the shouting of the shadows: Ogoun Badagri Général Sanglant, Saizi z’orage Ou scell’orage Ou fait Kataoun z’éclai! (Carpentier 1994, 67–68)

This chant invokes the different paths or powers of the loa Ogún. By naming and praising the powerful loas, the participants summon their force and favor and swear to follow and obey the spiritual leader whom the loas have sent to them to resist the colonial French oppressors.

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The important role of nommo is evident during Solimán’s ritual to heal Pauline Bonaparte. The servant seals each of his petitions with spiritual words to express his reverence: “Al final de cada rezo: Malo, Presto, Pasto, Effacio, Amén” (Carpentier 1984, 68). “At the end of each prayer: Malo, Presto, Pasto, Effacio, AMEN” (Carpentier 1994, 98–99). According to Speratti-Piñero, Carpentier borrows these words from William Seabrook’s The Magic Island (1929), another work that reflects Haiti and its magical essence. She posits that the original source of the recitation is a chant that was believed to provide protection against yellow fever (1980, 584–584). The use of the nommo to shift energy is just one of many examples that illustrate Carpentier’s commitment to authentically representing Afro-Caribbean aesthetics. When spiritual leaders within the community use the nommo, it is usually in the context of shifting energy to help them resist their oppressors. Sylvia Carullo’s research notes that the use of the nommo is vital in the metamorphoses of Mackandal: “Las metamorfosis del brujo revelan las fuerzas que fluyen, la palabra en sí es ‘mariposa nocturna,’ ‘alcatraz,’ ‘iguana verde,’ ‘perro desconocido’” [The metamorphosis of the witch reveals the forces that flow, the word in itself is “nocturnal butterfly,” “gannet,” “green iguana,” “stray dog”] (Carullo 1990, 5). Magic occurs in the very act of naming; the power of the word helps Mackandal to escape his execution and show his resistance to colonial authority: “Sin embargo, el mandinga se salva por la fuerza de la palabra. Su salvación se concreta por el grito que la anuncia” [However, the Mandingo saves himself by the power of the word. His salvation is solidified by the scream that announces it] (Carullo 1990, 5–6). Lo real maravilloso appears when Mackandal utters sacred and indecipherable words and gains superhuman strength, which allows him to fly free from the ropes that confine him to the post (40). Because of the Black community’s belief in the power of the loas and the magic of Mackandal and the nommo, he never truly dies. The Drum The drum is a symbol of resistance and revolt, and it appears throughout the text to reflect the importance of this musical instrument within Haitian culture. The most powerful forces of the drum are evident in ceremonies that incorporate syncopated beats. By combining numerous beats at one time, several loas can be summoned simultaneously. This complex drumbeat pattern is played during particularly solemn ceremonies, such as the initiation of the hunsis, those who work with the loas and care for the hounforts or temples (Barrera 1977, 150). In discussing El reino de este mundo, Florinda Goldberg notes, “The drum is the central material component of the African Voodoo culture in the novel. . . . Drums are the emblems of the gods and heroes on

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whom the slaves rely for delivery and victory” (1991, 28). The drum consistently accompanies the slaves’ work in the novel, as well as their feasts and dances, and always reflects a spiritual connotation (e.g., see Carpentier 1984, 41, 46, 171, 172). After the Blacks successfully overthrow the plantocracy, the former plantation owner, Lenormand de Mezy, learns of the spiritual and military power of the drum: “lo llenó de zozobra, haciéndole comprender que un tambor podía significar, en ciertos casos, algo más que una piel de chivo tensa sobre un tronco ahuecado” (Carpentier 1984, 55). “Now that he remembered this, it filled him with uneasiness, making him realize that, in certain cases, a drum might be more than just a goatskin stretched across a hollow log” (Carpentier 1994, 78). Like his counterparts, he had been oblivious to the important role of the drum communicating through vast distances details of upcoming rebellions from the enslaved community. The Natural Environment In El reino, nature plays a significant role within the Black community. Florinda Goldberg postulates that this connection may have developed because of the climatic parallels between Africa and the Caribbean: “The untamed power of the Caribbean climate and organic world turns out to be much more akin to Africa than Europe, and therefore the slaves’ adaptation to life in the islands is easier and more complete” (Goldberg 1991, 26). The sun and the moon play a paramount role in relating events and establishing the correct spiritual environment, and highlighting the loas’ involvement in, or support of, acts of resistance. In the first chapter of part two, the text informs the reader of Lenormand de Mezy’s physical and psychological decline and how his wife deals with the situation, which is overseen by the moon: Ciertas noches se daba a beber. No era raro entonces que hiciera levantar la dotación entera, alta ya la luna, para declamar ante los esclavos, entre eructos de malvasía, los grandes papeles que nunca había alcanzado a interpretar. (Carpentier 1984, 45) There were nights when she took to the bottle. It was not unusual on such occasions for her to order all the slaves to turn out, and under the full moon, between belches of malmsey, to declaim before her captive audience the great roles she had never been allowed to interpret. (Carpentier 1994, 60)

Beyond the Western theory of connecting the moon with psychological imbalance, the full moon symbolizes the loas’ vigilance, offering spiritual approval or assistance in the man’s physical decline.

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Within the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance, the sun, like the moon, represents the spiritual presence of the loas. The setting sun plays an important role in underscoring the monarch’s decline and the eventual loss of his throne: “El domingo siguiente, a la puesta del sol, Henri Christophe tuvo la impresión de que sus rodillas, sus brazos, aún entumecidos, responderían a un gran esfuerzo de voluntad” (Carpentier 1984, 95). “At sunset the following Sunday, Henri Christophe had the feeling that his knees and his arms, though still numb, might respond to a great enough effort of the will” (Carpentier 1994, 141). Other examples of references to the sun appear at other points in the text (e.g., Carpentier 1984, 49, 76, 89). Reference to the sun and moon as indicators of significant events acknowledges the spiritual importance of these celestial bodies for the Black community. Thunder and lightning also appear frequently in the novel. When Bouckman is chosen by the loas to lead the slaves against the plantocracy, it is punctuated with thunder and lightning. The presence of thunder, lightning, rain, and strong winds marks his inherited supernatural power (Carpentier 1984, 47). The echoing of thunder and lightning throughout the region signal to Ti Noel the beginning of the revolt against French forces. He becomes aware of the meaning of the drums only after recalling folktales told to him by Mackandal: Un día daría la señal del gran levantamiento, y los Señores de Allá, encabezados por Damballah, por el Amo de los Caminos y por Ogún de los Hierros, traerían el rayo y el trueno, para desencadenar el ciclón que completaría la obra de los hombres. En esa gran hora -decía Ti Noel- la sangre de los blancos correría hasta los arroyos, donde los Loas, ebrios de júbilo, la beberían de bruces, hasta llenarse los pulmones. (Carpentier 1984, 35) One day he would give the sign for the great uprising, and the Lords of Back There, headed by Damballah, the Master of the Roads, and Ogoun, Master of the Swords, would bring the thunder and lightning and unleash the cyclone that would round out the work of men’s hands. In the great hour—said Ti Noël—the blood of the whites would run into the brooks, and the Loas, drunk with joy, would bury their faces in it and drink until their lungs were full. (Carpentier 1994, 42)

The sound of thunder marks the great spiritual uprising that will lead the enslaved to their freedom. His prophecy is later revealed as reality in the section entitled “El pacto mayor,” as Mackandal guides the enslaved toward liberation. The role of nature can also be seen through the magical properties of plants and herbs. The poisonous plague that is waged by Mackandal begins after he learns the secrets of wild plants: “Descubría, con sorpresa, la vida secreta de

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especies singulares, afectas al disfraz, la confusión, el verde verde, y amigas de la pequeña gente acorazado que esquivaba los caminos de hormigas” (Carpentier 1984, 23). “To his surprise he discovered the secret life of strange species given to disguise, confusion, and camouflage, protectors of the little armored beings that avoid the pathways of the ants” (Carpentier 1994, 23). By selecting the most venomous plants, the houngan is able to wage war against the plantocracy, thus demonstrating how nature serves as a powerful ally for the Black community in its struggle to resist oppression. The ceiba tree is frequently highlighted to demonstrate the author’s deliberate intent to reflect the spiritual force of the Black community. After Ti Noel gains his freedom and returns, he immediately recognizes his native region upon seeing three ceiba trees: “Por las tres ceibas situadas en vértices de triángulo comprendió que había llegado” (Carpentier 1984, 76). “By the three ceibas that formed a triangle he knew that he had arrived” (Carpentier 1994, 111). The free man is able to find a familiar spiritual space in the presence of the ceiba trees. The ceiba is again referenced as the failing King Christophe thinks about his musicians: El rey iba a extrañarse de que, a semejante hora, sus músicos salieron así, hacia el monte, como para dar un concierto al pie de alguna ceiba solitaria, cuando redoblaron a un tiempo ocho cajas militares. (Carpentier 1984, 96) The King’s amazement that his musicians should be going off at such a time as though to give a concert at the foot of some solitary ceiba was interrupted by the ruffle of eight military drums. (Carpentier 1994, 142)

Knowing that they are abandoning him, the king envisions their presence under the ceiba tree, thus symbolizing their return to the Vodun tradition. Connection between the Spiritual and Political African-influenced activities instill in the leaders the spiritual and political force to lead the oppressed to freedom. Bouckman, Mackandal, and Ti Noel all become empowered with spiritual forces that they use to help them gain freedom for members of their community. The plantocracy’s lack of knowledge of spiritual expressions beyond their own is advantageous to the Black community. The narrator informs the reader that the loas are on the side of the Blacks: “Ahora, los Grandes Loas favorecían las armas negras. Ganaban batallas quienes tuvieran dioses guerreros que invocar. Ogún Badagrí guiaba las cargas al alma blanca contra las últimas trincheras de la Diosa Razón” (Carpentier 1984, 71). “Now the Great Loas smiled upon the Negroes’ arms. Victory went to those who had warrior gods to invoke. Ogoun Badagri guided

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the cold steel charges against the last redoubts of the Goddess Reason” (Carpentier 1994, 103). With the spiritual support of the loas and the leadership of Mackandal and Bouckman, the oppressed will live better. Bouckman will lead Blacks in revolt and reveals to his followers that their battle is being overseen by the loas: “-El Dios de los blancos ordena el crimen. Nuestros dioses nos piden venganza. Ellos conducirán nuestros brazos y nos darán la asistencia” (Carpentier 1984, 48). “The white men’s God orders the crime. Our gods demand vengeance from us. They will guide our arms and give us help” (Carpentier 1994, 67). After his dramatic arrival, the slaves swear their allegiance to follow him: “Ti Noel, como los demás, juró que obedecería siempre a Bouckman” (Carpentier 1984, 49). “Ti Noël, like the others, swore always to obey Bouckman” (Carpentier 1994, 68). Their faithful obedience comes from their faith in Bouckman’s spiritual force and their belief that he has been sent to carry out the divine mission of liberating them. The same powers possessed by Bouckman are given by the loas to Mackandal to use against colonial forces. In the same manner as Bouckman’s appearance, Mackandal’s arrival is important because he too has been chosen by the loas and has been given talents to enable him to complete his revolutionary mission: El manco Mackandal, hecho un houngán del rito Radá, investido de poderes extraordinarios por varias caídas en posesión de dioses mayores, era el Señor del Veneno. Dotado de suprema autoridad por los Mandatarios de la otra orilla, había proclamado la cruzada del exterminio, elegido, como lo estaba, para acabar con los blancos y crear un gran imperio de negros libres en Santa Domingo. Millares de esclavos le eran adictos. Ya nadie detendría la marcha del veneno. (Carpentier 1984, 32) Macandal, the one-armed, now a houngan of the Rada rite, invested with superhuman powers as the result of his possession by the major gods on several occasions, was the Lord of Poison. Endowed with supreme authority by the Rulers of the Other Shore, he had proclaimed the crusade of extermination, chosen as he was to wipe out the whites and create a great empire of free Negroes in Santo Domingo. Thousands of slaves obeyed him blindly. Nobody could halt the march of the poison. (Carpentier 1994, 36)

The slaves acknowledge Mackandal’s great power, and they commit themselves to follow him into battle for their freedom. By looking at the values of the two populations, the reader can see the pervasive role of spirituality for the Black community, while Western religion plays a comparatively minor role in the political and economic lives of the enslaved Blacks.

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Repetition and Circularity As in the other Ashé-Caribbean novels in this study, El reino de este mundo reflects a cyclical motif. González Echevarría highlights the circular and repetitious structure within the novel: “The stories written during the forties and The Kingdom of This World are fragmentary accounts of lives caught up in the swirl of history represented as a series of repetitions and circularities” (1977, 157). Because the ontological structure of the Afro-Caribbean community is holistic, it is difficult to compartmentalize aspects of existence. While death is viewed as the end of human existence, it is also the beginning of the life process in other ways. One example of such repetition appears in the placement of paternal spiritual leaders in the novel. After each leader disappears, he is replaced by another with equal powers who continues to fight for the freedom of the enslaved. As Ti Noel, the third in the cycle, returns to his native land, he is invested with the same spiritual force as his predecessors, Mackandal and Bouckman. The location where Mackandal is supposedly executed in the fire is also the same location where Bouckman dies. The repetition of the biblical phrase, “Dios, mi causa y mi espada” [God, my cause and my sword] (Carpentier 1984; 79, 84, 98) appears three times in three different chapters. Not only does this phrase demonstrate King Christophe’s fervent connection with Catholicism, but its repetition also serves as a bridge to connect the three chapters. Latin American literary critic Luis Harss notes that the repeated image of the serpent encapsulates the pattern of repetition and circularity of Haitian history: “La serpiente que se enrolla para trabarse la cola, la historia circula sin desembocar nunca” [The snake forms a circle to connect with his tail, history makes a circle without end] (Bueno 1977, 209). This circular image of the serpent will appear again in Zapata Olivella’s novel Changó, el Gran Putas. The Trickster Figure The most powerful and positive Black characters in the novel participate in the act of signifying. The trickster figures, such as Papa Legba in Haitian Vodun and Echu-Elegua in Cuba, are “primarily mediators: as tricksters they are mediators and their mediations are tricks” (Gates 1983, 687). Roger D. Adams surveys the many examples of signifying: It certainly refers to the trickster’s ability to talk with great innuendo, to carp, cajole, needle, and lie. It can mean in other instances the propensity to talk around a subject, never quite coming to the point. It can mean making fun of a person or situation. Also it can denote speaking with the hands and eyes, and in

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this respect encompasses a whole complex of expressions and gestures. Thus it is signifying to stir up a fight between neighbors by telling stories; it is signifying to make fun of a policeman by parodying his motions behind his back; it is signifying to ask for a piece of cake by saying, “my brother needs a piece a cake.” (cited in Gates 1989, 54)

The definition of the art of signification is perhaps broad, but it has traditionally allowed the oppressed an avenue to respond proactively to authority. Afro-Hispanist Ian Smart argues that all aspects of signifying are found in Afro-Hispanic cultures and concludes that this “literary act in particular whether oral or scribal has traditionally been one of the major ways this ‘signifying’ is effected; and every act of cimarronaje is an act of a ‘signifyer’ or Trickster” (Smart 1988, 49).24 In El reino de este mundo, Mackandal and Ti Noel both serve as trickster figures guided by Papa Legba to inspire them to carry out his divine plan. Mackandal plays a major role in engaging in acts of cimarronaje and resisting the authority of the colonial French forces. In the fourth chapter of part one, after escaping from the de Mezy plantation, Mackandal uses his wits to plan an attack against the plantocracy. His plan of distributing poison baffles the community; this magical reign of poison is the character’s proactive move to undermine the white population’s position of power through the dissemination of chaos and confusion. The dramatic acts of the cimarrón leaders throughout the novel demonstrate how these trickster figures enable the oppressed to move toward liberation. After he discovers his mission, Ti Noel uses his magical abilities to cause an apocalyptic storm to destroy the community, in hopes of beginning a new and better one: El anciano lanzó su declaración de guerra a los nuevos amos, dando orden a sus súbditos de partir al asalto de las obras insolentes de los mulatos investidos. En aquel momento, un gran viento verde, surgido del Océano, cayó sobre la Llanura del Norte. (Carpentier 1984, 124) The old man hurled his declaration of war against the new masters, ordering his subjects to march in battle array against the insolent works of the mulattoes in power. At that moment a great green wind, blowing from the ocean, swept the Plaine du Nord. (Carpentier 1994, 185–186)

This dramatic ending of the novel, that involves a vulture, plays an important role in allowing the reader to interpret the novel’s final message on two levels, thus perpetrating the subversive game of the trickster figure.

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CONCLUSION In concluding this study of El reino de este mundo, it is important to look at one image that appears in the novel on numerous occasions. The vulture appears early in the seventh part of chapter two, patiently waiting as Leclerc nears death from yellow fever: La muerte de Leclerc, agarrado por el vómito negro, llevó a Paulina a los umbrales de la demencia. Ahora el trópico se le hacía abominable, con sus buitres pacientes que se instalaban en los techos de las casas donde alguien sudaba la agonía. (Carpentier 1984, 69) The death of Leclerc, cut down by yellow fever, brought Pauline to the verge of madness. Now the tropics seemed abominable, with the relentless buzzard waiting on the roof of the house in which someone was sweating out his agony. (Carpentier 1994, 101)

It is very easy to look only at the meaning of the bird from a Western perspective, but by doing so, the reader would be tempted to overlook the important role of the bird as the divine messenger to Olodumare in African mythology. Knowledge of the role of the vulture in Afro-Caribbean culture is vital in interpreting the novel’s ending in a positive manner. Matibag best defines the role of this bird: “The buzzard or vulture known as aura tiñosa, or, in Lucumí, Kanákaná, [is] a sacred scavenger who, like the Lamb of God, mediates between heaven and earth in bringing the message of humans to the Almighty” (1996, 220). His analysis is based on the role of the vulture from the sacred oral parables of the Cuban Congo tradition.25 Lydia Cabrera’s research on Afro-Cuban mythology defines role of the bird, known as Caná Caná among Afro-Cubans: En cierta ocasión “en que el cielo y la tierra se emperraron, y el cielo para castigar a la tierra no llovía,” el aura llevó la rogativa que hombres y animales, víctimas de aquella rencilla, le enviaron con ella a Olóddumare, pidiendo y obteniendo al fin su perdón. Desde entonces este pájaro nauseabundo, pero que todos los negros tienen, con razón, por sagrado y semidivino, mereció que Olofi lo bendijese ~por eso no tiene plumas en la cabeza~ y le asegurara el sustento por la eternidad. Lo nombró además, ‘mensajero de los hombres y de Dios. [Once upon a time when the relationship between the sky and earth became muddy, to punish the earth, the sky refused to rain. This resulted in a sad setting in which man and beast pleaded, victims of their grudge. They sent him with her to visit Olodumare, asking and finally receiving his forgiveness. Since then, the nauseating bird, but the one that all blacks view as sacred and semidivine, earned the blessing of Olofi—for this reason it no longer has feathers on its

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head—and he insures its livelihood for eternity. He also named him messenger of mankind and God.] (Cabrera 1954, 153)

In the Yoruba cultural tradition, this bird is a messenger of the divine creator Olodumare, and therefore it clearly stands as a positive spiritual symbol within the Afro-Cuban community. Earlier in the novel, the bird is presented as a scavenger that benefits from the deaths of others to nourish itself. An earlier reference to the bird presents it as an active ally of the rebels, helping to spread the plague of poison waged by the enslaved Black community: “Los techos estaban cubiertos de grandes aves negras, de cabeza pelada, que esperaban su hora para dejarse caer y romper los cueros, demasiado tensos, de un picotazo que liberaba nuevas podredumbres” (Carpentier 1984, 30). “The rooftrees were alive with great black bald birds awaiting the moment to drop and rip the hides, tense to bursting, with their beaks, releasing new putrefaction” (Carpentier 1994, 33–34). In this sense, the bird is seen as a supportive element in the enslaved community’s struggle for freedom. After Ti Noel summons an apocalyptic storm to destroy human civilization on the island, the remaining life form that appears is a vulture: Y desde aquella hora nadie supo más de Ti Noel ni de su casaca verde con puños de encajes salmón, salvo, tal vez, aquel buitre mojado, aprovechador de toda muerte, que esperó el sol con las alas abiertas: cruz de plumas que acabó por plegarse y hundir el vuelo en las espesuras de Bois Caimán. (Carpentier 1984, 124) From that moment Ti Noël was never seen again, nor his green coat with the salmon lace cuffs, except perhaps by that wet vulture who turns every death to his own benefit and who sat with outspread wings, drying himself in the sun, a cross of feathers which finally folded itself up and flew off into the thick shade of Bois Caïman. (Carpentier 1984, 186)

This last paragraph offers the reader the option of believing that Ti Noel has died as victim of the storm or changed into the form of a vulture, never to be heard from again. In the logocentric tradition, this bird is a symbol of death and could be interpreted as read by Captain-Hidalgo: “The reader is informed of his death by the narrator when a buzzard is depicted performing his natural duties on the old man’s corpse” (1984, 85). However, the text does not state that the bird is eating the man’s flesh, but simply that he is flying in the forest. Thus, in contrast with Captain-Hidalgo, Barbara J. Webb interprets the image of the vulture flying toward the thickets of the Bois Caiman as a reflection of the possibility of rebirth, a renewal of the quest for freedom (Webb 1992, 40).

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The conclusion of the novel has been analyzed by numerous scholars. I posit that the ending is pivotal in demonstrating an interpretation based on Ashé-Caribbean aesthetics. The reader familiar with Africa-inspired symbolism may find a positive ending, while the untutored reader may see it as negative because of the way the vulture is viewed in Western thinking. Critics have interpreted this ending in different ways. Speratti-Piñero believes that the symbolic shape of the vulture’s wings offers a Christian image: “El explicativo ‘cruz de plumas’ aplicado al buitre, más alguna alusión evangélica anterior” [The expression “cross of feathers” applied to the vulture is some previous evangelical allusion] (1978, 225). Emil Volek makes a similar analysis that sees the symbolism as spiritually significant: Como un buitre que “esperó el Sol” se eleva sobre la región y su apariencia de “cruz de plumas” (que es una potente visión sincrética) podrá simbolizar que asume el sufrimiento y la lucha de su raza y se vuelve redentor y libertador de ella, o, eventualmente, del hombre como tal. [Like a vulture that “waited in the sun,” he is elevated above the region and his ‘cross of feathers’ (a very powerful syncretic vision) may symbolize that he endures the suffering and the struggles of his race and turns into its redeemer and liberator, or, eventually, of the redeemer of humankind in general.] (1970, 167)

By looking at the novel from an Afro-Caribbean perspective, one can conclude that the symbol is optimistic for the Black community. Alejo Carpentier, aware of the plurivalent roles of this bird, places this episode in the work to demonstrate how such a symbol, considered negative in the logocentric worldview, is valued and revered in Afro-Caribbean culture. El reino de este mundo is distinct from Ecué-yamba-O in the positive message that the former novel offers regarding the future of humankind. The structure of the novel resembles a mosaic, in that the author uses components of the Afro-Caribbean worldview to build a novel that is revolutionary by challenging the reader to enter this literary world influenced by lo real maravilloso. If a critic is not aware of the basis of the novel’s symbols and structure in Afro-Caribbean ontology, it is easy to misinterpret aspects of the novel. El reino de este mundo is one of the first Cuban novels to express the theme of resistance in a form that is consistent with the Afro-Caribbean worldview. El reino de este mundo contains important models, making this Cuban expression of the Afro-Caribbean novel of resistance parallel with the other three novels in this study. This novel has also played a major role in influencing the production of future novels reflecting such cultural values. The following

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chapter will focus on Quince Duncan’s novel La paz del pueblo and discuss the significant characteristics of this Costa Rican novel in reflecting resistance through its structure and content. Wilson’s novel differs from those of Duncan and Carpentier in its focus on unity beyond national boundaries. In Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, Carlos Guillermo Wilson demonstrates that unity is important for Blacks, especially for those of African-Antillean descent, regardless of the nations in which they reside. He creates the concept of sodinu as the ideal state of unity among the collective population of African descent. While his novel offers some examples of Blacks that are hostile toward members of their own ethnic community, we find few redeeming qualities in any of the white/mestizo characters. This element is dramatically different in Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas. Zapata Olivella’s novel demonstrates that whites have the potential to initiate positive actions for the oppressed if they are committed to the group’s collective struggle. The novel reflects the concept of unity at its greatest level by encapsulating the Afro-American spirit into the Muntu, a concept that includes individuals that are aware of, and sensitive to, the historical and cultural pasts of populations of African heritage. Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, like Changó, el gran putas, looks at the African Diaspora in a broader context than do the selected works of Carpentier and Duncan. As the world continues to become a more interconnected global village that celebrates diversity, so too should the Latin American literary canon. The traditional literary canon is analogous to civilizations described by Oswald Spengler as being mature almost a century ago in his landmark study Decline of the West (1926). The Hispanic literary canon must continue to regenerate itself by recognizing and celebrating literature from historically underrepresented populations. By replenishing such literary perspectives and cultural values, the canon will be more representative of our modern society, broadening its composition to include literature that best encapsulates the rich cultural elements of the Americas. By understanding literary and cultural elements in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance, the intellectual community has an opportunity to comprehend the literary aesthetics that seldom have been acknowledged within the mainstream Latin American literary canon. The writers covered in this study have used their literary novels to reflect problems and offer possible solutions. As a result, the reader is able to discover important African-oriented elements and collective problems they faced and their responses to counter these challenges. My hope is to continue this research and identify new values and criteria that serve as literary links among populations of color in the Americas, and to illustrate how, through literature, the worldview and aesthetics of the AfroCaribbean community can be explored. The literature produced by these four

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novelists contains structural patterns that play a major role in countering literary shortcomings from the past by using their novels to instruct. This book has outlined patterns of literary expression that are as significant for their thematic format as for their structural elements, and part of a larger literary trajectory that reflects the Afro-Caribbean community’s struggle in the form of narrative to counter the logocentric worldview. These novels belong to a larger group of works published in English and French that allow the Black community to express itself in a manner that is consistent with its values and cultural traditions. Martin-Ogunsola notes the conservative nature of the canon: “Academe has always been tradition-bound in its emphasis on the classics of western literature, whether they were the works of Greco-Roman writers or those of print-culture Europeans and their New World successors; therefore the academy developed an almost impenetrable canon” (1991, 42). Such novels present similar characteristics in reflecting an Afrocentric perspective and culture in a revolutionary mode, which is intended to facilitate the Afro-Caribbean individual in their struggle toward just treatment and their sociocultural identity. Cudjoe states that resistance literature “virtually becomes a process in which man is injected into his past world, and acts to come to grips with that past reality before he can come to terms with the present” (69). In order for Afro-Caribbean individuals to progress toward greater self-awareness and ethnic pride, they must first be made aware of the role that their history has played in the construction of their present reality. NOTES 1. Alejo Carpentier concludes slaves of African descent were imported into Cuba as early as 1513 (Carpentier 1961, 25). 2. In Cuba, Lucumi culture manifested among slaves, ex-slaves, and descendants of slaves. Its religious practices unified the fragmented African cultures into an identifiable community, which would eventually become known as the Lucumi culture (Brandon 1993, 55–56). 3. PIC’s goals and organizational composition were believed to be against the nation’s Constitution since it supported the goals of one specific racial group. For more information, consult El Negro en Cuba (Robaina 1994, 68–103). 4. Romanticismo was a literary movement at the end of the eighteenth century and originated in Europe and focused on reflecting intense emotion and was a reaction against Neoclassism. 5. The Realismo literary movement began in the second half of the nineteenth century and was headed by Honoré de Balzac (France) and Benito Pérez Galdós (Spain). This style of literature looked at the world as it was and focused on presenting reality with an objective narrator.

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6. Richard Jackson notes that Afro-Cubanism grew out of the Afrocriollo movement, a literary tradition that flourished between the late 1920s and the 1940s. Antilleanism is a Puerto Rican literary term largely associated with Black poetry and parallels Afro-Cubanism (R. Jackson 1984, 5). 7. In his article “The Afrocriollo Movement Revisited,” Richard Jackson describes the movement as “one of the first genuinely ‘American’ literary movements in this century. It was, in a sense, the Harlem Renaissance of Latin America” (1984, 5). 8. According to Eugenio Matibag, The Afrocubano movement (Afro-cubanismo) grew out of the PIC, which was established between 1909 and 1913. PIC served as a Cuban artistic movement featuring literature, dance, music, and plastic arts between 1928 and 1940 (1996, 93). 9. In Ecué-yamba-O, Carpentier establishes a significant and authentic literary foundation that serves as a rich link in displaying a different view of “reality” and existence within the Cuban community. Carpentier’s novels of liberation are thematically parallel with works of other writers from neighboring Caribbean nations who look at existence from the perspective of an Afro-Caribbean worldview. 10. A plantocracy is a political structure also known as a slavocracy. The term describes a ruling class in the Caribbean, which consists of plantation owners who make up the local government and establish and maintain political and social order. 11. In the prologue of the English translation of the novel The Kingdom of This World, Carpentier defines the term as being a uniquely Latin American form of magical realism (1994, 8–9). 12. André Breton (1896–1966) was a French writer and poet, and considered the cofounder, leader, and principal theorist of the Surrealism art movement. 13. Another reason for Carpentier’s move from the surrealist tradition was the expulsion of his friend, Robert Desnos, from the group. His friendship with the poet convinced him to abandon the group and, along with other dissident surrealists, they published a pamphlet against Breton and the surrealists entitled Un Cadavre (Paris, 1930). For more information, see González Echevarría’s Alejo Carpentier: The Pilgrim at Home (58). 14. All the English passages of the novel will be taken from Harriet de Onís’s translation. 15. These spirits are known as marassas in Haiti and ibejis in Brazil, and are believed to possess great magical power. 16. The character that appears throughout the novel is Ti Noel, first a slave under the white landowner, and then free, and later an enslaved worker under the rule of King Henri Christophe. 17. Damballah’s animal representation is the serpent, which “merged with Ayida Hwedo is therefore the great serpent-rainbow who stretches out in a great arc across the sky after the rain” (Matibag 1996, 193). 18. Salvador Bueno’s study documents in detail the references to the snake image in the novel (Bueno 1977, 210). 19. In African-inspired religious beliefs, it was traditionally thought that when followers were killed in battle, their spirits would return to Guinea (Africa) (Matibag 1996, 205; de la Rosa 1993, 274–275).

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20. Lorna Williams echoes this conclusion (1977, 334). 21. Spiritual brothers. 22. In this study, I will use the term in Spanish to avoid confusion by using the exact term put forth by Carpentier. 23. In the prologue to El reino, Carpentier describes his reaction to Haiti’s rich history: “Pisaba yo una tierra donde millares de hombres ansiosos de libertad creyeron en los poderes licantrópicos de Mackandal, a punto de que esa fe colectiva produjera un milagro el día de su ejecución” (1984, 8). “I was in a land where thousands of men, anxious for freedom, believed in Mackandal’s lycanthropic powers to the extent that their collective faith produced a miracle on the day of his execution” (Carpentier 1995, 86–87). 24. Cimarronaje is the act of escaping from colonizers to become an active rebel, and thus to free other enslaved individuals. 25. These kutuguangos are similar to the patakís in the Lucumi tradition. Patakis are didactic legends that spiritual leaders use to offer guidance to followers.

Chapter 4

Quince Duncan and La paz del pueblo

While Alejo Carpentier’s novel El reino de este mundo focuses on AfroHaitian resistance to economic, social, and cultural hardships, the novel La paz del pueblo (1979), by Quince Duncan, presents resistance against contemporary problems of Costa Rica’s Black population. Duncan, a fourth-generation descendant of Jamaican immigrants, is intimately connected with the culture of which he writes. His essays, short stories, and novels generally focus on problems between the descendants of Costa Rica’s English-speaking, primarily Black, West Indian population and the nation’s mestizo community.1 This study will illustrate the significant role that Quince Duncan’s novel La paz del pueblo plays as an Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. This novel is his first to focus specifically on the Afro-Costa Rican labor situation and the Black community’s social and political resistance. Duncan’s first novel, Hombres curtidos (1971), attracted very little attention from critics; this may be explained by the author’s own description of this work as one of his least developed novels. The novel does not explore the unified Black community and focuses more on national identity and less on ethnic identity. Two of his other novels, Los cuatro espejos (1973) and Kimbo (1989), reflect an Afro-Caribbean worldview. The former novel, very similar to Ellison’s The Invisible Man (1952), focuses on internalized racism. Kimbo also reflects the social problems of the Afro-Costa Rican population and includes examples of soul-force,2 but it fails to do so in the same detail that one finds in La paz del pueblo. In these two works, the theme of social resistance is not as pronounced as in La paz del pueblo. Duncan’s third novel,

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Final de calle (1979), was intentionally written to downplay details relating to Afro-Costa Rican culture, to demonstrate that he could produce literature that gained national recognition and to expose racism among Costa Rican critics. Of his four novels, La paz del pueblo is the one in which the writer best balances his theme of cultural resistance with the sociopolitical problems that face the Afro-Costa Rican population. Within the Caribbean region, the intertwined concepts of culture, race, and class play a major role in conflicts within the community. Richard Jackson describes this phenomenon, which complicates the Afro-Caribbean social situation: “Black identity is probably more complicated in Central America than anywhere else in this hemisphere, given the added Afro-Caribbean factors of color, language, and culture” (1997, 73). La paz del pueblo reflects conflicts between racial groups as well as friction among Blacks. In addition to portraying the relationship between Blacks and mestizos, Duncan’s work presents the cultural conflicts, which surface as Hispanic (Colonial) Blacks of Costa Rica come into contact with Antillean Blacks that immigrated to the country around the turn of the twentieth century. The result of this transcultural contact was conflict and social resistance. Like Carpentier, Quince Duncan uses narrative techniques and literary structures such as nonlinear narration, the inclusion of aspects of African culture, and the theme of resistance, to counter logocentric traditions, thus reflecting characteristics of the Afro-Caribbean worldview. La paz del pueblo highlights the injustices that Costa Rica’s Black population has faced and continues to face. In addition, it offers a strong message regarding ethnic self-pride and collective responsibility. La paz del pueblo is an important text because of its presentation of the plight of the Costa Rican of African ancestry. Its thematic focus is the unjust labor conditions that faced immigrants working for the fruit industry in the middle of the twentieth century. The novel illustrates organized resistance against oppressive working conditions with such authenticity that it gives Costa Rica’s Black population a cultural, spiritual, and literary voice. This literary voice speaks of the struggles and resistance of the Black community and offers a Costa Rican expression of the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. However, La paz del pueblo differs significantly from Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo (1949) in that the author reveals an optimistic attitude toward the possibility of positive transcultural unity among conflicted groups. While Carpentier had to struggle to gain entry into the Black community, Duncan’s exposure came from his own ethnic and cultural milieu, the town of Estrada del Cantón de Matina, in the province of Limón. This town, located on the Atlantic coast of the nation, allowed him direct access to the community. The cultural practices of the Afro-Costa Rican community are as natural to the writer as they appear to the characters in La paz del pueblo.

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HISTORICAL AND LITERARY CONTEXT Quince Duncan represents those Costa Ricans whose identity is as much Antillean as Central American. Duncan has been active in working toward change for the Black Costa Rican population in avenues beyond merely literary ones. He served as a member of the Partido Democrático del Pueblo, which was established to promote social justice. He is very aware of the situation of Afro-Costa Ricans, who are viewed as being an inferior group despite their contribution to the development of the country’s infrastructure. Duncan’s commitment to changing this perception is reflected in the principal themes of most of his literary works by acknowledging Jamaican cultural traits and identifying the population’s quest for justice, equality, and ethnic pride within an uninviting nation. Duncan is not the first Costa Rican to portray the history of economic and cultural abuses against the Afro-Costa Rican population. Fellow Costa Rican writer, Carlos Luis Fallas (1912–1966), also addressed the deep social and economic problems caused by the United States in the nation (Tinney 1988, 4). His 1940 novel Mamita Yunai deals with the economic imperialism of the United States, exemplified by the management practices of United Fruit Company. La paz del pueblo also reflects the difficult lives of the Black and indigenous workers of United Fruit. In an interview, Duncan reveals that the Costa Rican literary predecessor he admired the most was Joaquín Gutiérrez (1918–2000), best known for his novel Puerto Limón (Smart 1985, 283). This 1950 novel chronicles the struggles of a Black brother and sister in Costa Rica in 1934 (in the middle of the nation’s banana strikes). Even though these characters are Black and the novel is set in Costa Rica, it does not focus on the social conditions facing Blacks. The writer acknowledged the Black presence in Costa Rica but did not focus directly on the social and political problems that the group faces. Richard Jackson affirms that Duncan is “one of Central America’s bestknown Black writers and perhaps the most recent Black writer in Latin America to achieve recognition outside his country” (1976, 127). Ian Smart describes Duncan as one of Central America’s most important Anglophone Caribbean writers, whose “work has not been adequately studied even in his native Costa Rica” (1982a, 27). The lack of adequate study is explained in part by the mainstream population’s inability to address directly those topics related to Black culture and its struggles. Despite the high quality of Duncan’s work, Richard Jackson believes that major Costa Rican critics continue to omit references to his works in their studies: The works of Quince Duncan, the most prolific and the latest black Costa Rican author to explore these problems, deserve our attention, especially since he

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receives only one single mention–even though he already had four books to his credit–in the recent study by Alvaro Sánchez M. “El negro en la literatura costarricense,” the only one I know of that deals specifically with the black in Costa Rican literature. (1979, 172)

An interview with the author two decades after Jackson’s study reveals that this situation has changed very little for the Black Costa Rican writer in general. While the area of Afro-Hispanic studies is slowly gaining momentum among Latin American scholars, it still lags behind the research done by North American scholars: “I would say that eurocentricism is still very strong in Latin America. Latin Americans tend to deny it, but it is there and one way in which it reflects itself is that you don’t get studies addressing AfroCaribbean literature” (Edison 1999, 29). Most published studies of his work continue to be produced by scholars outside of Costa Rica. Dorothy Mosby considers Duncan as one of the new novelists omitted from the boom literary movement. She believes that the writings of both Quince Duncan and Manuel Zapata Olivella surpassed those of many of their literary peers without receiving the international acclaim garnered to figures such as Carlos Fuentes, Gabriel García Márquez, and Mario Vargas Llosa (2003, 121). Duncan aims his message at Blacks because he believes that this community in Costa Rica, as well as across the African Diaspora, must begin to accept its cultural origin and historical identity in order to advance. Frantz Fanon identified the psychological complexes that affect Black individuals, and he argues that the Black population suffers from a preoccupation with attracting the attention of and emulating the power of white men (1967, 51). Duncan posits that salvation lies in “coming to our senses because we’ve lost ourselves inside, where we have become white men in black skin” (cited in Richard Jackson 1979, 174). Martin-Ogunsola finds four major tropes recur in Duncan’s fiction: “the cimarrón, the samamfo, the river, and laughter” (2004, 165). She believes that the samamfo is the symbol par excellence because it embodies and African-dominant worldview (165). Duncan’s novel Los cuatro espejos offers a compelling metaphor of self-achieved cultural authenticity as a possible solution. In the novel, the character Charles McForbes suffers a psychological breakdown that literally prevents him from seeing his reflection in mirrors. He is only able to see his reflected image after he comes to accept his cultural and ethnic identity. This novel is very important in the manner that it focuses on redefining values associated with Black identity. Richard Jackson concludes that in Los cuatro espejos, the writer continues to do what he does in most of his novels: “Duncan rejects the white aesthetic, the myth of white superiority. He hopes that other blacks, too, will rid themselves of the influence of the white aesthetic and begin to think of themselves in positive terms” (1976, 128).

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Duncan thus proposes that Afro-Caribbean individuals embrace their unique mode of expression and aesthetics. As a result of these internalized complexes, members of the Black community are forced to become inauthentic and to adopt characteristics and practices associated with their cultural oppressors. By looking at the history of the Black population in Costa Rica, one can better understand the complex mode of systematic oppression imposed on this population and its descendants. Very little information is available on the history of Blacks in Costa Rica before the arrival of West Indians to the country in approximately 1870 (Duncan 1993, 207). This lack of attention by historians is due in part to the low number of African slaves imported into the region because of the relatively small plantation economy, compared to countries such as Cuba and Brazil.3 Aviva Chomsky believes that standard Costa Rican historiography has systematically ignored the presence of Blacks in the country, which resulted in the myth that Costa Rica experiences racial homogeneity and social peace (1996, 148). Much of Costa Rica’s African-influenced culture is concentrated in the region of Limón, located on the Atlantic coast. The Black inhabitants of this area, mostly of Jamaican heritage, have not been considered true citizens within many sectors of Costa Rican society, even though their ancestors significantly contributed to the development of the nation’s economy. The mainstream mestizo population has historically considered Antillean Blacks to be culturally and socially inferior. As a result of such attitudes, this population found itself unwelcome in a foreign nation. In spite of countercultural influences, however, they were able to preserve many aspects of their linguistic and cultural identity.4 An example of Costa Rica’s cultural arrogance is the country’s educational system, which has traditionally placed little emphasis on the African influence within the nation. Carlos Meléndez Chaverri and Duncan view this as a sign of a systematic movement to erase aspects of Black culture and heritage: “Según la escuela costarricense, no hay nada en la Historia del negro digno de estudiarse, ni hay por qué estudiar los asuntos negros” [According to Costa Rican schools, there is nothing in the history of Blacks worth studying, nor is there any reason to study Black themes] (Meléndez Chaverri and Duncan 1978, 140). Their study accuses the educational system of intentionally attempting to strip Blacks of their cultural identity and heritage: Al no incluir en el currículum nada de la cultura negra, la escuela costarricense niega los valores del negro. Una raza es dueña de la cultura. La otra raza es ignorante. Una raza es la que sabe, la otra la que aprende. Los niños blancos en la escuela se sienten por primera vez superiores; los niños negros desarrollan un complejo de inferioridad. Para el negro se trata de renunciar a los valores

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recibidos del pecho de su madre; de la sabiduría recibida sobre la rodilla de su padre. [By omitting details related to black culture in the curriculum, the Costa Rican school system denies the contributions of blacks. One race is the owner of the culture. The other race is ignorant. One race is the one that the student knows; the other one is the one that the student learns. In the classroom, white children for the first time feel superior; black children develop a complex of inferiority. For blacks, it is the eradication of values transmitted from their mother’s milk, of the wisdom received on their parents’ knees.] (1978, 140–141)

By attempting to deny Black students their history and culture, officials hoped to distance them from their traditional identity, thus forcing them to identify with the majority Spanish-speaking mestizo sector.5 The task of breaking down this group’s cultural identity was not an easy one. While the public education system in Costa Rica imposed a Spanishspeaking and mestizo-dominated curriculum, the Antillean population maintained its own educational structures, even as late as the early 1950s. This system, modeled on the British educational system, used British texts and teachers. This sector of the population continued to be predominately Protestant in contrast to the Catholic mestizo majority (Duncan 1995a, 135). Factors such as this sustained connection with Afro-Antillean and British heritage aided the population in maintaining its own sense of cultural identity. According to Duncan, the absence of recorded data on this population prompted him to compile and publish a detailed book with Costa Rican historian Carlos Meléndez Chaverri titled El negro en Costa Rica (1978).6 This comprehensive study of Black Costa Rican history augments the history of Antillean Blacks in the nation. The mass immigration of Antilleans began as a result of an economic collapse of the West Indian sugarcane market. The price of sugar dropped by 75 percent between 1805 and 1850 (Duncan and Powell 1988, 57). The U.S.owned United Fruit Company, like the Atlantic Railroad, grew rapidly during the end of the nineteenth century, thus requiring large numbers of workers who spoke English and who were familiar with working in harsh tropical climates (Percell 1993, 25).7 This caused massive numbers of Blacks to emigrate to Central and South America in search of steady sources of income. Atlantic Coast Railway and later United Fruit Company offered high wages in Central America between 1871 and 1890, thus stimulating the first massive immigration of West Indian workers. This employment boom attracted thousands of West Indians, mainly Jamaicans, which began to change the nation’s demographics.8 During this same period, the nation authorized the construction of a rail line from San José to Limón to facilitate transportation

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of products and materials. The 1927 census documents 19,000 Jamaicans living in Costa Rica. The U.S.-owned railroad company gave preference to Jamaican workers because they spoke English, which facilitated communication between the foremen and employees. As a result of this labor situation, a great influx of mainly Jamaicans found steady work abroad throughout the 1920s and 1930s. This allowed Antillean Blacks to begin to play a major role in the Costa Rican labor force. The beginning of the twentieth century saw the increase of labor strikes supported by Antillean Blacks. In 1910, in Limón, a strike known as la rebelión pocomía [the revolution of the spirits] brought together workers from various Antillean islands to protest unfair labor conditions.9 Chomsky describes this as the nation’s first major labor strike. Even though this strike was met with bullets and bloodshed, it is one of the first examples of organized resistance that was not easy for the United Fruit Company to end (Chomsky 1996, 148; Duncan and Powell 1988, 73). Approximately three decades later, things changed dramatically when Francisco Mendiola Boza presented a policy proposing the importation of pure whites to Costa Rica, thus targeting immigrants from the North of Spain (Duncan 1993, 210). During this same time, a contract to construct and expand the railroad included a stipulation that reflected the extent to which racist actions controlled employment of Blacks on the nation’s Pacific coast: “Es establecido que el concesionario no introducirá gente de raza asiática para los trabajos en la línea férrea, ni asiáticos o negros para labrar o colonizar las tierras que se le otorgan” [It is established that the license holder will not offer jobs to Asians to work on the railroad, nor will Asians or Blacks work or reside in the land that is granted to him] (Duncan 1993, 209).10 Trevor Purcell reports that the third decade of the twentieth century began with campaigns to deport the rapidly growing Antillean population (1993, 3).11 Even as late as 1942, restrictions continued to exist against the immigration of targeted groups: “Raza negra, chinos, [á]rabes, sirios, gitanos, coolies . . . delincuentes, profugos o impedidos mentales” [Black races, Chinese, Arabs, Syrians, gypies, coolies . . . delinquents, refugees, or mentally impaired] (Duncan 1995, 136).12 Approximately half of the Jamaican residents that immigrated to Panama to work on the Panama Canal moved to other countries in hopes of finding economic gain and a more hospitable environment. Some remaining Antilleans continued to earn a living in Costa Rica by attempting to integrate themselves into the national culture.13 Antillean immigrants brought with them their own religious beliefs, linguistic patterns, and cultural practices. These cultural differences were the root of many problems, as tensions began to escalate between Antillean Blacks and mestizos. The rapid population shift made mestizos feel that they were facing a cultural invasion that required them to compete against

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Antilleans for employment and benefits. The immigrating Antillean population, on the other hand, was unsympathetic to the struggles of their mestizo counterparts: West Indians in Costa Rica saw their Hispanic class-equals as their inferiors. This reflects a distinct tendency among Blacks in the Hispanic region to extol British culture, even during periods of anticolonialism on the Caribbean islands. In a world where the standard of acceptability—or even humanity—was established by Anglo-European culture, Blacks found it more useful to flaunt their Britishness in the face of Hispanic denigration, rather than to flaunt their Africanness, the font of inferiority in the eyes of the “civilized” world. (Purcell 1993, 12)

Limón, the region where a majority of the Antillean population settled, is one of the most economically depressed areas of Costa Rica, but ironically it is also the source of a significant percentage of the nation’s income (Duncan 1995, 140). While the cultural situation has improved somewhat in the past few years, the Afro-Costa Rican population continues to be viewed as inferior; descendants of Antillean Blacks are consistently expected to assimilate to the norms dictated by mestizo culture. This factor may support Duncan’s theory that the Black population from Limón identifies itself more closely with coastal Blacks from other Central American nations than with their own compatriots: “In some ways, there is much more in common between a ‘limonense’ from Costa Rica and a ‘costeño’ from Nicaragua than there is between a ‘limonense’ and his San Jose countryman” (Duncan 1995, 134). The division and rivalry between the mestizo Costa Ricans and the descendants of the West Indies are brought to light in the majority of Quince Duncan’s novels. Events from Quince Duncan’s own literary career may serve to demonstrate the degree of racism in Costa Rica. He explains that his fourth novel, Final de calle (1979), intentionally had nothing to do with Black people in its content and was anonymously published. This historical novel deals with the Costa Rican Civil War and won the prestigious Editorial Costa Rica Prize in 1981 and the Aquileo Echevarría National Prize for literature the following year (Smart 1985, 285–286). This novel was not overtly Afro-Hispanic in content or authorship, and therefore it did not encounter the same barriers to recognition that Duncan’s previous works found. The novel’s public recognition demonstrates the nation’s desire to acknowledge literary works that uphold a specific image of the nation, rather than sanctioning works, which point out problematic racial issues. Most of the novel’s central characters, like the author himself, are descendants of Jamaican immigrants. These individuals struggle to find justice and equality within a hostile environment. The central characters in Duncan’s

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novels strive to advance while maintaining their historical, cultural, and ethnic heritage. One of the major ways that the novel reflects their cosmology is by the inclusion of African-influenced spiritual practices. La paz del pueblo has a political/economic storyline involving a youth named Pedro, who organizes a strike for banana workers. The novel takes place in Costa Rica and Jamaica, and covers a time period ranging from approximately 1850 through the 1930s. It reflects the history of the development of unions in the nation’s banana industry. When the youth’s mestizo father, Matías López, is dismissed after contracting tuberculosis, Pedro begins to encourage workers to fight for their rights and fair working conditions. The company refuses to finance medical treatment for López, even though officials are aware that his illness is work related. As Pedro returns to his community, the locals consider him to be an outsider and troublemaker. Despite the community’s distrust, he is able to endure because of the power of the samamfo. Pedro’s lover is Sitaira Kenton; both are products of the union between Blacks and whites in Jamaica. Later in the novel, it becomes evident that both characters are descendants of Black servants from a nineteenth-century Jamaican plantation. In the narrative present of the work Mariot, Sitaira’s mother, is the wife of the aged Cornelio Kenton, an infirm man who is a victim of the oppressive working conditions of the United Fruit Company and the railroad. The Black forces against Pedro, Sitaira, and her family are the Brown family; Mr. Been Brown is a Black landowner who works in partnership with the United Fruit Company. He is the son of Jamaican landowner Mr. Kingsman Moody and his servant Mamy. Mrs. Been Brown, the matriarch of the Brown family, wields her significant economic influence within the community for her family’s advantage, even to the point of covering up a murder committed by her mentally unstable son Cató. This youth, known by those in the town as El Loco, harbors an obsessive love for Sitaira, which provokes him to murder her to keep her from Pedro. The community’s fear of Pedro and his actions provokes them to accuse him of Sitaira’s murder, in addition to many other crimes. In reality, however, Pedro is a rebel leader selected by the Orishas to lead the workers in waging a labor strike. He is different from his cohorts who simply accept the company’s abuses. Pedro is determined to achieve justice for all workers by whatever means necessary. Quince Duncan’s literary works are often based on the historical reality of Antillean Blacks in Costa Rica; for example, the historical figure Marcus Garvey (1887–1940) is recognized in the novel. This Jamaican leader of African ancestry was a descendant of Jamaican maroons (escaped slaves). Garvey lived in Costa Rica from 1910–1911, worked for the United Fruit Company, and gave several speeches in Limón (Chomsky 1996, 202,; Tinney

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1988, 45). He devoted his life to strengthening the ties between Blacks in the Diaspora and their brothers and sisters in Africa, and in 1914, he founded the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA), which promoted solidarity among all Blacks of the world; he also proposed the formation of an African nation in Liberia. As UNIA reached its zenith in 1920, a meeting with representatives across the Black world took place in New York. This meeting resulted in the creation of the Declaration of Rights, which was drawn up and sent to all the governments of the world (Barrett 1974, 143). The event contained overtones of High-Church, Baptist, and African spiritual traditions, a point that Barrett notes is seldom emphasized (142). UNIA and Marcus Garvey play a pivotal role La paz del pueblo. The novel also pays homage to Haiti, the first Latin American nation to gain its independence from colonial hegemony. The following passage demonstrates that Haiti’s revolt was a pivotal event in the Americas: “Los ejércitos de muchos países habían intentado sofocar la rebelión de los esclavos negros, porque era la primera vez en la historia en que un país de esclavos se levantaba en armas y no era aplastada” [The army of many countries had attempted to squash the Black slave rebellion because it was the first time in history that a nation of slaves raised arms and was not thwarted] (41).14 In the novel, the community’s Black pastor recalls the reaction of the landowners in the West Indies, who reacted by saying “no habría paz ni sosiego en toda la región hasta que Haití fuera vencida” [there would not be peace or quiet in the entire region until Haiti was conquered] (41–42). This solid bit of history echoes the tone of resistance at a global level by countering misinformation and providing a perspective that recognizes Haiti’s important role in the history of the Black population’s struggle for liberation. The political leader León Cortés, who is also referred to explicitly in the novel, plays an important role in the history of Blacks in Costa Rica. Cortés was Costa Rica’s president during the nation’s period of strongest antiblack sentiment (1936). During this period, the government focused on ensuring that Costa Rican nationals—as opposed to immigrants—benefited from employment opportunities within the nation. Cortés is described as an individual “whose sympathies (like those of many other Costa Ricans) were with the Nazis” (R. Biesanz, K. Biesanz and M. Biesanz 1992, 23). This historical and political personage is reflected in the novel as two gravediggers discuss the current political situation within the nation, and one reveals to the other his plan to relocate to San José in search of work. His friend advises him to be careful: “Mientras León Cortés sea presidente no te lo aconsejo.—¿Por qué?—¿No te has dado cuenta que todos los negros se están yendo a Panamá?” [While León Cortés is president, I wouldn’t advise it.—Why?—Have you not noticed that all the Black people are going to Panama] (74–75). As his fellow worker

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inquires why Blacks do not go to the Pacific region to work, he is informed that “hay una ley que se los prohíbe. León Cortés acaba de despedir a todos los negros que estaban trabajando en el Ferrocarril al Pacífico. Solo dejó uno, porque es amigo personal de su hermano” [there is a law that prohibits them. León Cortés just fired all the Blacks that were working on the railroad to the Pacific. He only kept one, because he is a personal friend of his brother] (75). This passage incorporates a historical event that reflects the government’s racist decisions and also alleges widespread political corruption. Lorein Powell’s research on early Costa Rican literature quantitatively studies the role of previous novels in propagating stereotypes against the nation’s Black population. Her study concludes that works such as Carlos Luis Fallas’s novel Mamita Yunai (1940) and Joaquín Gutiérrez’s Cocorí (1948) presented Blacks as primitive, lustful, cowardly, servile, and buffoonish (quoted in Duncan 1995, 138). In La paz del pueblo, Duncan attempts to counter such negative images in the novels of his predecessors. While North American Afro-Hispanists have begun to give attention to Duncan’s works, Costa Rican critics generally continue to ignore them. The few critics that do study his works do so in a vacuum, by making references to similar elements among his novels and overlooking the connection that places the writer’s works in a trajectory with fellow Afro-Hispanic novelists Alejo Carpentier, Manuel Zapata Olivella, and Carlos Guillermo Wilson. While there are numerous similarities, there are also some characteristics that distinguish Duncan from his peers. Ian Smart notes that Duncan accents many of his works by using four central tropes that are significant in AfroCaribbean cultures: “the samamfo, the cimarrón, the river, and laughter have been shown to be linked to the neo-African core of Caribbean creativity” (Smart 1996, 166). These elements are all spiritually connected with the Afro-Caribbean community. As we will see later in this chapter, these images, along with others, play an important role in reinforcing the message of cultural resistance. Duncan’s work is distinctive in his particular use of the concept that he calls samamfo. Paulette Ramsey notes that Duncan is the only writer to use this concept explicitly in literary works (1994, 35). This samamfo is defined as a collective consciousness that is part of a particular culture and comes directly from African American ancestors.15 In an interview, Duncan explained that the samamfo “comes down from the very first one that started the whole thing and provides their children with a certain view of the world and that comes down from one to the other to the other” (Edison 1999, 30). Duncan points out that all of his writing moves toward a search for the universal samamfo, as well as a more universal consciousness. Duncan believes that within the samamfo, one can find the community’s shared historical experience. He adds that had there been no racism or

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slavery, Blacks would have a different consciousness which would unify them in a different manner (Edison 1999, 31). The samamfo culturally and spiritually united, and continues to unite, the Afro-Caribbean population. Ian Smart notes that the samamfo is an excellent approach to illustrate the traditional West African worldview: “This is an excellently conceived theological exposition within the traditional West African mode. It is entirely consistent with all of the principles of African philosophy and religions enunciated by such writers as Kagame, Jahn, Mbiti and others” (1982a, 30). Richard Jackson compares La paz del pueblo with Alex Haley’s novel Roots (1979, 178). Comparing the work with this 1976 North American Black saga places it in a position of honor. Haley’s novel changed the manner in which countless individuals in the African Diaspora looked at their identity and cultural past. By applying studies by the aforementioned Africanist scholars, as well as more recent research, connections can be made between general Afro-Caribbean cosmology and the worldview presented in La paz del pueblo. In his essay “The Sociopolitical Thought and Literary Style of Quince Duncan,” Donald K. Gordon says, “very rarely does Duncan portray human happiness. He is adept at depicting lives in crisis. Conscious of the black diaspora, he delves into the social aspects of Costa Rica, especially Limón” (1988, 27). This is an accurate assessment of Duncan’s work, since the life of the Afro-Costa Rican has been one filled with emotional pain, injustice, and abuse. AFRICAN SPIRITUALITY IN COSTA RICA Anthropologist Edward Brathwaite states the following: “Religion is the form or kernel or core of the culture. It is therefore not surprising that anthropologists tell us that African culture survived in the Caribbean through religion” (1974, 104). As a result of the pervasiveness of Afro-descended spiritual cultures in the Caribbean, one can find differences and similarities among the various faith expressions. Within Costa Rica, there are many forms of African-influenced religions, including primarily myalism, obeah, pukumina, and sinkit. The forces of these practices have played a major role in the lives of West Indians that immigrated to Costa Rica. Meléndez Chaverri and Duncan note that individuals from Limón have been particularly noted for their religiosity (1978, 120). This spirituality has served as a form of psychological resistance to oppression that enabled West Indians to maintain their unique identity despite being away from their home countries. Richard Jackson points out that one method that the novelist uses to reflect resistance is the incorporation of religious imagery: “In the true

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tradition of literary Americanism Duncan’s recent novel addresses issues of justice, human dignity, and the liberation of a people, and he builds his message through complex structures and religious symbolisms both Biblical (European) and Afro-folk (African)” (1988, 70). The characteristics of African-influenced spiritual practices resonate within the mind and spirit of the reader familiar with Afro-Caribbean thought and culture. In the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance, African spirituality is one of the major cultural threads that unifies a majority of the Black characters. Duncan explains that this spirituality comes from his race’s collective historical and biological experience (Smart 1985, 285). This point demonstrates that aspects of Afro-Costa Rican religious expression, as depicted in this novel, are based on existing principles from the writer’s cultural surroundings, braided together in the text using his creative literary talent. The lives of the characters in the novel are shaped by a variety of spiritual traditions that are active in Costa Rica. (1) Sinkits. The novel’s glossary defines sinkits as the people and the religion from the island of St. Kitts (192). While the faith is mentioned within the text, its role in the novel is not very significant. A passing reference is made to this form of religious expression, as an unidentified character in the novel discusses sinkits with a friend and cannot understand how anyone could become involved with this evil cult: “No sé cómo te metiste con esa gente. Los sinkits son terribles.—Yo no me he metido con los sinkits.—La mamá de Brown lo era” [I don’t know how you got yourself mixed up with those people. Sinkits are terrible.—I have never gotton mixed up with sinkits.—Brown’s mother was involved in that stuff] (177). Reference to Mr. Been Brown’s mother working with sinkits hints at a possible familial relationship between Mamy, the servant that worked for the Jamaican landowner Mr. Kingsman Moody, and Mr. Been Brown.16 An association is drawn between Mamá Bull and sinkits in the fourth part of chapter eight, as the priestess communes with this powerful spiritual force: “Mamá Bull en sus recuerdos delante de piedras sagradas; la fogata ardiendo, iluminando las semi-desnudas figuras de los sinkits; palabras y lamentos inteligibles, puñales que relampagueaban en el viento” [Mama Bull in her thoughts in front of the sacred stones; the bond fire burning, casting light on seminude figures of the sinkits; unintelligible words and laments, daggers that were emitting lightning bolts in the wind] (180). Reference to this spiritual force helps to demonstrate one of the avenues by which she gains her special abilities. Martin-Ogunsola notes that “Mama Bull functions as spiritual leader of the group and intercessor between the earthly and supernatural spheres” (2004, 60). (2) Pukumina and Cuminá. According to Jamaican anthropologist Leonard Barrett, Pukumina is connected with Cuminá: “The word Pukumina is

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without doubt a corruption of the name of the old ancestor cult Kumina, or Cumina” (1974, 116).17 Cuminá is an important Akan18 ritual that unites ancestors with their deccendants in the present. Barrett identifies the etymology of Cuminá as coming from two Twi words: Akom, “state of being possessed,” and Ana, “relationship, or ancestor,” forming the word Akomana, which means to be possessed by an ancestor (69).19 Ian Smart defines Cuminá as a religious service in which the dance of possession is the central act (1996, 159). Barrett convincingly demonstrates that Pukumina and Cuminá are one and the same; Cuminá is a vigorous dance of possession accompanying the myal.20 Pukumina beliefs played a significant role in what was known as the rebelión pocomía (1910), a violent confrontation between frustrated workers and angry Latino authorities (Duncan and Powell 1988, 73).21 Two of the major Jamaican leaders of this movement, Charles Ferguson and J. Washington Sterling, were influenced by this African-based tradition of healing, supernatural power, and obeah (Chomsky 1996, 190). La paz del pueblo portrays Cuminá as a ceremony by which the Pukumina is revealed. During a ritual led by Mamá Bull, Cuminá manifests itself in Pedro’s body (175). With the help of this spiritual force, he is able to overcome the opposition that he must face from both the white and Black communities. Before Pedro becomes fully vested with the courage and wisdom to carry out his leadership role in the community, he must participate in a ritual led by the local priestess, Mamá Bull: “Danzaban en el torno al fuego por las noches y combatían bajo el brazo poderoso del Cuminá guerrero, hasta que sus lanzas se agotaron y cayeron sangrando en la arena” [They would dance in the center of the fire at night and fight under the powerful arm of the warrior Cuminá, until they ran out of spears and fell bleeding in the sand] (28). Once Cuminá enriches the youth, he is then able to carry out the will of the ancestors, found in the samamfo. (3) Myalism. Many different definitions exist regarding the origin and function of the faith tradition known as Myalism. Like other African-inspired faiths that are addressed in this study, Myalism has been credited with protecting its followers against unjust and negative forces.22 Aviva Chomsky notes, “Obeah and myalism are African-based religious traditions closely associated with both healing and rebellion” (1996, 143).23 Monica Schuler’s research concludes that Myalism originated in Jamaica in the eighteenth century to protect slaves against “European sorcery” (1979, 66).24 While Brathwaite argues that Myalism has no connection whatsoever with Christianity (1984, 77), Schuler’s research contradicts this by concluding that in the late eighteenth century, a connection between the two appeared as Myalism absorbed certain congenial aspects of the Baptist version of Christianity (Schuler 1979, 68). Schuler also indicates that in 1831–1832, Myalists assumed a leading role in Jamaica’s last slave rebellion, known as the Slave Rebellion of 1831 (66). Myalism is also defined as a form of

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possession, which Barrett describes as being “the opposite of obeahism” (1974, 63). (4) Obeah. The most common form of spiritual protection from Jamaica that has played a major role in the long history of Antilleans in Costa Rica is obeah. This term, commonly used in the English-speaking Caribbean, has often been associated with “black magic.” Obeah is a magical power used for good or evil by an obeahman, a skilled sorcerer. Aviva Chomsky describes the faith as being politically subversive, as it inspired a slave rebellion in 1760, which resulted in it being outlawed in that same year (1996, 181). This term is defined in the glossary of La paz de pueblo as originating in Limón, the center of Costa Rica’s Black community (192). Actually this reference is incorrect, since the concept of obeah is prevalent throughout the Englishspeaking West Indies and came to Costa Rica only with the Antillean immigrants in the late nineteenth century.25 Carlos Meléndez notes that obeahmen have the ability to use plants for medicinal purposes: “Hubo algunos de estos obeahman que utilizaron su tremenda influencia para bien de la comunidad, utilizando sus conocimientos (sobre todo en el uso de hierbas medicinales) para curar enfermedades” [There were some obeahmen that used their great influence for the well-being of the community, using their knowledge (especially the use of medicinal plants) to cure sickness] (Meléndez Chevarri and Quince Duncan 1978, 122). In the early years of the banana company’s history, many West Indians preferred to be attended by an obeahman rather than a Western-trained doctor. Chomsky’s research notes that the United Fruit Company even offered obeahmen to their Black workers as an alternative to Western-trained doctors (1996, 139). The United Fruit Company recognized the importance of this spiritual expression for their Antillean workers, and this decision created resentment from Western doctors. Barbadian poet and historian Edward Kamau Brathwaite posits that obeah “is like medical principles everywhere, the process of healing/protection through seeking out the source or explanation of the cause (obi/evil) of the disease or fear” (1974, 75). Chomsky credits obeah with linking the Jamaican and St. Kitts workers into a unified force, even if only briefly (1996, 171). In the novel, obeah is seen as a dark magical force that affects the unsuspecting members of the community. In the seventh chapter of part one, Cató’s mother blames his destructive behavior on the force of obeah channeled by Mariot Kenton: “Vos sabés que esa vieja sabe mucho de obeah” [You know that that old woman knows a lot about obeah] (144). In the third part of chapter seven, Police Chief Carmen attributes the unexplained injury of a young girl to obeah activity (153).26 Paulette Ramsay points out that within La paz del pueblo “Every illness or misfortune is attributed to the machinations of an obeahman” (1994, 24). She also notes that Duncan “employs an interesting means of challenging the myth that only primitive peoples believe in the magical” (1994, 25). The example that she cites is the mestizo political chief

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Carmen, who insists that a young girl’s severe injuries have been caused by an act of obeah or spiritual magic: (El dijo que había presenciado un caso de obeah y la mujer dijo que no podía ser eso). —Señora, perdone . . . pero ¿cómo fue la cosa? —Estaba lloviendo . . . fue anoche con la lluvia y estábamos hablando . . . —¿La lluvia? (Eso es, respondió él: no tengo la menor duda. ¿Qué otra cosa podía ser, decime vos?) La señora Mantle se quedó pensativa como si evocar los detalles fuese todo un suplicio. Se hizo viento en la cara con su abanico, cual si fuera necesario ganar tiempo. —Estábamos las dos sentadas hablando, señor, y de pronto se quedó callada. Pero . . . —Así no más . . . fue así no más . . . (Pero es que yo he visto casos de hinchazón de pierna y cosas así, pero que se quedara de pronto ciega: no puedo creer eso). ―Yo tengo que reportar esto ——dijo él—así que me tiene que decir cómo fue la cosa. [(He said that he had witnessed a case of obeah and the woman said that it could not be that). —Excuse me, Madam . . . but how did it go? —It was raining . . . last night with the rain and we were talking . . . —¿Rain? (That’s it, he responded: I have the slightest doubt. Tell me. What else could it be?) Mrs. Mantle remained pensive as if to recall the details that were all that she had wanted. She fanned her face with her fan, allowing her to stall for time. —Both of us were seated speaking, sir, and suddenly she became quiet. But . . . —Nothing more. It was like that, that simple . . . (But I have seen cases of swollen legs and such, but would soon turn blind: I can’t believe that). —I have to report this —he said— so you have to tell me all about it.] (151–152)

As the two theorize about the other possible causes for the unusual event, the chief finally decides to report that her sudden attack was the result of lightning because too many questions would be raised if he were to report that it was the result of obeah:

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De la garganta de Carmen se escapó un sonido que era a la vez dolor y asombro, guerra y paz. —Yo tengo que reportar eso y no sé qué decir. En el rostro del Jefe Político Carmen adivinó la perplejidad total, desplegada como un manto sobre su frente y su ojo. —Si hubiera dormido con la ventana abierta yo hubiera dicho que fue la luna. Pero anoche ni siquiera hubo luna. Estaban las dos conversando y de pronto la muchacha se quedó así. —Tuvo que haber sido el rayo . . . —¡Mujer! Sos necia . . . un momento . . . ¿creés que pudo haber sido? —Sí . . . yo creo que fue el rayo. —Entonces el gobernador me creerá si pongo que fue el rayo. [Sounds of pain and astonishment, war and peace escaped from Carmen’s throat. —I have to report it and I don’t know what to say. Police Chief Carmen’s face offered a hint of his total confusion that set like a tablecloth across his forehead and eyes. —If he had slept with the window open, I would have said that it was the moon. But last night there was no moon. The two were conversing and suddenly the woman stopped in her tracks. —It had to have been a bolt of lightening . . . —Woman! Are you mad . . . one moment . . . . Do you believe it could have been that? —Yes . . . I believe that it was a bolt of lightening. —Then the governor will believe me if I put down that it was a bolt of lightening.] (152–153)

These passages reveal that Carmen believes that obeah is responsible for the girl’s injury. While he believes that obeah could be an active agent in the community, he cannot confess this to his superiors because it would be too complicated to explain and would lead to many questions, especially if the person were unfamiliar with the customs and beliefs of the local community. (5) Samamfo. This concept has become one of Duncan’s trademarks. Smart defines the samamfo as a word of Ashanti origin signifying the place or the state in which the dead, or the spirits of the ancestors reside (1982a, 30). This term reappears in Duncan’s later novel Kimbo and is defined in the novel’s glossary in the following manner: “La memoria colectiva de la raza-cultura que pasa de generación a generación y que se actualiza en los ritos religioso-seculares del pueblo, en sus luchas, en sus experiencias. Los Ancestros nunca han abandonado a sus herederos” [The collective memory of the race and culture that passes from generation to generation and that

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appears in secular-religious rituals of the community, in its struggles, in its experiences. Ancestors have never abandoned their descendants] (153). This all-encompassing expression of cultural memory binds together Black individuals across the African Diaspora, not just within Costa Rica. This expression is explained in the text as a grandfather explains the hereafter to his grandson by describing the samamfo as the eternal place where the soul rests after death: —Abuelo y . . . ¿cómo es eso del cielo y del infierno? —Eso es cuando termine todo. Al final, después del juicio. Pero por ahora nadie se muere, hijo: simplemente volvemos al samamfo. ¿Al samamfo? ¿Buelo, qué es el samamfo? —Un vuelve donde están los ancestros, eso es todo. Y no me importa lo que te haya dicho el pastor: los pastores de ahora ni siquiera leen la Biblia y si leen no entienden nada. [—Grandpa and . . . what is the difference between heaven and hell? —That’s when everything ends. At the end, after judgment. But now no one dies, son: we simply return to the samamfo. To the samamfo? Gramps, what is the samamfo? —One returns to where the ancestors reside, it’s that simple. And it doesn’t matter what the pastor says: the preachers these days don’t even read the Bible and if they do, they don’t understand a thing.] (24)

This passage also illustrates the man’s lack of respect for the town’s Westerninfluenced religious figure. The sage’s comments reflect his belief that the pastor is not competent to serve the town’s Black community. In part four of chapter one, as Mariot looks at her ailing husband and contemplates his approaching death, the recent murder of their daughter, and their son’s death two years earlier, she concludes that the will of the samamfo is that they will have no descendants to whom they can pass on the force of the ancestors: A quién pasaré sobre tu cuerpo, Cornelio, cuando decidas alejarte? ¿Quién heredará la fuerza, el destino, la pena y la gloria del samamfo? ¿Quién sabría ahora los secretos de nuestro pasado; quién hará valer sobre la tierra los derechos de los que descansan temporalmente en la gloria del Señor? [Who will I turn to, Cornelio, when you decide to depart? Who will inherit the force, the destiny, the pain and the power of the samamfo? Who would now know the secrets of our past; who will enforce on earth the rights of those who temporarily rest in the glory of the Lord?] (27)

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She knows that their family line will end after her husband’s death, and she laments over her family’s loss at other points of the novel by asking the spirits who will carry on the forces of the samamfo (76–77, 169). This spiritual element is one of the guiding forces of the characters. (6) Dopi. In the glossary of the novel, dopi is defined as an “aparición; espíritu de persona muerta” [Aparition; spirit of a dead person] (191). Reference to this spiritual expression appears in the text on numerous occasions and is presented in a manner that may be overlooked by the casual reader.27 In an intercalated story within the novel, a child has witnessed his mother’s marital infidelity and becomes so upset that the father (Tucumá) believes that the child must have seen a dopi: “El bueno de Tucumá pensó que el niño había visto un dopí y lo hizo tomar agua, rezar un Padre Nuestro y todo” [The good thing about Tucumá is that he thought that the child had seen a dopi and made him have a drink of water, do one Our Father prayer and, everything] (65). The child’s fear is so intense that the father believes that it could only have been caused by him witnessing a ghostly image. In the first section of chapter eight, Mariot thinks about her “pesares y soledades” [grief and loneliness] and finds comfort in the perceived presence of the dopi: “Mis espectros, los dopíes que entran a mi cuarto por las noches, para velar conmigo mientras lloro apasionadamente mi ausencia de lágrimas, y la vida transcurre en un silencio inicuo” [My ghosts, the dopis that enter my room at night to join me in the wakefulness while I passionately cry my absence of tears, and life passes by in an iniquitous silence] (168). The image of the dopi functions as a positive element that helps the woman deal with her sense of isolation. Within this novel, characters at all levels are influenced by superstitions based on the myths of African-influenced faith practices. As a result, the novel may be seen as a microcosm of the African-influenced religions in the nation of Costa Rica.

SPIRITUALITY AND RESISTANCE Within the novel, there is a direct connection between African-influenced spiritual development and political power, a component particularly pertinent to the Caribbean experience. The role of Afro-Caribbean spirituality is important in enabling characters to strengthen their psyches; in the case of Pedro, it leads him to undertake fighting against an unjust labor system. This point is fundamental in understanding the powerful role of religion as a form of resistance. Pedro is destined to bring justice to the workers and to establish peace within the community, as a result of his spiritual connections with the

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Orishas. His power and force become evident through a ritual that results in his possession by the spirit of Cuminá. Through this ritual, he assumes the spiritual force of the ancestors to empower the community. The novel demonstrates the cultural role of resistance by recognizing Black cultural centers where the seeds of African American freedom and identity germinated. The collective spirit of Black communities across the African Diaspora is expressed in the first section of chapter eight, in which the novel pays homage to the major centers of Afro-Caribbean culture: Pedro camina. Huyendo de su propia sombra, camina. Denso como la lentitud misma y en los ecos del camino, voces que rielan más allá del olor a zacate fresco. Voces de Kingston. Voces de Spanish Town. Voces ocultas en las venas. Voces de Belize. Voces huyendo. Voces buscando. Voces de la señora Mariot . . . una está vieja . . . Y Sitaira . . . Sitaira en el viento. [Pedro walks. Fleeing his own shadow, he walks. As dense as the slowness itself and in the echo of the road, voices that shine to another realm beyond the smell of fresh grass. Voices of Kingston. Voices of Spanish Town. Hidden voices in his veins. Voices of Belize. Voices fleeing. Voices searching. Voices of Mrs. Mariot . . . one is old . . . and Sitaira . . . Sitaira in the wind.] (169)

The voices Pedro hears inspire him to fight against the system. These voices come from the different regions in the Caribbean known for their historical significance to Black social progress. Reference to these famous communities28 of Black resistance demonstrates unity among the descendants of Africa. Syncretism To reproduce accurately the essence of Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions found within Costa Rica, both African and Christian-inspired religious traditions are presented in the novel. In discussing Duncan’s novel, Tinney notes that while both religious traditions are present, “the ancient gods and traditional beliefs of a long-lost Africa still seem to inhabit the atmosphere surrounding the Black population of Costa Rica” (1988 29–30). In spite of the fact that both religious traditions are vital in the novel, the limitations of Western religion are evident compared to the more expansive Africaninspired faith traditions. Christian elements appear in biblical references, for example, in sections narrating Sitaira’s funeral, which appear throughout the text: “De polvo somos y al polvo volveremos, el bribri Sebastián se unió al cortejo, gloria al Señor, llevando en su rostro una expresión que ninguno lograba descifrar” [Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return, Sebastian the Bribri joined the couple, glory to God, wearing on his face an expression that no one was able to decipher]

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(74); “Eres el sol, eres la luna el claro día, agua de mar canción de cuna, himno de tumba y vivo en ti llevo mi porvenir” [You are the sun, the moon in the light of the day, water of the sea, lullaby, grave hymn and I am alive in you forever] (74). The inclusion of these Judeo-Christian messages reflects the cultural reality of the Protestant faith traditions within the nation. However, as in the earlier given example, they are often associated with death or other negative elements. On three occasions, the Judeo-Christian interpretation of the lost tribe of Ham is cited in the novel. This legend is based on the curse that Noah placed upon his grandson Canaan for the youth’s father’s sin (Gen. 9:24–27), and that some biblical scholars and believers have interpreted as the creation myth of the Black race. Each reference to this story in the novel reflects a different response to the curse on Ham. When Elizabeth, Mariot’s mother, begins to feel an attraction to her new Black servant, she is torn between her feelings and her desire to respect the societal norms that divide Blacks and whites. In the following passage, she recalls a story that she learned in school: —Josué—y de pronto se halló vacilante frente a un simple cochero, que además era de una casta inferior, separada de la suya para siempre por leyes divinas, según le había enseñado en la escuela dominical, separado desde Noé, hijo de Cam, condenado desde siempre. [—Josué—and suddenly she found herself distracted in front of a common carriage driver who was from an inferior cast, separated from her own by the divine laws, according to what she had been taught in Sunday school, separated from Noah, son of Cam, punished forever.] (35)

Her internalized racial ambivalence, taught through her Christian education, leads her to view Blacks as an ethnic group cursed by God. A similar biblical reference is made in the first section of chapter six, as Mamy talks with Brown about Josué’s impertinent behavior: “Negro más orgulloso no había existido desde el tiempo de Noé, cuando Dios maldijo al hijo menor del patriarca y él, volviéndose negro a partir de aquel momento, trajo sobre sus descendientes la maldición divina. Noé era justo, gloria al Señor” [There was never a prouder black man since the time of Noah, when God cursed his youngest son and he, turning black from that moment, brought upon his descendants a divine curse. Noah was fair, glory to God] (127). This biblical myth is important in projecting the conclusion that the Black race, the result of God’s curse, is therefore inherently shameful and sinful. Christianity appears in chapter two as the plantation owner, Mr. Kingsman Moody, prays and quotes biblical scriptures to comfort himself and his family: “Padre . . . levantaré los ojos a los montes: ¿De dónde vendrá mi socorro?” [Father . . . I raise my eyes to the hills: From where will my salvation come?] (45), “Eres del sol, la luz que llega alumbrando mi porvenir”

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[You are the sun, the light that lightens my future] (71), “Todos son dichas, cuando estás cerca y vivo en ti llevo mi porvenir” [Everyone is blessed, when you are near and I live in you for my future] (71), and “Eres el roble, la fortaleza el claro día, agua de mar” [You are the oak, the fortress in the clear day in the sea] (73). While the preceding passages demonstrate his Christian fervor, his faith does not prevent him from using Mamy’s African-influenced healing magic to cure his back problems: “Deberías darme remedios caseros, Mamy . . .” [You should give me Mamy’s home remedies . . .] (129). Her treatment relieves him of a problem that his Western-trained doctors could not cure. Such use of non-Western medicine by the central white character upholds and acknowledges the positive qualities of Afro-Caribbean spiritual practices, even among non-African-descended Christian characters. Like Mr. Kingsman Moody, Mrs. Been Brown also appears to be a fervent Christian, but she too is drawn to the power of African-influenced spiritual practices. While she considers herself to be a devout follower of Christianity, when her family encounters conflict, she is open to the possibility that the family’s problems may be resolved by way of Mamá Bull’s magic. Mrs. Brown knows that this form of religious expression is frowned upon by cultured members of the community; therefore she remains silent when her friend proposes that she seek spiritual help from Mamá Bull: —Bueno . . . yo sé que todos somos cristianos y todo eso, pero . . . Bueno quiero decir, hay cosas. La misma Biblia habla de eso. —Deje de darle tanta vuelta a la cosa, señora Smith, y diga con toda claridad qué es lo que me quiere decir. —Que yo creo que . . . deberían hablar con Mamá Bull. —¿Ah sí?— respondió la señora Brown, sonriendo. [—Well . . . I know that we all are Christians and such, but . . . well, I want to say, there are things. The Bible itself speaks of this. —Stop worring about such things, Mrs. Smith, and tell me what you want to say. —I believe that . . . you all should speak with Mamá Bull. —Ah yes?—Mrs. Brown responded, smiling.] (86)

Despite Mrs. Been Brown’s position as a respected member of the community, she is still aware of the magical powers of Afro-Caribbean spiritual practices. In spite of her devout Christian faith, just beneath the surface, she adheres to African-influenced religious traditions. The text again portrays the peaceful coexistence of Christian and AfroCaribbean spiritual leaders as Mamá Bull and the pastor meet at Sitaira’s

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funeral. In the sixth section of chapter eight, the Black members of the community are concerned about how Mamá Bull and the pastor will react when they encounter one another: Pero la sorpresa fue la llegada de la señora Bull. Los hombres se pusieron de pie cuando la vieron venir. —Jesús . . . Me imagino la cara del pastor . . . . [But the surprise was the arrival of Mrs. Bull. The men stood up when they saw her coming. —Jesus . . . I can just imagine the pastor’s face . . . .] (183)

The amicable encounter surprises one of the men present, as he watches the two greet one another: —Parece que se llevan bien el pastor y la Mamá Bull . . . —dijo uno de ellos al fin. —Parece . . . [—It appears that the pastor and Mamá Bull are getting along . . . —said one of them at the end. —It seems so . . . .] (184)

The novel’s presentation of these two spiritual figures’ amicable meeting demonstrates that both leaders play an important role within the Black community, especially during major events such as funerals. While Mamá Bull and the pastor’s meeting ends without antagonism from either of the two leaders, another incident does reflect the priestess’s subversive role as an interpreter of the pastor’s biblical message to the community. As the preacher gives his sermon at Sitaira’s burial, he recites one of his often-quoted biblical scriptures, which offers a cryptic meaning to his followers: Como si aquel sermón sin sentido, tantas veces predicado por el pastor ‘De entre mi pueblo levantaré a uno—dice el Señor—le quitaré el corazón de piedra y le daré uno de carne, y será la liberación de muchos y la gloria del pueblo.’ Cuando el pastor decía eso, los hombres se miraban unos a otros sin entender nada. [As if that meaningless sermon, often preached by the pastor, “From among our community I will raise one up—says the Lord—I will take from him his heart of stone and give him one of flesh, and he will be the liberation of many and the glory of the town.” When the pastor was saying this, the men looked at one another without understanding a thing.] (184)

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This confusion leads one man among them named Ed, to approach Mamá Bull to ask her for an interpretation of the enigmatic passage: Una vez Ed le preguntó a Mamá Bull el significado de esas palabras que tan famosas se habían hecho en el pueblo. La sacerdotisa guardó silencio durante unos momentos, y luego . . . dijo que en el silencio del medio día estaba la respuesta, porque un día Cuminá se encarnaría en el pueblo y sería el pueblo mismo, y los altares saldrían sobrando. [Once Ed asked Mama Bull the meaning of these words that were so famous in the town. The priestess remained silent for a few moments, and later . . . she said that in the silence of noon was the answer, because one day Cuminá would take on human form in the town and it would be the same town, and the altars would remain.] (184)

The priestess’s ability to clarify the biblical message demonstrates that the pastor’s use of the Bible does not always provide clear guidance to his followers, and that within this fictional community, the characters see Mamá Bull as a source of guidance equivalent in stature to the Christian clergy. In the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance, the characters turn to those sources that they feel will best suit their spiritual needs in the moment. Combative Vision toward Existence In the West Indies, one manner in which slaves were able to resist oppression was through escaping and becoming cimarrones or maroons. The concept of cimarronaje lies at the center of Duncan’s novels, especially West Indian cimarronaje, a concept that Ian Smart believes is best defined by the West Indian Orisha, Cuminá (Smart 1996, 168). This spirit’s powerful force and attributes are described at the end of chapter one, as Mariot thinks about the family’s future, and the narration quickly shifts to a spiritual ceremony described by an unknown narrator: Danzaban en torno al fuego por las noches movidos por un ritmo diáfano que aceleraba el pulso de los hombres. Cuminá en el fuego. Cuminá en el ritmo, en la esperanza y en la rebeldía, en el amor y en el sueño. Danzaban en torno al fuego por las noches y combatían bajo el brazo poderoso del Cuminá guerrero, hasta que sus lanzas se agotaron y cayeron sangrando en la arena. [They would dance around the fire at night driven by the diaphanous rhythm that accelerated the men’s pulses. Cuminá in the fire. Cuminá in the rhythm, in the hope of rebellion, in love, and in dreams. They would dance around the fire at night and fight under the powerful arm of warrior Cuminá, to the point that their spears were gone and fell bleeding to the sand.] (27–28)

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This passage reflects the spirit’s all-encompassing essence and the rebellious and mythical nature of its strength, courage, and power. The next sentence is very significant because it underscores the deity’s role to instill in followers the courage to resist mainstream forces: “Morían, Cuminá en el pecho para volver por las noches a las danzas del pueblo, para inspirar la rebelión y la defensa de los sagrados principios del samamfo” [They were dying, Cuminá in their chests, to return at night to the town dances, to inspire the rebellion and the defense of the sacred principles of samamfo] (27–28). Even if the leaders that are inspired by the deity should die, they will spiritually return to offer guidance and defend the continuity of the samamfo. Pedro Dull stands on the cusp between two worlds: the world of the mestizo and foreign forces, and the world of those faithful to the struggle of the oppressed community. After participating in the initiation ritual, Pedro becomes instilled with the courage and wisdom to face the plantation owners and to organize the workers into a union: “Cuminá se encarnó en él para bailar juntos a la grey. Nada le fue menester en esos momentos. Recuperado, él mismo Cuminá, tambores yorubas en la noche, misterios lejanos que emanaban del samamfo” [Cuminá took on a human form to dance together with the dark of dusk. He was in need of nothing at these moments. Recuperated, the same Cuminá, Yoruba drums in the night, mysteriously distant that enveloped the samamfo] (173). Ian Smart defines the character’s role in the following manner: “Pedro’s mission assumes definite messianic proportions, the author reaffirms his relationship with cuminá (in the Costa Rican sense of a ‘deity’ or loa)” and offers a message “that peace can only come about as a result of successful resistance to the exploitation and oppression by the white/mestizo establishment” (Smart 1982b, 127–128). To carry Smart’s analysis farther, I would add that one of the novel’s successes is the manner in which it recognizes the historical tradition of Cuminá and legitimizes this major force in the history of the AfroCaribbean community. Pedro and Cuminá thus play a major role in the Black community’s struggle for freedom. A passage in the sixth part of chapter eight draws a direct connection between Pedro and the rebellious force of the samamfo, which comes from Cuminá: “La señora Mariot estaba pensando en Pedro y Pedro estaba pensando en las grandezas del samamfo, en la pasión que despierta la naturaleza en función sexual, en la tara del tiempo, en Cuminá, doblado en los bananales” [Mrs. Mariot was thinking about Pedro and Pedro was thinking about the great power of the samamfo, in the passion that wakes the nature in his sexual function, in the weight of time, in Cuminá, bent over in the banana fields] (186). As Mariot, Sitaira’s mother, holds Pedro in her erotic gaze, he keeps his mind focused on a more universal level, the magnificent forces of the samamfo. The reference depicts Cuminá as being doubled over in the banana grove like the West Indian workers who believe in him. Earlier in the text, the reader sees Pedro described in a similar position: “Pedro doblado en

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los bananales, a brazo partido, olvidando viejos rencores, sacrificándose para alcanzar metas soñadas por él mismo” [Pedro bent over in the banana field, arms split, forgetting old grudges, sacrificing himself to reach the goals he had always imagined] (175). This repeated image fuses Pedro with this symbol of strength and power. When Cuminá is mentioned, it is always within a context of strength and power: “Cuminá en las historias de patrias lejanas y desconocidas; en sus ansias guerreras, Cuminá; en los mitos de su mundo, del mundo de todos los mundos, Cuminá” [Cuminá in the stories of far away unknown lands; in their lust of war, Cuminá; in the myths of his world, of the world of all worlds, Cuminá] (173). La paz del pueblo presents tensions in the community at many levels, particularly among white characters who oppose the authentic expression of Black cultural identity. One such individual is Pedro’s maternal grandfather, an Irishman in Jamaica named Mr. Kingsman Moody, who liberally voices his hostile attitudes toward Blacks. As a result of his racist ideas, coupled with those of the church, his daughter’s psyche becomes tainted. In the first section of chapter two, when Elizabeth meets the new Black coachman Josué, she is intrigued by his appearance and charisma, and at the same time repulsed by his race, because of her father’s teachings. When Elizabeth hears Josué speak what she thinks is French, she is not able to accept this because she recalls her adopted father’s statement regarding Blacks’ ability to parrot European languages without understanding them (37). Ironically, the fact that Elizabeth is not sure whether Josué is speaking French demonstrates her own cultural limitations. After the new coachman helps Elizabeth Moody descend from the carriage, his refined behavior and movements cause her to be attracted to him, but these thoughts are quickly interrupted by ideas that she learned from her father’s dinner conversations with the local pastor: “Allí, sobre la mesa del comedor, la señorita Elizabeth aprendió la historia de los haitianos. Los imaginaba temibles, como los demonios, con grandes ojos rojos y dientes de vampiro” [There, on the dining room table, Miss. Elizabeth learned Haitian history. She imagined them as fearsome, like demons, with large red eyes and vampire teeth] (41). The father’s racist stereotypes about Haitians are based on the country’s strong nationalistic attitudes, and his own internalization of that agenda. Elizabeth successfully overcomes her racist ideas and runs away with Josué. This courageous act symbolizes an important level of resistance against antiblack rhetoric, as a white individual learns to see beyond skin color. The father is distressed with his daughter’s decision; the idea that his own daughter would enter into a romantic relationship with a Black man is so offensive that he disinherits her. When she later dies of tuberculosis, the father uses this to support his racist theories regarding the incompetence of Blacks: “La otra hija muerta de tuberculosis, después de fugarse con un

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negro, un cochero negro, que como todos los negros era borracho y no sabía proteger a una dama, a una hija de Kingsman Moody” [The other daughter died from tuberculosis, after fleeing with a Black man, a buggy driver, who like all Blacks was a drunkard who was unable to protect a lady, the daughter of Kingsman Moody] (137). While Elizabeth is able to resist her father’s thinking, her adopted sister Margaret is not so fortunate. In the second section of the second chapter, Margaret’s racist views of Blacks are revealed as she thinks over what she should say to Elizabeth: “Más tarde, conversando con la señorita Margaret le habría de decir a propósito de Josué, que los negros, en todo caso, son negros” [Later, when speaking with Miss Margaret, she would have intentionally spoken about Josué by saying that Blacks, after all, were Blacks] (36). The novel reveals other levels of racism against Blacks, such as sexual abuses against slave women, for example, the emotional and sexual abuses that Mamy suffers from her former master, and lover, Mr. Kingsman Moody, in Jamaica. However, while the novel does explore tensions between whites and Blacks, more attention is given to opposition that Pedro must endure from members of his own ethnic community. In Duncan’s novel, the Black community forces Pedro to resist their pressures, a force that is just as powerful as that, which emanates from the white community. These tensions come from his mother, his friends, and even the town’s Black pastor. The greatest intra-ethnic pressure that he faces comes from the self-interested Been Brown family, especially from the wife of the local property owner.29 After Pedro has been infused with the strength of the samamfo in the empowering ritual, he tries to explain this force to his mother. Her response is resistance, because she does not believe in the Afro-Caribbean concept of Cuminá. Her lack of faith in Africa and African spiritual concepts leads her to tell him to abandon his alien spiritual beliefs, which she describes as foolish tales: “Ahora mismo te vas a poner a leer la Biblia—dijo su madre—y se va a olvidar de las tonterías sobre el samamfo . . . . Kumasi no existió, ni existe. Piense en Jerusalén, en la ciudad de Dios” [You are going to read the Bible right now—his mother said—and you are going to forget about all that mess about samamfo . . . . Kumasi did not exist, doesn’t exist. Think about Jerusalem, in the city of God] (174). The mother’s lack of faith leads her to encourage her son to read the Bible as a means of understanding the only true religious perspective, which also is the only sanctioned spiritual expression permitted among members of the Black community. Beyond refusing to believe in Pedro’s spiritual philosophy, she even discounts African history. As Pedro attempts to reason with his mother, she rejects the idea that Africa is a continent of historical significance and value: “No existe nada de eso. No hay nada que se llame Ghana; no hubo un reino de oro llamado Mali, ni hubo ningún rey llamado Sumangurú. Son leyendas,

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inventos” [None of that exists. There is no place such as Ghana; there was no kingdom of gold called Mali, there was no king named Sumangurú. They are legends, lies] (173). As a fictional character, she represents Blacks that have overlooked and rejected their own cultural and historical past, to adopt instead ideas associated with Judeo-Christian faith traditions and culture. She even goes as far as telling him that had it not been for slavery, Blacks would still be in Africa as savages: “Que los africanos eran vagos, le decía, salvajes, paganos, y si no hubiera sido por el hombre blanco nosotros estaríamos igual” [Africans were lazy, she told him, salvages, pagans, and if it had not been for the white man we would be equal] (175). The mother’s statements demonstrate the internalized self-hate that she has developed as a result of her adoption of Western ideas and myths. The leader’s mother has resigned herself to the fact that, now that Blacks have left Africa, they have no hope of achieving justice: “Es que la ley no la hicimos nosotros . . . ¡Nuestra ley se quedó en Africa!” [It is that we did not make the laws . . . . Our law stayed in Africa!] (174). She acknowledges that the laws that now govern their lives are laws established by the dominant plantocracy system, and she is unaware that this structure could be changed. Pedro’s mother’s attitude mirrors that of the Black pastor of the community; both believe that, due to the geographical dispersion and inferior status of Black individuals, they should accept their present situation and not cause trouble. While the pastor delivers his Sunday morning sermon, he expresses his belief that the revolutionary ideas of Marcus Garvey are strange and contradictory to the teachings of God: “Anoche estuve oyendo una charla de esos que siguen a Garvey. Esos locos que pretenden que volvamos al Africa, a la barbarie, al paganismo” [Last night I heard a talk from those that follow Marcus Garvey. These nuts are proposing that we go back to Africa, to barbarism and paganism] (149). The clergyman’s attack on the Garveyites is an attack on an institution established to counter the racist power structure found among the plantocracy. Later in the sermon, the pastor expresses his disapproval of the group’s goal of returning to Africa. He sees such a move to be a step backward into the mist of a primitive civilization: Yo me dije que aunque equivocados, tienen buenas intenciones. Pero no: todo lo que yo oí fue de grandes imperios africanos que solo en la mente de ellos existen, y del derecho que tienen los pueblo a resistir la opresión, y sobre todo, el derecho que tienen los negros a resistir la opresión por cualquier medio que consideren adecuado. [I said to myself that even though they are wrong, they have good intentions. But no: all that I Heard was about the great African empires that only exist in

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their imagination, and of the right that they have to get the community to resist oppression, and above everything, the right that Blacks have to resist oppression by any means that they deem necessary.] (149–150)

The pastor tears down concepts related to Africa by describing their customs as barbarous and pagan. By doing this, he rejects his potential role as a mediator by failing to seek a solution to the common problem facing the Black community. He continues his denunciation of the rebels and asks the congregation, and the Holy Spirit, to confirm his denunciation: “Yo les pregunto: ¿es eso cristianismo? El Espíritu responde por mí . . . ¡aleluya! [I asked them: Is that Christianity? The Holy Spirit responds on my behalf . . . alleluya!] (150). This master of rhetoric uses the concept of the Holy Spirit to confirm his manipulative claims. The fact that the congregation responds to his question by uttering ¡aleluya! indicates that they support the pastor and his theories. As a result of views like those of the pastor, Christianity becomes an institution to oppress Blacks while African spirituality serves to empower the Black community in its resistance to hegemonic structures.30 While the pastor is directly critical of Black resistance, he does not denounce the banana company’s failure to demonstrate compassion toward its employees. The Western religion touted by the pastor is influenced by the financial support of its benefactors—the Browns. The pastor overlooks the fact that Blacks are striking against the banana company because of its lack of compassion toward its employees. Rather, he sees Pedro and his mission from a limited economic perspective that supports rich property owners and those benefitting from the fruit-production industry. The pastor’s openness to the Browns’ material influence explains why he urges his flock to maintain the status quo. At the same moment that he completes his diatribe, Mrs. Brown looks out the window of the church and notices that the pastor’s house needs painting: “La señora Been se seguía abanicando. Por la ventana de la iglesia vio la casa del pastor: y pensó que necesitaba una mano de pintura y se dijo que hablaría con el señor Brown sobre el asunto” [Mrs. Been continued fanning herself. Through the church window, she saw the pastor’s house: and she thought that it needed a fresh coat of paint and told herself that she would speak to Mr. Brown about the matter] (150). Mrs. Been Brown controls the position of the community’s Christian church by using her economic influence to reward the pastor for his support. As he concludes his politically charged sermon, the pastor looks toward his patron as a sign of his subservience: “Entonces el pastor, mirando a la señora Been que se abanicaba, dijo con voz mística ‘oremos’ y toda la congregación inclinó su frente como un solo hombre” [Then the pastor, looking at Mrs. Been as she fanned herself, said in a mystic tone “let us pray” and the entire congregation bowed their heads as one] (150). The metaphorical

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reference to the congregation being as united in prayer indicates that he has accomplished his quasi-Christian objective of turning them against Pedro Dull and his quest for justice. Mrs. Been Brown’s spiritual authenticity is as much in question as the pastor’s. One example of the matron’s questionable devotion to the mandates of the Christian church appears when her disheveled son, Cató, returns home and confesses to killing Sitaira. The mother beats the youth until he recants his confession and alleges that it was Pedro who killed the woman (116). She uses this murder as a way to punish Pedro because she sees his earlier political actions as sinful, divisive, and economically costly. Her action reflects an inconsistent attitude toward justice and demonstrates the extent to which she will go to silence Pedro while attempting to save her own son. The text reveals that Mrs. Been Brown’s high status and social privilege within the community comes from her economic status, coupled with her light skin color. In the first section of chapter four, the narrator reveals that her money is an important element of her character, closely followed by her skin tone: “En la indómita violencia del llano la señora Been valía solamente por su dinero, aunque no dejaba de agradar su color” [In the wild violence of the plains, Mrs. Been was important only because of her wealth, even though folks couldn’t help but admire her complexion] (77). As the narration continues, it explains her dominant role in the community among the other Black women: “Las señoras eran de rango en la comunidad. Sobre todo la señora Been, con la piel clarita, con dinero, aunque su marido sea tan negro” [The women were well respected within the community. Above all Mrs. Been, with her light skin, money, despite her husband’s black skin] (77). Her light complexion and her husband’s wealth compensate for Mr. Been Brown’s dark skin. Mrs. Brown has internalized racist thought patterns, and her desire to maintain her family’s ethnic purity leads to her offensive behavior. She explains this to her friend Mrs. Smith as she elucidates her theory that Mariot wanted to wed Sitaira to Cató for economic motives: “Es cuestión de dinero: ya le puso el ojo. Lo quiere para su hija. Anda detrás del dinero de mi marido. ¿Cómo se le ocurre? Además de que nosotros tenemos sangre escocesa y no nos vamos a estar mezclando así: a mi hijo le he dicho con toda claridad que debe casarse con alguien de piel más clara.” [It is about money: she kept an eye on it. She wants it for her daughter. She hides behind her husband’s money. How did this happen? Besides that we have Scottish blood and we will not be mixing like this: I have clearly told my son that he should marry a woman with lighter skin.] (85)

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Skin tone plays an important role in the novel, reflecting the consequences of internalized racism. In the case of Mrs. Been Brown, internalized concepts of whiteness and hate of blackness motivate her to strive toward being associated with lighter skin. One of the most severe forms of intra-ethnic betrayal for Pedro is that of his fellow union organizer, Benigno. His Afro-Antillean friend is forced to take advantage of an offer to improve his individual standard of living by ceasing to fight for union-related activity. Pedro discovers that the latter has yielded to the temptation of a steady income in exchange for abandoning his fight for change to benefit fruit company workers. As Pedro reflects on his friend’s surprising success as a bus driver, he compares him with slaves that sold out their cohorts to please their slave masters, therefore reaping special benefits: “A los meses lo vio de conductor. Era demasiado poco tiempo para llegar a conductor. Por eso Pedro lo miraba desde entonces con recelo, recordando la vieja historia de las haciendas donde el esclavo traidor recibía la recompensa de su fidelidad al amo, ostentosamente” [For months, he saw him as a driver. It was in a short time that he became a driver. Therefore, Pedro looked at him with suspicion, remembering the old story of the haciendas where the treacherous slave ostentatiously received a reward for their loyalty toward their master] (178). The fact that Pedro cannot even trust the individual with whom he had shared a common goal for so many years reflects the degree of alienation he faces from his own community. Individual gain versus collective progress is another level of conflict that Blacks must face in the novel and within the African Diaspora. By looking at the relationships between Pedro and members of the community, we can see that the leader faces distancing from those around him; while some are moved by racism, others are inspired by economic factors. Despite these pressures that cause Pedro to experience a level of isolation, the rebel leader is not deterred in his mission to promote change and to improve the lives of the oppressed workers in the community. Lo real maravilloso Some of the novel’s characters possess a worldview that enables them to see reality from a perspective that challenges logocentric thinking. This alternative perspective is represented within the novel as lo real maravilloso. The Haitian coachman makes reference to this Afro-Caribbean reality as he acknowledges that his worldview is different from that of his soon-to-belover, Elizabeth: “Nuestra visión de las cosas . . . depende del punto de vista” [Our vision of things . . . depends on our point of view] (109). This perspective is further elaborated as Pedro’s own level of spiritual awareness matures.

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In the ceremony that takes place in the second part of chapter eight, Pedro absorbs the spirit of the samamfo from the beats of drums: “Pero una inesperada ola de espasmos invadió el cuerpo de Pedro y comenzó a balancearse igual que todos, sudando, sus ojos perdidos en el infinito, su mano agitándose en el viento” [But an unexpected wave of spasms took over Pedro’s body and he began to move to and fro like the rest, sweating, his eyes lost in infinity, his hand waving in the wind] (173). As the ritual continues, all present become more spiritually involved, and a spirit then possesses Pedro: “Cuminá se encarnó en él para bailar junto a la grey. Nada le fue menester en esos momentos. Recuperado, él mismo Cuminá, tambores yorubas en la noche, misterios lejanos que emanaban del samamfo” [Cuminá took human form to dance together in the dark. Nothing was done in those moments. Revived, Cuminá, Yoruba drums in the night, distant mysteries that emanated from the samamfo] (173). Hours later, he regains his composure as the celebration winds down and Cuminá departs from him: En la madrugada se fue Cuminá y Pedro cayó sobre una piedra, extenuado y estuvo sentado allí, oyendo a los tambores que no cesaban, y sus nalgas se apretaban en la banca de madera, y sus ojos estaban fijos en la semioscuridad de la mañana. Levantó la vista para mirar el cielo. Una estrella fugaz cruzó en urgente vuelo. Fugaz también su vida toda ahora, los tambores del samamfo resonaban en sus oídos como oscuro eco. [In the morning Cuminá departed and Pedro rested on a rock, exhausted and seated, hearing the beating of drums that never ceased, and his butt cheeks tightly planted on the wooden bench, and his eyes were focused on the semidarkness of the morning. He raised his gaze to look at the sky. A shooting star rapidly passed by. Fleeting like his life now, the samamfo’s drums pounded in his ears like a dark echo.] (176–177)

Upon Cuminá’s departure, the youth finds that he possesses increased courage and determination to continue his mission with the spirit of his ancestors (samamfo). At dawn, he realizes that his old life has quickly disappeared, just as did the star that he views in the dawn sky. On this first day of his renewed spiritual path, Pedro begins to discover his new magical force. Fragmentation In the same matter that reality is altered from the norm, the traditional concept of sequenced and chronological progression of events is replaced with nonsequential narration and random progression of actions. The novel presents time as one continuous flow by joining together events of the past with those of the present; it highlights important historical, cultural, and political events,

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which invites the reader to reconstruct the series of events that make up the literary reality. One segment of the novel that serves as an example of narrative simultaneity appears in six chronologically distinct episodes, juxtaposed across seven pages of the text. The second section of chapter eight begins with a philosophical description of the nature of existence (169–170). After this opening scene, the narrative shifts to a discussion between a justice official and a gravedigger concerning the possibility that Pedro could have committed Sitaira’s murder (170–172). The scene that follows describes the Cuminá ritual, led by Mamá Bull to empower Pedro (172–173). In the next scene, between Pedro and his mother, she expresses her disbelief in the forces of Cuminá (173–175). The subsequent scene depicts a conversation between Pedro and his friend Benigno after Pedro declares his commitment to fight for the cause of the local workers (176). The last scene depicts the spiritually enriched Pedro returning to town the morning after having taken part in the ritual (176–177). The text does not provide direct structural references to explain the temporal shifts that occur; only by completing the novel is the reader able to dissect the different sections and mentally place them in a chronological sequence. The nonlinear sections tell the story in a fragmented fashion, thus mirroring a fragmented population and its way of looking at reality. The hopscotch narrative structure is demonstrative of the novel’s resistance to the structural form of the traditional novel. This fragmented order is one that in many ways better reflects a reality that is not always neatly and predictably sequenced. It forces readers to suspend their need to interpret events sequentially and allows them to look at many short episodes collectively. When combined, these narrative swaths help to tell the story as a whole. With this form of literary resistance, the author is better able to reflect reality by making the structure of the narration consistent with the Afro-Caribbean worldview, which may appear to be chaotic and multichanneled to the Western reader, but actually represents a structural mode that is consistent within African-influenced aesthetics of storytelling. Oral Tradition The neo-African tale has survived for centuries throughout the Diaspora and played an important role uniting the Black community. As in Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo, La paz del pueblo demonstrates the influence of the oral tradition that keeps the historical past alive in the minds of living characters. In the sixth section of chapter two, the generations of oral accounts serve a practical purpose during a raging Jamaican storm. Mr. Kingsman Moody’s anxiety about the tempest provokes him to ask his servant, Mamy, if she had ever witnessed such a storm so early in the season. Her response is based on the orally transmitted experiences of generations of Blacks in the region

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passed down to her: “Mamy tenía a su respuesta toda la carga ancestral de un pueblo en diáspora. Habló con esa autoridad y con la que dan los años” [Mamy had the answer of all the ancestral load of a town in the diaspora. She spoke with the authority that comes with age] (46). The reference implies that, just as she recalls stories about the weather, she also is privy to all the memories and pressures of ancestral strife. The information Mamy gives is important in the novel because her wisdom is based on the ancestors, figuratively present in oral folk tales. Another example of the Afro-Caribbean tradition of orality appears in an intercalated story that reflects the tradition of Anancy tales, the Africaninfluenced tales that use animals, proverbs, and folklore to illustrate a moral or instructional message. Quince Duncan explains that the characters in the Anancy tales have survived in the psyche of the African during and after the Middle Passage (Meléndez Chaverri and Duncan 1978, 54). Characters in these stories such as Brother Spider, Brother Tiger, and Brother Rabbit symbolize specific characteristics that are found in humankind. Such tales instruct the Afro-Caribbean individual about the realities of the world using animal characters and their strengths, virtues, and weaknesses. Joice Anglin Edwards de Scott’s study Anancy in Limón indicates that Anancy tales in the Limón region of Costa Rica originated in Africa’s West Coast: “A los esclavos en el Caribe [Anancy Tales] les sirvieron para demostrar el gran valor de la astucia contra la fuerza física del enemigo” [For Caribbean slaves [Anancy Tales] allowed them to illustrate the great value of cleverness against the physical strength of their enemies] (Gordon 1989, 18). While these tales seem simple, they contain elements that ensure better survival skills for future generations.31 The first intercalated tale in La paz del pueblo is a tale of El Hermano Tucumá y el Hermano Araña (64–68). This story is about a wife’s infidelity with her female cousin who comes to stay at their home and is used to describe what he thinks is going on in Cornelio Kenton’s home. The husband allows the female cousin to sleep in the same bed with him and his wife. One day, the son returns to the house to discover the mother in a romantic embrace with the cousin. The child quickly returns to his father and reveals what he has encountered. The father goes to Brother Spider to seek a solution, but the story ends with the cousin continuing to visit the house and the wife giving birth to a child that resembles Brother Spider. The moral of the tale is that the husband is powerless against his wife’s indiscretions; the situation with the cousin is the least of his problems because the wife appears to be involved in affairs with his neighbors as well: El Hermano Tucumá curó a su mujer con un rito extraño y prolongado que los vecinos recuerdan todavía, curó a su familia y todo. Y aunque ese año la tal

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Alicia tuvo una hija muy parecida al Hermano Araña, creció mucho la fama del brujo. —¿Y la prima? —Siguió llegando. —¿Es tan tonto Cornelio Kenton? —No tenés más que ir a mirarlo, hija . . . [Brother Tucumá cured his wife with a strange ritual that lasted so long that the neighbors still remember it today; it cured the entire family. Even though that year Alicia had a daughter that appeared like Brother Spider, she grew up to be a famous healer. —And your cousin? —She continued to come. —Is Cornelio Kenton that dumb? —You only have to look at him, daughter . . .] (67)

The tale ends with a mother telling the story to her daughter and comparing Cornelio Kenton with the cuckolded husband in the tale, because the aged man has allowed Pedro to become part of his family and to take over his role as the head of the family. In short, this tale helps the unidentified storyteller to demonstrate, via a tale, to what extent Mr. Cornelio Kenton has no authority within his own home. This and other intercalated Anancy tales pay homage to an important African-influenced rhetorical device that allowed Blacks to learn to survive. The interwoven stories within the text reflect a technique of oral storytelling, which looks at the whole of an item, and makes the process of telling as important as the product. In the African tradition of storytelling, the storyteller draws out all the details, so that the audience receives distinct layers of details separately, rather than being told all the details at once in an ordered fashion. In the traditional African style of storytelling, the griot or folk historian never goes straight to the point of the story, but rather builds up suspense slowly until all of the details connect at the end of the story. As a result of this complex structure, the audience becomes involved after being immersed in the content as well as the context of the story, thus becoming a participant in the storytelling process. Just as the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance is more than a simple novel to entertain, these intercalated stories, presented in the form of Anancy tales, serve a more practical didactic role as well. The inclusion of such tales is consistent with the African worldview, which uses art in a functional manner by presenting a socially significant message within a vehicle valued by the African-influenced community. By using these tales, the older generation can guide its successors by embedding important lessons in a form that is deceptively simple and easy to remember.

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Magic, Medicine, and Ritual Medicinal rituals are important in curing physical problems, as well as restoring health and positive energy. Within the African-influenced community in La paz del pueblo, magic and medicine are intertwined, since they often work together in Afro-Caribbean religious cultures.32 Aviva Chomsky’s research confirms that, in Costa Rican plantations of the United Fruit Company: Black healers played the same type of dual role they played on the slave plantations. On one hand, they worked as company employees, treating black patients in the company hospital and especially in the company’s field dispensaries. On the other hand, they treated patients using both herbal and supernatural means as an alternative to the company’s medical system. (1996, 139)

These doctors, nontraditional in the Western sense, played a special role in helping those who favored this form of healing to improve their quality of life. The use of magic is a constant resource for the characters within the novel. Mrs. Been Brown uses magic to explain Pedro’s attraction to Sitaira. She concludes that when Pedro first went to Sitaira’s house, he became the victim of Mariot’s dark magic. She believes the mother placed something malevolent in the youth’s food, causing him to fall in love with her daughter: “¡Lo atraparon! Cometió el error de ir a la casa de esas brujas y de comer allí. Eso fue lo peor, que comió allí. Algo le echaron . . .” [They caught him! He made the mistake of going to the house of those witches and eating. That was the worst part, he ate there. They put something in his food . . .] (60). Another reference, by Mrs. Been Brown, indicates that Sitaira herself may have used dark forces for her personal and economic gain: “Bueno . . . yo no niego que no es bonita, pero no tanto como para la suerte que tiene. Debe tener algún pacto con el demonio” [Well . . . I don’t deny that it’s not pretty, but not that bad when you think of all the luck that he has had. He must have a pact with the devil] (59). While Mrs. Brown’s daughter doubts her mother’s accusations, the mother continues to provide examples supporting her claim that the girl must have supernatural powers: No sería nada raro que esa mujer de negro que han visto algunas noches por el cementerio sea ella. . . .—Sí es verdad: muchas la han visto. Se mete al cementerio con una macana y entierra algo y luego nadie logra ver por dónde sale . . . . Esa mujer es pura suerte. Pegan la lotería a cada rato, y casi nunca tienen nada porque todo se lo gastan. Y yo creo que se lo gastan en potajes raros. [It would not be strange if that black man’s wife that you have seen dressed in black around the cemetery some nights would be her. . . .—Yes it is true: many have seen her. She creeps into the cemetery with a small shovel and

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buries something and later no one sees where she exits. . . . That woman is pure luck. They win the lottery every now and then, and almost never have anything because they spend it all. I believe that they spend it all on strange stews.] (59–61)

While Mrs. Been Brown appears to be certain about Sitaira and Mariot’s collusion with dark magic, there are no direct textual clues to support her claims; but the text does offer examples that demonstrate that Mrs. Been Brown is not a neophyte to folk cures and medicine. Mrs. Been Brown resorts to folk medicine to heal what she considers to be her son’s wounded spirit. After Cató returns home naked and disoriented, she blames his psychotic behavior, which resulted in Sitaira’s death, on provocation by an obeah attack (85–86). Because she senses that something paranormal has taken place, she responds by using traditional African-inspired medicine. To remove this supposed malevolent force and cure her son, she conducts a ritual that uses plants and herbs, as she obliges him to bathe with “las siete yerbas” [the seven herbs] (85). This remedy demonstrates that even in her position of privilege, she does not consistently rely on Western traditions to improve the situation, but rather draws on African-influenced rituals and magical medicine. It is this rejection of the central placement of Western values that makes this work so significant in demonstrating cultural resistance. The novel also demonstrates that not only the Black characters believe in the power of magic and medicine. In the second section of chapter six, the Jamaican plantation owner Mr. Kingsman Moody, Sitaira’s maternal greatgrandfather, solicits his servant Mamy to use her special medicinal talents to help cure the chronic back problems that his doctors, with all their training, cannot cure: Estos malditos dolores. Y los malditos médicos de ahora: yo debería emborracharme. La maldita ciencia solo ha servido para complicarnos la vida a todos. Porque allí están los negros que no saben nada de ciencia. Toman zarzón, sorocí, té de menta y purgantes. Eso es todo: y allí está Mamy que no se muere. [These damn aches and pains. And the damn doctors these days: I should get drunk. Damn science had managed to complicate the lives of everyone. Because there are blacks that know nothing about science. They drink zarzón, sorochi, mint tea, and laxatives. That’s all: and there you find Mamy that never dies.] (128)

After being cured, Mr. Moody recognizes that within Mamy’s culture, there are powerful healing forces that can serve him better than the medicine of his Western-trained doctors.

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The Nommo La paz del pueblo is consistent with other novels in this study in its use of the nommo. The power of the nommo or word is evident in altering psychic forces and energies. The concept of the nommo is broad enough to include even sounds such as laughter. Janheinz Jahn includes this among the tenets of Bantu philosophy that he defines in his study on neo-African literature. Jahn asserts that humans are unique because they exercise “not only the power of the word, but also the power of laughter” (1990, 139). This form of expression frequently appears as a linguistic marker of resistance against the dominant power structure. Ian Smart is the first literary critic to make a connection in La paz del pueblo between laughter and the nommo. In an interview, Duncan describes the plot of a play that he believes accurately illustrates the important role that laughter plays as an auditory marker to underscore the Black community’s lack of sympathy for its mestizo counterparts: When you hear black people laugh . . . well, let us take, for example, the case of a play written by another author from Limón, based on Joaquín Gutiérrez’s Puerto Limón. The author presents the situation of the complete breakdown of the system for those engaged in the banana industry on the Atlantic coast. After all those years of labor, the company is suddenly leaving and there is nobody to sell bananas to . . . . The black man starts laughing, whereas the Spaniards [mestizos] carry on with their “¡Ay! ¿Qué vamos a hacer?” and all those lamentations. (Smart 1985, 288)

In the drama, the Black population seems very little affected by this situation that appears tragic for the Costa Rican mestizo population. While the mestizos struggle to deal with the economic ruin of the banana industry in the midnineteenth century, the Black population responds to the loss with laughter because they have very little to lose compared to the landowners. Ian Smart considers laughter in the novel to reflect a level of freedom achieved in the Black community: “The peals of Sitaira’s triumphal laughter literally flow from the samamfo, for she has already been immolated in the prime of her female fecundity, and she has returned to the waters of life” (1996, 163). Duncan posits that Sitaira’s laughter represents the alliance that has been formed between the ancestors and the Black community, thus offering the latter a ray of hope (Smart 1985, 288). This use of the nommo serves as a verbal marker symbolizing that the supreme spirit of the samamfo is present and will see that justice is done. The role of laughter is very important in La paz del pueblo, because it liberates people from those groups that attempt to oppress others. The concept of

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laughter brings us again to Frantz Fanon’s three stages of the development of the Black intellectual writer. He notes that the third stage of this process of liberation is marked by laughter: “We spew ourselves up; but already underneath laughter can be heard” (1963, 222). The presence of laughter in La paz del pueblo signals the Black community’s realization that their attempts to resist the oppressive colonial-influenced population have been successful. Heteroglossia The structure of La paz del pueblo contains many genres of communication: oral tales, folk stories and expressions, poetry, and songs. The compilation of diverse communicative genres adds to the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance’s openness toward multiple forms of expression. One such form that has been discussed earlier is the inclusion of oral tales to educate and entertain. The novel also integrates different languages and dialects to reflect the linguistic diversity within the region. Poetry appears in the work to underscore central themes of the plot. In the third section of chapter two, Elizabeth recites a love poem written by one of the plantation slaves. This poem serves as an effective tool to allow her to expresses her repressed emotions and illustrate to the reader her close spiritual bond with the Black community: “Oh, pequeña mujer, pequeña mujer: / Tus ojos brillan como las flores / Tus manos finas; palma mayor . . . ” [Oh, little woman, little woman: / Your eyes shine like flowers / Your delicate hands; large palms . . .] (40). This poem represents a beautiful artistic creation that originates from the Black community itself, thus demonstrating a product of beauty born from the heart of the oppressed. The novel includes many different forms of music that serve as a palimpsest of the emotional events that occur in the novel. At Sitaira’s funeral, the group sings a spiritual: “Cuando suenen las campanas—cantaba el pueblo, canto hondo anunciando el día final cuando empieza la mañana eternal tú y yo en primavera que nunca ha de cesar a la orilla de Río Jordán” [When the bells ring—the town was singing, a deep song—announcing the final day when the eternal morning begins, you and I in the spring that has never ended on the shore of the River Jordan] (75). This song reflects the influence of Protestant religious traditions, a major component of West Indian-descended culture. This musical style is similar to that of the North American gospel tradition, and the somber lyrics reflect the intense pain felt by the members of the Black community. Another song integrated within the text appears in the fourth section of chapter eight, as Pedro departs from the initiation ritual on the train conducted by Benigno: “Era domingo y de la casona donde llegaban las prostitutas los sábados salían varios hombres. Se detuvieron a verlos pasar.

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Siguieron su camino, circundando la construcción de madera, desde el cual bajo inquietas pulsaciones de guitarra saltaba una canción que se definía con altivez” [It was Sunday and various men left from the house where the prostitutes gathered on Saturdays. They stopped to see them walk by. They continued their path, circling the wooden structure, from where there were hints of guitar music that underscored their haughtiness] (180). This song praises the powerful spiritual forces of God as they pass by the community’s worldly activities outside. The novel also includes folk expressions, which pass on the collective wisdom within the Black community. As Carmen is about to eat, he uses an expression that comes from the Black community as a toast: “‘Chile y sal a tus nalgas’ dijo, emulando la expresión de los negros” [“Chile and salt on your ass,” he said, emulating the expression of Blacks] (153). The character’s use of this colloquial expression indicates his awareness of the culture and reflects the Afro-Caribbean dialect used by this community. Music, Song, and Dance In the novel, music unifies the characters, especially during religious gatherings and spiritual events. The role of music and spirituals reflects a form of expression common in the English-speaking parts of the African Diaspora. In North America, for example, these songs reflect Blacks’ emotional and spiritual responses to their struggles. Joseph Washington, Jr., explains the following: “Where they are not used for inspiration, Negro spirituals are generally valued as works of art. The rhythm is African; the text of the majority of spirituals is an adaptation of the King James Version of the Bible” (1964, 207). This form of music thus underscores the transculturalization among the African and European religious traditions, with songs that are faithful to African aesthetics and to European content. Within Duncan’s novel, a song in the spiritual musical tradition appears in section four of chapter eight as individuals attending a church service demonstrate their spiritual unity and sorrow by singing the following verses: Eres del sol la luz que llega, alumbrando mi porvenir, todas son penas cuando estás lejos y vivo en ti llevo mi porvenir. Eres el roble, la fortaleza El claro día, agua de mar, todas son dichas, cuando estás cerca, al cendro fuerte no debes talar.

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[You are the light that comes from the sun, lighting my future, all are in pain when you are far away and I live in you and I carry my future. You are the oak tree, the fortress The clear of the day, water of the sea, all are blessed, when you are near, you should not cut down a strong cendro.] (180–181)

This song symbolizes their collective respect and obedience to the will of their Christian God. Throughout the text, flashback episodes of Sitaira’s burial also contain songs. In the first section of the fourth chapter, those gathered at the burial site offer spiritual reverence by singing the following verses: Eres el sol, eres la luna el claro día, agua de mar canción de cuna, himno de tumba y vivo en ti llevo mi porvenir. [You are the sun, you are the moon The lights of the day, water of the sea Lullaby, grave hymn And in you I live and I place my future.] (74)

These songs illustrate the role of music as a form of communion and connection with the higher powers of the universe in the Protestant religious tradition. Traditionally, dance has also played an important role in Africaninfluenced cultures for entertainment as well as spiritual expression. Donald K. Gordon sees the role of dance in Duncan’s Los cuatro espejos as being significant within the Black community and concludes that: “La danza ayuda a definir la identidad” [Dance helps to define identity] (1988, 115). This is also the case in La paz de pueblo. During the initiation ceremony conducted by Mamá Bull, dance is combined with music to help followers to connect with superior spiritual forces. At the height of the ceremony, complete with vigorous dancing, Cuminá appears. Dance is a key element in the ceremonial process; therefore the author uses this art form as a tool of liberation: “Morían, Cuminá en el pecho para volver por las noches a las danzas del pueblo, para inspirar la rebelión y la defensa de los sagrados principios del samamfo” [They died, Cuminá in his chest to return during the dances in the community at night, to inspire the revolt and the defense of the sacred principles of the

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samamfo] (28). On the last page of the text, peace comes to the community thanks to the salvation indicated by Cuminá’s dancing: “Cuminá danzaba la paz del pueblo” [Cuminá danced the peace of the community] (187). This celebratory dancing symbolizes success in uniting members of the local community with Pedro, and in inspiring them to free themselves from substandard labor practices and victimization by the fruit company. The Drum The image of the drum is important in Costa Rica, as in many other regions of the African Diaspora. As in other regions, the Costa Rican government recognized the potential of the drum to unite the oppressed in rebellion, and therefore it attempted to stifle this important form of expression.33 In Duncan’s novel, the drum is an important element in rituals to connect humans with higher spiritual forces. Mamá Bull’s ritual is accompanied by the sound of drums. As the initiate goes to the altar, the drums underscore the event’s spiritual significance: “Luego fue directamente al altar y los tambores empezaron a intensificar su ritmo a golpe de sangre” [Later he went directly to the altar and the rhythm of the drums began to intensify to the beat of blood] (172). As the ritual continues, the sound of drums intensifies and is finally described as “golpe de sangre,” a metaphor that illustrates that the beats are reaching to the inner core of Pedro’s being. In the second section of chapter eight, drums transmit the power of the samamfo directly to Pedro: “Recuperado, él mismo Cuminá, tambores yorubas en la noche, misterios lejanos que emanaban del samamfo” [Returning to himself, the powerful Cuminá, Yoruba drums in the night, far away mysteries that emanated from the samamfo] (173). The drums that Pedro hears may be those of the musicians, but their beats also underscore that the spirit of the divine forces now resides within him. The Natural Environement La paz del pueblo offers vivid details regarding the natural environment surrounding the characters and their actions. Focus on the environment is as important as the plot itself, given that the natural environment has the ability to influence the characters in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. In the fourth part of chapter seven, the narrator offers a naturalist description, which illustrates the different role that nature plays for Blacks and the owners of the factory: “A ambos lados de la vía, frescos también en la penumbra de la mañana, ondeaban las hojas y las ramas del cacaotal, insinuando apenas las brillantes policromías que al transcurrir de las horas desafiarían incluso la brillantez de los celajes” [On both sides of the road, fresh also in the gloom of the morning, pondering the leaves and the branches of a cocoa tree, barely

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hinting at the bright polychromes that, as the hours went by would defy even the brilliance of the cloudscape] (160). Such a warm and inviting description illustrates the tropical beauty in the area, but this beauty cannot be savored for long before the next sentence brings the reader back to the social reality of the disruption of the natural setting by the banana company: Más allá de las primeras hileras arbóreas se adivinaban primero las fincas de los precaristas y arrendatarios de las tierras de la Compañía Bananera; luego, como una gigantesca mancha verde las vastas fincas bananeras, con su olor a vástago, sudor de hombres y esperanzas moribundas. [Beyond the first rows of trees, one could first make out the property of the ranch owners and the tenant farmers on the Banana Company’s land; later, like a large green stain the vast banana plantations, with their smell of fresh stems, the workers’ sweat and dying hopes.] (160)

The U.S.-owned banana company is not described as an organic part of the region, but rather as a mancha or stain on the countryside. Elizabeth Moody has an attraction to nature, which also attracts her to the Blacks who work closely with it. As the young girl roams the plantation, she is allured by the simplistic beauty of nature: Solía pasar horas enteras así, mirando los insectos, luchar entre sí, arrancarle a la tierra su sustento, copular. Otras veces iba a la tierra cultivada por los empleados de la hacienda para su propio provecho, comía de las frutas que masticaba apenas, y luego, se acostaba sobre la hierba donde, con la placidez etérea recogida del entorno, dormía. [She used to spend hours at a time that way, looking at insects, fighting amongst themselves, pulling the other to the ground, to copulate. On other occasions she would go to the land cultivated by the plantation’s employees for her own benefit, eating fruit that she barely chewed, and later, resting on the grass, with the ethereal quietness of the setting, she would sleep.] (40)

One of the plants on the plantation that she especially admires is the sugarcane, a vigorous plant that she equates with the Black population that cultivates it. She considers sugarcane to be the perfect plant: “La caña le parecía una planta perfecta: hostil, brava, capaz de defenderse, y no obstante, dulce por dentro, rebozante de miel” [In her mind, sugarcane was the perfect plant: aggressive, brave, able to defend itself, however, sweet inside, bathed in honey] (39). Despite the plant’s strong exterior, it is rich and sweet inside: “La caña, dulce y fuerte, deliciosa y agresiva a la vez” [Sugarcane, sweet and strong, delicious and aggressive at the same time] (40). This plant is

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comparable to the Blacks on the plantation because both survive in the most hostile of environments. In the fifth section of chapter two, the sugarcane plant serves as a symbol of security for Elizabeth when she feels alone and frightened on a stormy night. She finds comfort from the tempest by imaginatively vesting herself with the qualities that she associates with the sugarcane plant: “De pronto, en medio de su llanto, se dijo a sí misma que era como la caña, dulce, muy dulce pero capaz de defenderse sola” [Suddenly, in the middle of her tears, she told herself to be like a sugarcane plant, sweet, very sweet but capable of defending herself] (44). Later in the same section, Elizabeth prays for those qualities that she admires in the plant: “murmuró una oración. Como la caña, tosca y agresiva, dulce como la miel” [She murmured a prayer. Like sugarcane, crude and aggressive, sweet like honey] (45). After the prayer, she feels comforted and by simply invoking the plant’s image in her mind, she feels strengthened to find confort with her sister: “Al fin logró encender la lámpara y yendo al aposento de su hermana se le echo al cuello besándola e inclinándose con ella para balbucear un desordenado ‘Padre . . .’” [At the end, she lights a lamp and goes into her sister’s bedroom and puts her hands around her neck and kissing and wrestling with her until she wildly screamed “Daddy . . .”] (45). The role of sugarcane is paired with qualities of Blacks and assures Elizabeth, in a moment of doubt, that she will be protected from danger. In the third section of chapter one, the description of Sitaira’s final resting site reminds the reader that her death is nothing more than a transition that allows her to return to the earth’s bosom: “Cerca del camposanto corría un arroyuelo, que dibujaba meandros en el contorno, se internaba entre los cacaotales y los arbustos, y aceleraba su paso buscando el río. En el recodo, una pequeña camada de blancos lirios se agitaban en el viento, iluminando el paisaje” [A stream ran by the cemetery, and meandered in the surrounding area; it ran between the coco plants and bushes, and picked up speed looking for the river. At the bend, a small bed of white lilies moved in the wind, lighting up the scenery] (25). This beautiful setting reflects her burial site as a natural and peaceful environment. This is the appropriate description for a girl who, like her grandmother, had much love and respect for nature. Aspects of nature are commonly used as metaphorical images throughout the novel; for example, the text describes Sitaira’s hair as “un hermoso matorral” [a beautiful shrub] (80). Donald K. Gordon believes that the use of this image from nature reflects that “los dos pertenecen a la selva” [both belong to the jungle] (1988, 112). The connection with nature consistently reinforces the connection among oppressed individuals, all of whom share the same natural environment. Natural phenomena such as thunder and lightning mark the presence of great spiritual forces and underscore dramatic and impressive events within

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the text. Thunder symbolizes the physical presence of spiritual forces and their approval, thus demonstrating that the deities follow their believers and make their presence known by manipulating forces of nature. Thunder is heard throughout Sitaira’s burial, which reminds the community that not only the mortals but also the Orishas are mourning her death (43–44, 145). In section one of chapter seven, thunder serves as a natural marker of the divine presence of the samamfo and disrupts the idle gossip between Mrs. Been Brown and her daughter by producing a mighty roar: “Te decía que a esa la recogieron en Jamaica de las calles y se la mandaron a don —un rayo partió la palabra don en millones de fracciones—¡uy! qué rayo, y cayó cerca . . . (el trueno borró el final de la frase)” [I was telling you that they picked her up from the streets of Jamaica and they sent her to don . . .—a lightning bolt cut the word into a million pieces—(the thunder erased the end of the sentence)] (144–145). The mother continues with her gossip and finally another, more intense, bolt of lightning and thunder interrupt her, gaining the attention of all in the community: “(Otro trueno esta vez, hizo vibrar a todo el pueblo. Con el pueblo vibró también la conciencia del pueblo)” [(This time another clap of thunder made the town vibrate. The town’s conscience vibrated within the town itself)] (145). This demonstrates nature’s role as a vehicle to oversee the deeds of mortals. This force of nature parallels the spiritual power of the deities. Reference to thunder appears again when morning brings an end to the empowering ritual led by the priestess: “Mamá Bull en sus recuerdos delante de piedras sagradas; la fogata ardiendo iluminando las semi-desnudas figuras de los sinkits; palabras y lamentos inteligibles, puñales que relampagueaban en el viento” [Mama Bull in her memories in front of the sacred stones; the flames of the bond fire illuminated the seminude figures of the sinkits; unintelligible words and cries, daggers that shot out thunder in the air] (180). These references to thunder and lightning highlight the strong spiritual presence of the deities and their ability to control forces of nature. As we have seen in El reino de este mundo and will see in Changó, el gran putas, the relationship between thunder and lightning and the forces of the Orishas is a common pairing in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. Powerful celestial bodies serve as important symbols in La paz del pueblo, as they do in the Afro-Caribbean worldview in general. In the novel, this is reflected in the numerous references to the sun and moon to underscore significant spiritual events and set specific moods. In the seventh section of chapter two, for example, the image of the sun echoes happiness as Elizabeth communes with nature by habitually lying nude in the bright protection of the sun. As she escapes from the mortal world around her, she gains strength from the sun: “Su figura expuesta al sol, como si disfrutara intensamente de aquella reconciliación con la naturaleza” [Her figure exposed to the sun, as if

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it were intensely enjoying that connection with nature] (49). This habit will be repeated by her granddaughter Sitaira years later: “Dormitaba libre como ella sobre un tronco, su cuerpo hermoso floreciente al sol, ajeno como ella a todo” [She was freely dozing like her on a tree trunk, her beautiful body shining in the sun, distant from everything, like her] (62). Despite the fact the two never meet one another, they both share the same habit of enjoying—without shame—the feel of the sun on their nude bodies. The sun can exert powerful influence on the mortal world below. In his lonely solitude, Cornelio acknowledges that the sun plays a major role in the state of the world around him: “Sobre su silla tapizada con cobijas viejas y en su hamaca, Cornelio pasaba las horas. ¿Qué se había hecho el sol? ¿Por qué estaba el mundo de vuelta al caos?” [On his chair covered with old pillows and in his hammock, Cornelio passed the hours. What had the sun done? Why had the world turned so chaotic?] (67). The sun, an expression of the Orishas, is considered to be responsible for order and structure in the universe. The sun is credited numerous times with opening a spiritual path for Pedro as he prays for guidance throughout the work: “Eres del sol, la luz que llega / alumbrando mi porvenir” [You are the sun, the light that lightens my future] (71). Similar references appear later in the work (180, 181). In the third section of chapter six, as Margaret scolds her sister for loving Pedro, the sun’s power over the lovers is illustrated by the textual description of palm trees that grow toward the sun’s rays: “Una garza, se clavó en el agua buscando la bocanada vital para continuar su vuelo, y las palmeras se alzaban triunfantes en el sol del meridiano” [A heron dived into the water looking for a vital snack to continue his trip, and the palm trees waved triumpfully in the midday sun] (130). The force of this vital part of nature allows the palm trees to wave with triumph under its protective presence. The sun also appears at various other parts of the novel, each establishing the presence of this great force (20, 21, 49, 61, 80, 81, 134, 135, 175, 180, 181). The moon also plays an important role in reflecting spiritual strength, as well as establishing a mood for the characters. As Pedro is about to participate in the ritual with Mamá Bull, the narrator makes reference to the presence of the moon, thus acknowledging the force of this celestial form overseeing events: “Pedro se situó precisamente en su sitio, en aquel círculo de adeptos en torno al fuego. Las mujeres de blanco, los hombres de negro. A lo lejos el cielo rompía en canto, bajo la asombrosa influencia de la luna llena” [Pedro stood in place, in that circle of practitioners around the fire. The women dressed in white, the men in black. At a distance, the heavens were breaking out in song, under the astounding influence of the full moon] (172–173). The moon’s fullness adds to the spiritual energy present during the ritual.34

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Connection between the Spiritual and the Political Pedro functions as both a political and a spiritual liberator, in both the Christian and the Afro-Caribbean religious traditions. Ian Smart’s research on La paz del pueblo concludes that there is a parallel connection between Cuminá and the spirit of the cimarrón found in Pedro’s characterization, which “presents the chief protagonist as a liberator par excellence of his people, a cimarrón in the best sense of the term, and as well an embodiment of the orisha ‘Cuminá,’ a new divinity created by the neo-African people” (1996, 141). Without the force and guidance of Cuminá, Pedro would be unable to accomplish his struggle for political justice. This characterization is consistent with the long tradition of great spiritual leaders inspired by Afro-Caribbean religious practices. This leads Ian Smart to describe Pedro as “a forceful representative of the Afro-American revolutionary religious tradition, a tradition that has engendered such phenomena as the voodoo-inspired Haitian revolution, the Aponte rebellion in Cuba, the Morant Bay Rebellion in Jamaica, and the contemporary Black Power Movement in the U.S.A.” (1982a, 30). The role of spiritual practices in resistance activity is very important in the novel because in the nation’s history, it assisted the oppressed population to overcome obstacles. Aviva Chomsky points out the important role that African-influenced religion played in Costa Rica in uniting political and spiritual goals: “Medicine and religion formed part of a framework of alternatives that was the basis for both rebellion on the slave plantation and political organization on the free plantation” (1996, 142). La paz del pueblo acknowledges this dual role of African-influenced spiritual practices in the Caribbean community. Repetition and Circularity As in Carpentier’s novel, repetition and circularity are significant structural elements. The writer uses repetition to link specific phrases, images, characters, and references, thus emphasizing the importance of African aesthetics. Gordon sees this element of repetition as one that makes Duncan’s novel structurally complicated: “Se nota una serie de paralelos, indicados a veces por medio de repetición de una misma frase” [One can find a series of parallels, indicated at times by way of the repetition of the same frase] (1988, 71). Some repeated elements reflect the internal emotions of the characters. There is even a level of repetition between Elizabeth Moody and her granddaughter Sitaira; both receive the same educational preparation in a Dominican school (58, 35), both characters have an affinity for nature, and, as we have noted, both enjoy lying nude, without shame, under the protection of the sun.

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Repeated phrases serve to foreshadow and then to recall major events in the novel. One such example references the presence of the vulture: “Ya vendrán los buitres” [Soon the vultures will come] (23, 24, 25, 27, 81, 91). The expression appears in passages related to the river area where Sitaira loses her life. This repeated image reminds the reader of Sitaira’s imminent death. As we have seen in El reino de este mundo, the presence of this bird is a consistent element in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. Another recurring image in the text is the lizard that lives by the river. Earlier in the novel, the lizard is described as alive and free: “Baja la vista sobre el río: a la otra orilla un lagarto recoge en su piel descuidadamente el sol de la mañana” [Below the vista above the river: on the other shore, a lizard bathes in the morning sun without a care in the world] (21). Another such reference appears on the next page. After the two initial references, the lizard is noted as being a victim of the vultures. This shift begins after the reader discovers that Sitaira dies in the jungle by the river, the same approximate area where the lizard is located. Reference to “el lagarto muerto” [the dead lizard] consumed by vultures is repeated in passages relating to the banks of the river, the place where Sitaira will eventually die: “Al otro lado del Pacuare los buitres habían detenido ya su vuelo y a picotazos daban cuenta del lagarto. Lo volcaron inmisericordemente, simulando en el acto los viejos y vigentes rituales del hombre” [On the other side of the Pacuare, the vultures had stopped flying and found the lizard with the tip of their beaks. They mercilessly turned him over, in the act simulating the old and powerful rituals of man] (81). The image illustrates the bird’s role in the natural cycle of life, and is repeated later in the novel (91, 119). On another level, repetition highlights the presence of strong emotion as the bereaved Mariot longs for her murdered daughter’s presence. In the second section of chapter five, the mother reflects on her daughter’s birth: “Sitaira en el parto batallando desde una existencia en la que todo parecía tener límites definidos . . . Sitaira de nuevo en el parto” [In birth, Sitaira battling from a world where everything appears to have defined limits . . . Sitaira again in birth] (107). Later in the same section, the girl’s name is echoed in her mother’s memory: “Sitaira en los ecos del agua, . . . Sitaira en el vaho temprano de los días de lluvia; Sitaira cruzando a nado río abajo. Sitaira en los sueños como una estrella rebelde frente al tiempo” [Sitaira in the echos of the water . . . Sitaira in the early mist of the rainy days; Sitaira swimming down the river. Sitaira in dreams like a star rebelling against time] (107). A similar litany appears in a later section (117). Pedro’s mother’s thoughts are reflected as she worries about her son’s well-being, repeating his name in sorrow: “Pedro doblado en los bananales . . . Pedro clavando los polines . . . Pedro jefe de cuadrilla . . . Pedro en el mar” [Pedro bent over in the banana field . . . Pedro hammering the pegs . . . Pedro chief of the squad . . . Pedro

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in the sea] (175). The repetition of the characters’ names by their loved ones reflects the pain and anxiety that these mothers experience as they remember their offspring in peril. The novel includes repetition of phrases or words in order to establish a specific mood or tone at moments of the narration. In the sections relating Sitaira’s funeral, the biblical passage “De polvo somos hermanos y al polvo volvemos, amén” [From dust we come brother and to dust we shall return, amen] is repeated numerous times (74, 76, 77, 80). This repeated phrase reflects the Protestant religious tradition of resignation and acceptance that has become a part of the Afro-Costa Rican community. Repetition reflects the presence of strong emotions, and places emphasis on the value of circularity within the Afro-Caribbean community. As a final example, when the text narrates the encounter between the servants Brown and Mamy, it offers a sentence which serves as an opening and then as a closing to this episode: “Los dos se miraron frente a frente y tenían los mismos ojos, la misma manera de cerrar los ojos, y la misma manera de mirarse frente a frente” [Both looked at one another and they had the same eyes, the same way of closing their eyes, and the same way of looking at each other face to face] (38, 39). The repeated image hints at some form of familial relationship between the two characters, underscoring the connectedness of Costa Rica’s Black community. In the second part of chapter four, as Pedro prepares to defend himself against potential physical assault, the text reveals his internal thoughts about the events that he has faced and will face. As he prepares to leave, a mysterious voice speaks to him: “Pedro, la vida es una rueda, todo gira. El líquido cristalino de las botellas se había agotado desde hacía mucho tiempo y el mundo que durante varias horas tuvo una definición imprecisa, fue recobrando sus cualidades concretas” [Pedro, life is a wheel, everything spins. The crystal clear liquid in the bottles had run out a long time ago and for a few hours the world had an unclear meaning as it was recovering its solid qualities] (81). The image of the turning wheel serves as a metaphor for his life, the wheel of fortune that is controlled by divine forces. The images of circularity and the wheel of fortune also appear at other points within the novel: “El tiempo gira. El tiempo gira” [Time goes on. Time goes on] (94); “explicándote que la vida es una rueda que gira” [explaining to you that life is a wheel that spins] (167); “Pero Cuminá le decía que la vida era eterna, que la rueda gira, que los señores del samamfo vuelven siempre, que todo el universo es eterno” [But Cuminá was telling him that life was eternal, that the wheel turns, that men of the samamfo always return, that all of the universe is eternal] (173–174). References to the wheel underscore the cyclical nature of existence for the Black characters, a level of existence that progresses but at the same time is part of a large trajectory of repeated

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events. Other similar references to turning appear at other points in the novel (95, 110). The Trickster Figure The image of the trickster figure is evident within La paz del pueblo through the presence of Cuminá and reference to the Anancy tales. Cuminá, the spiritual center of the novel, is comparable to Legba, the trickster figure in Yoruba mythology. Legba stands at the crossroads between this world and the world beyond, and he sows the seeds of rebellion. The trickster image is expressed through a female voice, heard at the end of the novel, which reflects the Black community’s ability to resist the unjust acts of their oppressors with the help of the samamfo: “Pero todos oyeron a lo lejos una carcajada de mujer que venía del río” [But everyone heard in the distance the laughter of a woman coming from the river] (189). This laughter symbolizes the oppressed AfroCosta Rican population’s success in resisting the dominant class’s attempt to forestall justice for Pedro and the banana workers. Laughter is important because only in the face of self-knowledge can the oppressed laugh at their trials and triumphs. CONCLUSION Duncan dramatically contributes to the mosaic of Afro-Caribbean reality presented in narrative produced in Spanish. Los nietos is as much as a historical text as a fictious novel. Looking at the history, culture, and spiritual world of Blacks in Costa Rica, the reader has the opportunity to become, in the words of Ian Smart, “spiritually centered” (1996, 146). Smart believes that the power and force of such literature is based on Afro-influenced principals: “It is precisely such a spiritually centered reading that yields the fullest possible understanding of Duncan’s art” (146). Quince Duncan’s commitment to retelling the truth of Antillean Blacks in the nation and their struggle to survive in a nation that denied their important contributions to the nation’s infrastructure. This presentation of the Afro-Costa Rican worldview is nonlinear, circular, valuing the nommo and percussion while integrating ritual and orality, and unifying music and dance, with the objective of establishing an Ashé-Caribbean aesthetic. This foundation allows a multifaceted presentation of genres and includes the image of the trickster, Anancy, elements of nature. Beyond history, Duncan incorporates West Indian faith traditions integrated with Western faith practices. The literary result of this merger is lo real maravilloso, which influences the manner in which the characters interpret the events that happen around them.

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The concept of the Samamfo is an important aspect that the author uses to unify the characters of African ancestry with their ancestors. MartinOgunsola notes, “The spirit of Africanity is captured in Duncan’s unique sysbol of the samamfo, which is a spiritual manistation of Afro-realism” (2004, 132). The central message is that Blacks share the same struggle despite what their native tongue is or where they live. NOTES 1. The term mestizo will be used in this chapter to describe the majority population of Costa Rica and those who identify themselves with or strive to emulate and support the white/mestizo population. Within Duncan’s work, members of the colonial Black community also fit into this category. 2. This term refers to the belief that the spirits of the Ancestors continue to commune among the living, providing them with strength and direction (R. Jackson 1988, 109). 3. According to Trevor W. Purcell, at the time of Costa Rica’s emancipation in 1824, the country had a slave population of nine, one of the smallest figures in the Caribbean (1993, 2). According to the World Population Review website, currently there are 1 percent Blacks and 7 percent mulattoes. 4. This Antillean immigrant population was and still is expected to assimilate to the norms of mestizo Costa Rican culture, but at the same time encounters resistance based on cultural and racial discrimination. 5. Fanon concluded that the elimination of cultural elements, as Blacks come into contact with the white community, increases the probability of psychological abnormalities in some Blacks (1967, 143). 6. Meléndez Chaverri and Quince Duncan express their commitment to augment history in their study entitled El negro en Costa Rica: “Este trabajo es el resultado de la cooperación de dos autores que se unieron para intentar, por primera vez en Costa Rica, [ofrecer] una más clara comprensión del negro” (1978, 7). 7. Working conditions were so dangerous that mestizo Costa Rican workers were often withdrawn from working on the railroad for what officials documented as “health reasons” (Purcell 1993, 25). 8. Duncan and Powell’s research concludes, “Las profundas transformaciones económicas y sociales producidas en todas las Antillas como producto de la emancipación, y sobre todo, la severa crisis económica mundial de los 1840 que alcanza su apogeo en 1847 causó la ruina de las antiguas haciendas de azúcar” [The deep economic and social transformations produced in all the Antilles as a product of emancipation, and above all, the severe world economic crisis of the 1840s that reached its peak in 1847 caused the ruin of old sugar estates] (1988, 57). 9. Aviva Chomsky posits that the strike was waged as a result of a decision by the United Fruit Company to refuse to allow workers a holiday to celebrate Jamaican Emancipation Day (1996, 154). Duncan and Powell describe this 1910 rebellion as one led by francophone Antilleans, to protest the government’s failure to honor

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agreements made to improve working conditions. The workers gathered in Limón to prepare to return to their native countries when a group of police from San José attacked them with armed violence (1988, 73). 10. Other examples of racist policies against Blacks can be found in the following studies (Duncan 1993, 209; Meléndez Chaverri and Duncan 1978, 106). 11. One such law was that of Bases y Colonias, which prohibited Chinese and African races from colonizing within the country, and even established an annual fund to stimulate the immigration of white Europeans (Duncan 1995, 135). 12. For more information on the racial climate faced by Blacks, see Quince Duncan’s essay “The Race Question in Costa Rica” (1995, 131–153). 13. One way that Antillean immigrants attempted to sustain themselves economically and culturally was to move to the less-populated tropical zones, where they carved out modest spaces for farming. Eventually, even these attempts to distance themselves from conflicts proved to be problematic. This newly appropriated land was taken from the farmers by mestizos, who claimed rights to the property by presenting documents in Spanish, a language that the Jamaican farmers could not read (Biesanz, Biesanz, and Biesanz, 67). 14. All passages come from the 1989 edition of La paz del pueblo, published by Editorial Costa Rica. 15. Ramsay posits that a major component of the African religious heritage in the New World is the belief that the ancestors have tremendous influence over their descendants (1994, 35). 16. This sentence appears twice in the text, and hints to the reader that there is a familial relationship between Brown and Mamy: “Los dos se miraron frente a frente y tenían los mismos ojos, la misma manera de cerrar los ojos, y la misma manera de mirarse frente a frente” [Both looked at one another and they had the same eyes, the same way of closing their eyes, and the same way of looking at each other face to face] (38, 39). 17. This religious expression has been corrupted by those who have deformed the name of the religion in Jamaica to become “Pocomania―‘a little madness.’ The peculiar behavior of the cultists, their dancing, possession, and speaking in unknown languages may appear to the outsider as a slight ‘case of madness’” (Barret, 116). Pukumina plays an important role in one of Duncan’s short stories entitled “La rebellion pocomia” (1976). This story is based on the struggles of an Antillean worker named Jean Paul who arrives in Limón and leads fellow workers to strike the fruit company that employs them. The rebel leader becomes filled with the spirit of Cuminá through a ceremony led by Mamá Bull. Local officials suppress the strikers and the narrator ends the story by stating that Jean Paul was killed by the bullet of a Black man. 18. A majority of this ethnolinguistic group live in Ghana, the eastern parts of Côte d’Ivoire, and parts of Togo. 19. Meléndez Chaverri and Duncan point out that the Pukumina tradition has many characteristics similar to those of the Yoruba tradition: “Utilizaban en sus celebraciones canciones del himnario Sankey, canciones sagradas y porciones de las Escrituras. Se utilizaron además altares, con objetos especiales para la ceremonia.

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Una danza rítmica en sentido contrario al reloj y al compás de tambores, y el uso de drogas era frecuente. . . . Durante estas ceremonias ocurrían posesiones de espíritus” [in their celebrations, they used songs from the Sankey hymnal, sacred songs, and portions of the Scriptures. Altars were also used, with special objects for the ceremony. A rhythmic counterclockwise dance to the beat of drums, and the use of drugs was common. . . . During these ceremonies, possessions by spirits took place] (1978, 120). 20. Barrett explains that myal has two primary levels of meaning: as a Cuminá ceremony or as the spirit that possesses the believer in such ceremonies. A practitioner told Barrett that under the influence of the myal, she is able to discover the workings of obeah (1974, 69). 21. Pukumina has been traced back as early as 1760 in Jamaica, reemerging in 1834 disguised as a witch-hunting cult, known as Myalism (Cudjoe 1980, 116). 22. The word Myal is an Akan word which means, “to squeeze,” “to press,” or to cleanse by using witchcraft (Barrett 1974, 68). Barrett also notes that while in the state of Myal, the believer can detect good and evil (1974, 71) 23. For more information, see (Barret 1974, 72-73). 24. Brathwaite notes that Myal is a fragmented form of African religion, appearing in Jamaica in the mid-nineteenth century and expressed through dreams, visions, prophesying, and possession dances (1974, 108). 25. According to Meléndez Chaverri and Duncan, “Obeah es palabra africana que significa poder. Poder espiritual, que bien puede ser utilizado para proteger, para defender o para atacar al enemigo. La identificación que se da entre algunos sectores de la palabra obeah con la hechicería, es falsa” [Obeah is an African word that means power. Spiritual power, that can be used to protect, defend or attack an enemy. In some sectors, the word obeah is connected with witchcraft] (1978, 121). 26. While the concept of obeah appears in La paz del pueblo, it plays more of a direct role in Duncan’s novel Los cuatro espejos. 27. Donald K. Gordon has studied the deep roots of the dopi concept within Costa Rican culture (1988, 110). 28. The reference to these distinct cities serves to recall major Caribbean centers in the English-Speaking Antilleas. Spanish Town is very significant because it is the section in Kingsman, Jamaica where Marcus Garvey founded the United Negro Improvement Association. 29. This family symbolizes the many small farmers who rented their property to the United Fruit Company in the early twentieth century because it was more economically sound for the fruit companies to allow individual planters to produce bananas and sell them. This situation shifted much of the responsibility of labor control and production to the local farmer (Chomsky 1996, 60, 62). 30. The pastor’s views are like the preachings of Booker T. Washington, whose accommodationist theories concluded that Black individuals should be a credit to the race by reaching their highest potential without challenging the hegemonic structure that surrounded them. The idea of “staying in their place” is a message of the white/mestizo population, expressed by a Black spiritual leader motivated by economic interests.

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31. Barrett notes that for the Akan people of West Africa, “Ananse is the architect of confusion, he muddles everything he is engaged in, yet he always manages to come out on the better end of the deal” (1974, 36). He further observes that Anancy, the spider, is similar to the figure of Legba of the Fon people and Esu of the Yoruba. Such oral instruction was vital in educating Blacks to enable them to survive. Many of the talents and abilities of the stories’ animal characters instructed generations of AfricanAmericans about how to survive in a world that required them to rely on deceit, theft, and quick wit for daily survival. The Anancy Tale plays an important social function just as stories of Brer Rabbit and spirituals served the North American–enslaved Black population. Barrett notes that one can still hear counseling and advice given in the form of an Anancy tale among Jamaicans (1974, 35). In addition to the content, one can find a parallel with the African style of storytelling. 32. Medicine and African-influenced religion were closely related. Aviva Chompsky notes that “African medicine was closely linked to religion and the spiritual world” (1996, 139). 33. In 1717, the nation’s legislature acknowledged and feared the power of the drum and therefore explicitly prohibited this cultural form of expression through official documents: “And for as much as Negroes can, by beating on drums, and blowing horns, or other such like instruments of noise, give signals to each other at a considerable distance of their evil and wretched intentions: Be it further enacted, that in one month’s time after the passing of this Act, no proprietor, attorney, or Overseer . . . shall . . . suffer any beating of drums, barrels, gourds, boards, or other such like instruments of noise on the plantations and settlements” (quoted in Barrett 1974, 74). 34. Reference to the moon’s presence appears also at other points within the text to reinforce the spiritual mood (118, 119, 153, 158, 180, 181).

Chapter 5

Cubena and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores

One of the most effective writers to document the history and experiences of Panama’s Afro-Antillean population is Carlos Guillermo Wilson (Cubena),1 who published Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores ten years after his first novel Chombo (1981). Los nietos is selected as the focus of this chapter among his novels because it is more representative of Cubena’s unique style of weaving together African-inspired aesthetics while also acknowledging the plight of Antillean Blacks in his native Panama. Like the other novels included in this book, Los nietos reflects the theme of unity among individuals of African descent in the Americas, while at the same time addressing the AfroAntillean population’s struggle for justice and acceptance in Panama. In Los nietos, Cubena continues his literary erosion of the traditional negative images associated with Panamanians of West Indian origin. One of the tensions that is most evident in both Los nietos and Chombo is the antagonism that exists between Antillean and colonial Blacks.2 The polarization between the two groups is based on perceived differences of ethnicity. As in Costa Rica, the Afro-Antillean population of Panama has been forced to adapt and survive in a country that historically has opposed their presence and cultural expression; the Antillean immigrant population has also been considered inferior to other immigrant groups and thus prevented from fully enjoying the political, social, and economic freedom offered to other immigrant populations. Cubena’s novels play an important role in demonstrating the destructive force of prejudice among individuals of African descent, in a nation that has favored such tensions to divide and conquer the oppressed.

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THE AFRO-PANAMANIAN NOVEL OF RESISTANCE Los nietos has a structural form and aesthetics that are consistent with the fourteen characteristics found in Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance. This novel also employs an assertive tone and attitude against the mestizo and colonial Black population (class); these “dominant” groups have traditionally viewed their Antillean counterparts as second-class citizens. Los nietos offers the writer’s view of the problems facing the Afro-Panamanian and offers the possibility of an optimistic future through unity. Carlos Guillermo Wilson, who uses the pen name Cubena, is a descendant of immigrants from Jamaica, St. Kitts, Cuba, and Grenada. His combative writing style may have been influenced by his own ancestral background, being a descendant of African Maroons, a fact he explained in his unpublished autobiography (1994, 1). He continues the tradition of fighting against oppression and injustice, using pen, paper, and history as his weapons. Within Cubena’s novels, there is a link between the characters, specific political events, and the environment that surrounds them. Many of the details stem from his family’s firsthand encounter with national racist actions against Afro-Antilleans. Cubena stitches together historical events from past generations of his family, including details that are both happy and painful, to expose the manner in which colonialization has affected his family. In Los nietos, the descendants of Felicidad Dolores symbolize the population of African descent within the western hemisphere. Cubena states his objective to be educating his readers about racial injustice: “Escribo para denunciar la actitud, desgraciadamente, internacional de desdén, rechazo y odio que, como un diluvio, inundan, ad nauseam, a los de ascendencia africana” [I write to denounce the shameful international attitude of disdain, rejection, and hate that, like a deluge, floods, ad nauseam, individuals of African ancestry] (Wilson 1994, 22). The injustices that he reveals are consistent throughout the African Diaspora. One of the most consistent characteristics of his literary works is his biting and confrontational style, through which he denounces social injustice against the Antillean Black community. Cubena is a non-mainstream writer who produces literature that is overtly sociopolitical, with the objective of promoting social change, thus supporting Sylvia Wynter’s statement that the act of writing is itself a revolutionary act for the West Indian writer (1968, 31). Richard Jackson notes that the writings of both Quince Duncan and Wilson inform the Black population that they need not accept being treated as pariahs (1997, 78). Cubena’s works attempt to solidify their identity, and thus promote their social advancement, by presenting most Antillean Black characters as having high levels of self-pride, based on their awareness of the history of Africa and the collective struggle of Blacks. However, Quince Duncan’s novels differ from those of Cubena in

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that the former presents reconciliation between races as a possible solution, while the latter tends not to present this as a workable solution. In his autobiography, as the author discusses his works, he overlooks the importance of the narrative structures of his own novels, pointing out that themes are far more important than their literary characteristics: Muy poca atención le he prestado al cosmopolitismo, cubismo, surrealismo, neorrealismo y otras técnicas del boom de la narrativa moderna, porque en mis obras lo más importante no es la experimentación, sino el mensaje que se pone de relieve en cuanto a la herencia de la africanía en Latinoamérica durante los primeros quinientos años. [I have paid very little attention to cosmopolitism, cubism, surrealism, neorealism, and other techniques associated with the explosion of modern narrative because in my works the most important thing is not experimentation; rather they highlight the legacy of African identity in Latin America during the first five hundred years.] (Wilson 1994, 25)

While his novels are valuable in their content, just as in any novel, the structure is important as well. I argue that within any work of art, content and form cannot easily be detached from one another. In addition to his two novels Chombo and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, Cubena has written numerous short stories and essays dealing with Afro-Hispanic identity and has authored a significant number of articles on literature, race, culture, and Afro-Panamanian history. He adds names and faces and personal responses to documented historical events. Such authentic historical backdrops make Los nietos a living instructional tool that offers another version of history, and thus serves as a form of resistance literature exposing the fate of AfroAntilleans in Panama and elsewhere in the African Diaspora. The author’s use of satire, humor, and irony in his works distinguishes them from the other novels in this study. This difference may be viewed in light of Frantz Fanon’s theory of the three stages of intellectual development of the native writer. In the first phase, according to Fanon, the writer demonstrates his assimilation to the values of the dominant culture. The second phase is the one that best describes Cubena and his literature. In The Wretched of this Earth, Fanon describes the second phase in the following manner: In this second phase we find the native is disturbed; he decides to remember what he is. This period of creative work approximately corresponds to that immersion which we have just described [demonstrating that he has assimilated the values of the dominant culture]. But since the native is not a part of his people, since he only has exterior relations with his people, he is content to recall

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their life only. Past happenings of the byegone days of his ch[i]ldhood will be brought up out of the depths of his memory; old legends will be reinterpreted in the light of a borrowed estheticism and a conception of the world which was discovered under other skies. (Fanon 1963, 222)

Fanon notes that the native intellectual finds value in remembering the past because from such communal memories, both good and bad, the writer is able to establish a foundation that supports his cohorts and their cultures. This literature, produced “just-before-the-battle” is dominated by humor and by allegory. Fanon observes that while the native writer pushes himself and his people forward, at the same time, he mocks the dominant population (Fanon 1963, 222). As we examine how the author characterizes the non-AfroAntillean population, we can see his disgust, shock, and sarcasm, as well as mocking laughter. Cubena is the only writer among the four covered in this study that writes from Fanon’s second phase; nonetheless he also exhibits elements of the third phase. The other writers have moved completely to the third phase, in which writers become mouthpieces for their respective communities and work to break them from their lethargy. The third phase is what Fanon calls the fighting phase. This phase occurs as writers attempt to motivate compatriots into social change through their literature. It is during this phase that the writer produces fighting literature or revolutionary literature (222), the source of Cubena’s literary intensity. Elba Birmingham-Pokorny has specialized in the study of Cubena’s works and notes: Carlos Guillermo Wilson’s works represent a positive contribution to both the Latin American letters—the Panamanian letters—and Latin American modern thought, not only for the quality of the fine and innovative narrative techniques that interweave the fabric of his story lines . . . but, above all, for the merit of having been able to artistically capture the ‘problematic’ of the Latin American identity through a narrative discourse that comprises more than five hundred years of historical reality of the man of African descent in the Americas. (1993a, 12)

Cubena’s works are important because they reflect little-known facts of the Black experience that help to complete the tapestry of Afro-Caribbean history. These novels also allow him to focus on important events that mainstream historians have ignored. He explains that he enjoys including culture in his works as well as “el orgullo ancestral de rescatar y presentar hazañas y aportes de latinoamericanos de ascendencia africana . . . detalles que vergonzosamente brillan por su ausencia en los textos oficiales de la educación

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pública en Latinoamérica” [the ancestral pride of restoring and presenting the feats and contributions of Latin Americans of African ancestry . . . details that are shamefully absent in official textbooks used in public education in Latin America] (Soley 1998, 68). Other critics have noted that the writer’s works have been significant in expressing the history of Blacks in Panama (R. Jackson 1979, 180; Martínez-Echazábal 1997, 117). As a result of the novelist’s powerful themes, Richard Jackson notes that much of his work has been censored in Panama (1979, 180). There is also a lack of critical attention by scholars. When asked about his own literary antecedents, Cubena responds with the name of Joaquín Beleño, indicating that Beleño’s narrow literary perspective motivated him to write: “Every time I read any of his trilogies, I become so angry because of the way that he has portrayed ‘Chombos’— Afro-Hispanics—in his works” (Birmingham-Pokorny 1991, 128). Wilson believed that Beleño’s three novels—Curundú (1955), Gamboa Road Gang (1960), and Luna Verde (1950)—each failed to present Antillean Blacks in a positive and accurate manner. To counter this, Cubena consciously manipulates his literary techniques in order to expose injustices committed by the members of the Panamanian leadership structure, which has consistently discounted Antillean Blacks.3 The result is that the writer is able to circumvent the negative view of Antillean Blacks collectively held by the mestizo, white, and colonial Black populations. Joaquín Beleño has also been attacked by literary critic Justo Arroyo for failing to offer an accurate picture of the situation of the Antillean immigrant population in Panama.4 Arroyo further describes Beleño’s works as racist: “In his novels, the colonial or hispanophilic Black appears as a ‘legitimate’ Panamanian, while the ‘Canal’ Black—the Anglophilic—is the upstart, the stranger, the second class citizen; in one word, the ‘chombo’” (1995, 158). He adds that in Beleño’s novels, whites, Indians, mestizos, and colonial Blacks unite to defend themselves against the common enemy: Antillean Blacks. Ian Smart notes that Curundú “is laced with statements of prejudiced antipathy towards West Indians in general. They are seen as turncoats, collaborating with the oppressor because they have no loyalty to Panama, and because they are substantially spineless sycophants” (1984a, 16). In Cubena’s novels, the Afro-Antillean characters and their descendants are far from the images of Afro-Antillean characters offered by Beleño. Critics such as Mélinda Ruth Sepúlveda and Jorge Turner do not find these negative elements in Beleño’s works. Sepúlveda and Turner believe that Beleño created one of the most important fictional characters in Gamboa Road Gang with Atá (Arthur) representing true Panamanianess (see Smart 1984a, 13). Jorge Turner wrote the prologue of the English edition of Gamboa Road Gang after it won first place in the 1959 Ricardo Miró Contest. Turner

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comments that within Gamboa Road Gang, Atá “is the most real and complete creation to come out of the literature from the isthmus” (Smart 1984a, 13–14). While Beleño does reflect sectors of Panama’s Black community, his works do little to acknowledge the plight of the oppressed Antillean Black population. Both of Cubena’s novels forthrightly display Afro-Antillean subcultures in a positive light and reverse Beleño’s perspective, thus redefining the Antillean Black population through his literature. In an interview with Elba Birmingham-Porkorny, Cubena also credits Alejo Carpentier as being influential in his literary development: “Alejo Carpentier has had a tremendous influence on me and on my work. I feel that he is very special, because he has been able to capture the essence of Latin America. Above all he has captured, to a certain degree, the situation of the Afro-Hispanic and the problematic issue of the Latin American identity. We can see all this in several of his works” (1991, 128). It is this statement that makes a direct connection between the presentation of Black identity in Cubena and Carpentier’s selected novels. Chombo begins the trilogy of novels that deconstruct traditional negative literary images of Afro-Antilleans. It is filled with written culture and history of the Antillean Black population, which appropriately leads BirminghamPokorny to consider Chombo as a historic novel (1993a, 73). Critic Brenda Frazier Clemons’s review of the novel points out that “the most ingenious technique that he [Cubena] employs is one of weaving African themes into the fabric of the novel” (1982, 33). Cubena uses this structural pattern to offer an authentic and holistic view of the Afro-Caribbean community. Chombo introduces the reader to an immigrant couple named Nenén and Papá James. These Antillean Blacks came to Panama with nothing, but through hard work and sacrifice, they establish a strong and productive community and influence their descendants to become productive members within the Panamanian community. Chombo is unified by a young character named Litó, who serves as the catalyst of much of the action in the novel. This central character carries out a quest to understand his culture and its history and unravel the mystery of three gold bracelets that are connected to the origin of his community.5 Litó attempts to solve the mystery of the bracelets by searching within major Western cities, unaware that the information he seeks will eventually be found in Africa. It is this search for the origin of the bracelets that serves as a link to join the present with the past. Chombo’s narration is offered by an omniscient narrator, as well as members of the family and their ancestors from the Kingdom of the Dead. The work addresses serious social problems in a context laced with irony and satire. The author inverts the negative images propagated against the Antillean population by replacing traditional stereotypes with positive qualities commonly associated with the mestizo and colonial Black populations.6

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While elevating the Antillean Black population, Cubena’s novel presents colonial Blacks, mestizos, and whites as part of a psychotic and dysfunctional community. The author uses a technique of inversion to reflect the reality of Panamanian society from the perspective of the nation’s oppressed Black Antillean population. One example of this inversion is the novel’s title Chombo, which is explained by West Indian critic Ian Smart: “The term ‘chombo’ in Panama corresponds roughly to ‘nigger’ in the United States. It is precisely with this term, ‘chombo,’ that Cubena has achieved a reversal of the negative energy. Taking possession of the insult he has hurled it back into the faces of his would-be vilifiers as a defiant cry of self-assertion” (1984a, 42). In Los nietos, Cubena continues to further erode the traditional status associated with this derogatory expression. Vera Kutzinski makes a comparison between Cubena’s first novel and a landmark North American novel by describing Chombo as a Panamanian version of Roots because of its aspirations to trace the history of African Americans (1996, 192). It is also the book that Litó is reading in one of the early chapters of Chombo. The novel is a powerful example of resistance literature, which Birmingham-Pokorny believes “openly questions the notion that there is and can only be a single subject and a single history,” thus making the novel a subversive work of art (1993c, 143). Vera Kutzinski believes that while some of Chombo’s shortcomings prevent it from playing a major role as a didactic source, Cubena makes up for such deficiencies in another way: “Even if the novel’s black/white symbolism seems often strained, Chombo is remarkable not only for its interweaving of minute historical detail and abundant information about West-Indian Panamanian popular culture” (1996, 192). As a result of Chombo, readers within and beyond the Caribbean can find a fresh approach toward understanding the complexities of the Black experience in Panama. In an interview, the author focuses on the writing process, which enabled him to expose injustices and prejudices in Panama. He stresses that the production of his second novel, Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, was a wonderful experience because it allowed him to focus on social injustices and discrimination, as well as demonstrate how these factors affect people in their daily lives (Soley 1998, 68). Many of the intercalated stories and tales in Los nietos are narrated by Felicidad Dolores, members of her extended family, and a third-person omniscient narrator. As a result of these tales, the reader and characters are able to recall the struggles endured by their ancestors. As the novel begins, the family is returning to Panama in 1999 to witness the passing of the Canal from the hands of the U.S. government to the nation of Panama as a result of the Carter-Torrijos Treaty. This agreement gave control of the Canal to Panama, a move that Wilson views as disadvantageous to Afro-Antillean

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community because it has always suffered as a result of Panamanian nepotism and discrimination (Birmingham-Pokorny 1991, 129). BirminghamPokorny considers Felicidad Dolores to be the most important character within the novel, since she is an aged but sagacious symbol of Mother Africa (Birmingham-Pokorny 1993d, 122). Richard Jackson connects Los nietos with Manuel Zapata Olivella’s 1983 novel Changó, el gran putas by indicating that Los nietos “picks up where Manuel Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas left off” (1997, 82). Los nietos appeared five years after Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas, and is described by Richard Jackson as the Panamanian writer’s magnum opus, which is just as ambitious as Zapata Olivellas’s masterpiece (1997, 82). Through the characters’ dialogue, the reader learns of history, cultural beliefs, and myths that allow characters to understand the present. Richard Jackson points out that “One of the strengths of Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores is its unabashed and unapologetic didacticism” (1997, 78-79). Felicidad Dolores is the central character that teaches others. This colonial Black mother figure connects Blacks geographically (throughout the African Diaspora) as well as temporally, beginning during the enslavement of Africans. Birmingham-Pokorny suggests the following: “There is no doubt that Felicidad Dolores is the bridge that connects the entire history of the African race, linking the beginning in Africa to the Beginning in America” (1993b, 122). Her numerous deaths relate to significant events that oppress the Black community; after each of these deaths, when her soul returns to her native land of Guinea, the Orishas return her to the land of the living. Felicidad Dolores is the most significant mediator between the two Black communities in the novel. The colonial Black grandmother figure lives between the house of Antillean Black character John Brown and colonial Black character, Juan Moreno. She is able to make the latter recognize that he shares more commonalities with John Brown than differences. This interesting transformation magically occurs over a game of dominoes, which is influenced by supernatural forces, which will be discussed more in depth as we look at aspects of lo real maravilloso. The novel begins with the family meeting in a crowded New York airport, during a winter snowstorm. This storm coincides with a toxic nuclear chemical spill, leaving the airport as the only exit from the city, thus making this confined space a metaphor for the trapped slaves in the Americas. Since the airport is the only escape route, diverse populations, which normally would not come together, are forced to interact with one another. The novel offers examples of racism in the African Diaspora by allowing the reader to witness a broad spectrum of racist acts and to see the manner in which the descendants of Felicidad Dolores respond to these events. One example of the selfconfidence that allows them to counter those that attempt to oppress them

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is evident in an exchange between Elsa Gordon, one of Felicidad Dolores’s godchildren, and a white couple in the airport as Elsa goes to help five abandoned Black children roaming the airport terminal. As she approaches the wailing children, a white man bumps into her and is advised by his wife to be careful: “Mi pobre querido, a lo mejor la negra quería robarte. Tú bien sabes que todos los negros son ladrones” [My poor baby, maybe that Black woman wanted to rob you. You know very well that all Blacks are thieves] (Wilson 1991a, 54).7 Elsa does not back down from this racist encounter, but instead responds by defiantly spitting on the ground in front of them. As she begins to chastise the couple, they are astonished that she speaks Spanish: “¿La negra habla español?” [The Black woman speaks Spanish?] (54). The narrator informs the reader of the couple’s surprise that an individual of African heritage would speak Spanish: “preguntaron con voz incrédula los otros compañeros de la mujer que se había asombrado de que Elsa dominara la lengua de Cervantes” [the other travelers accompanying the woman asked with an incredulous tone and were astonished that Elsa spoke the language of Cervantes] (54). This episode reveals racist attitudes of white North Americans and their cultural ignorance about the existence of Blacks beyond the borders of the United States. Elsa’s self-assured response demonstrates that the Black characters in Cubena’s work are educated and empowered, and thus they refuse to allow themselves to be disrespected. In section two, as the family is on the plane, Eufemia’s interpretation of Libertad Lamento’s dream reflects the happy and sad events from the group’s collective history and culture in Africa, as well as in the African Diaspora.8 It is at this point that the work shifts to the mythical beginning of humankind on the banks of the Nile, and then shifts to the twentieth century to reveal the lives of workers that immigrated to Panama. In a flashback episode in chapter two, Bandelé Cebiano, Felicidad Dolores’s second child, becomes a guide to a blind gypsy and works in a church as an altar boy. Bandelé hopes to become a Catholic priest but is unable to do so because of his race. Bartolomé’s distain toward Blacks stems from the death of his father, which he blames on Bandelé Cebiano (90). Even though he knows that Blacks did not cause his father’s death, he uses this population as a scapegoat to channel his anger. He takes his revenge on all the Blacks in Seville, and most specifically Bandelé Cebiano. Chapter three reflects a flashback to Panama in the middle of the twentieth century. The colonial Black fruit vendor Juan Moreno initially believes that Antillean Blacks are inferior to himself and all colonial Blacks, but he is later persuaded by Felicidad Dolores in a ritual to change his attitude and respect his neighbor John Brown. In Panama, Juan Moreno and John Brown are similar on many levels. They share similar names. Each of their names represents the language of

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their culture (Brown vs Moreno). These characters are also joined by the tortuga de oro [gold tortoise], which connects them to their shared ancestors that produced the Africans in the Diaspora (121). Both men exhibit a cursed navel, which symbolizes their vexatious existence as descendants of the Africans expelled from the land of Buruco. This navel will continue to appear in the descendants of those Africans expelled from Buruco until they are forgiven by the Orishas. Felicidad Dolores is only able to redeem herself after she tells her sons the truth about their heritage and the details to explain their cursed navel. Later, when the two brothers see a golden tortoise belonging to Marie Antoinette Lenoire, a gift of her Martinique grandmother, they immediately cover their navels as an expression of their fear that she has stolen the golden tortoise of their family (123). Within Los nietos, there are very few colonial Black characters sensitive to the struggle of their Antillean peers. Juan Moreno is one of the few characters to change his views, but despite his conversion, his daughter Lesbiaquiña continues to exhibit disdain toward Antillean Blacks. THE HISTORY OF BLACKS IN PANAMA In 1607, more than 70 percent of the population of Panama City was Black (De la Rosa 1993, 260). This early group was forced to face racism and restrictions under Spanish rule (229, 240). Despite their oppression, the group developed transculturally among the Hispanic and indigenous populations. After colonial Blacks lived for four hundred years in the nation, Antillean Blacks arrived in search of employment during the construction of the Panama Canal. They brought their distinct cultures with them.9 These West Indian immigrants and their descendants in Panama have faced double opposition, based on their ethnicity and their cultural identity. Like the Antillean Blacks in Costa Rica, the immigrant population faced abuses from the government, mestizos, and colonial Blacks in the nation. While Antillean Blacks do share some ethnic similarities with colonial Blacks, both groups have traditionally viewed each other as rivals. According to Patricia Watkins, tensions became so intense that, during the forties and fifties, it was considered a social offense to mistake an Antillean Black for a colonial Black (1996, 4). Colonial Blacks have traditionally been Catholic and Hispanophone, and have identified with Hispanic culture as a result of living on the isthmus since the period of Spanish colonization. In contrast, Antillean Blacks speak English, practice Protestant religions, and possess cultural characteristics that are more British than Hispanic. Antillean Black workers sought equality by participating in numerous labor strikes between 1881 and 1920 (Ricart V. 1993, 8–9). In 1921, the

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Governor of the Canal Zone equated the structure of the area with those of other North American regions known for racial intolerance and, as Conniff notes, “The system remained rigid until the 1940s, by which time it compared unfavorably with race relations in Louisiana and Mississippi” (1985, 35). As the nation’s critical need for these immigrants diminished, hostility escalated; national movements to oppose Panama’s Afro-Antillean immigrant population even appeared in legislative rulings, especially during the presidential rule of Arnulfo Arias (1940–1941). Under Arias’s leadership, discriminatory moves against Afro-Antilleans surfaced, especially in the Constitution of 1941. This document stripped many Antillean Blacks of their Panamanian citizenship. In an interview, Cubena describes how this law personally affected him: “I was denied Panamanian citizenship because three of my grandparents were not born in Pamaná. They were immigrants of African descent, and their language was not Spanish” (Birimingham-Pokorny 1991, 128). Article Thirteen, clearly anti-West Indian, limited the number of Antillean individuals who could study and work in Panama (Wilson 1994, 19). Article Twenty-Three of this Constitution explicitly prohibited certain populations from immigrating to the nation: “Son de inmigración prohibida: la raza negra cuyo idioma originario no sea el Castellano, la raza amarilla y las razas originarias de la India, el Asia Menor y el Norte de Africa” [Immigration is prohibited to: members of the Black race whose native language is not Spanish, the yellow races [Asians], and those that come from India, Asia Minor, and the North of Africa] (Constitución de la República de Panamá 7; Wilson 1994, 32).10 This official document illustrates the extent to which the government attempted to ensure that West Indians were excluded from the nation. Conniff reports that the move toward denationalization of Antillean Blacks left 50,000 people without a state and caused hardships for tens of thousands more (1985, 99). Such moves forced many Antillean Blacks and their descendants to migrate to other countries. Such events of Panama’s history influence Cubena’s often caustic narrative tone. Ian Smart believes that Cubena’s prose is grounded on realism, but is overshadowed by the author’s frustration: “The realistic tone that Cubena uses to paint his horrific world can be misleading, for the author is not so much describing what he sees with his physical eyes as he is attempting to give some tangible form to the outrage and disgust he feels” (1978, 44). This disgust and frustration can be seen in Los nietos as the characters tear down those attitudes that he considers to be responsible for the lack of unity within the Black community. As Elba Birmingham-Pokorny notes, one of the notable aspects of Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores is Cubena’s focus on historical successes that have greatly influenced the Antillean Black population, as the novel “decries the pervasive prejudice that has excluded, distorted, or

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simply reduced to a simple footnote in history books the multiple contributions of Afro-Hispanics to the creation and development of Latin America” (1993b, 119).

HISTORY IN LOS NIETOS The basis of the narrative structure of Los nietos is dialogue. The novel’s fragmented structure allows the representation of numerous verbal confrontations between fictional characters strategically located in various time periods and locations. The opening episode reflects the ignorance of Blacks in the United States about the Afro-Hispanic world: Estos eran de ascendencia africana que funcionaban como aseadores del aeropuerto. Extrañamente, los norteamericanos de ascendencia africana, “soul brothers,” como se llamaban entre ellos, se burlaron del hecho de que Carla hablaba en francés y Elsa en español. [These were of African ancestry that worked as janitors in the airport. Strangely, the North Americans of African ancestry, “soul brothers,” they call themselves, made fun of the fact that Carla was speaking in French and Elsa in Spanish.] (40)

The North American Blacks in the airport possess a lack of knowledge about their own history, and awareness that the Diaspora envelopes Blacks beyond the borders of the United States are either from Africa or from the United States. The American group in the airport echoes a group of Blacks that fail to realize that in their respective countries, Afro-Hispanic groups have suffered as much as, if not more than themselves in their struggle to gain respect and equality. Cubena’s message to Blacks within the United States is that they should accept their brethren, since these individuals and their ancestors have had to endure similar hardships. In section one, Elsa Gordon dispels the long-held myth regarding the pureza de sangre [white purity] of whites in Spain; she finds it ironic that the Spanish and Portuguese look down on individuals of African ancestry when their own culture was enriched by the cultural influence of Blacks from North Africa: Los hispanos son los que menos pueden darse el lujo del odio racial, de la discriminación y, sobre todo, de asombrarse de la existencia de afro-hispanos, o sea, gente de ascendencia africana cuya lengua materna es el español, porque desde la época en que el africano Tarik conquistó la península ibérica,

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derrotando a Rodrigo, el último rey visigodo, tanto en España y Portugal como en sus antiguas colonias del Nuevo Mundo la africanización del hispano en raza y cultura ha sido constante e intensa, hasta hoy día. [Hispanics are the last ones to have the luxury of racial hatred, of discrimination and, above everything else, to be astonished by the existence of Afro-Hispanics, that is to say, people of African ancestry whose mother language is Spanish, because since the African Tarik conquered the Iberian Peninsula, defeating Rodrigo, the last Visigoth king, as much in Spain and Portugal as in its old colonies of the New World, the Africanization of the Hispanic in race and culture has been constant and intense, up to the present.] (56)

By bringing up this little-celebrated part of Iberian history, Elsa participates in eroding the myth of white ethnic purity of the Spaniards and Portuguese who colonized a major part of the Americas. In debunking this myth, she emphasizes the cultural and ethnic connections between Spanish, Portuguese, and Africans. She argues that the mestizo populations of the Caribbean have more of a connection with their Afro-Caribbean peers than they think. One of Felicidad Dolores’ descendants, Victoriano Lorenzo Brown, notes in the airport that in the United States, Black military soldiers look down upon fellow officers of color within their platoon because of cultural differences. He notes that all of these soldiers are nothing more than carne de cañon [cannon fodder], a fact that they themselves fail to notice (67). The enlisted military men ought to recognize that they share more similarities than differences, because they are mostly men of color and are serving under the command of a white officer, described as “un rubio de ojos azules” [a blond man with blue eyes] (67). The soldiers waiting for their flight deny their similarities, but instead exhibit mutual disdain for each other, as pointed out by Brown: Míralos, carne de cañon—dijo el Dr. Victoriano Lorenzo Brown para su interior, sacudiendo breve y rápidamente la cabeza de izquierda a derecha y viceversa—el soldado de ascendencia africana odia al chicano y, por supuesto, el chicano odia al negro. Se odian mutuamente. Se odian con pasión. Se odian. Lo único que los unifica como hermanos o al menos como paisanos es el orgullo del uniforme que lucen. Absurdo. Orgullosos del uniforme . . . ¿No lo saben? Son carne de cañón. [Look at them, cannon fodder—said Dr. Victoriano Lorenzo Brown to himself, briefly and quickly shaking his head from right to left and vice versa—the soldier of African ancestry hates the Chicano and, of course, the Chicano hates blacks. They mutually hate one another. They hate each other with a passion. They hate one another. The only thing that unifies them as brothers or at least

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as fellow citizens is their pride in the uniform they wear. Absurd. Proud of the uniform . . . . Don’t they know? They are cannon fodder.] (67)

The internalization of racist attitudes occurs within Felicidad Dolores’s family as well. Her relative, Rabiaprieta demonstrates the results of internalized self-hatred. As in the case of the soldiers, white physical features appear to reflect a natural superiority, Rabiaprieta seeks white men to father her children. She justifies her actions to an elder member of the family while inside the airport terminal: Si muá quiero darles el número de mon telephone a todos los soldados gringos, por supuesto, los más blancos de ojos azules, es asunto mío y au contraire ni a ti ni a nadie le debe importar . . . Pues sí, estoy muy happy and yes very orgullosa de que fueron five soldados fulos, sí, muy rubios with blue eyes los que me preñaron. Todos blancos. [Yes muá want to give mon phone number to all the gringo soldiers, of course, the whitest ones with blue eyes, it’s my business and au contraire it shouldn’t matter to you or anybody else . . . . Well yes, I am happy and yes very proud that all five were blond, yes, very blonde with blues eyes, those that got me pregnant. All white.] (75)

In her jumbled mixture of languages and false dialects, she defends her notion that Aryan-featured white men are the best specimens of the human race. Her exaggerated behavior and her contrived French accent (64) reflect the extent to which some Blacks go to distance themselves from their cohorts. Through humorous caricature, Cubena attempts to expose a self-destructive attitude that keeps the Black population divided within itself. Richard Jackson applauds Cubena’s works for their historical accuracy: “To read Cubena’s novels is to travel a constant journey through ethnic memory; he does not forget, and he does his homework” (1988, 79). In fact, in an interview with Laverne M. Seals Soley, Cubena admits that he was motivated to write by his strong desire to bring to light many significant and overlooked portions of history involving Blacks: “Escribo para dejar constancia del aporte de los africanos y sus descendientes latinoamericanos a las historias, las culturas y a las identidades en las Américas, porque en los textos oficiales brillan por su ausencia” [I write to leave a record of the contribution of Africans and their Latin American descendants in histories, cultures and American identity because in official textbooks they are notably absence] (1998, 68). As a result of Cubena’s novel, many readers within and beyond Panama are forced to acknowledge some lesser-known aspects of Panamanian history.

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The deep issue of racism against Antillean Black immigrants is presented in the final segment of the novel in a letter from Policarpo Reid, one of the central griot figures. He notes that Panamanian racism is evident through the nation’s failure to name streets, plazas, and monuments after Antillean Blacks that played a major role in the country’s development: El aeropuerto internacional no se llama Urracá-Bayano. Aquí no hay Paseo Barbados ni Avenida Martinica ni Vía Jamaica. Tampoco hay Plaza de las Antillas, Día de los Diggers, Monumento Nacional en honor a los obreros afroantillanos silver roll que hicieron patria en el Istmo construyendo, con sudor y sangre, el Ferrocarril y el Canal, cordón umbilical de Panamá. [The international airport is not named after Urracá-Bayano. Here there is no Barbados Way nor Martinica Avenue, nor Jamaica Road. There is not even an Antillean Plaza, Diggers’ Day, a national monument in honor of the Antillean silver roll workers that made the nation their own working on the isthmus constructing, with sweat and blood, the railroad and the Canal, umbilical cord of Panama.] (230)

The lack of historical references, according to Policarpo, demonstrates the nation’s attempt to ignore this part of the nation’s rich history. This system is described in the following manner “Because the United States could not legally enforce Jim Crow laws in Panama, it created a pay system for Canal Zone workers that reflected Jim Crow practices of the South. The pay system classified workers as Gold Roll and Silver Roll employees. Those designated as Gold Roll employees were primarily whites from the United States, and those on the Silver Roll were “colored” Panamanians and black West Indians (Watson 2005, 96)

This duel pay system was used from 1904 to the 1960s. The same letter also reflects seldom documented details from official Panamanian history, such as the negative treatment experienced by Antillean Blacks that arrived in Panama to work on the Canal. Near the end of section eight, Policarpo’s letter reminds his daughter of the hardships that early Antillean workers faced: “Debes saber que algunos textos escolares no informan a los estudiantes de hoy día sobre la heroica hazaña de los millares de obreros afroantillanos—diggers—que construyeron, con sudor y sangre, el Canal” [You should know that some schoolbooks do not teach today’s students about the heroic deeds of millions of Afro-Antilleans—diggers—that constructed, with sweat and blood, the Canal] (230). Recalling such overlooked historical names and events, Cubena educates his readers about

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lesser-known aspects of the history of Blacks in the Americas and acknowledges the effects that these historical events have on the proud Black characters, thus making the novel an effective educational tool. Even though their contributions are overlooked in history books, Cubena and his Afro-Antillean characters have not forgotten them. While waiting to board the plane in chapter one, Policarpo Reid recalls the struggles of his predecessors: “Pues sí, mis abuelos diggers llegaron a Panamá jóvenes y con mucha energía para construir el Canal, o como decían ellos: ‘Big Ditch’” [Well yes, my digger grandparents arrived in Panama young and filled with energy to construct the Canal, or as they call it the “Big Ditch”] (19). The Spanish speakers called it La Gran Zanja, while the French-speaking population called the Canal La Grande Tranchée. These names are included in the novel to reflect the extent to which this massive engineering project played an intimate role in the lives of the diverse immigrants from distinct linguistic regions. Los nietos contains many references to important mytho-historical figures and documents their contribution to Caribbean history. Ian Smart points out the importance of history in the earlier novel Chombo by positing that the novel “functions as a roll call of the heroic masses who resisted the presentday Panamanian plantation system” (1996, 110). This description is also applicable to Los nietos, as the text expands Cubena’s artistic vision to cover the African Diaspora beyond the borders of Panama. Highlighted individuals include Black figures from different parts of the African Diaspora. As Triunfo Guerrero’s unnamed cousin relates his knowledge of his people’s rebellious past, he mentions some of these important figures: Otras veces me imagino combatiendo al lado de célebres caciques cimarrones africanos como Yanga en México Cudjoe en Jamaica Filippa María Aranha y Gangazumba en Brasil Benkos en Colombia Chirinos en Venezuela Coba en Cuba Fabulé en Martinica Felipillo y Bayano en Panamá. [Other times I imagine myself fighting by the side of the most famous African leaders of escaped slaves, such as Yanga in México Cudjoe in Jamaica Filippa María Aranha and Gangazumba in Brasil Benkos in Colombia Chirinos in Venezuela Coba in Cuba Fabulé in Martinique Felipillo y Bayano in Panama.] (29)

These important figures demonstrate a sustained history of the struggle of Blacks for cultural freedom and self-expression. The lack of commas in the passage blends these leaders into one collective rebellious force. One frequently mentioned leader is Bayano, the legendary African king brought to the Americas as a slave. In the middle of section one, the narrator

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describes him as a “valiente cacique cimarrón de Panamá” [brave escaped warrior from Panama] (39). This important rebel figure is cited at other points in the novel (40, 73). Manuel de la Rosa describes this cimarrón leader as “el símbolo de la rebeldía lúcida, organizada por aquellos hombres trampeados, cazados, encadenados y trasladados en contra de su voluntad desde África hasta América” [the symbol of the lucid rebelliousness, organized by those men, tricked, hunted, chained, and transferred against their will from Africa to the Americas] (1993, 284). By citing this important historical figure, Cubena is able to build upon the history of African resistance in the Americas, contributing to the novel’s goal of demonstrating African American patterns of resistance. Another cimarrón leader, Yanga, is honored in chapter two for his important role in Afro-Mexican history: El más célebre cimarrón africano del palenque Cofre de Perote, cerca de Orizaba, y fundador del pueblo San Lorenzo de los Negros de Córdoba, donde encontraron refugio los cimarrones africanos de Acapulco, Guadalajara, Querétaro, Cuernavaca y, sobre todo, Puebla y Jalapa. [The most famous escaped African slave of the Cofre de Perote pelenque, close to Orizaba, and founder of the town of San Lorenzo of the Blacks of Córdoba, where escaped slave communities in Acapulco, Guadalajara, Querétaro, Cuernavaca and, above all, Puebla and Jalapa found refuge.] (99)

The Afro-Mexican population is rarely acknowledged in the works of Hispanic writers, which lends particular significance to this reference. In the airport, in the first section, one of Felicidad Dolores’s godchildren, Elsa Gordon, recalls all of the Black leaders that fought for the freedom of African-descended individuals all over the world: Y a continuación pensó: “El racismo y la violencia contra mi gente de ascendencia africana en Europa, Asia, las Américas y, desgraciadamente, en la misma Africa hubieran tenido punto final ya hace siglos si todos hubiéramos adoptado como Cudjoe, Coba, Yanga, Benkos, Fabulé, Filippa María Aranha, Felipillo, Zabeth, Zumbí, Bayano y los otros valientes caciques cimarrones el grito de guerra: DIGNIDAD o MUERTE.” [And then she thought: “Racism and violence against my people of African ancestry in Europe, Asia, the Americas, and unfortunately in Africa itself would have ended centuries ago if all of us were like Cudjoe, Coba, Yanga, Benkos, Fabulé, Filippa María Aranha, Felipillo, Zabeth, Zumbí, Bayano and the war cry of other brave escaped slave leaders: DIGNITY or DEATH.”] (40)

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These rebels risked their lives for the benefit of future generations of Blacks, who now fail to remember their contribution or to continue the struggle. In the last episode of chapter one, as the family is aboard the plane, Eufemia begins to interpret Libertad Lamento’s dream, which is in fact a montage of African and African American history. The dream offers allusions to numerous important figures from Black history that take part in a celebration held by the descendants of the exiled Africans from the city of Buruco: Fiesta y alegría yoquieroquetumellevesaltambordela cantos y bailes yoquieroquetumellevesaltambordelalegría bailes y cantos de los tambores de alegría . . . pero de repente silencio . . . silencio . . . silencio . . . abrazos a los ancianos africanos del Reino de los Muertos y después a los Bayano Cudjoe Yanga Coba Benkos Zumbí Zabeth y en Portobelo murmuran luego gritan la palabra sodinu [Party and happiness Iwantyoutakemetothedrumof songs and dances Iwantyoutakemetothedrumofhappiness dances and songs of the drums of happiness . . . but all of a sudden silence . . . silence . . . silence . . . hugs with African elders in the Kingdom of the Dead and later Bayano Cudjoe Yanga Coba Benkos Zumbí Zabeth and in Portobello whisper and later yell the word sodinu.] (79)

The text’s lack of commas between the names of the rebel leaders again blends the spirits of the dead into one collective spirit that utters the mysterious word sodinu; this word is the key to their survival. To highlight the importance of this word, the passage, and the chapter, ends with the word sodinu in bold print. The joined words are lyrics from the popular Panamanian song Tambor de la alegría made famous by Los Faycanes. This passage also reflects the author’s use of lexical innovation, in creating complex morphemes by merging several words into one. This technique will be addressed in detail later in this chapter. The characters bear names reminiscent of major figures in the struggle of the African Diaspora. The slaver Bartolomé Ladrón, for example, is linked to the famous Spanish priest, Bartolomé de las Casas. This sixteenth-century priest’s accomplishments are described in the novel: Además, también se enteró de que Bartolomé de las Casas (testigo de la matanza de arahuacos en Xaraguá y en Higuey), el tocayo y buen amigo de ‘El martirio de los negros’, se hizo dominico tras de peticionarle a Carlos V licencia para importar al Nuevo Mundo esclavos bozales de Africa como reemplazos de los arahuacos, caribes y otros indígenas que morían por la viruela, la sífilis y el trabajo en las minas de oro.

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[Also, he found out that Bartolomé de las Casas (witness of the murder of the Arahuacos in Xaraguá and in Higuey), his namesake and the good friend of “The martyrdom of blacks,” became a Dominican priest by petitioning Carlos V for a license to import to the New World African slaves as replacements for the Arahuacos, Caribs and other indigenous groups that died from smallpox, syphilis and labor in gold mines.] (95)

While this historical figure is revered today for his protection of the Indigenous American population, he is also held responsible for the mass Spanish importation of enslaved Africans to the Americas. There are numerous references to significant figures of African descent in the areas of literature, anticolonial resistance, and the arts. These figures include leaders such as Marcus Garvey and Dr. Martin Luther King; musical artists Celia Cruz and Benny Moré; and famous Panamanian writer, politician, and proponent of the Antillean community, George W. Westerman. Other powerful references include figures from European history, including one reference to Juan de Valladolid, “el mayoral de los negros en Sevilla nombrado por los Reyes Católicos” [the foreman of Blacks in Seville appointed by the Catholic Crown] (90). The novel also makes reference to the fifteenth-century humanist, Juan Latino, and French novelist, Alejandro Dumas, both great writers of African descent. This catalog of great figures throughout the novel acknowledges the accomplishments that have shaped the twentieth century for African Americans and whites alike. The novel highlights Black Antillean religious figures that have played a major role in Panama and the Caribbean. One important figure mentioned frequently is Monsignor Carlos Ambrosio Lewis, the first Panamanian Bishop of Afro-Antillean ancestry (98, 172, 199). In chapter six, when the mis-educated colonial Black character humorously named Lesbiaquiña Petrablanche de las Nieves de Monte Monarca Moreno discovers that a descendant of Antillean Blacks will be named Bishop, she loses faith in the Catholic Church and the Pope and makes the following statement: “Los padres del sacerdote chombo son negros de inmigración prohibida porque su lengua materna no es el castellano y seguro que los abuelos del sacerdote chombo le rezaban a Obatalá, Yemayá y Changó” [The parents of the chombo priest are negroes barred from immigration because their mother language is not Spanish and I am certain that the grandparents of that chombo priest prayed to Obatalá, Yemayá y Changó] (173). She concludes that the pope must have been possessed by Satan to have made such an appointment. Her reference to Afro-Caribbean deities reflects a common belief that the religion of Antillean immigrants was an indicator of their primitive nature11.

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As we saw in La paz del pueblo and will see Changó, el gran putas, one of the most important historic events described is the Middle Passage. Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores acknowledges this tragic event that illustrates the horrors that humankind can inflict upon itself. In the last pages of the novel, a letter to the family acknowledges the strength of the survivors of the Middle Passage: Más importante aún, puso de relieve que nosotros los nietos somos descendientes de una raza fuerte (selección natural) de los abuelos que sobrevivieron el secuestro y el cautiverio en las factorías allá en Africa, de abuelos que sobrevivieron el cruce del océano Atlántico en navíos negreros y luego en cadenas desembarcaron en los Portobelos de las tierras madrastras, de abuelos que sobrevivieron el sol tropical. [More importantly still, it highlights that we grandchildren are descendants of a strong race (natural selection), from grandparents that survived the kidnapping and captivity in factories there in Africa, from grandparents that survived the crossing of the Atlantic in slave ships and later disembarked in chains in stepmother lands like Portobellos, of grandparents that survived the tropical sun.] (232)

This letter continues by listing the dangers and perils that Africans faced, from the Middle Passage through the twentieth century. This passage is intended to instill pride, illustrating that present-day Blacks are products of their ancestors who managed to survive and resist hostile forces. The historical data in the novel results from Cubena’s painstaking research, provoked by his desire to use history as a foundation. In an interview, he explains this goal in the following manner: “por lo tanto concentro mi tiempo en las lecturas de libros de historia, biografías, ponencias, artículos y todo lo que contenga detalles sobre la presencia africana en las Américas” [therefore, I focus my attention on texts from history books, biographies, conferences, articles, and everything that contains details about the African presence in the Americas] (Soley, 1998, 69). Birmingham-Pokorny concludes that Cubena’s novel counters the traditional concept of history: “He has repudiated and openly denounced as false and biased the ‘official’ history. In particular, he has emphasized their participation in the unmasking and re-writing of all that which the ‘official’ history has denied, omitted, or simply silenced” (1993b, 127). By integrating important names of places and people, Cubena expands the boundaries of Panamanian history, emphasizing the importance of cultural and political resistance. The author educates the reader about overlooked historical events as a way to improve the future; the phrase knowledge is power is repeated numerous times in the work to underscore his philosophy.

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AFRICAN TRADITIONS AND RESISTANCE Los nietos contains numerous examples of African myth, and this ontological foundation allows Cubena to link the living characters with past ancestors. In section eight, for example, an unidentified narrator makes reference to the heights of Kilimanjaro, the legendary location where Olodumare’s children are believed to have been created. Cubena spins a tale based on this myth in order to explain, within an Afrocentric framework, the origin of African enslavement. According to the narrator, within the idealized realm of Kilimanjaro, the original African population lived peacefully, protected by the Orishas. The novel describes how this utopia was destroyed when five African youths attempted to overthrow the elders in the community: Bajo un robusto y frondoso baobab a orilla del río Nilo . . . el principio de una gran maldición vinculada con un ombligo de mal agüero y una odisea apocalíptica que se complicó a orilla del río Níger bajo un tamarindo en el corazón de Buruco, de donde zarparon los navíos negreros rumbo a tierras madrastras de felicidad y dolores. [Under a great and leafy baobab tree on the shore of the Nile River . . . the beginning of a great curse connected with the navel of bad omen and the apocalyptic odyssey that grew even more complicated on the shore of the Niger River under a tamarind tree in the heart of Buruco, from where the slave ships flow to the stepmother lands of happiness and sadness.] (228–229)

According to the novel, Orisha Omolú’s anger against the African youths is so intense that it leads him to punish them by exiling them from this locus amoenus. After being expelled, the five Africans involved in the revolt must locate a second tranquil paradise. The narrator notes that this new location will be found under the protection of a tamarind tree: Por fin, después de mucho deambular, madrugadas tras madrugadas, desde el río Nilo al río Zambeze y, luego, desde el río Congo al río Níger, encontramos el lugar indicado por el concilio de nobles y sabios abuelos a orilla de río Níger, donde con gran júbilo nos establecimos en Buruco. Allí . . . los animales ahora eran más feroces y numerosos leprosos nos codeaban. [Finally, after much roaming, dawn after dawn, from the Nile River to the Zambeze River and, later from the Congo River to the Niger River, we found the place indicated by the council of nobles and wise grandparents by the shore of the Niger river, where with great celebration we settled in Buruco. There . . . the animals now are ferocious and numerous lepers are amongst us.] (83)

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In Buruco, the population has the potential to atone for its crime, but as newer generations develop, they make a grievous mistake by forgetting their past. The new community will be disrupted when a youth named Omiyapa fails to reveal the presence of albinos,12 which symbolizes the threat of evil spirits inside the community. It is this second original sin that causes the children of Buruco to be expelled to the Americas in chains. This new punishment sends them to a distant land filled with even less beauty, and less protection. In this world of danger, they are promised redemption only when they become unified and remember their past. As in Duncan’s La paz del pueblo, Los nietos makes reference to the Judeo-Christian myth of the creation of the Black race when Noah curses his son Ham and all his descendants by giving them dark skin and making them his servants.13 This myth appears in an intercalated tale told by the narrator near the end of section two. It recounts the adventures of Guacayarima, Felicidad Dolores’s first child on his voyage to Americas. After an attempted mutiny is countered, the priest baptizes the surviving slaves aboard the ship, using a Biblical interpretation to explain their current situation: “[Él] consideraba a todos los africanos pecadores polígamos y descendientes asquerosos de Canaan, malditos por el mismo Noé, a quienes era justo conquistar en Buena Guerra para esclavizarlos como castigo por la dominación musulmana en España” [[He] considered all Africans polygamous sinners and disgusting descendants of Ham, cursed by Noah himself, whom he was just about to conquer in a Holy War to enslave them as a punishment for their Muslim domination of Spain] (109). Placed in this historical-mythical context, the priest’s reasoning justifies aggression and oppression of Blacks by whites. The text replaces the Biblical myth that explains the creation of diverse languages with its own Afrocentric legend. As recounted in section two of the novel, the Orishas successfully prevent the overthrow of the authority of the council of elders of Buruco by causing the five youths to speak in different languages, thus preventing them from communicating with one another. The substitution of one myth for the other demonstrates that all cultures have myths to explain troublesome phenomena. The novel even explains the origins of nature with mythology. In section two, rain is explained through principles from the Afro-Caribbean religious pantheon. Upon Guacayarima’s return to the mythical city of Buruco, his distress at seeing his people enslaved is shared by Yemayá, the Orisha of the oceans and seas: “Los aguaceros torrenciales—lágrimas de orixa Yemayá— comienza—ron a empapar la costa cuando allí en la desembocadura del río Níger” [The torrential showers—tears of the Orisha Yemaya—begin—rum to soak the coast when there in the mouth of the Niger River] (100). Rain is equated with the Orisha’s tears as she witnesses the state of her African children. This mythical interpretation also reveals that the descendants of

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Felicidad Dolores have not been completely abandoned by their spiritual protectors. The inclusion of references to African myth in the novel serves as a foundation to explain the origin of human existence. On a spiritual level, African mythology explains the presence of supernatural forces and attempts to instruct humankind. The text’s use of examples from Lucumi mythology illustrates how African mythology serves the same role of explaining the world that Western mythology serves in logocentric-oriented literature. Myth in Cubena’s novel thus repeatedly connects the characters and the reader to the continent of Africa, the origin of the characters’ collective worldview. Syncretism Just as the novel erodes the traditional concept of Classical and JudeoChristian mythology as the essential tools to understand human existence, it also demonstrates that Christian religious practices are not the only valid forms of expression. Los nietos presents African-influenced religion, coupled with aspects of Christianity, which exemplify the syncretic nature of AfroCaribbean religion. For example, in section two, as Bandelé Cebiano, the first African born outside of Africa, attempts to escape from Spain, he turns to both religious traditions as potential weapons. The Siete potencias [Seven Powers], or the Orishas, blend with the rosary as he prays: “inmediatamente rezar cinco veces el rosario que le habían regalado los franciscanos del convento de La Rábida” [Immediately praying the rosary five times that the Franciscans of the Rabies convent gave him] (87). As response to his supplication, he is given an opportunity to escape his job as a guide for a blind gypsy man and travel with a circus. He will later have an opportunity to take a ship to Granada, Spain, where he becomes an altar boy in a Catholic Church. Another character that demonstrates the simultaneous presence of Christian and African spirituality is Guacayarima, Felicidad Dolores’s first child. In this instance, the presentation of the two traditions together illustrates the power of the Orishas over Christianity. In chapter eight, Guacayarima functions as a picaresque character, using his knowledge of Christian icons and principles to take advantage of devout followers by staging a miracle based on the stigmata of Christ. The Orishas attempt to communicate with him but he does not hear them because of his distraction: “seguía con lo de las Avemarías, las carcajadas, tras los relinchos y los ladridos, y también con lo del dinero por el ombligo de Viernes Santo” [He continued with his Ave Marias, laughter, despite the neighing and barking of dogs, and also with the money earned with his navel on Good Friday] (223). This episode illustrates how individuals of African heritage and culture were able to fool white superiors by using elements of Christianity to mask their African spiritual practices.

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Combative Vision toward Existence The novel presents numerous examples—in the past as well as in the present—­of discrimination against individuals of African descent at the hands of members of the dominant or white community. During these encounters, the Antillean Black characters repeatedly project images of courage and resilience. While the family awaits its flight in the airport, they witness a group of illegal Afro-Antilleans being deported by immigration officials. Elsa Gordon’s monologue notes that the legal injustices committed by the U.S. government often are based on the detainees’ skin color: Estos gringos son unos des . . . . Aquí cerca está la Estatua de la Libertad con su lema dizque están bienvenidos todos los refugiados al supuesto paraíso de la democracia y la justicia. Cho, a decir verdad, aquí en la tierra de Abraham Lincoln, evidentemente, le dan preferencia a ciertos grupos.” [These gringos are some sons . . . . Here close by is the Statue of Liberty, with her so called motto welcoming all refugees to this supposed paradise of democracy and justice. Man, to be honest, here in the land of Abraham Lincoln, evidently, they give preference to a certain group of people.] (35)

Her husband laments that such rigid immigration laws were not in effect against the early European colonizers: “Es una lástima que los arahuacos, los mayas y los incas no tuvieran leyes de inmigración como las que existen en la actualidad, porque, según tengo entendido, en la época de la colonia llegaron de Europa demasiados prófugos, prostitutas y, sobre todo, dementes, sin duda alguna, de locura hereditaria, evidentemente” [It is a shame that the Arahuacos, the Mayas, and the Incas did not have immigration laws like the ones that exist now, because, to my knowledge, during the time that the colony arrived from Europe they brought fugitives, prostitutes and, above all, lunatics, without a doubt hereditary, evidently] (35–36). Europeans that arrived in the Americas brought little to improve the living conditions of the native population. Their presence and their abuses caused countless indigenous peoples to die from illness or suicide. Ironically, the descendants of these immigrants now tightly monitor immigration to control, which individuals are allowed to enter the United States, especially those of color. In the chaotic airport terminal, Felicidad Dolores’s family encounters blatant incidents of racism. Cubena illustrates the hostile world around them and how they respond to it as the group’s cultural differences appear to upset many individuals around them; for example, while the family members gather to celebrate the history of Afro-Caribbean music (in order to pass time while awaiting the departure of their flight), a group of white North American

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tourists passes by and expresses its disdain toward this group that they consider to be inferior Black foreigners. The narrator describes how this group of tourists, en route to Las Vegas, looks at the mass and verbally insults them: Varios norteamericanos rubios que viajaban rumbo a los casinos de Las Vegas se burlaron, vomitando estruendosas carcajadas, de la ropa de los chombos, pichones y cocolos y, más aún, de su ascendencia africana [Various blond North Americans that were headed to the casinos of Las Vegas made fun, vomiting clamorous laughter, at the clothing of the chombos, pichones and cocolos, and, even more, of their African ancestry]: —Look at the niggers —Why don’t they use normal clothes like us? —They look silly and speak with a funny accent. —These niggers must be from one of those Banana Republics or from the islands. —Yes, and they have mixed blood. —I don’t want them in our church, school, and much less, in our neighborhood. —We don’t want nigger grandchildren. —Why don’t they go back to Africa? —Yes, back to Africa. (39)

These characters express intolerant views against foreign Blacks because of their different physical appearance, unique cultures, and distinctive native tongues. The use of the word nigger, a word charged with a deep and distressing history, triggers an emotional response within the reader. The author highlights this passage in bold print to intensify this white group’s xenophobia and to highlight the fact that such thoughts, whether spoken or not, are typical attitudes of many citizens of the United States. Another example of the hostility of whites toward Blacks in the United States occurs toward the end of section one, as Guadalupe Brown relates stories of the difficulties that her Afro-Hispanic husband Simón Bolivar Brown encountered when he taught Spanish in an unnamed San Diego university. He encounters racism from students on three levels. First, some of his North American white students questioned his credentials, since they had never before encountered a Hispanic of African descent: “Algunos estudiantes blancos no respetaban a Simón y ponían en tela de juicio el hecho de que él fuera auténtico profesor de español porque lo consideraban moneda falsa ya que ellos jamás habían visto a un latinoamericano negro” [Some white students did not respect Simón and questioned the fact that he was really a Spanish professor because they believed that he was an imposter, since they had never seen a Black Latin-American] (77). Second, his North American Black students refused to learn from him because they believed that “nada iban a

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aprender de un profesor negro, y mucho menos de un negro extranjero” [they would learn nothing from a Black professor, and much less from a foreigner] (77). The third level of hostility that he encounters is from lighter-skinned Latino students who refuse to learn from him because he does not conform to their stereotypical concept of the phenotype of a Hispanic individual: “Es más, algunos estudiantes latinos tenían tremendo resentimiento contra Simón porque no lo consideraban un auténtico latino porque no se parecía a Pancho Villa” [In fact, there were many Latino students that had a great deal of resentment toward Simón because he was not considered to be an authentic Latino because he did not look like Pancho Villa] (77). These examples of North American racism reflect the many levels of disrespect, isolation, and hostility that Afro-Caribbean individuals have faced, and continue to encounter, in the United States because they do not conform to stereotypical North American notions. The novel also includes examples of conflict provoked by structured white hate groups that have systematically assaulted populations of color. In chapter one, Victoriano Lorenzo Brown, an esteemed gynecologist, recalls the disturbing incidents of harassment that he and his family encountered as they moved to a more affluent, exclusive, and predominantly white neighborhood. Rather than finding a better standard of living, the accomplished physician and his family became targets of the Ku Klux Klan. His story reveals that as the family returned home from an outing, they found a burning cross in the yard: “En efecto, al regresar a nuestro hogar después de la ópera, increíblemente encontramos una cruz quemada en la entrada principal y, en vez del INRI, había un mensaje de Los Enmascarados que decía: Nigga back to Africa” [In effect, upon returning to our home after the opera, incredibly we found a cross burned in front of the main entrance and, instead of INRI, there was a message from the masked men that read: Nigga back to Africa] (34). As if the incident in itself is not powerful enough, the narration highlights the racist message left by his attackers in bold letters to intensify the response. All of the examples of conflict, as related by the family members at the airport, demonstrate that they all have faced racism, but they have not allowed such events to cause them to see themselves as part of an inferior group. The novel reveals that not all the conflicts and tensions against Blacks come from white individuals. Watson notes that “Los nietos aims to unite Afro-Hispanics and West Indians, and it brings to light the absurdity of their hatred of one another” (2014, 86). The descendants of Felicidad Dolores are aware of major problems that exist within the Black community and are committed to addressing them. While waiting in the airport, Elsa Gordon discusses problems that exist as a result of the lack of Black unity. She observes that members of the Black community that visit her daughter’s bookstore

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never can pay the money that they owe, but they always find the money to pay bills from nonblack business owners: Flacobala está al corriente de los muchos clientes, muy paisanos de nosotros, que deben dinero porque cuando compran libros y útiles escolares lo quieren todo fiao porque dizque nunca tienen con qué pagar, pero cuando compran en otro lugar, curiosamente, tienen el dinero contante y sonante. [Flacobala is up to date on the numerous clients, our people, that owe money because when they buy books and school supplies, they want everything on credit because supposedly they never have any money, but when they shop at other places, curiously, they have money jangling in their pockets.] (25)

Elsa continues her diatribe by relating a story of a restaurant named Calalú, where Black customers routinely complain about the quality of the food, in hopes of receiving free meals: ¡Caray! Otros paisanos nuestros frecuentan el restaurante “Calalú” y critican a la dueña, mi ahijada, porque ella no permite que los pechugones coman un banquete gratis. Sí, cuando estos mismos bellacos van a un restaurante chino, comen poco y mal, pero eso sí, con entusiasmo pagan la cuenta y hasta dejan propina. [Damn! Other brothers and sisters eat frequently at the restaurant “Calalú” and they criticize the owner, my goddaughter, because she does not allow those freeloaders to have a free buffet. Yes, when these same wicked rogues go to a Chinese restaurant, they eat small portions of bad quality food, but then they enthusiastically pay the bill and even leave a tip.] (25)

Elsa’s experiences and those of her family have taught her that the lack of support that Blacks offer one another is an obstacle that must be overcome before they can make progress. She affirms that until Blacks begin to support members of their own racial community economically, spiritually, and culturally, they will forever be “como cangrejos en un barril, o sea, los que están en el fondo jalan para abajo a los que por su propio esfuerzo tratan de salir del barril” [like crabs in a barrel, that’s to say, those at the bottom pull down with all their might those who by their own effort try to get out of the barrel] (24–25). This vivid simile demonstrates the hostile and detached environment that develops as the Black community turns against itself in order to survive. One of the most prominent examples of hostility against fellow Blacks comes from Lesbiaquiña Petrablanche de las Nieves de Monte Monarca Moreno. This colonial Black character’s hate and shame of her African

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heritage causes her to despise Blacks, especially Blacks of Antillean origin. In section six, in the neighborhood of Guachapalí in Panama City, when she learns that the Antillean Youth Guacayarima plans to marry her niece Candelaria, she says: “Hijuechombo, no quiero verte con mi sobrina. Dicen que cada oveja con su pareja porque tortuga no se enamora de yegua” [Sonofachombo, I don’t want to see you with my niece. They say every sheep has its mate; a turtle can’t fall in love with a mare]. Enraged, she uses the proverb to express her anger at the shame of having a chombo in the family (171). Her conflictive personality is the result of internalized hatred of her own blackness; her desire to be white is symbolized each time that she washes her hands (128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, etc.). These repeated actions demonstrate her desire to remove the blackness from herself and no longer be part of what she views as an inferior race. Lesbiaquiña’s younger brother, Aníbal Moreno, symbolizes colonial Blacks who hate their own Black identity and inflict physical and emotional pain upon themselves. Aníbal is so determined to erase traces of his own African features that he manipulates his body in hopes of removing them: Cada noche el hijo del zapatero se pone una horquilla en la nariz para tener una nariz afrancesada y, también, se pone casi una libra de pomada en el cabello y se cubre la cabeza con una media nylon de mujer para tener el pelo más liso que los indígenas guaymíes, los progenitores de Quibián y Urracá. [Each night the cobbler’s son puts a clothes pin on his nose to have one that appears more French, and he also puts almost a pound of hair pomade in his hair and covers his head with a nylon stocking to make his hair straighter than the indigenous Guaymíes, the progenitors of Quibián and Urracá.] (167–168)

This pattern of cultural abandonment is also reflected in Aníbal Brown’s attempt to obscure his Antillean ancestry by speaking with a contrived French accent and even refusing to seek a better paying job in the Canal Zone. This passage reveals the extent to which this neighbor goes to escape his ethnic identity: Mi tocayo anda todo el tiempo por la Plaza Santa Ana con un rosario en la mano para que vean que es católico. Nunca habla inglés fuera de la casa . . . Y, cuando le preguntan cómo se llama responde atropelladamente: ‘Me llamo Aníbal Brownez’ para que el apellido de su padre suene algo a Benitez . . . Prefiere trabajar en el taller de la familia Ladrón y Chefmenteur ganando una miseria en comparación con lo que pudiera ganar en la Zona donde yo trabajo. Mi tocayo dizque no desea trabajar en la Zona porque hace mucho sol y no quiere ponerse más prieto de lo que es.

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[My namesake always walks around Santa Ana Plaza with a rosary in his hand so that all can see that he is Catholic. He never speaks English outside the house . . . . And, when they ask him his name, he clumsily responds by saying “My name is Aníbal Brownez” so that his father’s last name sound something like Benitez . . . . He prefers to work in the workshop of the Ladrón and Chefmenteur families earning a pittance compared to what he could earn in the zone where I work. My namesake supposedly does not want to work in the Zone because it is too sunny and he won’t turn blacker than he already is.] (167)

By identifying the problems of these confused characters, Cubena explores the results of destructive and counterproductive attitudes against self and society. These vivid details serve as tools to demonstrate the conflictive results of internalized ethnic shame and oppression. Fortunately, some Blacks escape this because they have retained a connection with their past. Triunfo Guerrero, for example, is the son of a Santero; and Salvadora, Juan Moreno’s daughter, describes her grandmother as a curandera (27, 139). Triunfo’s Cuban wife, Olivia, is described as “una santera, y como su madre, sacerdotisa de Oko, orixá de la agricultura” [a santera, and like her mother, a priestess of Oko, orisha of agriculture] (31). These details in the text serve to demonstrate the African legacy that has been maintained by members of the family of Felicidad Dolores. As a result of their knowledge of the spiritual connection with African spiritual elements, these characters sustain a legacy of pride in their heritage and their traditions. The text also makes references to similarities between specific characters and their African ancestors. Felicidad Dolores’s Cuban godson, Triunfo Guerrero, is both handsome and accomplished, and is likened to an African ruler: “él era alto y fornido al igual que un noble rey africano de la gloriosa época de los imperios de Ghana, Mali y Songhay” [he was tall and well-built like a noble African king in the glorious period of the empires of Ghana, Mali, and Songhay] (30). By recalling the African monarchs, the narrator transfers the power and force that such individuals had in Africa to Triunfo Guerrero. In chapter one, as Felicidad Dolores greets a member of the family, she is described as having a noble face: Cuando el joven Filhozumbí Williams . . . se acercó al grupo . . . tras de quitarse el sombrero montuno, saludar respetuosa y cariñosamente con besos y abrazos a la abuela, a quien lágrimas de alegría bañaron su noble rostro anciano que heredó de sus antepasados africanos oriundos de las cumbres del Kilimanjaro y las orillas del río Nilo. [When Young Filhozumbí Williams . . . approached the group . . . after taking off his rustic hat, respectfully and affectionately greeting his grandmother

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with hugs and kisses, her aged noble face, inherited from her African ancestors from the peaks of Kilimanjaro and the Nile river, was bathed with tears of happiness.] (41)

This description offers a positive and regal image, which connects the woman with her ancestors, thus highlighting the dignity of her African ancestry. At the end of chapter seven, Padre Montebello, the obese Spanish priest and close friend of Lesbiaquiña, makes a declaration that underscores his hate and anger toward Antillean Blacks: “Si yo fuera Dios, ningún negro iría al Cielo y mucho menos ese nieto de creyentes africanos en Obatalá, Yemayá y Changó” [If I were God, not one negro would go to Heaven, especially that grandson of African believers of Obatalá, Yemayá, and Changó] (199). This man of the cloth is just as prejudiced against Afro-Antilleans as are many of his parishioners, Lesbiaquiña, and Ñato Pataperro. The relationship between these three dysfunctional characters is underscored by the text’s reference to their affinity for consuming bat meat. The clergyman is even one of Ñato’s regular marijuana customers (186). The novel also makes reference to the priest’s lack of chastity and proclivity toward homosexual activity (180, 194). Wilfredo Ñato Pataperro is one of the few Afro-Antillean characters presented in a negative light, and he is seen as distinct from other members of his family. In an early part of chapter one, Ñato’s Pataperros’s parents are described as good and caring people; therefore, other characters conclude that Ñato problematic personality must be the result of having been accidentally switched at birth, or else of malevolent magic: Esa buena gente no se merecía eso no cabe duda que era obeá o brujería o macuá . . . quizá fue un cují sí posiblemente aquella triste madrugada las enfermeras que trabajan en la sala de maternidad por el cansancio se equivocaron de criatura a la hora de repartición para las madres le dieran pecho a sus recién nacidos hijos o quizás una descuidada auxiliar le entregó a mi madrina el malvado bebé que era de otra madre. [Those good people didn’t deserve this; without any doubt it was obeah or witchcraft or macuá . . . maybe it was a mesquite plant, or possibly that sad early morning that the nurses who worked in the maternity room mistakenly mixed up the babies because of exhaustion or carelessness and gave the wrong newborn creature to a mother to feed and returned to my godmother the bad baby that belonged to another mother.] (28)

Cubena uses mockery as a most effective weapon against hate. The targets of his most derisive humor are those characters that express the most negative attitudes against Antillean Blacks: Lesbiaquiña and Ñato Pataperro. The

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text also revisits two major characters from his first novel Chombo: Fulabuta Simeñíquez and Karafula Barrescoba. These colonial Black characters’ comical and ironic names hint as to how they are portrayed in the novel. The name “Lesbiaquiña Petrablanche de las Nieves de Monte Monarca Moreno” satirically paints this young colonial Black female as aristocratic and graceful. By repeatedly using her full name, which she created for herself, the narrator is able to underscore her arrogance.14 Lesbiaquiña offers a wonderful example of an inauthentic Black individual. Lesbiaquiña’s questionable European heritage is undermined by her decision to speak with a contrived French accent, to distinguish herself from English-speaking Antillean Blacks (164). Other characters that bear comical or ironic names will be discussed below. Another source of mockery becomes evident when Lesbiaquiña discovers that the Vatican has allowed an Antillean Black to become a Bishop, and has canonized an Afro-Peruvian Saint. This revelation causes her to decide to renounce her membership in the Catholic Church and to become Jewish: Yo voy a renunciar mi catolicismo porque cómo es posible que el Vaticano permita que un chombo sea sacerdote católico. Ya esto es el colmo porque no cabe duda que pronto la chombada va a exigir que sea obispo. Sí, y para colmo de males, ahora van a tener a un santo católico. Yo no quiero ser miembro de una religión que permite estas barbaridades. Quiero ser judía desde hoy en adelante, judía. [I am going to renounce being Catholic because, how is it possible that the Vatican would allow a chombo to be a Catholic priest. This is the last straw because there is no doubt that soon that smart-assed chombo is going to demand to be named Bishop. Yes, and to make things worse, they are now going to have a Catholic saint. I do not want to be a member of a religion that permits such barbaric acts. I want to be Jewish from this day forward, Jewish.] (183)

Ironically, she fails to note that her decision to convert to Judaism would make her part of a religious community that has had to face centuries of oppression and discrimination—just like the Antillean Blacks. As Lesbiaquiña attempts to defend the white Calixa against charges of burglary, her cultural ignorance becomes humorously evident. As she touts the accomplishments of Calixa’s family, she inadvertently exposes her own ignorance regarding significant aspects of European history. She erroneously jumbles details regarding major figures of European culture and art, describing Picasso as a German music composer who wrote Aida: Los chombos no saben nada y no son finos. Acusas, falsamente y sin evidencias, a Calixta, porque es más fina y porque eres envidioso. En casa ella escucha a

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Aída y las otras óperas de Picasso, un gran compositor alemán, y no ese ruido y bulla vulgar que se llama calipsó. [Chombos know nothing and are unrefined. You falsely and without evidence accuse Calixta because she is more refined and because you are envious. At home she listens to Aida and the other operas by Picasso, a great German composer, and not that noise and vulgar racket that they call calypso.] (185)

Later in this section, she mistakenly refers to Verdi as a French painter and identifies Mozart as a Greek novelist. She is comically ignorant of European history, the very history of the race with which she so closely wants to associate herself. In chapter eight, a phone call from Guacayarima’s older brother Caizcimú reveals Ñato’s moral decline. Ñato has started a new career selling books authored by famous writers on the street: “Hay un bochinche de que Ñato Pataperro anda para arriba y para abajo con obras de Nicolás Guillén, Adalberto Ortiz, Juan Pablo Sojo, Victorio Llanos Allende” [There is talk on the street that Ñato Pataperro runs all around with works of Nicolás Guillén, Adalberto Ortiz, Juan Pablo Sojo, Victorio Llanos Allende] (219). All of these writers are distinguished Afro-Hispanic writers that have used their literary works to address matters of identity and expression for African Americans and populations of color. The list is continued in a letter from Guacayarima’s brother, Policarpo, which reveals further details of the man’s illegal trade: “Tu enemigo Ñato Pataperro anda por acá con libros de Nelson Estupiñan Bass, Nicomedes Santa Cruz, Manuel Zapata Olivella, Quince Duncan” [Your enemy Ñato Pataperro runs around with books by Nelson Estupiñan Bass, Nicomedes Santa Cruz, Manuel Zapata Olivella, Quince Duncan] (223). The most recent example of the dysfunctional character’s deeds becomes evident through a phone conversation from his aunt, Marcelina, who reveals that Ñato has begun to repackage and sell famous literary works, claiming that he has written them himself: Tu amigo chichipati, perdón, tu enemigo Ñato Pataperro dice que su pluma escribió “Timarán y Cuabú, Canto a mi Perú, Changó, y Final de calle.” ¿Es verdad? Pongo esto en tela de juicio porque también dice que es el poeta de “Pregón de marimorena, Mutaciones, y Ritmohéroe.” Pero da la casualidad que en la universidad estudié que esas obras poéticas son de las poetas afrolatinas Virginia Brindis de Salas, una uruguaya, Nancy Morejón, una cubana y Eulalia Bernard, una costarricense, respectivamente. [Your rookie friend, sorry, your enemy Ñato Pataperro says that his pen wrote “Timarán y Cuabú, Canto a mi Perú, Changó, y Final de calle.” Is that true? I leave that to you to decide because he also says that he wrote “Pregón de

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marimorena, Mutaciones, and Ritmohéroe.” But by chance in the university I learned that these poetic pieces are from Virginia Brindis de Salas, a Uruguayan, Nancy Morejón, a Cuban and Eulalia Bernard, a Costa Rican, respectively.] (224)

Ñato attempts to benefit economically from the public’s lack of awareness of the important works of literature in the Afro-Hispanic literary canon. Ñato’s acts symbolize those of Blacks in the community who attempt to benefit from the works of their distinguished ancestors but who avoid individual labor and sacrifice to create them. Additionally, this episode also allows Cubena to pay homage to fellow Black writers and their works and to share an inside joke with readers knowledgeable of the Afro-Hispanic literary heritage. (Interestingly, two of the works that he highlights are by two writers included in this study: Manuel Zapata Olivella and Quince Duncan.) LO REAL MARAVILLOSO One of the many elements of the novel that places this work in a trajectory with the others in this study is the presentation of lo real maravilloso. The world of the descendants of Felicidad Dolores is filled with a reality that resists Western logic. Within this community, traditional reality is questioned as events occur, which would normally be rejected in a logocentric view of reality. For example, reference to the cursed navel throughout the novel serves as an example of a supernatural marker that identifies the characters descended from the cursed Africans of Buruco. However, most of the examples of lo real maravilloso in the work appear in the oral tales about Bandelé Cebiano, Felicidad Dolores’s first son born off the coast of Africa. In chapter two, which takes place in sixteenth-century Spain, Bandelé dies and returns in the form of a Black infant, after discovering that he cannot study to be a priest because of his race; the narrator informs the reader that this new corporal manifestation is that of Bandelé Izquierdo. The sacristan informs the priest of the mysterious event: “le informó jubilosamente al sacerdote que misteriosamente el cadáver de su ayudante había desaparecido y, en su lugar, se encontraba un bebé” [he joyously informed the priest that the body of his assistant had mysteriously disappeared, and in its place, a baby was found] (88). The priest’s ironic response to this marvelous event reflects his acceptance of the event and his lack of sensitivity toward the disappearance of the Black altar boy: “Al enterarse del fallecimiento en la sacristía, olvidando momentáneamente dónde se encontraban, ambos dijeron rencorosamente: “Coño, maldito negro. ¿Cómo se le ocurre morir durante Semana Santa cuando hay tanto que hacer?” [Upon hearing of the death in the sacristy, briefly forgetting where they were, both said with resentment ‘Fuck,

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damn that nigger. How dare he die during Holy Week when there is so much work to do’] (88).15 The priest is not as shocked at the event itself as he is at the timing of Bandelé’s disappearance. The infant is given the priest’s last name and becomes the charge of one of the priest’s numerous concubines. As Bandelé Izquierdo becomes an adult, he learns to heal from the Orisha of plants and herbs, Osaín (85). This ability brings him much fame throughout the Iberian Peninsula―among rich and poor alike. Some of his clients include Francisco Pizarro, Hernán Cortés, Vasco Ñunez de Balboa, and Bartolomé de las Casas (86). This list of well-known Spanish figures allows the author to offer an example of how African spiritual practices served a vital role in Spanish culture in the sixteenth century. As the murderous Bartolomé Ladrón attempts to harm all Blacks that he encounters as a form of revenge for his father’s death, the magical force of the navel becomes evident. In Santo Domingo, many slaves are killed as Bartolomé: atacó en esa ocasión, en Santo Domingo, a los otros esclavos africanos mientras cultivaban caña de azúcar, ñame, plátano, café, guineo y, al mismo tiempo, cuidaban gallinas, vacas, cerdos y caballos, matándolos a todos (no se cubrieron el ombligo como Bandelé Izquierdo, el único varón sobreviviente). [attacked on this occasion, in Santo Domingo, other African slaves as they cultivated sugarcane, yams, plantain, coffee, peppers and, at the same time took care of the chickens, cows, hogs, and horses, killing them all (they did not cover their navel as did Bandelé Izquierdo, the only man to survive).] (92)

Bandelé’s life is spared, as he is the only survivor who instinctively knows that the key to safety is to cover his navel. A similar passage appears later in the chapter (108). This act demonstrates his awareness of his history and his connection to his ancestors of Africa. During a return trip to the Americas aboard a slave ship, Bandelé Izquierdo empowers some confined slaves aboard the ship by summoning the supernatural forces of Changó, the deity of battle and war. As seen in the other Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance, lightning and thunder illustrate the powerful spiritual forces of the divine Orisha Changó. As a result of this supernatural force, the slaves’ chains break and, transformed into giants, they fight against their slavers, using bolts of lightning as their weapons. The slaves’ use of thunder and lightning thus underscores the direct connection between Changó, his children, and elements of nature. Felicidad Dolores possesses supernatural powers that become evident when she dies and returns from death, four times, throughout the novel. Each of these deaths is the result of a major act committed by the oppressors

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against her godchildren in the African Diaspora. Her first death occurs when she learns of Panama’s Law 13, which sent many Black Panamanians into exile: “Cuando le explicaron todos los detalles de la Ley 13 a la vecina de la habitación repleta de nietos escogidos por el secreto del ombligo, a la madrugada siguiente, falleció Felicidad Dolores” [When they explained all the details of Law 13 to the neighbor in the next room filled with grandchildren chosen by the secret of the navel, on the next morning, Felicidad Dolores died] (133). Her death symbolizes the destructive impact that the passage of this law had on the Afro-Antillean population. Her second death occurs in chapter five, after she learns of the Constitution of 1941 and its effects on the Afro-Antillean population: “En víspera de la Epifanía, cuando los nietos le explicaron todos los detalles de la Constitución del 41, a la madrugada siguiente murió Felicidad Dolores” [On the eve of the Epiphany, when her grandchildren explained all the details of the Constitution of 41, the following morning Felicidad Dolores died] (162). This Constitution denied Panamanian citizenship to English-speaking Blacks and prohibited the continued immigration of this group into the nation. At the beginning of chapter seven, she dies on the day that the RemónEisenhower agreement is signed: “Felicidad Dolores murió, otra vez, una madrugada, en su cuarto de la Casa 5 de Mayo en Guachapalí, donde siempre había pelea de perros y gatos, el día que firmaron el tratado RemónEisenhower” [Felicidad Dolores died, another time, one morning, in her room in the house on May 5th in Guachapali, where dogs and cats had always fought, the day that they signed the Remón-Eisenhower agreement] (176). This agreement between the United States and Panama, signed in 1955, ended the dual pay system for workers on the Canal. Wilson sees this event as unfortunate because it eliminated thousands of jobs for Afro-Antillean workers in the Canal Zone (Birmingham-Pokorny 1991, 128). In a letter near the end of the novel, Simón Brown explains Felicidad Dolores’s final death, which was caused by the news of the signing of the Torrijos-Carter Agreement: “Pues sí, el tratado Torrijos-Carter, según dijo abuelita antes de morir, es el golpe final a los de ombligo (ya tú sabes) que no participaron en el éxodo después de la Ley 13, la Constitución del 41 y el tratado Remón-Eisenhower” [Well yes, the Torrijos-Carter agreement, according to what granny said before she died, was the final blow to the navel (you already know) they did not participate in the exodus after Law 13, the Constitution of 41, and the Remón-Eisenhower agreement] (204–205). This 1977 agreement with the United States ceded control of the Canal to Panama. Many Panamanians feared that this would again prohibit more AfroAntilleans from working in the Canal Zone. Each of Felicidad Dolores’s deaths occurs in response to some form of attack against the Antillean population, she is repeatedly returned to the land

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of the living by the Orishas: “Los cantos y las danzas en el veloriofiesta, de repente, cesaron durante la quinta noche cuando Felicidad Dolores regresó, en compañía de orixa Elegguá, expulsada otra vez del Reino de los Muertos” [The songs and dances at the festive wake, suddenly, they ceased during the fifth night when Felicidad Dolores returned, accompanied by Orisha Elegua, again expelled from the Kingdom of the Dead] (168). While the character appears unable to withstand the different attacks against herself and her descendants, the Orishas refuse to allow her to perish, and instead renew her and send her back to the world of the living. Each return from death signifies another obstacle survived and endured by the population of African descent, illustrating the population’s ability to resist and endure hardships. The presence of lo real maravilloso is a rejection of the traditional style of looking at reality in literature. The events that appear are supported by the ontological foundation of the novel’s Afro-Caribbean characters. The novel begins in a New York airport, and from this beginning, the reader is taken to the United States, Panama, Spain, Brazil, Mexico, the Dominican Republic, and Africa. Because of the interconnected nature of events from the past and the present, the novel repeatedly shifts temporally and geographically. In chapter two, the early tales of Cebiano Bandelé take place in the middle of the fifteenth century, while the airport episodes take place in 1999. Some of the letters and communication at the end of the novel precede other events in the novel. The phone conversation between Guacayarima and Eufemia Lewis’s husband makes reference to the planning of the Panama trip, and therefore occurred before the events of chapter one (225). The letter from Cubena to his family is dated 1988, eleven years before the date of the events in chapter one. Two of the key characters that appear throughout the diverse time periods covered in the novel are Felicidad Dolores and Guacayarima. La Negra Felicidá is one of the earlier incarnations of Felicidad Dolores, who appears in chapter seven, which takes place in the 1960s in the house in the neighborhood of Guachapalí and in the airport in 1999 with her descendants as they return to visit Panama. Guacayarima appears in Spain in the sixteenth century, in the Caribbean in the early twentieth century, and in the 1960–1970s in Panama.16 Oral Tradition The role of oral tradition is acknowledged throughout the text; Richard Jackson recognizes and makes a logical assumption that identifies the source of this technique: “Cubena is an effective storyteller, and much of the novel’s originality derives from the author’s refreshing willingness to unreservedly imbue his novel with a Black perspective, one much influenced by the

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oral tales that he passes on that were first related to him by his old grani (‘abuelita’)” (1988, 75). Within the novel, Felicidad Dolores is the grani figure that keeps the collective cultural memory alive in the minds of the African-descended characters. She is a griot figure, which according to Elba Birmingham-Pokorny enables the character to serve as the bridge that connects the entire history of the African race (1993b, 122). In the initial airport section, Felicidad Dolores uses her storytelling skill to entertain the youngsters: “Tras breve pausa, llamó a varios niños para contarles las aventuras de ‘El hermano araña’ y otros cuentos. Luego, sacó a colación su tema favorito: Bandelé Cebiano. . . ” [After a brief pause, she called various children to tell them stories about the adventures of “Brother Spider” and other stories. Later, she pulled out her favorite topic: Bandelé Cebiano. . . ] (23). In addition to entertaining the future generations, her stories instruct them in their own culture and history. Through these intercalated tales, myth is brought to the forefront and shared with the children, who will, it is hoped, carry on this tradition in the future. Not all of the characters benefit from her stories. As the griot shares her tales in the airport with members of the family, only the astute Antillean Blacks are able to benefit from her wealth of information. The text notes that the characters who best recognize the importance of the matriarch’s tales are the educated and well-traveled family members: No obstante, casi todos los chombos, pichones y cocolos, sobre todo los que habían viajado y estudiado, admiraban el hecho de que la señora Felicidad Dolores, una analfabeta, supiera “tan detalladamente”—se comentaba año tras año—lo de los nobles faraones nubienses y las pirámides de Egipto en Africa; los poderosos reyes africanos en Ghana, Mali y Songhay; los esclavos negros en Sevilla durante la época de los Reyes Católicos; las hazañas de los africanos en Santo Domingo, Tenochtitlán y Cuzco; el heroísmo de los caciques cimarrones Yanga, Cudjoe, Benkos, Zumbi, Coba, Zabeth, Bayano. (24) [However, almost all the chombos, pichones, and cocolos, especially those that had traveled and studied, admired the fact that Ms. Felicidad Dolores, an illiterate woman, knew “so intimately”—she said to herself year after year—details about the Nubian pharaoh and the pyramids of Egypt in Africa; the powerful African kings in Ghana, Mali, and Songhay; the black slaves in Seville during the time of the Catholic Monarchs; the feats of Africans in Santo Domingo, Tenochtitlán, and Cuzco; the heroic feats of the escaped slave leaders Yanga, Cudjoe, Benkos, Zumbi, Coba, Zabeth, and Bayano.]

The characters that listen to her tales are able to piece together events from their ancestral past and apply them to their present reality. As a result of

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listening to these tales, these characters are able to advance in life knowing who they are. Another character that plays a similar role as a griot is Dolores’s second child, Guacayarima. Guacayarima’s oral tales play an important role in entertaining and teaching slaves about their culture and history during the little free time that they have while in colonial Mexico: “Los domingos cuando descansaban los esclavos africanos, Guacayarima era muy solicitado también para que tocara la marimba y para que narrara lo que sabía de los primeros africanos creados en las cumbres del Kilimanjaro” [On Sundays when the African slaves rested, Guacayarima was also asked to play the marimba and to narrate his stories about the first Africans created on the peaks of Kilimanjaro] (97). For illiterate slaves, such gatherings enriched with oral stories offered them a way to escape from the difficulties of their oppressive lives, and to learn about their collective ancestral past. Other intercalated tales in the text offer the reader a wider perspective on the struggle of individuals of African heritage. Dr. Victoriano Lorenzo Brown tells stories relating the racist experiences that he and his family encountered at the hands of Los enmascarados, in order to demonstrate aspects of North American racism (77–78). This tale demonstrates that even the hardworking Antillean of African descent must endure racism in the United States. Such stories lead the characters, as well as the reader, to remember the important struggle that has faced ancestors of Black Americans, and to understand the importance of pushing forward despite the obstacle. Los nietos even borrows the image of the tortoise from the popular folktales such as The Tortoise and the Hare, which tells the story of the crafty tortoise that wins a race against the fast-running and overconfident hare. This symbol is of particular importance to the author, as it is one of the images portrayed on his personal family crest. He describes this animal in the beginning of Los nietos as being analogous to the African American: “simboliza el tipo de carácter que ha desarrollado los de ascendencia africana durante su odisea por las Américas” [it symbolizes the type of character that descendants of Africa have developed during their odyssey in the Americas] (8). The tortoise, like the population of color in Los nietos, survives because of his wit and perseverance. The tortoise image is equated with the family as they board the plane headed to Panama and are described as “las gentetortugas” [tortoise people] (80). The tortoise is one of the symbols that the cursed children of Africa must find in order to become redeemed by the Orishas: Solamente serían perdonados los que a la cuna ancestral regresaran arrodillados delante de sus progenitores, para pedir perdón por la grave ofensa a los nobles y sabios abuelos, luego a acariciar una tortuga negra que se encontraría cerca de un tamarindo a orilla de un río.

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[The only ones that would be forgiven are those that return on the knees to the ancestral cradle in front of their progenitors, to ask for forgiveness for their grave offense to nobles and wise grandparents and later, to caress a black tortoise that would be found close to a tamarind tree on the shores of a river.] (83)

The tortoise image appears repeatedly throughout the novel (e.g., 56 and 81). Ritual In the opening section of the novel, the narrator explains Felicidad Dolores’s weekly ritual of purifying herself. This ritualistic cleansing and the references to the color blue highlight her devotion to the Orisha Yemayá, her protective deity: Más importante aún, la señora Felicidad Dolores llamaba la atención, sobre todo, porque siempre lucía ropa azul; todos los martes, a las tres en punto de la tarde, se bañaba con agua de mar; custodiaba celosamente una bolsita negra que, según ella, contenía tres semillas del tamarindo en el corazón de Buruco. [More importantly still, Ms. Felicidad Dolores attracted attention above everything else, because she always wore blue; every Tuesday, at three on the dot in the afternoon she would bath in sea water; she zealously guarded a black bag that, according to her, contained three tamarind seeds from the heart of Buruco.] (13)

This goddaughter of the Goddess of ocean water conducts this ritual in the same manner that she learned from her ancestors. By combining elements of nature and dressing in blue, she is able to facilitate her connection with Yemayá’s powerful energy and thus becomes one of her many faithful godchildren. Other rituals within the community assist characters in becoming spiritually pure and in maintaining their connection with the Orishas. One ritual that appears in chapter two serves to purge Felicidad Dolores of negative energy and is conducted with the help of three women who magically appear. The purpose of this ritual is to purify Felicidad Dolores by neutralizing any negative energy directed toward her by members of the Ladrón or Chefmenteur families. This ritual also prepares her for her imminent Immaculate Conception, which will result in the birth of triplets. The purification ritual consists of the following components: dance, purification of the house, and a purification bath. After the ritual is completed, the women reveal to Felicidad Dolores that she will be blessed with triplets:

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Tras de danzar en círculo moviendo rítmicamente manos, caderas y pies alrededor de la embarazada, las tres ancianas africanas entraron en la choza y con escobas hechas de hojas de baobab, tamarindo y ceiba barrieron cuidadosamente, pulgada por pulgada, el suelo de la choza y salpicaron la habitación, tres veces, con agua de río mientras, como letanía, en coro, cantaban repetidas veces: “Yemayá, Obatalá, Changó . . .” Luego, completada la limpieza de la habitación, las ancianas quemaron todo lo que habían sacado de la choza. . . . E inmediatamente le anunciaron cantando alegremente que, esa noche lluviosa, ella sería la madre de trillizas. [After dancing in a circle, rhythmically moving their hands, hips, and feet around the pregnant woman, the three African elders entered the shack and with brooms made of baobab, tamarind, and ceiba leaves carefully swept, inch by inch, the floor of the shack, and sprinkled the room three times with river water while, like a litany, in a chorus, they repeatedly sang numerous times: “Yemayá, Obatalá, Changó . . . .” Later, after finishing the ceremonial cleaning of the room, the old women burned everything that they had taken out of the shack. . . . And immediately they announced to her singing in happiness that, that rainy night, she would be the mother of triplets.] (112–113)

These three daughters—Asabi, Adeola, and Ayoluwa—will be the spiritual and figurative mothers of African Americans from the three language groups in the Caribbean: English (Chombos), Spanish (Cocolos), and French (Pichones). The female trio reappears later in chapter three, after one of Felicidad Dolores’s many deaths.17 On this occasion, they conduct a traditional death ritual, which prepares their mother’s body to return to Guinea, a site where, in Lucumi mythology, the spirit goes after death: Las tres ancianas bañaron, en silencio, a la difunta, primero, con el agua bendita de Portobelo y, después, con agua del río Chagres y el mar Caribe. Finalmente, el último baño fue con una totuma llena de lágrimas. Luego, vistieron a la fallecida con ropa azul y un collar de cuentas blancas y azules tras de quemar la ropa en que murió. Llenaron un vaso, con agua de mar, después de echar doce caracoles en el fondo del vaso. Y, antes de que llegaran los participantes de la ceremonia ancestral, colocaron un par de tortugas negras a los pies de Felicidad Dolores. [In silence, the three old women bathed the body of the deceased woman with holy water from Portobello and, after that, with water from the Chagres River and the Caribbean Sea. Finally, the last bath was with a calabash filled with tears. Later they dressed the deceased woman in blue clothes and placed on her a necklace with white and blue beads, after burning the clothes that she died in.

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They filled a glass with seawater, after throwing twelve shells in the bottom of the glass. And, before the other participants of the ancestral ceremony arrived, they placed a pair of black tortoises at the feet of Felicidad Dolores.] (136)

As the veloriofiesta [wake party] begins, the three women sweep the floor three times while covering the mirrors with a sheet. The novel reverses the traditional connection between death and the color black as the three women conducting the ritual place a white sheet in front of the mirror rather than a black one. They intermittently fill the corpse’s mouth with tamarind juice for five consecutive nights, until the body no longer accepts the liquid; this indicates to the Babaloa that her spirit has returned to the Kingdom of the Dead. This part of the ceremony is accompanied by different forms of music and dance to appease specific Orishas (137). This ritualistic celebration views death as a festive event that in some ways resembles burial traditions in Afrocentric communities throughout the Caribbean basin. Ritual also plays a role in the lives of colonial Black characters. For example, in section four, Juan Moreno’s youngest daughter, Salvadora Moreno, recalls a ritual as she relates a story of her grandmother in Portobelo. The narrator recounts this ritual, which consists of special activities conducted by the woman every twenty-first of October: Mi abuelita en Portobelo es como el Cristo Negro, narraba cada noche Salvadora Moreno, milagrosa (sus enemigas la acusaban de ser bruja vieja) y se pasea por las calles de Portobelo una vez al año. Religiosamente, cada veintiuno de octubre, por la tarde, mi abuelita se baña, con agua de mar y agua de río, antes de ponerse una pollera de color azul. Pero, en vez de sombrero montuno o tembleques, se adorna el cabello con una preciosa tortuga de oro. [My granny in Portobello is like the black Christ, Salvadora Moreno used to say each night, miraculous (her enemies accused her of being an old witch) and she walked down the streets of Portobello once each year. Religiously, every twenty-first of October, in the evening, she bathed, with seawater and river water, before putting on a blue dress. But, instead of putting on a bonnet or decorative head pieces, she decorated her hair with a precious gold tortoise.] (138)

Salvadora’s memory of this ritual reflects not only the young girl’s love for her grandmother, Felicidad Dolores. Reference to the gold tortoise used to decorate her hair and her grandmother’s connection with Yemayá, the color blue and reference to water, indicate that she is one of Felicidad Dolores’s three triplets. The young girl’s respect for her grandmother and her memory of the woman’s rituals may explain why Salvadora differs from the other members of her family, who appear more detached from their heritage and culture.

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Not only Black characters are involved in rituals in the novel. Suzanne Chefmenteur, the French wife of the infamous white slave trader don Bartolomé Ladrón, consults a group of healers that clandestinely come to her villa to help her to learn about the health of her fifth child, who has been conceived outside of marriage: Además, como las mismas matutinas y los rezos vespertinos del rosario no surtieron el efecto deseado en los primeros cuatro partos, cada noche llevaban clandestinamente a Villa Gitana a esclavos africanos de los barrios Pierdevidas y Malambo para que celebraran ritos a orixa Yemayá mientras un babalawo se dedicaba a adivinar el destino del quinto embarazo de doña Suzanne Chefmenteur con dieciséis caracoles y cuatro pedazos de coco. [In addition, if the morning and evening prayers with the rosary did not achieve the desired effect in the first four deliveries, every night they secretly led African slaves from the neighborhoods Pierdevidas and Malambo to Villa Gitana to celebrate rituals to orisha Yemayá while a babalawo focused on guessing the future of the fifth pregnancy of Mrs. Suzanne Chefmenteur with sixteen cowrie and four coconut pieces.] (110)

The Babaloa uses shells and pieces of coconut in a ritualistic manner to divine the future of Suzanne’s child. As a result of this ritual, her chances of having a safe and happy birth will be increased. This episode reflects how African-influenced ritual serves as form of resistance against medical problems even within sectors of the white community. Rituals are an integral part of the novel as vehicles that allow the characters to promote change and communicate with divine forces. Many of the rituals in Los nietos employ the word or nommo to guide, influence, or change spiritual forces. The Nommo The author’s adopted name, Cubena, demonstrates his belief in the importance of the nommo. The writer adopted the Twi name Kwabena, meaning Tuesday (the day of his birth), which he hispanized to Cubena (R. Jackson 1997, 181). The fact that he changed his name reflects his own adherence to the African-influenced belief that one’s name is a key factor in determining one’s destiny.18 This concept of using the nommo to express an idea and to change one’s destiny is also evident in the title of his first novel, Chombo. The title is his attempt to focus on the power of the nommo by reappropriating the negative power of the word by turning it against itself. In chapter two, as Guacayarima returns to his native Africa, he uses the nommo in a ritual to guide his African brethren after he finds enslaved women

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and babies about to be shipped to the Americas. He angrily utters the name Omiyapa, which cues the mothers to hurl their babies into a wall, head first to kill them. The nommo Omiyapa refers to the character who was punished by the Orishas for refusing to abort her fetus on the slave ship that took slaves to Spain in chapter two.19 As the pregnant women hear the nommo, they take poison to kill themselves rather than allow their progeny to endure the pain of slavery. Because of the powerful history that has revolved around the name Omiyapa, the enslaved women know what they must do to avoid facing the wrath of the Orishas. Next, Guacayarima utters the name Obatalá, the creator of humankind and the name of the Orisha converts the older children into giants (101). His third use of the power of the nommo appears as he utters the name Changó, which causes the giants to become armed with lightning and thunder: “Cuando gritó ‘Changó’ los brazos de los esclavos encadenados comenzaron a lanzar relámpagos y sus voces sonaron como truenos” [When he cried out the name Changó, the chained arms of the chained slaves began to cast off lightning and their voices sounded like thunder] (101). As a result of the invocation of the nommo, the slaves are able to resist those that desire to enslave them. One characteristic that we find more consistently in this novel than any of the other works in this study is the presence of invented words, many of which are based on the word chombo. When Lesbiaquiña discovers that her sister Salvadora Moreno is romantically involved with the Antillean neighbor Aníbal Brown, she responds in anger: Cállate la boca. Peor es chombear con esa actitud chombista tan chombada fresca y tranquila muy chombadamente en esa chombadera en el parque chombeando con el chombo, Aníbal Brown y . . . Esa chombatización de la chombadez. [Shut your mouth. It is worse to chombate with that chombish attitude so chombated fresh and tranquil very chombadaly with the chombo in the park chomboing with the chombo, Aníbal Brown and . . . that chombatization of chomboness.] (142–143)

The novel’s inclusion of different forms of the magical nommo undermines the negative power instilled in the word. The novelist thus diminishes some of the past negative history and power associated with this word, thereby legitimizing a term that, for decades, was employed to insult Antillean Blacks in Panama. Los nietos also focuses on the power of the word by creating new words and concepts through the blending of existing words. One such example

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appears in the opening section of the novel as the narrator describes Ñato’s problematic nature: Un dolor de cabeza mejor dicho una traicionera puñalada en el corazón por parte de un cruel destino no hay justicia en este valledelágrimas este es un mundolococruel la justicia es un mito por qué a gente tan bondadosa y santa le tocó un hijo tan perversomaloirrespetuoso. [A headache better said a traitorous stab in the head on behalf of a cruel destiny there is no justice in this valleyoftears this is a cruelcrazyworld justice is a myth because generous and blessed people touched a child that was so badperverslydirespectful.] (28)

The use of the invented words in the novel allows the author to creatively work toward eliminating the power of words. Other such examples that appear in the novel include words such as lentaseguratraicionera [slowcertaintraitor] (78) and yoquieroquetumellevesaltambordelalegría [Iwantyoutobringmetothedrumofhappiness] (79). These creative linguistic creations serve to reject the more traditional use of language in the logocentric novel. As we have seen, Cubena also uses the power of the nommo in assigning characters names that signify their deformed nature. These characters include Lesbiaquiña Petrablanche de las Nieves de Monte Monarca Moreno, Ñato Pataperro, Karafula Barrescoba, Rabiaprieta, don Tomás Ladrón, Bartolomé Ladrón, Marco Nieves Cristiano Castellano Nietoriqueño, and Chonufo. Each name is encoded to provoke laughter by making reference to negative aspects of the individuals’ personality or physical appearance. The author takes advantage of important historical and cultural names by using them as names of Black-owned businesses. Elsa’s husband works in their daughter’s bookstore named Sankore, a reference to the Sankore University, established in Timbuktu, Mali. The same daughter also owns apartments buildings that each bear the name of significant African civilizations such as Casa Ghana, Casa Mali, and Casa Sonhay.20 The use of names significant to African culture serves to underscore the fact that by not supporting their own community’s enterprises, the Black community is denying its own cultural heritage. Ian Smart adopts the term mascon to describe words in Chombo that contain some form of cultural significance, such as peculiar expressions or exclamations that have no meaning outside of this community. This expression is borrowed from Professor Stephen Henderson’s research on code words that defy understanding by outsiders (Smart 1984a, 45). This observation is also applicable to Los nietos, as the reader can find similar expressions

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throughout the novel. The author is consistent in using words that are part of the Panamanian culture. One recurring Antillean mascon21 Cubena uses is the expression Cho! The expression Cho throughout the novel reflects the dialect of English-speaking Antilleans (20, 33, 55, 60, 62, 66, 200). The author embeds loaded cultural mascons as an important tool in the text to achieve unity and authenticity within the Afro-American community. The word sodinu also appears throughout the novel. Felicidad Dolores’s younger generation’s search for the definition of the mysterious word underscores their attempt to understand important and symbolic elements in their culture. In section one, as members of the family join those in the waiting area, Triunfo Guerrero [Triumph Warrior] asks them if they know the origin of the word: “El profesor Triunfo Guerrero interrumpió el diálogo entre Teodora y Guadalupe para preguntar si entre los negros de Puerto Rico se conocía el significado de sodinu” [Professor Triunfo Guerrero interrupted the dialogue between Teodora and Guadalupe to ask if the meaning of sodinu was known within the Black community in Puerto Rico] (78). This theme appears consistently throughout the novel as characters ask relatives the meaning of the word (31, 34, 42). The word seems unfamiliar to the younger generation but through determination, they will discover the meaning. In section two, after Felicidad Dolores gives birth to triplets, the first word that everyone utters to the girls is sodinu (113). At the age of three months, when the Orishas visit the girls, the infants simultaneously utter sodinu for the first time (114). Stories reflecting the slave experiences include references to slaves being beaten for voicing this mysterious word: “Curiosamente, castigaban severamente a los esclavos que repetían las palabras extrañas que usaban las trillizas, sobre todo la palabra sodinu” [Curiously, they severely punished the slaves that repeated the strange words that the triplets used, above everything else the word sodinu] (115). Despite their physical pain, they continue to focus on this means of connection with their cohorts. This word is the theme of the novel and is explained in a letter at the end of the novel, as we shall see later in this chapter. Heteroglossia In the same manner that the novel reflects the use of the nommo at different levels, it implements many levels of communication to express ideas and underscore important messages. The novel’s numerous forms of expression are consistent with the diverse and eclectic nature of communication within the Afro-Caribbean community. Los nietos includes songs, proverbs, folk expressions, and diverse linguistic codes to express structurally the theme of cultural resistance within the Afro-Caribbean community. As in the other

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novels in this study, the presence of many different languages underscores the rich linguistic forms that have influenced the Afro-Caribbean community. Within the text, diverse forms of music serve two roles: to express ideas and culture, and to communicate on a spiritual level. In section eight, during a phone conversation between Guacayarima and Marcelina, the latter tells of how Felicidad Dolores and her descendants celebrate their cultural and ethnic awareness by playing traditional Afro-Caribbean musical instruments and singing songs in African-based languages: “En las festividades. . . . Cantamos en lengua garífuna ‘Anite fedu yarali mama saliabiña guarini o ya ide guarini mama saliabiña mama sa lachuluruña saraba leibuga gurini’” [Among the festivities. . . . we sang in the Garifuna language “There is a party coming here. Guarini is coming. He is arriving. Wake up!”] (225-226). Not only does this song reflect the family’s awareness of their collective African heritage, but it also expresses their joy and their unique culture. In section seven, the singing of children’s songs is a frequent-shared activity between the infant Guacayarima and Candelaria. When Lesbiaquiña hears her niece singing the song “Mary had a little lamb” in English, she orders the girl to stop because she fears that the neighbors might think that the youth is a chomba (183). The children also sing “Mirón Mirón Mirón,” a popular children’s song that accompanies their games (183). This song plays a more significant role closer to the end of the chapter and will be discussed more in depth in the section addressing repetition in the novel. The most prominent form of oral communication within Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores is the use of proverbs.22 Such expressions serve as vehicles to transmit knowledge and wisdom in a simple and memorable form. Cubena consistently includes proverbs to underscore the didactic value of specific events. Most of the proverbs are African or Afro-Caribbean in symbolism and tone. For example, in section one, as Fulona thinks about her husband Ñato Pataperro and his many flaws and vices, she recalls a moralistic folk expression often uttered by her mother: “Ese ambiente es alcoholismo, cocaína, putería, mariconería, crímenes . . . . Ahora caigo en cuenta lo que me aconsejaba mi mamá, que en paz descanse, antes de casarme contigo: ‘Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres’” [That atmosphere is alcoholism, cocaine, whoredom, homosexuality, criminality . . . . Now I remember what my mother used to tell me, may she rest in peace, before marrying you: “Tell me who your friends are, and I will tell you who you are.”] (61). This proverbial expression informs the reader of Ñato’s nature by looking at his activities and those individuals that surround him. The use of such proverbial expressions is relevant as a marker to accentuate basic thoughts and place specific situations in a traditional and didactic context. In the beginning section, Flacobala uses a proverb as a tool to interject an important message. She responds to the verbal attacks of the white North Americans headed for Las Vegas by

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concluding: “No vale la pena gastar pólvora en gallinazos, especialmente si son albinos asquerosos” [It is not worth wasting gunpowder on buzzards, especially if they are disgusting albinos] (40). The proverb has been modified by the novelist to add his (not so subtle) message that Blacks should not waste energy thinking about meaningless incidents and people; the latter are, of course, metaphorically equated with racist whites, referred to as albinos. The following proverbs appear in the novel and demonstrate the results of ignorance and foolish acts: “Se dice que el asno nace, asno muere” [They say born an ass, die an ass.] (15). “No se puede esperar mango del cocotero” [You cannot expect mango from the coconut tree.] (15, 17,17, 182, 192, 219). “No hay peor sordo que el que no quiere oír” [There is no one more deaf than one that does not want to hear.] (16). “Bueno, cada loco con su tema” [Well, every nut with his theme.] (72).

These proverbial expressions in English and Spanish serve to comfort distressed individuals: “Every disappointment is for a good” (22). “Cuss-cuss never bore hole a man kin” (39). “Cho, plantain ripe, can’t green again” (60).

Four proverbs give general advice to fellow members of the community: “Haz bien y no mires a quien” [Do good and don’t expect anything in return.] (49). “No hay peor cuña que la del propio palo” [There is no worse cradle than one made of its own wood.] (78). “En pelea de marido y mujer nadie se debe meter” [Never get involved in a fight between a husband and his wife.] (123). “Cuando la perra muerde, en ese mismo momento se le dan los palos” [When a dog bites, that is the time to beat him.] (143).

Other proverbs appear in the text to offer instructional messages or moral themes in response to specific contexts (20, 60, 106, 164, 231). In some of these folk expressions, the integration of French, English, and Spanish reflects the three major linguistic traditions found in Panama. Ian

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Smart uses the term linguistic syncretism to describe the inclusion of multiple languages in the novel (1984a, 49). This technique is revealed as the sagacious matriarch speaks a plethora of languages, thus recognizing all of the distinct languages spoken by her children throughout the African Diaspora. While waiting in the airport terminal, the matriarch reflects her Jamaican roots as she uses folk expressions to mask the anxiety she feels: “Old people say don’t count you chicken before dem hatch. Cho! Old people in Jamaica say always try de wata befo you jump in a hit. Cho! Old people say befo you walk you hab fe creep” (20). Her polyphonic presentation of proverbs illustrates that she is very conscious of her responsibility to keep her word to other members of the family. Cubena is aware that messages can be expressed in many distinct and vivid forms; therefore, he takes care to integrate elements of the Afro-Caribbean’s rich oral tradition into his novel. By using proverbs and folk expressions, Cubena expresses his respect for this valuable didactic tool to reflect the collective wisdom within Afro-Caribbean culture. The author expresses his ideas and themes in ways that are consistent with Panama’s transcultural milieu. Music and Dance The novel is consistent with the Afro-Caribbean worldview in its use of music as a vehicle to express Afro-Caribbean culture. In section one, for example, the family spontaneously celebrates its cultural identity inside the airport terminal, using traditional music and dance as an element to unite them. Music comes from all three dominant cultures: African, Anglo, and Hispanic. As the Dominican members of the family arrive at the airport, they liven up the family with their nation’s traditional music: “Luego, los dominicanos alegraron al grupo cantando merengues tan pronto les dieron la oportunidad los que pregonaban rítmicamente tamboritos, rumbas, calipsos” [Later, the Dominicans cheered the group up by singing merengues; as soon as they were given the opportunity, they were rhythmically drumming, singing rumbas, calipsos] (34). As these members of the family arrive, they bring with them their cultural musical tradition. Many examples of music to reflect collective unity appear at other points of the novel (34, 37, 51, 56, 81). Within the novel, music reflects important themes that touch a nerve among the individuals of the Afro-Caribbean community, especially in terms of resistance. One powerful song included in the work refers to the major North American civil rights leader, Dr. Martin Luther King, who is described as “el máximo líder negro en los años sesenta, cuyo himno de batalla era: We shall overcome, we shall overcome some day” [the supreme Black leader in the sixties, whose battle hymn was: We shall overcome, we shall overcome some day] (57). The song, which has served as the leader’s anthem, is meaningful in symbolizing the determination for all Blacks aware of the struggle

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of the civil rights champion and his commitment to justice for all people, regardless of race. Bold letters emphasize the importance of this song because its title carries an important message, and because the song symbolizes an important stage of the civil rights movement in the United States. The characters’ African roots allow them to embrace Afro-Caribbean music regardless of its neo-cultural influence. Regardless of the culture from which they come, songs, along with dance and food, link the family members together. Just as music plays an important role in uniting the family members, dance appears in the novel as a vital element of cultural resistance. Each time reference is made to dancing, it reflects the family’s unity. The novel recognizes different styles of African-influenced dance. In chapter one, the narrator makes reference to the diverse styles of music and dance that originated in the Afro-Caribbean community, all of which are expressed by the diverse members of Felicidad Dolores’s family: “La suave brisa tropical acaricia dulcemente amanece y melodiosos gorjeos a lo largo de la Avenida Martinica . . . donde grupos folclóricos bailan tambo​rito-​calip​so-ru​ mba-s​amba-​meren​gue-b​omba-​jaroc​ho-cu​mbia”​[The smooth tropical breeze sweetly caressed the dawn and melodious chirps down Martinique Avenue . . . where folklore groups dance calip​so-ru​mba-s​amba-​meren​gue-b​omba-​ jaroc​ho-cu​mbia to the beat of drum] (79). Once the plane takes off, another reference is made to the many forms of musical expression among the family, and the role of dance as a means of cultural resistance: Se reanudó el alegre pregón de tamboritos, rumbas, merengues, sambas y otros legados rítmicos de los ancestros cimarrones que, tras de ser secuestrados violentamente de sus cunas africanas, sobrevivieron a duras penas los latigazos, las cadenas, los negreros, los cañaverales y los verdugos en lejanas tierras madrastras de felicidad y dolores, donde el sol y los pájaros ni acarician ni festejan las madrugadas como en aquellas viviendas ancestrales a las laderas del Kilimanjaro y a las orillas del río Nilo. [The joyful proclamation of drums, tamboritos, rumbas, merengues, sambas, and other rhythmic legacies of ancestral escaped slaves that, after being violently kidnapped from the African homeland, roughly survived the lashes, chains, slavers, reed beds, and executioners in far-away lands of happiness and sadness, where the sun and the birds did not caress nor celebrate the early mornings like those ancestral households beside the slopes of Kilimanjaro and at the shore of the Nile River.] (80)

While these groups represent many diverse linguistic and geographical regions, they come from cultures that have maintained a sense of musical expression built on an African foundation. This union of all the dances at the shores of the Nile symbolizes the common cultural root from where all

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these forms of music grew. This passage demonstrates that, despite the difficulties that the family’s ancestors have endured, they continue to carry the gift of musical and physical expression with them and to share it with their descendants. The spiritual role of dance is presented in chapter one, as Felicidad Dolores thinks about when Filhozumbí Williams first introduced his future bride to her new Brazilian in-laws. The narrator of the intercalated tale reveals how the future Brazilian family ensures that his future wife is aware of their local culture and the role that dance played in protecting and preserving it. They offer a detailed explication of the capoeira, an Afro-Brazilian war dance, which historically served as a form of self-defense against colonial authorities. These martial maneuvers were masked as a dance in order to prevent suspicion from local officials, slave hunters, and owners of slaves: A la abuela le agradaba escuchar, vez tras vez, todas las felices experiencias que gozó Naualpilly Guadalupe Brown cuando su novio la llevó de paseo a Cachoeira, en Brasil, para que conociera a los futuros tíos y primos políticos, quienes la colmaron de felicidad enseñándole, entre otras cosas, a defenderse por medio de capoeira; también gozó escuchando música de berimbau, bailando samba, asistiendo a una ceremonia de candomblé en Pelourinho. [Time after time it brought pleasure to the grandmother to listen to the happy experiences had by Naualpilly Guadalupe Brown when her boyfriend took her on a trip to Cachoeira, in Brazil, so that she could meet her future uncles, cousins, who joyfully surrounded her teaching her, among other things, to defend herself by way of capoeira; also she enjoyed listening to music played by the berimbau, dancing samba, attending a candomblé ceremony in Pelourinho.] (44)

Teaching the new family members the defensive capoeira serves as a device to demonstrate how dance has traditionally served as an important weapon of resistance in this part of the African Diaspora. The aforementioned passage also serves as a vehicle to allow Cubena to educate the audience about specific aspects of Brazilian culture and history. The Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance uses as many aspects as possible to uplift and legitimize African-influenced culture, especially those of the Circum-Caribbean basin. Through repeated textual references to dance, the work illustrates the powerful role that dance has played in parts of the African Diaspora. The Drum Los nietos uses the drum to highlight events of cultural significance. Even though the novel mentions various musical instruments of African origin such

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as sisiras (maracas), la guadabu (concha de caracol), and biabuwes (claves), the drum appears most often and most vividly. At the beginning of section two, the sound of drums marks the opening of the celebration as the family is headed to Panama: “se reanudó el alegre pregón de tamboritos, rumbas, merengues, sambas y otros legados rítmicos de los ancestros cimarrones” [The happy sounds of tamboritos, rumbas, merengues, sambas, and other rhythmic legacies of ancestral escaped slaves resumed] (80). By placing this image within the text, the author is able to reflect the spiritual force contained within this significant instrument and relate it to their ancestors who used the drum to fight for freedom. The drum is also integrated into the spirits of the descendants of Felicidad Dolores (the children of Africa). Reference to the sound of drums reflects power and the spiritual presence of the great Africans from the past who come to commune with the living. The presence of drums symbolizes the connection between the youth and the tradition of active resistance started by Black rebel leaders in the past. As we observed, the third chapter of Carpentier’s novel El reino de este mundo presented the drum communicating the news of war with neighboring communities; at the beginning of chapter two of Cubena’s novel, the drum communicates in a similar manner, as the descendants of Felicidad Dolores are aboard a plane to Panama. At this point, they discover, from the Siete Potencias or seven major pantheonic deities, that the beats of drums indicate that they will soon unravel the mystery of the cursed navel: “Todos los varones sintieron un desahogo cuando los tambores—voces de las Siete Potencias africanas—anunciaron que, al fin, había llegado la víspera del ocaso del horroroso presagio vinculado con el ombligo de mal agüero” [All the men felt a relief when the drums—voices of the Seven African Powers— announced that finally, the eve of the sunset of the terrible horror connected with the navel of bad omen had arrived] (81). The drum’s role as a communicative device announces war and rebellion, elements purported by the Orishas to end the community’s cursed status, thus symbolizing Black unity. After the Las Vegas tourists verbally attack the family in the airport terminal, Flacobala explains that such patterns of abuse would have ended sooner had there been more great resistance leaders that chose to risk their lives to gain dignity and equality for Blacks. As she speaks, the renewed determination of the two nearby youths to continue the struggle of their cimarrón descendants is expressed with the imagery of drums: Simultáneamente, Triunfo Guerrero y Zabeth Liberateur se miraron. Sintieron que la sangre cimarrona heredada en ese momento llegó a su punto de ebullición. Escucharon en sus entrañas tambores guerreros ancestrales . . . . ambos cerraron apretadamente los puños y pensaron en la palabra sodinu.

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[Simultaneously, Triunfo Guerrero and Zabeth Liberateur looked at one another. They felt their inherited rebel slave blood reach a boiling point. They listened to the deep heart of the ancestral war drums . . . . Both tightly closed their fists and thought of the word sodinu.] (40)

The ancestral drums that the two young men hear are connected with ancestors that used drums to plan and communicate uprisings. The image of the drum is associated with the struggle for justice and represents an innate part of their heritage. Magic and Medicine Bandelé Cebiano, Omiyapa’s child and the first African to be born off the African continent, becomes a gifted healer. Because of his spiritual gift, Bandelé becomes an important and valuable member of the community. In Seville, he sells plants and herbs for medicinal cures and lines of customers from all social and economic levels seek his curative potions to help them with medical conditions ranging from spots on the skin to fevers. The curandero becomes respected as an important member of the Seville community. The work thus resists the traditional mode of legitimizing only Western medicine, by recognizing the importance of African healing within the European population, as well as among those of African descent. The Natural Environment In Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance, nature is central in the lives of the characters of African heritage. Elements of nature such as plants and celestial phenomena serve significant roles. The fact that the text balances various signs within nature presents the Black population as a group that is in harmony with its natural environment. Critic Haakayoo Nobui Zoggyie notes that in Cubena’s earlier novel Chombo, time is measured in terms of markers from nature: “Besides the usual chronological trackings one often encounters in Western literature, time here is also measured by referring to natural events and the different phases of the lunar cycle, which is the way it is done in many parts of Africa even today” (1999, 186). This observation is as valid in Los nietos as in Chombo; within this novel, the sun, moon, and other elements of nature serve as indicators of the temporal and spiritual settings surrounding particular events. At the end of chapter one, as the family is finally on the plane in route to Panama, Eufemia interprets Libertad Lamento’s dream. During this passage, reference is made to the light of the moon and stars: “El avión que escapó de la blanca nievenuclear aterriza en el aeropuerto Urracá-Bayano un martes

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veraniego de luna y estrellas” [The plane that escaped the white nuclearsnow lands in the Urracá-Bayano airport a summer Tuesday under the moon and stars] (79). The moon’s protective gaze serves as a symbol of the divine presence of the forces of the Orishas that protect their travelling children. In section one, in a passage that describes the original enslavement of Africans in the city of Buruco, reference is made to the absence of the moon: “Nuestra odisea comenzó efectivamente cuando los barcos negreros, como ladrones amparados en noches huérfanas de luna, zarparon con prisa desde las costas africanas hasta con las cunas de Buruco” [Our odyssey effectively began when the slave ships, like thieves covered in the orphan night of the moon, quickly set sail from the African coasts to the homeland of Buruco] (58). The narrator’s reference to the moon’s absence marks the Orisha’s spiritual absence during the beginning of the African saga in the Americas. In this novel, however, references to the sun are more numerous than those of the moon. The sun is a constant image throughout the novel, symbolizing beauty, purity, and divine strength. The sun’s absence reflects the lack of spiritual support by the Orishas, thus underscoring the daunting world that faces the descendants of Buruco. As chapter two begins, the narrator recounts the tragic history of the Africans exiled from the city of Buruco: Aquella madrugada huérfana de sol, quiquiriquís, fragancias y gorjeos, alrededor del tamarindo en el corazón de Buruco, celebrábamos con tambores . . . cuando la alegría de los cantos y las danzas, inesperadamente, enlutó al desembarcar . . . los invasores lusitanos. [That morning absent of sun, cock-a-doodle-doos, scents, and chirping around the tamarind tree in the heart of Buruco, we were celebrating with drums . . . when the jubilation of the songs and the dance, unexpectedly, overshadowed the unloading . . . the Lusitanian invaders.] (84)

On this dark and sunless day, the Portuguese slavers approach the community to steal Africans to sell into slavery. The absence of the sun reflects the Orishas’ lack of compassion and support for the children of Africa. At the outset of section two, the narrator describes the descendants of Felicidad Dolores as the surviving members of a population that was expelled from a natural Eden on the banks of the Nile to a worse place, one “donde el sol y los pájaros ni acarician ni festejan las madrugadas como en aquellas viviendas ancestrales a las laderas del Kilimanjaro y a las orillas del río Nilo” [where the sun and birds do not caress one another nor celebrate the mornings like in those ancestral villages on the side of Kilimanjaro and on the shores of the Nile River] (80). Within this new community, the sun is disconnected

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from the other forms of nature, making a period of spiritual and physical punishment. Thunder and lightning are directly associated with the most powerful Orisha, Changó. At the beginning of chapter two, the combination of these natural elements underscores the presence of the divine spiritual force and vigilance of the Orisha as his children return home: “Bajo la amenaza de relámpagos y truenos aterradores que el enfurecido orixa Changó derramaba a diestra y siniestra en un cielo huérfano de estrellas” [Beneath the threat of frightening thunder and lightning that angry Changó poured willy-nilly in the sky empty of stars] (80). Elements of nature appear again in section five, as Juan Moreno and John Brown come to their dramatic showdown; the protective Orishas—respectively Changó and Ogún—protect each man.23 The presence of the spiritual forces of these Orishas is highlighted by the sound of thunder and lightning: Luego, más tarde en la víspera de la Epifanía, llamó la atención la llegada del vecino zapatero seguido por orixa Ogún, con una botella de ron en una mano y en la otra un machete. Pero, mayor fue el asombro cuando cinco minutos después, cuando perros y gatos callejeros comenzaron a pelear, entre truenos y relámpagos, llegó el vecino frutero seguido por orixa Changó, también con una botella de aguardiente y un machete. [Later, late on the Eve of the Epiphany, he called attention to the arrival of the neighbor cobbler followed by Orisha Ogun, with a bottle of rum in one hand and a machete in the other. But, the most amazing thing occurred five minutes later, when dogs and cats on the street began to fight, among thunder and lightning, the fruit-vendor neighbor arrived accompanied by Orisha Changó, also carrying a bottle of hard liquor and a machete.] (147–148)

The tension between the two men is mirrored in the natural world by the fighting between dogs and cats in the street, beneath the sound of thunder and flashes of lightning. Changó is connected with the birth of one of Felicidad Dolores’s grandchildren. This monumental birth is described by the narrator as a being marked with the sound of thunder and the appearance of lightning: “Al niño Filhozumbí Williams, un nieto, quien, cuando nació, en vez de los llantos, como todos los recién nacidos, vociferó truenos y sus manitos lanzaron relámpagos” [Filhozumbí Williams, a grandson, who, when born, instead of sobs, like all newborns, he shouted thunder and shot lightning bolts from his hands] (226). This character’s intellectual and spiritual essence is also highlighted by his name, Filhozumbí, which translates as son of Zumbí, a reference to a great Brazilian cimarrón leader. Throughout the novel, Changó’s

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rage and spiritual presence is highlighted by the presence of thunder and lightning (80, 82, 101, 203, 229). Just as the presence of thunder and lightning indicate the spiritual presence and strength of Changó, the absence of these elements serves as a significant indicator of the deity’s level of peace and serenity. As Felicidad Dolores is about to give birth to triplets, there is reference to the lack of thunder and lightning: “Ese martes lluvioso por la noche (sin relámpagos y sin truenos)” [That rainy Tuesday at night (without thunder and lightning] (113). During this happy and sacred event, the deity is content, and therefore has no need to announce his presence with thunder and lightning. The ceiba, baobab, and tamarind tree are significant natural elements in the novel. Each of the trees is associated with a site of spiritual significance for the individuals of African descent and offers protection and shelter to the children of Africa. As mentioned earlier, the ceiba tree became an important spiritual symbol within the Americas as a substitute for the African baobab tree, revered for its significant spiritual properties; both trees are mentioned within the novel on numerous occasions. The ceiba is important as a symbol of the African Americans in the Caribbean, while the baobab represents Africa; the tamarind is symbolic of both continents. In chapter two, as Guacayarima returns to Buruco, the African site from which the first slaves were taken, he acknowledges his happiness to return to his native land and his own spiritual reverence by kissing the roots of a baobab tree: “se emocionó profundamente cuando se acercó a un baobab. Inmediatamente cayó de rodillas. Besó las raíces del enorme baobab” [He became extremely excited when he approached a baobab tree. He immediately dropped to his knees. He kissed the roots of the huge baobab tree] (101).24 Reference to this tree appears most often in reference to the town on the Nile where the original Africans lived in Paradise. After the five young rebels and those connected with them are expelled from the edenesque town, they are commanded to find another safe refuge under the protection of a tamarind tree. When the text refers to the sacred space in Buruco, where Africans could find refuge, it is a location where the ceiba tree creates the image of the tortoise: “una tortuga tallada de ceiba” [A tortoise carved from ceiba wood] (81). The sacred image that represents the ruler of the tribe is a tortoise, made of wood from the sacred ceiba tree. The tortoise also symbolizes the descendants of Africa and appears at many points within the novel (56, 81, 85, 85, 93, 113, 225). In the middle of section two, the curandero Bandelé is assisted by members of the Spanish community in gathering the plants and herbs needed, one of which is parts of the ceiba tree (93). The ceiba tree, considered to be spiritually powerful, is therefore an instrumental component in medicinal cures.

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This tree also appears in a proverb that contains the essence of the values of the community: “no se puede esperar mango del cocotero ni tamarindo de la ceiba” [You cannot expect mangos from a coconut tree or a tamarind from a ceiba tree] (182). Because of the sacred nature of the plant within the Afro-Caribbean community, it appears frequently within the novel to provide a backdrop consistent with the African-influenced worldview. The novel’s inclusion of these three sacred trees is one of the many elements that link this work with the other novels of resistance in this book. Repetition and Circularity Cubena employs repetition and circularity by including numerous recurring phrases, words, and events, which serve to unify the work and symbolize the effect that major events have had on the African and Afro-Caribbean community. One such repeated element is the deaths of Felicidad Dolores, which has been addressed earlier. Another example of repetition is the word sodinu, which appears throughout the novel. This repetition serves as a way to build up Cubena’s theme of unity and serves as a possible solution to improve the lives of Blacks in the African Diaspora. This mysterious word is finally explained in a letter from Fenixa’s father in the last chapter of the novel: “La clave de la palabra esa que tanto te intriga, pues escribe la palabra en letras de molde negro y colócate delante de un espejo y mira la palabra en el espejo y lee lo escrito de izquierda a derecha. Esa es la clave de nuestra salvación” [The key to that word that intrigued you, well write it backward in black capital letters and put it in front of a mirror and look at the word in the mirror and read it from left to right. That is the key to salvation] (230).The point is that individuals of African heritage need to work toward being unified. Once the community of color becomes a unified population, they will be better able to wage resistance against those forces of the dominant population that attempt to oppress them. Another repeated element in the novel is reference to the cursed navel. This deformity is assigned by the Orishas as a reminder of their ancestors’ crime of attempting to overthrow the elders of Buruco (193). The author explained this symbol in an interview with Elba Birmingham-Pokorny: “In Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores the motif of the ‘ombligo’ symbolizes the source of life. The same way a fetus needs that umbilical cord in order to develop, in order to get nourishment from the mother, also the Afro-Hispanic needs to maintain that connection with his/her identity, with his/her ‘antepasados’―with Africa” (Birmingham-Pokorny 1991, 131). As characters become aware of their past or of any present danger, they cover this part of their body. The descendants of Buruco are all marked by the physical abnormality of a cursed navel. Because he understands this, Bandelé carefully covers this part of his body in times of danger (90, 108).

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The last part of the novel integrates the repetition of a popular children’s song in the background, which serves to reflect the future of the descendants of Felicidad Dolores. During a phone conversation between Guacayarima and his brother Caizcimú in the United States, Simón Bolívar Brown’s children are heard singing a song in the background: “¿Quiénes cantan?—preguntó Guacayarima al escuchador en el fondo: ‘mirón, mirón, mirón donde viene tanta gente, mirón, mirón, mirón de . . .” [Who is singing?—Guacayarima asked the listener in the back: “mirón, mirón, mirón from where are all these people, mirón, mirón, mirón of . . . .”] (218). This song is described as part of a children’s game played in the streets of Guachapalí. This example of the use of song demonstrates active life in the community and the author’s optimism about the future of the descendants of Felicidad Dolores: Por las calles de la ciudad de Panamá ya no había inundación de inmundicias, sino todo lo contrario, inundación de alegres niños que saltaban, jugaban y cantaban: “mirón, mirón, mirón donde viene tanta gente, mirón, mirón, mirón de San Pedro y San Vicente.” [Along the streets of the city of Panama there had not been a flood of trash, but on the contrary, a flood of happy children who jumped, played and sang: “mirón, mirón, mirón from where are all these people, mirón, mirón, mirón from San Pedro and San Vicente.”] (202)

The cheerful singing indicates that there is a brighter future for the next generation. Guacayarima’s disapproval of the singing symbolizes his decline and his attempt to escape from life. Reference is made to this song throughout the novel’s last chapter (156, 202, 209, 210, 211, 214, 218, 222, 230). A structural element of circularity within the novel is evident as the author begins and ends the novel with the same quote by Marcus Garvey: “We must realize that upon ourselves depend our destiny, our future, we must carve out that future, that destiny” (5, 231). The same quote appears in a letter written by the author himself to his relatives and to the reader. The presence of repeated images at the beginning and the end helps to underscore the idea of cyclical continuity within the African-descended community and to establish an organic vision of human existence. Circularity in the novel allows the author not only to underscore important details, but also to acknowledge African aesthetics that value repetition and circularity. The Trickster Figure Although there are numerous studies of Cubena’s novel, critics have failed to explore the obvious connection between Guacayarima and the Afro-Caribbean trickster figure. This character, the youngest of Felicidad Dolores’s children,

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uses his wits to save fellow Blacks from the abuses of slavery throughout his many trades and positions. All forces are powerless against him except for the African deities that initially guide him and eventually destroy him. At the African slave market in chapter two, Guacayarima uses his divine powers to lead the slaves to death, rather than to endure the dehumanizing injustices of slavery. He fights against the institution of slavery by urging the slaves to take their own lives and the lives of their infants to offer them an avenue toward freedom. While his orchestrated slave revolt is unsuccessful, it demonstrates his rebellious spirit and defiant nature. Guacayarima also does all that he can to interrupt the commercial slave trade of his master, don Bartolomé Ladrón; his subversions include acts of sabotage, the burning of a slave ship, and even the poisoning of slaves (100, 109, 112). Despite numerous requests from his enemies, authorities never castrate him; this impunity against castration demonstrates his spiritual protection by the Orishas. At the beginning of chapter six, Felicidad Dolores’s grandchildren arrive in Guachapalí (Panama City), and a younger Guacayarima is among them. In this Panamanian community, the character continues to challenge the authority of those that attempt to demean him and his family. One example appears in the beginning of section seven, as the youthful Guacayarima is forced weekly to go to the store to buy a soft drink for Lesbiaquiña. He tells her he cannot run the errand, but she only insults him. He finally agrees, but responds to her mockery and lack of respect with his own form of justice: Guacayarima todos los martes compraba la limonada, pero antes de entregarle el refresco a Lesbiaquiña Petrablanche de las Nieves de Monte Monarca Moreno, quien se los tragaba en seguida, se metía el dedo índice de la mano izquierda entre las nalgas e inmediatamente, como si fuera una cucharita, metía el dedo índice en la limonada antes de que bebiera la que lo llamaba “negrito.” [Every Tuesday Guacayarima bought her lemonade, but before giving the drink to Lesbiaquiña Petrablanche de las Nieves de Monte Monarca Moreno, who drank it immediately, he stuck the index finger on his left hand between his butt cheeks, as if it were a spoon and he placed his index finger in the lemonade before the one that called him little nigger drank it.] (171)

The character uses his wits, as well as his finger, to soil her drink, thus retaliating against her condescending behavior. This scatological reference serves as a metaphor of the Antillean-descended population’s ability to resist, with a victorious grin, the oppressive colonial Black population’s attempts to demean them. As the youth is educated within the Panamanian educational system, he begins to challenge the school curriculum for its lack of focus on the presence

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and history of Antillean Blacks in the nation. His family attempts to convince him to study, but he counters their demands: Guacayarima les decía a todos que de nada le servía saber las funciones del modo subjuntivo, lo del sistema circulatorio y el sistema respiratorio y todo lo relacionado con raíz cuadrada, teoremas, moléculas, Aristóteles, Platón, Sócrates, Hugo, Dumas y Moliére si no conocía, con certeza, su verdadera identidad y sus raíces ancestrales. [Guacayarima told everyone that knowing the use of the subjunctive, the circulatory system, and the respiratory system and everything related to a square root, theorems, molecules, Aristotle, Plato, Socrates, Hugo, Dumas and Moliere would do him no good if he didn’t know, with certainty, his true identity and ancestral roots.] (179)

He is convinced to attend school but supplements and undermines his education by going to the library to search for information not taught in his classes. He later uses his acquired knowledge to challenge hostile members of the community such as Padre Montebello and Lesbiaquiña. In section seven, after the youth matures sexually, his spiritual decline becomes apparent. This shift begins as he fails to listen to the wisdom that Felicidad Dolores tries to provide when he falls in love with his neighbor Candelaria Moreno. He is unable to focus on what his grandmother has to tell him about his navel and the necessity to be chaste: Pero, Guacayarima, en ese momento, andaba flotando por las nubes. Estaba enamorado. No le prestó atención a Felicidad Dolores. En un abrir y cerrar de ojos, más rápido que los relámpagos de su padrino orixa Changó, se bañó y se vistió. E inmediatamente, como bombero que oye gritos en un fuego, corrió a buscar a Candelaria para ir a bailar, ese martes de carnaval. (198) [But, in that moment, Guacayarima was floating in the clouds. He was in love. He didn’t pay any attention to Felicidad Dolores. In a blink of an eye, quicker than the lightning bolts of his godfather Orisha Changó, he bathed and got dressed. And immediately, like a fireman that hears the cry of fire, he ran to look for Candelaria to take her dancing, that Tuesday of carnival.]

After this point, he closes his ears to the wisdom that the Orishas and his ancestors attempt to offer him. As the novel progresses, Guacayarima drifts farther from his spiritual foundation. He combines his trickster ability with his knowledge of European and African cultural practices to deceive Christians and make money by charging them to see what appears to be the miraculous appearance of a stigmata,

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which ironically appears on Good Friday: “Algunos quienes se acuerdan de rezar solamente durante la Semana Santa, le pagaran por tocar, según él la quinta herida de Cristo, su ombligo que, extrañamente, sangraba cada Viernes Santo” [Some that only remember to pray during Holy Week, will pay him to play, according to him the fifth wound of Christ, his navel that strangely bleeds every Good Friday] (220). As he continues to transgress his spiritual heritage, the Orishas attempt to communicate with him, but he refuses to hear them: Mientras completaban las primeras diez Avemarías del rosario en el velorio, Elegguá llegó al velorio para comunicarle un mensaje muy importante a Guacayarima, pero éste estaba distraido contando las diez Avemarías que todos los enlutados repetían en voz monótona. [While they finished the first ten Ave Marias of the rosary at the wake, Elegua arrived to relay a very important message to Guacayarima, but this one was distracted saying his ten Ave Marias that all the mourners repeated in a monotonous voice.] (220)

As the novel continues, the Orishas attempt to visit him on three other occasions, but his ears remain closed to their guidance. Guacayarima’s laughter demonstrates his resistance toward the authority of higher forces. Each time the Orishas come to inspire him with guidance and he does not hear them, reference is made to his laughter (198, 214, 220, 221, 223, 224). During this period, the character develops compulsive habits that illustrate his mental decline: Antes de barrer la esquina con una escoba imaginaria, se lavó las manos, con aire, y se secó, con una toalla, también, imaginaria mientras balbuceaba, repetidas veces como letanía, frases amenazadoras como si alguien en la esquina lo estorbaba y no lo dejaba barrer tranquilamente. [Before sweeping the corner with an imaginary broom, he washed his hands, with air, and dried his hands with a towel, also imaginary, while repeatedly stammering as a litany threatening sentences, as if someone on the corner was bothering him and would not let him sweep in peace.] (209)

Reference to his compulsion for washing his hands and for sweeping the floor appear numerous times in the last chapter to illustrate his distance from his true spiritual center and his detachment from his family and reality; he is one of the few members of the family that continues to reside in Panama. Guacayarima is one of Cubena’s most complex characters. His supernatural abilities, paired with his powerful and rebellious nature, illustrate the power

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of the faithful to obey or to resist the will of the Orishas. His transformation throughout the work demonstrates the consequences for those individuals that fail to heed the will of the Orishas. In the last chapter of the novel, most of the family is spread throughout the United States, leaving Guacayarima to deteriorate until he is destroyed by Changó. Sin embargo, el cuerpo de Guacayarima que seguía columpiándose violentamente en la hamaca colocada en la esquina de la Casa 5 de Mayo, en el barrio Guachapalí, de repente, fue arrojado al suelo, como bagazo, por orixa Changó, quien furiosamente le propinó cinco hachazos decapitando y desmembrando a Guacayarima. [Without doubt, Guacayarima’s body, that continued to swing violently in the hammock located on the corner of House 5th of May, in the neighborhood of Guachapalí, was suddenly thrown to the ground, like a bag of dead weight, by Orisha Changó, who furiously gave him five blows with an ax decapitating and dismembering Guacayarima.] (228)

This character also demonstrates that even the trickster is ultimately powerless against the powerful force of the Orishas.

CONCLUSION While Chombo was unified by the search for the golden bracelets, Los nietos is unified by the family’s search for the three gold tortoises and the meaning of the word sodinu. The novel’s proposed solution to oppression is intergenerational unity. The absence of this unity, in the words of Carlos Guillermo Wilson, has “contributed very much to the survival of the ‘divide et impera’ practice that has kept oppressed groups divided and subservient” (quoted in Birmingham-Pokorny 1991, 130). Afro-Caribbean individuals should know and accept themselves, and not allow themselves to be divided by the cultural differences of their brothers and sisters in other parts of the African Diaspora; educating the African American about their collective culture in the Americas is the only path toward this solution. Los nietos serves as a tool to educate the reader about the historical movements led by numerous individuals of African and Antillean ancestry in Panama. In the last letter in the novel, from Cubena to his family in the novel and his brethren in the African Diaspora, he relates important details to insure that the reader is directly presented with his message by reporting on a conference that he attended, which presented motivational messages written in both English and Spanish that underscore the importance of knowledge:

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En una conferencia citó a Marcus Garvey diciendo: [In a conference he cited Marcus Garvey who said:] “We must realize that upon ourselves depend our destiny, our future, we must carve out that future, that destiny.” Repitió dicha cita en varios idiomas durante la conferencia, y además, enfatizó las palabras del Dr. George Westerman: [He repeated this statement in various languages during the conference, and also, emphasized the words of Dr. George Westerman:] “Progress through Education.” También, citó un refrán africano que dice: [He also cited an African saying] “Not to know is bad, not to wish to know is worse.” Durante la conferencia hizo hincapié en el hecho de que “el principio de la salud está en conocer la enfermedad” [During the conference he placed emphasis in the fact that “the first step in curing an illness is knowing the illness.”] (231)

The historical figure and message integrated into the text is valuable to oppressed communities and populations of color, as it allow0s these groups to experience another perception of their collective historical reality. While some of the historical events may vary slightly between Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, and Panama, they reflect the same struggle to resist. The unifying of the oppressed and their resistance toward oppression is a central element of survival of Afro-Caribbean culture and identity. In an interview, Cubena expresses his belief that “There is no future unless we find a Bayano or any other leader that will wake up all Afro-Hispanics to their reality and bring about a revolution. No praying, no legislation, and no short-term solution will help, there is only one possibility, -revolution-” (Birmingham-Pokorny 1991, 133). Cubena hopes that his novel of resistance can help inspire his counterparts to take action to change the present situation for Blacks in the Caribbean, and more specifically, Afro-Antilleans of Panama. Education is the main weapon that Cubena offers to his readers, because for him the two most important tools to resist oppression are knowledge and power. Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores offers the reader a dramatic form of history and literature as a weapon to rebuild the community and to pass on knowledge to connect readers with parallel communities. This novel is unique from the others included in this book because of its attack against LGBTQ individuals within the community. Homosexuality and forms of sexual perversions are cited to attack characters that are considered as negative. Another element of the novel that is inconsistent with Afro-Caribbean faith practices is the presentation of AIDS as a form of divine retribution by the Orishas (205, 225, 230). The novel’s association between the virus and the Orishas is not consistent with a Yoruba belief system. Cubena’s Panamanian expression of the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance is unique from those of his peers covered in this study in his use of satire and irony to mock racism and social injustice. The humor comes from

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the manner in which he presents the aggressors of Antillean Black characters, primarily colonial Blacks, as a group that denies its own ethnic, cultural, and historical past; but the presence of humor should not be interpreted as Cubena’s attempt to minimize the political thrust of his novel. The character types found in this novel and their behavioral and societal consequences are easily recognizable to individuals familiar with AfroCaribbean history and culture. The neo-African bond that they share appears in literature produced by individuals that are aware of their collective history and culture. Cubena’s novel provides a broad perspective of the AfroCaribbean by offering a snapshot of the Black Panamanian experience, an element that Birmingham-Pokorny believes greatly serves scholars in understanding their sector of American culture: “Wilson’s works are vital to the understanding of the Afro-Hispanic experience in Latin America. In particular, his works provide scholars and students of Afro-Hispanic literature with a thorough appreciation of what, in essence, constitutes the black experience in Latin America” (Wilson 1991, 127). Cubena’s works are strongly worded and are intended to shock his readers. Through his tremendista vision of Afro-Caribbean reality, he advances a more complete literary portrayal of a misperceived and overlooked community—the Afro-Antillean in Panama (chombo). Cubena is committed to revealing the social, cultural, and political struggles against Afro-Antilleans in the nation. He does it in a format that counters the traditional presentation of Blacks as inferior and unidimensional. The presentation of distinct forms of Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions and Africaninfluenced aesthetics allows the author to invite the reader into a unique world established on its Ashé-Caribbean base. The move toward the creation of a better future expressed in Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores is the same hopeful message that we find highlighted in the novels of Alejo Carpentier, Quince Duncan, and Manuel Zapata Olivella. NOTES 1. In this chapter, I will use the name Cubena to describe the writer and Carlos Guillermo Wilson to identify the literary critic. 2. Colonial Blacks date back to the importation of Africans, while Antillean Blacks migrated from the Antilles at the beginning of the twentieth century. 3. In an interview with Laverne M. Seals Soley, a more settled Wilson praises Beleño for his trilogía canalera (1998, 69). 4. The Afro-Caribbean writer Joaquín Beleño was born to a mother of colonial Black ancestry and a Colombian father. His cultural background could play a factor in his tendency to write from the perspective that favors colonial Blacks, thus painting Antillean Blacks as inferior.

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5. The bracelets are precious gifts from cultural allies in Cuzco, Chichén Itzá, and Tenochtitlán to the community of Onítefo in the African town of Nokoró. The bracelets reappear several centuries later in Xaymaca-Nokoró, a runaway Colombian slave settlement. 6. The irony within the novel invites the reader to view traditional patterns from a new perspective. Cubena’s use of irony is evident before the reader even opens the novel, as the historically offensive term chombo is appropriated by the author to disempower the negative value of the word. 7. All passages come from the 1991 edition of the novel. 8. The novel has eight chapters, which are not marked with the traditional heading to indicate the beginning of each section. By looking at the visual textual breaks and thematic shifts between the sections, one is able to determine where one chapter ends and another begins. 9. Wilson’s research documents that “durante la construcción del Canal de Panamá (1904–1914), de los 45,107 obreros que trabajaron en la vía interoceánica, 31,071 eran negros antillanos” (Wilson 1982, 14). 10. According to the nation’s constitution, Panamanian citizens were defined as “Los nacidos bajo jurisdicción de la República, aunque uno de los padres fuera de inmigración prohibida, siempre que el otro sea panameño por nacimiento. Esta disposición no se aplicará cuando el padre que fuere de inmigración prohibida pertenezca a la raza cuya idioma originario no sea el Castellano” [Those born under the juristiction of the Nation, although one parent were prohibited from immigrating, the other must be panamian by birth. This provision shall not apply when the father who is forbidden immigration belongs to the race whose native language is not Spanish] (Constitución de la República de Panamá, 5). 11. It must be noted that the pantheon of Orishas is not a part of traditional West Indian culture. 12. In some parts of Africa, individuals with oculocutaneous albinism live with a stigma because they are believed to be punished by the gods for an ancestor’s wrongdoing (Hong, Zeeb, and Repacholi, 2006). 13. According to historian St. Claire Drake, such interpretations come from the Babylonian Talmud and the Midrash, collections of Biblical interpretations based on legends and myths (1990, vol. 2, 2-76). 14. Lesbiaquiña’s lengthy name is one that she selected herself to reflect her preferred European heritage and her regal self-image. In a heated argument with her brother Aníbal, the reader is informed of the many levels of her inauthenticity: “Eres una moneda falsa. Te cambiaste el nombre y crees que eso va a cambiar lo que realmente eres, una m . . .” [You are a fake coin. You changed your name and you believe that that is going to change what you really are, a f . . . .]. He even asks her about the origin of her false accent: “Y de dónde sacas ese acento francés?” [And where did you get that French accent?] (164). It is this accent that allows her to attempt to pass herself off as being of French (European) ancestry, and therefore to identify with a whiter group. 15. This reaction is reminiscent of the miraculous departure of Remedios la Bella in Gabriel García Márquez’s Cien años de soledad; after Fernanda del Carpio learns of the event, she accepts the amazing ascension of her sister-in-law into the heavens,

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but laments the loss of her favorite sheets: “Fernanda, mordida por la envidia, terminó por aceptar el prodigio, y durante mucho tiempo siguió rogando a Dios que le devolviera las sábanas” (1995, 355). [Fernanda, burning with envy, finally accepted the miracle, and for a long time she kept on praying to God to send her back her sheets] (1970, 223). 16. This crossing of diachronic temporal space underscores the novel’s thrust to reflect time as a continuous mixture of the past, present, and future. This pattern is consistent in the Afro-Caribbean novel of resistance in revealing that the present and the future are directly connected with the past. 17. The structure of the novel reflects the ritualistic use of the odd numbers three and five. Researcher Aníbal Pastor explains that odd numbers are very important in African rituals for preparing medicines and cures: “Los remedios caseros tendientes a atenuar los males parasitarios y las enfermedades en general van a veces revestidos de cierto ritual especialmente cuando estos remedios están hechos de hojas y otras plantas. Los números impares son muy importantes cuando se mezclan las cantidades de raíces, hojas o frutos que utilizan, como (p.e. 7 pares y un non 15 hojas, etc.)” [Home remedies that tend to mitigate parasitic diseases and diseases in general are sometimes covered by a certain ritual, especially when these remedies are made of leaves and other plants. Odd numbers are very important when mixing the amounts of roots, leaves or fruits they use (e.g., 7 pairs of leaves and 15 single leaves, etc.)] (1992, 64). Cubena’s repeated use of these numbers demonstrates his attempt to honor this African tradition regarding the power of numbers. The number five is most often associated with negative aspects of the novel, that is, the lost children, the rebels in Buruco, Rabiaprieta’s children, and the number of the Moreno’s house in Guachapalí (a neighborhood in Panama City). The number three is used to enumerate positive and sacred characteristics within the novel—Dolores Felicidad’s triplets, the African women, the gold tortoises, the three symbolic trees, and the number of the Brown’s house. The author uses this numbering system symbolically to highlight aspects of the novel that are beneficial to the Black population and those that are not. 18. Richard Jackson explains that this traditional custom of giving children names of the day that they were born is part of the Ashanti culture (1979, 181). 19. She was put to death by the Orishas as a consequence of her failure to obey the will of the deities by failing to notify the members of the city of Buruco of the malicious albinos that she observed hiding in a local cave. After she is put to death, she is expelled from the land of the dead, returning with the new name Perpetua. Her son Bandelé is marked with a deformed navel, “distintivo de mal agüero,” which symbolizes his ancestor’s sins (85). This deformity is a curse by Orunla to mark her sins and those of the community of Buruco. 20. Named after an African nation that has the distinction of being one of the first great medieval trading empires of western Africa between the seventh and thirteenth centuries. 21. The term “mascon” is an acronym borrowed from National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA). Ian Smart uses this to describe “a massive concentration of Black experimental energy which powerfully affects the meaning of Black speech, Black song, and Black poetry” (1984a, 41).

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22. In Nigerian Chinua Achebe’s novel Things Fall Apart, the narrator describes the paramount role of proverbs within the African community: “Among the Ibo the art of conversation is regarded very highly, and proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are eaten” (1978, 10). 23. In Afro-Caribbean mythology, these two Orishas are mortal enemies as result of Ogún and Changó’s frequent conflicts regarding the love of the former’s wife Oyá (Gonzalez-Wippler 1994, 46). 24. In the novel’s second section, in the intercalated story told by the narrator regarding the powerful moment of betrayal of the five youths in Buruco, the text describes the African Orisha Omolú’s displeasure by pointing out that the infernal scene was filled with “relámpagos, truenos, gritos, fuego, hedor” [lightning bolts, thunder, cries, fire, stench] (83). In other portions of the novel, one or more of these natural aspects are used to demonstrate African spiritual fury (85).

Chapter 6

Manuel Zapata Olivella and Changó el gran putas

Colombia’s best-known Afro-Hispanic writer, Manuel Zapata Olivella, published several novels that reflect problems facing marginalized and oppressed segments of his country’s population. Through experimental narrative techniques, he focused on the relationships between these groups and the Colombian postcolonial hegemonic power structure. This commitment to the oppressed is most evident in his masterpiece, Changó, el gran putas (1983). The work’s themes and structural devices connect it with the Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance in this book. THE LITERARY CONTEXT Like Carpentier, Cubena, Duncan, and Zapata Olivella conducted in-depth investigations into African American history, culture, and aesthetics. All four writers integrated the findings of their own research into their novels to represent Blacks with depth and accuracy. These writers also integrated their knowledge of Caribbean history and culture with skilled narrative techniques in order to underscore the importance of cultural identity in the lives of individuals of African descent. Yvonne Captain-Hidalgo notes structural similarities between the works of Carpentier and Zapata Olivella: “Carpentier’s was a clearly laudable effort that aided in paving the way for others, including Zapata, to attempt creation on non-European terms” (1993, 134–135). She also presents these similarities in detail in her dissertation, The Realm of Possible Realities (1984). The parallels noted by Captain-Hidalgo include the concept of collective faith,

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a shifting away from the European concept of identity, use of lo real maravilloso to express the literary reality of characters by acknowledging the oppressed population’s struggle for freedom, and the inclusion of Africaninspired religious traditions and mythology (1984, 69–106). Zapata Olivella was a multifaceted scholar who had a strong bond with Africa, a quality that was evident in his work. Colombian scholar William Mina Aragón describes him as being an “orisha de la diáspora en las Américas” [orisha of the African Diáspora in the Americas] (Mina Aragón 2016, 29). Denilson Santos describes him as being like a griot in the way that “él hace un uso de la palabra escrita como aparato performático para dar nuevas significaciones simbólicas a las estructuras del lenguaje yoruba y bantú con miras a escenificar la estética afro” [he uses of the written word as a performance device to give new symbolic meanings to the Yoruba and Bantú languages with a view to stage the African aesthetic] (2016, 116–117). Antonio Prada Fortul points out an incident that he believes clearly reflects the writer’s introduction to the world of African spirituality: Su sentido más profundo expresa que el trabajo de los vivos debe enriquecerse con la experiencia atávica acumulada en la tradición religiosa así lo asumió Manuel Zapata Olivella en toda su obra y en los trabajos posteriores a este importante encuentro con sus Eggunso ancestros en la isla de Goré donde le fue sembrada espiritualmente la Kulonda sacral, en el marco de un místico proceso iniciático que le permitió a partir de esa noche, acceder a lo básico de ese conocimiento y conocer la parte esotérica de todo ceremonial de la Regla de Ocha o Santería o de la Regla Conga o Palo May[i]be. [His deepest sense expresses that the work of the living must be enriched with the atavistic experience accumulated in the faith tradition, which was taken on by Manuel Zapata Olivella in all his work and in the works following his important encounter with his Eggunso ancestors on the island of Goré where the sacral Kulonda was spiritually sown, within the framework of a mystical initiatory process that allowed him from that night, to access the basics of that knowledge and know the esoteric part of every ceremonial of la Regla de Ocha or Santería, la Regla Conga, or Palo Mayombe.] (2016, 345–346).

Darío Henao Restrepo postulates that Zapata Olivella was an initiate in some form of African-oriented spiritual practice: Zapata fue un iniciado en las prácticas de las religiones afro-americanas como la santería cubana, el vudú haitiano y el candomblé brasilero. Tuvo muchas experiencias con estas ritualidades y diálogos con muchas madres y padres de santos. Era hijo de Changó. De otra forma no se explicaría Changó [el gran putas].

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[Zapata was an initiate in African American religious practices, such as Cuban Santería, Hatian vodun, and Brazilian condomblé. He had many experiences with these rituals and dialogues with many priests and priestesses. He was the son of Changó. There is no other way that one could explain Changó [el gran putas]] (Henao Restrapo 2016, 425).

In an essay entitled “Los ancestors combatientes,” Zapata Olivella acknowledges that one of the challenges that the Black writer faces is the lack of understanding by critics. He adds that this is partially due to a lack of knowledge and recognition of the positive and collective aspects of Blacks in the Americas: “La ausencia de una crítica literaria en Latinoamérica, capaz de evaluar con objetividad el aporte de los escritores de ascendencia africana a las literaturas nacionales, es la continuación de prácticas colonialistas que se han mantenido vivas en la sociedad republicana” [The absence of a literary critic in Latin America it capable of evaluating with objectivity the input of writers of African ancestry to the national literature, it is the continuation of colonial practices that have remained alive in republican society] (1991, 54). This bias against Afro-Caribbean culture influences critics to avoid looking at novels built around African American themes and ontology. Cultural and ethnic themes of African identity are so underrepresented in Colombian literature that artists who have ventured to include such aspects in their works continue to run the risk of marginalization from literary critics and the general reading public. According to Smart, this has been the case with the reception of Zapata Olivella’s greatest novel, Changó, el gran putas (1991, 29). Because of the novel’s theme and complexity, only a small cadre of predominantly North American literary critics originally studied it. Jonathan Tittler translated the work into English in 2010 with the title Changó, the Biggest Badass. Since its publication, it still remains unexplored by the Englishspeaking audience in the United States. In Yvonne Captain-Hidalgo’s monograph on the writer and his works, The Culture of Fiction in the Works of Manuel Zapata Olivella (1993), she posits that Zapata Olivella’s novels have been misinterpreted by many critics who erroneously claim that he only addresses Black issues and themes: “Despite the fact that only portions of his literature treat Black culture, and despite the truth that ethnicity is evident in literary works by nearly all writers, Zapata has been ignored, and this is largely because of his choice of focus.” She adds that in addition to the novel’s emphasis on the historical and cultural experiences of a segment of the Afro-Caribbean population, the emphasis on social realism is also a contributing factor to the novel’s lack of recognition (1993, 104). Manuel Zapata Olivella and his family are well respected for their study of Colombian culture, social problems, identity, and art. Colombian musicologist and ethnomusicologist Egberto Bermúdez credits Manuel Zapata

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Olivella and his older brother Juan with advancing the study of AfroColombian culture in the 1960s, which brought about an eventual reassessment of Afro-Colombian culture (1994, 226–227). Zapata Olivella’s commitment to the Afro-Colombian community has been cultural, intellectual, and also political. From 1967 to 1970, he was president of the Colombian Chapter of the Community of Latin American Writers, and in 1977 he was the promoter, organizer, and president of the first Congress of Black Cultures in the Americas in Calí, Colombia. This bi-annual conference continues to take place in different American nations of the African Diaspora. Ignoring Afro-Caribbean themes is a major oversight. Scholars and educators beyond the area of Afro-Caribbean literature often fail to include Zapata Olivella’s works in survey courses of Latin American literature. As a result, the public is being deprived of the opportunity to examine a vision of existence that is fresh and unique. In terms of literary merit, Changó is Zapata Olivella’s most complex and richly written work. It uses innovative and effective literary techniques to express aspects of non-Western aesthetics: repetition, circularity, nonlinear narration, and African symbols. This Colombian novel serves as the concluding work in this study because it is the most intense, in-depth, and well-balanced example of the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. Cristina Rodríguez Cabral poses a provocative question: “¿Por qué Zapata Olivella no había integrado el famoso ‘Boom’ latinoamericano?” dada la competitiva variedad y calidad de sus publicaciones” (2016, 381). Although he was a contemporary of Julio Cortázar, Carlos Fuentes, Mario Vargas Llosa, and Gabriel García Márquez and used similar literary elements in his works, he is seldom included. In Raymond L. Williams’s study, The Modern Latin American Novel, he does include Zapata Olivella among the list of boom writers. The Afro-Colombian writer viewed himself to be part of the culture of which he wrote. Born and raised in the impoverished town of Lorica, in the province of Córdoba, this anthropologist, historian, medical doctor, and novelist conducted in-depth research on the culture and history of Colombia, stressing details of history that fail to appear in the tomes of traditional American history. As a result of his social and cultural commitment, he was well aware of the plight of the downtrodden and outcast in Colombia and the world. Zapata Olivella’s anthropological and literary productions uncover signs of historical and cultural chauvinism as well as patterns of ignorance regarding Afro-Caribbean identity and expression.

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This cultural research resulted in the publication of a study entitled Las claves mágicas de América: raza, clase y cultura [Magical Keys of America: Race, class and Culture] (1989). This study recognizes distinctive aspects of the Afro-Caribbean experience and places them in context in order to empower the oppressed and to acknowledge details that previous Colombian scholars ignored. This work concludes that Black identity has been preserved through music and African-inspired cultural elements, which are often overlooked in other studies but are fundamental in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. Not all critics have applauded Zapata Olivella’s investigative research. Bermúdez cites one scholar, Morales Gómez, who believed that Las claves mágicas was “well-intentioned but still too ideological and uninformed about African musical traditions, and about the history and dynamics of slavery, maroon societies, and the history of the presence of Afro-American groups in Colombia” (Bermúdez 1994, 227). Despite such negative views of the work, one cannot discount Zapata Olivella’s role as one of the first Colombian scholars to conduct in-depth studies on the nation’s African-descended population. Through Las claves mágicas, the outsider can better understand the tools and symbols that appear in Afro-Caribbean novels. The images and values found in the book provide a detailed understanding of the Black presence within the region. The text details the social, cultural, and political obstacles that face members of the nation’s Black community, thus influencing their worldview. Zapata Olivella’s focus on cultural and literary resistance in Changó, el gran putas places this work in the same trajectory as Duncan’s La paz del pueblo, Cubena’s Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, and Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo. Zapata Olivella’s sophisticated literary style and intellectual talent lead investigators to describe him as being a mentor for younger writers such as Carlos Guillermo Wilson and Quince Duncan. In The Culture of Fiction in the Works of Manuel Zapata Olivella, Yvonne Captain-Hidalgo underscores Zapata Olivella’s role as a literary leader: “A testament to both Zapata’s endurance and achievement is that he has become a father figure for a number of younger writers, especially in Afro-Hispania” (1993, 3). Richard Jackson goes as far as to describe Zapata Olivella as “the dean of Black Hispanic writers” (1997, 51). The author’s fame and success extend beyond the genre of the novel to include essays, dramas, and short stories. Literary critic Vera Kutzinski describes the writer as “Colombia’s most prolific black novelist and playwright” (1996, 189). While Zapata Olivella is one of several great Colombian writers of African descent, he is the only one to use his novels as a tool of resistance to uplift the Afro-Colombian population by using African-based content and aesthetics.1

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Captain-Hidalgo asserts that many contemporary Afro-Hispanic writers, including Manuel Zapata Olivella, have been influenced by the literary tradition established by Alejo Carpentier (1993, 134). However, the significant differences between Changó and El reino can be traced to their contemporary literary traditions. Initially, Carpentier’s first novel was influenced by the negrista literary tradition of the 1930s, which is evident in his use of Black dialect, in conjunction with animalistic references, to establish a less-thanflattering commentary on Afro-Caribbean identity. Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas was influenced by a different literary tradition, negritud,2 a literary movement that applauded Black identity in a holistic manner by exploring the social realities affecting Blacks. This tradition guided Zapata Olivella in representing his characters’ language without the use of Black dialect, a component that he considered to be problematic: [El dialacto] era una forma despectiva de reflejar el pensamiento del analfabeto, cuyas connotaciones filosóficas van más allá del uso impropio y espontáneo de la lengua, debido a las situaciones sociales y raciales por las cuales a negros e indios se les habían arrebatado sus lenguas maternas, para imponerles un idioma y un hablar extraños. Creo, pues, que fue una actitud de solidaridad con los oprimidos, y no una simple cuestión lingüística. En resumen: pensé y pienso que la deformación intencional del habla de los analfabetos americanos (léase negro, indio, mulato, zambo o mestizo), es una de las muchas formas de acentuar su opresión cultural. [[Dialect] was a derogatory way of reflecting the thought patterns of the illiterate whose philosophical ideas go far beyond the inappropriate and spontaneous use of language, due to the social and racial situations by which blacks and Indians were stripped of their mother tongues in order to impose a foreign language and a strange way of speaking. I believe that [the decision not to use it] was an act of solidarity with the oppressed and not simply a question of linguistics. In short: I believed and I still believe that the international deformation of the speech patterns of illiterates in the Americas (read black, Indian, Mulatto, Zambo, or mestizo), is one of many ways of accentuating their cultural oppression.] (quoted in Captain-Hidalgo 1993, 16–17)

According to Captain-Hidalgo, this more respectful representation of the lower economic class “might serve as a model in the theoretical pursuit of a new ways of viewing world literature, particularly its Spanish-American component” (1993, 22). While the novelist’s early works such as Chambacú, corral de negros (1967) and En Chimá nace un santo (1964) specifically focus on Colombian problems and themes, Changó focuses on topics that are more representative of the plight of populations of color3 in the Americas.

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A direct parallel can be drawn between Cubena’s Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores and Changó, el gran putas. Both novels attempt to represent the history and diversity of the African Diaspora, along with the recognition of shared images and cultural practices throughout the Caribbean. The novel redefines African American identity by directly focusing on the theme of unity among the population of African descent, which he refers to as the Muntu. In the prologue of the 2010 edition of the novel, professor Darío Henao Restrepo defines this philosophical concept in the following manner: El principio filosófico del muntu que rige su elaboración poética, implica una connotación del hombre que incluye a los vivos y difuntos, así como a animales, vegetales minerales y cosas que le sirven. Se trata de una fuerza espiritual que une en un solo nudo al hombre con su ascendencia y descendencia, inmersos en el universo presente, pasado y futuro. [The philosophical basis of Muntu that governs his poetic elaboration implies a connotation with humankind that includes the living and the dead, as well as animals, vegetables, minerals, and things that serve him. It is a spiritual force that unites humankind in one single knot to their ancestors and descendants, immersed in the present, past, and future.] (Zapata Olivella, 2010a, 17)

A concept similar to Muntu is presented in Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores as sodinu, the Spanish word for unity (unidos) spelled backward. Another parallel between the two works is the positive portrayal of Black female characters, a research topic that merits future investigation.4 Changó integrates values of the African American worldview or ontology in a consistent manner, including characteristics that we have seen in other Afro-Caribbean novels: a holistic view of existence, a cyclical view of time, the use of repetition, the presence of African-inspired ritual and music, as well as the use of the nommo as tools to bring about change.5 In Changó, the author uses literary techniques such as nonlinear narration, lo real maravilloso, a mixture of poetry and prose, and repetition, along with elements symbolic of African-influenced spiritual traditions. Changó, el gran putas presents historical and mythical episodes from American and African history that have played an important role in the development of Afro-American identity within the Diaspora. In the complexity of its structural presentation, Changó, el gran putas stands alone among Zapata Olivella’s works. Despite the fact that the novel is so technically different from the “traditional” Latin American novel, CaptainHidalgo concludes that the work’s content continues to be studied more by critics than its structure because of its Afrocentric themes (1993, 79). In the present study of Changó, el gran putas, critical attention is given to the literary structure of the novel as well as to its themes.

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Zapata Olivella suspended his literary production during the two decades of inactivity before the publication of Changó, el gran putas in 1983. He explains to Kenrick Mose that this extended period of gestation was necessary to produce a novel free of the shortcomings he found in his previous novels: “La dialéctica de las contradicciones, aciertos, ignorancias y defectos que hallé en mis libros publicados y en borradores, me obligó a silenciarme durante más de veinte años” [The dialect of the contradictions, success, ignorance, and defects that I found in my published books and drafts obliged me to remain quiet for more than twenty years] (quoted in Mose 1988, 45). The author traveled and researched African and African American history and culture to gain a better understanding of the role that African-influenced spiritual practices and leaders have played in the Diaspora, and to identify shared cultural elements. During a lengthy stay in the United States, he spent countless hours in the library of Howard University reading works about the lives of great leaders such as W. E. B. Du Bois, Frederick Douglass, and Booker T. Washington. This investigative period enabled Zapata Olivella to understand the shared values, events, and connections between the North American Blacks and their peers in Latin America. The thinking of W. E. B. Du Bois was particularly attractive to Zapata Olivella. As we will see later in this chapter, he even integrated portions of Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk (1903) into his novel. One significant detail that he discovered during this research period was the important role that African ancestral memory, existing in the subconscious of the North American Black psyche, plays as a theoretical phenomenon that has allowed blacks collectively to remember their pasts (Zapata Olivella 1991, 52). As a result of this collective memory, the Black community has established a foundation of strength from which it can view the future. In a 1993 interview, the author states that Changó is not directed toward any particular audience or mission. However, in an interview two years later, he qualifies his mission as one of giving voice to the muted populations: (Ahora estoy preocupado más por problemas específicos de la literatura, etc.) yo tengo otro concepto, otra visión del papel del escritor en América Latina y, particularmente, mi papel – decir las cosas sentidas por muchos iletrados o semi-letrados que, por no tener habilidad narrativa, no pueden decir lo que están sufriendo.6 [(Now I am worried most about specific problems of literature etc.) I have another concept, another vision of the role of the writer in Latin America and particularly my role—that is to say things felt by many illiterate or semiliterate people who, for not having narrative ability, cannot describe what they are suffering.] (Captain-Hidalgo 1985, 29)

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As Zapata Olivella matured as a writer, he discovered that his works had the potential to fulfill a social obligation. Despite the author’s explicitly stated goals, his labor has resulted in an uplifting novel that supports the philosophical values and principles of great Afrocentric thinkers such as Janheinz Jahn and Frantz Fanon. Smart and Captain-Hidalgo note direct connections between the theories outlined by Frantz Fanon and the structural characteristics of Changó, el gran putas. Smart draws a connection between Changó and the precepts identified by Fanon in his classic work The Wretched of this Earth. The critic concludes that the novel is “an essential part of the struggle for liberation, an example of ‘liberation literature’” (Smart 1991, 28). Works by Fanon and Zapata Olivella share the same theoretical framework because both scholars see that the root of the problem of identity, for individuals of African ancestry, is their inability to free themselves from the psychological, economic, and political influence of European values. Without doubt Changó, el gran putas establishes an optimistic literary portrayal that offers two major elements: it provides ethnic pride to readers identifying with the struggle of the oppressed in the Americas, and it offers valuable historical and cultural information reflecting the struggle of AfroCaribbean communities. Most of Zapata Olivella’s novels revolve around socialeconomic themes that reflect dispossessed communities: Tierra Mojada [Wet Earth] (1947), La calle 10 [Tenth Street] (1960), Detrás de rostro [Behind the Mask] (1963), Chambacú, corral de negros [Chambacú, Black Corral] (1967), En Chimá nace un santo [A Saint Is Born in Chimá] (1964), and Fusilamiento del Diablo [The Devil’s Execution] (1986). These novels project a world that is centered upon oppressed Afro-Caribbean populations and incorporate historical incidents.7 In his first novel, Chambacú corral de negros, he exposes the lives of a poverty-stricken family living in Chambacú, a region from which residents were evicted by the Colombian government in order to promote tourism in 1971. The Historical Context Colombia originally formed part of the Colonial Spanish territory known as Nueva Granada, which includes the modern nations of Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, and Panama. Within this region, Cartagena was the major slave port to which Africans were shipped before they were exported to other areas. This system officially ended only when slavery was abolished in Colombia in 1851 (Friedemann 1995, 91). Egberto Bermúdez, professor of musicology and ethnomusicology, declares that the Black presence is first documented within the region in the early sixteenth century (1994, 227). African slaves

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were instrumental in working in the areas of mining, agricultural production, livestock husbandry, commerce, domestic labor, and pearl and craft production. In Colombia, as in other parts of the colonial world, even the clergy owned slaves (Friedemann 1995,70, 53). This less-acknowledged fact serves as an example of the long-standing partnership between the Catholic Church and the institution of slavery. As in other countries in the Caribbean with a significant Black population, Colombia’s officials, the Spanish Crown and the Catholic Church, worked together to establish rules and policies to limit African cultural expressions. One way in which this was accomplished was by mixing together different African ethnic and cultural groups to reduce the danger of slave-led revolts. Despite such attempts, African subgroups still coalesced into effective communities. Some escaped or freed Africans and Indians fled to mountains and swamps and developed their own communities, known as palenques. These communities of refuge became a mighty force against the colonial military structure. One famous group of palenque fighters was known as los palenqueros de La Matuna and was headed by Benkos Bioho. In 1603, under Bioho’s leadership, these rebels waged a war against the Spanish military, which was known by some as the Guerra de los cimarrones (Friedemann 1995, 79). This group of warriors became so powerful that the government ceded them their independence and allowed them to have their own territory. The role of palenques was very important, especially in rural areas, for the development of a spirit of resistance among Colombia’s oppressed Black population. In major cities, transcultural groups developed and they allowed slaves to share their African languages and cultural practices. The first documented example of these distinct cultural communities in Colombia can be traced back to the appearance of Cabildos. Cabildos began as rustic hospitals for sick Indians and bozales or newly arrived slaves from Africa (Friedemann 1995, 95). Within these loosely organized centers, slaves united and began to develop collective cultural identities: “Tanto los cabildos-enfermería como los cabildos-nación fueron centros de evocación y afirmación de valores, expresiones lingüísticas o gestuales, imágenes, música o culinaria” [Both the hospital-cabildos and the nation-cabildos were centers of evocation and affirmation of values, linguistic or gestural expressions, images, music, or cuisine] (Friedemann 1995, 96). As time went on and formal hospitals were established to serve the subaltern communities, the Cabildos began to play more of a cultural role within the community. These sites allowed the African-descended population a centralized place to develop and express their cultures and traditions as well as to develop a lingua franca, enabling them to communicate with one another, especially during spiritual activities. The Cabildos were thus fundamental in allowing the Afro-Colombian population to maintain its cultural identity by integrating spiritual traditions

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from their homelands with their adopted American cultures. Each nación or community conducted traditional rituals in secret, while developing its own signature emblems and drumbeats. Through the renewal of traditional dances and customs, these community or cultural centers played a major role during festivals such as Carnaval. Organizations such as Cabildos aspired to establish socially and economically a legitimate forum to edify the Black community’s concept of identity. In early Colombian literature, one of the first literary images of a Black individual appears in Juan Rodríguez Freyle’s El Carnero (1638). This lighthearted Colombian chronicle presents Juana García, an Afro-Colombian freed slave who uses her supernatural powers to supply a young woman with proof of her husband’s infidelity. As a result of her magical powers, the bruja (witch) is punished at the end of the work by being confined to a raised platform in front of a Church with a halter around her neck and a candle in her hand. Even though eighteenth-century narrative sometimes included Blacks, theses images served as targets of hostility, distancing, amusement, and disenfranchisement (Beane 1984, 182). Black literary characters have traditionally been looked down upon, and novels that have presented this population have done so on a simplistic level, thus failing to portray authentically and realistically the complexity of the Afro-Colombian population. In describing the novels that make up the Latin American literary canon, Captain-Hidalgo concludes, “Allusions to Indian and African grandmothers aside, the undisputed truth is that the main characters are white and the emphasis remains on a cultural background mostly rooted in European experiences” (1993, 98). As a result, early Colombian novels favor the white aesthetic—a preference for characteristics associated with European values and concepts of beauty. The Colombian novel María (1867), by Jorge Isaacs (1837–1895), offers a good example of this white aesthetic. The novel simplistically portrays two Black characters, Nay and Sinar, but ignores their social reality. Researcher Carol Beane noted that although the characters are supposedly of African heritage, they fail to possess the basic physical characteristics associated with this racial group. While Nay’s father, Magmahú, is supposedly from the land of Bambuk in Africa, his daughter fails to possess phenotypic characteristics most commonly associated with this population: “Although Nay is Ashanti, she lacks kinky hair, a flat nose and thick lips” (1984, 186). The novel is a product of its time, which may explain Beane’s observation: “In neutralizing black skin color and other traits, Isaacs tacitly acknowledges them as undesirable, thereby confirming the attitude held by the larger society” (186). Isaacs may have presented the Black characters in an acceptable manner that corresponded with the somatic norm image8 of his audience. But the work, directly or indirectly, propagated negative cultural values associated with Black Colombian identity.

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More recent examples can be found in Gabriel García Marquez’s Cien años de soledad (1967) and Del amor y otros demonios (1994). In the first work, the author presents a mulatto character, Aureleano Triste, who represents the Black presence in the nation. Captain-Hidalgo finds value in this character because he serves as a symbol of individuals that have played a significant roles in developing Latin America: “Aureleano Triste, the mulatto offspring of Colonel Buendía . . . was instrumental in ushering in the new industrial era” (1993, 100). According to her argument, this portrayal of a mulatto character may be seen as a move toward reflecting the hybrid individual as an optimistic step toward the future. Del amor y otros demonios portrays a community in colonial Colombia as he recounts the tale of a girl bitten by a rabid dog. This work is more thorough in its treatment of the Afro-Caribbean population, since the community is one filled with Blacks, and their worldview is contrasted against the logocentric world of the white family. However, while Black characters do appear in the novel, this work still does not offer an indepth examination. While the role of Blacks in the works of García Márquez can be questioned, there is no doubt that the presentation of the Black community in the works of Manuel Zapata Olivella is multifaceted. The Ashé-Colombian Novel of Resistance Changó, el gran putas stands alone among Zapata Olivella’s novels because of its holistic attempt to represent African American identity. His novel focuses on the theme of unity, an important element within the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. By closely studying this novel and examining its major historical and cultural components, the reader can better appreciate the struggle of the oppressed population in the Americas (Muntu) and understand how this work fits into a much wider context than that of a Colombian novel.9 Literary critic Thomas Kooreman notes that Zapata Olivella masters in Changó the perspective that he alluded to in his earlier writings: “El crecido interés por la presencia africana que se señala en Chambacú, corral de negros se pone de relieve mucho más en Changó, el gran putas” [The increased interest in the African presence that is highlighted in Chambacú, corral de negros is much more pronounced in Changó, el gran putas] (1987, 29).10 As the author developed, his commitment to the struggle of oppressed individuals in the Americas broadened. Ian Smart considers Changó to be a true example of liberation literature, the term coined by Frantz Fanon in The Wretched of this Earth, because of the work’s overt rejection of European hegemonic patterns (Smart 1996, 115, 143). Fanon’s study defines this form of literature as “a fighting literature, a revolutionary literature, and a national literature” (1963, 223). Fanon’s

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research assisted in establishing a definition of Black psychology outside of Europe and within decolonialized nations. The complex narrative structure of Changó reaches a profound artistic level to offer a plurivalent AfroColombian perspective. Changó, el gran putas begins with early African history and mythology, sometime before the middle of the fifteenth century, and concludes in the United States in 1965 with the assassination of Malcolm X.11 Throughout the novel, the collective Muntu leaders struggle to liberate the oppressed, guided by their connection with the Orishas, particularly with the deity Changó, who is said to have cursed Africans who rejected him. His punishment was to sentence these Africans to enslavement in a foreign land, under the rule of an unknown race; he promised redemption only when they would summon him for guidance to gain their liberation. Haakayoo Zooygie uses lines from the text to describe the hostile world of the Muntu: “The alien land is identified as ‘América / la tierra del martirio’ and home of ‘las Blancas Lobas,’ who are depicted as ‘mercaderes de los hombres’ and ‘violadoras de mujeres’” (1999, 222). Everything is believed to be mutable, but only if the enslaved dare to rebel against those who enslave them and to have faith in the spiritual guidance that they are offered.12 Like Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, this novel shifts through several geographical settings and time periods. It includes Brazil, Colombia, Haiti, Mexico, Spain, and Venezuela before moving to the United States, thus allowing the reader to witness the struggle for freedom among the Muntu. The title of the novel itself challenges the reader by putting front and center the African deity of war, Changó. Zapata Olivella explains that the word putas in American Spanish is a popular expression that best expresses the image of the deity as a rebel. He adds that his choice to use putas also was a way to legitimize an expression that transgresses the norms of Western traditional polite speech (Captain-Hidalgo 1985, 30). Zapata Olivella’s Afrocentric perspective educates the reader unfamiliar with Afro-Caribbean cultural themes and values, while challenging experienced literary scholars. The choice to counter and undermine the traditional European worldview is very important in the novel. Captain-Hidalgo best explains this ontological shift: “By choosing as a focus an Afrocentric, rather than the Eurocentric world that we are accustomed to reading in SpanishAmerican fiction, Zapata aids in expanding the parameters of our definitions of literature and myth” (1993, 40). This novel’s Afrocentric core obliges the reader to become conscious of many erroneous assumptions about AfroCaribbean culture and spirituality. In the 2010 edition of the novel, there is a section that helps to better prepare the reader that may be unfamiliar with African and Afro-Caribbean history and culture.

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At the beginning of the latter versions of the novel, there is a section that invites the reader to enter into this world governed by African mythology: Al compañero de viaje: Sube a bordo de esta novela como uno de los tantos millones de africanos prisioneros en las naos negreras; y siéntete libre aunque te aten las cadenas. ¡Desnúdate! (2010a, 35) To the Fellow Traveler Climb aboard this novel like so many million African prisoners on the slave ships; and feel free despite your chains. Take off your clothes! (Zapata Olivella 2010b, xxxvi)

Zapata Olivella tells his story in a fresh and holistic manner, weaving together many characteristics that are traditionally considered to be in opposition. This Afro-Caribbean worldview is also reflected in the expansive structure of the work itself, which is nonlinear and portrays many settings, characters, and time periods. Throughout the work poems, folk sayings, children’s songs, spirituals, religious songs, and popular African American secular musical works are documented, artistic expressions commonly considered to be lesser forms of discourse. The author uses all these forms of expression to support the foundation of Afro-Caribbean folk culture and ontology. Zapata Olivella’s work allows the reader to witness many authentic levels of the Afro-Caribbean community. The diverse plots are continuous, simultaneous, and interconnected with other events, and therefore defined beginnings and endings are difficult to isolate. This work has so many different plots that Captain-Hidalgo describes it as a plotless novel (1993, 77). I would argue that it is more accurate to see this work as a novel of several plots that weave into one another so intricately that it is difficult to discern when one plot ends and another one begins. This element echoes the reality of Blacks in the African Dispora and is a common structural pattern in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance. One of the cohesive concepts that Richard Jackson notes in the novel is the presence of the “soul-force” (1988, 109).13 This indomitable spirit and unbreakable will nourishes the Muntu at various times and places and helps them to work toward earning their freedom. Most of the novel is narrated by the descendants of Africa who relate their tales to fellow ekobios,14 the followers of African-inspired religions. The parts of the novel that are narrated by members of the lobas blancas are limited to the narrative entries represented in the bitácora, the captain’s journal of the slave ship, La Nova India. Changó is divided into five parts, each detailing different settings and events of this African American saga.15 The novel begins with an invocation

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to the deities and retraces the legendary past of the African in the Americas in a section entitled Los orígenes. Zola Ni Vunda indicates that this epic poem contains 1,074 lines in free verse (1990, 18). Jaime Montoya Candamil explains the form and structure of this early part of the novel gives “una visión totalizadora de Africa sin tener que narrar la historia de ésta, pues ello le hubiera costado escribir veinte mil páginas más” [a full vision of Africa without having to tell its history, as it would have required him to write twenty thousand more pages] (Vunda 1990, 18). The opening honors African oral tradition by suggesting an opening song or chant, which invokes the divine presence of deities and ancestors. Changó, el gran puta’s unique lyrical representation of African-influenced history and culture allows the reader to become grounded within a non-Western world, and to look at existence from a pan-African perspective. Marvin Lewis describes “Los orígenes” as “the intrahistoria of the traffic in human flesh—the internal dynamics of the characters, relationships, betrayals, and cruelties” (1987, 114). During this poetic introduction, the griot Ngafúa asks for help from the Ancestors to inspire him with the knowledge to tell this important tale.16 Ngafúa will play a major role throughout the novel as mediator between humans and the Orishas. He also asks deities and the Ancestors to inspire the enslaved Blacks with the fighting spirit that will help them to survive their martyrdom. This section of the text also foreshadows events that the Muntu will encounter in future centuries. The second section, “El Muntu américano” [The American Muntu], portrays physical and social confrontations between Africans and their descendants, and those that attempt to oppress them. This section exhibits the slavers’ brutality toward Blacks during the Middle Passage and the ekobios’ attempts to free themselves from this oppression via revolt, escape, or suicide. This section also foretells the birth of Benkos Biojo, who will become an important figure in the Muntu’s struggle to maintain their cultural identity.17 The third section, “La rebelión de los vodús” [The Vodou Rebellion], recounts the Haitian institution of slavery and the slave revolts led by historical personages such as Bouckman, Henri Christophe, Jean Jacques Dessalines, and Toussaint L’Ouverture. These leaders fought against colonial forces and instilled in Blacks the psychological fortitude to rebel, based on a spiritual foundation. This section reiterates the slavers’ brutality and reflects the daily struggles of Blacks under Spanish colonial rule. The protagonists that appear most frequently in this section are Bouckman and Ngafúa. The fourth section, “Las sangres encontradas” [Rediscovered Bloodlines], reveals the slavery system in the Caribbean, South America, and Mexico. This section also presents free slave communities such as the maroon culture in Brazil, headed by the Black leader Zumbi. The narrative is built upon the

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Colombian and Venezuelan historic struggles for independence under the leadership of Simón Bolívar, and the Mexican struggle for independence under José María Morelos. The fifth and longest section, “Los ancestros combatientes” [Ancestral Combatants], presents more recent events in African American history in the United States. This section depicts numerous examples of acts of racism against North American Blacks. It reveals the collective Black spirit or soul-force that helps Black leaders to obtain freedom for their peers in the United States. A debate exists between Captain-Hidalgo and E. A. Mose regarding why the author dedicates so much space in the novel to the United States. Captain-Hidalgo’s theory is that Zapata Olivella believes that only in the twentieth century in the United States Blacks achieved prominence as cultural leaders in the Diaspora (Captain-Hidalgo 1993, 156). Mose, on the other hand, believes that this chapter is the longest because “Estados Unidos es la parte de América donde existe el problema racial [más] serio en nuestro siglo” [the United States is the part of America where the racial problem is [most] serious in our century] (Mose 1988, 46). Mose concludes that the experiences of Blacks in North America are more important to the general African American population than are experiences in other areas. I believe that the author dedicates so much of the novel to this section because it offers the most recent and well-known examples of acts of racism in a nation considered by some to be the most developed society in the world. The inclusion of history is an important tool of resistance in Changó. The historical accounts in the work serve as a strong scaffold upon which this epic novel is constructed. One similarity between Alejo Carpentier and Zapata Olivella is the inclusion of great names from Haiti’s history, such as Bouckman, King Christophe, Dessalines, and Mackandal. Both Zapata Olivella and Carpentier conducted extensive historical research, which helped them to present a more accurate historical framework in their novels. When asked in an interview about possible parallels between his work Changó and Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo, Zapata Olivella emphasized differences in their ways of representing the Haitian King Christophe. He notes that while Carpentier presented the Black king as a self-indulgent, weak character who distanced himself from African traditions, in Changó, el gran putas, this ruler is portrayed as more connected with the Black community that surrounds him, and he remains more faithful to African traditions and cultures (Edison 2000). In spite of these distinct approaches, there are more similarities than differences between the two novels in terms of their focus on the concept of unity, their contextual structure, and the thematic message of resistance. Zapata Olivella believed that the presentation of history serves as an instrument to help the living: “Yo creo plantear en mi novela nuevo aspecto del realismo literario: la revalorización mítica de la historia para que sirva de

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instrumento de lucha para los vivos a partir de la experiencia de los muertos” [I believe in planting a new form of literary realism in my novels: the mythic revaluation of history to serve as an instrument of struggle for the living from the experience of the dead] (Captain-Hidalgo 1985, 30). The author’s revolutionary presentation of reality based on actual history and ontology distances this work from Western-influenced novels. In the early chapters of the first section, the importance of history is reflected in the poetic introduction, in which Ngafúa sings praises to the powerful deities of the pantheon. One deity that he praises and invokes is Elegba,18 the deity that opens the doors between the spiritual world and the living one. As Ngafúa welcomes Elegba, he reflects the important role of history in the past, present, and future of the community of African heritage in the Americas: ¡Elegba! Soy tu eco tu palabra creadora la historia no vivida del Muntu deja que termine deja que comience ahora. Escucha mi relato historia del ayer caminos del regreso no andados todavía historias olvidadas del futuro futuras historias del pasado es el eco no nacido del mañana sin comienzo historia del Muntu esclavizado por sí mismo para liberarse en la descendencia de sus hijos. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 30) [Elegba! I am your echo, Your creative word, The unlived history of the Muntu, Let me finish, Let me start now. Listen to my tale, Story of yesterday, Roads of return Not yet traveled,

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Forgotten histories of the future, Future stories of the past. It is the unborn echo Of the tomorrow with no beginning, The story of the Muntu enslaved By themselves To free themselves in the lineage of their children.] (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 28)

Reference to history in the passage demonstrates that the past is important for the Muntu in the present and also plays a major role in the group’s future. By recalling important mytho-historical characters, the novel effectively reestablishes the identity of a group that has been scorned for centuries. The second section, entitled “El Muntu americano,” chronicles the birth of the historical militant leader Benkos Biojo, an enslaved man who will later become a cimarrón and fight against the enslavement of his spiritual sisters and brothers. Before Benkos Biojo’s birth takes place in the novel, the African Ancestors announce it to the community: —¡Oíd, oídos del mundo. Oíd! Aquí nace el vengador, ya está con nosotros el brazo de fuego . . . Oigan ustedes que traen a esta vida los hijos del Muntu. Escuchen: el protegido de Elegba trae sangre de príncipe. Nace entre nosotros, será nuestro Rey. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 97) Listen, ears of the Muntu. Listen! The avenger is hereby born, with us is the arm of fire . . . Listen, those who bring into this life the Muntu’s children! Elegba’s protegé has the blood of a prince. He is born among us, he will be our king. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 86)

Benkos is guided by the spirit of the earlier martyr, Nagó, who reincarnates himself within the body of the youth. Because this leader has a difficult task ahead, he is assigned the protection of many African deities such as Ngafúa, Kanuri “Mai”, and Olugbala. His birth and life are represented as parallel with that of an important figure within Judeo-Christian religions: Dicen que nació sin padre como el Jesús de los Blancos, mientras que yo no creo. Por padre tuvo a Nagó su abuelo navegante. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 136)

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They say he was fatherless born Like the white man’s Jesus. Lies I don’t believe. For a father he had Nagó, His mariner grandfather. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 83)

This passage establishes a direct parallel between the Afro-Caribbean savior and the Biblical Jesus, considered by most varieties of the Judeo-Christian religions to be the only force to save humanity. This passage counters the idea that Christianity is the only valid expression of spirituality. In addition to recognizing the role of African-descended rebel figures as leaders of resistance, Zapata Olivella highlights the accomplishments of Afro-Brazilian leader Aleijadinho in the fourth section. Despite his horrendous physical impairment caused by leprosy, the eighteenth-century Afro-Brazilian artist was able to produce sculptures that will forever demonstrate the power of determination and the triumph of the human spirit. The renowned sculptor is described in the novel as protected, since birth, by the African deity Kanuri “Mai”: ¡Eía Aleijadinho, hermano del dolor, hermano soy tuyo! Igual que tú vestí la capa del leproso. Déjame ser el fuego de tu cincel. Aunque nunca me reconocerás soy tu propia imagen, tu Ancestro protector desde que fuiste sembrado en el vientre de tu madre dos mil años atrás. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 286) Eía, Aleijadinho, brother of sorrow, I am your brother! Just like you, I wore the leper’s cape. Let me be the fire of your chisel. Even though you will never recognize me, I am your own image, have been your Ancestor protector since you were sown in your mother’s womb two thousand years ago. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 252)

He is a leader in the struggle toward freedom, overcoming his own physical challenges in order to fight for his Afro-Brazilian brothers and sisters through his art. Ian Smart argues that Changó “is a true American novel, since it tells the ‘historia toda de América’ [complete history of America] in a more complete manner than is possible within the narrow Eurocentric literary tradition” (1984b, 32). Other historical figures in the novel that are presented to acknowledge their accomplishments include Simón Bolívar, Bouckman, George Washington Carver, King Henry Christophe, Father Pedro Claver, W. E. B. Du Bois, Marcus Garvey, Sutton Griggs, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Edwin P. McCabe, Paul Robinson, Louis Armstrong (Satchmo), Bessie

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Smith, Henry M. Turner, Laila Walker, Booker T. Washington, Granville Woods, and Malcolm X.19 The novel also recalls significant events and organizations in African American history, such as the Underground Railroad, the Harlem Renaissance, the Vietnam War, the Niagara Movement, Buffalo Soldiers, and the accomplishments of Mexican Afro-Mestizos in the development of the Western United States. As one reads the novel, these names and events from American history appear so frequently that this work is as much a historical compendium as a fictional novel. Changó ends with a message that reflects the importance of the connection between Ancestors of the past and the living in the present, a point made by Legba to a group of followers: “¡Ya es hora que comprendáis que el tiempo para los vivos no es inagotable” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 511). “The hour has arrived for you to understand that, for the living, time is not inexhaustible” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 446). This underscores the important role that history plays for the living, in guiding them to learn from actions of those that have preceded them. AFRO-COLOMBIAN CULTURAL RESISTANCE Changó, el gran putas displays many levels of resistance against hegemonic colonial structures. These forms of resistance express spiritual and cultural strength, combative resistance, and death. This resistance demonstrates the power of the oppressed to successfully counter their plight, which leads Richard Jackson to reach the following conclusion: “Zapata Olivella’s huge novel counters the impression that Black slaves did little to win their freedom” (1991, 5). In addition, various forms of cultural resistance are expressed by the characters and their individual and others collective actions. One example of individual spiritual resistance against the influence of Western religion is evident as the North American leader Agne Brown casts away the Christian sect to which she belonged in order to follow a new religion known as El Culto de la Vida [The Cult of Life], following the guidance of Changó. She explains her decision to her former professor of anthropology, Dr. Harrington: No puedo negarle que tengo razones para preferir la tradición africana a la anglosajona, primordialmente, porque soy una Negra americana. Nos afirmamos en la hermandad del Muntu preconizada por los Orichas africanos y en las luchas de nuestros Ancestros en las plantaciones, en los slums, en las fábricas, donde quiera que Changó enciende su rebeldía. Será una nueva religión para todos los oprimidos cualesquiera que sean sus sangres. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 349)

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I don’t deny that I have reasons for preferring the African tradition over the Anglo-Saxon, primarily because I am an American black woman. We affirm ourselves in the fraternity of the Muntu praised by the African Orichas and in the struggles of our Ancestors on the plantations, in the slums, in the factories, wherever Changó kindles his rebelliousness. It will be a new religion for all the oppressed, whatever their lineage. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 307)

She is aware that her newly adopted African-based belief system has more to offer to her and those of her culture than any faith that has historically discounted groups based on ethnic identity. As Agne becomes the spiritual leader of the North American Muntu, she begins to spread the message of resistance against the lobas blancas and their attempts to force the population of color to adopt their cultural attitudes and abandon their own: “Me dirijo a vosotros, ekobios que me escucháis. No a los Blancos sordos. No vengo a predicar paciencia ni resignación ni vanas esperanzas: les anuncio el culto de la Vida y las Sombras que inspiran la rebeldía que hay en nosotros los Negros” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 346). “I address you, ekobios who hear me. Not the deaf whites. I do not come to preach patience or resignation or vain hopes: I announce to you the cult of Life and Shadows that inspires the rebelliousness that dwells within us blacks” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 305). She knows that the lobas blancas’ intention is to destroy them culturally through the imposition of Christianity, a faith that is insensitive to their culture, their concept of self, and their worldview. Membership in her spiritual circle offers freedom to all people, but members must be willing to give their lives to it, if necessary: “Pero oídlo bien, vida y rebelión no existen sin la presencia de los muertos. Somos la fuerza de todo lo que fue y la fuente poderosa de todo lo que será” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 346). “But—hear me well—life and rebellion do not exist without the presence of the dead. We are the force of all that happened and the powerful source of all that will be” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 305). The commitment to giving one’s life in the pursuit of human freedom is based on the theory that followers should die fighting for resistance rather than live under oppression. Interestingly, the iconic figure of Martin Luther King receives only cursory treatment in the novel. Zoggyie believes that the reason that the novel placed so little emphasis on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and his famous speech is that he did not appear to support the other examples of radical social rebellion presented in the text: “The more radical an individual was, the more that is said in the novel about him/her. This explains why King’s contributions to the Civil Rights struggle, including his ‘I Have A Dream’ speech, are given such low prominence. The latter for instance is left out altogether” (1999, 235). The characters that are mentioned most often are

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leaders who fought militantly for freedom, and who had little or no support from the white population. Changó, like the other novels in this book, demonstrates that for Africans, suicide was a kind of martyrdom, a powerful form of individual resistance. Shortly before the slave ship’s initial departure in the second chapter of part one, the narrator makes reference to slaves that committed suicide by swallowing their own tongues. Beside the bodies of the lifeless Africans lies the body of a child that has been killed by his mother: Cuatro cadáveres a bordo esperaban al Kilumbu Blanco. Una ekobia con la boca abierta aspira el aire que le faltó en la hora de la muerte. Observó atento y comprueba el suicidio: se había tragado la lengua. A su lado el hijo muestra la congestión del rostro y las huellas de los dedos con los que le sofocó el grito. Para una madre Serere es indigno parir esclavos y sobrevivirles. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 52) Four cadavers waited on board for the White Kilumbu. An ekobio woman with her mouth open breathes the air she lacked at the hour of her death. He studied her intently and confirmed the suicide: she had swallowed her tongue. At her side, his face congested, the child shows the fingerprints with which the scream suffocated him. It is an indignity for a Serere mother to give birth to slaves and to outlive them. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 48)

As in Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, in Changó, some enslaved Africans take their own lives as well as kill their children to liberate them from a life of misery. This pattern of mothers killing their children is consistently presented in the African-centered novel to demonstrate how the institution of slavery was so destructive that the ultimate act of love for a mother is to free her child through death. In chapter one of section four, the narrator reveals that Agne Brown’s grandmother, Margaret, killed four of her children so that they would not know the bitterness of slavery. As Margaret explains the situation, she says: “No tiemblo, Agne Brown. La muerte es también un camino hacia la libertad” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 437). “I do not tremble, Agne Brown. Death can also be a path to freedom” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 383). This is followed by a graphic description of the how the mother is driven to kill the children that she dearly loves rather than to see them become slaves: “¡Primero muertos antes de que retornen a vuestra esclavitud!” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 437).20 “Better dead than returned to your slavery” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 384). As the grandmother speaks to her progeny, she assures the girl that they are united beyond death: “Tu abuela Margaret Brown, permanecerá viva en ti, en la memoria de todas las ekobias que por libertar a sus hijos están dispuestas

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a sacrificarlos” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 437). “Your grandmother, Margaret Brown, will live on in you, in the memory of the ekobio women who, in order to free their children, are willing to sacrifice their lives” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 384). Death is a powerful form of liberation because it allows the dead to return to the bosom of their Ancestors.21 Physical resistance is also integrated into the novel. In the second chapter of section five, the spirit of Nat Turner explains to Agne Brown that the struggles he encountered while leading armed revolts on slave plantations are parallel to the war that she continues to wage: Comienzo por aclararte que mi rebelión no fue una rebelión. Estábamos y estamos en guerra muerte contra el régimen esclavista que no conocía piedad ni ofrece cuartel al oprimido . . . . Agne Brown, mi combate, la llamada rebelión de Nat Turner, sólo era eso: una batalla más en la gran guerra contra la esclavitud. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 392) I begin by emphasizing that my rebellion was not a rebellion. We were and are in a war to the death against the pro-slavery regime that knew no pity nor offered clemency to the oppressed . . . . That’s the way things are, Agne Brown. My battle, Nat Turner’s so-called rebellion, was only that: one more skirmish in the long war against slavery. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 345)

Brown is one of the many figures in the novel that gave her life for the freedom of her oppressed brothers and sisters. Turner’s statement demonstrates that his struggle has been only one more part of the collective struggle of the Muntu across time. SYNCRETISM WITH CHRISTIANITY Changó is somewhat distinct from the other novels that we have examined in terms of its presentation of syncretism. While the novel often presents African-influenced and European spiritual traditions side-by-side, there is less simultaneous integration of the two in rituals than we have seen in El reino de este mundo and La paz del pueblo. In Changó, when the religious traditions are presented together, the failings of Catholicism become apparent. One of the most dramatic examples of direct confrontation between Catholicism and African-inspired spirituality takes place in the beginning of section two, as Padre Claver attempts to guide the slaves down what he considers to be the path of righteousness.22 As the slaves meet to conduct a religious ceremony to honor the arrival of Benkos Biojo, the child who will become the King of the Muntu, the priest chastises those slaves that he has

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personally baptized, for what he considers to be their transgressions against God: “¡Malditos herejes! ¿Sóis vosotros los mismos a quienes yo he bautizado?” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 100) “Damned heretics! ‘Are you the same ones I baptized?’” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 88). Enraged, he whips them with his cross, and destroys the drum which has been instrumental in bringing them to a euphoric spiritual state: Se arrodilló ante el tambor roto. Reza salmos, avemarías y padrenuestros hasta que la claridad abrió paso a los primeros madrugadores. No sueña, a sus pies están la piel, la caja y los bejucos destrozados. Reunió los pedazos y luego, rociándoles alquitrán, en presencia de esclavos y de algunos amos los santigua y les prende fuego. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 100) He knelt before the broken drum. He prays psalms, Ave Marias, and Our Fathers until daybreak greeted the early risers. He is not dreaming; at his feet are the broken drumhead, sounding chamber, and reeds. He gathered up the pieces and then, rubbing them in pitch, in front of the slaves and a few masters, he blesses them and sets them ablaze. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 89)

The novel demonstrates that the ekobios attempt to abide by the will of the African deities but are opposed by members of the Catholic Church who consider these practices to be forms of witchcraft. In the third part of chapter three, Haitian slaves continue to worship the traditional African deities by mixing Christian elements with their traditional African practices, despite their King’s prohibition: Sabemos que el General Dessalines ha prohibido que invoquemos a los Vodús, aunque no ignora que las entradas y salidas de la fortaleza tenían grabadas con carbón los vevés de Ogún Ferraille y del General Balindjo. En la capilla donde él invocaba los favores del Buen Dios Bueno de los católicos, nosotros oramos frente a Santa Bárbara, imagen de Changó. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 218) We know General Dessalines has forbidden us to invoke the Vodous, even though he is aware the entrances and exits of the fort were bedecked with charcoal etchings of the effigies of Ogún Ferraille and General Balindjo. In the chapel where he invoked the favors of the Catholics’ merciful good God, we pray before Santa Barbara, the image of Changó. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 192)

While this passage appears to reflect a smooth blending of two faiths, it actually demonstrates that Christianity is a superficial ruse to allow the slaves to practice their African religious traditions. As a result of masking their practices within Christianity, they are safely able to continue practicing their Afro-Caribbean faith tradition.

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The racist shortcomings of the Church are revealed most clearly to the reader as the Babaloa Ngafúa drafts a letter to the Pope in Rome highlighting the racism inherent in the Church’s philosophy and practice: Si decís que el hijo del blanco es blanco, el hijo del negro es negro y el hijo del indio es indio, ¿por qué no aceptáis que a semejanza de sus padres los negros adoren a sus Orichas negros, respetando esta condición que les viene de naturaleza, como se espera que los blancos e indios, veneren al dios que adoraron sus mayores? (Zapata Olivella 1983, 149) If you say the son of the white is white, the son of the black is black, and the son of the Indian is Indian, why do you not accept the fact that, similar to their fathers, the blacks adore their black Orichas and respect this condition that is natural to them, as it is expected that the whites and Indians will likewise venerate the god that their elders adored? (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 132)

This note reveals another level of the Catholic Church’s inconsistent philosophy toward individuals of African heritage. Within the novel, the Catholic faith is patronizing and weak in comparison to the African-inspired faith practices, which empower the Black community. Combative Vision toward Existence The oppression that the Muntu faces comes in many forms, the primary ones being sexual and political. In the third section of chapter three, Leclerc notes that the lobas blancas who apply cultural, social, and physical pressure on the Muntu come from European nations: “La Loba Blanca tiene muchos rostros: alemanes, ingleses, polacos, franceses, holandeses, españoles, norteamericanos” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 205). “The White Wolf has many faces: German, English, Polish, French, Dutch, Spanish, North American” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 182). Without the support of the African Ancestors to offer guidance, the Muntu would not be able to overcome all of these forces: “Sin la experiencia y apoyo de los Ancestros, brújula de los vivos, nuestras acciones frente al acoso de tantos enemigos hubiera perdido el rumbo de la libertad” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 205). “Without the experience and support of the Ancestors— the compass of the living—our actions in the face of the onslaught of so many enemies would have strayed from the path of freedom” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 182). Despite the fact that lobas blancas come in many nationalities scattered throughout the American continent, they are unified in their role as oppressive agents against the Muntu. In the last pages of chapter one, the slaves on board the ship unite to revolt against their oppressors. During this rebellion, Nagó is spiritually guided to

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the Captain’s chamber to kill him for sexually violating female slaves during the trip: El Ijaw me guía hasta la cabina del Capitán. Su sombra penetró al interior y me abre la puerta. Alcancé a ver que la Loba escribe su último apunte sobre el libro de bitácora. La niña Malinké amarrada a la cama, me mira entrar con el hacha y antes de que dirija el golpe sobre el Capitán, verá sus pelos, el trapo, la carne, su cabeza hendidos. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 89) The Ijaw guides me to the captain’s cabin. His shadow slipped inside and opens the door for me. I managed to see the Wolf writing the final entry in his logbook. The Malinké girl tied to the bed watches me enter with the hatchet; before I can deliver the blow to the captain, she will see his hair, fabric, flesh, head split open. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 78)

This attack against the ship’s captain demonstrates the enslaved Black community’s active resistance against those that oppress them. This episode is parallel in many ways to an episode in Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, in which the title character enters her master’s room and kills him for selling her children (Wilson 1991a, 154). Changó offers some examples of Blacks that display oppressive behavior toward their cohorts; but compared to the other novels in this study, this work presents fewer examples of intra-ethnic Black tensions. Because of the novel’s stress on unity among the Muntu, the few examples that do appear are among individuals who have been overly influenced by the values of the white establishment and culture, and who use these values to oppress their cohorts. In the third chapter of section one, Ngafúa shares his experiences from the past that led to his enslavement. He recounts a tale of an African Prince, Nzynga Nbemba, who converted to Christianity and forced those under his rule, especially the oppressed Ngalas clan and the youth in the community, to convert to his newfound faith. Those in the town that failed to convert were sold into slavery: “¡Eía! Aquí estoy, uno más entre los muchos Ngalas encadenados por preservar la religión de nuestros mayores” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 61). “Eía! Here am I, one more among the many Ngalas enchained for preserving the religion of our elders” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 55). This example is consistent with historical accounts of African involvement in the institution of slavery; in citing these examples, Zapata Olivella is consistent in presenting a holistic vision of history by acknowledging the contributing role that Blacks played in the slave trade itself. While these aspects of history are less flattering or heroic to acknowledge, they are important to note in order to offer a complete presentation of the history of African Americans and their descendants.

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Despite the pressures that the Muntu face in the novel, they are able to survive and to advance. The key element in the Black community’s survival is their awareness of their cultural history. As they become more connected with their heritage, they are more able to promote unity within their own racial community. Myth and Superstition From the novel’s opening pages, the reader is plunged into the world of African and Afro-Caribbean mythology. Zapata Olivella’s use of this mythology as a base serves to legitimize and represent authentically the Black population. The novel’s lyrical opening epic has often been described as the Yoruba creation myth and allows the reader to enter into the world of African prehistory. In order to construct a truly holistic narrative, Zapata Olivella has to begin at the very beginning, with the mythical origins of African Americans.23 Captain-Hidalgo notes that this mythological backdrop allows the work to extend its relevance to the entire African Diaspora: “Despite the fact that Shango is black and the historical and mythical figure is undeniably Yoruba, Shango is a novel for the entire non-European world. Indeed, Shango, as Zapata images him, belongs in part to all of the downtrodden of the world” (1993, 138). Knowledge of Afro-Caribbean spiritual culture is necessary for a deeper understanding of the imagery and characters within the novel. Captain-Hidalgo concludes that “Zapata’s very selection of the Yoruba deity Shango as the narrative axis offers some key investigative material for the literary remaking of the world according to the artist” (1993, 136). This observation becomes more relevant as investigators continue to learn about the value of African-influenced religion and symbolism in the Caribbean and to apply this data to literature from other parts of the African Diaspora. African-influenced mythology links this novel with the aforementioned novels in this study. As Captain-Hidalgo points out, Changó is one of the author’s few novels that integrate myths of the Yoruba and the Bantu mythologies. It is this connection that makes this Colombian expression of the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance unique among Colombian novels to date (1993, 37). Marvin Lewis notes a parallel between Changó and El reino de este mundo in the manner that they reflect aspects of Afro-Caribbean mythology: “An interesting analogy can be drawn . . . between the Mackandal episode in The Kingdom of this World by Alejo Carpentier and the more sophisticated presentation by Zapata Olivella” (1987, 118). The mythical backdrop that influences both works includes mytho-historical characters such as Mackandal and Bouckman and is supported by Carpentier’s theory of lo real maravilloso. Vera Kutzinski also notes the connection between this

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novel and those of Duncan and Cubena in their shared invocation of Changó (Kutzinski 1996, 190). All three writers are obviously aware of this deity’s role in Afro-Caribbean culture; Captain-Hidalgo correctly observes that mythology is the basis of Changó, which is paramount in allowing the author to accomplish several goals: Without the presence of the Yoruba god, several narrative techniques would be difficult, if not impossible, to put in play. The novel spans all recorded time known to mankind and even exposes the mythical origins of the universe. There are few geographical areas that are left unexplored, and scores of characters parade about in the work, many of them becoming protagonists. This spatial and temporal vastness is wholly credible precisely because of the mythical foundation of the work. (1993, 37)

The mythological theme posits that only when unification takes place will humanity be free of oppression based on race. Lo real maravilloso By focusing on mythology, Changó serves as a literary vehicle to display the rich spiritual heritage of Africa and the Caribbean. One of the characteristics of the novel that is reinforced by the African mythological foundation is the work’s presentation of lo real maravilloso. The supernatural powers of the novel’s mythological figures reveal the future and the past to characters in the present. These deities also control earthly forces and influence the behavior of the novel’s characters. This concept may be considered by some critics to be a form of magical realism, but this is not the case. The Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance is grounded solidly in the cultural worldview that influences the Afro-Caribbean individual. Without the historical and mythological traditions based on African culture, lo real maravilloso cannot be viewed in the appropriate context. Zapata Olivella uses the term mythical realism to denote what in the other novels in this study I refer to as lo real maravilloso (Captain-Hidalgo, 1984, 69). William Mina uses the term realismo mítico to describe this literary phenomenon.24 The principles that Zapata Olivella adheres to are consistent with the creed of the African worldview formulated recently by Leonard Barrett: “I believe in a supreme being who creates all things, and in lesser deities, spirits and powers who guard and control the universe. I believe in the ancestors, who guard and protect their descendants. I believe in the efficacy of sacrifice and the power of magic, good and evil; and I believe in the fullness of life, here and now” (1974, 17). In the second part of chapter four, José Padilla reveals the many wonders that he has learned from his spiritual father Nagó; among

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them, he has learned of the flaws of humankind and that to rise above these shortcomings, one must have a strong spiritual faith to follow: “El hombre que no cree en los misterios es una linterna apagada” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 246). “The man who does not believe in mysteries is an extinguished torch” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 218). Without such faith, the novel’s characters would not be able to perceive or experience all the unique events that take place around them. The forces of the Orishas are so powerful that the ekobios and lobas blancas alike can be influenced by their divine intervention. Lo real maravilloso is also evident in the reincarnation of the spirits of the dead, who appear to the living or possess them. In section one, aboard the slave ship, the deity Elegba influences the subconscious of the slavers, thus inducing them to carry out his will. Before the first voyage begins, Elegba looks down from above and controls the ship’s crew leader, Coutinho, as he inspects the Nova India: Lentamente sus pasos lo condujeron al castillete de popa donde los negreros tasan el pozo de su ambición. Luz que enceguece, ocupó la silla vacía que el Capitán Muñís ha negado a Rivaldo, su contramaestre, porque desde antes de que el carpintero la imaginara, está destinada al Oricha. Probó el vino y se limpia los ojos para no perder palabra de lo que les había dictado en un futuro que recuerda sin haberlo pensado todavía. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 49) Slowly his steps led him to the little aftcastle where the slave traders appraise the reservoir of their ambition. A blinding light, he occupies the empty chair that Captain Muñís denied Rivaldo, his boatswain; since before the carpenter conceived of it, it was destined for the Oricha. He tasted the wine and wipes his eyes so as not to miss a word of what they had dictated to him in a future he remembers without having thought of yet. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 44–45)

While Coutinho wanders the ship, the Orisha Elegba has already orchestrated all that he will think and do. This episode reflects the magical aspect of the narrative world within the novel that allows the reader to witness the intervention of the African-inspired spirits. Lo real maravilloso is visible as deities make revelations in the present regarding events that will occur in the future. Similar to angels in Western religion, the spirits of the dead come to reveal news to the living to guide them in completing the divine objectives of the Orishas. In chapter one, during the Middle Passage, Ngafúa makes one of his numerous returns from the dead. On this visit, he interprets the future with the help of divine forces and foretells the birth of Biojo Benkos, the first of the Muntu to be born outside the Kingdom of Oyá: “Escuchen: el protegido de Elegba trae sangre de príncipe. Nace entre nosotros, será nuestro Rey” (Zapata Olivella

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1983, 97). “Listen, those who hear me! Listen, those who bring into this life the Muntu’s children! Elegba’s protégé has the blood of a prince. He is born among us, he will be our king” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 86). This child will eventually become king of a palenque in San Basilio. Even before the birth of the child, his life, accomplishments, and eventual martyrdom have been foreseen by the Orishas and revealed to Ngafúa, who, in turn, reveals this information to his cohorts: “Criado en la casa del padre Claver se alzará contra ella. Morirá en manos de sus enemigos pero su magara, soplo de otras vidas, revivirá en los ekobios que se alcen contra el amo” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 97–98). “Raised in the house of Father Claver, he will rise up against it. He will die in his enemies’ hands, but his magara, the breath of other lives, will come back to life in the ekobios who rebel against their masters” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 86). Ngafúa also informs the community that even after Benkos Biojo’s eventual death, he will still be able to influence the Muntu in their struggles against oppression. This revelation demonstrates the deity’s supernatural ability to foresee and affect future events, and to reveal them to the living. Lo real maravilloso is again evident in the beginning of section five, as the novel demonstrates that even organized hate groups cannot destroy the collective spirit of the Muntu. After the Ku Klux Klan lynches Agne’s father, Timothy Brown, he returns to her in the form of a spirit. Agne narrates what takes place as the mob departs from their house: No pude sorprenderme que al marcharse los asesinos, riendo y dándole palmaditas a Harry porque su hermana no sufriría más de dolores en la pierna, mi padre se quite la soga del cuello y sujetándose de ella se deja caer para venir hasta donde me encuentro escondida. “Ven, ya se fueron, no te quedes aquí el resto de la noche porque te puedes resfriar.” Me tomó del brazo, abre mi mano y limpia la tierra que yo había apuñado cuando oí sus risotadas. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 345) I was not surprised that, when the murderers left, laughing and patting Harry on the back because his sister won’t have any more leg pains, my father removes the noose from his neck and, holding onto it, lowers himself and comes over to where I am hiding. “Come on, they’ve gone now. Don’t stay there the rest of the night; you could catch a cold.” He took me by the arm, opens my fist and cleans off the soil I had clutched when I heard their laughter. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 303–304)

Before the ghost departs, he kisses his daughter to comfort her. Just after his spiritual departure, she looks at her father’s body hanging from a noose until the local Reverend arrives to comfort her. From this point on, she begins to

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develop into a strong woman that will play a major role in uniting the North American Muntu. Lo real maravilloso is evident as the spirits manifest themselves in the bodies of the faithful by way of corporal possession. During ceremonies, devout believers become possessed by the presence and spirit of powerful Afro-Caribbean deities. One such example appears in section two of chapter four, in a ceremony during which followers are mounted or spiritually possessed by the Orishas Ochosí, Oshún, and Ogún (Zapata Olivella 1983, 274). Because of the supernatural powers of the deities, they are able to control forces in a way that the logocentric reader would consider to be literary tropes of magical realism. The preceding episodes serve as examples of the marvelous reality in the Caribbean that demonstrates how the presentation of reality deviates from the Western ontology expressed in literature. Death does not destroy or silence the human spirit. Only in communities with a cultural, historical, and ontological predisposition to such events, does this worldview contextually fit into the work. As critics begin to recognize the cultural importance of such imagery, more literature, previously considered cryptic or fantastic, will be comprehensible and accessible to a wider audience. In the same manner that the novel undermines the traditional concept of a separation between the living and the dead, it challenges the idea that reality proceeds in a linear fashion. The narration of Changó, el gran putas encompasses more than five centuries of African slavery in the Americas, ending with the death of Malcolm X. The novel’s narration is more representative of Afro-Caribbean existential reality than what one would find presented in the traditional Western novel. Details of the present and the past fuse together, thus reflecting a unique existential realm. The novel’s progression is led by numerous living and dead narrators, each offering the reader narrations that contribute to the mosaic account of a fragmented population. Analysis of the temporal modes of the work reveals that time has no smoothly defined articulations, and no barriers between the past, present, and future. This fluid perspective allows the novel to present a holistic and interconnected view of existence. After taking the direction offered by Changó and other deities that appear to the living in the present, the Muntu have a chance to return in the future to a state of freedom. Through the novel’s presentation of the African American historical past, the reader is reminded of events that shape the present. This characteristic convinces Richard Jackson that this work is comparable to the 1976 North American landmark novel Roots: “Like Alex Haley’s Roots the Afro-Colombian’s novel also returns to the past to help explain the present” (1988, 119). One of the major differences between the two works, however, is that Roots focuses more on the historical past and less on the mythical past, while Changó blends the two.

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A diachronic focus toward time is closely associated with Western cultural influence and logocentric thought. Michèle Guicharnaud-Tollis concludes that as the novel progresses, it moves from chronological presentation to a climactic synchronic focus toward time by presenting characters from past centuries alongside characters in the twentieth century (1997, 280).25 The novel’s emphasis on synchronic time is underscored in the last line of the novel, as Elegba declares that time for the living is inexhaustible because of the continuous connection with the dead and their memory of past Ancestors (Zapata Olivella 1983, 511). Literary critic John Barry notes that Zapata Olivella offers a synchronic perspective toward time through the use of multiple verb tenses in the same sentence: “Para el muntu el pasado nunca desaparece y el porvenir se entrevee. Ese manejo del tiempo se manifiesta en el uso del imperfecto, presente y futuro del indicativo en una misma frase en la novela, o en neologismos” [For the muntu, the past never disappears and the future is embedded. That maneuver of time manifests itself in the use of the imperfect, present, and future indicative tenses in the same sentence in the novel, or in neologisms] (1993, 252). Barry’s conclusion helps the reader to understand how the past, present, and future all flow together to offer a unique narrative and philosophical perspective. An example of this appears in the second chapter of section three, where the sentence structure of the passages demonstrates the mixture of the present and the future as a Haitian slave awaits Bouckman’s return after his death: “Esperábamos la salida de la luna. Los tambores se despiertan, bostezaban dos o tres redobles y volverán nuevamente al sueño” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 201). “We waited for the moon to rise. The drums awake, yawned two three beats, and will go back to sleep” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 178). In the second chapter of section two, another example appears as the newly arrived Blacks conduct African rituals. The narration again incorporates the use of distinct verb tenses: “Nos reunimos en los montes, en lugar que señalaban los tambores. El secreto es un río crecido que inundaba los oídos más sordos. Lo cuentan las mujeres que vendían los dulces de sus amas por las calles y en el muelle; las chalupas que atracaban repletas de carbón se van de cargadas de noticias: la noche, el lugar, la hora” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 133). “We gathered in the woods, in a place indicated by the drums. The secret is a swollen river that inundated the deafest of ears. It is told by the women who sold their mistresses’ sweets in the streets and on the pier; the skiffs that arrived filled with coal depart laden with news: the night, the place, the hour” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 118). The use of the past and the present in the same descriptive segments reflects the novel’s rejection of the concept of time as being divided into distinct and detached blocks.26 The novel’s free and innovative use of distinct verb tenses allows the author to reflect his alternative vision of reality.

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For the followers of Changó, time never ends; as the past and the present intersect, the characters can better anticipate future events. In the first pages of the novel, when Ngafúa invokes the presence of the Ancestors and the Orishas, he explains the significance of the “serpiente del vodú” which knows the past, present, and future, and symbolizes the Muntu: El hijo de Yemayá invencible guerrero procreador de Orichas despierto de su sueño una serpiente en cada mano mordiéndose las colas me mostraba, las serpientes de Tamin las serpientes mágicas vida y muerte inmortales símbolos del Muntu en el exilio. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 23) Yemayá’s son, Invincible warrior, Procreator of Orichas, Awakened from his sleep, A serpent in each hand Biting their tails. He showed me The serpents of Tamin, The magic serpents, Life and death immortal, Symbols of the Muntu In exile. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 21)

Just as the novel’s Muntu characters represent a fusion of the past, present, and future, so do the snakes of Tamin, forming a circle as they bite each other’s tails. These serpents’ form symbolizes the never-ending story of the population of African descent. Another linguistic aspect of the novel that underscores its challenge to the concept of linear time is the use of concept words. The text uses what Bakhtin refers to as cronotopos: “In the literary artistic chronotope, spatial and temporal indicators are fused into one carefully thought-out, concrete whole” (1981,

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84). This concept uses created words to express a specific meaning, and thus to establish a unique textual mode of looking at time. In the first section of chapter five, as Agne Brown reflects on the events that have led her to her current spiritual state, she describes it in the following manner: “Nochesdías de rememoración desde el tiempo en que mi padrastro me trajo a Lawrence [Kansas]” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 354). “Nightdays of remembering the time when my stepfather brought me to Lawrence” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 311). The use of the chronotope nochedía signifies the many days and nights that have merged together since her father’s death at the hands of the Ku Klux Klan. Another example of the use of cronotopos appears in chapter two, as Sosa Illamba’s newborn baby swims to safety after the slaves burn and sink the India Nova. As the infant braves the ocean, Olugbala paddles past him in a boat and comments on the child’s tenuous future: “No sé si nadaba en el ayermañana, cuando lejos de mi barco, puedo mirarlo, libre, desplegadas sus velas de fuego” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 91).27 “I do not know if I was swimming yesterdaytomorrow when, far from my ship, I can see it, free, its sails of fire unfurled” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 80). Olugbala’s use of the word ayermañana serves to express his lack of knowledge of this child’s fate: he might belong to the past, should he perish, or to the future, should he be saved. In each of the aforementioned examples of cronotopos, the author uses invented words to reflect his view of synchronic time. Other such expressions that reflect this concept of different mode of time are “mañañahoy” [tomorrowtoday], “Pasadofuturo” [future past], “largos de noche” [longnights], and “sombraluz” [shadylight]. The concepts in the invented words appear Manichean, but they serve to express an alternative view of temporal existence and reality, which posits that the present reality of the Muntu is influenced by the merging of distinct modes of time. Oral Tradition As established earlier in this study, oral tradition plays an important role in the Afro-Caribbean community. Changó’s focus on orality may be linked to what Henry Louis Gates considers to be the speakerly text, “whose rhetorical strategy is designed to represent an oral literary tradition, designed ‘to emulate the phonetic, grammatical, and lexical patterns of actual speech and produce the ‘illusion of oral narration’” (1989, 181). This aspect of the novel results from the author’s knowledge of and respect for orality in the AfroCaribbean community. Captain-Hidalgo points out that the representation of orality is still restricted to narrative form: “Zapata’s trajectory is not oral but oral-like” (1993, 18–19). However, Zapata Olivella does attempt to alter traditional

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narrative structures in order to represent orality on the written page. For example, much of the story is told not by the omniscient narrator, but from the collective accounts of members of the Afro-Caribbean community. The novel approximates orality in order to pay homage to this form of expression that has preserved valuable information across many centuries and generations in the African Diaspora. These oral tales are instrumental in unifying the Muntu community by connecting them to incidents from their collective past. According to the author: la tradición oral no es tan sólo un inventario de reminiscencias folclóricas (cantos, leyendas, mitos y cuentos), sino la expresión global de la cultura espiritual y material de los pueblos analfabetos, el valioso arsenal de conocimientos preservado por nuestros abuelos de generación en generación, constituye el testimonio más importante a investigar en la diáspora africana en Colombia. [Oral tradition is not only an inventory of elements of folklore (songs, legends, myths, and stories), but the global expression of spiritual culture and elements of illiterate communities, the valuable arsenal of knowledge preserved by our grandparents from generation to generation, creating the most important testament of investigation of the African Diaspora in Colombia.] (Zapata Olivella 1988, 47)

Reading Changó is a unique literary experience because it contains so much influence of orality that it stretches the limit of the novelistic genre. The inclusion of oral accounts throughout the novel invites the characters and the reader to learn about past events and the wisdom of the Ancestors through unofficial history. In the third chapter of section three, a Babaloa named Don Pedro serves as the narrator and shares tales about great Muntu leaders and their accomplishments with a group of children: Que los niños se sienten junto a mí, voy a relatarles las batallas de los vivos y los muertos; la lucha de Dessalines y Christophe cuando al frente del Muntu, vengaron el asesinato de su jefe L’Overture; los sueños locos de un Emperador que pretendía reinar sobre una república de negros libres. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 206) Have the little children sit next to me. I am going to tell them about the battles of the living and the dead; the struggle of Dessalines and Christophe when, at the forefront of the Muntu, they avenged the murder of their leader L’Overture; the crazy dreams of an Emperor who tried to reign over a republic of free blacks. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 182)

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It is through these oral tales that the Muntu are able to learn of their cultural past, which, in turn, allows them to better know themselves. Major events from Haiti’s history provide the children with important historical events to permit them to carry on the traditions of great men such as Dessalines, Bouckman, and King Christophe. Through the oral repetition of the struggles and accomplishments of these great leaders, history continues to live. In the third part of chapter one, the Haitian ekobios’ respect for oral tales is evident as Mackandal’s spirit returns to tell stories to his followers: Mackandal está con nosotros en esta noche oscura . . . El silencio se llenó de Loas. Sabemos que ellos también nos escuchan. Los niños dormían en las piernas de sus madres, pero mañana cuando despierten, serán soldados sin sueño. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 178) Mackandal is with us on this dark night . . . . The silence filled with Loas. We know they too hear us. The children were sleeping on their mothers’ laps, but tomorrow when they awake, they will be sleepless soldiers. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 158)

The children become strengthened after subliminally hearing the tales that will teach them of the rich traditions and myths of previous generations. There is also an example of oral recollections in chapter two of section one, as the deity Arún chants the epic history of his people beginning with the divine forces of Changó and concluding with the indigenous populations in the Americas that merged with Africans and contributed to the development of early Mexican civilization (Zapata Olivella 1983, 41). Through this poetic oral summary, not only is the reader reminded of the value that this culture places on the art of speaking, but this particular tale also establishes that unity existed between the indigenous and African populations in Precolonial America. Critic Haakayoo Zoggyie notes that African oral literature continues to “gain acceptance as ‘literature’ among many Western writers” (1999, 244). He also notes that Zapata Olivella’s technique of focusing attention on orality in his novel distances him from skeptics and “affirms his belief in oral form as a viable literary alternative, as the most appropriate voice for the experience that he is writing about” (1998, 244). Ritual In Changó, el gran putas, rituals play an important part in demonstrating the connection between the characters and the divine forces that guide and protect them. As in the other novels in this study, rituals serve to open the

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door between the living characters and the spiritual world. As noted earlier, Afro-Caribbean rituals are presented in conjunction with Christian forms of expression with less frequency than we saw, for example, in El reino de este mundo and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores. This is a result of Zapata Olivella’s conscious attempt to undermine the concept of Christian superiority, or even equivalence. The novel’s decided preference for Afro-Caribbean religious traditions is evident in the style of the characters’ rituals. Every religious ritual in Changó is preceded with an invocation to Legba, opener of doors. This deity’s role is to allow the Muntu to manipulate power at a cosmic and spiritual level. Aboard the slave ship, advice from the Orishas is important and is obtained in two forms: through divination and by using secret words or phrases to invoke spirits. Early during the slave voyage, for example, as the slavers attempt to purify the slaves, Kanuri “Mai” calls for assistance from the Orishas: Olugbala ya tiene sus muñecas fuera de las argollas y a mi lado, Kanuri ‘Mai’ empuñaba la lima con la mano suelta. Bajan alumbrándose con lámparas, repitiendo una letanía de difuntos que se alarga al descender por la escalera. Pero desde mucho antes escuchamos el repicar de una campanilla, el mismo conque nuestros Babaloas invocan a Legba. ¡Vaderetrosatán! ¡Vaderetrosatán! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 78–79) Olugbala already had his wrists free of the manacles, and at my side Kanuri “Mai” grips the file in the fist of his free hand. Their lamps shine on them, repeating a litany of dead men that elongates as it descends the ladder. But long before they began we heard the chime of a bell, the same one our babalaos use to invoke Legba. Vaderetrosatan! Vaderetrosatan! (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 70)

The phrase ¡Vaderetrosatán! serves as an oral catalyst to shift energy and promote change. The power of the nommo is paramount in this ritual because it invokes Legba’s presence and protection. Kanuri “Mai” notes that the slavers’ chanting of the Latin phrase ¡Vaderetrosataninseculasececulorum . . . ! is reminiscent of their own chant to invoke Legba. This recognition of shared aspects between the two faith traditions demonstrates that the Blacks have incorporated the Latin phrase into their African rituals. This incorporation

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of characteristics from other faith traditions is significant because it was by adopting superficial elements of Christianity that slaves were able to preserve their own traditional African religions. As the Africans prepare to rebel aboard the ship Nova India, Ngafúa must first await divine approval from the Ifá: “Pensamos abrir un hueco en el techo de popa, pero Ngafúa no ha obtenido respuesta del gran Ifá” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 80). “We intend to open a hole in the stern roof, but Ngafúa has not obtained an answer yet from the great Ifá” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 71). Only after the divination ritual offers them guidance from the Ifá do they begin their rebellion. While they kill many aboard the ship, their revolt is unsuccessful. Ngafúa is accused and is sentenced to death by hanging, but he soon returns to motivate his followers, leading a ritual to divine the future by again consulting with the great Ifá. The Babaloa Kanuri “Mai,” one of the prisoners on the ship, asks Ngafúa to inspire the enslaved Blacks with a new American spirit that will help them to survive. Through this ritualistic act the deities reveal to him a message in the form of proverbs: Ngafúa me pidió que me sentara y luego abre sus piernas para sacar de entre la bolsa de sus turmas las dieciseis nueces sagradas de Ifá. Una a una las fue abrillantando con la espuma de su saliva. Después, pronunció varias palabras en la lengua sin voz de los difuntos. Vemos volar las cáscaras por el aire aunque permanecían atrapados en el cuenco de su mano. Al caer sobre el piso, bailan en las puntas, cerraban las valvas y ríen ocultando sus respuestas. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 84-85) Ngafúa asked me to sit down and then he spreads his legs in order to remove from his scrotum Ifá’s sixteen holy nuts. One by one he polished them with the froth of his saliva. The he pronounced several words in the voiceless tongue of the dead. We see the shells fly through the air, even though they stay trapped in the hollow of his hand. When they fell to the floor, they dance on their edges, close their shells and laugh, veiling their answers. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 74)

After the shells are tossed on the mat, Ngafúa interprets a proverb, which advises them to begin the revolt at that very moment. Only by following this pattern of ritualistic activity can the Muntu discern the will of the Orishas. The rituals described throughout the novel are avenues by which the slaves are able to gain physical protection and spiritual energy. The novel is consistent with the other works in this study in its portrayal of the important role of Afro-Caribbean rituals and their value in the community. A majority of the

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rituals presented in the novel make use of key words or phrases that serve as the nommo, to attract energy and to promote physical and spiritual changes. The Nommo The emphasis on the nommo is as critical in Changó, el gran putas as it has been in the other Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance addressed in this book.28 Before major marvelous events occur, the novel’s characters chant spiritually significant verses or phrases in order to open the door between this world and that of the Orishas. The force of the nommo allows the characters to penetrate into the metaphysical world of the divine forces, as seen in the following example aboard the Nova India, in which Nagó summons the spirits to calm the slaves, who fear their unknown fate: “¡Abobó! / ¡Abobó! / ¡Abobó! / Llevamos con nosotros la palabra adivinadora del gran Ifá. A mi espalda, no puedo ver sus labios, pero su voz me hincha con la claridad que le ha dado Orúnla” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 59). “¡Abobó! / ¡Abobó! / ¡Abobó! / We carry with us the soothsaying word of the great Ifá. With my back to him I cannot see his lips, but his voice fills me with the clarity Orúnla has given him” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 53). Nagó uses the Yoruba language and the sacred word ¡Abobó!; this term is defined in the glossary of the novel as an “Expresión de saludo y regocijo para invocar y agradecer la presencia de los Orichas” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 512).29 “An expression of greeting and joy to invoke and express gratitude for the presence of the Orichas” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 447). The word is uttered three times, a ritual repetition, which gives the nommo the power to summon Ngafúa; he responds by appearing and explaining their destiny: Me hablaba en yoruba para que pueda entender su cantorelato: -Dijinga Dikatampe, creador de los soles, la tierra, la luna y las aguas, alimento de la vida! ¡Dijinga Dikatampe, procreador del Muntu! ¡Dijinga Dikatampe, creador de los animales, las plantas y las piedras que le sirven! ¡Dijinga Dikatampe, poseedor de la fuerza que ordena las jerarquías entre los árboles y las aguas! ¡Dijinga Dikatampe, repartidor del poder de los Vodúns, los Ancestros y los Mortales! ¡Dijinga Dikatampe, después de proclamar tu grandeza, deja que mencione mi nombre! Soy Ngafúa, hijo de Kissi-Kama, Babaloa de Ifá. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 59)

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He was speaking to me in Yoruba so I could understand his songtale: “Dijinga Dikatampe, creator of the suns, the earth, the moon and the water, food of life!” “Dijinga Dikatampe, procreator of the Muntu!” “Dijinga Dikatampe, creator of the animals, the plants, and the stones that serve him!” “Dijinga Dikatampe, possessor of the force the establishes the order of the trees and the waters!” “Dijinga Dikatampe, disrtibutor of the power of the Vodúns, the Ancestors, and the Mortals!” “Dijinga Dikatampe, after proclaiming your greatness, may my name be mentioned!” I am Ngafúa, the son of Kissi-Kama, babalao of Ifá. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 53)

As a result of this spiritual act, Ngafúa is able to offer guidance to his followers. Next, he tells those present a tale of their African Ancestors in Cabinga, los Ngalas, who faced the threat of death just as Ngafúa did, to defend their true African faiths. The repetition within this passage augments the force of the nommo. Zapata Olivella even makes use of the power of the nommo by naming his novel after Changó—god of war, fecundity, dance, rain, and thunder. While the mytho-spiritual deity is invested with immense power and might—signified by the adjective gran—the Orisha also possesses human frailties, such as the desire for revenge he harbored against Africans and their descendants. The less idealized side of Changó is captured in the expression putas, which projects a more mischievous side, the ability to create havoc as well as do good. The novelist emphasizes the value of the nommo in the novel by adopting and creating expressions that serve as linguistic markers that transcend racial categories, in order to focus on the spirit of individual groups of characters. Four principal words describe the spiritual state of the characters: ekobios, lobas blancas, Muntu, or sombra perro. The author uses the ñáñigo word ekobio to describe spiritual brothers, those who possess, regardless of ethnicity, a shared commitment to the struggle of the descendants of Africa. All of the ekobios come together to comprise a unified community known as the Muntu. In his article “Los ancestros combatientes,” Zapata Olivella explains his decision to use the word ekobio: El término “ekobio” surgió de la necesidad de encontrar un vocablo que identificara al Negro sin utilizar esta palabra. En los pueblos africanos, donde la identidad no se expresa por el color de la piel, sería absurdo utilizarla.

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[The term ekobio grew out of the necessity of finding a word that could identify blacks without using the word. In African villages, where identity is not expressed based on skin color, it would be absurd to use it.] (1991, 52)

Ekobios are not only Blacks but also individuals who struggle for the defense and values of oppressed communities. Among the numerous ekobios of nonAfrican descent, the novel cites Alonso de Sandoval, Father Pedro Claver, Miguel Hidalgo, Abraham Lincoln, John Brown, and Bernard Shaw. Zapata Olivella explains that his mission was to create a work that looks at Blacks under colonial forces throughout the African Diaspora, not just within Colombia: “Quería escribir la epopeya de los cincuenta millones de africanos y de sus descendientes puros, mulatos y zambos bajo sus esclavizadores españoles, portugueses, franceses, ingleses y holandeses en América” [I wanted to write the epic of fifty million Africans and their pure descendants, mulattos, and zambos under their Spanish, Portuguese, French, English, and Dutch slavers in America] (Mose 1988, 45). He uses the term lobas blancas to identify this group of European oppressors. These populations that oppress the Muntu are primarily slavers and landowners. In the United States, the lobas blancas consists of those that oppress the North American Blacks such as the Ku Klux Klan. The glossary supports the didactic purpose of the novel, giving the reader insight regarding terms and expressions that may not be commonly known even in mainstream Hispanophone society. As we have seen in the other novels in this book, the nommo is a valuable tool to express the power of the spoken word to transmit energy. By highlighting the nommo, the text is able to serve as a living record of the value of language—and more specifically of African languages—in a particular spiritual context.30 Heteroglossia In this novel, narration takes the form of folk sayings, children’s songs, spirituals, religious songs, as well as popular African American secular music, juxtaposed to underscore the principal narrative. Western thought considers many of these forms of art to be minor expressions of “culture,” but this collection of heterogeneous forms gives the novel a powerful holistic structure. The work contains history, poetry, myth, and ethnological details that lead one to consider the entire novel to be a hybrid genre. Zapata Olivella explains that he uses polyforms to enrich his narrative, taking advantage of various forms of oral expression to complement the content of his novel: “Para el crítico literario, tal vez el uso de las mil y una voces en el relato sea apenas un recurso para esconder la voz del narrador. Pero dentro de la estructura de la novela se pretende expresar que los difuntos están identificándose con

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la lucha de los vivos” [For the literary critic, perhaps the use of a thousand and one voices in the work is a strategy to hide the voice of the narrator. But within the structure of the novel, it is intended to express that the dead are identifying with the struggle of the living] (1991, 57). The compilation of many diverse forms of communication adds to the novel’s richness and to its rejection of the logocentric vision of narrative construction. The novel offers the reader a diverse flow of perspectives from an array of ever-changing narrators; each has their own style of communicating with the reader. Vera Kutzinski notes that these multifaceted inclusions in the novel become so busy and filled with allusions that at times the novel “teeters on the brink of narrative chaos” (1996, 189–190). This literary challenge does produce a cacophonous narrative structure, but at the same time, it offers numerous examples of information transmitted in different structural forms. These multifaceted forms of communication enable the reader to appreciate distinct forms of expression and perspectives. For example, two forms of communication that narrate the account of the slave voyage to the Americas are the diary entries in the Libro de Bitácora and the narration appended by Nagó following each of the Captain’s entries. These written entries from the slaves’ perspective are referred to as the Libro de derrota and serve as an opposing form of expression that offers a firsthand account of the actions and perspective of the enslaved population. In the third chapter of section one, the execution of Ngafúa is presented from both textual perspectives. The ship’s captain writes the following: “Nuestras pesquisas denunciaron al Babalao Ngala. Lo subimos a cubierta y en presencia de toda la cargazón lo hemos atormentado para que nos revele cuanto sepa. No nos valieron azotes, ni planchas de fuego sobre su pecho y espaldas” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 80). “Our investigators led us to the babalao Ngala. We brought him up to the deck and in the presence of the entire shipment tortured him to make him reveal all he knew. Neither whipping nor hot brands on his chest and back did any good” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 71). The captain’s official account is countered by the subsequent unofficial oral entry by Nagó, who expresses the slaves’ respect for the Babaloa even after he has been hung from the mast of the ship: Aquí está con nosotros, aunque allá arriba, colgado del mástil, se posen las gaviotas sobre sus hombros. Aquí está a nuestro lado con sus argollas rotas, cruzadas las piernas, repitiéndonos su canto. . . . Las gaviotas le revolotean sobre los hombros sin atreverse a picotear sus ojos. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 82) Here he is at our side, with his shackles broken open, his legs crossed, chanting this song over and over. . . . The seagulls fluttered about his shoulders without daring to peck at his eyes. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 72)

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This display of dual narrative entries allows the reader to comprehend the differing perspectives of the greedy European slavers and the spirituallycentered Africans. A more dramatic example of the novel’s dual perspectives appears in the second chapter of section one, as more slaves arrive aboard the ship. The captain is pleased with the arrival of new slaves because they mean more profit: “¡Trae el más grande cargamento que hayan visto mis ojos! –prorrumpió Coutinho al contar hasta siete embarcaciones abarrotadas de esclavos” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 37). “‘Bring the largest shipment my eyes have ever seen!’ Coutinho’s eyes bulged as he counted as many as seven ships crammed with slaves” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 35). This new arrival is simultaneously viewed by the slaves as a further example of the fragmentation of their African community: “Separados, ansiosos, los Ibos miraban con desesperanza: su pueblo ha sufrido la mayor desbastación de hombres y mujeres a todo lo largo del Calabar” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 38). “Separated, anxious, the Ibos watched in desperation: their village has suffered the worst devastation of men and woman in the whole Calabar” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 35). The narration gives the reader the internal thoughts of both the oppressors and the group they oppress. While the slavers look toward their potential profits, the Blacks lament the continued suffering of their African sisters and brothers; this dual perspective thus offers a holistic vision of the event. As I noted earlier, Changó also includes poems inserted within the narrative. This medium allows the novelist to distill the thematic content and historical backdrop of the novel. The lyrical introduction also aids in establishing an epic tone. The fifth chapter of section three contains a poem that underscores the cooperation between Native Americans and African Americans in the United States: ¡Cuando se juntan el Seminola y el Negro, el Hombre Blanco el Hombre Blanco pierde el sueño! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 476) When the Seminole And the black Get together, The white man,

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The white man Loses sleep! (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 417)

This poem acknowledges the potential force that unity could produce among the Muntu. The theme of unity, which appears throughout the work, stitches the novel together and will be discussed more in detail later.31 Just as the poetry reflects major themes of the novel, folk sayings or proverbs also serve as vehicles for sharing collective cultural wisdom. In the third chapter of section two, during the Middle Passage, Ngafúa returns from the dead and uses his divination skills to reveal the future to his people in the form of a proverb. During this process, his followers watch as he receives counsel from the divine forces of Orunla: Pero todos pudimos leer en sus ojos mudos lo que nos aconsejaba el visionario Orúnla: “Buscadlo allí donde se originó el cauce.” Sin abrir sus labios, Ngafúa nos revela lo que nos quería decir el Oricha con su proverbio: —¡Las bodegas! ¡Aquí nació nuestra esperanza y aquí debemos iniciar nuestra rebelión! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 85) But we could all read in his mute eyes the visionary Orúnla’s advice. “Seek him at the river’s source.” Without parting his lips Ngafúa reveals to us what the Oricha meant with his aphorism: “The hold! Here is where our hope was born and here is where our rebellion ought to begin.” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 75)

This proverb serves as a patakí or didactic story, which communicates wisdom and direction to spiritual leaders in Afro-Caribbean religions. After completing the necessary steps of the invocation ritual, he reveals another proverb: “Donde el agujero fue abierto la primera vez” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 85). “Where the hole was first opened” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 75). Upon hearing this proverb, all the slaves in the hull look to the stern of the ship, the spot where Ngafúa was hanged for his resistance activity. This reminds them to carry on their mission to fight for freedom, being inspired by Ngafúa. As the novel shifts to Haiti in section four, proverbs again are used to interpret information during a divination ritual. The spirit of the deceased Bouckman returns from the dead to consult the Ifá regarding their resistance struggle against slave owners: “El difunto Bouckman saca las nueces sagradas que llevaba ocultas bajo su sábana blanca; las calienta con su saliva, frotólas entre sus manos y cerrando los ojos, las arroja al suelo. Asustado, lee con sus ojos visionarios: ‘Seréis derrotados por vuestras propias faltas’” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 214). “The deceased Boukman takes out the sacred

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nuts that he kept hidden behind his white sheet, he warms them with his saliva; rubbing them between his hands and closing his eyes, he throws them onto the ground. Frightened, he reads with his visionary eyes: ‘You will be defeated by your own shortcomings’” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 189). Bouckman’s interpretation reveals that the weapon that the slaves will use against their oppressors is fire. Another popular communicative tool that appears in the novel, as in other Afro-Hispanic novels of resistance, is song. In Colombia, the vallenato has been a significant musical tool of Afro-Colombian resistance. This style of music reflects the language and tone of the Atlantic Coast and grew, in part, from Colombian Cabildos, or mutual aid societies. Activities in these organizations combined African musical traditions with a Spanish musical tradition known as coplas (Freidemann 1995, 99). Vallenato used humor, satire, sarcasm, and wit as tools to ridicule and record both significant and mundane events. These songs also offered the Black community a platform to express their concerns and attitudes toward hegemonic colonial powers. Latin American historian Nina S. de Freidemann describes the vallenato in the following manner: El vallenato canta y narra: es mordaz con humor y gracia, es crítico en la política, la religión y el trabajo, gime con el amor y llora con el desamor. Sus narrativas siguen viajando de pueblo en pueblo y son registro de leyendas, mitos e historias en amplias regiones ganaderas, pobladas por descendientes de cimarrones negros, de negros libres y, desde luego, del resto de gente que allí confluyeron. [The vallenato sings and narrates: it is scathing with humor and wit, it is critical of politics, religion and work, it groans with love and cries with heartbreak. Its narratives continue to travel from town to town and are a collection of legends, myths and history in many livestock regions, inhabited by descendants of escaped slaves, free blacks and, of course, all those that converged there.] (Freidemann 1995, 99)

These songs have served a functional role by offering Blacks a way to record and recall details of their historical and cultural pasts. In the second chapter of section two, during the coronation ceremony for Benkos Biojo, Pupo Moncholo recounts the history of the Muntu by way of song. He acknowledges that his song has been passed down to him from Ngafúa, a point that reinforces the role of oral tradition and connectedness within the Afro-Caribbean community. As the king ascends to the throne, Pupo Moncholo explains the origin of his lyrical message through song:

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Aquí estoy con mi tambor resuena que resuena por mi rey Benkos reviento su piel nueva. Conmigo comienza el porro el reinado de los Congos donde lucirá su corona el hijo de Potenciana Biojo. ¡Aquí estoy con mi tambor resuena que resuena por mi rey Benkos reviento su piel nueva! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 136) Here I am with my drum, Beat upon beat, For my King Benkos I explode Its new skin. With me begins the ditty, The kingdom of the Congos Where his crown will shine, Potenciana Biojo’s son. Here I am with my drum, Beat upon beat, For my King Benkos I explode Its new skin! (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 120-121)

The novel includes distinct musical styles in songs, such as call-and-response and work songs, that encourage audience participation in the singing. In chapter one of section five, Zaka relates a story to Agne Brown regarding escaped slaves that inhabited the islands off the eastern coast of the Carolinas, Georgia, and Virginia. As he describes the slaves swimming between the islands, he sings the song that helped them to successfully complete the arduous task: ¡Ayú . . .! ¡Ayú . . .! Pequeña es mi prisión grande la pena ¡Ayú . . .!

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¡Ayú . . .! Aquí arde una vela que no apaga un ciclón! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 351) Ayú . . .! Ayú . . .! Small is my prison, Large is my affliction. Ayú . . .! Ayú . . .! Here burns a candle That no cyclone blows out! (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 309)

In the aforementioned example, the work song strengthened the maroons, thus infusing them with the necessary energy to swim to safety and freedom. Such songs constitute a functional artistic expression that facilitated the daily existence of individuals of African heritage by allowing them to endure physically and mentally complex and repetitive tasks. As the text shifts to the United States in section five, the author presents musical styles of North American origin, in particular African American spirituals and blues. The spiritual musical tradition was born in regions colonialized by the British. This musical style reflects religious themes and was sung traditionally without drums, an aspect that Zapata Olivella respects in this section of the novel. In the second chapter of section five, as the text tells the story of the young Nat Turner being raised in the racist south, the congregation of the newly formed African Methodist Episcopal Church sings “Go Down Moses” as the Pastor finishes his sermon denouncing slavery (Zapata Olivella 1983, 398). As Agne Brown discovers her future role as a leader of the North African Blacks at the base of Niagara Falls, she hears spirituals sung to her by her ancestors. Another functional example of song presented in Changó is the lullaby. Chapter one of section three narrates an intimate moment between a mother and her child, as a slave mother attempts to lull her baby to sleep by singing to him (1983, 176). The structure of this lullaby resembles call and response. Such musical inclusions allow the novel to be more vivid and reinforce its cultural context. Many of the spirituals in the novel were taken from the investigative works of the famous North American scholar W. E. B. Du Bois. Zapata Olivella has acknowledged that he has translated these songs of pain and longing from Du Bois’s work The Souls of Black Folk because

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he was unable to reproduce the appropriate flavor and content found within these musical productions: “No pudiendo expresar este sentimiento con mis propias palabras, me limité a traducir algunos de los spirituals que Du Bois recogió o aprendió de su pueblo” [Not being able to express this sentiment with my own words, I was limited to translating some of the spirituals that Du Bois documented or learned from his community] (Zapata Olivella 1991, 57). Within Changó, these songs from the spiritual tradition of Englishspeaking Protestant faiths reflect the pain and joy experienced by the Black community. The novelist does not appear to harbor the same level of resentment toward North American Black Protestant religions as he does against Catholicism. Another hybrid musical tradition from the English-speaking Black community in North America is the Blues. This musical form grew from spirituals and contains the sorrow and pain endured within the Black community, but it possesses a less-religious underpinning. The novel’s heteroglossia is also illustrated in the fourth chapter of section four, as Ngafúa recounts José María Morelos’s childhood, and begins by acknowledging the many paths that the Orishas follow to recall events from the past into the present: “La memoria recorre por igual los caminos del oído, los ojos, la piel, del gusto y los olores. Así regresaba a su infancia por muchas ventanas” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 317). “His memory travels the path of his ears, eyes, skin, taste, and smell. So it was by many different windows that he returned to his infancy” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 278). The inclusion of multiple communicative forms functions on various levels to connect the novel’s characters. Zapata Olivella uses these diverse communicative forms in his novel to disarm the Manichean world of the West by presenting a holistic approach to building the narrative.32 In addition to the numerous examples listed earlier, polyform structures consist of personal letters, government documents, Biblical scriptures and references, and newspaper captions that each serve to express the content of the novel in a unique and self-reflexive manner. Music, Dance, and the Drum Spiritual resistance and the drum are fundamentally linked for the Muntu. Ngafúa, the messenger of the Orishas, plays a major role in planning acts of resistance during the Middle Passage by playing a drum. In the second chapter of section one, during the Middle Passage, as the slave ship arrives at the African coast to capture slaves, the drum beats serve as vehicles to allow Africans to warn their peers across great distances, despite their diverse languages: “Y fuera, por el aire, por la corriente del río, como todas las noches retumba el llamado de nuestros tambores” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 37). “And

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outside, in the air, through the river current, as on every night, the call of our drums resounds” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 35). As the narration shifts to preparations for the voyage, the consistent beat of drums communicates the continued sale of slaves within the African community as the ship departs: “Todavía los tambores continúan anunciando la venta de los esclavos” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 54). “The drums keep on announcing the sale of the slaves” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 49). The drum’s ability to “talk” is demonstrated as it is used to convey wordless songs that reflect the collective force of the enslaved Africans. While aboard the Nova India, for example, Ngafúa uses the drum without any uttered words to convey a song to his fellow slaves: El Capitán entregó a Ngafúa un tambor roto. Habían observado que era él quien iniciaba nuestros cantos en la oscuridad de las bodegas. La Loba Blanca disminuida ante nuestra mirada; sus cadenas no separarán nuestros cuerpos de la sombra madre. ¡Vivos estamos, soplo de sombras, Siempre enriquecidos Nunca rebajados! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 68) The Captain handed Ngafúa a broken drum. It was observed that he was the one who initiated our chants in the darkness of the hold: The White Wolf, Diminished before our gaze; His chains will not separate Our bodies From the mother Shadow We are alive, A puff of shadows, Always enriched, Never lessened! (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 60-61)

This song, which is translated from beats into words, places the lobas blancas in a different world, demonstrating that the Muntu is not inferior to those that enslave them. The drum is also instrumental in uplifting the

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Muntu by reinforcing their unity, despite their present situation. The novel transcends linguistic barriers by reflecting the drum’s ability to communicate ideas as words in a secret manner that can only be interpreted by the Muntu. As the novel shifts to the Americas, the role of the drum as a means of oral communication is again evident during the crowning ceremony of Benkos Biojo as King of the Muntu. The drummer Pupo Moncholo communicates with all the slaves in the area via his drumbeats: “María Angola tiene razones para todos: ‘No dejes de avisarle a Moncholo, el tamborero’. ‘Dile a las hijas de Nicomeda Pérez que son buenas bailadoras, que se vengan solas o con sus maridos’” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 134). “Maria Angola has messages for everyone: ‘Don’t forget to tell Moncholo, the drummer.’ ‘Tell Nicomeda Pérez’s daughters that they are good dancers and should come, either alone or with their husbands’” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 119). This example illustrates the drums ability to substitute for the human voice. The drummer functions as the crucial bridge between the rebellion organizers and the community. During Benkos’s coronation ceremony, the beat of the drum marks the stages of the ritual, and denotes the spiritual and political status of the participants: “Tres golpes de tambor grande para que entren los Reyes, dos para Gobernadores, uno del tambor pequeño para los Alféreces y nada para los esclavos” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 135). “Three beats on the bass drum at the king and queen’s entrance, two for the governors, one on the small drum for the ensigns, and none for the slaves” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 119). The drum is represented as vital in the event and even serves to guide the participants through the stages of the ceremony. In the third chapter of section two, a bongo marks the beginning of a Colombian slave revolt: “Porque mientras el padre Claver predica obediencia al Señor de los Cristianos, sorprendo a unos esclavos que preparan el levantamiento bajo una bonga bruja” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 154). “Because while Father Claver preaches obedience to the Lord of the Christians, I surprised some slaves planning an uprising under a Bonga sorceress” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 137). This form of drum is the central trope, offering spiritual protection as the slaves plan their revolt. Despite the priest’s attempts to lead the slaves away from what he considers sinful practices, a group nevertheless gathers around a sacred bongo drum to worship in a manner consistent with their African traditions. In Changó, el gran putas, like in Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo, the character Bouckman is closely associated with the drum. This legendary Jamaican hero, who struggled for the freedom of Haiti, appears at numerous points throughout the novel, always playing the drum. FélicitéMaurice’s research concludes that in Pupo Moncholo’s poetic introduction,

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the repetition of the phrase “Aquí estoy con mi tambor” [Here I am with my drum] (Zapata Olivella 1983, 136) serves as a trope to mark the important value of the drum within Afro-Colombian discourse (Félicité-Maurice 1994, 112). In the second chapter of section four, Bouckman uses this instrument as a tool that urges the ekobios to celebrate their freedom: “Los tambores de Bouckman convocaban a los Vodús para celebrar el Décimo Tercer año de Independencia. No es la primera vez que los escucho, padre” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 273). “Bouckman’s drums convoked the Vodous to celebrate the thirteenth year of independence. It is not the first time I hear them, Father” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 241). The novel’s Afro-Caribbean worldview values this important figure’s role as the master of the drum who facilitates communication between the faithful and the Orishas. In the second chapter of section four, Bouckman uses the drum to summon the Orishas: “A golpes de tambor, Bouckman fue llamando a los Orichas. El llanto del yambalú despierta a los muertos” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 274). “With the beating of the drum, Bouckman was calling to the Orichas. The cry of the yambalú awakes the dead” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 241). As the work shifts to the United States, in chapter one of section five, Zaka’s narration illustrates that Ngafúa plays a violin rather than a drum: “Muy de madrugada, antes de que los perros nos gruñan, el anciano Ngafúa nos despertará con su violín” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 352). “In the wee morning hours, before the dogs growl at us, old Ngafúa will wake us up with his violin” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 310). This detail is important because it is consistent with the British colonial structure, which prohibited slaves from using the drum. As a result, slaves were forced to express themselves rhythmically in different forms such as hand clapping, singing, and stomping. By recounting the exclusion of the drum in this region, the author offers details that indicate the cultural differences between the slaves colonialized by the British and their counterparts in Latin America. Connection between the Spiritual and the Political Religion is an important component that unifies the Muntu community spiritually and politically. Such unity comes from the guidance of leaders who are spiritually empowered. In the novel―as in Afro-Caribbean ontology―it is impossible to separate the spiritual and the political within this holistic perspective because they are so closely associated. King Benkos Biojo is one of the novel’s primary spiritual and political figures in the Americas. In the second section of chapter one, Benkos Biojo’s birth and future greatness as a Colombian political leader is announced by Kanuri “Mai” via the spirit of Ngafúa:

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¡Oíd, oídos del mundo! Oíd! Aquí nace el vengador, ya está con nosotros el brazo de fuego, la muñeca que se escapará de los grillos, el diente que destroza las cadenas . . . Escuchen: el protegido de Elegba trae sangre de príncipe. Nace entre nosotros, será nuestro Rey. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 97) Listen, ears of the Muntu. Listen! The avenger is hereby born, with us is the arm of fire, the wrist that will escape the manacles, the tooth that gnashes the chains . . . Elegba’s protogé has the blood of a prince. He is born among us, he will be our king. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 86)

After Biojo’s birth, Kanuri “Mai” reveals this leader’s destiny, which is reminiscent of that of Christ’s in a Judeo-Christian perspective: “Morirá en manos de sus enemigos pero su magara, soplo de otras vidas, revivirá en los ekobios que se alcen contra el amo” (Zapata Olivella 2010, 97-98). “He will die in his enemies’ hands, but his magara, the breath of our lives, will come back to life in the ekobios who rebel against their masters” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 86). Just as Christ led his disciples, Benkos Biojo will guide the Muntu toward their goal of liberation, even after his death. The fourth section, entitled “Las sangres encontradas,” tells the story of the significant Haitian political and spiritual leaders that have played an active role in the nation’s slave revolts. These historical personages include Bouckman, Toussaint L’Ouverture, Henri Christophe, and Jean Jacques Dessalines, all of whom use their spiritual influence to politically encourage followers to fight against opposing forces. Great spiritual and political leaders have been ordained by Elegba to lead the Muntu in their collective struggle, and this appointment by the Orisha is symbolized by a living tattoo of two intertwined snakes on the bodies of his chosen leaders (Zapata Olivella 1983; 40, 96, 98, 83, 212, 343, 345, 349, 361, 416, 431). This sacred serpent of Damballah symbolizes the dual spiritual/political role assigned to those leaders who are faithful to the Orishas. When the novel shifts to other nations, other leaders appear who unify the oppressed and lead them under simultaneous religious and political doctrines. In the fifth section, many of the leaders employ principles from Protestant religions as their spiritual base. Major figures, such as Harriet Tubman, Booker T. Washington, Frederick Douglass, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., base their resistance struggle on Protestant religious principles, which also contain a significant component of African American culture. Reverend John Brown, a soldier by profession, is a faithful white Protestant minister who is committed to the struggle of Blacks in Changó. He even dies for his conviction, which is revealed by his testimony from beyond the tomb: Yo, John Brown, estoy profundamente convencido que los crímenes de esta tierra culpable sólo serán pagados con sangre. Yo creía, como lo pienso ahora

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vanamente, ilusionándome a mí mismo, que podría realizarse sin gran mortandad. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 435) I, John Brown, am profoundly convinced that the crimes of this earth shall be paid for only with blood. At one time I believed (as I now vainly think—deluding myself) that this could be carried out without great loss of life. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 382)

John Brown serves as an example of a nonblack character committed to the struggle of the Muntu because of his respect for spiritual values. His tone and commitment are as strong as are those of the Orisha-led figures, even though they are grounded in a Protestant faith tradition. Other characters in section five that follow more African-centered faiths include Agne Brown, Marcus Garvey, and Malcolm X. Richard Jackson notes that this final section is one that supports the African-philosophical concept of soul-force (1978, 110), which Leonard E. Barrett defines as “the racial inheritance of the New World African; it is that which characterizes his life-style, his world view and his endurance under conflict” (1974, 1-2). In this last section, the different Muntu leaders from across the African Diaspora—present and past—gather to celebrate those major figures in the history of the African Diaspora: El abuelo Nagó, a quien pude identificar por sus distintas caras en un mismo rostro: Nube Negra, Denmark Vesey, Gabriel Prosser y Nat Turner. Me grita: —¡La indecisión de nuestro pueblo nos ha costado muchas vidas! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 508) Grandfather Nagó, whom I was able to recognize by the different faces on his same countenance—Black Cloud, Denmark Vesey, Gabriel Prosser, and Nat Turner—calls to me: “The indecision of our people has cost us many lives!” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 444).

This section follows with other names of great Black American resistance leaders that reside in the world of the dead. The novel’s reference to these leaders reinforces the concept that major resistance leaders from across the Diaspora are united under a common goal and a spiritual drive to fight to better the lives of the oppressed. The Natural Environment As we have seen in previous works, the characters in Afro-Caribbean novels of resistance are closely connected with the natural environment that

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surrounds them. Changó, el gran putas places emphasis on the direct connection between trees, plants, and the ekobios. Frequently, the presentation of herbs and plants in the novel is accompanied by rituals that enhance the spiritual presence of ancestors and deities. In the second chapter of part three, as Haitians wage war against the colonials, they are led by Toussiant L’Overture, “a quien Ogún Balindjo había enseñado el secreto de curar con las plantas” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 199). “whom Ogún Balindjo had taught the secret of herbal cures” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 176). The ability to use plants and herbs to heal is described as a gift that comes only from the divine forces of Ogún. As we have seen in the discussion of nature in other Afro-Caribbean novels of resistance, these items play a major role in daily existence in AfroCaribbean culture. In the fifth chapter of section four, which takes place in Brazil, the curative power of plants and the importance of healers to apply them are evident as the great Afro-Brazilian artist Alejaidinho seeks a cure for his leprosy. He is convinced that a local herbalist (el pajé del Bajo Sabará) will cure his disease and reverse its devastation: “Me asegura que las yerbas de un afamado pajé del bajo Sabará podría quitarme los dolores y devolverme las uñas” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 300). “He assures me that the herbs of a famed pajé from the lower Sabará could ease my pain and get my fingernails to grow again” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 263). After traveling to a remote town where the Indian healer is located, he receives a liquid potion that sends him on a mystical journey into another dimension: El pajé no demoró en darme una pócima de olorosas hojas de juvema recogidas en el crepúsculo. Esa noche su zumo envenenado me conduce con falsos vuelos por parajes donde moraban mis antepasados indios. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 301) The pajé did not delay in giving me a potion of fragrant jurema leaves, gathered at dusk. That night its poisonous juice took me on false journeys to places where my Indian forebears dwelled. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 264)

Unfortunately for Alejaidinho, the cure is unsuccessful. His uncle Antonio proposes that they then go to a Macumba, an Afro-Brazilian healer, but the artist refuses because he accepts his illness as his fate. Even though the shaman’s use of plants and herbs does not cure Alejaidinho, this reference in the text demonstrates that for the characters, healers in the region play a major role, basing their curative approach on native plants and herbs combined with African and indigenous traditions. As in the other novels of resistance in this study, the ceiba tree plays a major role in promoting healing and offering spiritual protection. In the first chapter of section three, during a slave-led Haitian Vodun ritual, the

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narrator describes the sacred communal site as being located under a ceiba tree: “Ya chisporrotean las velas en el santuario. Trescientos ekobios agitan sus trapos, danzando bajo las ramas de la ceiba anciana” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 184). “The candles are flickering in the sanctuary. Three hundred ekobios wave their rags, dancing under the branches of the ancient ceiba tree” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 163). The tree serves as a shelter to protect followers during the religious celebration. As the ritual continues, the reader learns that the ceremony is overseen by Changó, who is sleeping in the branches of the ceiba tree: “Estoy dormido y enroscado en el tronco de la ceiba consagrada a mi culto” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 188). “I am asleep and curled up in the trunk of the ceiba tree consecrated to my cult” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 167). The mighty power of Changó is intensified by his elevated position above the participants and in the shelter of a ceiba tree. This image is later repeated in a similar ceremony led by Bouckman, as the community celebrates the anniversary of the abolition of slavery. During this celebration, Changó again is described as watching the entire event from the branches of a ceiba tree: “Changó, enamorado de los uniformes permanece sentado en las ramas de la ceiba alumbrándonos con su sombra” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 274). “Changó, fascinated with uniforms, remains seated in the boughs of the ceiba, illuminating us with his Shadow” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 242). In the third section of chapter two, as Haitian slaves proceed to a Vodun ritual in the deep forest Bois-Caiman, a ceiba tree again marks a sacred area where the ritual takes place (Zapata Olivella 1983, 192). In the second chapter of section three, when Toussiant L’Overture is given his charge of building a monument, those who gather to witness the ceremony find his carriage resting under a ceiba tree: “Los que han corrido sin descanso al llegar a Bois-Caimán no se sorprendían de encontrarla descansando bajo la ceiba sembrada por Don Petro” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 195). “Those who raced to Bois-Caimán were not surprised to find it resting under the ceiba planted by Don Petro” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 173). The carriage’s position is important in foreshadowing the great spiritual event which is to follow. In Changó, el gran putas, the environmental setting is very important in serving as a backdrop for the characters and their ontology. Because of the Black population’s close association with nature, this group has been able to benefit medicinally from the curative properties of plants and herbs, and has also retained respect for other elements of nature. Celestial bodies are significant elements for the novel’s oppressed communities and serve as important symbols for the Muntu. In the second chapter of part two, as Black Colombian slaves follow the Babaloa, they recall the connection between heavenly bodies and the divine power of a Supreme Spiritual Figure:

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Es cierto que el Babalao al ver salir la luna, eso debió ser a las siete de la noche, nos pide tirarnos al suelo y oramos repitiendo palabras en náñigo, pero sabiendo cómo nos predica Claver que la luna y el sol y las estrellas y todo lo que ven nuestros ojos es salido de la mano del Dios Todopoderoso de los Cristianos. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 118) It is true that the babalao, upon seeing the moon appear, somewhere around seven at night, orders us to throw ourselves to the floor and pray, repeating words in náñigo, but knowing how Father Claver preaches to us that the moon and the sun and the stars and everything our eyes see comes from the hand of the Christians’ God Almighty. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 104–105)

This passage reflects one of the few elements shared between the Christian teaching of Father Claver and the Babaloas. Both recognize that the moon and the sun are so immense and expansive that the only resources of a mighty and powerful God could have created them. In the second chapter of section three, slaves use the moon as a guide to lead them to a ceremonial site deep in the forest Boise-Caiman: Esta noche sus caballos galopan sin tropiezos por las nubes. Los ekobios le siguen ocultos en el bosque. Cruzaban las cañadas, bordean la costa. De vez en cuando miran hacia la luna para cerciorarse de que seguían el curso de la carreta. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 195) Tonight his horses gallop swiftly through the clouds. The ekobios follow him, hidden in the forest. They crossed the sugar cane fields; they skirted the coast. From time to time they look at the moon to be certain they were following the course of his cart. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 173)

The moon symbolizes the omnipresent Orishas that lead believers to the site where the ceremony will take place. After the slaves arrive deep into the Boise Caiman, Bouckman reveals to the Muntu that their leader in the rebellion will be Toussiant L’Overture, and this pronouncement is punctuated by reference to the moon’s descent: Este es el mensajero de Legba, L’Overture abridor de las puertas de nuestra libertad. La luna había descendido sobre sus hombros. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 196) “This L’Overture, Elegba’s messenger, the opener of the doors of our freedom.”

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The moon had dropped over his shoulders. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 174)

The moon’s descent symbolizes the spiritual departure of the Orisha Orúnla, the end of the night, and the end of the chapter.33 The sun is also a major symbol from nature that underscores significant events in the text. In the initial poetic introduction, the all-powerful Changó is equated with the sun: “¡Eléyay dolor de Changó! / Sabedor de sus potencias / sol que no se moja con la lluvia / su cólera contuvo, bebió la injuria” (Zapata Olivella, 1983, 21). “Eleyay, Changó’s pain! / Secure in his powers, / Sun that does not dampen with the rain, / His wrath he contained, he swallowed the insult” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 18). The powerful image of the sun serves to highlight the awesome forces of this Orisha of war.34 As Zapata Olivella reviews the history of Blacks in the United States, his attention to historical authenticity is evident as he presents a shift in the traditional role of the sun and moon in the mind of the Afro-Caribbean population. During this part of the novel, which occurs during the twentieth century, the narrator recognizes that the ekobios no longer rely on the sun and moon to guide them, as they have adopted Western, man-made systems of measuring time: ¿Tiempo? Sí, contábamos nuestra experiencia con el reloj de la Loba Blanca. Dejamos de medir los días con las caras de la luna; con la permanencia o huida de los vientos; con la salida del sol o la caída de la lluvia para referirnos aterrados a la época de la guerra contra los Indios; al tiempo del ferrocarril; a los años de la Gran Contienda Civil; el éxodo de los fugitivos del Sur. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 474) Time? Yes, we told of our experiences with the clock of the White Wolf. We stopped measuring the days with the phases of the moon; with the permanence or flight of the winds; with the sunrise or the rainfall in order to refer with horror to the period of the war against the Indians; the time of the railroad; the years of the Great Civil Dispute; the exodus of the fugitive from the South. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 415–416)

The setting has shifted to the twentieth century and takes place in one of the most developed nations in the Western Hemisphere; however, the text notes that while the community adopted the viewing of time through the eyes of the lobas blancas, they returned to their original connection with nature. This

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metaphor expresses the North American Black community’s regained sense of cultural identity. Changes in the weather also symbolize strong spiritual events. References to the weather are always textual indicators of spiritually-significant events. Natural manifestations such as storms, thunder, and lightning influence the Muntu throughout the novel. Storms symbolize the Orishas and their spiritual force; Olodumare is equated with thunder, Changó with lightning, and Elegba with rain. The presence of the deities is marked by dramatic changes in weather conditions. During the poetic introduction of the novel, as he invokes the Orisha, Nagó describes Changó and his might by comparing him with thunder: “¡Changó poderoso! / ¡Aliento del fuego! / ¡Luz del relámpago! / ¡Dame tu trueno!” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 27). “Powerful Changó! / Breath of fire! / Lightening bolt! / Give me your thunder!” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 25). Later in the same chapter, the sleeping Nagó awakens to discover Changó and Elegba’s spiritual presence underscored by the appearance of thunder and lightning: —¡Viene la tormenta! Todos dormían. Intenta levantarse y las cadenas le recordaron que era un cautivo. Entonces penetra el relámpago de Changó, solo un instante para que su pupila tomara conciencia de su paso. En ese momento comprendió que los Orichas estaban furiosos: Odumare despierta de su sueño y Elegba, su gran mensajero, abría camino a la tormenta. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 43) “The storm is coming!” Everyone slept. He tries to get up, but his chains remind him of his captivity. Then Changó’s lightening bolt penetrates, just an instant so his pupil registers its entry. At that moment Nagó realized that the Orichas were furious: Odumare awakens from his slumber and Elegba, his great messenger, blazed a path for the storm. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 39–40)

The deities’ spiritual force is considered to be so powerful that they can express their anger, presence, or disapproval to the living by manipulating the natural setting.35 Circularity and Repetition In the worldview presented by Changó, el gran putas, circularity and repetition both serve to illustrate that existence is made up from many components that form patterns of repetition. The connection between the past, present, and future forms a circular concept of existence. The novel uses the circular tattooed image of the two snakes as an important image to represent the power

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of the Muntu with the guidance of Legba. In the first chapter of section five, in a discussion between Agne Brown and her professor Mr. Harrington, she debates whether she should reveal to him her tattoo of the symbol of Legba: “Doy la espalda al profesor y anduve buscando algo con la vista. Dudaba si desnudarme y mostrarle las serpientes en mi pecho o continuar guardando mi secreto” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 349–350). “I turn my back on the professor and walked about looking for something. I doubted whether to undress and show him the snakes on my chest or to keep guarding my secret” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 308). She is inspired by the spirit of the Orishas to draw a picture of the image: “‒Las serpientes de Legba . . . ‒exclamó‒ ¡Para renacer hay que morir! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 350). “‘Elegba’s serpents,’ he exclaimed. ‘To be reborn you have to die!’” (Zapata Olivella 2010, 308). Just as the image of the snakes of Legba form a circle, the process that the Black individuals must endure to become reunited with their collective ancestors is a circular spiritual rebirth. This image of the serpents held by Changó first appears in Nagó’s invocation poem that opens the novel: El hijo de Yemayá invencible guerrero procreador de Orichas despierto de su sueño una serpiente en cada mano mordiéndose las colas me mostraba, las serpientes de Tamin las serpientes mágicas vida y muerte inmortales símbolos del Muntu en el exilio. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 23) Yemayá’s son, Invincible warrior, Procreator of Orichas, Awakened from his sleep, A serpent in each hand Biting their tails. He showed me The serpents of Tamin,

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The magic serpents, Life and death immortal, Symbols of the Muntu In exile. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 21)

This poetic passage also reflects the direct connection between life and death, which creates an eternal and continuous form of existence. As Nagó continues to sing of the forces of the Orishas in the second part of chapter one, he again describes the circular image of the serpents: Dos serpientes mordiéndose las colas identificarán su presencia en la tiránica tierra del exilio. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 42) Two snakes biting each other’s tail Will identify his presence In the tyrannical land of exile. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 39)

The circular joining in the image of the serpents is an important spiritual symbol in the Afro-Caribbean community and appears at other points in the novel (Zapata Olivella 1983; 180, 236, 394). Changó, el gran putas contains repetitive elements and themes that support the novel’s circular structure. The narrators repeat many words and phrases in different segments of the novel. One example of this repetition appears in the first few pages of the novel as Ngafúa frequently repeats the phrase “¡Mi dolor es grande!” [Great is my pain!] (Zapata Olivella 1983; 6, 7, etc.). Zoggyie concludes that this exclamation represents the immense pain that the Muntu must endure as a result of their punishment by Changó (Zoggyie 1999, 240). This repeated phrase also serves as an aesthetic element parallel to the chorus of a song that repeats even though the other parts of the song change. The repeated lines and phrases in the novel express the renewed emotion and spirit of the African Americans who collectively have endured many atrocities. Another example of repetition appears in the second chapter of section two, as the drummer Pupo Moncholo presents himself to the slaves in Cartegena: Yo soy Pupo Moncholo soy la fiebre calentura el cantor sin ronquera

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cuando comienzo una historia se las cuento toda entera. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 140) I’m Pupo Moncholo, I’m the fiery fever, The clear-voiced singer. When I start to tell a story I tell the whole thing. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 124)

Later in the same section, the poem is repeated with some minor changes: Soy Pupo Moncholo el cantador sin ronquera cuando comienzo una historia la cuento toda entera.’ (Zapata Olivella 1983, 162) I’m Pupo Moncholo The clear-voiced singer. When I start to tell a story I tell the whole thing. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 144)

The first poem appears at the beginning of chapter three and the second entry appears five pages before the conclusion of the chapter. This repeated poetic entry in the novel serves as a textual marker denoting the beginning and ending of Pupo Moncholo’s tale to the Muntu, as well as the beginning and ending of the chapter. Another example of repetition appears in section five to mark Malcolm X’s approaching death; the exclamation “¡Malcolm, hoy serás asesinado!” [Malcolm, today you will be assassinated] recurs in a crescendo fashion until he is assassinated in the final pages of the section (Zapata Olivella 1983; 427, 428, 491, 499, 500, 501). This refrain not only builds up tension, but also serves to orient the reader back to the leader’s eventual fate, despite the intercalated narrative shifts to other characters and events. While the novel’s plot progresses, the repeated entries serve to demonstrate to the reader the constant presence of events from the past or future. The repeated portions also serve as textual bridges to reinforce the novel’s concept of unity. These repeated phrases combine with direct emphasis to demonstrate Zapata Olivella’s valorization of the power of circularity and repetition.

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Changó, the Trickster Within the Afro-Caribbean novel of resistance, the trickster figure serves the vital role of countering the dominant forces that oppress the populations of color. In Changó, el gran putas, the deity after whom the novel is named uses his spiritual talents and skills for what he deems to be the common good of the Muntu. Ian Smart considers all of the novel’s rebel leaders to be trickster figures: “Trickster heroes and heroines who are bona fide cimarrónes [rebels] are in Zapata’s novel the instruments for carrying out the mandate of the great Shango” (1991, 25). While I agree with Smart’s observation, I will focus only on the role of Changó as a trickster figure, because this deity is the most vividly portrayed spiritual figure who uses his talents of trickery to affect a majority of the novel’s characters. Captain-Hidalgo concludes that the inclusion of the trickster figure helps to link the novel to other works influenced by African aesthetics: “The very suggestion of Shango as a trickster throughout the novel places him in a much broader African context than most literary critics realize” (1993, 136–137). This figure is parallel to the image of the trickster figures that have been noted in Carlos Guillermo Wilson’s Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, Quince Duncan’s La paz del pueblo, and Alejo Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo. The African and African American trickster figure is complicated, because of its many layers of characterization and contradiction. Part of the nature of the trickster figure is to be fluid in implementing survival skills and to possess the ability to lead others. Captain-Hidalgo notes that Changó can be compared to the North American urban Black hero Shaft, because both are strong, difficult to predict, but endearing to those they protect (1993, 147–148). This is a very significant comparison because Shaft is viewed by his foes as formidable but is revered by the oppressed and voiceless characters that he protects. In Zapata Ollivella’s novel, Changó is unpredictable and uses his tricks and games to protect and persuade the Muntu. Ian Smart connects Changó with the African deity Papa Legba, also known as Elegba, who is often seen as a trickster figure because of his humanlike potential to commit deeds that are bad as well as good (1996, 135–143).36 In the novel’s lyrical beginning, Changó is summoned to help his people. This entry, narrated by Nagó, reflects the deity’s dual ability to protect and to punish: ¡Eléyay, ira de Changó! ¡Eléyay, furia del dolor! ¡Eléyay, maldición de maldiciones! Por venganza del rencoroso Loa condenados fuimos al continente extraño

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millones de tus hijos ciegos manatíes en otros ríos buscando los orígenes perdidos. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 16) Eleyay, Changó’s wrath! Eleyay, fury of pain! Eleyay, curse of curses! Vengeance of the rancorous Loa Damned us to the unknown continent, Millions of your children, Blind manatees in other rivers Searching for their lost origins. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 13)

This passage underscores the deity’s force, which protects the Muntu even while it chastises them. As a result of the Orisha’s power, the Muntu cannot free itself from the punishment of slavery without the help of Changó: ¡Los esclavos rebeldes esclavos fugitivos, hijos de Orichas vengadores en América nacidos lavarán la terrible la ciega maldición de Changó! (Zapata Olivella 1983, 26) The rebellious slaves, Runaway slaves, Sons of avenging Orichas, In America born, Will wash the horrible, The blind Curse of Changó! (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 24)

The Muntu’s plight is the result of Changó’s curse, demonstrating that he has the power to punish his followers as well as to help them. Changó, el gran putas is consistent in reflecting the trickster figure as a character that challenges the authority of oppressive forces by using tricks, magic, and deceit, but also sometimes turns these forces against his own followers.

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One example of his unpredictable will appears in the second chapter of section one, as Changó orders Babalú-Ayé and Chankpana to bring a swarm of mosquitoes to terrorize both the Muntu and the lobas blancas (1983, 38).37 This demonstrates the Orisha’s power to control other deities and orchestrate events that harm the Muntu in order to test their loyalty to him and to ensure their obedience. The common character defect in the numerous tales of Changó is his excessive pride, but as Janheinz Jahn notes: “With all his faults, he inspired and continues to inspire loyalty in his close friends. To them Shango is not dead, and by continuing their loyalty to him they know they can strengthen both him and themselves” (1990, 66). Changó reappears throughout the novel in many locations and historical periods, which serves to demonstrate his immense power. The deity is also able to change his physical form or to speak in the voices of significant individuals in each society. Captain-Hidalgo notes that, throughout the novel, Changó is the force that works with the oppressed: “Shango, as Zapata imagines him, belongs in part to all the downtrodden of the world” (1993, 138). In Christian-influenced cultures, the forces of good and evil are divided between God and Satan; in contrast, Changó is a vessel containing both of these qualities, thus making him one of the most complex characters in the work. CONCLUSION The theme of unity is expressed in many ways in the novel. Unity and power are the by-products of the joining of the living and the dead across ethnic lines: “El culto a los Ancestros, la ligazón entre los vivos y los muertos, pondrá fin al mito de los dioses individuales y egoístas. ¡No hay Dios más poderoso que la familia del Muntu!” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 350). “The Ancestor cult, the link between the living and the dead, will put an end to the myth of individual and selfish gods. There is no God more powerful than the family of the Muntu” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 308). The concept of unity is one of the strongest messages that the novel offers. Zapata Olivella’s concept of unity is very different from the model established by Carlos Guillermo Wilson in Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores and Alejo Carpentier in El reino de este mundo. In Los nietos, unity (sodinu) is defined as cooperation among individuals of African descent; in El reino, the Blacks unify to fight against forces that oppress them and their descendants. In Changó, Zapata Olivella’s concept of unity is built around collective respect for all oppressed populations, although these consist mainly of Native Americans and individuals of African descent.

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The expression of unity seen in Changó is comparable with the concept found in Quince Duncan’s La paz del pueblo. Both novels allow individuals of distinct ethnic backgrounds to form a collective alliance for a common mission. During the novel’s poetic invocation, Nagó asks Changó for his spiritual support by allowing the Muntu to find unity: “¡Gran Manga! / Solo esperamos que nos mantengas unidos / como los dedos de tu mano” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 27). “Great Force! / We hope only that you keep us united / Like the fingers of your hand” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 25). He is aware that only unity will ensure success in their struggle to overcome their oppressors and to return to Changó’s bosom. In his essay “Memoria de la palabra,” Zapata Olivella explains this holistic vision of ethnicity, which is based on unity: “Con la mirada totalizadora del mestizo triétnico. No más ‘yo.’ No más ‘tú.’ No más ‘él,’ Sino las mil voces americanas conjugando el ‘nosotros’” [With the complete tri-ethnic perspective. No more “I” No more “you.” No more “he,” instead the thousands of American voices using the word “we.”] (quoted in Mose 1988, 48). It is this concept of unity among people, transcending ethnicity, that the author offers as a solution to oppression. One of the factors that the novelist theorizes may bring about this unity is intermarriage. In an interview with Captain-Hidalgo, Zapata Olivella indicates that Caribbean individuals, and specifically Afro-Latinos, should strengthen their identity around the rich mixture of cultures that unite them in the Americas: “Sí, nosotros debiéramos comportarnos, no de acuerdo con los patrones europeos, sino de acuerdo con nuestros patrones que implican ya un proceso de asimilación africana, europea e indígena” [Yes, we should behave, not in accordance with European standards, but according to our patterns that already imply an African, European, and indigenous assimulation process] (1985, 29). By rejecting the traditional modes of viewing the world, the Muntu can develop in a manner consistent with the theory offered in José Vasconcelos’s essay “El mestizaje” (1925), which proposes that the existing races can merge into a superior hybrid race. According to the novel, unity will be achieved when there is no longer division among the three dominant American races: “No habrá América, ni Africa, ni ninguna parte del mundo libre, mientras en nuestro país haya un solo Negro, Indio o Blanco oprimido” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 479). “There will be no free America, nor Africa, nor any other part of the world, so long as there remains in our country a single oppressed individual—black, Indian, or white” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 420). The work’s concept of unity is also evident in the inclusion of different ethnic groups among the Muntu. Zaka is an ancestor who symbolizes the ethnic mixture between Native Americans and Africans in North America. He describes himself to Agne

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Brown as both product and witness of the unity among Blacks and Native Americans: Hermano de los sabios y pacíficos Hopis, sobre mi cabeza pusieron sus plumas los valientes Creeks. Compañero fui de los Oceolas y entre mis ekobios Seminolas tengo enterrados los huesos al lado de Gato Salvaje, mi nuevo padre. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 350) I am a brother to the wise and pacific Hopis; the valient Creeks placed their plumes on my head. I was a comrade of the Osceolas, and among the Seminole ekobios I have my bones buried, alongside Wild Cat, my new father. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 308)

After he makes this statement, he begins to tell his tale of existence at the oppressive hand of the lobas blancas: Aquellos días de penuria, hambre y vagabundaje, escondidos de los amos que nos perseguían con sus perros de presa, no hay que olvidarlo, fueron los más felices de tus Ancestros en esta nación. Indios y Negros configuramos la familia más unida, Muntu americano, que haya existido en este país. Compartíamos el maíz; bebemos agua de los mismos ríos; juntos rendiremos culto a la Luna, al Sol y a nuestros Difuntos en las altas montañas. Crecían nuestros hijos aprendiendo las mismas palabras, cultivando los mismos suelos. Negros Seminolas. Comanches Negros . . . hasta el día en que la Loba Blanca aparece con sus fusiles y carretas incendiando la pradera. Mataron al Hermano-Búfalo y declararon la guerra a nuestros padres para expulsarlos del país de sus mayores. Entonces decían: “El mejor indio, es el indio muerto!” Nos enfrentamos juntos al enemigo cruel. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 472–473) Those days of penury, hunger, and wandering, hiding from our masters who hunt us with their dogs of prey—let us not forget—were the happiest of your Ancestors in this nation. Indians and blacks made up the most tight-knit family, the American Muntu, ever to exist in this land. We shared corn; we drink water from the same rivers; together we shall worship the Moon, the Sun, and our Dead on the mountaintops. Our children grew up learning the same words, cultivating the same soils. Black Seminoles. Comanche blacks . . . until the day when the White Wolf appears with his guns and wagons setting the plains ablaze. They killed the -Buffalo-Man and declared war on our parents to expel them from the country of their elders. Then they said: “The only good Indian is a dead Indian!” We confronted the cruel enemy together. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 414)

The novel’s connection between the indigenous population and the individuals of African ancestry is very powerful in revisiting the historical bond

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between these groups; both have suffered genocide and abuse at the hands of their common enemy, the loba blanca. The concept of interracial unity is consistent with the holistic worldview and temporal fluidity of the novel as a whole. Even some Europeandescended characters are included among the Muntu because even individuals of European heritage have faced sorrow, pain, and oppression. This is underscored in the fourth chapter of section four, as an unnamed narrator reveals José María Morelos’s tri-ethnic heritage: “Blanca, negra, mestiza, mulata es tu cara con la sombra del dolor” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 339). “Black, Indian, White, mestizo, mulatto is your face with its shadow of pain” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 298). Because these groups all suffer and face common struggles, they have the potential to share a common bond. José María Morelos represents the individual in the Americas that is product of ethnic mixing among African, European, and indigenous groups. The great Mexican leader is described as the son of a mulatto father and an Olmeca Indian mother who fights with the support of two mythological forces: Changó and Quetzalcóatl, the legendary ruler of ancient Mexico’s Toltec and Aztec civilizations. This spiritual support from two mythical foundations echoes the concept of shared cultural and spiritual unity between the indigenous American and the Black populations. The novel’s concept of unity goes beyond skin color to look at the heart of the individual. Changó, el gran putas is distinct among the other Afro-Caribbean novels of resistance in this study in the manner that it represents all oppressed races and populations as one united group. In chapter two of section five, as Zaka recounts the history of Blacks and Native Americans working together, he notes that “Cuando un ekobio se libera a sí mismo, da la libertad a sus Ancestros muertos en la esclavitud” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 383). “When an ekobio is liberated, he brings freedom to his Ancestors who died in slavery” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 337). Unity is also important for survival because the success of one group brings freedom to another group. The achievements of Caribbean Blacks serve as solid examples of courage and hope for other groups. An important example is found in Ngafúa’s discussion with Agne Brown reflecting the significant role that the Haitian Revolution plays in the struggle toward universal liberation: “La revolución victoriosa de los antiguos esclavos de Haití ofrece apoyo a los libertadores de las nuevas repúblicas de América” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 275). “The victorious revolution of the former slaves of Haiti offers support to the liberators of the new republics of America” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 242). Haiti’s victory is significant for oppressed nations as well as for people of color throughout the African Diaspora because it symbolizes the colonized nations’ ability to gain freedom through unified resistance. In order for feats such as Haiti’s liberation to take place, the populace must

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first embrace their shared identity and resources. Each step made by one individual ekobio affects others who have suffered before; therefore, the text posits that each race has the potential to improve the quality of life for the others. This concept of fighting to improve the lives of others brings us back to the conclusion that the aged Ti Noel reaches at the close of Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo, regarding the true mission of humankind: En aquel momento, vuelto a la condición humana, el anciano tuvo un supremo instante de lucidez . . . . Y comprendía, ahora, que el hombre nunca sabe para quién padece y espera. Padece y espera y trabaja para gentes que nunca conocerá, y que a su vez padecerán y esperarán y trabajarán para otros que tampoco serán felices, pues el hombre ansía siempre una felicidad situada más allá de la porción que le es otorgada. Pero la grandeza del hombre está precisamente en querer mejorar lo que es. (1984, 123) It was then that the old man, resuming his human form, had a supremely lucid moment . . . . Now he understood that a man never knows for whom he suffers and hopes. He suffers and hopes ad toils for people he will never know, and who, in turn, will suffer and hope and toil for others who will not be happy either, for man always seeks a happiness far beyond that which is meted out to him. But man’s greatness consists in the very fact of wanting to be better than he is. (Carpentier 1994, 184–185)

Ti Noel’s epiphany comes from his life’s experience as a member of an oppressed group. While El reino’s conclusion is somewhat more pessimistic than the conclusion of Changó, el gran putas, both works come to the same conclusion that unity is the future hope for humanity. Manuel Zapata Olivella’s novel is a Colombian expression of the AfroCaribbean novel of resistance. This African-influenced worldview is represented in the novel’s thematic content, as well as its structure, which is based on values of Afro-Caribbean aesthetics. Like El reino de este mundo, La paz del pueblo, and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, Zapata Olivella’s novel looks at the world from the perspective of the poor and oppressed groups that are predominately individuals of color. The characters are not individuals, but rather form part of a trajectory of generations that have struggled, triumphed, and passed on their collective histories, feelings, and challenges to those that will follow in the future. These collective memories are enveloped in the oral information that survived the Middle Passage and has offered to later generations an avenue to continue their traditions, heritage, and ethnicity against a society that historically has discounted their existence. The remembered past is not only about those who left Africa and came to the Americas, but rather

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it is a cultural storing of shared experiences and aesthetics transferred from one generation to another.

UNITY Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance are significant literary vehicles that reflect the cultural richness and authentic social realities of Africandescended populations in the Caribbean Basin. I have chosen the selected novels of Alejo Carpentier, Quince Duncan, Carlos Guillermo Wilson, and Manuel Zapata Olivella because these were the first major writers who utilized their familiarity with the Afro-Caribbean community to portray its social problems, history, and aesthetic in Spanish. Each work offers a unique view of the Afro-Caribbean population and its collective struggles in the African Diaspora. I have built upon the research in Shirley Jackson’s “La tradición religiosa africana en la literatura afro-hispánica actual” (1988) and “The African World View in Five Afro-Hispanic Novels” (1986), Eugenio Matibag’s Afro-Cuban Religious Experience: Cultural Reflections in Narrative (1996), and Edward Mullen’s Afro-Cuban Literature: Critical Junctures (1998). Jackson’s 1986 study looks at the works of two of the writers whose novels have been addressed in this book, Manuel Zapata Olivella and Alejo Carpentier. Matibag and Mullen’s texts focus on Alejo Carpentier and other Cuban poets and writers. While their works focus on elements of the Afro-Caribbean worldview, I have extended their research to cover the presence of Ashé-Caribbean aesthetics in literature of resistance in three more Hispanophone Caribbean prose writers, Quince Duncan, Carlos Guillermo Wilson, and Manuel Zapata Olivella. The selected novels present similar characteristics in reflecting Afrocentric perspectives and cultures in a revolutionary mode, intended to identify and offer solutions to the social inequities of African-descended individuals. Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance contain common structural and contextual elements that reflect the Afro-Caribbean community. While these elements are more pronounced in some novels than in others, they are all visible in the works selected. The novels also contain shared elements that are consistent with Frantz Fanon’s theory of fighting literature and Paulo Freire’s concept of literature that speaks for those that have been denied their primordial right to the word (1997, 69). Both of these postcolonial thinkers conclude that literature presented from the perspective of the oppressed can serve to elevate, validate, and empower this sector of society.

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Fanon presents possible solutions toward overcoming oppressive barriers in his famous study entitled The Wretched of This Earth (1963). Fanon believes that the only manner in which Blacks can truly become independent of European oppression is by producing “fighting literature.” This develops as the “intellectual writer” passes through three phases, each stage enabling him to overcome the traditional limits imposed by colonial-influenced society. The first phase is one of assimilation, as the individual adapts to the environment around him. The second phase is one of anger and mourning, as the writer looks at the past and begins to see the present realities of the world that envelops them; they begin working toward making individuals of African heritage cognizant of their situation. Carlos Guillermo Wilson demonstrates Fanon’s second stage in Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores. This text is filled with humor, irony, satire, and allegory and reflects the writer’s childhood, and the depths of his memory (1963, 222). According to Fanon, in the third stage, the writer attempts to alert cohorts of their shared struggle and turns himself into an awakener of the people by creating a fighting literature (222–223). In this final stage, the individual attempts to dislodge his or her peers and provoke them to act, in order to promote change. All the novels included in this book illustrate Fanon’s latter two stages. Carpentier, Duncan, Wilson, and Zapata Olivella use their works to awaken the people by producing fighting or revolutionary literature that serves as a transnational literature. The definition of national literature comes from Ian Smart’s analysis that the Costa Rican, Cuban, Panamanian, and Colombian peoples of color share common elements that allow them spiritually to form a collective Afro-Caribbean nation (1994a, 5). The second theoretical foundation that has been integrated into this study is that of Brazilian educator Paulo Freire. In his 1970 social/educational text entitled Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Freire demonstrates that through education and self-reflection, underrepresented populations can empower themselves, thereby breaking the social, psychological, and historical chains of oppression that have bound them. Freire believes that the way to liberate the oppressed is through internal self-development and empowerment, rather than looking to outside populations for assistance (1997, 36). He does not speak of the race of community leaders, but instead of their respect and love for the community they represent. This element is important in terms of Alejo Carpentier, whose ethnic background distinguishes him from his peers in this study but does not prevent him from producing a rich and authentic Afrocentric literary perspective, especially in El reino de este mundo. Freire theorizes that oppressed populations hold a unique position because they can restructure the present system of power, and thus establish a more just and loving system—a system that he considers to be more humane than would be a simple inversion of the present societal structure (1977, 26,70).

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As a result of the integration of these postcolonial theories, scholars will be better able to identify how Afro-Caribbean novelists play a major role in empowering the African American community and educating the reader. These works are also important in the manner in which they offer content and structure that make the reader conscious of the importance of moving beyond the traditional approach toward reflecting populations of color seen in traditional literature. By combining the ideas of these two progressive thinkers as a theoretical backdrop for the novels covered in this book, my hope has been to demonstrate the power that such literature of resistance holds for the advancement of humankind, regardless of race or cultural heritage. This ontological perspective can be seen in other regions of the African Diaspora but the Caribbean Basin is a region where rich cultural practices, language, and belief systems come from the same spiritual and mythological origins.38 The initial author in this study, Alejo Carpentier, serves as a point of departure because of his initial literary attempt to integrate himself within and to reflect the Afro-Cuban community in Ecué-yamba-O. This novel illustrates the author’s attempt to write from a knowledgeable Afro-Caribbean perspective. His first work lacked the concepts of unity and optimism found in his second novel, but it is important in serving as a building block toward developing the more authentic literary perspective found in El reino de este mundo. This second novel demonstrates that he was able to successfully comprehend the aesthetics and values of the Afro-Caribbean community. While this perspective ceased to be the central theme in his later body of novels, his vision of lo real maravilloso continued throughout his literary career. This literary perspective, first defined by Carpentier in the prologue of El reino de este mundo, appears in the works of Duncan, Wilson, and Zapata Olivella. While Carpentier’s novels look at Black identity at a local level in the nations of Cuba and Haiti, Quince Duncan’s novel La paz del pueblo leads the reader into a deeper discussion regarding the problems of Black immigrants. La paz del pueblo illustrates the Afro-Caribbean worldview and focuses particular attention on the unique problems that face Antillean Blacks in Costa Rica. He integrates his investigative and personal knowledge to produce a book that includes the important social and political influence of foreign national companies within the nation. La paz del pueblo attacks those individuals that oppress the Afro-Antillean community in Costa Rica and demonstrates that through collective resistance, the oppressed can demand and achieve justice. The novel that best compares with La paz del pueblo is Wilson’s Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores because of the integration of historical events that surround the immigrant population of Antillean descent within a Central American nation. Along with the inclusion of characteristics of the AshéCaribbean novel of resistance, Los nietos includes the author’s technique of

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attacking populations that oppress members of the Afro-Antillean community. Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores presents the Antillean Black population as an empowered group and uses irony and humor to attack the novel’s antagonists. This mode of satirizing enemies distinguishes his work from those of his fellow novelists covered in this study. Los nietos expands its perspective to look at the situation of Blacks throughout the African Diaspora, a view best illustrated by Manuel Zapata Olivella in Changó, el gran putas. Manuel Zapata Olivella’s novel is the last work covered in this study because it represents the most creative and structurally complex among the Afro-Caribbean novels of resistance. While El reino de este mundo and La paz del pueblo look at particular nations, Changó, el gran putas looks at the African Diaspora on a wider level. The Black community’s struggle for justice and equality is reflected in numerous countries within the African Diaspora. This novel even includes historical and cultural details beyond Hispanophone nations in the Caribbean. It begins in Africa and concludes in the United States. The author focuses on the leaders of the Muntu that have played a significant role in the liberation of oppressed populations of color in the Americas. Changó also best demonstrates that skin tone or race does not determine an individual’s spiritual commitment to the oppressed Black community, thus offering a positive view to support unity across racial and cultural boundaries. One of the elements of this research that was not initially anticipated was the important theme of unity, an element that is consistent in the four major novels in this study. The theme of unity appears in El reino de este mundo as a goal that provokes individuals to struggle to improve their current circumstances for the benefit of future generations. This element demonstrates a connection between Afro-Caribbean individuals in the present and in the future. The concept of unity that is illustrated in La paz del pueblo is embedded in the concept of the samamfo. In Duncan’s novel, oppressed Blacks and socially conscious white characters come together to commune with the collective spirit of ancestors and deities. His novel demonstrates that by maintaining a close spiritual relationship with the Ancestors and the samamfo, oppressed populations of African ancestry can improve their present condition. The novel’s perspective of unity goes beyond skin color to demonstrate that the Afro-Caribbean perspective is one that affects individuals beyond ethnic and cultural categories. Wilson’s novel differs from those of Duncan and Carpentier in its focus on unity beyond national boundaries. In Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, Carlos Guillermo Wilson demonstrates that unity is important for Blacks, especially for those of African-Antillean descent, regardless of the nations in which they reside. He creates the concept of sodinu as the ideal state of unity among the collective population of African descent. While his novel offers some examples of Blacks that are hostile toward members of their own ethnic

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community, we find few redeeming qualities in any of the white/mestizo characters. This element is dramatically different in Zapata Olivella’s Changó, el gran putas. Zapata Olivella’s novel demonstrates that whites have the potential to initiate positive actions for the oppressed if they are committed to the group’s collective struggle. The novel reflects the concept of unity at its greatest level by encapsulating the Afro-American spirit into the Muntu, a concept that includes individuals that are aware of, and sensitive to, the historical and cultural pasts of populations of African heritage. Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, like Changó, el gran putas, looks at the African Diaspora in a broader context than do the selected works of Carpentier and Duncan. As the world continues to becomes a more interconnected global village that celebrates diversity, so too should the Latin American literary canon. The traditional literary canon is analogous to civilizations described by Oswald Spengler as being mature almost a century ago in his landmark study Decline of the West (1926). The Hispanic literary canon must continue to regenerate itself by recognizing and celebrating literature from historically underrepresented populations. By replenishing such literary perspectives and cultural values, the canon will be more representative of our modern society, broadening its composition to include literature that best encapsulates the rich cultural elements of the Americas. By understanding literary and cultural elements in the Ashé-Caribbean novel of resistance, the intellectual community has an opportunity to comprehend the literary aesthetics that seldom have been acknowledged within the mainstream Latin American literary canon. The writers covered in this study have used their literary novels to reflect problems and offer possible solutions. As a result, the reader is able to discover important African-oriented elements and collective problems they faced and their responses to counter these challenges. My hope is to continue this research and identify new values and criteria that serve as literary links among populations of color in the Americas, and to illustrate how, through literature, the worldview and aesthetics of the AfroCaribbean community can be explored. The literature produced by these four novelists contains structural patterns that play a major role in countering literary shortcomings from the past by using their novels to instruct. This book has outlined patterns of literary expression that are as significant for their thematic format as for their structural elements, and part of a larger literary trajectory that reflects the Afro-Caribbean community’s struggle in the form of narrative to counter the logocentric worldview. These novels belong to a larger group of works published in English and French that allow the Black community to express itself in a manner that is consistent with its values and cultural traditions. Martin-Ogunsola notes the conservative nature of the canon: “Academe has always been tradition-bound in its emphasis on the classics of western

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literature, whether they were the works of Greco-Roman writers or those of print-culture Europeans and their New World successors; therefore the academy developed an almost impenetrable canon” (1991, 42). Such novels present similar characteristics in reflecting an Afrocentric perspective and culture in a revolutionary mode, which is intended to facilitate the Afro-Caribbean individual in their struggle toward just treatment and their sociocultural identity. Cudjoe states that resistance literature “virtually becomes a process in which man is injected into his past world, and acts to come to grips with that past reality before he can come to terms with the present” (69). In order for Afro-Caribbean individuals to progress toward greater self-awareness and ethnic pride, they must first be made aware of the role that their history has played in the construction of their present reality. This subgenera of Caribbean literature appears in a group of novels written by Puerto Rican female writers (born both on the island and within the United States). While this project has focused on Palo Monte, Santería can be seen in novels by Puerto Rican writers, such as Carmen Montañéz’s Pelo bueno, pelo malo (2009), Dahlma Llanos Figueroa’s Daughters of the Stone (2009), Irete Lazo’s The Accidental Santera (2008), Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro’s Los documentados (2006), Martha Moreno Vega’s autobiographical novel When the Spirits Dance the Mambo (2004), Mayra Santos-Febres’s Sirena Selena vestida de pena (2000), and Luís Rafael Sanchez’s La guaracha de Macho Camacho (1976). These Puerto Rican novels, especially those published in the twenty-first century, play a major role in offering authentic portrayals of Afro-Caribbean spirituality to the North American Mainland.

NOTES 1. According to Marvin Lewis (1987,1), between 1947 and 1983, there were five major Colombian authors of African ancestry: Arnoldo Palacios (1924–2015), Carlos A. Truque (1927–1970), Juan Zapata Olivella (1922–2008), Manuel Zapata Olivella (1920–2004), and Jorge Artel (1909–1994). 2. The Negritud(e) movement attempted to shift away from shallow characterizations, unflattering images, and the use of stereotypes, which could limit the work’s social value. 3. The expression population of color will be used in this work in conjunction with Muntu to describe those populations that are not considered to be of European ancestry and that do not form part of the dominant hegemonic power structure. 4. In Changó, the North American leader Agne Brown is a strong female character who, according to Zapata Olivella, “serves as a definitive leader in the last section of the work and is a culmination of the development of the female characters in all previous works” (quoted in Captain-Hidalgo 1993, 3). Zapata Olivella’s positive and sensitive projection of the Afro-American female in his works appeared “even before it became the popular thing to do” (Captain-Hidalgo 1993, 67). Similar qualities can

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also be found in the matriarchal character, Felicidad Dolores, in Cubena’s Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores. 5. For a more in-depth explanation of the Bantu concept nommo, see Jahn (1961, 126). 6. Zapata Olivella does not believe that the characters and plots in works such as Chambacú will incite an armed struggle. At most, he seeks to provoke thought about the prevailing conditions among underrepresented populations in the Americas. Like so many other writers from societies with great economic disparities, he has used his literature to speak for those that cannot articulate their oppression in written form (Captain-Hidalgo 1993, 55). 7. Zapata Olivella’s novel, Fusilamiento del Diablo, documents the life and death of Manuel Saturio Valencia, a Black man executed in 1907 in Colombia for his use of arson as a tool of resistance. 8. In his seminal study on race in the Caribbean, The Two Variants in Caribbean Race Relations: A Contribution to the Sociology of Segmented Societies, Dutch race relations scholar Harmannus (Harry) Hoetink establishes his theory of somatic norm image, a theory that explained how the concept of race is interpreted differently among distinct ethnic communities. As a result, the concept of white differs from one geographical region to another. 9. Muntu will be used in this chapter in the same manner that it is used within the novel, to refer to individuals committed to the liberation of the oppressed populations of color. 10. Within the novel, many of the characters are as much mythlogical as historical. Zapata Olivella’s first novel, Chambacú, corral de negros, demonstrates the conflictive relationship between the poor Afro-Colombian population and the government. The protagonist, José Raquel, views African-inspired religious practices and beliefs in a negative manner. Part of this could be explained by the fact that Zapata Olivella modeled this work on Ciro Alegría’s indigenous novel, El mundo es ancho y ageno (1941), but the more probable explanation was his lack of maturity as a writer committed to redefining the Afro-Caribbean community. 11. For more information, see Capitan-Hidalgo’s interview with the writer (1985, 29). 12. According to Charles S. Finch’s study of the African basis of human mythology, Echoes of the Old Darkland, Shango is the first king of the Yoruba nation of Oyo who is eventually persecuted by his own subjects and driven from the throne. In his despair, he hangs himself from a tree after which he falls into a deep hole. Eventually, he ascends to the sky on a chain and becomes one of the most powerful Orishas. He notes that there are many curious mythic parallels between Shango and Jesus: (1) each is styled a king; (2) each suffers persecution by his people; (3) each dies by hanging; (4) each descends into the nether world; and (5) each is resurrected, ascends into heaven, and is translated into a divine immortal (see Smart 1996, 126). 13. This term refers to the unbreakable courage and human spirit of the African that has enabled him to survive in the “New World.” This drive to advance comes from the belief that the spirits of the Ancestors continue to commune among the living, providing them with strength and direction (R. Jackson 1988, 109). 14. Ekobio is synomous with brother or fellow member among the Ñáñigo.

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15. The structure of Changó is well defined in Black Literature and Humanism (R. Jackson 1988, 108–112). 16. In occidental African cultures (Mali) in the sixteenth century, the griot dressed in elegant masks and recounted historical feats, legends, genealogy, and folk and spiritual wisdom (see Friedemann 1995, 99). 17. In 1603, the Govenor of Cartegena, Gerónimo de Suazo, faced the threat of the palanqueros of the region of La Matuna. This Guerra de los cimarrones was led by the famous Colombian rebel Benkos Biojo, who eventually attained the establishment of lands for this group (Friedemann 1995, 79). This legendary historical character plays a major role in the novel, especially in the section dealing with Colombia. 18. Elegba is known by the following names within different communities: Legba, Lemba, Elegúa, Eshú, Echú, and Exú. This Orisha is the intermediary between the dead and the living. This saint stands at the crossroads and must be consulted before spiritual activites can take place. 19. Egberto Bermúdez’s research notes that Pedro Claver “was a Jesuit missionary who attempted to divorce African slaves form their Chants, musical instruments, rituals and gatherings during his residence in Cartagena between 1615 and 1654. When he found blacks singing, dancing, or celebrating any ritual activity, Claver often confiscated the drums and, with a cross in his hand, whipped the musicians and dancers” (1994, 228). In Zapata Olivella’s novel, this priest is considered to be member of the Muntu, even though historically his statements reflect his inability to accept their cultural practices. 20. Toni Morrison’s novel Beloved (1971) was influenced by a published story about a slave, Margaret Garner, who in 1851, escaped along with her children to Ohio, fleeing her master in Kentucky. When she was about to be recaptured, she tried to kill her children rather than return them to a life of slavery. Only one of her children died and Margaret was imprisoned for her deed. She refused to show remorse, saying that she was unwilling to have her children suffer as she had. 21. In the third chapter of section five, among the prisoners, there is a woman who also kills her children as a way to avoid their enslavement: “Prudence, la que ahorcó a sus dos pequeños hijos al enterarse que pagaría una condena de por vida” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 480). “Prudence, who hanged her two little sons upon learning she would serve a life sentence” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 421). She believed that her children were better off dead, rather than living in such a society without their mother. The graphic examples in the text offer a clear vision of the many levels of abuses that the Muntu must endure from colonial forces, and the extremes to which they are driven to escape these conditions. 22. Father Claver tells his nephew that “el Dios blanco hace a sus criaturas a su imagen y semejanza” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 114). “God fashions his creatures in his own semblance and image” (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 100). This statement reveals the clergy and the Catholic Church’s Eurocentric view of religion, and the Church’s justification of racial oppression. 23. According to Zapata Olivella, Simón Bolívar serves as an example of an individual who is initially indifferent toward his own African heritage, but who later overcomes this attitude and eventually becomes a Muntu himself. A conversation between two slaves reveals the reason that Simón Bolívar initially could not be of assistance to the Muntu:

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—Son las Sombras de tu amo Simón y del Almirante José Prudencio. Combatirán juntos por la independencia de sus países pero no se ponen de acuerdo para darnos la libertad. —Cresencio, oigo un ladrido . . . —Sí, Hipólita, es la sombra Perro que se oculta en sus sangres, la gota blanca que llevan los mestizos, la que traiciona a sus hermanos indios y negros. (Zapata Olivella 1983, 236) They are the Shadows of your master Simón and Admiral José Prudencio. Thy will fight together for the independence of their countries, but they cannot agree on giving us freedom. Crescencio, I hear barking . . . Yes, Hipólita, it is the Dog Shadow that hides in the bloodlines, the white drop that the mestizos carry, that which betrays their Indian and black brothers and sisters. (Zapata Olivella 2010b, 209)

Because of his mixture of ethnic heritage and lack of awareness of his own Black ancestry, Bolívar is at first unable to work to help Blacks but he overcomes this shortcoming as he develops a consciousness of his Black heritage and ancestral past after he is infused with the spirit of his Black grandmother: “Es el alma de tu abuela negra, renacida en ti, más viva, más fuerte porque los difuntos se enriquecen con las experiencias de los vivos” (Zapata Olivella 1983, 237). “It is the soul of your black grandmother, reborn in you, more alive, stronger because the dead enrich themselves with the experiences of the living” (Zapata Olivella 2010, 210). As a result of this spiritual visit from an ancestor, Nana Taita, he recovers the history of his ancestors that enables him to become an authentic member of the Muntu. 24. In the preface of El árbol brujo de la libertad, Mina notes the parallel among terms associated with distinct writers: “Frente a lo real maravilloso, de Capentier, y el realismo mágico de García Márquez, Zapata Olivella nos hable de lo ‘empírico mítico’ desde la antropología y el psicoanálisis, entendido como respuesta material del hombre primigenio respecto a lo ‘real material’” [Regarding the marvelous real, of Capentier, and magical realism of García Márquez, Zapata Olivella tells us about the “mythical empirical” from anthropology and psychoanalysis, understood as the material response of the primal man with respect to the material real] (Zapata Olivella 2002, 20). 25. In contrast to this interpretation, Marvin Lewis postulates that as the novel progresses “there is a movement from synchrony, or mythic and cyclic time, towards diachrony, history in which time is seen as a linear sequence” (1987, 113). However, the fifth section of the novel is built upon a climactic merger of characters from the past communing with characters in the present, thus representing ultimate synchrony. 26. Other examples of the mixture of verb tenses appear at other points within the novel (e.g., Zapata Olivella 1983, 144, 414). 27. Olugbala is a divine spirit assigned to help the slaves on their trip to the Americas. 28. The Bantu term nommo means “word” in English. Janheinz Jahn explains this concept in his book Muntu: The New African Culture. Jahn explains that “all the activities of men, and all the movement in nature, rest on the word, on the productive power of the word, which is water and heat and seed and Nommo, that is, life force itself. The word frees the ‘frozen’ forces of minerals, brings activity to plants and animals, and so guides bintu, the ‘things,’ to meaningful behavior” (1961, 126).

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29. Olivella offers the glossary in the back of the book to aid the reader in entering the narrative world of Changó and understanding terminology associated with African and Afro-Caribbean mythology, religion, and culture. 30. An interesting example of the presence of African culture through the use of the nommo appears in one of Colombia’s best-known contemporary novelists, Gabriel García Márquez. García Márquez used a Bantú word in naming his fictitious village Macondo in Cien años de soledad (Friedemann 1995, 100). Germán de Granada “afirma que Macondo es símbolo de ‘la sociedad abigarrada, multirracial, mulata, que describe García Márquez y que corresponde por entero a la fisonomía de un territorio en el que indios, blancos y sobre todo africanos, han vivido juntos varios siglos’” [affirms that Macondo is a symbol of “the brindle, multicultural, mulatto society that García Márquez describes and that completely corresponds with the territorial makeup of indians, whites and more specificially Africans, have lived together for various centuries”] (1995, 100). This word of bantú origin also reflects a product of the region: “designa al plátano y conlleva significado mágico-religiosos” [it is designated for bananna production and carries a magical-religious significance] (1995, 100). Friedemann notes that in addition to its agricultural richness, this region of Colombia is jungle and is significant for its history of providing shelter to cimarrones, freed Blacks, and criollos (100–101). 31. There are other inclusions of poetry in the work (Zapata Olivella 1983; 263, 312, 323, 331, 332, 396, 498). 32. For more information on the term Manichean, see Fanon 1967. 33. Other references are made to the moon during rituals or as a significant tool to guide the ekobios (Zapata Olivella 1983; 192, 234, 235, 393, 474, 488). 34. Other references that equate the sun with Changó or as a guiding tool appear at other points in the novel (Zapata Olivella 1983; 8, 352, 371). 35. Throughout the novel, there are references made to Changó and his connection with lightning and storms (Zapata Olivella 1983; 35, 85, 89, 90, 233, 299). References to Olodumare and thunder also appear in the text (Zapata Olivella 1983; 7, 145). 36. Smart offers an in-depth study on the deity Changó as a trickster figure (1991, 24). 37. The novel’s glossary defines Chankpana (Chankpala) as one of the fourteen Orishas and the son of Orungán and Yemayá. This deity is responsible for causing illnesses by way of insect bites (Zapata Olivella 1983, 517). 38. In his study Central American Writers, Ian Smart notes that similar cultural elements in American nations link Blacks across their national boundaries: “Literature from Panamá and Costa Rica to be reviewed in this work should be true for analogously produced literature from Nicaragua . . . Guatemala, Honduras, Colombia, Venezuela, Cuba the Dominican Republic, or any land in the general Caribbean region where a peculiar demographic cross-pollination has resulted in the creation of Hispanic literature by Caribbean peoples whose culture and history are profoundly rooted in the English-speaking islands.” (1994a, 5)

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Index

Notes are indicated by an ‘n’ with the note number following the page number. Abakúa Secret Sect, 25, 35 Abasi, 35 abuse, 33, 35, 263; economic and cultural, 79; sexual, 44, 221–22 acculturation, 29n4 aché, 4 Adeola, 170 African American history, 148, 197, 204, 212, 216, 253 African American identity. See under identity African history, 55, 103, 203, 209; culture, and, 15–16 African identity. See under identity African Methodist Episcopal Church, 243 African spiritual: practices, 5–6, 20, 36, 48, 89, 153, 204, 234; traditions, 21, 198, 203, 220 African spirituality, 6, 18, 25, 105, 153, 198; Costa Rica, in, 88–95 African traditions and resistance, 151–53; combative vision toward existence, 154–63; drum, 180–82; heteroglossia, 175–78; magic and medicine, 182; music and dance, 178–80; natural environment, 182–

86; nommo, 172–75; oral tradition, 166–69; lo real maravillosso, 163–66; repetition and circularity, 186–87; ritual, 169–72; syncretism, 153; trickster figure, 187–91 Africana caoba tree, 24 Afro-Caribbean culture, 36, 48, 96, 193, 199, 209, 250 Afro-Caribbean identity. See under identity Afro-Caribbean novels of resistance, ix, xvi, 40, 72, 195, 249–50, 258, 263–64, 268 Afro-Caribbean population, 5, 17, 88, 199, 208, 253, 265 Afro-Caribbean spiritual: practices, 24, 26–27, 98, 123; traditions, 20, 26, 96 Afro-Caribbean spirituality, 6, 17–20, 27, 48, 95, 209 Afro-Colombian population, 201, 206–7 Afro-Columbian cultural resistance, 216–19 Afro-Columbian identity. See under identity Afro-Costa Rican population, 77–79, 84 Afrocriollo movement, 37, 75nn6–7 Afro-Cuban culture, 33–34, 36, 38–40 285

286

Afro-Cuban population, xv, 37 Afro-Cuban spirituality, 17, 23, 33–34 Afro-Cuban spiritual traditions, 34, 51 Afro-Cubanist movement, 35, 37, 75nn6,8 Afro-Haitian religion. See under Vodun Afro-Hispanic culture and literature, 26, 38 Afro-Hispanic literary canon, 163 Afro-Mexican population, 147 Afro-Panamanian novel of resistance, 132–40 aguardiente (alcohol), 61 AIDS, 192 ajihada (goddaughter), 22 ajihado (godson), 22 Akomana (to be possessed by an ancestor), 90 albinos, 177, 194n12 Aleijadinho, 215, 250 Alix, Juan Antonio, x Amazon, 12 Anancy tales, 25, 29–30n11, 110–11, 126, 130n31 anger and mourning, 8 animism, 16 Antillean black(s), 78–79, 81–85, 131, 135–37, 189, 193nn2,4, 267; workers, 140–41, 145 Antillean immigrants, 81, 127n4, 128n13, 145, 267 Antilleanism, 75n6 Aponte rebellion, 123 appearance, x, 102, 155, 174 Arabic French gum tree, 24 Arias, Arnulfo, 141 Arrivi, Francisco, x Asabi, 170 àse, 4 Ashanti, 24 ashé, 4, 35 Ashé-Caribbean novels of resistance: Cubena and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, 131–96, 260, 267–68; (de)constructing the darker image

Index

of Africa, 11–30; Manuel Zapata Olivella and Changó: el gran putas, 197–274; overview, 3–10; La paz del pueblo, 77–130, 261, 267–68; El reino de este mundo: The First AshéCuban Novel of Resistance, 33–76, 260 Ashé-Colombian novel of resistance, 208–16 assimilation, 8 Atlantic Coast Railway, 82–83, 85, 127n7 de Avellaneda, Gertrudis Gómez, 9, 37 axé, 4 Ayoluwa, 170 Baartman, Saartjie, 13 babalawo, 29n10 Babaloa, 21–22, 29n10, 171–72, 231, 238, 251 de Balzac, Honoré, 74n5 baobab tree, 185 Baptist War of 1931, 23 Baron Samedi, 22, 29n8 barrios, xi Bases y Colonias, 128n11 Batista, Fulgencio (Gen.), 23, 34 Bayano, 146 Beleño, Joaquín, 135, 193nn3–4 Benigno, 107, 109, 115 Bible, 20 Biojo, Benkos (King), 206, 211, 214, 219, 225, 241, 246–48 birds, 70–71 bitácora, 210 Bizango, 22 black identity. See under identity blackness, 39 Black Power Movement, 123 blues, 243–44 Boise-Caiman forest, 251–52 Bolívar, Simón, 212, 272–73n23 bombax ceiba (silk cotton tree), 23 Bonaparte, Pauline, 43–44, 63 Bondieu, 21

Index

bonkó, 25 Bouckman, 42–44, 62, 66–68, 211–12, 223, 228, 232, 246, 251–52 Boza, Francisco Mendiola, 83 bozales, 206 Brazil, 35, 211, 250 Brazilian culture and history, 180 Breille, Cornelle, 44 Brer Rabbit tales, 25, 130n31 Breton, André, 43, 75n12 Brown, Agne, 216–19, 226, 230, 242– 43, 249, 255, 261–63, 270n4 Brown, Aníbal, 158, 173 Brown, Been, 85, 89, 98, 105, 112–13 Brown, Cató “El Loco,” 85, 91, 106 Brown, Guadalupe, 155 Brown, John, 138–40, 184 Brown, John (Rev.), 248–49 Brown, Margaret, 218–19 Brown, Mrs. Been, 85, 98, 105–7 Brown, Simón Bolivar, 155, 165 Brown, Timothy, 226 Brown, Victoriano Lorenzo, 156, 168 bruja (witch), 207 brutality, 45, 188, 211 Buffalo Soldiers, 216 cabildos (mutual aid societies), xi, 206–7, 241 Caizcimú, 162 calenda, 21, 29n7 Calixa, 161 Canal Zone, 141, 145, 158, 165 Candomblé, 35 cannibalism, 16 capoeira, 180 Carmen, Police Chief, 91–93, 116 carne de cañon (cannon fodder), 143–44 Carpentier, Alejo, 87, 136, 197, 202, 212, 265, 267; Ecué-yamba-O, 8–9, 37–38, 40–41, 75n9, 267; El reino de este mundo. See under El reino de este mundo Carpentier’s novel of resistance, 40–58; oral tradition, 55–58; lo

287

real maravillosso, 42–48, 54–55; spirituality and resistance, 51–54; syncretism, 48–51 de Carrión, Miguel, 37 Carter-Torrijos Treaty, 137, 165 de las Casas, Bartolomé, 148–49 Castro, Fidel, 23, 34 Catholic Church, 20, 206, 220–21 Catholicism, 20–22, 206, 219–21, 244 Cebanio, Bandelé, 139, 153, 163, 166– 67, 182, 185–86, 195n19 ceiba tree (silk cotton tree), 23–24, 66, 185–86, 250–51 Changó, 164, 184–85, 209, 227, 229, 236, 251, 254–55; trickster, the, 258–60 Changó: el gran putas (Zapata Olivella). See under Zapata Olivella de Chateaubriand, François-René, 59 Chefmenteur, Suzanne, 172 chombo, xvi, 135, 137, 170, 173, 193 Chombo (Wilson), 131, 133, 136–37, 161, 172, 174, 182, 191 Christianity, 20–23, 48–51, 53–54, 96–98, 105, 153, 217, 220, 234 Christophe, Henri (King), 42–43, 45, 53, 60, 65–66, 68, 211–12, 232, 248 cimarrón, 45–46, 69, 147, 181, 214 cimarronaje, 69, 76n24, 100 cimarrónes (rebels), 100, 258 civil rights, 179, 217 Claver, Padre, 219, 237, 252, 272n19 Cocolos, 170 Code Noir, 21 Colombia, 201–2, 205–8, 237 colonial blacks, 131–32, 136–38, 140, 158, 193nn2,4 combative vision toward existence, 18, 100–107, 154–63, 221–23 compadrazgo (Godparentship), 22 Congo Bean Stew, 16 connection between the spiritual and the political, 18, 23, 66–67, 123, 247–49 coplas, 241 Cortés, León, 86–87

288

Index

Costa Rica, 77, 80–83, 85–88, 96, 118, 126, 267; African spirituality in, 88–95 Costa Rican Civil War, 84 Coutinho, 225 Creole, 60 cronotopos, 229–30 crucifix, 20 Cruz, Celia, 149 Los cuatro espejos (Duncan), 77, 80, 129n26 Cuba, 17, 22, 24–25, 33–36, 42–43, 267 Cuban blacks, xv Cuban culture and literature, 6 Cuban poetry, 6 Cuban slaves, 33–35 Cubena. See Carlos Guillermo Wilson Cubena and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores, 9, 126, 131–96, 203, 267–68; African traditions and resistance, 151–53; conclusions on: unity, 191–93, 260; history in Los nietos, 142–50; history of blacks in Panama, 140–42; Panamanian novel of resistance, 132–40 cult of saints, 21 cultural abandonment, 158 Cuminá, 89–90, 96, 100–101, 103, 108, 118, 123, 126, 129n20 curandero, 19, 30n12 cures, 24, 250 cursed navel, 186, 195n19 Damballah, 46–47, 75n17 Damoney, 20–21, 24, 34 dark continent, 12 death, 216, 218–19, 227 (de)constructing the darker image of Africa, 11–30; Afro-Caribbean spiritualism, 17–20; connection between the spiritual and political, 23; drum and African spirituality, 25; eco-cultural traditions, medicine, and ritual, 23–25; syncretism between

African religions and Christianity, 20–22; trickster figure, 25–28 deities, 20, 22–23, 35 Desnos, Robert, 43, 75n13 Dessalines, Jean Jacques, 211–12, 232, 248 diablo, 26 dialect, black, 202, 204 discrimination, 35, 127n4, 138, 141, 161 divination, 18 Dolores, Felicidad, 137–40, 143–44, 152–54, 159, 163, 167–71; death of, 164–66, 186; descendants of, xvi, 132, 156, 175–76, 179–81, 183–84, 187–88 dominant cultures, 27 Dominican Church, 50, 61 dopi, 95 Douglass, Frederick, 204, 248 drum, 18, 63–64, 118, 130n33, 180–82; African spirituality, and, 25 dual pay system, 145 Du Bois, W. E. B., 204, 243 Dumas, Alejandro, 149 Duncan, Quince, 8, 73, 132, 201, 265; Los cuatro espejos, 77, 80, 129n26; Final de calle, 78, 84; Hombres curtidos, 77; Kimbo, 77, 93; La paz del pueblo. See under La paz del pueblo (Duncan) Duvalier, Jean-Claude “Papa Doc,” 22 Echu-Elegua, 68 eco-cultural traditions, medicine, and ritual, 23–25 Ecué-yamba-O (Carpentier), 8–9, 37– 38, 40–41, 75n9, 267 ekobio (spiritual brothers), 236–37, 264, 271n14 ekobios, 54, 210, 219–20, 225, 236–37, 250, 253 Elegba, 213, 225, 228, 271n18 Eleggua, 25–26, 34 empowerment, 8, 265 equality, 35–36, 79, 84, 268

Index

escaped-slave communities (palenques), xi Estenoz, Evaristo, 35 Esu, 26 Èsù-Elégbára, 26 ethnic pride, 79, 132, 205 Eurocentrism, 11 European, 11 faith: practices, 14; traditions, 6 Fallas, Carlos Luis, 79, 87 Ferguson, Charles, 90 fighting literature, 7, 134, 265–66 fighting phase, 8, 134 fighting to improve the lives of others, 264 Final de calle (Duncan), 78, 84 folk: medicine, 58; sayings, 237, 240; stories, 115–16; traditions, African and Afro-Cuban, 22 freedom, 66, 96, 188, 212, 218–19, 243; fight for, 23, 147, 198, 209, 215, 246 free slave communities, 211 Fuentes, Carlos, 80 fundamento, 35 Galdós, Benito Pérez, 74n5 Garvey, Marcus, 85–86, 104, 129n28, 149, 187, 192, 249 genocide, 263 Gordon, Elsa, 139, 142–43, 147, 154, 156–57 Grand Met, 21 griot, 55, 57, 111, 167–68, 272n16 Guacayarima, 152–53, 158, 162, 166, 168, 172, 176, 187–88, 190–91 Guerra de los cimarrones, 206, 272n17 Guerrero, Olivia, 159 Guerrero, Triunfo, 146, 159, 175 Guerrita de Raza (The Small Race War), 36 Guillén, Nicolás, 6, 37 Gutiérrez, Joaquín, 79, 87

289

Haiti, 16–17, 20–23, 35, 40–42, 86, 232, 240, 246, 267 Haitian freedom fighters, 51 Haitian religion and culture, 17 Haitian Revolution, 21, 38, 48, 123, 263 Haitian slaves, 42, 211, 220, 251 Haitian sugar crisis, 35 Haley, Alex, 88, 137, 227 Harlem Renaissance, 216 Harrington, Dr., 216, 255 healer, 27, 30n12 health disparities, x El Hermano Tucumá y el Hermano Araña, 110–11 heteroglossia, 18, 59–60, 115–16, 175– 78, 237–44 Hidalgo, Miguel, 237 Hispanic literary canon, 6, 27–28, 73, 207 Hispanophone Caribbean writers, 3, 7, 40 history: African. See African history; African American. See African American history; blacks in Panama, of, 140–42; importance of, 212–13; Los nietos, in, 142–50 Hombres curtidos (Duncan), 77 homosexuality, 192 hostility, 157, 207 houci, 62 houguenicon, 21 hounforts, 63 houngan (priest), 21–22, 29n5, 57, 66 hounsis, 21 humor, 241, 268 hunsis, 63 ibejis, 75n15 identity: African, 5, 17, 133, 199; African American, 203, 208; AfroCaribbean, 7, 15, 200, 202; AfroColumbian, 207; Afro-Hispanic, 133; black, x, 7, 78, 82, 96, 132, 158, 267; cultural, 254; European concept of, 198; West Indian, xv

290

Ifá system, 5 Illamba, Sosa, 230 intellectual writer, 7 intermarriage, 261 Iroko tree, 23–24 irony, 136, 194n6, 268 Isaacs, Jorge, 9, 207 Ivonnet, Pedro, 35 Izquierdo, Bandelé, 163–64 Jamaica, 23, 29n11, 85, 129n24 Jamaican Emancipation Day, 127n9 Jamaicans, 81–83 Jesus, 215 jimaguas, 46 Josué, 97, 102, 107 Judeo-Christian religions, 214–15 justice, 79, 84, 89, 114, 131, 267–68 Kanuri “Mai,” 214–15, 233–34, 247–48 Keita, Sundiata, 15 Kenton, Cornelio, 85, 111, 122 Kenton, Mariot, 85, 91, 94–95, 97, 100–101, 106, 113, 124 Kenton, Sitaira, 106, 112–15; murder and funeral of, 85, 96, 98–99, 109, 117, 125 Kimbo (Duncan), 77, 93 King, Martin Luther Jr., 149, 178, 217, 248 knowledge is power, 150, 192 Ku Klux Klan, 156, 226, 237 kutuguangos, 76n25 labor strikes, 83, 85 Ladrón, Bartolomé, 148, 164 Lamento, Libertad, 139, 148, 182 Latin American literary canon. See Hispanic literary canon Latino, Juan, 149 laughter, 114–15, 190 Lavallée, Joseph, 59 Leclerc, Gen., 44, 70 Legba, 25, 126, 216, 233, 255

Index

Lenoire, Marie Antoinette, 140 Lewis, Carlos Ambrosio, 149 Lewis, Eufemia, 139, 148, 166, 182 Lincoln, Abraham, 237 lingua franca, 206 linguistic syncretism, 178 literary: realism, 213; techniques, 203 lizard, 124 Llosa, Mario Vargas, 80 lobas blancas, 210, 217, 221, 225, 236–37, 245, 253, 260, 262–63 López, Matías, 85 Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores (Wilson). See under Cubena and Los Nietos de Felicidad Dolores loup-garou (werewolf), 22 Loveira, Carlos, 37 Lucumi, 17, 24–25, 34; culture, 33, 74n2 lullaby, 243 lynching, 226 Machado, Gerardo, 42 Mackandal, 42–45, 47, 51, 55–57, 60–61, 63, 65–69, 212, 223 Macumba, 35, 250 magic, 35, 259; medicine, and, 182; medicine and ritual, 23, 112–13, 130n32; nommo, and the, 62–63 magical realism, 55, 227 Malcolm X, 209, 227, 249, 257 Mamá Bull, 89–90, 98–100, 109, 117–18, 121–22 Mamán Loi, 47, 54 mambo (priestess), 21, 29n5 Mamy, 85, 89, 109–10 manigua, 34 marassas, 75n15 Marcelina, 162, 176 maroons, 85, 100, 132, 211, 243 martyrdom, 211, 218, 226 mascon, 174–75, 195n21 McForbes, Charles, 80 mediators, 68, 211

Index

medicine, 23–25, 112–13; folk, 58, 113; magic and, 182; non-Western, 18, 24, 98 mestizo, 35, 73, 77–78, 81–84, 114, 128n13, 132, 135–37, 269; defined, 10n7, 127n1 Mexican Afro-Mestizos, 216 Mexican struggle for independence, 212 de Mezy, Lenormand, 44, 51–52, 55, 64 Middle Passage, 110, 150, 225, 240, 244, 264 mockery, 160, 188 Mohammed, Askia, 15 Moncholo, Pupo, 241, 246, 256–57 Montebello, Padre, 160, 189 Moody, Elizabeth, 97, 102, 107, 115, 119–21, 123 Moody, Kingsman, 85, 89, 97–98, 102–3, 109, 113 Moody, Margaret, 103 moon, 64–65, 121–22, 130n34, 182, 251–53 Morant Bay Rebellion, 123 Moré, Benny, 149 Morejón, Nancy, 6 Morelos, José María, 212, 244, 263 Moreno, Candelaria, 158, 176, 189 Moreno, Juan, 138–40, 159, 171, 184 Moreno, Lesbiaquiña Petrablanche de las Nieves de Monte Monarca, 149, 157–58, 160–61, 173, 188–89, 194n14 Moreno, Salvadora, 159, 171, 173 mothers killing their children, 173, 218 Muntu, 229–34, 237, 244–48, 251–52, 257–60, 269; history of, 241; struggle of the, 208–11, 219, 221–23, 249 Musa, Mansa, 15 music: African American secular, 237; dance, and, 18, 60–62, 178–80; dance and the drum, 244–47; song and dance, 116–18 mutual-aid societies. See cabildos Muza, Kankán, 44

291

Myal, 129nn22,24 myalism, 88, 90–91, 129n22 mythical realism, 224 mythology: African, 198, 203, 209–10, 223; Afro-Caribbean, 223; Bantu, 223; Yoruban, 223 myth(s), 20, 28n2, 45–46, 95, 143, 151, 196n23, 267; creation of black race, of, 152, 223; creation of diverse languages, of, 152; origin of human existence, of, 153; origins of nature, of, 152; reevaluation of history, 213; superstition, and, 223–24; Yoruba creation, 223 Nagó, 214, 221, 224, 238, 254–56, 258 Native Americans, 239, 260–63 natural environment, 18, 64–66, 118–22, 182–86, 249–54 Nbemba, Nzynga, 222 negative images of Africa and African peoples, 11, 55, 87, 131, 136 negrismo movement, 37–38 negritud(e) movement, 202, 270n2 Neoclassicism, 74n4 Ngafúa, 213–14, 225–26, 229, 234–36, 238, 240–41, 244–45; Babaloa, as, 221–22; griot, as, 211 los Ngalas, 236 Niagara Movement, 216 nochedia, 230 Noel, Ti, 42, 44, 46–52, 55–58, 61, 66, 68–69, 71, 264 nommo (power inherent in the word), 18, 54, 114–15, 172–75, 235–37, 273n28, 274n30 nonlinear narration, 203 norm, 108 La Nova India (slave ship), 210, 225, 245. See also slave voyage Obá Oriaté, 4, 9n4 Obeah, 88, 91, 93, 129n25 odd numbers, 195n17 Ogún, 62, 184, 196n23

292

Index

Oko, 159 Olodumaré, 21, 35, 70, 254 Olugbala, 214, 273n27 Omiyapa, 152, 173, 182 ontology: African American, 203; AfroCaribbean, 19, 27, 72 oppression, 152, 161, 192, 206, 208, 211, 224, 260, 267–68; political, 221; sexual, 221–22; social, 17 oral tradition, 18, 34, 55–58, 109–11, 166–69, 230–32 Orisha Omolú, 151, 196n24 Orisha Orúnla, 253 Orishas, 20, 34–35, 168–69, 183, 190– 92, 209, 211, 225, 233–35 Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove, 5 L’Ouverture, Toussaint, 211, 248, 250–52 Padilla, José, 224 palenqueros, 272n17 palenques, xi, 206 los palequeros de La Matuna, 206 Palo Monte (Palo Mayombe), 35 Panama, 131, 140–42, 146, 166, 173, 178, 181–82, 192–93 Panama Canal, 137, 140, 145–46 Panamanian Constitution of 1941, 141, 194n10 Panama’s Law 13, 165 Papa Legba, 68, 258 papaloa (babaloa), 21 Partido Democrático del Pueblo, 79 Partido Independiente de Color (PIC), 35–36, 74n3, 75n8 patakis, 76n25 Pataperro, Fulona, 176 Pataperro, Wilfredo Ñato, 160, 162–63, 174, 176 La paz del pueblo (Duncan), 9, 77–130, 261, 267–68; African spirituality in Costa Rica, 88–95; conclusions on, 126–27; historical and literary context, 79–88; spirituality and resistance, 95–96

Pedro, 85, 90, 95–96, 101, 103, 105–9, 112, 122–23, 125 Pedro, Don, 231 Petro, 21, 41 philosophy, African, xv PIC. See Partido Independiente de Color picaro trickster, 26 Pichones, 170 plantocracy, 42, 66, 69, 75n10 Platt Amendment, 35 poetry, 6, 60, 115, 203, 210–11, 213, 237, 239–40, 255–57 political: oppression, 221; rights, 36 polyphones, 18 populations of color, 202, 270n3, 271n9 power, 260 practices of resistance, 58–74; connection between the spiritual and political, 66–67; drum, 63–64, 181; heteroglossia, 59–60; magic and the nommo, 62–63; music and dance, 60–62; natural environment, 64–66; repetition and circularity, 68; trickster figure, 68–74 pride: ethnic, 79, 132, 205; excessive, 260 Protestant religions, 248–49 proverbs, 176–77, 240 psychology, black, 209 psycho-spiritual survival mechanism, 26 Puente, Tito, 34 Pukumina, 88–90, 128nn17, 19, 129n21 pureza de sangre (white purity), 142 putas, 209, 236 Quiroga, Juan Facundo, 13 racial: injustice, 35, 132, 154; intolerance, 35; purity, 10n7 Racine, Jean-Baptiste, 59 racism, x–xi, 83, 127n4, 138, 144–45, 154–56, 168, 212 Rada, 21, 41 rain, 152

Index

Realismo, 74n5 realist novels, 37 lo real maravillosso, 18, 42–48, 54–55, 75n11, 107–9, 126, 163–66, 223–30, 267 la rebelión pocomía (the revolution of the spirits), 83, 90 Regla Arará, 35 Regla de Ocha (Santería), 35 Reid, Policarpo, 145–46, 162 El reino de este mundo (Carpentier): The First Ashé-Cuban Novel of Resistance, 8–9, 33–76, 260, 267; Carpentier’s novel of resistance, 40–58; historical context, 33–40; practices of resistance, 58–74, 260; lo real maravillosso, 42–48, 54–55 religion, 6, 14, 29n3, 247 repetition and circularity, 18, 68, 123– 26, 186–87, 203, 254–57 resistance, 3 resistance literature, 3 revolt and exile of African youths, 151 revolutionary literature, 39, 134, 266 rituals, 18, 23–25, 35, 58–59, 169–72, 219, 228, 232–35; Akan, 90, 128n18; magic, medicine and, 23, 112–13, 130n32 Romanticismo, 74n4 romantic novels, 37 de Rosas, Juan Manuel, 14 sacrifices, 16, 23 Saint-Dominique, 21, 29n6 de Saint-Pierre, Jacques-Henri Bernardin, 59 saints, 20, 22 samamfo, 93–95, 108, 114, 126–27, 268; defined, xv, 87–88 de Sandoval, Alonso, 237 Santería, 18, 20, 22–26, 29n10, 34 santeros (priests), 22, 34, 159 Santiago (Saint James), 61–62 santo, 22 sarcasm, 241

293

Sarmiento, Domingo F., 13–14 satire, 136, 241, 268 segregation, 33 self-determination, 23 self-development, 8 serpents, 47, 68, 75n17, 229, 255–56. See also snakes sexual: abuse, 44, 221–22; oppression, 221–22; potency, 28–29n2 Shaw, Bernard, 237 shrine, 23–24 Siete potencias (Seven Powers), 153 Las Siete Potencias Africanas, 20 signifying monkey, 26 silk cotton tree, 23 sinkits, 88–89 skin tone, 106–7, 268 Slave Rebellion of 1831, 90 slave revolts, 23, 42, 188, 206, 211, 219, 221, 246, 248 slavery, 21, 26–27, 188, 205–6, 211, 221–22, 243, 259; abolition of, 35, 127n3, 251; importation, 33–35, 74n1, 149, 233 slave voyage, 238–39, 245. See also La Nova India slavocracy, 75n10 snakes, 46, 229, 248, 254. See also serpents social and economic problems, x, 79, 131, 182, 205 La sociedad Secreta de Abakuá, 35 sodinu (unity), xvi, 73, 175, 186, 191, 260 Soley, Laverne M. Seals, 144, 193n3 somatic norm image, 207 sombra perro, 236 songs, 115, 187, 241–44; children’s, 176, 210, 237; religious, 210, 237 soul-force, 77, 127n2, 210, 212, 249 spirits, 9n1, 75n19 spiritual: practices, 6; traditions, 14 spirituality and resistance, 51–54, 95–96; combative vision toward existence, 100–107; connection

294

Index

between the spiritual and the political, 123; drum, 118; heteroglossia, 115–16; magic, medicine, and ritual, 112–13, 130n32; music, song, and dance, 116–18; natural environment, 118– 22; nommo, 114–15; oral tradition, 109–11; lo real maravillosso, 107– 9; repetition and circularity, 123–26; syncretism, 96–100; trickster figure, 126 spirituals, 237, 243–44 Sterling, J. Washington, 90 storms, 254 sugarcane market, 82 sugar production industry, 35 suicide rate, 14 sun, 65, 121–22, 182, 251–53 superstitions, 95 surrealism, 43, 55, 75n12 symbols, 46, 72, 185, 208, 229, 251, 256; African, 20, 200 syncretism, 48–51, 96–100, 153; African religions and Christianity, between, 18, 20–22 syncretism with Christianity, 219–21; Changó, the trickster, 258–60; circularity and repetition, 254–57; combative vision toward existence, 221–23; connection between the spiritual and the political, 247–49; heteroglossia, 237–44; music, dance, and the drum, 244–47; myth and superstition, 223–24; natural environment, 249–54; nommo, 235– 37; oral tradition, 230–32; lo real maravillosso, 224–30; ritual, 232–35 tamarind tree, 151, 185–86 thunder and lightning, 65, 120–21, 184–85, 254 el tigre de los llanos (the tiger of the plains), 13–14 time, 229–30

Ton Ton Macoute, 22 tortoise, 168–69, 185 transculturally, 17, 29n4 trickster figure, 18, 25–28, 68–74, 126, 187–91; Changó, as, 258–60 Tubman, Harriet, 248 Turner, Nat, 219, 243 Uncle Remus stories, 25 Underground Railroad, 216 UNESCO World Heritage Site, 5 UNIA. See Universal Negro Improvement Association United Fruit Company, 79, 82–83, 85, 91, 112, 127n9, 129n29 unity, 7, 186, 191–93, 224, 240, 260– 65, 268–69 Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA), 86, 129n28 de Valladolid, Juan, 149 vallenato, 241 veloriofiesta (wake party), 171 Vietnam War, 216 Vizcarrondo, Fortunato, x Vodun, 16, 46–47, 51–54; Haiti, in, 20–22, 35, 40, 43–44; loas, 21; rituals, 250 voodoo, 21, 48, 50, 63; horror novels, 16 vulture, 70–72 Washington, Booker T., 129n30, 204, 248 water, 24 weather changes, 254 Westerman, George W., 149 West Indian(s), xvi, 81–82, 91, 135, 141, 156; identity and spirituality, xv, 126 white, 10n7 white aesthetic, 207 white ethnic purity, 142–43 white hate groups, 156

Index

Williams, Filhozumbí, 180, 184 Wilson, Carlos Guillermo (Cubena), ix, xvi, 8, 73, 87, 131, 201, 265; Chombo, 131, 133, 136–37, 161, 172, 174, 182, 191; Los Nietos de Felicidad Dolores. See under Cubena and Los nietos de Felicidad Dolores wit, 241 witchcraft, 220 working conditions, 77, 83, 127–28n9 Yanga, 147 Yoruba, 5, 17, 19–20, 24–25, 29n10, 33–34

295

Yoruban tradition, 35, 71 Zaka, 242, 247, 263 Zapata Olivella, Manuel, ix, xvi, 6, 8, 47, 80, 87, 265 Zapata Olivella, Manuel and Changó: el gran putas, 9, 138, 197–274; Afro-Columbian cultural resistance, 216–19; Ashé-Colombian Novel of Resistance, 208–16; conclusions on: unity, 260–70; historical context, 205–8; literary context, 197–205; syncretism with Christianity, 219–21 Zumbi, 211

About the Author

Thomas Wayne Edison is an associate professor of Spanish in the Department of Classical and Modern Languages at the University of Louisville. He is a graduate from the University of Kentucky (2002). This former Fulbright Scholar has published numerous articles and presented at national and international conferences. His current areas of research are African-Caribbean spirituality in contemporary Latin American narrative and hair texture and internalized self-hatred in Hispanophone literature.

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