Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica 1607815044, 9781607815044

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ARCHAEOLOGY & IDENTITY ON THE [128.104.46.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-01 19:53 GMT) UW-Madison Libraries

PACIFIC COAST & SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS

OF MESOAMERICA Edited by Claudia García-Des Lauriers and Michael W. Love

Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica

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Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica

Edited by

Claudia García-­Des Lauriers and Michael W. Love

The University of Utah Press Salt Lake City

Copyright © 2016 by The University of Utah Press. All rights reserved. The Defiance House Man colophon is a registered trademark of the University of Utah Press. It is based on a four-­foot-tall Ancient Puebloan pictograph (late PIII) near Glen Canyon, Utah. 20 19 18 17 16     1 2 3 4 5 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: García-Des Lauriers, Claudia, 1976- editor of compilation. | Love, Michael, editor of compilation. Title: Archaeology and identity on the Pacific coast and southern highlands of Mesoamerica / edited by Claudia Garc?ia-Des Lauriers and Michael W. Love. Description: Salt Lake City : The University of Utah Press, [2016] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016011033| ISBN 9781607815044 (cloth : alkaline paper) | ISBN 9781607815051 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Indians of Mexico—Mexico—Pacific Coast—Antiquities. | Indians of Mexico—Mexico—Chiapas—Antiquities. | Indians of Central America—Guatemala—Antiquities. | Mayas—Antiquities. | Identity (Psychology)—Mexico—History—To 1500. | Identity (Psychology)—Guatemala—History—To 1500. | Ethnoarchaeology—Mexico. | Ethnoarchaeology—Guatemala. | Mexico—Antiquities. | Guatemala—Antiquities. | BISAC: SOCIAL SCIENCE / Archaeology. Classification: LCC F1219.1.P14 A73 2016 | DDC 972.0009/009—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016011033 Printed and bound by Edwards Brothers Malloy, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan.

For Emilia, Mª de Lourdes, Mª de la Luz, and Rhoda, the most incredible and inspirational women in my life. — Claudia For Julia — Michael

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Contents

List of Figures and Tables  ix Preface and Acknowledgments  xi 1. Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica: An Introduction  1

Claudia García-­Des Lauriers and Michael W. Love

2. What a Waste: Identity Construction in the Archaeological Record of Southern Mesoamerica  16

Hector Neff

3. Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala  29

Michael W. Love

4. Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas  52

Claudia García-­Des Lauriers

5. A Common Space: Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya in the Cosmology of Escuintla, Highland Guatemala, and Beyond  71

Lucia R. Henderson

6. Yearning for the Ancestors: Elite Identity in Cotzumalhuapa Sculpture  104

Oswaldo Chinchilla Mazariegos

7. Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco  126

Janine Gasco

8. Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa: Origin of Postclassic Confederations on the Pacific Coast  142

Ruud van Akkeren

9. The Problem of Ethnicity and the Construction of K’iche’an Identity  172

Geoffrey E. Braswell

10. Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects  185

John E. Clark

Contributors  217 Index  219 vii

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Figures and Tables

Figures 1.1. Map with location of sites mentioned in this book  2 1.2. Chronological chart for Pacific coast 3.1. 3.2. 3.3. 3.4. 3.5. 3.6. 3.7. 3.8. 3.9. 4.1. 4.2. 4.3. 4.4. 4.5. 4.6. 4.7. 4.8. 5.1. 5.2. 5.3.

5.4. Map of underwater deposits and land sites, Lake Amatitlán  75 5.5. Escuintla impressed cylinder ­tripod  76 5.6. Escuintla impressed cylinder ­tripod  77 5.7. Escuintla impressed cylinder ­tripod  77 5.8. Impressed cylinder tripod with eruption scene  77 5.9. Amatitlán incensario lids as effigy volcanoes  78 5.10. Escuintla Flower Mountain incensario lids  79 5.11. Butterfly-­mirror incensarios  80 5.12. Escuintla censer  81 5.13. Connections between Amatitlán and Kaminaljuyú  83 5.14. Connections between Amatitlán and Kaminaljuyú  84 5.15. Jaguar vessel forms shared between Amatitlán and Chijoy  85 5.16. Jaguar forms shared between Amatitlán and Chitomax  86 5.17. Amatitlán censers with linkages to Chitomax  87 5.18. Connections between Kaminaljuyú and El Salvador  88 5.19. Escuintla impressed cylinder tripod scene  90 5.20. Amatitlán three-­pronged censer showing bound captive  91 5.21. Amatitlán censer lids as personified volcanoes  94 6.1. Map of south-­central Guatemala  105 6.2. Map of Cotzumalhuapa  108

and highlands of Chiapas and ­Guatemala  4 Location of sites mentioned in the text  31 The northern section of La Blanca  35 Central La Blanca, showing the ­relationship of Mounds 1, 3, 4, 5, and 25  37 Joyas Group Mound 1 (JG-­1)  41 Spindle whorls  44 Spindle bases  44 Worked sherds thought to be net weights  45 Distribution of weaving tools excavated 2004–2006  45 Distribution of fishing net weights at La Blanca  46 Map of Mesoamerica  53 Map of Los Horcones with detail of Groups A and C  54 Map of Los Horcones with Detail of Groups B and D  55 Map of Los Horcones with Detail of Groups F and G  56 Stela 1, Los Horcones, Chiapas  58 Stela 2, Los Horcones, Chiapas  58 Macaw ballcourt marker, possibly from Los Horcones  59 Stela 5, Los Horcones, Chiapas  60 Regional Map, Escuintla region, Guatemala  72 Eruption of Volcán Pacaya, 2008  73 Lake Amatitlán, January 17, 2012  74

ix

F igures and Tables

6.3. Late Preclassic pottery from

8.3. Migrations of lineages from Pacific coast to highlands  148 8.4. Postclassic center of Rabinal, Kaqyuq, Group A  150 8.5. Images of San Pablo, patron saint of Rabinal  152 8.6. Patron gods of the last trecena 1 Tochtli: Xiuhteuctli and Itztapal Totec  153 8.7. Signature of the Atonal Scribe of Esquintepeque  155 8.8. Map of Bilbao, Cotzumalhuapa, and Monument 21  156 8.9. Monument 21, Bilbao  157 8.10. Patron gods of the last trecena 1 Tochtli: Xiuhteuctli and Xipe Totec  159 8.11. God L carrying the throne of the Sun God, Palenque  160 8.12. Sign of One Flint, Monument 21, Bilbao  161 8.13. Creational couple Jun Ajpu and Xiuhteuctli  161 8.14. El Baúl Monument 35 with Xipe-­like mask  163

­ esidenciales Santa Lucía  110 R 6.4. Bilbao Monument 42  111 6.5. El Baúl Stela 1  111 6.6. El Baúl Stela 1  112 6.7. Map of El Baúl, Stela 1, west side of Structure 21  113 6.8. Adornos in Teotihuacán style, ­Residenciales Santa Lucía  114 6.9. Detail of El Baúl Stela 1 showing headdress  115 6.10. Bilbao Stelae 3 and 4  116 6.11. Paramount characters on Bilbao stelae  118 6.12. Bilbao Monument 7  119 7.1. Map of the Soconusco region  127 7.2. Map of Towns in the Soconusco region  128 7.3. Stelae from site near Tapachula  134 8.1. Plaza A, Kawinal  144 8.2. Xiuhteuctli as supreme patron god of merchants  146

Tables 7.1. 7.2. 7.3. 7.4.

Parish of Ayutla  130 Parish of Tapachula  130 Parish of Huehuetán  131 Parish of Tizapa  131

7.5. Parish of Escuintla  132 7.6. Parish of Tonalá  132 7.7. Linguistic affiliation of immigrants to Soconusco, 1718–1765  136

x

Preface and Acknowledgments

The ideas in this book came together at a symposium organized by the editors for the 2008 Society for American Archaeology meeting in Vancouver, Canada. We thank the ­contributors for their great chapters and their patience during the production of this volume. A s­ pecial thank you to John E. Clark and Rosemary Joyce who were discussants in the symposium and the former for his excellent contribution here. Reba Rauch and her team at the University of Utah Press have been wonderful to work with and so supportive and patient. Thank you to all the institutions and individuals who supported our contributors with permissions to reproduce

i­mages. An Early Career Support Grant from California State Polytechnic University, ­Pomona, facilitated production of this volume. In addition, Dr. Sharon Hilles, Dean of the College of Letters, Arts, and Social Sciences; Dr.  Martin Den Boer, Provost; Dr. Frank Ewers, Associate Vice President of Research, and his staff in the Office of Research and Sponsored Projects; and the faculty in the Department of Geography and Anthropology at Cal Poly, Pomona, were all instrumental and extremely supportive of Claudia’s work. A special thank you goes to our families for their unconditional support — ​Emilio and Matt; and Julia.

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CHAPTER 1

Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica An Introduction Claudia García-­Des Lauriers and Michael W. Love

The idea of identity has become crucial within social and historical studies, especially archaeology. Its emergence as a major research theme has been spurred by recognition that the construction of identity permeates all modes of social action and that material culture is an integral aspect in carrying out practices of identity. In archaeology, identity has become a proving ground for social theory of all sorts (Meskell and Preucel 2004). Today, the perspective ranges from traditional approaches in which identity is something inescapable at the core of a person’s being to ones where identification is seen as a fluid and situational process. Traditional approaches to identity are evident in the notions of culture areas or of cultures in general in which traits are visible, identifiable, and define group and individual identity. More constructivist approaches have followed, heavily influenced by the work of Barth (1969) where identity is not a fixed state of being but is constructed through the negotiation of self-­definition and outside ascription. Analytical approaches emphasizing agency have placed greater weight on the individual and how the concept of self is constructed, but they have also shifted analysis away from simple classification toward understanding the dynamics of identity construction in specific contexts (Lesure 1997; Loren 2001; Love 1999; Silliman 2001). More recent approaches employ

ideas derived from Actor Network Theory and suggest that identity is an emergent process, one that looks at actants as a constellation of social, material, and ideological relationships that inform a recursive process of identification (Hutson 2010; Latour 2005). Studies of identity have thus moved beyond discussions of language, ethnicity, sex, gender, and class, increasingly recognizing it as a process, understanding the factors that influence it, and investigating the contexts in which this process is performed, contested, and negotiated. In the case of archaeology, the investigation of identity also involves defining the material correlates of these dynamics. Despite notable contributions to the archaeology of gender, archaeologists who study Mesoamerica have only recently begun to engage the scholarly discourse on the dynamics of identity. Studies of the region are often still dominated by discussions of ethnic and linguistic identities as reflected in material culture. The Pacific coast and southern highlands of Chiapas and Guatemala have often been relegated to the geographic, cultural margins, and academic margins (Figures 1.1 and 1.2; Love 2007). Over the years, the uneven scholarly attention has focused on the Preclassic (1900 BC– AD 250) period and the origins of settled life, stratified societies, and the identification and definition of early chiefdoms and states. While 1

Figure 1.1. Map with locations of sites mentioned in this book (M. Love).

Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica the Classic (AD 250–900) and the Postclassic (AD 900–​1521) periods have received much more attention in other parts of Mesoamerica, in this region they have garnered relatively little scholarly consideration. In a synthesis of recent archaeological work in the region, Love (2007:307) asserts that one of the most striking aspects of this literature review is the importance of identity. Despite all of the complexities and the challenges that archaeologists and ethnohistorians face in addressing this research theme, Love notes that this is an area of important future contributions. This book coalesced as a session organized by the editors for the Society for American Archaeology meetings in 2008 in Vancouver, Canada. It highlights recent research by ­scholars working in this geographic area and seeks to engage in a discourse of broader anthropological interest — ​the archaeology of identity. From the outset, the book was intended to be theoretically eclectic, unified largely geographically, and engaged in a discussion of the archaeological investigation of identity. The contributions reflect a diversity of perspectives and case studies. One of the reasons for the prevalence of identity as an important regional research theme is due, in part, to its importance as a corridor for trade and exchange (Love 2007, 2011; Rosen­ swig 2012). The Pacific coastal plain, walled in by the steep Sierra Madre de Chiapas, created a natural terrestrial route, while the estuary systems have also been known to serve as effective conduits for canoe travel from the Isthmus of ­Tehuantepec to at least modern day El Salvador (Arroyo 1991, 1994; Bove 1989; Clark and Pye 2000; Lee and Navarrete 1978; Love 2007, 2011; McDonald 1983; Orellana 1995). In addition to communication routes that led diverse groups to the region, areas such as the Soconusco — ​rich in such resources as cacao, jaguars, bird feathers, and other elite-­status goods — ​drew merchants from throughout Mesoamerica (Berdan and Anawalt 1997:98–99; Coe and Coe 2007; Gasco 2003, 2006; Gasco and Voorhies 1989; Voorhies 1989; Young 2007). The volcanic highlands provided ample, high-­quality obsidian that was traded through-

out the region, as well as breathtaking landscapes such as Lake Amatitlán and Lake Atitlán, important ritual pilgrimage sites since Precolumbian times (Berlo 1984; Braswell et al. 2000; Clark et al. 1989; Hellmuth 1975, 1978; Henderson this volume, chapter 5). Early on, the resources drew trade and commerce and by extension people from many places and with them ideas and materials that created a context in which expressions, negotiations, and formations of new identities were shaped by continuing interaction. The Archaeology of Identity: Concepts and Themes

We do not here attempt a comprehensive reiteration of the themes and theories used to frame the general discussion of identity in archaeological research. For that, we refer the reader to some excellent and more comprehensive treatments (Barth 1969; Díaz-­Andreu et  al. 2005; Emberling 1997; Eriksen 1999; Fisher and Loren 2003; Geller 2009; Insoll 2007a; Jones 1997; Joyce 2005; Meskell 2007; Meskell and Preucel 2004; Nash 1989; Spence 1996; Stark and Chance 2008; Voss 2008). Instead, we will focus on some of the main theoretical matters addressed by the contributors before laying out the organization of the volume. For the Pacific coast and highlands, this discussion is manifest in the complex history of contacts between local populations and groups from other regions all along this corridor of inter­action. The opportunities for engagement of “us” and “other” discourses, as several ­scholars have noted, emerge and are an important aspect of identity negotiation, especially in complex societies (Burmeister 2000). Some, such as Ember­ ling (1997) and Braswell (this volume, chapter 9), would argue that especially in the case of ethnicity, this is a process of identification not seen until the rise of states and empires. With Braswell, ethnicity is inescapably linked to inequality both in the past and the present. He advocates for its replacement with other, more nuanced notions of identity. For the archaeologist, documentation of interaction is important for understanding the archaeological visibility of identity (Lightfoot 3

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Figure 1.2. Chronological chart for Pacific coast and highlands of Chiapas and Guatemala (M. Love).

and Martinez 1995; Schortman and Urban 1989; Silliman 2001; Stark and Chance 2008). In this volume (chapter 4), the contribution by García-­ Des Lauriers in particular addresses the theme of identity and interaction most directly, but

the topic is also addressed by Gasco (chapter 7) as well as Henderson (chapter 5) regarding the importance of ritual places and pilgrimage as a means of convening diverse groups of people. Akkeren (chapter 8) also speaks to interactions 4

Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica between the highlands and Pacific coast and how these shape the discourse of identity in ethnohistoric documents. In each of these cases, however, the underlying theoretical and methodological challenge is to interpret dynamic processes of identity performance and negotiation from static archaeological remains or from texts. The complexity of this task demands a detailed understanding of material patterns as well as the contexts in which such patterns are found. The situational nature of identities is often framed through a discussion of private and public contexts and how these serve to shape identity performance in a discursive fashion. Domestic contexts receive a great deal of attention as places of more nuanced performances of identity, as these are places where gender, cultural identity, and status are negotiated and replicated in everyday practice, both consciously and unconsciously. These daily practices are closely linked to the concept of habitus and the embodiment of identity — ​a process shaped by domestic architecture, household rituals, and the daily interactions with actors engaged in their own discourses and performances of identity (Bourdieu 2006, 1980; Braswell, this volume, chapter 9; Gillespie 2000; Joyce 2000a, 2000b, 2000c; Hendon 2010; Love 1999, and this volume, chapter 3; Moore 1996, 2012; Rappaport 1999; Spence 1996). Private or domestic spaces can provide a number of different lines of evidence to help archaeologists understand the construction of identity. Evidence of household rituals such as figurines, incense burners, or other artifacts associated with private ritual practices can be a means of replicating belief systems associated with particular groups and as indicators of active efforts to enculturate children (Bove and ­Medrano 2003; Burmiester 2000; Cheetham 2009, 2010a, 2010b). Where burials are found, the practices linked to them also can be reflective of ethnic, class, or gender identity. In the case of human remains, isotopic analyses can ­reveal information about diet and geographic movements. While these do not reveal ­identity by themselves, they can be powerful tools in attempting to reconstruct life histories when

paired with additional material evidence of offerings, personal adornment items, and funerary ritual (Clayton 2009; Price et al. 2000). Burials provide a rare opportunity to see practices related to individual identification that are often subsumed by the more materially prominent archaeological record of group identity. Archaeologists conducting household archaeology have used the spatial organization of the living structures themselves as a means of investigating how identity is understood in the private sphere (Bourdieu 1971; Hendon 2010; Moore 2012; Rattray 1987, 1989). Houses can reflect how societies organize and inscribe daily actions (Bourdieu 1971; Kent 1990). Moreover, ceramic assemblages and other artifacts associated with food preparation, for example, can reveal the active maintenance of culinary traditions that help shape and give meaning to people’s lives (Spence 1992, 1996). The replication of identity through the materials and structures that frame daily actions are to a large degree why archaeologists give households such importance. In part it comes from the linking of habitus with identity, a notion that has become important to some archaeologists (Jones 1997) and is questioned by others (Braswell, this volume, chapter 9). Despite the emphasis given to households, Gasco’s chapter in this volume illustrates that they can sometimes show little material variation, even where much more diversity exists in terms of language or other aspects of identity construction. By contrast, the public sphere can often be more accessible materially for archaeologists. Yet it cannot be viewed uncritically. Identity in this sphere can be performed at a grand scale in an attempt to unify, subsume diverse groups into larger corporate identities, exercise power relations, and create social distance between elites and commoners (Harrison-­Buck 2012a; Joyce 2004; Stone 1989). Art, architecture, iconography, and style are brought together in complex ways to shape the discourse of identity. They are displayed through public rituals that also serve to structure the experience of subjects and entangle them in relationships of power (Giddens 1984; Harrison-­Buck 2012b; Hutson 2002; 5

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Joyce  2004). But in both private and public contexts, the interplay between performer and audience accentuates the discursive between self-­identification and outside ascription. More recent research, however, suggests that such dichotomies can be constraining and that the public and private realms are i­nextricably linked and not separate and discrete (Voss 2008). These more recent approaches include some that view identity as relational where “people derive their sense of identity from the objects, activities, and social relations in which they are entangled” (Hutson 2010:2). Following de Certeau (1984), Hutson (2010:11) notes that everyday actions and relations extend beyond the home, blurring public/­private dichotomy. Expressions of religion through rituals and symbols provide a tangible expression of identity, in addition to representing at least one frame­work through which identity discourses are negotiated (Bell 2009; Clayton 2009; ­Foge­lin 2007). Contributions by García-­Des Lauriers, Henderson, and Chinchilla (chapter 6) explore this theme through analyses of art, iconography, and landscape, while Love also touches on it in his discussion of households at La Blanca (chapter 3). The use of monuments in public rituals to shape experience and create specific dialogues of social identity is also an important dimension to be considered (Chinchilla this volume, chapter 6; García-­Des Lauriers this volume, chapter 4; Guernsey 2012; Guernsey et al. 2010). In both private and public contexts, archaeologists and art historians often use the concept of style as an important device for accessing identity. Whether it is applied to the analysis of large-­scale material culture, such as architectural decoration, construction patterns, large-­format sculpture, and other monuments, or smaller objects such as figurines and ceramic vessels, stylistic elements are often used because of their perceived saliency in material terms. However, defining just what is meant by “style” and to what degree it correlates to identity is a much-­debated topic (Binford 1989; Conkey and Hastorf 1990; Hegmon 1992; Sackett 1977, 1985; Schortman et al. 2001; Wiessner 1985, 1989; Wobst 1977). Style may refer to the formal qualities of materials: how they “look.” Or it can refer to the

manner in which materials are made: the production processes that give objects their particular physical characteristics (Binford 1989; Hegmon 1992; Schortman et al. 2001). Stylistic qualities are recorded in terms of attributes, with inference to individual or group identity. Defining particular styles (e.g., Olmec style or Teotihuacán style), their origins, and the interpretation of their distribution will likely continue to be important in archaeology. More recent approaches, exemplified by Cheetham (2009, 2010a, 2010b) that combine geophysical sourcing of pottery, analysis of design elements, and an understanding of the larger context of these patterns in an assemblage may prove a fruitful way to link stylistic qualities to identity. The role of language and its relationship to ethnic or other identities is also highly relevant. However, the complexity of tying language, material culture, and identities such as ethnicity through the archaeological record presents numerous challenges. Among these challenges are accounting for multilingualism, understanding relevance to ethnic identity, and establishing ethnographic or ethnohistoric linguistic distributions to the archaeological record. In this volume Gasco’s contribution deals with this theme more directly, while Braswell and Love also discuss the role of linguistic categories for the description of particular identities. The connection of biological and social reproduction is a theme embraced in Neff ’s contribution (chapter 2). Here the role of individual decision-­making in relation to social reproduction of identity is explored through the lens of costly signaling theory. Neff explores the emergence of highly visible expressions of status as an evolutionary process that helped particular individuals to increase their reproductive success. The final theme addressed in this volume is more theoretical in nature and involves a critical evaluation of the use of ethnicity as a useful cate­ gory for discussions of identity. From primordialist to constructivist perspectives that view categories of ethnicity as reflections of a process of boundary formation, archaeologists have struggled with the problem of how to develop a discourse that also takes into account the nature of the archaeological record and ethnographic 6

Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica and ethnohistoric sources. Braswell’s contribution problematizes the category of ethnicity as a useful heuristic device and proposes alternative, more nuanced concepts to help address the view of identity reflected in the ethnohistoric record of the K’iche’. Love and Braswell both mention that the concept of identity is very broad: almost every aspect of human behavior and thinking can be viewed as an expression of identity, rendering the term almost too broad to be meaningful. However, the contributions here offer studies that approach the concept of identity in specific times and historical situations for a specific region. Narratives of identity presented here may not necessarily be the same for other regions. Thus, they are context specific, another important aspect to consider when studying identity. Finally, given that the visibility of identity in material culture varies at different scales of analysis, multiscalar perspectives are necessary in order to understand these emergent processes and their significance to individuals and groups. This volume is an initial attempt to advance dialogue regarding identity within the archaeology of the Pacific coast and highlands of Guatemala and Chiapas. We hope it will inspire future research in many directions.

tionary advantages it conferred on ­individuals, and the development of public displays of prestige, or systems of “costly signaling” (Bliege Bird and Smith 2005; Neiman 1997; Zahavi and Zahavi 1997). Using this framework, Neff links “identity construction” to prestige and its public advertisement to ecological conditions. Beginning in the Archaic, he carries his analysis into the Late Classic, tying costly expressions of identity to changes in periods of stable rainfall and drought on the Pacific coast. Periods of stable humidity allowed for the investment of surplus into mechanisms that helped signal prestige, while periods of drought sparked deteriorations in the ability to make these “wasteful” ex­penditures. Neff brings up the importance of individual motivations and the psychology behind what he calls costly investments in identity construction and display. The more recent literature has put greater emphasis on the social and relational constructions of identity, framing the individual and his or her body as a socially constituted phenomenon (Gillespie 2001; Hendon 2010, 2012; Hutson 2010; Joyce 1993, 1998, 2000a, 2003). Greater emphasis has been given to social reproduction than to biological reproduction in an effort to de-­essentialize discussions of identities. In particular, discussions of gender often problematize the links between women and nature, while men are associated with culture — ​ part of the underpinnings of more androcentric perspectives in anthropology (Joyce 2000b). However, Insoll (2007b:4), following the work of Caldwell (2005), notes “the empirical body from which adequate interpretation and theory are generated in pursuing past identities must also not be neglected.” Neff ’s work embraces the evolutionary and biological foundations of “empirical bodies” as an important component to the discussions of identity and links it to the proliferation of identity-­signaling mechanisms and their creation and reproduction of prestige. Michael Love explores the expressions, negotiations, and constructions of identity at the Preclassic site of La Blanca, Guatemala. Love’s approach interweaves theories of practice and structuration with urbanization to explore how some of Mesoamerica’s earliest cities created a

On the Organization of This Volume

The chapters that follow are organized by chronology and geography. Opening chapters focus on the Preclassic period of the Pacific coast. The volume culminates with chapters on the Postclassic in the highlands and coast. In chapter 2, Hector Neff approaches identity by framing the issue through evolutionary theory. His goal is to understand these “wasteful practices of identity construction” through examining the “conditions and mechanisms under which ‘identity-­construction’ yields fitness payoffs.” Neff begins this process by comparing individual human strategies for signaling identity to those of other species such as birds and links them to practices meant to increase reproductive success. Following Henrich and Gil-­White (2001), Neff explores the origins of prestige, the evolu7

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context where new identities were formed and negotiated (Bourdieu 2006 [1977]; Giddens 1984; Smith 2001; Smith 2003; Yoffee 2005). Approaching Preclassic settlements as cities brought about by aggregation allows Love to investigate the tension between the formation of new collective identities, a process driven largely by elites, and the subversion of these elite strategies by local factions who drew on traditions of ancestor worship and household ritual to express a more heterodox discourse of identity. Material culture, ritual, labor, and craft practices restructured relationships in ways that affected individuals, groups, genders, and classes and greatly shaped daily practice in La Blanca and other early Preclassic cities. Seeing La Blanca as a city, in Love’s view, is the first step in understanding how the process of urbanization shaped the dynamics of identity formation in Preclassic communities. Claudia García-­Des Lauriers brings together new research on the little understood Early Classic site of Los Horcones, Chiapas, previously known only from the work of Carlos Navarrete (1976, 1986). Her study at this monumental site focuses on the importance of architecture in creating a space that shapes experience and structures the performance of rituals and identity. The chapter focuses on an analysis of Group F, the largest architectural group at Los Horcones, and contrasts it with the six ballcourts currently known for the site. Using concepts drawn from theories of practice, performance, and embodi­ ment, she argues that the citation of models of spatial organization drawn from the great central Mexican metropolis of Teotihuacán shows an attempt by elites from Los Horcones to create a corporate identity meant to unify the diverse population of this regional center. In contrast, the abundance of ballcourts at Los Horcones, an architectural feature with deep local roots on the Pacific coast of Chiapas, provided spaces where more heterodox discourses of identity could be performed (Hill and Clark 2001). This tension between efforts to bring a diverse population under a common umbrella of corporate identity and the continued expressions of multiple identities echoes the themes discussed by Love for La Blanca. Underlying both contributions is the dynamic of power and

its role in shaping local relations, whether to control trade routes and the exchange of exotic goods, as in the case of Los Horcones, or in the transformation of settlement, human relationships, labor, and production in the case of La Blanca. Lucia Henderson’s chapter examines the importance of Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya in the highlands of Guatemela as pilgrimage destinations. As sites of pilgrimage, these locations “emerge as places of contested identity, as moments, spaces, and places of tension and negotiation among various boundaries.” Hender­son’s iconographic and stylistic analysis of material culture associated with ritual practice is anchored by the visual and ideological magnitude of this sacred landscape and the significance that it played in the past, a significance that continues among contemporary regional indigenous populations. The diversity of stylistic and iconographic references evident in the sacred objects recovered from Lake Amatitlán, in addition to its location at an intersection of trade routes, points to its use by both locals and foreigners, perhaps from as far as Teotihuacán. The duality of water and fire, death and regeneration evoked by Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya and by the unique geophysical features of this region made the place ideologically potent. Henderson’s contribution high­lights the power of pilgrimages and their transformative potential as processes in which new identities could be forged. In such sacred and liminal places as Lake Amatitlán and V ­ olcán Pacaya, there was space for the simultaneous transgression and reaffirmation of identity via ritual inversions and where spatial temporal relations help anchor people and communities in relation to each other, to their places of origin, and to the divine — ​all shaping identity negoti­ation and construction (Bell 2009:102, 128, 249). Moreover, an understanding of landscapes and the transformations that occur during pilgrimage allow us to see identity as an “emergent and active process.” Akkeren and Braswell also address this link between place and identity in their chapters. Oswaldo Chinchilla Mazariegos (chapter 6) presents us with a view of the Cotzumalhuapa region, its art and architecture and the chal8

Archaeology and Identity on the Pacific Coast and Southern Highlands of Mesoamerica lenges of identifying who were the creators of these important monuments. The stylistic eclecticism noted on the sculpted monuments from the region, as Chinchilla points out, has been interpreted variously as the result of ongoing Mexican highland and Maya lowland inter­actions, possibly even migrations of people from the former region to the Pacific coast of Guatemala. Detailed analysis of the iconographic programs of various monuments leads Chinchilla to argue that the ruling elites of the region were citing earlier Preclassic models as a way of anchoring themselves in a narrative of deep local roots, while rejecting stylistic influences brought to the region by Early Classic Teotihuacanos. In addition, he shows that the elites of Cotzumalhuapa were engaged in long-­distance networks that extended to various other regions of Mesoamerica and included participation in widespread religious traditions. Chinchilla concludes that these practices of identification should be seen as being a “yearning for ancient, local roots” by elites as a means of creating social distance. He presents a case study in which the framing of image, history, and ideology is a means to make claims about one’s identity, in this case harnessed in the service of legitimating political authority. The chapter by Janine Gasco focuses on the Pacific coast during the Postclassic and Colonial periods, specifically the interplay between ethnolinguistic identity and its links to material culture. Using ethnohistoric and archival information about the Soconusco region of Chiapas, she surveys the changes in linguistic make-­up that took place from the 15th century until recent times. The complex history of migrations, conquests, and trade left marks on regional linguistic patterns. Linguistic diversity is a theme also mentioned by Love in his chapter. Like Gasco, he notes that people were undoubtedly multilingual, challenging the use of language by itself as a means to determine the identity of people in the past or even the present, for that matter. While it plays a role in the way people ascribe identity to themselves and others, it can also be used to promote stereotypical images and create a rhetoric that attempts to naturalize ­identity (Ber-

dan 2008; Stark 2008; Stark and Chance 2008). Gasco concludes that while more research is necessary, there do not seem to be significant changes in material culture attributable to members of a particular linguistic group, which suggests “indigenous people who came from a wide variety of ethnolinguistic backgrounds may have coped by becoming more like each other.” Using detailed analysis of ethnohistoric documents and artistic sources, Ruud van Akkeren engages the theme of identity in the highlands in chapter 8. The question of whether these lineages represent Mayanized Mexicans or Mexicanized Maya communities, mentioned also by Chinchilla in this volume (chapter 6), is addressed using iconographic methods as well as by examining the origins and histories of particular lineages. Like Chinchilla, Akkeren notes that the dichotomy of Mexican or Maya is far too simplistic to explain the long history of economic interaction between the Pacific coast, highlands, and central Mexico going back at least to the Middle Classic. With commercial ties came the shared ritual knowledge, in this case practices associated with fire rituals and calendric renewal that may form the basis for the Toj lineage. That lineage’s identity, he argues, was bolstered by ideological links to the gods Tojil or Xiuhteuctli, and other important symbols such as fire and water. For the Highland Maya, the chinamit, or lineage, played an important role in identification — ​one that crossed ethnic and linguistic boundaries (see also Braswell, this volume, chapter 9). They formed a central unit of society, unified through common lineage history, economic relations, shared ritual responsibilities, and shared conceptions of landscape and place. Akkeren’s historical and iconographic approach traces these processes of identity formation well into the Classic period and even into the present. Geoffrey Braswell’s chapter takes the themes presented by Akkeren but engages them from a more theoretically informed perspective. He begins by tracing the history of the concept of ethnicity and its uses in archaeology and questions the notions of agency and habitus in relation to ethnicity. As a concept largely associated with power relations, especially within complex societies, he warns that ethnicity is ultimately 9

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not useful for understanding identity in general and that of the K’iche’ in specific. Instead he draws from scholars such as Latour (2005), Schwartz (1982), Lévi-­Strauss (1987), Castells (1997), and Roseberry (1996) to propose alternative approaches that may prove more fruitful for understanding K’iche’an communities. Following Latour’s (2005) actor-­network theory, Braswell looks at identity as an emergent process arising from the interaction between actants, be they individuals, ideas, or groups, rather than as a nondiscursive form of Bourdieu’s concept of habitus. From Schwartz (1982) he draws upon the concept of “cultural totems” to note that Maya collective names often referenced the natural world and were used to create totemic identities that brought together diverse factions. In his view, the concept of “house societies” serves to describe the larger corporate groups known among the K’iche’ as chinamit or nimja — ​great houses that served as metaphors for the “fundamental unit of social organization, land tenure, and access to resources.” The last approach presented by Braswell is that of programmatic identity or an identity forged by a “shared program of political, military, and economic gain or domination” in the case of the K’iche’. This last concept allowed people from disparate factions, linguistic groups, kin groups, etc. to come together, forging a new corporate identity based on a shared set of goals or agendas usually associated with access to economic, social, or ideological resources. Through these various approaches, Braswell operationalizes theoretical concepts that provide a nuanced discussion of the paradoxes of identity within K’iche’ society and suggests new directions in the study of identity within archaeological discourse. John E. Clark provides the final contribution

to this volume, chapter 10. He evaluates arguments presented in the previous chapters and focuses on the “relationships between identity and human nature, cultural practices, cityscapes, sacred places, ritual, art, and agency.” Clark’s chapter is a theoretically informed assessment that raises questions regarding the state of identity research, definitions of identity and ethnicity, and the challenges faced by researchers. In addition, he discusses the intersection of subjecthood, personhood, and how these are treated in Mesoamerican and Western ontologies. Clark emphasizes that future research on identity must take a better accounting of “persons as parts of actant networks” and that “viewing identities and identity theories as phenomena to be explained, as well as constituents of explanations, should improve our Narrative Histories of Meso­america.” Concluding Remarks As this volume illustrates, despite the relatively uneven treatment given to the Pacific coast and highlands of southeastern Mesoamerica by scholars over the years, it is an area that can add greatly to discussions of broader anthropological concern, such as the archeology of identity. The contributions here are theoretically eclectic yet together present an excellent view of the discourse of identity that occurred from the Preclassic to the Postclassic periods. As Love (2007) points out, this region, with its rich history of interactions, early stratified societies, and economic importance, has become a place where discussions about identity are fundamental to its understanding. The strength of this volume lies in its varied perspectives, representing a complex conversation about identity on the Pacific coast and highlands of Mesoamerica — ​a dialogue that we hope sparks further discussion and research.

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CHAPTER 2

What a Waste Identity Construction in the Archaeological Record of Southern Mesoamerica Hector Neff

Introduction The effort that humans put into constructing identity takes energy, energy that could be put toward somatic maintenance and reproduction. Thus, there is a clear fitness cost. Without an overriding fitness benefit, selection would long ago have eliminated such costly activities from the behavioral repertoire of our ancestors, and it would be keeping such behaviors out of our behavioral repertoire today. Yet, quite the opposite is the case: humans in the twenty-­first century seem to devote most of their energy to generating resources that are not put toward somatic maintenance but toward acquiring oversized houses, gas-­guzzling cars, gold chains and watches, education, esoteric knowledge, and other wasteful items that define “who we are.” Moreover, the archaeological record of anatomically modern humans documents wasteful practices such as cave painting, monument construction, and bodily adornment for at least the last 40,000 years. Given that identity construction exists, and has done so throughout modern human history, evolutionary theory tells us that it must have some fitness payoff that compensates for the energy and time we waste on it. That is, since they exist, such activities must not be “wasteful” in evolutionary terms at all. Rather, they just seem wasteful because we are currently unable to

identify the fitness payoff. Therefore, if we want to understand the wasteful practices of identity construction, we must identify the conditions and mechanisms under which identity construction yields fitness payoffs. If we define “identity construction” as the expression of evolved behavioral capacities that establish individual uniqueness, then we can see analogs in nonhuman species. These convergent cases offer some insight into the conditions under which identity construction might evolve in humans. Identity construction may be most common in avian species. Songbirds sing to attract mates, the fidelity of an individual’s song to local norms (local identity) and the size of his repertoire being the criteria by which females judge male songs (Searcy and Nowicki 2005). In a remarkable parallel with some kinds of human identity construction, male bowerbirds construct a visually impressive and unique space with brightly colored leaves, shells, feathers, and other items, all in order to advertise their quality to choosy females (Borgia 1995; Endler and Day 2006). Tellingly, colorful plumage in bowerbird species, another means for advertising male quality, is inversely correlated with elaborateness of the bower. Comparison with avian species thus suggests that, where behavioral capacities are harnessed to establish individual uniqueness (i.e., to 16

What a Waste construct identity), the relevant behaviors are shaped by mate choice, that is, sexual selection. Lacking another evolutionary route to the wasteful practices of identity construction, we may hypothesize that sexual selection assembled in humans a complex of abilities and behaviors that involve expenditures of inordinate energy constructing new identities beyond those of gender and age. The idea that the human brain and its associated unusual capabilities (for music, morality, humor, and so on) amount to costly sexual ornaments has, in fact, been developed in some detail (e.g., Miller 2001). As García-­Des Lauriers and Love point out in their introduction, identity construction in humans is intimately bound up with status or prestige. That is, the reproductive benefits of our identity construction capacities accrue via prestige-­accumulation systems. Perhaps if we could generate some understanding of how prestige might have arisen in humans, we might gain some insight into why style, symbolic expression, and the trappings of elite culture are expressed so commonly in the archaeological record, especially that of complex societies. Joseph Henrich and Francisco Gil-­White (2001) define prestige as “freely conferred deference” and contrast it with dominance, the main mechanism for achieving status in most nonhuman societies. Whereas dominance is based on force and intimidation, prestige arises from broad recognition of an individual’s superior skill or knowledge in some arena. Status can be achieved via dominance in human societies, as in other animal societies, but humans are unique in having prestige-­generation as an alternate route to status. Henrich and Gil-­White develop an “information goods” theory of how the psychology of “prestige” or “freely conferred deference” could have evolved in the human lineage. Henrich and Gil-­White start from Boyd and Richerson’s (e.g., 1985) observation that cultural transmission circumvents some of the costs of individual learning, which explains why it could have evolved in the human lineage. However, the capacity for cultural transmission changed the selective environment, so that traits engineered “to extract reproductive benefit

from the flow of socially transmitted information” (Henrich and Gil-­White 2001:167) were ­favored. From the learner’s point of view, such an e­ nvironment favors strategies that gain access to the best models. An ability to show deference is thus favored by selection because it enhances ­access to more-­capable models. Sexual selection ­enters the picture because, from the teacher or ­model’s point of view, reproductive advantage can be gained from being emulated — ​more emulators equates to greater prestige, and since prestige signals quality, prestige leads to more mating opportunities. Note that “learner” and “teacher” are not invariant identities, but rather variable roles that individuals may adopt in different social situations. Because of the reproductive payoff from being recognized as skilled or knowledgeable (i.e., the reproductive payoff of prestige), selection favors efforts to accumulate and advertise prestige. In sum, Henrich’s and Gil-­White’s model posits that humans have an evolved capacity for showing deference and a corresponding propensity to exploit freely conferred deference for reproductive benefit. The framework outlined by Henrich and Gil-­ White provides some insight into how the psychology of prestige may have arisen in human evolutionary history. Now we have to ask what this understanding implies about how prestige-­ seeking might be expressed materially, so that we can begin to compare predictions derived from the theory against archaeological observations. First, as Henrich and Gil-­White (2001:177–178) point out, prestige, being the amount of deference received by an ­individual due to his or her skill in valued domains, is impossible to fake. Therefore, learners can exploit prestige as a signal to help them decide whom to emulate, in order to acquire adaptive behaviors at minimal cost. Moreover, since it is costly for learners to show deference in private but not in public (because it reduces total access to preferred models) and because it is advantageous for models to have deference displayed in public (because it advertises their prestige), evolution can be expected to create social arrangements and structures by which deference is displayed ­publicly. These public prestige displays are “costly ­signaling” ­systems 17

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(Bliege Bird and Smith 2005; Neiman 1997; Zahavi and Zahavi 1997) in that low-­prestige individuals cannot falsely advertise prestige, and the cost of advertising prestige declines as the actual prestige of an individual increases. Second, total prestige available is constrained by ecological circumstances. To cite an example discussed by Henrich and Gil-­White (2001:​178), a successful hunter at first gains the prestige benefits from adding additional hunting companions who recognize his superior skill, but at some point, size of the hunting party becomes a liability because a large party scares off prey. In contrast, agricultural production is labor intensive, and there is no disincentive to assemble large work groups. Individuals with greater productive capacity (because they chose the right field and plant at the optimum time, say, or just because of accidents of geography) acquire prestige, but they also acquire the means to advertise prestige: their surplus production permits them to advertise an ability to produce a surplus. Such successful individuals may, for example, hold feasts at which they serve maize beer. We can expect, therefore, that highly productive environments with localized variation in productivity under a given subsistence regime would show increasingly conspicuous advertising of ability to harness agricultural resources, as individual models compete for followers. Further, environmental change or technological innovations that alter overall productivity or alter the structure of resource availability would be expected to cause shifts either in the geographic focus or in the identities constructed via prestige signaling. Neiman (1997) has examined the expectation that prestige signaling should scale with ecological conditions in his analysis of the Classic Maya collapse. Carved monuments with hieroglyphic inscriptions, of course, are the hallmark of Classic Maya “identity.” Neiman argues that the high cost of literacy and of quarrying and carving monuments make them honest advertisements of competitive quality. As such, their presence depends on the existence of a sub­population (elites) with sufficient competitive quality (access to resources) to commission them. The Maya Collapse, therefore, can be defined as shrinkage in the range of competitive quality

across the population. Thus one can expect the range of competitive quality to shrink first in locations where human numbers first began to bump up against carrying capacity. Neiman’s spatial analysis of patterning in terminal monument dates accords with the prediction that the collapse should have occurred first in the most densely settled, environmentally damaged parts of the Maya lowlands. Although Neiman rejects a role for drought in this Malthusian catastrophe, drought clearly would have exacerbated resource imbalances for a population already at or near carrying capacity. Identity Construction in the Archaeological Record of Pacific Coastal Southern Mesoamerica

The framework sketched above suggests that identity construction should be linked to prestige, that it should entail public advertisement, and that such advertisement should vary in elaboration depending on ecological conditions, with stability and overall productivity being positively correlated to the scale of prestige advertisement. Ultimately, these predictions should or could be tested with comparative data with broad spatial and temporal distribution. For now, I think a case can be made that the Pacific coastal southern Mesoamerican archaeological record fits these predictions quite well. In this region, public advertisements of identity may begin during the Archaic period, and visible shifts in identity can be argued to correlate with ecological transitions. Archaic Period

Although the relevant data are unpublished, John Hodgson and John Clark (2007) have recently described shell and shell-­based cement “ritual centers” on shell mounds within the Cantileña swamp of southern Chiapas. Such constructions, dating perhaps as early as the fifth millennium BC, could be the earliest public architecture in Mesoamerica, perhaps representing the remains of status competition under­written largely by productive estuarine subsistence, possibly supplemented by shifting horticulture on adjacent dry land (Neff et al. 2006a). This Middle Archaic florescence of prestige 18

What a Waste signaling, if verified by future research, would have occurred during the Holocene thermal maximum, a period of stable, humid conditions that ended about 5400 BP (Mayewski et al. 2004). Favorable conditions extended to the neotropics, where the Cariaco Basin record shows favorable conditions between about 10,500 and 5400 BP (Haug et al. 2001), and a speleothem from Costa Rica shows favorable conditions from 7400 to 5600 BP (Lachniet et  al. 2004). Closer to the Cantileña swamp, Core MAN015 from southwestern Guatemala also shows stable, humid conditions in basal levels that date between 6400 and 5400 BP (Neff et  al. 2006b). Drier, more variable conditions after 5400 BP are associated with a mobile foraging adaptation (Voorhies 2004) without “ritual centers” on the scale described by Pye, et al. (2011).

announcement of prestige. The large size of the houses, the large investment in their construction and reconstruction, and the fact that they opened onto a plaza opposite a ballcourt marks them as public advertisements of lineage quality. Continuity over perhaps 10 generations (Blake 2011) documents the success of the Mound 6 lineage in passing on whatever advantages they had over 200 to 300 years. Blake (2011) and his colleagues (Blake and Clark 1999; Clark and Blake 1994) themselves, of course, have been quite explicit in attributing these archaeological remains to the emergence of ranking in the Soconusco region. By the Cherla phase, ecological advantages of another lowland region, the Gulf coast, had permitted the emergence of an even more elaborate system of prestige advertising, with the Olmec center of San Lorenzo and its 10 or more colossal stone portrait heads as its most elaborate manifestation. Coe and Diehl (1980a, 1980b) described the ecological advantages and potentials of land around San Lorenzo: seasonal flooding created habitats for fish and replenished soil productivity on levee lands, while also leaving moist bottom lands available for dry-­ season recessional planting (also see Stark and Ossa 2007). On the Pacific coast, Olmec identity supplants pre-­existing local identities, with Gulf coast ceramics being imported (Blomster et al. 2005) and a broader range of artifacts and practices appearing as local copies (Cheetham 2006). The epicenter of this identity shift was the site of Cantón Corralito, interpreted by David Cheetham (2006) as an Olmec colonial enclave.

Early Formative

Around 1800 cal BC, a much more visible and extensive Early Formative adaptation emerged along the lower coast of Chiapas, Guatemala, and El Salvador (Neff et al. 2006a). Although agricultural production probably wasn’t the sole subsistence activity, maize and other domesticates were certainly part of the Early Formative diet. With wild supplements, this adaptation permitted rapid population growth and dramatic expansion of Early Formative settlement (Blake et al. 1995; Neff et al. 2006a). While innovations in recovery technology may have been part of this new adaptation (Neff et al. 2006a), Lesure and Wake (2011) have recently suggested that processing technology, specifically the all-­ purpose tecomate cooking pot, may have been the key technological innovation. This productive adaptation is the ecological context in which we see the first concrete, well-­ documented examples of identity construction in the region’s archaeological record. The sequence of Early Formative houses excavated by Michael Blake (2011) and his collaborators in Mound 6 at Paso de la Amada, together with the ballcourt excavated in Mound 7 at the same site, are public advertisements of an actual ability to harness substantial human labor. The houses were places capable of sheltering large groups of followers, perhaps the most direct

Middle through Terminal Formative

The Early Formative to Middle Formative transition — ​after about 1000 cal BC — ​again brought ecological change to lowland populations. The sedimentary record (Neff et al. 2006b) indicates that a long period of relatively moist, stable climatic conditions began at this time. The shift to higher rainfall may have been partially responsible for a dramatic flood event, likely exacerbated by upstream anthropogenic forest clearance, that brought the demise of Cantón Corralito (­Gutiérrez 2011) and the subsequent disappearance of the San Lorenzo Horizon Olmec identity 19

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from the Pacific coast. Along with environmental changes, the beginning of the Middle Formative is also thought to mark the beginning of full-­time commitment to maize agriculture in the Gulf lowlands (Rust and Leyden 1994) and elsewhere in lowland southern Mesoamerica (Blake et al. 1992a, 1992b, 1995; Love 1999b, 2007; Love and Guernsey 2011; Rosenswig 2005), perhaps because some maize-­productivity threshold had been crossed. Coincidentally, at this time “Olmec” art shifts to a much greater emphasis on maize-­wealth symbolism (Taube 2000). The beginning of the Middle Formative on the Pacific coast, with its increased ­ecological potential, brought a dramatic shift in p ­ ublic advertising of prestige. La Blanca, located on the coastal plain some distance from the estuary-­ lagoon system that previously had been the focus of settlement, grew to gigantic proportions during the Conchas phase, with a 25-­meter central pyramid and an extensive leveled central precinct of up to 100 hectares covered by up to 5 meters of fill at its northern end (Love and Guernsey 2011). As Michael Love describes elsewhere in this volume, the florescence of La Blanca also brought new, Middle Formative Olmec artistic elements in jade, carved stone, and ceramic figurines. Perhaps most remarkable is La Blanca Monument 3, a sculpted earth quatrefoil constructed to contain water, found beneath an elite residence. As discussed by Love and Guernsey (2007; Guernsey 2010), the quatre­foil symbolizes animal mouths, caves, and portals to a watery underworld accessible to rulers who are sometimes depicted within the quatre­foil (e.g., Chalcatzingo Monument 1). Relatively stable and humid conditions prevailed throughout the neotropics from roughly 1000 BC through AD 1–100 (Haug et  al. 2001; Neff et al. 2006b; Webster et al. 2007). Population levels across most of the coastal plain remained high, with no obvious disruptions, from the Middle through Terminal Formative (Bove 1989; Coe 1961; Coe and Flannery 1967; Love 1999a, 2002a, 2007; Lowe 1967, 1975; Lowe et al. 1982), albeit with shifts in the “center of gravity” within the region (Blake et al. 1995; Clark and Pye 2000; Love 1999a, 2007; Rosenswig 20

2005). Environmental and demographic stability brought a long period of continuous in-­situ evolution of prestige-­signaling traditions established during the Middle Formative. The record of Middle through Terminal Formative prestige signaling is preserved partly on stone monuments, large corpuses of which were produced at the piedmont sites of Izapa and Takalik Abaj and the southern highland site of Kaminaljuyú. Monuments at these sites are set within elaborate constructed environments that featured large mounds, terraces, courtyards, and water-­control systems. As a whole, these sites can be seen as landscape-­scale compositions dedicated to the glorification of powerful individuals and lineages. The expense of such large-­ scale landscape-­modification projects ensured that they were honest signals of prestige, in that only individuals and lineages with actual access to a large labor pool could carry them out. The linguistic identities of the Late F ­ ormative stone carvers are subject to debate, and details of the sculptural sequence remain speculative (Guernsey 2006; Love 2007), but most observers agree that there is an essential continuity in artistic tradition from late Olmec through Izapa and into early Maya (Coe 1999). The quatrefoil motif, for instance, rendered as an earthen pond at La Blanca, appears on Izapa Stela 8, where it shows a ruler seated on a throne that appears to depict Izapa Throne 1 (Love and Guernsey 2007). Later on, quatrefoils become common in Classic Maya art (Love and Guernsey 2007). Thus, identity-­construction tastes and practices created during the Middle Formative persisted in modified form through the Late Formative on the Pacific coast and were later adopted by the Classic Maya as well. Throughout their occurrence, they were elements of prestige-­signaling systems in which the very expense of creating the signal (and its setting) ensured that it was a reliable indicator of access to and control over human labor and other resources. Early Classic through Terminal Classic

Environmental stability appears to have been interrupted sometime between AD 1 and AD 100. A Terminal Formative dry episode is inferred

What a Waste from Yucatan lake records (Hodell et al. 1995, 2001), the record from Lake Salpeten, Guatemala (Rosenmeier et  al. 2002), a speleothem from Belize (Webster et al. 2007), and the Cariaco Basin record (Haug et al. 2003). On the Pacific coast itself, geochemical evidence from sediment core MAN015 in southwestern Guate­ mala suggests regional drying between 100 BC and AD 200 (Neff et al. 2006b). The environmental downturn around AD 1 preceded or coincided with widespread demographic disruptions throughout southern Mesoamerica. In the Terminal Formative Maya lowlands, “collapse” is evident in the abandonment of many Late Formative centers and even entire regions, such as the densely populated Mirador Basin (Hansen et al. 2002). Love (2007; also Popenoe de Hatch 1997, 1998) summarizes evidence that indicates some kind of disruption in the western and central Guatemalan highlands around this time as well. On the Pacific coast, the Hato, Itstapa, Jaritas, Kato, and Loros ceramic phases at Izapa span the Early and Middle Classic (Lowe et al. 1982), but pottery pertaining to these phases has not been found at sites other than Izapa. Coe and Flannery (1967), Love (2002b, 2007), and Rosenswig (2008) all report no evidence from their surveys of occupations that might correspond to Izapa’s Early Classic phases. Moreover, although there is a continuous ceramic record of occupation at Izapa, the focus of activity shifted a kilometer or so north of central Izapa to Group F, and the tradition of carving and erecting freestanding stone monuments came to an abrupt end (Lowe et al. 1982). Love characterizes this Late Forma­tive disruption as “the single most dramatic epi­sode in the prehistory of the southern Pacific region” and contends that it “rivals the Late Classic Maya collapse in its extent and impact” (Love 2007:299). As predicted, environmental deterioration and demographic disruption at the end of the Formative period brought a sharp falloff in prestige signaling throughout the Pacific lowlands and southern Guatemalan highlands. The tradition of stone-­monument carving died out not only at Izapa but at Takalik Abaj and Kaminaljuyú as well. Indeed, while the Pacific coast and

adjacent highlands were a hotbed of innovation in sculptural art during the Late Formative, not a single carved monument in the region can be attributed to the Early Classic Period. Descendants of the Late Formative sculptural tradition of the Pacific slope are found instead in the Maya lowlands to the north, where dated monuments began to be erected sometime after about AD 250. The end-­Formative dry episode itself was relatively brief, and humid and stable conditions returned to the neotropics, including Pacific Guatemala (Neff et al. 2006b), during the period AD 200 through 800. Classic-­period populations quickly rebounded in several regions, including the central Guatemalan Pacific coast, where there are well-­documented Early Classic occupations at Bilbao (Parsons 1967) and Balberta (Bove et al. 1993). At Balberta and other sites on the coastal plain, central Mexican obsidian and pottery (Thin Orange and a light-­ colored, dense-­paste ware from the Gulf Coast) indicate contacts with Teotihuacán (Bove and Medrano 2003). Sporadic Early Classic contacts fore­shadowed a more radical adoption of Teotihuacán tastes during the Middle Classic period, when Bove and Medrano (2003) hypothesize that Teotihuacán established a colony in the vicinity of Montana and Los Chatos. Stable conditions that lasted until AD 800 or later (Neff et al. 2006b) permitted continuous in-­situ evolution of a distinct, Classic-­period pattern, which departed conspicuously from earlier material-­ culture patterns (Neff 2005). Leaving aside the issue of colonization, it is clear that Middle Classic changes on the central Guatemalan Pacific coast went beyond adoption of Teotihuacán tastes in ceramics. The Middle Classic was also a time of economic innovation, when local specialization and regional ­integration became much more pronounced. Tiquisate white-­paste ware, made on the upper coast near the Rio Nahualate, was exported to Montana and other lower-­coastal locations and to the piedmont, where it is an important component of Middle through Terminal Classic assemblages in the Cotzumalhuapa nuclear zone (CNZ) (Neff 1995; Neff and Bove 1999). Esmeralda Flesh ware and its Late Classic descendant, 21

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Amatle, were also distributed regionally from a single, major production center probably located on the piedmont (Neff et al. 1994). And Plumbate, made near what is now the border between Mexico and Guatemala, also flowed into the CNZ in substantial quantities (Neff 1984, 2002, 2003). Thus, ceramic provenance points to increasing commercial integration of specialized Pacific coastal communities during the latter half of the Classic period. The CNZ, in particular, was a major consumer of imported ceramic products. Increased local specialization and regional integration during a period of favorable climate set the ecological stage for high overall productivity and human-­population maxima during the Late and Terminal Classic periods (AD 600– 1000), especially in the agriculturally rich Escuintla region. The results of this Classic-­period growth phase are seen clearly in the Cotzumalhuapa nuclear zone, a 10-­sq km zone north of the modern town of Santa Lucia Cotzumalhuapa that includes the sites of Bilbao, El Baúl, and El Castillo (Chinchilla, this volume; Chinchilla 1996; Chinchilla et al. 2006; Parsons 1967, 1969; Popenoe de Hatch 1989; Thompson 1948). Recent work by Chinchilla and his collaborators (e.g., Chinchilla et al. 2006, 2008) has shown that Late and Terminal Classic occupation is virtually continuous, even in the areas between the three major centers. The CNZ was not only densely populated during the Late and Terminal Classic, it was also a carefully engineered ceremonial landscape featuring causeways, bridges, plazas, terraces, acropolises, and dozens of carved stone monuments (Chinchilla, this volume; Chinchilla et al. 2006, 2008; Parsons 1969; Popenoe de Hatch 1989). These features of the CNZ landscape have not been fully appreciated because of their partial invisibility beneath a mantle of volcanic ash and soil. Ongoing geophysical survey work, however (Chinchilla et al. 2008; Daniels 2009; Lynch 2009; Safi 2008) is revealing the extent, density, and functional variety of structures. Paved causeways up to 40 meters wide with relief sculptures integrated into their paved surfaces

connect the major centers and extend north of the CNZ for an unknown distance (Chinchilla et al. 2008). Late and Terminal Classic stone monuments of Cotzumalhuapa are carved in a unique local style with similarities to Chichen Itzá (Chinchilla, this volume) and the Postclassic Mixteca-­ Puebla Horizon style (Popenoe de Hatch 1989). Popenoe de Hatch (1989) suggests that details of costuming and representation allow identification of the same personages across multiple monuments and that the monuments as a whole seem to narrate events in the lives of three successive rulers. Some monuments apparently narrate the bestowal of power, while others seem to depict “some action . . . by which the person achieved status” (Popenoe de Hatch 1989:193). Along similar lines, Chinchilla argues elsewhere in this volume that the architectural and sculptural investment at Cotzumalhuapa can be seen as claims by the region’s Terminal Classic rulers about their own ancient, local roots and legitimacy. Based on the handicap principle (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997) such status claims would have been made by a select few who could bear the actual expense of commissioning carved monuments and constructing other features of the Cotzumalhuapa landscape, and whose optimal fitness payoff accrued when they made the maximum investment they could afford. Thus, we can agree with Popenoe de Hatch (1989:169) that the corpus of Cotzumalhuapa monuments represents “a form of advertising,” but the handi­ cap principle allows us to generalize further and to infer that the same evolutionary process that designed peacock’s tails and bowerbirds’ bowers also designed the monuments and other features of the Cotzumalhuapa ceremonial landscape. It is worth reiterating that this Classic Period climax in prestige signaling coincided with stable, humid climatic conditions and economic innovations that increased regional carrying capacity. Around AD 800, however (the timing needs to be pinned down on the Pacific coast), conditions deteriorated throughout the neotropics. This climatic downturn contributed to the Maya collapse (Gill 2001; Haug et al. 2001,

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What a Waste 2003; Hodell et al. 1995, 2001; Kennett et al. 2012) and, arguably, to a similar collapse episode on the Pacific coast (Neff et al. 2006b; Quach 2009). Coincident with population decline, the Cotzumalhuapa sculptural tradition disappeared. Although population began to rebound in Escuintla during the last couple of centuries before the Spanish conquest (Bove et al. 2012), identity construction on the scale of the Middle — ​Late Formative or the Late Classic never made a comeback.

niche, accumulation of prestige has emerged as a strategy with high fitness payoffs. As a result, humans have evolved psychological predispositions to seek the maximum prestige that prevailing social and ecological conditions permit. Further, in order to realize the fitness benefits of high prestige, prestige must be advertised. And finally, “the handicap principle” (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997) constrains prestige advertisements to be honest: only individuals and lineages with an actual base of followers (i.e., with real prestige) can display advertisements expensive enough to be believable. The value of an evolutionary perspective is that it explains why, when ecological conditions permitted, people in the past constructed artificial landscapes and carved stone monuments imbued with esoteric symbolism. It also leads to testable predictions, such as the expectation of a very tight linkage between shifts in prestige-­ signaling practices and ecological or economic transitions. Neiman (1997) first articulated this hypothesis in his analysis of the Maya Collapse. But as I have tried to show here, the scale of prestige signaling closely tracks ecological conditions over the long run as well, increasing with environmental amelioration or economic innovation and decreasing when environmental conditions deteriorate. This hypothesis can be further tested by continuing to collect more chronologically resolved paleoclimate data and refining archaeological chronologies.

Conclusion One criticism of this paper might be that it simply repackages an old idea, namely that surpluses lead to the emergence of “social complexity” (social complexity being recognized by investment in public architecture, art, and other archaeologically visible manifestations). As pointed out in the introduction, however, the trappings of social complexity make little sense from a purely utilitarian perspective. Thus, the old idea assumes something that needs to be explained: why, when ecological circumstances yield surplus production, do humans invest the surplus in such wasteful practices as constructing artificial landscapes dotted with carved monuments? Why not simply store the surplus and work less next year? Alternatively, why not just let the surplus rot? The answer, I argued in the introduction (after Henrich and Gil-­White 2001), is that under the peculiar conditions of the human

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What a Waste Haug, Gerald H., Konrad A. Hughen, Daniel M. Sigman, Larry C. Peterson, and Ursula Röhl 2001 Southward Migration of the Intertropical Convergence Zone Through the Holocene. Science 293:1304–1308. Henrich, Joseph and Francisco J. Gil-­W hite 2001 The Evolution of Prestige: Freely Conferred Deference as a Mechanism for Enhancing the Benefits of Cultural Transmission. Evolution and Human Behavior 22:165–196. Hodell, David. A., Mark Brenner, Jason H. Curtis, Thomas Guilderson 2001 Solar Forcing of Drought Frequency in the Maya Lowlands. Science 292:1367–1370. Hodell, David A., Jason H. Curtis, and Mark Brenner 1995 Possible Role of Climate in the Collapse of Classic Maya Civilization. Nature 375:391–394. Hodgson, John G., and John E. Clark 2007 New Evidence for Archaic Period Occupations in the Soconusco, Chiapas, Mexico. Paper presented at the 72nd Society for American Archaeology Meetings, Austin, TX. Kennett, Douglas J., Sebastian F. M. Breitenbach, Valorie V. Aquino, Yemane Asmerom, Jaime Awe, James U. L. Baldini, Patrick Bartlein, Brendan J. Culleton, Claire Ebert, Christopher Jazawa, Martha J. Macri, Norbert Marwan, Victor Polyak, ­K ieth Prufer, Harriet E. Ridley, Harald S­ odermann, Bruce Winterhalder, and Gerald H. Haug 2012 Development and Disintegration of Maya Political Systems in Response to Climate Change. Science 338:788–791. Lachniet, Matthew S., Yemane Asmerom, Stephen J. Burns, William P. Patterson, Victor J. Polyak, and Geoffrey O. Seltzer 2004 Tropical Response to the 8200 yr BP Cold Event? Speleothem Isotopes Indicate a Weakened Early Holocene Monsoon in Costa Rica. Geology 32:957–960. Lesure, Richard G., and Thomas A. Wake 2011 Archaic to Formative in Soconusco: The Adaptive and Organizational Transformation. In Early Mesoamerican Social ­Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 67–93. University of California Press, Berkeley. Love, Michael 1999a Ideology, Material Culture, and Daily Practice in Pre-­Classic Mesoamerica: A Pacific Coast Perspective. In Social Patterns in ­Pre-­Classic Mesoamerica, edited

Coe, Michael D., and Richard A. Diehl 1980a In the Land of the Olmec, Vol. 1: The Archaeology of San Lorenzo Tenochtitlan. University of Texas Press, Austin. 1980b In the Land of the Olmec, Vol. 2: The People of the River. University of Texas Press, ­ ustin. A Coe, Michael D. and Kent V. Flannery 1967 Early Cultures and Human Ecology in South Coastal Guatemala. Smithsonian Contributions to Anthropology, Vol. 3. Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. Daniels, James T. 2009 Using Distributional Archaeology and GIS To Determine Functionality of Subsurface Structures Detected with Geophysics at El Baúl. Unpublished MA thesis, California State University, Long Beach. Endler, John A., and Lainy B. Day 2006 Ornament Colour Selection, Visual Contrast and the Shape of Colour Preference Functions in Great Bowerbirds Chlamydera nuchalis. Animal Behaviour 72:1405–1416 Gill, Richardson B. 2001 The Great Maya Droughts: Water, Life, and Death. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Guernsey, Julia 2006 Ritual and Power in Stone: The Performance of Rulership in Mesoamerican Izapan-­Style Art. University of Texas Press, Austin. 2010 A Consideration of the Quatrefoil Motif in Preclassic Mesoamerica. RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 57/58 (Spring/Autumn):75–96. Gutiérrez, Gerardo 2011 A History of Disaster and Cultural Change in the Coatán River Drainage of the Soconusco, Chiapas, Mexico. In Early Meso­ american Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 146–­ 169. University of California Press, Berkeley. Hansen, Richard D., Steven Bozarth, John Jacob, David Wahl, and Thomas Schreiner 2002 Climatic Variation and Environmental Variability in the Rise of Maya Civilization: A Preliminary Perspective from Northern Petén. Ancient Mesoamerica 13:273–295. Haug, Gerald H., Detlef Gunther, Larry C. Peterson, Daniel M. Sigman, Konrad A. Hughen, and Beat Aeschlimann 2003 Climate and the Collapse of Maya Civilization. Science 299:1731–1735. 25

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Monuments. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 31. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. Lynch, Maureen 2009 Comparing Densities in the Prehistoric Architecture of the Cotzumalguapa Nuclear Zone through the Use of Ground Penetrating Radar. Unpublished MA thesis, California State University, Long Beach. Mayewski, Paul A., Eelco E. Rohling, J. Curt Stager, Wibjörn Karlén, Kirk A. Maasch, L. David Meeker, Eric A. Meyerson, Francoise Gasse, Shirley van Kreveld, Karin Holmgren, Julia Lee-­Thorp, Gunhild Rosqvist, Frank Rack, Michael Staubwasser, Ralph R. Schneider, and Eric J. Steig 2004 Holocene Climate Variability. Quaternary Research 62:243–255. Miller, Geoffrey 2001 The Mating Mind: How Sexual Choice Shaped the Evolution of Human Nature. Anchor Books, New York. Neff, Hector 1984 Developmental History of the Plumbate Pottery Industry in the Eastern Soconusco Region, AD 600–AD 1250. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Santa Barbara. 1995 A Role for “Sourcing” in Evolutionary Archaeology. In Evolutionary Archaeology: Methodological Issues, edited by Patrice Teltser, pp. 69–112. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 2002 Sources of Raw Material Used in Plumbate Pottery. In Incidents of Archaeology in Central America and Yucatan: Studies in Honor of Edwin M. Shook, edited by Michael Love, Marion P. Hatch, and Hector Escobedo, pp. 217–231. University Press of America, Lanham, MD. 2003 Analysis of Plumbate Pottery Surfaces by Laser Ablation-­Inductively Coupled Plasma-­ Mass Spectrometry (LA-­ICP-MS). Journal of Archaeological Science 30:21–35. 2005 Orígenes y evolución de las tradiciones cerámicas del periodo clásico en la costa del Pacífico de Guatemala. In Iconografía y escritura Teotihuacana en la costa sur de Guatemala y Chiapas, edited by Oswaldo Chinchilla M. and Barbara Arroyo. Utz’ib Serie Reportes 1(5):17–34. Neff, Hector and Frederick J. Bove 1999 Mapping Ceramic Compositional Varia-

by David C. Grove and Rosemary A. Joyce, pp. 127–153. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. 1999b Economic Patterns in the Development of Complex Society in Pacific Guatemala. In Pacific Latin America in Prehistory: The Evolution of Archaic and Formative Cultures, edited by Michael Blake, pp. 89–100. Washington State University Press, Pullman. 2002a Ceramic Chronology of Formative Period Western Pacific Guatemala and Its Relationship to Other Regions. In Incidents of Archaeology in Central America and Yucatan: Studies in Honor of Edwin M. Shook, edited by Michael Love, Marion P. Hatch, and Hector Escobedo, pp. 51–73. University Press of America, Lanham. 2002b Early Complex Society in Pacific Guatemala: Settlements and Chronology of the Río Naranjo, Guatemala. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 66. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. 2007 Recent Research in the Southern Highlands and Pacific Coast of Mesoamerica. Journal of Archaeological Research 15:275–328. Love, Michael and Julia Guernsey 2007 Monument 3 from La Blanca, Guatemala: A Middle Preclassic Earthen Sculpture and its Ritual Associations. Antiquity 81:920–932. 2011 La Blanca and the Soconusco Middle Formative. In Early Mesoamerican Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 170–188. University of California Press, Berkeley. Lowe, Gareth W. 1967 Discussion. In Altamira and Padre Piedra, Early Preclassic Sites in Chiapas, Mexico, edited by Dee F. Green and Gareth W. Lowe, pp. 53–79. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 20. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. 1975 The Early Preclassic Barra Phase of Alta­ mira, Chiapas: A Review with New Data. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 38. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. Lowe, Gareth W., Thomas A. Lee, and Eduardo Martinez Espinosa. 1982 Izapa: An Introduction to the Ruins and 26

What a Waste State University Anthropological Research Papers 39. Arizona State University, Tempe. 1997 Kaminaljuyú/San Jorge: evidencia arqueológica de la actividad económica en el valle de Guatemala 300 a.C. a 300 d.C. Universidad del Valle de Guatemala, Guatemala City. 1998 Los K'iche’s-­Kaqchikeles en el altiplano central de Guatemala: evidencia arqueológica del período clásico. Mesoamérica 19(35): 93–115. Pye, Mary E, John Hodgson, and John E. Clark 2011 Jocotal Settlement Patterns, Salt Production, and Pacific Coast Interactions. In Early Mesoamerican Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 217–­ 241. University of California Press, Berkeley. Quach, Tony T. 2009 Climate Change and the Classic Maya Collapse in the Tecojate Region of Pacific Coastal Guatemala. Paper presented at the Society for American Archaeology Meetings, Atlanta, April 23, 2009. Rosenmeier, Michael F., David A. Hodell, Mark Brenner, Jason Curtis, and Thomas Guilderson 2002 A 4000-­Year Record of Environmental Change from the Southern Maya Lowlands, Petén, Guatemala. Quaternary Research 57:183–190. Rosenswig, Robert 2005 From the Land Between Swamps: Cuauhtémoc in an Early Olmec World. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Yale University. 2008 Prehispanic Settlement in the Cuauhtémoc Region of the Soconusco, Chiapas, Mexico. Journal of Field Archaeology 33:389–411. Rust, William F., and Barbara W. Leyden 1994 Evidence of Maize Use at Early and Middle Preclassic La Venta Olmec Sites. In Corn and Culture in the New World, edited by Sissel Johannessen and Christine A. Hastorf, pp. 181–201. Westview Press, Boulder, CO. Safi, Kristin N. 2008 The Spatial Structure of Architecture as Defined by the Analysis of Ground Penetrating Radar Data at El Baúl, Cotzumalguapa, Guatemala. Unpublished MA Thesis, California State University, Long Beach. Searcy, William A. and Stephen Nowicki 2005 The Evolution of Animal Communication: Reliability and Deception in Signaling Systems. Princeton University Press, ­Princeton, NJ.

tion and Prehistoric Interaction in Pacific Coastal Guatemala. Special Issue, Proceedings of the International Symposium on Archaeometry, University of Illinois at Urbana-­Champaign (UIUC), Urbana, Illinois, 20–24 May, 1996. Journal of Archaeological Science 26:1037–1051. Neff, Hector, Frederick J. Bove, Eugenia Robinson, and Barbara Arroyo 1994 A Ceramic Compositional Perspective on the Formative to Classic Transition in Southern Mesoamerica. Latin American Antiquity 5:333–358. Neff, Hector, Deborah M. Pearsall, John G. Jones, Bárbara Arroyo, Shawn Collins, and Dorothy E. Freidel 2006a Early Maya Adaptive Patterns: Mid–Late Holocene Paleoenvironmental Evidence from Pacific Guatemala. Latin American Antiquity 17:287–315. Neff, Hector, Deborah M. Pearsall, John G. Jones, Bárbara Arroyo, and Dorothy E. Freidel 2006b Climate Change and Population History in the Pacific Coastal Lowlands of Southern Mesoamerica. Quaternary Research 65:390–400. Neiman, Fraser D. 1997 Conspicuous Consumption as Wasteful Advertising: A Darwinian Perspective on Spatial Patterns in Classic Maya Terminal Monument Dates. In Rediscovering Darwin: Evolutionary Theory and Archeological Explanation, edited by C. Michael Burton, Geoffrey Clark, and Douglas Bamforth, pp. 267–290. Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 7. American Anthropological Association, Arlington, VA. Parsons, Lee A. 1967 Bilbao, Guatemala: An Archaeological Study of the Pacific Coast of Cotzumalhuapa Region, Vol. 1. Publications in Anthropology 11. Milwaukee Public Museum, Milwaukee, WI. 1969 Bilbao, Guatemala: An Archaeological Study of the Pacific Coast of Cotzumalhuapa Region, Vol. 2. Publications in Anthropology 12. Milwaukee Public Museum, Mil­waukee, WI. Popenoe de Hatch, M. 1989 An Analysis of the Santa Lucía Cotzumalguapa Sculptures. In New Frontiers in the Archaeology of the Pacific Coast of Southern Mesoamerica, edited by Frederick Bove and Lynette Heller, pp. 167–194. Arizona 27

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­Carnegie Institution of Washington. Washington, D.C. Voorhies, Barbara 2004 Coastal Collectors in the Holocene: The Chantuto People of Southwest Mexico. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Webster, James W., George A. Brook, L. Bruce Railsback, Hai Cheng, R. Lawrence Edwards, Clark Alexander, and Philip P. Reeder 2007 Stalagmite Evidence from Belize Indicating Significant Droughts at the Time of the Preclassic Abandonment, the Maya Hiatus, and the Classic Maya Collapse. Palaeogeography, Palaeoclimatology, Palaeoecology 250:1–17. Zahavi, Amotz and Avishag Zahavi 1997 The Handicap Principle: A Missing Piece of Darwin’s Puzzle. Oxford University Press, New York.

Stark, Barbara and Alanna Ossa 2007 Ancient Settlement, Urban Gardening, and Environment in the Gulf Lowlands of Mexico. Latin American Antiquity 18:385–406. Taube, Karl 2000 Lightning Celts and Corn Fetishes: The Formative Olmec and the Development of Maize Symbolism in Mesoamerica and the American Southwest. In Olmec Art and Archaeology in Mesoamerica, edited by John E. Clark and Mary E. Pye. pp. 296–337. National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. Thompson, J. Eric S. 1948 An Archaeological Reconnaissance in the Cotzumalguapa Region. Contributions to American Anthropology and History 44, Carnegie Institution Publication 574.

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CHAPTER 3

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala Michael W. Love

In this chapter, I consider how the emergence of the first generation of Mesoamerican ­cities affected the construction, negotiation, and practice of identity at multiple levels of society. I examine new data from the site of La Blanca, Guatemala, to demonstrate its urban nature and evidence for ways in which new identities were constructed and older identities were renegotiated. An essential aspect of the earliest cities was the tension between centripetal and centrifugal forces, or those that promote integration and those that resist such integration. Put another way, the tension is between hierarchy and heterarchy. Early cities are without a doubt associated with political centralization (but not necessarily state formation) and the increasing dominance of an economically privileged elite; these two correlated factors promote integration. However, older forms of social integration, based on kinship, communal property ownership, or historical associations are not eliminated. As ­Janusek succinctly summarizes:

theory (Meskell and Preucel 2004). Analytical approaches emphasizing agency have placed greater weight on the individual and how the concept of self is constructed, but they have also shifted analysis away from simple classification toward an understanding of the dynamics of identity construction in specific contexts. Identity is not just an aspect of structure — ​a fixed association between say, language and ethnicity or between sex and gender — ​but the emergent product of actions by social agents, either individual or collective. Whereas essentialist approaches defined identity via inclusion, a practice-­based approach views the tension between inclusion and exclusion produced in daily action as the determining factor in the structuration of identity. The increasing centrality of identity in archaeological investigation and discourse stems from a recognition that not only does identity permeate all aspects of life but it is also manifested in all manner of material culture analyzed by archaeologists. Identity is not epiphenomenal or ideological (in the narrow sense) but also impinges upon central issues relevant to materialist perspectives, such as economy, production, and exchange (Costin 1998). Identities such as class, gender, occupation, and family define with whom we cooperate in economic endeavors and with whom we share property. Thus, identity cannot be marginalized in archaeological investigation. It needs to be confronted head-­on. Identity, both collective and individual, is always dynamic and in flux. Partly based on

Complex societies incorporate heterarchical elements of differentiation, including semi-­ autonomous groups and local sociopolitical hierarchies that are not necessarily directly linked to or subsumed by integrative institutions (Janusek 2002:36). Identity as Practice and Process Identity has become a critical problem in archaeological discourse over the past 20 years and a proving ground for diverse aspects of social 29

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individual choice and partly on the ascriptive practices of others, identity is the quintessential cultural product. Despite its negotiated and situational nature, many elements of identity are long enduring and resistant to change, for they are enmeshed in practices central to the cultural system of a group. As theories of practice have become more salient in archaeological discourse, the analysis of identity has shifted from essentialist models of similarity (the participation in shared cultural practices) to situational negotiations based on contrasts (such as insider/outsider or self/other). However, because theories of practice propose a dualism between structure and practice, both faces of the coin require analysis (Giddens 1984). Novel practices are not created out of wholly new cloth but emerge out of pre-­existing structures and conditions. So it is important in analyzing long-­term transformations to examine both the novel and the not so novel. In Preclassic Mesoamerica, we can see both the innovations in practice and the enduring structures. New social relationships are evident in even the most cursory analysis, yet enduring structures are likewise evident in practices of ritual, technology, and economic exchange. As a time of rapid social change, increasing regional interaction, and changing cultural processes, the Mesoamerican Preclassic period is ripe for an analysis of how identity was shaped, changed, and negotiated. I argue below that drawing upon the framework and theory of urbanization and urban societies offers a productive way to view changing identities of that time. When viewed in this way, the tension between innovative practices and enduring structures is especially salient.

forts to match material culture styles to language and to overlay phylogenetic charts of language diversification on material culture zones (even if not done explicitly) are common in Mesoamerican archaeology (Love 2011). Despite the role that language often plays in shaping and maintaining identity, I view the emphasis upon linguistic blocs and culture areas as an analytical red herring that distracts us from more important issues. First, the primacy of language as a source of identity is problematic when other factors, such as class identities, were almost certainly constructed across linguistic boundaries (Guernsey 2006; Love 2004, 2011). Secondly, I believe it is likely that multiple linguistic groups shared many regions and perhaps many communities as well along the coastal plain, so that linguistic boundaries were fluid, permeable, and in some cases entirely moot. In the major entrepots, especially, it is likely that polylinguism was the norm and not the exception. Finally, the idea that people in the past spoke only one language seems more than a little simplistic and distinctly North American. As the articles by Gasco and Akkeren in this volume demonstrate, new emigrants to a community or region often learn the language of the larger group in the community, so that continuity in language does not imply a simple and direct continuity of population. Simply put, a language group is not homologous with a genetic population or even with a cultural tradition (Terrell 2001). Preclassic Mesoamerica and the Beginnings of Urbanization

The beginning of the Preclassic period in eastern Mesoamerica is traditionally defined by evidence of the first settled villages or the first appearance of pottery (ca. 1900 BC). The end of the period is conventionally placed at about AD 250 or 300 but is no longer linked to c­ ultural traits such as the use of the Long Count (now known to have been in use by the Late Preclassic). The Preclassic period began with mobile groups of egalitarian hunter-­gatherers and ended with socially stratified city dwellers with intensive systems of subsistence and robust exchange economies.

De-­emphasizing Language

Until recently, the most frequently asked question concerning identity in the Pacific Mesoamerica region was “what language did they speak?” Debates concerning the relationship between Mixe-­Zoqueans, Maya speakers, and those of other languages still occupy a great deal of discussion (Bove and Medrano 2003; Clark and Pye 2011; Lowe 1977; Lowe et al. 1982). Ef30

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala

Figure 3.1. Location of sites mentioned in the text.

The structures by which people interacted with one another, and by which they defined their identities, were fundamentally altered. Social inequality became pronounced, new crafts and trades came into being, and increasing population densities altered the patterns of daily interaction. The intensification of long-­distance trade undoubtedly exposed even the most sedentary of individuals to contact with people from distant territories. The Pacific coastal plain stretching from modern Chiapas, Mexico, to modern El Salvador has an extremely rich record for the Preclassic period. From the early center of Paso de la Amada to the Late Preclassic cities of El Ujuxte, Izapa, and Takalik Abaj, the region’s settlements were among the largest of Mesoamerica (Figure 3.1). As an important trade corridor from the Archaic period up to the present, it was a vibrant territory and a place where people of many different points of origin visited or resided. In my view the processes of aggregation and negotiation of identity that accompanied urbanization were critical both to the structuring of

hierarchy and the intensification of production. The term “Preclassic urbanism” may still strike some as an oxymoron, despite the fact that research over the past 20 years has demonstrated that in many regions Preclassic settlements were as large or larger than those of the Classic ­period. Thus, to treat those settlements as urban and to analyze them as having both the scale and the diversity of cities (social, economic, and various forms of identity) seems not only justified but necessary. Early considerations of urbanism in archaeology focused on a finite set of objective standards to judge whether a given settlement was urban (e.g., Childe 1950). Despite the difficulty that archaeologists face in estimating any popu­ lation parameter, many adhered to absolute thresholds of population size or density (San­ ders and Webster 1998; Storey 2006). These approaches anchor on the position of Wirth (1938) that anonymity is one of the key features of urbanism and that a certain absolute minimum threshold exists beneath which anonymity cannot be achieved. 31

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A number of recent approaches have focused more on the process of urbanization rather than on strict definitions of “urban.” George Cowgill (2004:532) eloquently expressed this perspective when he wrote that archaeologists should “outgrow typological approaches and focus instead on degrees and kinds of urbanism.” Whether one emphasizes a functional approach, as voiced by Michael Smith (2001), or a social interactionist perspective, such as Monica Smith (2003:16), these approaches view urbanism as a continuum that cannot be cleanly converted into a dichotomy of nonurban and urban. In the functional sense, the process of urban­ ization along the Pacific coast began in the Early Preclassic, with the establishment of an early center at Paso de la Amada. It had many facilities that served a broad hinterland, including a ballcourt (Hill and Clark 2001). Other elaborate structures, which may have been either chiefly residences or public facilities, were the loci of public feasting and perhaps specialized craft activities (Clark and Blake 1994; Lesure 2011; Lesure and Blake 2002). By the Late Preclassic period, there were many settlements along the Pacific coast that were unquestionably urban in the absolute sense of spatial extent and population. These settlements fit comfortably within the ranks of first-­generation urban centers around the world (Love 2011, Table 3.1). At least a half-­dozen large centers, linked by exchanges of material goods and elite high culture, formed what I have named the “Southern City-­State Culture.” These settlements provided multiple functions for their hinterlands as religious centers, administrative nodes, and entrepots for trade. That is, over the course of the Preclassic period, central places came to hold more and more key functions. The precise nature of the progression remains to be worked out, but the overall trajectory seems clear. From the social interactionist perspective, the key process in urbanization is aggregation. Fundamentally, urbanization entails the coming together of people from diverse backgrounds into the urban center. Worldwide, the first urban settlements and early states drew people from a broad expanse, often from differ-

ent ethnic or linguistic groups (Emberling 1997, 2003; Monica Smith 2003). The first cities were not only places where different individuals and groups congregated, but they become places for the active construction of new identities. In the process of urbanization, new identities are constantly being formed, both among individuals and between groups. The elite/commoner distinction becomes salient as wealth differences increase, but differences also emerge based on newly created governmental offices, developing craft specialties, new gender relations, and distinctions in place residence such as urban and rural (Monica Smith 2003; Yoffee 2005). Once in close proximity, and with regular interaction, individuals and groups face the classic Barthian situation: do they form a new collective identity or do they erect boundaries so as to maintain their separateness (Barth 1969)? Norman Yoffee discusses the idea that “the identities of people as citizens and their participation in local networks of social, economic, and political interactions were refined in cities” (Yoffee 2005:61). In particular, he emphasizes the new identities that are created in cities. Cities were not simply “containers” for a new scale of social and economic and religious activities but were “generative”...of new offices and ranks, a new environment of buildings, streets and monumental art of various sorts. The density of social interaction in cities was unprecedented from earlier times in most of the earliest civilizations. (Yoffee 2005:62) To be sure, the foundation of a new city and the establishment of a government imply greater social and political complexity. The new order included a great many new social statuses and roles: governmental posts, architects, engineers, servants, craft specialists, and perhaps religious specialists. A Barthian perspective on identity and social boundaries would suggest that identities must be redefined when a great number of groups are brought into proximity and more regular interaction with one another. The rulers of the first cities considered by Yoffee attempted to “simplify complexity” but 32

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala were unsuccessful. They were not all-­powerful heads of state; rather, their power was fragile: “Leaders of the earliest states tried to make their societies simpler for their own advantage, but this only made life more complex for citizens” (Yoffee 2005:112). Rulers were unable, or simply uninterested, in the elimination of earlier institutions such a headmen and village councils. A number of essential tensions were created in the process of urbanization. Often, there was an attempt by elites and rulers to construct new common identities centered on the new community. The elite often promoted a process of ethnogenesis in which a community identity is constructed (Attarian 2003). Older social groups, possibly defined by kinship or by point-­ of-residence prior to living in the new city may have resisted the project of assimilation and ethno­genesis, either actively (subverting the order where possible) or passively (using what Scott [1992] calls the “weapons of the weak”). Depending upon circumstances, the growth of the first urban settlements followed many scenarios: the merging of previously dispersed and autonomous communities into a larger and more integrated settlement, the “promotion” of one of several interacting settlements to primary status, or the founding and growth of a new (and very large) community where none previously existed. In the latter case, there was a more radical break with the past and a more fundamental reconstruction of identity. If we accept Barth’s key proposition (1969) that identity is constructed as much by contrast (who we are not) as by similarity (who we are), then the latter represents a more compelling subject of analysis simply because it is the most radical.

ary (Rosenswig 2011) is a key, unresolved issue. There is little doubt, however, that the foundation and construction of La Blanca was a well-­ considered act. The planning of the city and its urban core is too well ordered to have been anything else (Love and Guernsey 2011). The question of why people aggregated at La Blanca is critical but at present cannot be answered. Discussions of other cases of aggregation at early urban centers in Mesoamerica may, however, provide some suggestions. The valley of Oaxaca underwent a similar episode of aggregation when Monte Albán was founded around 600 BC, as a new city and regional capital. Blanton (1983; Blanton et al. 1993) proposed a consensual model for its founding, seeing Monte Albán’s establishment as the result of a confederation of polities from the three branches of the valley. Marcus and Flannery, however, proposed a more violent scenario in which “one chiefdom — ​or at least one faction within a chiefdom — ​ seized a defensible hilltop and relocated 5,000 people there” (Flannery and Marcus 1996:157). Joyce and Winter (1996) view the establishment of Monte Alban linked to elite strategies of conflict resolution, but they do not appear to see war by itself as the proximate cause. Arthur Joyce (2009) critiques these scenarios for their focus on elite strategies and the neglect of commoner agency. He writes, Although commoners, rural dwellers, and women may be seen as farmers, craftspeople, curers, wives, laborers, and tribute payers, they are rarely afforded agency or power in terms of political processes like the founding and collapse of cities, urban planning, or changes in political and religious institutions and practices associated with urban centers. (Joyce 2009:192)

Urbanization at Middle Preclassic La Blanca, Guatemala

I focus here on the Middle Preclassic (Conchas phase, 900–600 BC) polity of La Blanca as critical in the long story of urbanization in Pacific Chiapas and Guatemala. La Blanca followed the Jocotal phase settlement of Ojo de Agua in the sequence of regional capitals (Love 2007; Love and Guernsey 2011; Rosenswig 2005). Whether the movement of from Ojo de Agua to La Blanca was evolutionary (Pye et al. 2011) or revolution-

While Joyce is correct in emphasizing the need to understand the impact of all social actors in the scenario, it is also important to recognize that the complex social negotiations of ancient Mesoamerica were not limited to the actions of individuals. Ruud van Akkeren (this volume) shows the importance of understanding corporate groups, especially kin groups 33

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such as lineages (or houses). Akkeren shows how the major centers of the Pacific coast and high­land Guatemala were founded as the result of alliances between lineages. In many respects, Akkeren’s scenario for the establishment of the K’iche’ capital echoes Hirth (2008), that urbanism in Central Mexico was the by-­product of political alliances among lineage groups. Thus, our conceptualization of social action must include both intergroup and intragroup dynamics. As detailed below, for the founding of La Blanca, I favor a scenario much like the one proposed by Hirth for central Mexico and by Akkeren for the K’iche’. Social interactions were not simply the product of individual action but were shaped by interactions between groups. The form of the city of La Blanca, and its organization suggest that aggregation did not bring complete integration of groups: some previously existing social forms were maintained. However, the process of urbanization generated new processes, new social relationships, and new identities but at group and individual levels.

that much of the Mazatán population migrated eastward. A similar story plays out to the east of La Blanca in territory within the modern Guatemalan department of Retalhuleu. Surveys in the estuary zone of Retalhuleu, in the Manchón district, show a large population in the Jocotal phase, with a lack of population in the Conchas phase (Pye 1995; Pye and Demarest 1991). Further inland, surveys by the UC Berkeley Abaj Takalik project in the 1980s show some Jocotal phase occupation but a complete lack of Conchas phase materials (Johnson n.d.; Love n.d). Taken as a whole, these survey data suggest that the population rise in and around La Blanca was due to the pull of populations from both east and west of the region. The precise reasons for this new community formation are unclear, nor is it certain whether the political structures (and rulers) of the Ojo de Agua polity were installed at La Blanca or were replaced by a new elite. What is clear, however, is that the founding of La Blanca brought together many people and groups who had not previously lived in close proximity. That aggregation would have led to a profound alteration in the way people lived their lives in comparison to previous eras, and it would have produced a very different social dynamic. Both regional survey data and household excavations at La Blanca show that the founding of La Blanca was associated with a much more stratified society and a much more centralized regional polity. If we were to use neo-­ evolutionary categories, La Blanca would probably be judged as transitional between chiefdom and a state. The regional settlement hierarchy of three to four tiers suggests strong governmental structures, and the enormous monumental architecture of La Blanca (and its secondary centers) shows an ability to command (or at least persuade) a very large body of ­laborers.

[128.104.46.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-01 19:53 GMT) UW-Madison Libraries

The Nature of Urbanism at La Blanca

The formation of the city of La Blanca and the polity it governed at 900 BC represented a criti­ cal juncture in the process of urbanization on the Pacific coast. First, both the rate of population growth and the expanding scale of social interaction were significant. Second, the extent of aggregation from the surrounding hinterland was much larger than in previous periods, which only served to intensify social interactions. At the beginning of the Conchas phase, ca. 900 BC, population surged in the La Blanca region. Part of the population increase could be considered “organic,” produced by normal growth from the population base of the preceding Jocotal phase. A larger percentage, however, was surely due to the aggregation at La Blanca of population from surrounding territories. At the end of the Jocotal phase, the Mazatán region center of Ojo de Agua was abandoned for reasons still unknown. Indeed, it appears that most of the Mazatán region was abandoned (Clark and Pye 2011). The concomitant rise in population in the La Blanca region strongly suggests

The City of La Blanca

The total area of La Blanca itself exceeds 300 ha (Figure 3.2), making it one of the largest Mesoamerican settlements in the Middle Preclassic period (Love and Guernsey 2011). Much of the city’s architecture, both public and domestic, 34

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala

Figure 3.2. The northern section of La Blanca.

was destroyed by road construction in the 1970s, so a precise estimate of population by counts of house mounds is impossible. The count of visible house mounds exceeds 100, but true level easily could be four times that number. A very gener-

ous population estimate might assume that there were 400 households with a maximum of 10 persons each. I would be happy to stipulate that La Blanca’s population did not exceed 4,000. Again, however, I argue against any absolute threshold 35

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for urbanism and instead focus on the process of urbanization. La Blanca was a religious center, a political capital, and a commercial center as well. In size, function, and “feel” (sensu Monica Smith 2003), La Blanca was urban. The process of aggregation at La Blanca and the larger Rio Naranjo district was the stuff of urbanization. How then, did the process of urbanization change the way that people related to one another and the way that they defined themselves?

ter of a rectangle formed by Mounds 3, 4, 5, and 25 (Figure 3.3). Mounds 3 and 5 were smaller conical mounds, approximately 5 meters in height. Mound 4 is a lengthy rectangular mound. Mound 25 represents the locus of a smaller public structure that originally sat at ground level. Mound 25 was originally thought to have been a domestic structure (Love 2002a), but with a larger comparative sample of residential excavations, Mound 25 can be seen to lack the essential elements of a domestic assemblage: ear spools and figurines. Also, the elaborate construction of the floors and postholes (Love 2002a:65) do not correspond to any securely identified domestic structure at La Blanca. Finally, the symmetry between Mound 25 and the other structures of central La Blanca mark it as an integral part of the La Blanca ceremonial core.

The Establishment of Community

Central to the process of urbanization at La Blanca was the establishment of a community identity. The concept of community has long been debated in archaeology, but minimally a community involves a shared identity, economic integration, and a sense of place (Kolb and Snead 1997:611) or “an ever-­emergent social institution that generates and is generated by suprahousehold interactions that are structured and synchronized by a set of places within a particular span of time” (Yaeger and Canuto 2000:5). In urban settings, the community involves more than just the primate settlement (the city) but the city’s hinterlands as well. The production of a community identity in the process of urbanization has been compared to that of ethnogenesis (Attarian 2003). Indeed, there are strong similarities in that both processes often involve references to the past and the construction of an origin myth. Both processes also frequently come about through the construction of place. The central precinct of La Blanca was constructed to anchor the community, both literally and symbolically. La Blanca’s civic core fixed the community in space and contributed to the construction of a shared identity in many ways. First, construction itself served to unite the community in a common activity and shared purpose. Second, the center provided a space for face-­toface interaction. Third it served as a locus for rituals that presented an ideology of unity. At the center of the site was Mound 1, a massive 25-­meter-tall structure built over ­several centuries. The conical mound occupies the cen-

The Meaning of the Pyramid

La Blanca Mound 1 was the centerpiece of the site’s civic core. This construction was one of the first generation of monumental temple pyramids in Mesoamerica. Built of rammed earth and clay, the first stage of the structure was erected soon after 900 BC. Because most of the mound was destroyed in 1972 to serve as basement for the road that runs to the coastal town of Tilapa, it is difficult to calculate the height of that first stage temple, but its base was probably about 90 m × 130 m. In excavations carried out from 2003 to 2008, the sequence of construction has been revealed. The sequence was not symmetrical and renovations to the temple did not involve construction of a new temple that completely encased the earlier structure. Instead, renovations seem to have involved expanding each side of the temple independently. The south side of the temple was renovated at least six times, and the north side perhaps no more than four times. In its final stage, before 600 BC, the temple stood nearly 28 meters in height and 100 m × 150 m at its base (Love et al. 2005). Clearly, the temple pyramid served many functions: it was a highly visible symbol of the community and the polity of La Blanca; it was a locus of ritual; and it may or may not have been 36

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala

Figure 3.3. Central La Blanca, showing the relationship of Mounds 1, 3, 4, 5, and 25.

directly symbolic of the power of La B ­ lanca’s elite. But the mere fact that this new form of monumental architecture appears at a time of a dramatically shifting political organization indicates that significant transformations in public ritual and community identity took place around 900 BC. Monumental architecture has long been considered a hallmark of centralized government and elite power. Trigger (1990) spoke for such viewpoints when he described monumentality as a form of “conspicuous consumption” motivated

by elite desires to demonstrate an ability to harness resources and command labor. Many recent interpretations have questioned a simple and direct reading of elite power from monumentality and have proposed that monumental works would be the result of long-­term community efforts. Rosemary Joyce (2004) has suggested that the Mesoamerican temple pyramid was the outcome of earlier forms of public architecture and an “unintended consequence” of the need for stages for ritual acts. That perspective has found support in a number of recent studies showing 37

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that egalitarian or near-­egalitarian communities can erect monumental works (Burger and Salazar 2012; Rosenswig and Burger 2012). The possibility that La Blanca’s monumental architecture could be driven from the community up, rather than from the elite down, cannot be dismissed out of hand. However, there are many reasons to see a strong elite role in the construction. First, there is the circumstantial evidence that the first appearance of the monu­ mental temple pyramid coincides with the development of a strongly centralized p ­ olity (or complex chiefdom, in neo-­evolutionary parlance) whose capital was La Blanca. Second, the engineering knowledge and complex construction techniques of the temple’s first stage speak of a group of people conversant in specialized knowledge that could be considered part of Mesoamerican high culture during the Middle Preclassic period. Third, the astronomical knowledge evident in the alignment of La ­Blanca’s central precinct also indicates a knowledge of high culture that would have been specific to the elite. In reality, there is no need to choose between a “top down” and a “bottom up” perspective. Multiple agents and groups may pursue independent goals while simultaneously cooperating with other individuals and groups; that is the stuff of politics. Different individuals and groups undoubtedly had different understandings of the meaning of the monumental works, as well as why they were constructed. Those different individuals and groups might also have understood the rituals carried in these new settings differently. What I propose, however, is that while elites provided the technical expertise to carry out the construction and may then use the setting as a stage for the presentation of “official transcripts” (Love 1999; Scott 1992) that legitimated their emerging power, the principal message of the central precinct was communal. Consider first the form of the temple pyramid. Robert Heizer (1968) long ago suggested that the Great Mound at La Venta was an effigy volcano, meant to mimic the natural features of

mountains. That view has been reinforced by readings of Classic Maya texts in which the term “witz,” literally “mountain,” is used to describe such temples. At La Blanca, Mound 1 stands at the south end of the Great Plaza. The north end of the plaza may be in the Joyas Group (Mound JG-­1), which lies 1 km distant from Mound 1. However, in the visual field and in symbolic terms, the northern end of the plaza is the volcano Tajumulco. The comparison and pairing of Mound 1 to Tajumulco is unmistakable now and was almost certainly intended by the builders of La Blanca. Ethnographies of highland Maya groups report the common belief that volcanoes are dwelling places of the ancestors. Vogt reports that in highland Chiapas it is believed that ancestors care for the spirit companions of the living in such locales and that proper veneration of the ancestors is necessary to ensure that they care for those spirit companions (Vogt 1990, 1993). Nash reports that among the Tzetzal she studied, the ancestors were thought to live in a cave in the hills where they monitored community activity from the highest point near the cave (Nash 1970). My proposition is that the temple pyramid of La Blanca was constructed as a place for the spirits of communal ancestors. Then, as in the re­cent past, it may have been thought that the establishment of a new settlement was done at the direction of the ancestors. Nash describes such a motivation in Tzo’ontahal, whose residents told her “the ancestors came out of their cave to look at where the people should move. They told the people where they should go. The people ‘thought in common’” (Nash 1970:5). The establishment of a new community at La Blanca, with the aggregation of disparate groups, may have required a new “communal” mountain in order to hold the spirits of the community’s a­ ncestors. That La Blanca’s monumental pyramid was built of rammed earth, rather than stone and rubble, may be especially salient. Earthen architecture is technologically sophisticated and not at all inferior to stone. That is, rammed earth was not chosen because it required less labor or be-

38

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala cause it was technologically simpler. Nash states that in Chiapas there is an “intimate relationship between soul and soil” (Nash 1970:13). There is an explicit link between human bodies and houses, connecting the soil and the fleshy part of the human body, such that flesh is referred to as “our soil” and “our mud.” If that metaphor can be adopted for Mound 1 at La Blanca, the temple pyramid could be interpreted, quite literally, as the embodiment of the community as well as the dwelling place of the ancestors. Whether built at the command of rulers or through the demands of commoners, the pyramid temple of La Blanca, and the central precinct as a whole, would have stood as a symbol of the community’s identity. The symbols and metaphors of the earthen pyramid evoke ancestors and kinship. Recent evidence from domestic excavations, and the reinterpretation of older evidence from La Blanca’s South Plaza, strengthen that interpretation, as detailed below.

north of the building at the center of Mound 25. The building was not completely uncovered, so the precise distance between the edge of the building and the pit cannot be determined at present. However, the pit is located approximately on a line from the center of Mound 25, using the site axis as guide. The pit pierced Feature 13, interpreted as a thin floor covering the first fill layer of the south Plaza. The radiocarbon date from Feature 9, with a mean of 935 BC (uncalibrated), indicates that it is probably associated with the first plaza floor, which consisted of a thick subflooring and a thin finish floor. That thin finish coat of compact sand and clay was found in Operation 25 and defined as Feature 13 (Love 2002a:69). However, the feature was fragmentary and did not extend over Feature 9. For various reasons, I prefer to think that the true date of Feature 9 lies in the lower end of the 1-­sigma range for the date, or just after 900 BC. Feature 9 is directly analogous to features found in household contexts, especially Feature 23 in Operation 26 (Love 2002a:74) and Feature 104 in Operation 37 (Love and Castillo 2008). Those features are pits placed in floors of domestic structures, and they were filled with pottery and faunal remains. I originally interpreted them as post-­abandonment trash pits but now view them as holding household dedicatory offerings, analogous to the household offerings described by June Nash for highland Chiapas. Nash relates that in the community of Tzo’ontahal a house is constructed in two stages (Nash 1970:14–15, 151). For each stage there is a ceremony that links the spirits of the house occupants to that of the dwelling. In the second stage, called the “meal for the house” a hole is dug at the center of the house and offerings are deposited. Nash says,

Ritual and Public Ceremony

Since Durkheim, one (functionalist) interpretation of public ritual has been that it serves to promote integration and the promotion of group values (Bell 1997). In Mesoamerica, public ritual during the Middle Preclassic period also seems to have promoted the ideology of rulership in which special links between rulers and the super­ natural were displayed. It is not necessary to see these two interpretations in conflict, because one of the most common means of justifying rulership is to portray a monarch in the role of pater familias (Kertzer 1988). Foundational Rituals

Features in the south plaza near Mound 25 yield some evidence of the rituals associated with the construction of central La Blanca and their meaning. Feature 9 was a pit dug through the first plaza floor, reaching down to the water table. Originally interpreted as a domestic trash pit or well, new evidence suggests that it had a dedicatory aspect, analogous to offerings placed in domestic contexts to dedicate a new house. Feature 9 was found approximately 10 m

The house fiesta serves three functions: 1) introducing the spirit of the house inmates to the house spirit, 2) creating a harmonious setting for spiritual interaction of the members of the household and the house spirit, 3) protecting the house against the intrusion of evil. (Nash 1970: 16)

39

M ichael W. Love

Although it is certainly problematic to directly map the modern ethnographic descriptions from highland Chiapas onto actions 3,000 years ago at La Blanca, I would support a broad analogy that dedicatory offerings were made in domestic structures at the site. I would also ­assert that Feature 9 of Operation 25 at La Blanca held dedicatory offerings for the South Plaza, paralleling the dedicatory offerings in domestic settings. Thus, I propose that the public plaza of La Blanca was dedicated with rituals analogous to household dedications, also using a metaphor of kinship for the establishment of the community residing in and around La Blanca.

communal coming-­together must have instilled a sense of groupness. Simultaneously, however, there almost certainly would have been a process of exclusion and ranking. People observed or participated in the rituals from varying distances and in different roles. Not all people officiated at the public ritual, and not all people had access to the sanctuary of the temple. Excavations on the south side of Mound 1 in 2008 found evidence of a roofed structure at the base of the pyramid. Apparently, that small structure was what allowed access to the stairway or ramp to the sanctuary atop the pyramid. Thus, admission to the sanctuary was achieved through the confined spaces of the South Plaza and the even more confined space of the roofed structure.

Ritual, Pyramids, and Invented Traditions

By evoking ideas of kinship and ancestor veneration, as well as by constructing a temple ­pyra­mid to mimic the volcanoes where ancestral spirits resided, the rituals at La Blanca’s central precinct evoked the past in such as way as to make the new appear old. In that light, they can be viewed as “invented traditions,” which are “a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and of a ritual of symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of behaviour by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past” (Hobsbawm 1983:1). However, the implied continuity with the past is fictitious. In the case of La Blanca, the links to a common past were illusory; just as the temple pyramid was not a true volcano and the members of the larger community were more fictive than actual kin. The goal, I propose, was to give the new community a sense that their collective identity had both a deep past and a naturalness.

An Incomplete Union

Standing in counterpoint to the communal unity suggested by the Central Group of La Blanca, are what appear to be public buildings on the site periphery, at the Joyas Group, the CE Group, and SM-­187. The Joyas group lies one kilometer north of Mound 1. The group consists of more than a dozen low mounds, thought to be residential, scattered around a pyramidal mound 6 m in height (Figure 3.4). The CE Group is 1 km south of Mound 1 in an area devastated by the 1972 road construction. Three low (residential) mounds were recorded in 1983 (labeled the Southwest Group in the 2002 map), with many others destroyed by the road. Edwin Shook (n.d.) recorded a number of household features within the area, uncovered by earthmoving as the road was built; cores taken by Hector Neff (2005) showed extensive Middle Preclassic deposits as well. A low, broad platform 3 m in height lies south of the modern road. SM-­187 was designated as a separate site during survey (Love 2002a:52), but recent walkovers show that surface remains are continuous between that group and the site core. Six low and presumably residential mounds were recorded in 1985, but others were reported to have been destroyed. Residents of the parcelas where the

Public Plazas and Public Rituals

The largest plaza at La Blanca, the Great Plaza, would have easily held the entire community of greater La Blanca. At roughly 50 ha in extent, the plaza could have potentially held as many as 30,000 people (allowing six people per square meter). We cannot be certain who officiated at such large-­scale rituals, and it is very likely that the confabs were multivocal and experienced differently by the various participants. Still, the 40

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala

Figure 3.4. Joyas Group Mound 1 (JG-1).

mounds are located report that a larger mound, several meters in height, was also destroyed, probably during the 1972 road construction. The three outlying groups apparently had “public” architecture where rituals were conducted, perhaps only for the residents of those neighborhoods. While it may be overly mechanistic to refer to these shrines or temples as “low-­ level integrative facilities” (following Adler 1989), indications are that they served groups smaller than the entire community and stand in contrast to the “high-­level integrative facilities” found at the site core. It is tempting, though unprovable without more substantial data, to think that these outlying neighborhoods represent a maintenance of older communities that migrated to the La Blanca area. Nonetheless, they do suggest that some form of identity based upon “barrios” may have existed at La Blanca.

right to make decisions for others, their powers may have been fragile. Yoffee (2005) describes how, in the Early Dynastic period of Sumeria, older, tribal-­based institutions of government survived the establishment of kingship. Institutions such as family councils and village-­based judges continued to wield considerable power, while the institution of kingship merely floated above. In short, the rulers of early complex societies were not as powerful as they portrayed themselves, nor were their portrayals as widely accepted, as archaeologists sometimes believe. Despite the labor invested in creating a stage for public ritual, and despite whatever allure the family metaphor family held for the community, it is evident that the household and the kinship structures linked to it were a prominent feature of identity in Middle Formative La Blanca. The best evidence for this viewpoint lies in household ritual. Three different types of objects are thought to have been used in household ritual at La Blanca: figurines, altars, incensarios, plus pottery vessels of various forms (Love and ­Guernsey 2011). Figurines are the most a­ bundant household ritual objects, and many scholars have

Heterarchy and Separateness

Elite attempts to promote a communal identity, with themselves as leaders, were often incomplete successes in early complex societies. Despite their self-­portrayals as essential to order, and despite their attempts to appropriate the 41

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i­nterpreted them as having been used particularly in ancestor veneration (Cyphers 1993; Grove and ­Gillespie 2002; Marcus 1999). However, Joyce (2004) has proposed that figurines were used to mark important milestones in the life history of individuals, such as transitions in age grades, and could be utilized in public contexts adjacent to residential zones. It is certainly plausible that figurines had multiple uses, but many types of figurines, especially those with puffy eyes and pursed lips, are strongly linked to the iconography of ancestor representation (Guernsey 2012). It is fairly certain, therefore, that the veneration of household ancestors was one type of important ritual carried out within the domestic sphere. These domestic rituals, then, served as counter­ point, and possible resistance, to the messages encoded in public rituals. In what were ostensibly private contexts, rituals reinforced identification with ancestral kin and possibly specific ancestors, rather than the generalized ancestors of the community. As the locus of most daily activity and socialization, as well as being the primary economic unit of individual lives, the household would have been the most important entity in La Blanca society. The long-­term trajectory of the Preclassic period suggests that elites tried to undermine the ritual autonomy of the household and to insinuate themselves into key roles in communion with the supernatural. The marked reduction and near cessation of figurine usage in the Late Preclassic, concomitant with a rise in ceremonial activity in public spaces at that time, strongly suggests that the long-­term project had significant success (Guernsey and Love 2005; Love 2002b; Love and Guernsey 2007). During the Middle Preclassic period, however, any such attempts were not successful, and interaction with household ancestors was a principal activity in the daily lives of La Blanca’s populace.

ists. A Barthian perspective on identity and social boundaries would suggest that identities were continually redefined, as a great number of groups were brought into closer proximity and more regular interaction with one another. One of the most salient social traits of urban society is economic stratification. Data from Paso de la Amada suggest limited differentiation between households during the Early Preclassic (Lesure and Blake 2002). There are few differences between households in their artifact assemblages or faunal remains; architecture is the only aspect that differentiates high-­ranking from lower-­ranking. In contrast, domestic data from La Blanca show significant social differentiation at the household level (Love 1991; Love and Guernsey 2011). Elite households contain much higher densities of prestige goods, with jade being the single most secure indicator of household wealth (Love and Guernsey 2011). Less robust discriminators are mica jewelry and fine paste ceramics decorated with elaborate iconography. What these data suggest is that the Middle Preclassic was the first time that social ranking was based upon the control of the production of material wealth. That is, for the Early Preclassic there may be evidence of rank based upon prestige and possibly the ability to mobilize labor. In the Middle Preclassic, social standing was based more firmly control on the means of economic production, which resulted in wealth differ­entials. Emerging social differences were displayed in daily practice through personal adornment, such as jade beads and jade ear spools. Other insignia of rank may have included hats for men and hairstyles for women, as represented in the thousands of figurines from La Blanca. Such items of personal adornment would have been highly visible in the manner suggested by Wobst (1977). Other items used in daily activities by the elite would not have been visible to large numbers of people but would have served to solidify identity within their own group. That is, through the shared use of items with restricted distributions, such as fine paste pottery and items with specialized iconography, the elite would have

Identity as an Emergent Process

To be sure, the foundation of a new city and the establishment of a government reflect and amplify social complexity. The new order included a great many new social statuses and roles: governmental posts, architects, engineers, servants, craft specialists, and perhaps religious special42

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala practiced their class-­based identity with one another and affirmed distinctiveness from the general populace. One of the most important aspects of the Preclassic period was the construction of an elite identity across ethnic and linguistic boundaries, becoming pan-­Mesoamerican. In the Middle Preclassic period, many (though not all) of the cultural practices and material forms that are ­labeled “Olmec” exemplify that process (Love and Guernsey 2008). The material forms and cultural practices that make up the “Olmec phenomenon” are varied and do not represent a single or unitary process. Some aspects speak to an elite ideology of power in which elites claim to have a special relationship to the supernatural (Love and Guernsey 2007; Guernsey 2010). Other aspects of “Olmec” symbolism may have represented more widely shared cultural constructions of the supernatural, such as ancestral spirits, in which all members of society participated. Some widespread artistic canons represented an elite aesthetic that was part of pan-­Mesoamerican “high culture” (sensu Baines and Yoffee 1998). Other elements of Middle Preclassic Mesoamerican high culture included mythology, astronomy, engineering, and writing. The sharing of these many forms of knowledge and practice across Mesoamerica reflects the growing inter­ action among far-­flung elites, the acknowledgements of one another’s “eliteness” and the construction of a shared identity that distinguished them from the masses in their ­respective homelands.

more difficult matter. Given overall paucity of data (nine excavated households at La Blanca) and the lack of data from settlements in La ­Blanca’s hinterland, any results must be tentative. Some specialized forms of knowledge, such as calendrics, writing, and engineering, have already been discussed as probably being restricted to elites. Tentative evidence for other forms of specialization, structured along both class and gender lines, have been found in domestic excavations. Obsidian Blade Production

The production of fine prismatic blades has long been considered specialized craft (Clark 1987). Clark based his assessment on the level of skill required and the constant practice needed to maintain the “feel” for the material. He proposed that during the Preclassic period blade production was patronized by the elite, with the subsequent distribution of the blades being a form of “political payola.” Jackson and Love (1991) proposed that blades were imported to the La Blanca region in finished form. That proposition was based on the lack of direct evidence, such as poly­hedral cores, for blade production at the site. Now, however, that suggestion can be firmly laid to rest. Evidence for blade production has been found in the elite residential complex of the East Acropolis in Operation 32 and Operation 37. In Operation 37, a fragment from a poly­hedral core was recovered. After it was exhausted, the core had been reduced through bipolar percussion to a very small piece. Nonetheless, the diagnostic, beveled surface of a polyhedral core was still recognizable in the small fragment. In ­Operation 32, Mario Borrero (2014) has identified correction flakes from polyhedral cores; these flakes were removed to correct for overshoot in creating blades from the core. At present, the evidence of production of fine prismatic blades comes only from the elite residential precinct of the East Acropolis. In other areas of the site, the only evidence for production of obsidian tools is in casual cores and bipolar cores. Casual tools made from those technologies are found in every household at La Blanca.

Craft, Class, Gender, and Identity

Numerous authors, notably Childe (1950) and Adams (1966), view economic specialization as a hallmark of urban life. Emberling notes that Childe’s “fundamental notion that a city is a community constructed in and bound by specialization has been extremely productive” (Emberling 2003:255). Specialization has many forms and can exist in many forms of society (Costin 1991, 1996, 1998; Clark and Parry 1990), but adumbrating the dimensions of specialization defined by Costin (context, concentration, scale, intensity) is a 43

M ichael W. Love

Figure 3.5. Spindle whorls.

Figure 3.6. Spindle bases.

Two other lines of evidence reflect the inter­ section of gender and class. These deal with tools related to weaving and fishing. Weaving is generally considered to have been a female-­gendered task in ancient Mesoamerica, as it is in the ethnographic present. The gender of fishing cannot be firmly established, but in Mesoamerican communities of today, my observation is that it is generally a male-­gendered task. Artifacts related to weaving at La Blanca are of three types: spindle whorls (ceramic), spindle bases (also ceramic), and bone tools (including

awls and sewing needles). The analysis of bone tools is ongoing (Barge 2012; Barge and Wake 2011), but counts are available for the ceramic artifacts. Artifacts thought to be spindle whorls are small discs that are completely perforated in the center (Figure 3.5). Such discs are analogous to more elaborate spindle whorls that have been documented both ethnographically and archaeologically (Brumfiel 2006; Chase et  al. 2008). Artifacts that are interpreted as spindle bases are pottery sherds that have been worked into a disc-­shape and have a small cupule in the 44

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala

Figure 3.7. Worked sherds thought to be net weights.

Figure 3.8. Distribution of weaving tools (whorls and spindle bases) across households

excavated in 2004–2006. Operation 31 is largely post-Conchas.

center (Figure 3.6). The cupule was clearly made by some object working against the sherd; I propose that object was a spindle. Objects thought to have been used in fishing included notched sherds that are interpreted as net weights (Figure 3.7). At present there is

no evidence to support the interpretation of these objects as fishnet weights other than the possibility that their form would make for easy attach­ment. The distribution of these objects is shown in Figures 3.8 and 3.9. Note that there is a c­ ontrast 45

M ichael W. Love

Figure 3.9. Distribution of fishing net weights across households at La Blanca.

in the distribution of these objects when the data are grouped into elite/non-­elite categories. The objects related to weaving are more or less evenly distributed across elite and n ­ on-elite ­households. In contrast, the frequency of net ­weights is much higher in the non-­elite households. The net weight distribution does not correlate with the distribution of fish bones themselves, which have a very high presence in Operations 32 and 37 (Barge 2012; Barge and Wake 2011). In Operation 37, fish account for 51% of the identified vertebrate faunal remains

(Barge and Wake 2011). Those elite households may have received much of their fish either in the form of tribute from commoners or through market exchange. If the stereotypic gender attributions of these various crafts are valid (blade manufacture and fishing as male, weaving as female), these data indicate that male crafts were divided along class lines, whereas the female craft was not. Although fragmentary, these data may suggest that the impact of urbanization on gender roles is a fruitful avenue for further investigation. 46

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala Conclusion This exploratory essay has sought to highlight the potential of identity research and the theoretical framework of urbanization in the analysis of Preclassic Mesoamerica. The reshaping of identity — ​not only how it was defined but how it was negotiated — ​was fundamental to social life. Thinking of Preclassic settlements as cities, and using the framework of urbanization theory to analyze life in them, offers a strong theoretical perspective and broad comparative base that can be useful for understanding how lives changed in ancient Mesoamerica during the Preclassic period. Identities in Preclassic Mesoamerica were constructed, negotiated, and transformed in a number of ways. Material culture was used to

mark both inclusion and exclusion while ritual was used to instill both a sense of community and a sense of difference. Labor and craft practices were restructured in ways that involved gender and class. New traditions were invented in ways that made them seem to be both ancient and natural. Understanding those changes through archaeological investigation is a challenge and requires both larger data sets and new forms of analysis. A first step, I suggest, is to recognize that the settlements of the Mesoamerican Preclassic period were cities. They were large and diverse communities formed by the aggregation of heterogeneous individuals and groups. Understanding how those individuals and groups lived together offers a tremendous opportunity for future research.

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Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala Hispanic Oaxaca. Current Anthropology 37: 33–47. Joyce, Rosemary A. 2004 Unintended Consequences? Monumentality as a Novel Experience in Formative Mesoamerica. Journal of Anthropological Method and Theory 11(1):5–29 Kertzer, David 1988 Ritual, Politics, and Power. Yale University Press, New Haven, CT. Kolb, Michael T., and James E. Snead 1997 It’s a Small World after All: Comparative Analyses of Community Organization in Archaeology. American Antiquity 62:​ 609–628. Lesure, Richard 2011 Paso de la Amada as a Ceremonial Center. In Early Mesoamerican Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp.119–145. University of California Press, Berkeley. Lesure, Richard and Michael Blake 2002 Interpretive Challenges in the Study of Early Complexity: Economy, Ritual, and Architecture at Paso de la Amada, Mexico. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 21:1–24. Love, Michael W. 1991 Style and Social Complexity in Formative Mesoamerica. In The Formation of Complex Society in Southeastern Mesoamerica, edited by William R. Fowler, Jr., pp. 47–76. CRC Press, Boca Raton, FL. 1999 Ideology, Material Culture, and Daily Practice in Pre-­Classic Mesoamerica: A Pacific Coast Perspective. In Social Patterns in Pre-­Classic Mesoamerica, edited by David C. Grove and Rosemary A. Joyce, pp. 121–153. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. 2002a Early Complex Society in Pacific Guatemala: Settlements and Chronology of the Río Naranjo, Guatemala. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 66. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. 2002b Domination, Resistance, and Political ­Cycling in Formative Pacific Guatemala. In The Dynamics of Power, edited by Maria O’Donovan, pp.214–237. Center for Archaeological Investigations Occasional Paper No. 30. Southern Illinois University, Carbondale.

Preclassic Mesoamerica. Res: Anthropology and Aesthetics 57/58: 75–96. 2012 Sculpture and Social Dynamics in Preclassic Mesoamerica. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Guernsey, Julia and Michael Love 2005 Late Preclassic Expressions of Authority on the Pacific Slope. In Lords of Creation: The Origins of Sacred Maya Kingship, edited by Virginia M. Fields and Dorie Reents-­Budet, pp. 37–43. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles. Heizer, Robert F. 1968 New observations on La Venta. In Dumbarton Oaks Conference on the Olmec, edited by Elizabeth Benson, pp. 9–40. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. Hill, Warren and John E. Clark 2001 Sports, Gambling, and Government: America’s First Social Compact? American Anthropologist 103(2):331–345. Hirth, Kenneth G. 2008 Incidental Urbanism: The Structure of the Prehispanic City in Central Mexico. In The Ancient City: New Perspectives on Urbanism in the Old and New Worlds, edited by Joyce Marcus and Jeremy A. Sabloff, pp.273–297. School of American Research, SAR Press, Santa Fe. Hobsbawm, Eric 1983 Introduction: Inventing Traditions. In The Invention of Tradition, edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, pp. 1–14. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Jackson, Thomas L., and Michael W. Love 1991 Blade Running: Middle Preclassic Obsidian Exchange and the Introduction of Prismatic Blades at La Blanca, Guatemala. Ancient Mesoamerica 2:47–59. Janusek, John Wayne 2002 Out of Many, One: Style and Social Boundaries in Tiwanaku. Latin American Antiquity 13:35–61. Johnson, Mark C. n.d. Field Notes, UC Berkeley Abaj Takalik Project, 1980. Archaeological Research Facility, Berkeley, CA. Joyce, Arthur A. 2009 Theorizing Urbanism in Ancient Mesoamerica. Ancient Mesoamerica, 20:189–196. Joyce, Arthur A., and Marcus Winter 1996 Ideology, Power, and Urban Society in Pre-­ 49

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Lowe, Gareth W. 1977 The Mixe-­Zoque as Competing Neighbors of the Early Lowland Maya. In The Origins of Maya Civilization, edited by R. E. W. Adams, pp. 197–284. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Lowe, Gareth W., Thomas A. Lee Jr., and Eduardo Martínez Espinosa 1982 Izapa: An Introduction to the Ruins and Monuments. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 31. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. Marcus, Joyce 1999 Women’s Ritual in Ancient Oaxaca: Figurine-­Making, Divination, Death, and the Ancestors. Memoirs vol. 33. Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Meskell, Lynn and Robert W. Preucel 2004 Identities. In A Companion to Social Archaeology, edited by Lynn Meskell and Robert W. Preucel, pp. 121–141. Blackwell Publishing, Malden, MA. Nash, June 1970 In the Eyes of the Ancestors: Belief and Behavior in a Maya Community. Yale University Press, New Haven, CT. Neff, Hector 2005 El sub-­proyecto clásico tardío: prospección por métodos geofísicos. In Proyecto La Blanca/El Ujuxte (PROBLALUX) investigaciones arqueológicas de La Blanca, Guatemala 2003–2004: informe final, edited by Michael Love and Donaldo Castillo. Report submitted to the Instituto de Antropología e Historia de Guatemala Pye, Mary E. 1995 Settlement, Specialization, and Adaptation in the Río Jesus Drainage, Retalhuleu, Guatemala. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Faculty of the Graduate School, Vanderbilt University, Nashville, TN. Pye, Mary E., and Arthur A. Demarest 1991 The Evolution of Complex Societies in Southeastern Mesoamerica: New Evidence from El Mesak, Guatemala. In The Formation of Complex Society in Southeastern Mesoamerica, edited by William R. Fowler, Jr., pp. 77–100. CRC Press, Boca Raton, FL. Pye, Mary E., John G. Hodgson, and John E. Clark 2011 Jocotal Settlement Patterns, Salt Production, and Pacific Coast Interactions. In

2004 Etnicidad, identidad y poder: interacción entre los Maya y sus vecinos en el altiplano y costa del Pacífico de Guatemala en el Preclásico. In XVII simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, edited by Juan Pedro Laporte, Bárbara Arroyo, Héctor L. Escobedo, and Héctor E. Mejía, pp. 449– 460. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. 2007 Recent Research in the Southern Highlands and Pacific Coast of Mesoamerica. Journal of Archaeological Research 15, no. 4:275–328. 2011 City States and City-­State Culture in the Southern Maya Region. In The Southern Maya in the Late Preclassic: The Rise and Fall of an Early Mesoamerican Civilization, edited by Michael Love and Jonathan Kap­ lan, pp. 47–75. University of Colorado Press, Boulder. n.d. Field Notes, UC Berkeley Abaj Takalik Project, 1980. On file, Archaeological Research Facility, Berkeley, CA. Love, Michael W., and Donald Castillo V. (editors) 2008 Proyecto La Blanca, temporada 2008, informe preliminar. Report submitted to the Instituto de Antropología e Historia de Guatemala. Love, Michael, Donaldo Castillo, Rene Ugarte, Brian Damiata, and John Steinberg 2005 Investigaciones en el Montículo 1 de la Blanca, costa sur de Guatemala. In XVIII Simposio de la Arqueología Guatemalteca, edited by J. P. Laporte, B. Arroyo, and H. Mejía, pp. 918–928. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Love, Michael and Julia Guernsey 2007 Monument 3 from La Blanca, Guatemala: A Middle Preclassic Earthen Sculpture and its Ritual Associations. Antiquity 81:920–932. 2008 Estilo y sociedad en el Preclásico de la costa del Pacífico. In Olmeca: balance y perspectivas: memorias de la primera mesa redonda Olmeca, edited by María Teresa Uriarte and Rebecca González Lauck, pp. 89–111. UNAM, México, D.F. 2011 La Blanca and the Soconusco Middle Formative. In Early Mesoamerican Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 170–188. University of California Press, Berkeley. 50

Urbanization and the Practices of Identity at La Blanca, Guatemala Early Meso­american Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the ­Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 217–​241. University of California Press, Berkeley. Rosenswig, Robert M. 2005 From the Land between Swamps: Cuauhtémoc in an Early Olmec World. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of An­t hropology, Yale University, New Haven, CT. 2011 An Early Mesoamerican Archipelago of Complexity. In Early Mesoamerican Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 242–271. University of California Press, Berkeley. Rosenswig, Robert M., and Richard L. Burger 2012 Considering New World ­Monumentality. In Early New World Monumentality, edited by Richard L. Burger and Robert M. Rosenswig, pp. 1–21. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Sanders, William and David Webster 1988 The Mesoamerican Urban Tradition. American Anthropologist 90(3):521–546 Scott, James C. 1992 Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. Yale University Press, New Haven, CT. Shook, Edwin M. n.d. Field Notebook 1972. Manuscript on file at the Virginia Shook Library, Universidad del Valle de Guatemala. Smith, Michael E. 2001 Urbanism. In The Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures: The Civilizations of Mexico and Central America, edited by David Carrasco, pp. 290–294. Vol. 3. Oxford University Press, New York. Smith, Monica L. 2003 Introduction: The Social Construction of Ancient Cities. In The Social Construction of Ancient Cities, edited by Monica L. Smith,

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CHAPTER 4

Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas Claudia García-­Des Lauriers

Introduction The archaeological site of Los Horcones is located on Cerro Bernal in the Tonalá region of the Pacific coast of Chiapas (Figure 4.1). Until recently, archaeological research at the site was limited to work conducted by Navarrete (1976, 1986) who suggested that Los Horcones was an important regional center, based on its monumentality, location, and complex of carved stelae showing strong stylistic ties to central Mexico. Beginning in 2005, the Proyecto Arqueológico Los Horcones (PALH) showed that the stelae discovered by Navarrete are only one manifestation of connections to the great central Mexican metropolis of Teotihuacán. Significant quantities of Central Mexican obsidian from the Pachuca source, locally made ceramics with Teotihuacán-­ style forms and decoration, and architectural references to Teotihuacán-­style spatial organization reveal a complex picture of the connections between these two centers (García-­Des Lauriers 2005a, 2005b, 2007, 2008, 2012a, 2012b). In this chapter, I will focus on public architecture and its role in framing discourses of identity at Los Horcones. Among the large-­scale public spaces of Los Horcones are six ballcourts, roughly one in each major architectural group (Figures 4.2–4.4). The strong presence of these spaces suggests not only the game’s importance but also opportunities for performance of a multiplicity of identities in association with ballgames, feasts, and other

r­ ituals (Fox 1996). The more heterodox discourse of identity that was possible during ballgames and performed in the various ballcourts at the site contrasts with the discourse encapsulated at Group F, where the elites in power at Los Horcones chose to emphatically cite Teotihuacán spatial organization, artistic style, and iconography as a means of creating a more encompassing corporate identity for the community (García-­Des Lauriers 2007, 2012a, 2012b). Identity and Archaeology at Los Horcones

With ample evidence of multiregional inter­ action, communities such as Los Horcones provide an excellent testing ground for considering how identities can be reconstructed with archaeological remains. Scholars such as Diaz-­Andreu et al. (2005), Emberling (1997), Eriksen (1993), Jones (1997), and others provide comprehensive discussions of the challenges in this endeavor, and I will not review them here. Instead, I focus on themes relevant to the current state of research at Los Horcones. As mentioned in the introduction to this volume, earlier assessments reconstructed ethnic identities as concrete and fixed categories of cultural difference visible through material-­ culture assemblages. Today, the archaeology of ethnicity is understood as providing insight on a process of self-­recognition negotiated alongside identifications that come from outside groups in 52

Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas

Figure 4.1. Map of Mesoamerica (from García-Des Lauriers 2012 Fig. 6.1; reproduced with permission from the University of Utah Press).

a complex process of boundary formation with variable visibility in the material record (Barth 1969; Emberling 1997; Eriksen 1993; Jones 1997; Smith 2003; Stark and Chance 2008). The formation of ethnic boundaries is recognized as a discursive process in which active agents define and are defined by their own experiential realities as members of a larger community of social actors (Barth 1969; Bourdieu 2006 [1977]; Emberling 1997; Eriksen 1993; Jones 1997; Lightfoot and Martinez 1995; Silliman 2001; Stark and Chance 2008). Material culture plays an important role giving this discursive process saliency, especially in cases of highly stratified societies where the creation of difference is also tied to power relationships (Barth 1969; Braswell this volume; Emberling 1997; Love this volume). At Los Horcones the material record points to complex interactions and connections with Central Mexico, the Maya region, and the Gulf Coast (García-­Des Lauriers 2007, 2008). The diverse material record from these connections could be understood as the materialization of boundary formation defining expressions of ethnic identity. This pattern is but one manifestation of a process that in other instances points to

the performance of hybrid or layered identities, while in other cases there is little material variation even where textual or linguistic evidence, for example, may indicate much more contested divisions (Burmeister 2000; Emberling 1997; Gasco his volume; Lightfoot and Martinez 1995; Silliman 2001; Rice 1998; Voss 2008a, 2008b). Teasing relationships from an “international” material record can be tedious, whether it is evidence of trade and economic exchanges or visible markers of power relations and identity performance. Yet, I believe a nuanced discussion is possible, when care is taken in understanding the local context and extra-­local processes that may affect the visibility of ethnic identification in material culture patterns. The focus on monumental architecture in this chapter is largely from necessity. Future research will seek to identify household contexts to contrast with the material patterns visible in the public spaces of this important regional center. In juxtaposition to public contexts, a great deal of weight is often placed on material patterns found in domestic or private contexts as a means of reconstructing a meaningful and more accurate image of ethnic self-­identification and 53

Figure 4.2. Map of Los Horcones with Detail of Groups A and C (Drawn by Hironori Fukuhara and Claudia García-Des Lauriers).

Figure 4.3. Map of Los Horcones with Detail of Groups B and D (Drawn by Hironori Fukuhara and Claudia

García-Des Lauriers).

Claudia Garcí a-­D es L auriers

Figure 4.4. Map of Los Horcones with Detail of Groups F and G Drawn by Hironori Fukuhara and Claudia García-Des Lauriers).

social reproduction within a community (See Burmeister 2000; García-­Des Lauriers and Love this volume; Rattray 1987, 1989; Santley 2007; Spence 1990, 1992, 1996). More recent research by Voss (2008a, 2008b), for example, suggests that these dichotomies can be constraining. Rather, we should see these realms of archaeology — ​public and private — ​as intertwined (Lesure 2011).

Despite such challenges, the following discussion of the archaeology of identity at Los Horcones can still be fruitful. While interaction between Los Horcones and many regions of Meso­america has been documented in its material record, by far the strongest connections are with Teotihuacán (García-­Des Lauriers 2005, 2007, 2012a, 2012b; Navarette 1976, 1986; Taube 2000). It thus follows that the relationships of 56

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Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas power that most informed the performance and enactment of identity at Los Horcones are between these two important centers. Large-­scale public architectural spaces served as structuring elements, often intended to shape and enhance the experience of performances conducted here as a means of affirming a corporate identity, unifying diverse communities, and conveying power relations (Joyce 2004; ­Inomata 2006a, 2006b; Inomata and Coben 2006; Moore 1996; Stockett 2007). The symbolic functions of architecture and the capacity for built environments to shape the construction and negotiation of identity and power relations in any given community is today a common theme in archaeological studies (Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Rapoport 1990 [1982]). The six ballcourts and Group F served in different ways as spaces for public rituals that encouraged varying narratives of identity negotiation. In Group F, the goal was to create a common experience for the participants in these large-­scale public performances framed by a space that recalled the experience of sacred procession down the Avenue of the Dead at Teotihuacán (Figure 4.4; Bachand et al. 2003). This common experience was meant to build communal ties: it replicated the symbols and spatial organization of Teotihuacán as the locus of an ascribed corporate identity for those in power at Los Horcones and created a highly formalized performance space (Lesure 2011). Yet in the many ballcourts, a much more complex dialogue of identities could be performed. These liminal spaces framed a discourse of identity where a plurality of ways of being in the world was performed and contested through competition and associated rituals.

role in the formation of a community identity and in the dynamics of early social stratification at this important early center (Clark 2004). Blake notes that it was constructed at a single time and was substantial enough to have hosted “large-­scale regional and perhaps interregional gatherings,” offering local elites the opportunity to display their status (Blake 2011:113–14). Ballcourts from the Middle Preclassic are rare in Chiapas, and none are currently known on the Pacific coast (Agrinier 1991:175–76). During the Late Preclassic, only Rancho Alegre located near Pijijiapan has a single open-­type ball­court (Agrinier 1991:177). The number of sites in Chiapas with ballcourts grows during the Early Classic (250–400 BCE), but the only securely dated Pacific coast site with ballcourts is Los Horcones (Agrinier 1991). Los Horcones is certainly unique on the Pacific coast in the importance of ballcourts as key architectural elements, not only because of their presence per se but also in their density. PALH identified six throughout the site, roughly one in each of the architectural groups (Figures 4.2–4.4). Further, no other site in the Tonalá region or the Soconusco had this many ballcourts at any time in history. Pierre Agrinier notes that “the uncommonly large number of courts at Los Horcones seems to mark the unusual importance of the site as a controlling regional center” (Agrinier 1991:178–179). The ballgame was very popular in the Highlands and Central Depression of Chiapas, particularly during the Late Classic. Yet Los Horcones is unique in ballcourt density at a single site. Other sites from this period have one and at most two. Before discussing the clearly significant role of the ballgame and what it tells us about identity and power at Los Horcones, I will briefly describe the ballcourts. The two largest ballcourts are located in and around architectural Group A (Figure 4.2). Ballcourt 2 is near the Los Horcones River, suggesting perhaps that it could have been flooded on occasion for specific ballgame rituals. In the Popol Vuh, there is a connection between ballcourts and water-­management systems, along with related symbolism as entrances to the

Ballcourts and Identity at Los Horcones

Ballcourts and ballgames played an important role on the Pacific coast of Chiapas going back 3,400 years to the earliest known example at Paso de la Amada (Blake 2011; Hill et al. 1998; Hill and Clark 2001). The ballcourt at Paso de la Amada is also one of the earliest known forms of public architecture in Mesoamerica. It played a central 57

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Figure 4.5. Stela 1, Los Horcones, Chiapas (from ­ avarrete 1986:Fig. 1; reproduced with permission N from the New World Archaeological Foundation).

watery underworld (Scarborough 2003). At El Tajín, Koontz notes that ballcourts were used to create connections between architectural spaces and water sources, suggesting that much of “central Tajín may be structured by this understanding of sacred mountains and water ballcourts” (Koontz 2009:279–80). Such connections between the ballgame and watery places, plus the symbolic manipulation of water in performances and city planning, may have partly informed this ballcourt’s location at Los Horcones. Ballcourt 1, also located in Group A, incorporates a larger, U-­shaped platform with smaller buildings on its summit. According to Eduardo Martinez’s map of Los Horcones, Stelae 1 and 2 were both located in Ballcourt 1. Stela 1 portrays a decapitated ballplayer seated in the tailor position (Navarrete 1986; Taube 2000; García-­Des Lauriers 2005a, 2007). Serpents appear as a metaphorical fount of blood issuing from his neck — ​ a particularly common convention in portrayals of decapitated ballplayers (Figure 4.5). Los Horcones Stela 2 is inscribed with two

Figure 4.6. Stela 2, Los Horcones, Chiapas (photo by Claudia García-Des Lauriers).

calendric inscriptions: 6 Reed and 11 Water (Taube 2000; García-­Des Lauriers 2005a, 2007). The dates are separated by a glyph that appears on nearly all of the monuments from Los Horcones. Taube (2000) identifies it as the cultivated earth glyph (Figure 4.6). The inscription is recorded in Teotihuacán linear script, possibly marking an important ballgame, the name of the sacri58

Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas

Figure 4.7. Macaw ballcourt marker, possibly from Los Horcones (photo by Claudia García-Des Lauriers).

ficed ballplayers, or other related dates (Taube 2000; García-­Des Lauriers 2005a, 2007). Given the ballgame/water connection, it is perhaps no surprise that one of the dates includes the water-­ day name. Moreover, the cultivated earth glyph in the center of the stela is surrounded by a watery border. Ballcourts 3 and 4, placed in Groups D and G respectively, share some basic construction features as well (Figures 4.3–4.4). They are approximately the same length and both incorporate a small, pyramidal platform on their south end in a similar fashion to ballcourts from central Veracruz (Agüero and Daneels 2009:122). With the exception of Ballcourt 6, which is I-­shaped, all of the ballcourts are of the open-­ended type. Two general orientations were used, with courts 1–4 oriented northeast-­southwest and courts 5–6 oriented northwest-­southeast. These variations in design and orientation may be attributable to chronological differences, with courts 5 and 6 perhaps representing later constructions than the other four courts. More research, however, is needed in order to confirm whether these differences are due to temporal dimensions or other factors. The pairing of stelae and ballcourts is also not restricted to Ballcourt 1. Plain stelae were located near Ballcourts 2 and 4, and two additional monuments whose exact provenience is unknown may have also adorned ballcourts at

Los Horcones. According to local informants, a tenoned sculpture now at the Parque Matamoros in Tonalá comes from Los Horcones (Figure 4.7). The sculpture is a macaw ballcourt marker similar to those from Kaminaljuyú, Copán, and Xochicalco (Parsons 1986: Fig. 203; Smith and Hirth 2000: Photo 3.13; Taube 2003: Figure 11.3f). This monument likely formed part of the sculptural decoration of one of the ballcourts from this site, but as it is no longer in context, I cannot be sure which ballcourt it originally adorned. Stela 5 from Los Horcones is now also out of context but was originally in one of the public spaces at this site. It shows ballgame iconography similar to that found on art from the Pacific coast of Guatemala and sites from Chiapas (Figure 4.8). Despite its rather eroded exterior, a figure in a position the Aztec called mamazouhticac, otherwise known as the “hocker” position, can still be made out (Klein 1976:55). This body position is characteristic of women at parturition and in representations of the Aztec earth deity Tlaltecuhtli. While the pose is generally associated with female figures, male ball players identified by their maxtlatl, or loincloth, appear on markers from the site of Tenam ­Rosario (Anawalt 1990; Fox, J. G., 1993). Given the pose of the figure on Stela 5 and his visible loincloth, it is safe to say that he probably represents a ball player. John G. Fox (1993) suggests that representations of ballplayers in this pose 59

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served as sites for the performance and negotiation of a multiplicity of identities. The ballgame certainly provides an important forum for the establishment of boundaries between different factions associated with the teams and for the reinforcement of social difference between sponsors, players, and audience (Hill and Clark 2001; Fox, J. G., 1996). The association of the game itself with death and rebirth as in the case of Popol Vuh narratives of the Hero Twins, cosmic battles, and ritualized warfare provided a religious metaphor through which to understand and resolve factional competition via the ballgame and performance of associated rituals (Fox, J. W., 1991; Fox, J. G., 1996; Gillespie 1991; Santley et al. 1991; Taladoire 2001; Taladoire and Colsenet 1991). While ballcourts were loci for the performance of social difference and the “separation of society into its component groupings” (Gillespie 1991:340), they also served as a means of creating social integration and a sense of community not unlike other monumental architecture in early cities like La Blanca (Love, this volume; Fox, J. G., 1996; Hill and Clark 2001; Clark 2004). Los Horcones was a community at the crossroads of trade routes with people and materials from many regions passing through. The ballgame may have been one means of building community and providing a socially sanctioned and controlled forum for the expression of multiple, sometimes competing identities. Through the ballgame, conflicts could be resolved, wealth could be redistributed through feasting and gambling, and sponsors could increase their status, as could victorious players. Given the relatively short chronology of occupation at Los Horcones and the number of courts, it is certainly foreseeable to have more than one and perhaps all six ballcourts functioning at the same time — ​if even for only a short period of time in the site’s history. The ballcourts at Los Horcones and associated rituals provided public spaces where residents and visitors could perform and negotiate their identities — ​where a complex and heterodox discourse of identity served to create social cohesion through the ideology of the ­ballgame.

Figure 4.8. Stela 5, Los Horcones, Chiapas (photo by

Claudia García-Des Lauriers).

link the ballgame to human sacrifice and terrestrial fertility. Moreover, ballplayers portrayed in the hocker position serve as a connection between ideas associated with fertility, male appropriation of female reproductive power, and rebirth and renovation (Fox, J. G., 1993). The large number of ballcourts and monuments related to the ballgame at Los Horcones suggests style similarities to the Gulf coast, Isthmus, and South along the Pacific coast where the ballgame was also incredibly popular (Agüero and Daneels 2009; Hellmuth 1978; Taladoire 2001; Zeitlin 1993). It is clear that the importance of ballcourts and the public activities associated with these structures, such as the playing of ballgames and perhaps also feasts, celebrations, and sacrifices, are yet another important part of public life at Los Horcones (Fox, J. G., 1996; Hill and Clark 2001; Scarborough and Wilcox 1991). Recent research on the ballgame and its sociopolitical role in Mesoamerica can be useful for understanding how the ballcourts of Los Horcones may have 60

Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas Spatializing Teotihuacán Identity

yama et al. 2004). The power of the Teotihuacán state was then further reiterated by the sacrificial victims and offerings of jade, shell, fauna, and obsidian found in the interior of the Moon Pyramid, repeated by spectacles performed to commemorate periodic renovations (Pereira and Chávez 2006; Spence and Pereira 2007; Sugiyama and López Luján 2006, 2007). It is unlikely that anyone from Los Horcones would have witnessed these events directly, as many of the burials and offerings were made before the major occupation of Los Horcones, but they may have learned of the Moon Complex’s symbolic importance from visiting Teotihuacanos, or from recollections of people who knew the city well. The power of this memory could also have been mobilized at Los Horcones to create a collective identity and perhaps to structure relationships of power (Van Dyke and Alcock 2003). While not an exact replica of the Moon Pyramid complex, Group F is one of the closest known architectural citations of Teotihuacán spatial organization outside central Mexico. The builders of Group F sought to evoke Teotihuacán identity through the spatial layout as well as through the iconography and style used to adorn Stelae 3 and 4. The Teotihuacán stelae, as I have called them, are some of the most faithful ­representations of Teotihuacán imagery outside of the city itself, suggesting to Cowgill (2003) that their local production may have been overseen by artists from Teotihuacán, if not carved by Teotihuacanos themselves (García-­Des Lauriers 2005a, 2007). Detailed analyses of the iconography of Stelae 3 and 4 shows them to be excellent examples of Teotihuacán art and writing (García-­Des Lauriers 2005a, 2007, 2012a, 2012b; Navarrete 1976, 1986; Taube 2000). According to a map produced by Eduardo Martinez and descriptions by Carlos Navarrete (1986:4), Stelae 3 and 4 were located in the upper plaza of Group F in front of Mound F1 (Figure 4.4). Moreover, like the structured space they adorned, these sculptures were composed to direct movement and guide the viewer towards a carefully delineated reading of the symbols, simi­lar to the Late Classic Maya stelae from

Elsewhere, I have argued that Group F, the largest and most formally planned of the Los Horcones architectural groups, evokes Teotihuacán identity through its spatial organization and in the placing of two important monuments decorated with central Mexican iconography and style (García-­Des Lauriers 2007, 2012a, 2012b). The scale and elaboration invested in planning and building Group F suggests that the goal was to create a space “designed to be entered, approached, or viewed by large groups of people” — ​a site of public rituals (Moore 1996:92, 139; Trigger 1990). The space defined by the architectural features was structured to control movement and to emphasize features of the built and natural landscape as well as the sculptural monuments placed within it. For example, the parallel mounds that define the roadway leading into the main plaza of Group F accentuate the main northeast-­southwest axis of this group (Figure 4.4). Moore (1996), following the work of Higuchi (1983), notes that low, parallel mounds provide a series of planes that visually enhance the perception of depth, emphasizing the distance between one end of an architectural group and the other — ​a characteristic of public architecture used for processions (Moore 1996:110). The overall architectural layout of Group F alludes to conventions of spatial organization visible at Teotihuacán, specifically the manner in which the Street of the Dead empties into the Plaza of the Moon (Figure 4.4). In the case of Los Horcones, however, the roadway does not immediately communicate with another architectural group but seems to have been planned specifically for processions — ​a means of formalizing and structuring movement (Lesure 2011). The intentional reimagining of the Plaza of the Moon at Los Horcones could in part be an appropriation of its meaning as an expression of state power in central Mexico. Recent work at the Pyramid of the Moon at Teotihuacán has shown it was one of the earliest monumental structures built there, and its history of renovation parallels the early growth of state power (Sugiyama and Cabrera Castro 2006, 2007; Sugi61

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­ iedras Negras analyzed by Megan O’Neil (2012). P Stelae 3 and 4 were carved on all sides, requiring viewers to circumambulate them in order to fully understand the imagery (García-­Des Lauriers 2012a). The highly structured architectural group and the composition of these monuments created a space and place of highly formalized, ritual action intended to inscribe references to Teotihuacán through large-­scale public rituals on the people attending and orchestrating those events (Lesure 2011; O’Neil 2012). The architectural evidence from Los Hor­ cones provides a new perspective on the discourse of Teotihuacán material culture found in sites outside of the city center. Until very recently, much of the architectural evidence of Teotihuacán influence consisted of citations or reinterpretations of talud-­tablero façades. Structures at the Mundo Perdido and Group 6C-­XVI in Tikal, the Hunal Structure of Temple 16 at Copán and Mounds A and B at Kaminaljuyú are just some examples of buildings in the Maya area with talud-­tablero façades linked to Teotihuacán material culture (Braswell 2003; Fash and Fash 2000; Kidder et al. 1946; Laporte 2003a, 2003b; Sharer 2003; Traxler 2004). For a more extensive survey of the distribution of talud and tablero profiles see Kowalski (1999). In all cases, they have been variously interpreted as evidence of contacts with Teotihuacán, a form of elite emu­lation, or local reinterpretations that do not conform to the same ratio of talud to tablero present at Teotihuacán (Braswell 2003; Laporte 2003a, 2003b). Some scholars have also called into question whether talud-­tablero architectural style can be identified solely with Teotihuacán, since the earliest examples are not actually from this site but from the Puebla-­Tlaxcala region, and this style of architectural façade was quite widespread with many variants (Kowalski 1999; Laporte 2003b; Plunket and Uruñuela 1998; Uruñuela and Plunket 2007). What is so different in the case of Los Horcones is that I have yet to find talud-­tablero platforms, although it is too early to discount their presence entirely. The evidence from Los Horcones in some ways suggests more direct contacts with Teotihuacán for it is a clear citation not of façade style but of spatial organization and planning.

One of the only other sites in the Maya area where Teotihuacán spatial organization might have been used is at Nakum. There, recent work has exposed a completely enclosed patio defined by talud-­tablero mounds (Koszkul et al. 2006; Zralka 2007). At all of the previously mentioned sites, talud-­tablero architecture was superimposed on buildings that were otherwise organized into spatial relationships consistent with Maya city-­planning principles. Moreover, at Los Horcones, the elite specifically chose the spatial organization of one of the main public plazas — ​the Plaza of the Moon — ​as the inspiration that would help structure space and experience at this site. As noted earlier they even included a sort of pseudo-­Avenue of the Dead. Kowalski (1999:85) points out that the Avenue of the Dead was no mere “functional roadway” but a “broad ceremonial avenue” or “via sacra” that ordered the entire city. While the location of Los Horcones on Cerro Bernal and the complex topography make it difficult for a via sacra of this scale to structure the layout of the whole city, for the most important architectural group it seems that the builders or their supervisors, felt it was an essential component. All of which suggests that contacts with Teotihuacán were more enduring and direct and represent a clear attempt to appropriate Teotihuacán state ideology, encoded in the city’s plan, on the part of a small and distant center on the Pacific coast of Chiapas. Local Architecture and Identity As mentioned earlier, the material saliency of identity, especially ethnicity, seems to be more marked in cases of contact between different groups. Los Horcones was not the only major site of the Tonalá region during the Early Classic. Recent work by Akira Kaneko (2009, 2011, 2012; Kaneko and Flores 1999) at the site of ­Iglesia Vieja — ​also called Tonalá in earlier publications (Ferdon 1953) — ​has revealed a very unique set of architectural characteristics that contrast clearly with the patterns visible at Los Horcones. Current chronological assessments place ­Iglesia Vieja’s occupation from about 200–400 CE ­ (­Ka­neko 2009, 2011, 2012). The early occupation of Los Horcones overlapped with Iglesia Vieja, 62

Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas but its height was 400–650 CE, a little later than proposed by Kaneko (2009, 2011, 2012; García-­ Des Lauriers 2008). In contrast to Los Horcones, Iglesia Vieja lacks the material patterns to suggest any connection to central Mexico (Kaneko 2009). The inhabitants of Iglesia Vieja used the complicated topography of the Sierra Madre de Chiapas to build a highly defensible and, even today, difficult-­to-reach center. The megalithic architecture, illustrated particularly in the principal buildings of Groups B and C and present throughout the site, is impressive and could not differ more from construction techniques at Los Horcones (Kaneko 2009; Ferdon 1953). Unlike Los Horcones, Iglesia Vieja has no known ballcourts, and its spatial layout and construction techniques seem, in contrast to other regional sites, to be more autochthonous. The architectural patterns visible at Los Horcones are in some ways echoed by an earlier site called Tzutzuculi, also located in the Tonalá region (McDonald 1983). Tzutzuculi dates to the Middle Preclassic and shows architectural and monumental links to the Olmec (McDonald 1983). Like Los Horcones, the builders looked to external influences for some of their major architectural features. In McDonald’s view, the layout of Mound 4 and Enclosure Complex A at Tzutzuculi evoke the spatial organization of La Venta’s Complexes A and C. Much of the rest of the site, however, fits local patterns of architectural layout. Iglesia Vieja, because of its location and characteristics, suggests that the ruling houses maintained their power through evocation of a local identity — ​one that does not seem to show links to any “foreign” groups (Kaneko 2009, 2011). What this may mean is that the rise of Los Horcones and its links to Teotihuacán eclipsed this site (Kaneko 2009) or that it was an active rejection of the “foreign” in favor of autochthonous traditions as proposed by Chinchilla for the Cotzumalhuapa region of Guatemala (Chinchilla, this volume). At Los Horcones and the earlier Tzutzuculi, the built spaces call to mind both local traditions and built spaces that were grounded in outside influences. In the case of Tzutzuculi, an Olmec identity linked to

La Venta was evoked in an architectural complex that combined sculptural monuments and spatial layout in a pattern not dissimilar to that evoked by Group F and the Teotihuacán stelae at Los Horcones, albeit somewhat later (McDonald 1983). These eclectic citations of “foreign” influences are partially explained by their location along the important terrestrial trade route to the Soconusco. But they also suggest that ruling elites appropriated recognizable references to Teotihuacán or Olmec identity. In this volume, Clark discusses at length the politics of an Olmec identity and its defining material patterns. However, references to these “foreign” identities seem not only to have helped structure power relations at Los Horcones and Tzutzuculi but to have framed collective rituals in those public spaces for the members of each community. Ballgame and Teotihuacán Influence at Los Horcones

It is important to note that while Group F presented a discourse of identity largely rooted in Teotihuacán models and ideology, it too had a ballcourt. Ballgame images are present at Teotihuacán in the murals in Portico 2 of Tepantitla, but there are currently no confirmed ballcourts in the city itself (Pasztory 1976; Taladoire 2001; Uriarte 2007). Uriarte has suggested that “it is... feasible that the game was played on the largest ballcourt in Mesoamerica: the Avenue of the Dead” (Uriarte 2007:22). Her identification of portable ballcourt markers in the Tepantitla ­murals certainly confirms presence of the ballgame, but at least in the case of Teotihuacán, they did not see the need to build separate monumental structures for games. As Miller and Houston (1987) have noted for the Maya lowlands, not all rituals associated with the ballgame took place in ballcourts; some took place on staircases of pyramidal structures. Therefore, this may partly explain the lack of ballcourts at Teotihuacán at the same time as the presence of images shows that they were clearly aware of ballgames and associated rituals. Taladoire (2001) also attributes the general decline of ballcourt construction throughout the Early Classic partly to Teotihuacán influence. 63

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While ballgames are depicted in Teotihuacán art, ballcourts and ballgames seem to be a more local phenomenon with a deep history on the Pacific coast of Chiapas. Then why include a ballcourt in a large architectural group where the elite seem so focused on recreating a spatial and social order derived from a distant city? When compared with the other ballcourts at Los Horcones, Ballcourt 5 in Group F is the smallest (Figure 4.4). The parallel mounds delineating it are approximately 19 m long, but are no more than .5 m high. All of the other ballcourts have mounds that are at least 1.5 m high, and are much more complex in terms of their incorporation of sculpture and other architectural features. The scale of Ballcourt 5 is not only diminutive in comparison to the other ballcourts at the site, but it is further subsumed by the adjacent presence of Mound F1, the largest pyramidal structure at Los Horcones, as well as the monumental scale of the whole complex (García-­Des Lauriers 2012a). The variation in size could indicate that a different game was played here, perhaps a form of the stick ballgame shown in the Tepantitla murals or something more familiar to Teotihuacanos than the hip-­ball version played in the larger-­scale ballcourts. It is also entirely possible that it served more of a symbolic purpose rather than a practical one, much like the effigy ballcourt that channeled water noted by Koontz (2009) for El Tajín. Another possibility is that the elite group who sponsored the construction of Group F saw the ballcourt as a way to link them with other community-­building performances at Los Horcones, similar to the manner in which rulers at Cotzumalhuapa looked back to the Preclassic and more local ancestral traditions (Chinchilla, this volume). Yet the much smaller size of Ballcourt 5 suggests that they were also setting the Teotihuacán identity evoked in the overall layout of Group F as a means to unify the smaller communities and factions composing the population of this site.

F, the largest of the ceremonial complexes, the builders and sponsors chose an architectural language inspired by Teotihuacán in order to frame the experience of the participants in public, community-­wide rituals. They specifically attempted to replicate the ordered space created by Teotihucan’s via sacra, the Avenue of the Dead, as it emptied into the Plaza of the Moon. On the upper plaza of Group F, two stelae carved with visual symbols linked to Teotihuacán, such as the storm god Tlaloc and the eagle and jaguar, were carefully rendered using artistic canons characteristic to the central Mexican metropolis. The compositions of these monuments, like the architectural setting in which they were placed, also structured movement. The public proclamation of Teotihuacán identity seen in Group F served as a means of fixing behaviors in space (Joyce and Hendon 2000; Love 1999). This space provided a stage for highly visible public rituals intended to ­create a corporate identity through shared experience. The corporate identity selected by the builders of this architectural group is one that linked them with Teotihuacán and elevated this identity as the one that could not only unify the diverse population of Los Horcones but set the builders apart by strengthening economic and cultural ties with merchants coming from the central Mexican metropolis — ​a pattern also seen at Tzutzuculi in the Middle Preclassic and this site’s citation of Olmec public spaces at La Venta (McDonald 1983). The six ballcourts on the other hand suggested a discourse of identity framed in more local models of religious and political practice. Here, social actors could use the roles of player, sponsor, audience member, gambler, performer, and priest to create a complex and heterodox discourse of identity at a single event. The ballgame was an important forum for the creation of boundaries between different factions associated with the teams as well as the reinforcement of social difference. These boundaries sometimes defined groups who were at odds with each other but who could resolve their differences through a ballgame in one of six courts at Los Horcones. In so doing, ballgames also became a way to unify a diverse population and create a sense of

Conclusions The public architectural spaces at Los Horcones provide two different settings through which to reconstruct and understand the complex discourse of identity there. In the case of Group 64

Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas cohesion amidst a diverse set of ­actors while remaining grounded in the deep past, much as at Cotzumalhuapa (Chinchilla, this volume). The construction of monumental buildings on a landscape is a means through which societies seek to “concretize and generalize certain identifications, creating more enduring histories for specific identities by marking them permanently on the landscape” (Joyce and Hendon 2000:​155). In the case of Los Horcones, the builders of Group F created an architectural setting for highly visible performances and sought to appropriate Teotihuacán state ideology as encoded in its city planning. The scale of the public rituals performed in this architectural space served to create a community identity through

the framing of shared experiences (Joyce and Hendon 2000). The importance of ballcourts at the site and the associated public rituals were also significant for community building and enacting different identities through the ballgame or participation in ritual feasts. The architecture of Los Horcones reveals that we have just begun to understand the complexity of ideas and practices that held this community together. More research is necessary in order to further understand the complex discourse of identity that took place not only in the public spaces but also in the residences of this important regional center on the Pacific coast of Chiapas.

Acknowledgments Anawalt, Patricia 1990 Indian Clothing Before Cortés: Mesoamerican Costumes from the Codices. University of Oklahoma Press, Norman. Bachand, Holly, Rosemary Joyce, and Julia Hendon 2003 Bodies Moving in Space: Ancient Mesoameri­ can Human Sculpture and Embodiment. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 13:238–247. Barth, Fredrik (editor) 1969 [1998] Introduction. In Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference, pp. 9–38. Reprint, Waveland Press, Long Grove, IL. Blake, Michael 2011 Building History in Domestic and Public Space at Paso de la Amada: An Examination of Mounds 6 and 7. In Early Mesoamerican Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 97–118. University of California Press, Berkley. Bourdieu, Pierre 2006 [1977] Outline of a Theory of Practice. Translated by Richard Nice. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Braswell, Geoffrey 2003 Understanding Early Classic Interaction between Kaminaljuyú and Central Mexico. In The Maya and Teotihuacán: Reinterpreting Early Classic Interaction, edited by Geoffrey Braswell, pp. 105–142. University of Texas Press, Austin.

I would like to thank the National Science Foundation (Grant No. 0441395), UC MEXUS, and FAMSI for funding for my research at Los Horcones and the Instituto Nacional de Antropolgía e Historia (INAH) for providing permits. I am grateful to all of these institutions for their support. I would like to thank Mike Love, John Clark, Wendy Ashmore, Janine Gasco, Eduardo de Jesus Douglas, Robert Rosenswig, and Karl Taube for their comments on earlier versions of this paper. This work could not have been done without the cooperation from the people of Tonalá, Chiapas especially Ricardo Lopez Vasallo, Aucencio Zambrano, Eliel Zavala Marroquin, Felix de los Santos — ​gracias a todos. Finally, I am grateful to Emilio and Matthew for their unconditional love, inspiration, and support.

References Agrinier, Pierre 1991 The Ballcourts of Southern Chiapas, Mexico. In The Mesoamerican Ballgame, edited by Vernon L. Scarborough and David W. Wilcox, pp. 175–194. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Agüero, Adriana and Annick Daneels 2009 Playing Ball — ​Competition as a Political Tool. In Blood and Beauty: Organized Violence in the Art and Archaeology of Mesoamerica and Central America, edited by Heather Orr and Rex Koontz, pp. 117–138. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press, Los Angeles. 65

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The Mesoamerican Ballgame, edited by Vernon L. Scarborough and David R. Wilcox, pp. 213–240. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. García-­Des Lauriers, Claudia 2005a La iconografía y simbolismo de la ­escultura de Cerro Bernal, Chiapas. Utz’ib Serie Reportes 1(5):1–16. 2005b Proyecto arqueológico los Horcones (PALH): informe técnico de la temporada 2005 y solicitud para los trabajos de campo temporada 2006. Unpublished manuscript in possession of the author. 2007 Proyecto Arqueológico Los Horcones: Investigating the Teotihuacán Presence on the Pacific Coast of Chiapas, Mexico. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Riverside. 2008 The Early Classic Obsidian Trade at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico. Grant Report, Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc. Electronic document, http://www.famsi.org/reports/06085/index​ .html. 2012a Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico. In Power and Identity in Archaeological Theory and Practice: Case Studies from Ancient Mesoamerica, edited by Eleanor Harrison-­ Buck, pp. 63–81. Foundations of Archaeological Inquiry Series. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 2012b Juegos de pelota, escenificación e identidad en los Horcones, Chiapas, México. In Arqueología reciente de Chiapas: contribuciones del encuentro celebrado en el 60o aniversario de la Fundación Arqueológica Nuevo Mundo, edited by Lynneth Low and Mary Pye, pp. 265–280. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 72. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. Gillespie, Susan 1991 Ballgames and Boundaries. In The Mesoamerican Ballgame, edited by Vernon L. Scarborough and David R. Wilcox, pp. 317– 346. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Hellmuth, Nicholas 1978 Teotihuacán Art in Escuintla, Guatemala Region. In Middle Classic Mesoamerica: AD 400–​700, edited by Esther Pasztory,

Burmeister, Stefan 2000 Archaeology and Migration: Approaches to an Archaeological Proof of Migration. Current Anthropology 41(4):539–567. Clark, John E. 2004 Mesoamerica Goes Public: Early Ceremonial Centers, Leaders, and Communities. In Mesoamerican Archaeology: Theory and Practice, edited by Julia Hendon and Rosemary Joyce, pp. 43–72. Blackwell Publishing, Malden, MA. Cowgill, George 2003 Teotihuacán and Early Classic ­Interaction: A Perspective from Outside the Maya Region. In The Maya and Teotihuacán: Reinterpreting Early Classic Interaction, edited by Geoffrey E. Braswell, pp. 315–336. University of Texas Press, Austin. Diaz-­Andreu, Margarita, Sam Lucy, Stasa Babic, and David N. Edwards 2005 Archaeology of Identity: Approaches to Gender, Age, Status, Ethnicity and Religion. Routledge, London. Emberling, Geoff 1997 Ethnicity in Complex Societies: Archaeological Perspectives. Journal of Archaeological Research 5:295–344. Eriksen, Thomas H. 1993 Ethnicity and Nationalism: Anthropological Perspectives. Pluto Press, London. Fash, William and Barbara Fash 2000 Teotihuacán and the Maya: A Classic Heritage. In Mesoamerica’s Classic Heritage: From Teotihuacán to the Aztecs, edited by Davíd Carrasco, Lindsay Jones, and Scott Sessions, pp. 433–463. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Ferdon, Edwin N. 1953 Tonalá, Mexico: An Archaeological Survey. Monograph of the School of American Research, No. 16. School of American Research, Santa Fe, NM. Fox, John G. 1993 The Ballcourt Markers of Tenam Rosario, Chiapas, Mexico. Ancient Mesoamerica 4:55–64. 1996 Playing with Power: Ballcourts and Political Ritual in Southern Mesoamerica. Current Anthropology 37:483–509. Fox, John W. 1991 The Lords of Light Versus the Lords of Dark: The Postclassic Highland Maya Ballgame. In

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Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Electronic document, http://www.asociac​ iontikal​.com/pdf/044_-­_ Kaneko.08.pdf. 2011 Iglesia Vieja: un sitio megalítico del clásico temprano en la costa del Pacífico de Chiapas. In XXIV simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2010, edited by B. Arroyo and A. Arroyave, pp. 663–680. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Electronic document, http://www.asociaciontikal.com​ /­pdf/54._Kaneko_rev.pdf. 2012 La arquitectura de Iglesia Vieja. In Arqueológia reciente de Chiapas: contribuciones del encuentro celebrado en el 60o aniversario de la Fundación Arqueológica Nuevo Mundo, edited by Lynneth Low and Mary Pye, pp. 281–294. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 72. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. Kaneko, Akira and Maria de los Angeles Flores 1999 Atlas arqueológico del estado de Chiapas, México. In XII simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 1998, edited by J. P. Laporte and H. Escobedo, pp. 600–612. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Electronic document, http://www.asociaciontikal.com​ /­pdf/46.98%20-%20Kaneko.pdf. Kidder, Alfred V., Jesse D. Jennings, and Edwin M. Shook 1946 Excavations at Kaminaljuyú, Guatemala. Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park. Klein, Cecelia 1976 The Face of the Earth: Frontality in Two-­ Dimensional Mesoamerican Art. Garland Publishing, New York. Knapp, A. Bernard and Wendy Ashmore 1999 Archaeological Landscapes: Constructed, Conceptualized, Ideational. In Archaeologies of Landscape: Contemporary Perspectives, edited by Wendy Ashmore and A. Bernard Knapp, pp. 1–32. Blackwell Publishing, Malden, MA. Koontz, Rex 2009 Social Identity and Cosmology at El Tajín. In The Art of Urbanism: How Mesoamerican Kingdoms Represented Themselves in Architecture and Imagery, edited by William L. Fash and Leonardo López Luján,

pp. 71–85. Columbia University Press, New York. Higuchi, Tadakiko 1983 The Visual and Spatial Structure of Landscapes. MIT Press, Cambridge. Hill, Warren D., Michael Blake, and John E. Clark 1998 Ballcourt design dates back 3,400 years. Nature 392:878–879. Hill, Warren D., and John E. Clark 2001 Sports, Gambling, and Government: America’s First Social Compact? American Anthropologist 103(2):331–345. Inomata, Takeshi 2006a Plazas, Performers, and Spectators: Political Theaters of the Classic Maya. Current Anthropology 47:805–842. 2006b Politics and Theatricality in Mayan Society. In Archaeology of Performance: Theaters of Power, Community, and Politics, edited by Takeshi Inomata and Lawrence S. Coben, pp. 187–222. Altamira Press, Lanham, MD. Inomata, Takeshi and Lawrence S. Coben 2006 Overture: An Invitation to the Archaeological Theater. In Archaeology of Performance: Theaters of Power, Community, and Politics, edited by Takeshi Inomata and ­Lawrence S. Coben, pp. 11–46. Altamira Press, Lanham, MD. Jones, Siân 1997 The Archaeology of Ethnicity: Constructing Identities in the Past and Present. Routledge, New York. Joyce, Rosemary 2004 Unintended Consequences? Monumentality as a Novel Experience in Formative Mesoamerica. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 11(1):5–29. Joyce, Rosemary and Julia Hendon 2000 Heterarchy, History, and Material Reality: “Communities” in Late Classic Honduras. In The Archaeology of Communities: A New World Perspective, edited by Marcello A. Canuto and Jason Yaeger, pp. 143–159. Routledge, London. Kaneko, Akira 2009 Investigación arqueológica en la región Tonalá de la costa del Pacífico de ­Chiapas. In XXII simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2008, edited by J. P. Laporte, B. Arroyo, and H. Mejía, pp. 562– 579. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y

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Miller, Mary Ellen and Stephen D. Houston 1987 The Classic Maya Ballgame and Its Architectural Setting: A Study of Relations between Text and Image. Res: Anthropology and Aesthetics 14:47–66. Moore, Jerry D. 1996 Architecture and Power in the Ancient Andes: The Archaeology of Public Buildings. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Navarrete, Carlos 1976 El complejo escultórico del Cerro Bernal, en la costa de Chiapas, México. Anales de Antropología (UNAM) 13:23–45. 1986 The Sculptural Complex at Cerro Bernal on the Coast of Chiapas. Notes of the New World Archaeological Foundation, No. 1, pp. 1–28. New World Archaeological Foundation, Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. O’Neil, Megan 2012 Engaging Ancient Maya Sculpture at Piedras Negras, Guatemala. University of Oklahoma Press, Norman. Parsons, Lee Allan 1986 The Origins of Maya Art: Monumental Stone Sculpture of Kaminaljuyú, Guatemala, and the Southern Pacific Coast. Studies in Pre-­ Columbian Art and Archaeology, No. 28. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. Pasztory, Esther 1976 The Murals of Tepantitla, Teotihuacán. ­Garland Publishing, New York. Pereira, Gregory and Ximena Chávez 2006 Restos humanos en el entierro 6 de la Pirámide de la Luna. In Sacrificios de consagración en la Pirámide de la Luna, edited by Saburo Sugiyama and Leonardo López Luján, pp. 53–60. Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, Instituto Nacional de Antropolgía e Historia, Museo de Templo Mayor, Mexico, D.F. Plunket, Patricia and Gabriela Uruñela 1998 Preclassic Household Patterns Preserved under Volcanic Ash at Tetimpa, Puebla, Mexico. Latin American Antiquity 9:287–309. Rapoport, Amos 1990 [1982] The Meaning of the Built Environment: A Nonverbal Communication Approach. Reprint, University of Arizona Press, ­Tucson. Rattray, Evelyn 1987 Los barrios foráneos de Teotihuacán. In Teo-

pp. 260–289. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. Koszkul, Wieslaw, Barnard Hermes, and Zoila Calderón 2006 Teotihuacán-­related Finds from the Maya Site of Nakum, Petén, Guatemala. Mexicon 28 (6):117–127. Kowalski, Jeff Karl 1999 Natural Order, Social Order, Political Legitimacy, and the Sacred City. In Mesoamerican Architecture as a Cultural Symbol, edited by Jeff Karl Kowalski, pp. 76–109. Oxford University Press, New York. Laporte, Juan Pedro 2003a Architectural Aspects of Interaction between Tikal and Teotihuacán during the Early Classic Period. In The Maya and Teotihuacán: Reinterpreting Early Classic Interaction, edited by Geoffrey E. Braswell, pp. 199–216. University of Texas Press, ­Austin. 2003b Thirty Years Later: Some Results of Recent Investigations in Tikal. In Tikal: Dynasties, Foreigners and Affairs of State: Advancing Maya Archaeology, edited by Jeremy A. Sabloff, pp. 281–318. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe, NM. Lesure, Richard G. 2011 Paso de la Amada as a Ceremonial Center. In Early Mesoamerican Social Transformations: Archaic and Formative Lifeways in the Soconusco Region, edited by Richard G. Lesure, pp. 119–145. University of California Press, Berkeley. Lightfoot, Kent G., and Antoinette Martinez 1995 Frontiers and Boundaries in Archaeological Perspective. Annual Reviews in Anthropology 24:471–492. Love, Michael 1999 Ideology, Material Culture, and Daily Practice in Pre-­Classic Mesoamerica: A Pacific Coast Perspective. In Social Patterns in Pre-­Classic Mesoamerica, edited by David Grove and Rosemary A. Joyce, pp. 127–153. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. McDonald, Andrew J. 1983 Tzutzuculi: A Middle-­Preclassic Site on the Pacific Coast of Chiapas, Mexico. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 47. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT.

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Architecture and Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas ology of Culture Contact. Journal of Social Archaeology 1:190–209. Smith, Stuart Tyson 2003 Wretched Kush: Ethnic Identities and Boundaries in Egypt’s Nubian Empire. Routledge, London. Smith, Virginia and Kenneth Hirth 2000 A Catalog of the Carved Monuments and a Guide to the Visual Characteristics of Xochicalco’s Art Style. In The Xochicalco Mapping Project, edited by Kenneth Hirth, Vol. 2, pp. 17–56. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Spence, Michael W. 1990 Excavaciones en Tlailotlacan, Teotihuacán. Segunda Temporada. Consejo de Arqueología Boletín 1989:128–130. 1992 Tlailotlacan, a Zapotec Enclave at Teotihuacán. In Art, Ideology, and the City of Teotihuacán, edited by Janet C. Berlo, pp. 59–88. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. 1996 A Comparative Analysis of Ethnic Enclaves. In Arqueología Mesoamericana: Homenaje a William Sanders, edited by Guadalupe Mastache, Jeffrey R. Parsons, Robert Santley, and Mari Carmen Serra Puche, Vol. 1, pp. 333–353. INAH, Mexico, D.F. Spence, Michael W., and Grégory Pereira 2007 The Human Skeletal Remains of the Moon Pyramid, Teotihuacán. Ancient Mesoamerca 18:147–157. Stark, Barbara L., and John K. Chance 2008 Diachronic and Multidisciplinary Per­ spectives on Mesoamerican Ethnicity. In Ethnic Identity in Nahua Mesoamerica: The View from Archaeology, Art History, Ethnohistory, and Contemporary Ethnography, edited by Frances F. Berdan, John K. Chance, Alan R. Sandstrom, Barbara L. Stark, James M. Taggart, and Emily Umberger, pp. 1–37. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Stockett, Miranda K. 2007 Performing Power: Identity, Ritual, and ­Materiality in a Late Classic Southeast Meso­a merican Crafting Community. ­Ancient Mesoamerica 18:91–105. Sugiyama, Saburo and Rubén Cabrera Castro 2006 El proyecto Pirámide de la Luna 1998–2004: conclusiones preliminares. In Sacrificios de consagración en la Pirámide de la Luna,

tihuacán: nuevos datos, nuevas síntesis,nuevos problemas, edited by Emily McClung de Tapia and Evelyn C. Rattray, pp. 243–274. Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas, UNAM, Mexico, D.F. 1989 El barrio de los comerciantes y el conjunto Tlamimilolpa: un estudio comparativo. Arqueología 5:105–129. Rice, Prudence 1998 Contexts of Contact and Change: Periph­ eries, Frontiers, and Boundaries. In Studies in Culture Contact: Interaction, Culture Change, and Archaeology, edited by James G. Cusick, pp. 44–66. Center for Archaeological Investigations Occasional Paper No. 25. Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. Santley, Robert S. 2007 The Prehistory of the Tuxtlas. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Santley, Robert S., Michael J. Berman, and Rani T. Alexander 1991 The Politicization of the Mesoamerican Ballgame and Its Implications for the Interpretation of the Distribution of Ballcourts in Central Mexico. In The Mesoamerican Ballgame, edited by Vernon L. Scarborough and David R. Wilcox, pp. 3–24. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Scarborough, Vernon L. 2003 Ballcourts and Reservoirs: The Social Construction of a Tropical Karstic Landscape. In Espacios Mayas: representaciones, usos, creencias, edited by Alain Breton, Aurore Monod Becquelin, and Mario Humberto Ruz, pp. 77–92. Centro de Estudios Mayas, Instituto de Investigaciones Filologicas, UNAM, Centro Francés de Estudios Mexicanos y Centroamericanos, México, D.F. Scarborough, Vernon L., and David W. Wilcox (editors) 1991 The Mesoamerican Ballgame. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Sharer, Robert J. 2003 Founding Events and Teotihuacán Connections at Copán, Honduras. In The Maya and Teotihuacán: Reinterpreting Early Classic Interaction, edited by Geoffrey Braswell, pp. 105–142. University of Texas Press, ­ ustin. A Silliman, Stephen 2001 Agency, Practical Politics and the Archae-

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Reinterpreting Early Classic Interaction, edited by Geoffrey E. Braswell, pp. 273–314. University of Texas Press, Austin. Traxler, Loa P. 2004 Redesigning Copán: Early Architecture of the Polity Center. In Understanding Early Classic Copán, edited by Ellen E. Bell, Marcello A. Canuto, and Robert J. Sharer, pp. 53–64. University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, Philadelphia. Trigger, Bruce 1990 Monumental Architecture: A Thermo­ dynamic Explanation of Symbolic Behavior. World Archaeology 22:119–132. Uriarte, Maria Teresa 2007 The Teotihuacán Ballgame and the Beginning of Time. Ancient Mesoamerica 17: 17–28. Uruñuela, Gabriela and Patricia Plunket 2007 Tradition and Transformation: Village Ritual at Tetimpa as a Template for Early Teotihuacán. In Commoner Ritual and Ideology in Ancient Mesoamerica, edited by Nancy Gonlin and Jon C. Lohse, pp. 33–54. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Van Dyke, Ruth M., and Susan E. Alcock 2003 Archaeologies of Memory: An Introduction. In Archaeologies of Memory, edited by Ruth M. Van Dyke and Susan E. Alcock, pp. 1–13. Blackwell Publishing, Malden, MA. Voss, Barbara L. 2008a Gender, Race, and Labor in the Archaeology of the Spanish Colonial Americas. Current Anthropology 49:861–893. 2008b The Archaeology of Ethnogenesis: Race and Sexuality in Colonial San Francisco. University of California Press, Berkeley. Zeitlin, Judith F. 1993 The Politics of Classic-­Period Ritual Interaction: Iconography of the Ballgame Cult in Coastal Oaxaca. Ancient Mesoamerica 4:121–140. Zralka, Jaroslaw 2007 The Nakum Archaeological Project: Investigations on the Banks of the Holmul River, Guatemala. Report submitted to the Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies. Electronic document, http:// www.famsi.org/reports/06022/index.html.

edited by Saburo Sugiyama and Leonardo López Luján, pp. 11–24. Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, Instituto Nacional de Antropolgía e Historia, Museo de Templo Mayor, Mexico, D.F. and Tempe. 2007 The Moon Pyramid Project and the Teotihuacán State Polity: A Brief Summary of the 1998–2004 Excavations. Ancient Mesoamerica 18:109–125. Sugiyama, Saburo, Rubén Cabrera Castro, and Leonardo López Luján 2004 Los entierros de la Pirámide de la Luna. In Viaje al centro de la Pirámide de la Luna: recientes descubrimientos en Teotihuacán, edited by Saburo Sugiyama, pp. 20–30. CONACULTA INAH/Arizona State Uni­ versity, Mexico, D.F. and Tempe. Sugiyama, Saburo and Leonardo López Luján 2006 Sarificios de consagración en la Pirámide de la Luna, Teotihuacán. In Sacrificios de consagración en la Pirámide de la Luna, edited by Saburo Sugiyama and Leonardo López Luján, pp. 25–52. Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, Instituto Nacional de Antropolgía e Historia, Museo de Templo Mayor, Mexico, D.F. 2007 Dedicatory Burial/Offering Complexes at the Moon Pyramid, Teotihuacán: A Preliminary Report of 1998–2004 Explorations. Ancient Mesoamerica 18:127–146. Taladoire, Eric 2001 The Architectural Background of the Pre-­Hispanic Ballgame: An Evolutionary Perspective. In The Sport of Life and Death: The Mesoamerican Ballgame, edited by E. Michael Whittington, pp. 97–115. Thames and Hudson, New York. Taladoire, Eric and Benoit Colsenet 1991 “Bois Ton Sang, Beaumanoir”: The Political and Conflictual Aspects of the Ballgame in the Northern Chiapas Area. In The Mesoamerican Ballgame, edited by Vernon L. Scarborough and David R. Wilcox, pp. 161– 174. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Taube, Karl A. 2000 The Writing System of Ancient Teotihuacán. Ancient America 1:1–56. Center for Ancient American Studies, Barnardsville, NC, and Washington, D.C. 2003 Tetitla and the Maya Presence at Teotihuacán. In The Maya and Teotihuacán:

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CHAPTER 5

A Common Space Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya in the Cosmology of Escuintla, Highland Guatemala, and Beyond Lucia R. Henderson

Introduction Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya, which rises off the lake’s southern shore, have been the focus of continuous ceremonial activity for over 2,500 years. Nowhere else in the Maya highlands does one find the same degree or concentration of awe-­inspiring active geological phenomena — ​a dramatic combination of hot springs, geysers, whirlpools, rivers of lava, and eruptions of fire and ash. Furthermore, in no other lake in the Maya highlands does one find the same density, variety, or long-­term deposition of ritual offerings. It is not, therefore, surprising that this singularly spectacular place has drawn visitors over the course of two millennia, not only from the surrounding region, but from places as far afield as Teotihuacán. In this chapter, I argue that Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya, as a long-­lived and important pilgrimage destination, played a critical role in the formation of identity in the Southern Maya Region (see Love 2011 for a definition of this term). I begin with a summary of Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya: their geological characteristics and their importance as sites of offering over a remarkable span of time. I then provide a brief review of Amatitlán and Pacaya in the iconography of the region. According to ceramic imagery, this pairing was considered a creative world center, closely associated

with themes of death, resurrection, the watery under­world, the jeweled otherworld, and transformative fire. I then summarize those offerings discovered at Amatitlán that provide evidence for multicultural interaction. I argue that the area was not only an important pilgrimage site but an important marketplace as well, where ceramics in foreign styles were locally produced to suit the tastes of diverse visitors. The final sections view identity formation through the lens of pilgrimage. Approaching identity as a process rather than a categorical fact, I explore the ways in which personal and group ascriptions may have been maintained, contested, communicated, and constructed during pilgrimages to Amatitlán and Pacaya. In the end, I argue that this sacred landscape was itself an active participant in the formation and negotiation of identity. As such, it should be considered when addressing the complex mechanisms of identification in the Southern Maya Region. Volcán Pacaya and Lake Amatitlán: Some Background

Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya (Figure 5.1) are located about 25 km south of Guatemala City, along a natural pass that leads through the highland mountains to the Pacific Coast. This area is rich in natural resources, ­including 71

Lucia R . H enderson

Figure 5.1. Map, Escuintla region, southern Guatemala (drawn by Lucia R. Henderson).

v­ arious forms of basalt, salt, amate trees (a source of paper), and fish. It also provided a natural throughway for traders and trade goods from the south coast into the Motagua Valley and north into the lowlands, allowing for the flow of important exotic goods such as obsidian, jade, quetzal feathers, cacao, and cotton for an extraordinarily long span of time (Brown 1977; Rosenswig 2012). Volcán Pacaya and Volcán Fuego, which lies just to the northwest of Pacaya, are the two most active volcanoes in Guatemala. Volcán Agua, a dormant and picturesque behemoth, lies to the north, completing the volcanic triad that separates the highlands from the Pacific Slope (for an ethnographic discussion of Fuego and Agua, see Bassie-­Sweet 2008). The activities that characterize Volcán Pacaya range from small-­scale lava flows to explosions that have launched firebombs up to 12 km away (Figure 5.2).1 Recent eruptions have ejected lava thousands of feet into the air, with columns measuring as much as 2.8 miles high.2 In several recorded instances, earthquakes, violent

storms, lightning, thunder, torrential rain, and devastating mudslides have accompanied these eruptions (Chinchilla Aguilar 1961:166; Eisen 1903; Vallance et al. 1995).3 Between 1526 and 1902, Fuego and Pacaya erupted an average 6–12 times per century, with a maximum span of just 39 years between major events (Eisen 1903; Vallance et al. 1995: 337–38). These eruptions were equally common in the Precolumbian era. Recent research by Lohse, Velez, and colleagues (Lohse et al. 2014; Velez et al. 2011) has revealed lenses of volcanic ash in Amatitlán lake cores, while Shook reportedly discovered Early Preclassic ceramics beneath a volcanic debris flow from Pacaya (Vallance et al. 1995:341). The inhabitants of Kaminaljuyú — ​an ancient Maya site now buried beneath Guatemala City — ​ would have witnessed and experienced eruptive events of varying drama and severity over the years (for more on Kaminaljuyú, see Henderson 2013, n.d.). Eruptions of Pacaya have often left Guatemala City covered in thick layers of ash, 72

A Common Space

Figure 5.2. Eruption of Volcán Pacaya, 2008 (photo by Rolfcosar [CC-BY-SA-2.5 (http://creativecommons.org​

/­licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons; http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3APacaya-08.jpg).

and the eruptions themselves are frequently visible from the capital city (Lanchin n.d.). Batres Jauregui described an eruption in 1775 that was so immensely bright that “in the city of Guatemala one could read a letter, at 10 o’clock at night, by the brilliant glow cast by the flames of that colossal fire” (Chinchilla Aguilar 1961:165– 66, author’s translation of Spanish original). Volcán Pacaya sits upon the southern shore of Lake Amatitlán (Figure 5.3). The lake is drained by the Michatoya River and fed by the Villalobos River, which has formed a large delta on the northern side (Borhegyi 1958; Velez et al. 2011). The constant volcanic pressure gives vent to hot sulfur springs that bubble out at an estimated 97°F/36°C, while geysers periodically erupt along the lake’s southern shore (Borhegyi 1958:8, 10, 1959a, 1959b; Straub 1991). As Berlo describes:

shore. Fissures known only to Zunil Maya Indians are a source of quicksilver. . . . The volcano Pacaya is still active today, smoking constantly and occasionally coughing ashes upon the countryside. Atmospheric conditions cause electrical discharges between the mountains and the fog cover on the lake, producing “St. Elmo’s Fire” flashing across the skies. In ancient times, such a place was fraught with peril and sanctity. Gods lived in such highly charged places, and were made manifest in dramatic occurrences in the lake, mountain, and sky. (Berlo 1984:143) Such a place was viewed with awe and reverence by populations near and far, who deposited offerings in the lake’s waters over the course of two millennia (Borhegyi 1958:10; 1959a:236; 1959b:108). Unfortunately, the natural majesty of the lake has been compromised in recent years. The area has been heavily developed, while the lake itself suffers not just the polluting effects of nearby urban centers and agricultural runoff but

There are hot sulphur springs and other mineral waters. There are whirlpools created by cold currents, and geysers at points on the 73

Lucia R . H enderson

Figure 5.3. Lake Amatitlán, January 17, 2012 (photo by Josué Goge, some rights reserved, https://flic.kr/p​

/­bmLMrB).

sewage and industrial waste from Guatemala City as well (Velez et al. 2011:3–4). From the 1950s through the 1960s, Stephan de Borhegyi and other “Aqua-­Lung enthusiasts” recovered over 800 artifacts from Lake Amatitlán, including incense burners, pottery vessels, stone, jade, mica, shell, and bone artifacts (Andrews and Corletta 1995; Berlo 1984; Borhegyi 1958:8; 1959a, 1959b, 1966; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011). Sadly, looters have also removed hundreds of additional vessels from the lake over the years (Mata Amado and Medrano 2011:49). The most useful summary of these discoveries to date is the volume by Mata Amado and Medrano (2011), which provides general locations and photos of many of the spectacular objects found in the lake. The objects recovered from Lake Amatitlán come from at least 13 distinct underwater deposits (Figure 5.4). Some sites span thousands of years while others are more limited in scope. Although scant details are available about sites onshore and farther inland (Bohms 2006:23–

26, 29; Carpio Rezzio 2012; Carpio Rezzio and Román Morales 2002; Chinchilla Aguilar 1961; Borhegyi 1959a:​233–234, 1959b:105–110; Mata Amado 2004; Shook 1952), there does appear to be a close chronological correlation between onshore sites and offshore deposits (Bohms 2006:​ 10; Borhegyi 1958:10, 1959b:105; Mata Amado 1999). The shore site of Contreras and its corresponding offshore deposit, Yacht Club, for example, are mostly Preclassic in date. The predominance of Early Classic forms at Mejicanos is similarly reflected in the nearby underwater deposit, Lavaderos.4 In general, the lake’s offerings appear to have been intentionally placed at points of interest: areas of particularly high thermal activity, the inlets and outlets of rivers, and otherwise special or sacred locations (Bohms 2006:16–23; ­Borhegyi 1959b:​105). Several authors explicitly link the under­water site of Lavaderos to nearby steam vents, geysers, and thermal springs (Brown 1977:​ 277; Mata Amado 1964:63). Vessels deposited near hot springs were often “refired” by the ex74

A Common Space

Figure 5.4. Map of underwater deposits and land sites around Lake Amatitlán (drawn by Lucia R. Henderson after Borhegyi 1966: Map 2, and an unpublished map given to author by Guillermo Mata Amado).

treme temperatures of the water and surrounding mud, becoming blackened and particularly hard (Mata Amado 2004:187; Mata Amado and ­Medrano 2011:48). They are also frequently found encased in a cement-­like composite silica material (Bohms 2006:17). Overall, then, offerings to the lake reflect an interest in and knowledge of its sacred geography, demonstrating an intentional focus on locations that may have been considered particularly spiritually potent. Ritual offering at Lake Amatitlán has persisted through an extraordinary time span. Several shore sites appear to have been ­inhabited continuously from the Middle Preclassic period to the Spanish Conquest (Carpio Rezzio and Román Morales 2002; Borhegyi 1959b:105; 1966:​359; Straub 1991:159).5 As for underwater

sites, Los Organos, Del Castillo, and Lavaderos all contained materials from the Late Preclassic through the Late Classic period (Bohms 2006:21; Mata Amado 1964:65). Remarkably, pilgrims still flock to Los Organos (also known as La Silla del Santo Niño) today (Bohms 2006:66–70; Chinchilla Aguilar 1961:​63–67; Borhegyi 1959a:237–238; 1959b:113; Straub 1991:159–160, 164). As the story is told, during the seventeenth century, the carved Precolumbian stone idol called “Jefe Dios” that occupied this stone seat was miraculously replaced during a violent thunderstorm by a wooden image of the Santo Niño, the Christ Child. As a result, droves of modern-­day pilgrims journey to Lake Amatitlán during Holy Week. In a fleet of decorated boats and canoes, they follow the 75

Lucia R . H enderson

Figure 5.5. Escuintla impressed cylinder tripod showing a volcanic eruption at the edge of a lake (drawing by

Lucia R. Henderson, after Hellmuth 1975:Pl. 3b, 3c).

wooden statue as it is steered from the church to its original place of miraculous appearance, throwing offerings of fruits and flowers into the lake as they go (Bohms 2006:69; Borhegyi 1958:​ 10–11; 1959a:237–238; 1959b:113). This event calls in pilgrims from well beyond the immediate area, and two “Niños Visitantes” are brought in from adjacent aldeas to join the Christ Child during his procession day (Berlo 1984:​180, citing Schmolck 1941:50, 52; Straub 1991:​163, 166). Today, as during Precolumbian times, the lake therefore provides a setting for rituals enacted by local groups and serves as a communal gathering place for disparate communities across a broad geographical area.

an “upturned Tlaloc mouth” (Berlo 1984:82), the curling upper lip of the central Mexican water god, which denotes a body of water (Berlo 1984:​ 104). Topped by a mirror with three beads in it, it is specifically identified as the reflective surface of still, precious water (Taube 1992:186, 189). As Berlo (1989:158) states, “[T]he nearest location to Escuintla where watery places combine with high mountains is Amatitlán, 20 miles to the north” (see also Berlo 1984:116–17). This image, then, appears to represent the explosively active Volcán Pacaya at the edge of Lake Amatitlán. A second vessel (Figure 5.6) shows an equally realistic image of a volcano spewing scrolls of liquid, smoke, and fire, while watery waves lap its base, again seemingly referring to the nearby lake Amatitlán at the foot of Volcán Pacaya. A third scene (Figure 5.7) depicts an enclosure with a large Tlaloc inside. It is marked at the four corners by smaller, lightning-­bearing tlaloques. Atop this watery enclosure is a mountain “capped with a tri-­lobed moisture glyph” (Berlo 1989:158). I believe this represents another image of Amatitlán at the foot of an erupting Volcán Pacaya. A final image (Figure 5.8) is more schematic but depicts a similar scene. The storm god Tlaloc sits in an enclosure at the base of an erupting volcano (symbolized by a triple-­mountain motif), while a butterfly wing and a dripping moisture symbol (Hellmuth 1978:81) further emphasize the pairing of fire and water. It is not surprising that Amatitlán and Pacaya would be associated with the storm god Tlaloc. Storm gods throughout Mesoamerica are believed to reside in

Iconography: The Ideology of Pacaya and Amatitlán

Close iconographic analysis of imagery from Escuintla, Amatitlán, and Kaminaljuyú provides important details about the position this bubbling lake and smoking volcano held in the ideology, ritual practice, and worldviews of the region. As generative world centers, articulations of the “Flower Mountain” paradise, fiery abodes of the dead, and portals to the otherworld, Amatitlán and Pacaya were connected closely to themes of death, resurrection, and transformation by fire. Impressed cylindrical tripods from Escuintla provide the most obvious iconographic depictions of Amatitlán and Pacaya. The most realistically depicted scene shows an erupting volcano complete with ash clouds and dripping lava (Figure 5.5). At the base of this volcano is 76

Figure 5.6. Escuintla impressed cylinder tripod (Hellmuth 1978:f.11; drawing courtesy of Nicholas Hellmuth,

FLAAR, www.maya-archaeology.org).

Figure 5.7. Escuintla impressed cylinder tripod (drawing by Lucia R. Henderson after Berlo 1989:Pl 8.6 and

Hellmuth 1975:Pl. 40).

Figure 5.8. Impressed cylinder tripod with eruption scene (Hellmuth 1978:f.14, drawing courtesy of Nicholas

Hellmuth, FLAAR, www.maya-archaeology.org).

Lucia R . H enderson

a

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Figure 5.9. Amatitlán incensario lids as effigy volcanoes: (a) a monkey eating cacao (MPV 0985); (b) smoke holes fashioned as flowers (MPV 2005-0036) (photos by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala).

­ ountains, while volcanic eruptions are known m to cause lightning, roiling clouds, vapor, ashfall, and torrential rainstorms. Although less narrative than the impressed cylinder tripod scenes, incensario lids from Escuintla6 and Amatitlán provide further information about Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya in the worldview of nearby populations. Several of the simplest incensario lids found in Amatitlán, Escuintla, and Kaminaljuyú can only be described as volcano effigies (e.g., Berlo 1984:Pl. 227–228; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011:174– 77; also Bassie-­Sweet 2008). Sometimes creatures such as monkeys are shown sitting on top, eating cacao; other times the openings are fashioned into flowers (Figures 5.9a, b; see also Bohms 2006:Fig. 17). These volcano effigies, then, are specifically identified as “Flower Mountains,” a concept more explicitly expressed by a popular Escuintla and Amatitlán incensario format in

which the mountain-­shaped lid is elaborated by appliques of shells, jade beads, flowers, and cacao (Figures 5.10a, b; Taube 2004, 2005; see also Berlo 1984:Pl. 104–05).7 Flower Mountain, a pan-­Mesoamerican concept (e.g., Chinchilla, this volume), interlaced the jeweled and floral otherworld with the watery underworld (Taube 2004, 2005). “The pivotal world axis, Flower Mountain was both the home of gods and honored ancestors, and the means of supernatural ascent into the heavens” (Taube 2004:93; also Henderson 2011, 2014). That Amatitlán and Pacaya were considered a world center explains the “central place” imagery — ​including triple mountains and three-­ stone motifs — ​so frequently found in Escuintla iconography (for a more detailed discussion, see Henderson 2014). Escuintla is bordered on the north by three great volcanoes: the active Pacaya and Fuego and the dormant Agua (Figure 5.1). This mountainous triumvirate may have been 78

A Common Space

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Figure 5.10. Escuintla Flower Mountain incensario lids: (a) (drawing by Taube 2004:Fig. 16e); (b) (photo by

Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Nacional de Arqueología e Etnología, Guatemala).

viewed as a regional embodiment of the three central hearthstones, the fiery heart of cosmic creation set by the gods at the beginning of time (Bassie-­Sweet 2008; Freidel, et al. 1993; Headrick 2001; Taube 1998). As such, Amatitlán and Pacaya would have been envisioned as a sacred and powerful cosmogram, where the underworld waters, the surface of the earth, and the mountains connecting them came together in a single, sometimes violently active landscape. A popular incensario lid format from Escuintla demonstrates close links between the powerful cosmic center of Amatitlán and Pacaya and themes of creation and transformation. Here, a human face wearing a butterfly headdress and a butterfly-­winged mirror sits above a water bracket (Figures 5.11a–c and 5.12a–b). In central Mexican imagery, butterflies symbolize the resurrected souls of dead warriors, reborn from the flames of funeral pyres (Berlo 1983, 1984; Taube 2000). This likeness is more than metaphorical; anyone who has seen the ashfall and cinders of violent bonfires, let alone volcanic eruptions, understands the visual play between fluttering butterflies and flickering embers floating through the sky. Though, as mentioned

earlier, the reflective faces of mirrors were often equated with still bodies of water, they were also connected to flashing fire (Taube 1992:184, 186). The butterfly wings on either side of these mirrors thus identify them specifically as fiery objects (Henderson 2014). As several authors have argued, these butterfly figures, located as they are on smoking incensario lids, appear to represent mortuary bundles in the process of cremation (Berlo 1983, 1984; Taube 2000, 2004; Young-­Sánchez 1990). Berlo emphasizes the transformational nature of this process: “Just as the butterfly transforms during its life cycle, so too is the burning of offerings within a censer a change of medium: from solid matter, to fire, to the sacred smoke of incense.” (Berlo 1989:154)8 On one incensario (Figure 5.12a, b), the human face is removed, and the symbol is reduced simply to a butterfly-­winged mirror, suggesting that these butterfly figures not only represent cremation bundles but also serve as embodied volcanoes in personified form (Taube 2000:309). That these butterfly figures are always placed above a bracketed enclosure, frequently filled with waves, shells, and beads, locates these 79

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c

Figure 5.11. Butterfly-mirror incensarios: (a) butterfly-mirror figure with cacao pods (photo by Lucia R. Henderson of a vessel in a private collection, Guatemala City); (b) butterfly-mirror figure from Escuintla (drawing by Berlo 1984: pl. 113); (c) butterfly-mirror figure from Escuintla (drawing by Taube 2004:Fig. 16b).

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Figure 5.12. Escuintla censer: (a) full photograph of the lid (Hellmuth 1975:Pl. 32, photo courtesy of Nicholas Hellmuth, FLAAR, www.maya-archaeology.org); (b) detail showing butterfly-wing mirror element.

Lucia R . H enderson

personified volcanoes on the edge of bodies of water. As such, they provide a three-­dimensional version of the lake and volcano imagery seen on Escuintla cylindrical tripods. Deeply connected to ideas of death, resurrection, creation, and transformation, these lids once again emphasize Amatitlán and Pacaya as a central place, where the waters of the otherworld and transformative fire were writ large upon the landscape. These ideas are further stressed by the inclusion of imagery related to portals and passageways in cylindrical tripods and incensario lids. The watery enclosures and “upturned Tlaloc mouths” of the Escuintla cylinder ­tripods, for instance, emphasize the identity of the lake as a portal between the earthly world and the other­world (Figures 5.5, 5.7, 5.8). In both twoand three-­dimensional renderings in Escuintla and Amatitlán, framed enclosures are labeled with various motifs, including flowers, ­feathers, beads, and halved conch shells (e.g., Berlo 1984:​ Pl. 85–90; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011:Pl. 72, 103–104; Henderson 2014). Triple-­mountain appliques reference the three-­ stone hearth, while a popular zigzag motif has been identified as a Teotihuacán symbol of fire (Von Winning 1977). Mirrors are often placed around these enclosures as well. Symbols of both fire and water, mirrors were also viewed as portals to the other­ world (Taube 1992:194). This may explain why they are not just conflated with the lake’s waters, but with the craters of volcanoes in Escuintla iconography (Henderson 2014). In fact, mirrors appear to have had particular significance at Lake Amatitlán. Four pyrite mosaics and four slate mirror backs were found at the underwater deposit of Lavaderos along with a complete mirror, the surface of which was completely flat and perfectly reflective when it was discovered (Mata Amado 2003:850–51; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011:85–87, 215; Mata Amado and Rubio C. 1987). Escuintla and Amatitlán iconography specifically ties generalized ideologies regarding creative centers and abodes of the dead to the local landscape in a number of ways. First, the underlying, conical shape of Escuintla and Amatitlán incensario lids differs from the cylindrical substructures of Teotihuacán theater censers (Berlo 1984:Pl. 82) and seems to more explicitly identify

the former as smoking, effigy volcanoes. Second, butterfly imagery is found far more frequently on Escuintla and Lake Amatitlán incensarios than it is on those from Teotihuacán. Third, the common depiction of local resources, especially cacao (Figures 5.9a, 5.11a; Berlo 1984:Pl. 118, 127, 198, 205; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011:Pl. 83–84) on Escuintla and Amatitlán vessels ties these particular mountains of sustenance to places such as nearby Soconusco, which was a famed source of cacao (Voorhies 1989). Finally, the predominant theme of triple mountains is generally absent from Teotihuacán incensario lids. This may indicate that the motif has localized meaning, possibly referring specifically to the volcanic triad of Pacaya, Fuego, and Agua as a three-­stone hearth of creation. The Amatitlán Offerings: Evidence for Multicultural Interaction

The offertory deposits of Lake Amatitlán are impressive both for their quantity and diversity. Unfortunately, because these objects were not brought up through scientific excavation, we are left with a highly partial record that lacks detailed stratigraphic and contextual information. As a result, the following discussion relies heavily on visible and general stylistic similarities, absent most of the data that would allow more specific conclusions to be drawn about production, clay sources, use, depositional contexts, and chronology. It is summary treatment of a complex subject that assumes a correlation between visible ceramic styles and different groups of people. These different groups likely had different cultural and linguistic affiliations, but we currently lack the data to delineate them. As a result, I simply provide here a summary of the most obvious visual similarities between Amatitlán vessels and analogs in other regions. Not surprisingly, the closest connections exhibited by the ceramic vessels deposited in Lake Amatitlán are to the nearby site of Kaminaljuyú (Bohms 2006:57–60; Mata Amado 2000; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011). These include shallow plate forms (Kidder et al. 1946:Figs. 200d, g; Shook and Kidder 1952: Figs. 27, 42), spiked vessels (de Gonzalez and Wetherington 1978:288), and pedestal-­base and plain bowls (Bohms 82

A Common Space 2006:​57–58). A number of unusual incensario styles are also shared between Kaminaljuyú and Amatitlán (Berlo 1984:151), including unique tubular censers bearing a face with scrollwork around the mouth and nose (Figures 5.13a, b). As Mata Amado (1964:63–64) notes, although the forms are very similar, the Amatitlán versions are better made, better looking, and much bigger — ​one measures over 1.5 m high. Finally, one of the most striking styles shared between

Kaminaljuyú and Amatitlán is a very large, unusual brazier that rests on three large cylindrical feet (Figures 5.14a, b). Examples found at ­Kaminaljuyú and Amatitlán are, indeed, so simi­ lar that one could posit they were made by the same workshop, if not the same potter. Slightly farther afield, Berlo suggests analogs between Amatitlán and several highland sites, including Zacualpa, Nebaj, Quiché, Utatlan, and Zaculeu (Berlo 1984:190–92). Vessels from the high­land sites of Chijoj and Chitomax (Ichon and Grignon-­Cheesman 1983:86–88, Figs. 102– 03) show a particularly close affinity to several Amatitlán vessels (Figures 5.15–17; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011:118–145).

a

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Figure 5.13. Connections between Amatitlán and Kaminaljuyú: (a) tubular censer from Amatitlán (MPV3463) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, G ­ uatemala); (b) tubular censer from Kaminaljuyú (Fig. 201g from Alfred V. Kidder, Jesse D. Jennings, and Edwin M. Shook, Excavations at Kaminalijuyú, Guatemala. Carnegie Institute of Washington, 561, 1946. C ­ ourtesy of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University).

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Figure 5.14. Connections between Amatitlán and Kaminaljuyú:

(a) tripod vessel from Kaminaljuyú (Fig. 202a from Alfred V. Kidder, Jesse D. Jennings, and Edwin M. Shook, Excavations at Kaminalijuyú, ­Guatemala. ­Carnegie Institute of Washington, 561, 1946. Courtesy of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and ­Ethnology, Harvard University); (b) tripod vessel from Amatitlán (MPV0257) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala).

A Common Space The suggestive connections between the unusual ceramic deposits at Amatitlán and other sites extend far beyond the Maya highlands. Hellmuth (1978), for instance, notes connections to Veracruz, Cotzumalhuapa, Monte Albán, Xochicalco, and Izapa. Tubular flanged censers from Chalchuapa (Sharer 1978:Figs. 34–35) and a small bowl found at El Tazumal (Figure 5.18a) bear striking resemblances to pieces recovered

from Amatitlán (Figure 5.18b; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011:Pl. 58), adding populations from El Salvador to this cosmopolitan mix. Finally, as several authors have noted, there is an obvious stylistic similarity between a number of vessels found at the underwater site of Lavaderos and censers from both Escuintla and Teotihuacán (Mata Amado and Rubio C. 1987). Importantly, however, each region seems to have had its own approach to the “Teotihuacán style,” both thematically and stylistically (Berlo 1984; Bohms 2006; Hellmuth 1975). Therefore, though they use similar forms of decoration, the Teotihuacán-­style censers from Escuintla and Amatitlán are not only easily differentiated from each other but are also easily distinguished from censers found at Teotihuacán itself. As Hellmuth points out, more Teotihuacán-­ style incensarios were discovered in the Escuintla region in five years than were found in 50 years at Teotihuacán (Hellmuth 1975:35, 1978:72; also Berlo 1989:162). This censer format was thus more popular in Escuintla and Amatitlán than it was at its supposed point of origin. The majority of Teotihuacán-­style vessels from Escuintla are

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Figure 5.15. Jaguar vessel forms shared between Amatitlán and Chijoy: (a) jaguar censer from Chijoy (drawn by Lucia R. Henderson after Ichon 1992: f.80); (b) jaguar censer from Amatitlán (MPV0263) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala).

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Figure 5.16. Jaguar forms shared

between Amatitlán and Chitomax: (a) jaguar censer from Chitomax (drawn by Lucia R. Hender­son after Ichon and Grignon 1983:f. 105); (b) jaguar censer from Amatitlán (MPV0266) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the ­Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad ­Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala; (c) jaguar censer from Amatitlán (MPV0259) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala).

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Figure 5.17. Amatitlán censers with linkages to Chitomax: (a) (MPV0975) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson,

c­ ourtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala); (b) (MPV0978) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala).

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Figure 5.18. Connections between Kaminaljuyú and El Salvador: (a) detail of

face on censer from Tazumal, El Salvador (drawing by Lucia R. Henderson); (b) censer from Amatitlán (photo by Berlo 1984:Pl. 242).

A Common Space locally made rather than imported and utilize Teotihuacán motifs and symbols in a manner unique to the highlands and south-­coastal area (Berlo 1984, 1989:150; Bove and Medrano 2003:​ 61–62; Hellmuth 1978:75). In fact, though many of the Amatitlán vessels do have ties to foreign styles, many are just different enough to represent distinct forms. While one might see in a particular vessel distinct linkages to Kaminaljuyú, El Salvador, or beyond, one would seldom identify the majority of Amatitlán vessels as coming from anywhere other than the lake itself. Indeed, many Amatitlán vessels appear to have no parallels at all. This evidence suggests that many of the vessels recovered from the waters of Lake Amatitlán may actually have been created locally, a possibility supported by the relatively uniform clays and consistent technical quality of the majority of Amatitlán vessels, as well as by the cumbersome nature of some of the censers. Some measure as much as 1.5 m in height (Figure 5.13a), and most have thick walls, rendering them too heavy and awkward for long distance transport (Berlo 1984:192; Bohms 2006). The local production of ceramics in foreign styles suggests that the Amatitlán potters were meeting the varied tastes of diverse groups of visitors (Berlo 1984:192–193). Although the details of this production system are at present unclear, Berlo (1984:192–93) argues that several workshops specializing in different styles likely operated simultaneously at the lake. The production of local ceramics in foreign styles is found elsewhere in the Guatemalan highlands, most notably at the Hun Nal Ye and Candelaria cave systems (Woodfill 2011). Like Amatitlán, these sites were located along an important trade route and also served as highly significant ritual destinations (Woodfill 2011: Fig. 5; also 2010:194).

the archaeological data, recording not just Lake Amatitlán and the erupting Volcán Pacaya but the visits of people to these places and the ritual offerings they gave there. One impressed cylinder scene (Figure 5.7) shows a human figure approaching Lake Amatit­ lán and the erupting Pacaya with an incense bag in his hand. A scroll, dripping with jewels and shells, curls from his mouth in sacred speech or song. A similar figure appears in a second cylinder tripod (Figure 5.8), again approaching an erupting volcano with a lake at its base. A third vessel (Figure 5.5) likely echoes these other scenes. Here, a frontal figure in Teotihuacán garb stands opposite an erupting volcano at the edge of a lake. Though his accouterments may be related to warfare, his positioning suggests he is involved in an ideological or religious event. A fourth scene (Figure 5.19) shows two figures dancing and singing to a gaping, flaming, ­animal maw (Berlo 1984:118). I believe this can be interpreted as a ritual involving an erupting volcano. Taube describes this scene as a Classic period version of the myth of the Fifth Sun (Taube 2000:309, 311). It is indeed likely that volcanic eruptions were viewed as moments of cosmic death and rebirth through the medium of fire. A final cylinder tripod scene shows another type of offering event (Figure 5.6). To the left of an exploding volcano with waves at its base is a scene of sacrifice. A figure with knife in hand and a scroll of sacred speech at his lips holds the severed head of a decapitated victim, shown in the center of the scene with blood serpents gushing from his neck (Hellmuth 1978:79). The face in the cartouche at the top of the mountain represents either the volcano’s crater or the severed head being offered to the volcano (a similar convention is seen in Figure 5.8). Human sacrifice and blood offerings do appear to have played a role in the ritual activities of Lake Amatitlán. The cranium of a woman was found in a bowl at the underwater deposit of Lavaderos (Borhegyi 1959a:​236, 1959b:110; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011:Pl. 116), while Amatitlán vessels frequently depict skulls, dead faces, bound captives, and figures holding sacrificial knives (Figure 5.20; Bohms 2006:Fig. 26b, MPM 50962/18048;

Amatitlán as a Pilgrimage Destination

We know from the archaeological record that people came to Amatitlán and gave offerings to its waters over the course of millennia. Iconography on impressed cylinder tripods from Escuintla gives shape, depth, and detailed narrative to 89

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Figure 5.19. Escuintla impressed cylinder tripod scene (Hellmuth 1978:f.12, drawing courtesy of Nicholas

­Hellmuth, FLAAR, www.maya-archaeology.org.

­ orhegyi 1959a:236; Mata Amado and Medrano B 2011:​64, Pl.57). The iconography of Early Classic Teotihuacán-­ style vessels from Escuintla is often used to support arguments of Teotihuacano military incursions into this area (Berlo 1984; Bove and Medrano 2003:47; Hellmuth 1975). Close study of Escuintla incensarios and cylinder tripods, however, reveals that they lack most of the explicit symbols of militarism found at the central Mexican site, emphasizing moments of ritual offering instead of military events (Bove and Medrano 2003:62, citing Sugiyama; Braswell 2003a; Demarest and Foias 1993; Henderson 2011). Interaction and influence are not unidirectional. It is therefore unlikely that Teotihuacán exerted influence upon the Maya without being influenced or affected in return (Braswell 2003a:​ 14–15; Demarest and Foias 1993; Henderson 2011; Taube 2003). I have argued elsewhere (Henderson 2011) that the Teotihuacanos might have used the power of pilgrimage to distant, exotic places such as the Maya region to increase their legitimacy and prestige, just as Maya rulers undertook pilgrimages to Teotihuacán (Braswell 2003a, c). Following this, I believe it may be

fruitful to move beyond conquest and resource control to consider pilgrimage (and the associated themes of ritual, ideology, religion, and pilgrimage economies) to explain the movement of diverse peoples through the Southern Maya Region (Berlo 1984; Bove and Medrano 2003; Braswell 2003a, 2003b; Hellmuth 1975, 1978; Miller 1983; Santley 1983). As Berlo states, a basic ethnographic pattern exists throughout Mesoamerica of people traveling long distances to gather at locations that “often had some distinction based on natural, geological, or meteorological properties... they were areas of unusual phenomena: springs, whirlpools, lakes, cloudy mountain-­tops” (Berlo 1984:185; Palka 2014). Around Lake Amatitlán, one finds all of these combined. In fact, the dramatic spectacle of this area, with its whirlpools, geysers, hot springs, and frequent volcanic eruptions, is unrivaled by any other lake or volcano in the region. As such, while other volcanoes and lakes were considered sacred sites (i.e., Andrews and Corletta 1995; Martínez Marín 1972; Mata Amado and Medrano 2011; Orr 2001; Palka 2014; Ringle 1999:202; Vogt 1993 [1976], 2003), this particular combination of violently active vol90

A Common Space

Figure 5.20. Amatitlán three-pronged censer showing bound captive (MPV0980) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco ­Marroquín, Guatemala).

cano and bubbling, living lake would have been particularly revered, occupying a significant place in the lives of populations near and far. Due to the partial nature of the archaeological record, it is impossible to determine the specifics of ritual visits to Amatitlán and Pacaya. We do not, for instance, know whether people of different cultures participated together in singular events or whether different groups or individuals performed rites separately. Were parts of

the lake “owned” by certain groups, or do these deposits represent a ritual circuit undertaken by various populations visiting Amatitlán? Hopefully, future research will be able to answer some of these questions. Pilgrimages enable contact and communication between the human and the divine, an integration of the worldly community with that of the supernatural, godly, or otherworldly (Crumrine and Morinis 1991; Morinis 1992; Orr 91

Lucia R . H enderson

2001:​56; Palka 2014; Preston 1992:43; Vogt 1993 [1976]). Across the globe, pilgrimage is considered an effective way of reaching a desired outcome through the mediation of sacred, holy, or supernatural forces. As places of death and resurrection by fire, portals to the otherworld, and the abode of ancestors and gods, it is likely that Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya held great sway in the minds of visiting populations and were thus the foci of intense ritual activity. The religious and ideological aspects of pilgrimage are interlaced with matters of economy, as marketplaces usually coincide with pilgrimage destinations (Brady 2005; Freidel 1975, 1981:​ 378–382; Orr 2001; Palka 2014; Rathje and ­Sabloff 1975; Woodfill 2011:221–222). As Orr (2001) argues, ideological motivators are a key aspect of economies of power, and pilgrimage plays a crucial role in creating marketplaces of political, economic, and ideological exchange. At Amatitlán, matters of ritual and religion appear to have coincided with a full-­blown production center for pilgrimage-­related art and objects. Still, we lack the data that would allow us to approach such matters concretely, so we are left with various questions related to the specifics of cultural and informational exchange. It is unclear, for instance, how interactions took place between producers and patrons  — ​ were these simply ready-­made vessels, or was there a closer collaboration between the local potter and foreign visitor that would have made these particularly active sites of communication? Drawing on Turner’s theories of communitas (Turner 1973; Turner and Turner 1978), many authors discuss pilgrimages as socially integrative endeavors. Pilgrimages serve to unite diverse participants beneath an “umbrella of shared convictions to engage in a common spiritual experience” (Orr 2001:56). They can also reinforce membership on a smaller scale, emphasizing group ties, territoriality, and other characteristics of the group (Behera 1995:45–49; Orr 2001:​ 56; Palka 2014; Ringle 1999:202). Yet even the integrative aspects of pilgrimage simultaneously involve divisions, particularly in the reinforcement of identity vis à vis other groups. Precolumbian pilgrimages, for

example, often involve boundary-­marking (Orr 2001:​55–56), while ethnographic studies reveal a consistent focus on the replication and maintenance of hierarchies rather than their erasure (i.e., Vogt 1993 [1976]:43; Behera 1995:50–52, 58–​60). Pilgrimage, for all its mystical qualities, involves the negotiation and transmission of power (Bowman 1995:9; Palka 2014:46–48; Preston 1992:32, 45). In pilgrimage, the mythico-­ religious intertwines with the economic and political, articulating relationships of class, power, and patronage in sacred places. Collective Landscapes and Identity Production

Movement into, through, and out of the Lake Amatitlán region would have been an important way of strengthening, traversing, and navigating cultural boundaries and group identities. Pilgrimage destinations and pilgrimage groups emerge as loci of contested identity, as moments, spaces, and places of tension and negotiation among various boundaries. As such, they emphasize the concurrent diversity of personal and group ascription. They also emphasize the importance of considering Amatitlán and Pacaya when investigating the formation and maintenance of identity in the Southern Maya Region. Identifying particular identities in this area is an especially challenging task. The area surrounding Lake Amatitlán was an important corridor for intracultural trade, migration, and material exchange (Braswell 2003b; Brown 1977; Guernsey 2006:6,17–20; Love 2007; Love and Kaplan 2011; Parsons and Price 1971; Popenoe de Hatch and Shook 1999; Rosenswig 2012; Santley 1983; Sharer 1974; Voorhies 1989). As Bove states, the area is characterized by “population movement, obscure ethnic affiliations, changing cultural boundaries, and apparent population intrusions” (Bove 1989:1). Although the material record exhibits some level of regional unity, this was an area of dynamic interaction between multiple groups speaking many languages and leaving behind a multitude of material footprints (e.g, Arroyo and Paiz Aragón 2010; Bove 1989:​ 1–2; Love and Kaplan 2011; also Henderson 2013:​ 62–64, 67–69, 79, 87–89). 92

A Common Space Identity itself is a slippery subject, particularly when one attempts to access it through the archaeological record (e.g., Brubaker and Cooper 2000; Harrison-­Buck 2012; Insoll 2007; Jones 1997; Meskell and Preucel 2004). Over the last few decades, archaeologists and anthropologists have discussed in detail how identity is a constructive process rather than static reality, constantly in flux and ever evolving. Different layers of identity create a simultaneous, nesting scale of personal and group ascription, defined both internally and externally and often in different ways according to different people (e.g., Canuto and Yaeger 2012; Garcia-­Des Lauriers 2012; Meskell and Preucel 2004:122). As a result, the relationship between identity and the material record is variable, indirect, and often unclear (Dietler and Herbich 1998; Hodder 1982; Jones 1997; Love 2007:280; also Henderson 2013:70–73). Identifying concrete “identities” at all then, particularly here, in a multicultural area that defies categorization, is a formidable, if not impossible task. As Brubaker and Cooper (2000:11) caution, the term identity, so often qualified with lists of adjectives, runs the risk of becoming “so infinitely elastic as to be incapable of performing serious analytical work.” Rather than letting the fluidity of identity paralyze us, however, I suggest that focusing on “identification” in lieu of “identity” as Brubaker and Cooper (2000) suggest, might be a more productive way of engaging with Amatitlán and Pacaya (Meskell and Preucel 2004:122). This sacred landscape provides the perfect opportunity to move away from identity as a matter of concrete categorization and toward an understanding of identity as an emergent and active process. Behera states that pilgrimage represents “both an individual’s behaviour and a socio-­ cultural institution” (Behera 1995:43). Thus, an investigation of pilgrimage to Amatitlán and Pacaya has the potential to reveal layers of identity formation, from broader cross-­cultural interactions to the activities and motivations of individuals who came to give offerings at this sacred place. The growth and evolution of pilgrimage des93

tinations such as Amatitlán, which not only supported a local population (Carpio Rezzio and Román Morales 2002; Borhegyi 1959b:105, 108) but maintained relevance through such a remarkable time span and for such a diverse range of people, may be productively viewed as sharing some features with the process of urbanization. As Love describes (this volume), new identities are forged when different individuals and groups begin sharing single environments, leading them to confront “the classic Barthian situation: do they form a new collective identity or do they erect boundaries so as to maintain their separateness?” Wherever preexisting populations are brought together and made to interact, an opportunity arises to negotiate and construct new identities related both to the group and to the individual (Attarian 2003:185–86; Preucel and Meskell 2004:221; Love, this volume, citing Yoffee 2005:61, 64). Obviously, there are important differences between urban cities and pilgrimage sites. Yet both can be considered constructive phenomena. Pilgrimage destinations, like cities, are generative of distinctions and identities, not just containers for them (Love, this volume). Sacred landscapes, in fact, are integrally connected to identity formation. As Bender so beautifully states, Landscapes are created out of people’s understanding and engagement with the world around them. They are always in process of being shaped and reshaped. Being of the moment and in process, they are always temporal. They are not a record but a recording, and this recording is much more than a reflection of human agency and action; it is creative of them. (Bender 2002:103) Preucel and Meskell describe landscapes as an outcome of the practices of identity formation since “people create their sense of identity — ​ whether self, or group, or nation state — ​through engaging and re-­engaging, appropriating and contesting the sedimented pasts that make up the landscape” (Preucel and Meskell 2004:​ 219). Landscapes, then, shaped by the actions of people, concurrently shape those actions

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a

b

Figure 5.21. Amatitlán censer lids as personified volcanoes: (a) an elderly man with some zoomorphic features (MPV0251) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala; (b) a zoomorph, blending monkey and jaguar features (MPV0252) (photo by Lucia R. Henderson, courtesy of the Museo Popol Vuh, Universidad Francisco Marroquín, Guatemala [in process of renewing permission]).

(­Ashmore 2004; Ashmore and Knapp 1999; ­Gosden and Head 1994:114; Heidegger 1982; ­Ingold 2000; Olsen 2010; Tilley 2004; also Henderson 2013:​139–141). Due to its close interrelationship with space, place, time, and memory, pilgrimage can be viewed as a quintessential means of social construction. Human movement itself, critical to the efficacy of these rituals, becomes ­constitutive of the people and places around it (Ashmore and Knapp 1999; Palka 2014; Poole 1991; Reese-­ Taylor 2012; Ringle 1999:188, 214; Vogt 1993 [1976]). Iconography showing people ­moving toward ­Amatitlán and Pacaya transforms these pilgrimages from nouns into verbs. The landscape becomes a place of action, movement, and production, rather than a passive receptacle for offerings.

The iconographic and archaeological records indicate that those who interacted with them considered this lake and volcano to be living beings. In both two- and three-­dimensional forms, for instance, Pacaya’s crater is conceptualized as a face (Figures 5.6, 5.8, 5.21a, b; Henderson 2014). An offering of liquid mercury found at the Lavaderos deposit lends further strength to these ideas (Borhegyi 1959a:235; 1959b:108; Mata Amado 2002:680). It is likely that the lake itself was the source of this mercury (Brown 1977:​278). A rare and highly valued substance in the Maya area, mercury is the product of a miraculous transformation of blood-­like cinnabar into an extraordinarily heavy and reflective liquid. Naturally occurring at Lake Amatitlán, mercury lodes may have been viewed as the ch’ulel, or holy life essence of the lake, Volcán 94

A Common Space Pacaya, or both. The concept of ch’ulel unified the cosmos (Freidel, et al. 1993; Ringle 1999:200-­ 202; Vogt 2003:24–27). With it, people, the earth, and all things in it were enlivened and ensouled, interacting as agentive beings in time and space.

ton 1989; Guernsey 2006; Joyce 2003:112; P ­ reucel and Meskell 2004:219). Journeys to Amatitlán and rituals there would thus have been important mechanisms by which participants located themselves in time and space. The Amatitlán offertory deposits also speak to the temporality of sacred landscapes and the continuing need to adapt to remain relevant to changing populations (Straub 1991). As Preucel and Meskell remind us, “Studies of remembering must necessarily oscillate between the physicality of monuments, things, and representations and the often immaterial practices that locate subjects within new timespace understandings. . . .” (Preucel and Meskell 2004:219). Remaining important over two millennia, Lake Amatitlán must be understood as a fluid concept rather than a stable or concrete fact. This is perhaps nowhere better articulated than in the seventeenth century story, mentioned earlier, in which the Precolumbian stone figure of the “Jefe Dios” sinks into the lake during a violent storm, miraculously replaced by an image of the Christ Child. Lake Amatitlán, like other sacred landscapes, was made relevant in order to resonate with living populations, whose needs, contexts, and forms of identification would have changed through time (Ashmore 2004:262; Bradley 1998; Palka 2014; Reese-­Taylor 2012:759–60). Turning to a synchronic approach, the material remains of the lake present an exciting opportunity to investigate how pilgrimage and seemingly collective spaces created contested and contradictory zones in which different kinds of identities may have been operationalized at different levels. The underwater deposit of Lavaderos and its associated archaeological site Mejicanos, primarily dating to the Early Classic period, provide the best evidence for the use of Amatitlán simultaneously by different groups of people from different places, particularly those identifying closely with Teotihuacán. The coexistence of distinct ceramic styles and symbolisms indicates that the maintenance and display of certain kinds of differences was an important aspect of ritual practice among the groups and individuals who gathered at Lake Amatitlán.

Identity Formation: Diachronic and Synchronic Perspectives

Applying diachronic and synchronic perspectives to Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya allows us to approach identity formation more concretely. From a diachronic viewpoint, for instance, the time span of offerings found in the lake demonstrates that it played an ongoing role in the implementation and structuring of religious principles for different people through myriad, changing historical contexts. Amatitlán and Pacaya emerge as a palimpsest of layered histories and peoples, with the fruits and fl ­ owers of contemporary pilgrims resting atop the strata of offerings left by other visitors over the preceding millennia. The repeated movement and activity of different people through such a long period speaks to the power of tradition, the ­significance of old places, and deep temporalities of being. Volcanoes like Pacaya were the dwelling places of ancestors, so visitors would have been in active communication with the ancestral past (Bassie-­ Sweet 2008; Henderson 2014; Palka 2014; Vogt 1993 [1976], 2003). Amatitlán and Pacaya, as central places linked to themes of death and resurrection, transformation, and mythical origins, would have provided a physical anchor for fundamental religious precepts shared by populations near and far. The movement of people through this sacred place over time would have thus played a powerful role in constructing social memory (Ashmore 2004; Ashmore and Knapp 1999; Bender 2002; also Giddens 1984:​ 110–61; Gosden and Head 1994:113; Joyce 2003, 2004; Love 1999; Palka 2014; Preucel and Meskell 2004; Reese-­Taylor 2012:755–756; Tilley 2004). Human performances such as pilgrimage are constitutive, productive events, not just referencing a deep past, but also bringing it actively into the present (Ashmore 2004:264; Conner95

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Conclusion The material record indicates that Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya should be understood as a sacred landscape that crossed the boundaries of language, geography, and ethnicity and connected diverse populations across both time and space. Integrated into the iconography and religious practice of various cultural groups, this landscape bound diverse populations together through a shared ideology, anchoring concepts of the watery underworld, Flower Mountain, and the fiery hearth of creation to a particular geographic space. Considering the role Amatitlán played as a point of multicultural and multidirectional interaction broadens the academic lens to incorporate ideology, ritual, pilgrimage, and the reverence accorded particularly sacred landscapes when investigating identity formation in Mesoamerica. A study of Volcán Pacaya and Lake Amatitlán emphasizes the ­dialectical relationship between people, objects, and sacred places in the formation of identities in this region. Scholarship by authors such as ­Ingold (2000), Latour (2005), Olsen (2010), and Tilley (2004) has demonstrated that who we are  is often predicated on where we are and what we interact with while we are there. As such, Amatitlán provides us with a means of investigating the operationalization of identity and processes of identification, even if the taxonomic specificities of the identities themselves remain elusive. There is much work to be done at Lake Amatitlán. The lack of detailed archaeological ­context for so much of the Escuintla and Amatitlán material provides an enormous challenge for scholarly investigation. It is my sincere hope, however, that this preliminary step toward bringing Amatitlán and Pacaya more actively into discussions of identity will serve to inspire future, targeted research into this remarkable place. Overall, this chapter emphasizes that focused consideration of Lake Amatitlán, despite the limitations of the archaeological record, can provide surprising insight into the mechanisms of identity production, contestation, and communication across a complex, vibrant sacred landscape.

There is a rich, if contradictory literature on the use (both intentional and subconscious) of style and technology in the creation, articulation, and display of identities (Attarian 2003:190; Hegmon 1998; Hodder 1982; Jones 1997; Stark 1998; Wobst 1977). In the end, it is clear that objects such as the ceramic offerings found in Lake Amatitlán should be viewed as important mechanisms of identity formation. Intentionally made for a diverse pilgrim population, these objects demonstrate both broadly shared beliefs embodied by Amatitlán and Pacaya and differing regional approaches (encountered in varying styles and symbolic systems) to this particular offertory context. The objects produced at Amatitlán are thus repositories of information about networks of interaction and identification between artists, patrons, viewers, clients, and other participants in the process. They themselves should therefore be considered agents by which identities were formulated and expressed (Gell 1998; Heidegger 1982; Latour 2005; Olsen 2010; Thomas 1996; Tilley 2004; also Henderson 2013:110–117, for the Maya area). As Gell states, the object “is a congealed residue of performance and agency in object-­form, through which access to other persons can be attained, and via which their agency can be communicated” (Gell 1998:68). When considering processes of identification, then, the sacred objects uncovered at Amatitlán should be viewed alongside the sacred landscape as actively constitutive of human experience, agency, and identity. Future research regarding the ways in which symbolisms, styles, and technologies were employed in the ceramic production of Lake ­Amatitlán would represent a highly productive way of determining how identity was enacted, even if identities themselves may be too fluid to determine in any concrete form. Drawing hard correlations between the material record and identity is often difficult, particularly when confronting a limited archaeological record. At Amatitlán, then, the goal may be to focus, as Hegmon (1998:271) does, on the boundaries being articulated, rather than the contents of the bounded units themselves. 96

A Common Space Notes 1. Janie Finch and Ric Finch, “Volcán Pacaya over the years,” http://www.rutahsa.com/pacaya.html 2. Mike Lanchin, “Volcano eruption forces evacuation,” http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/low/americas​ /606456.stm, and http://volcano.si.edu/volcano​ .cfm?vn=342090. 3. Newhall and Dzurisin, 1988, Historical Unrest at Large Calderas of the World: USGS Bulletin 1855); http://www.volcanodiscovery.com/fuego​ /­news.html, http://www.volcanodiscovery.com​ /pacaya.html 4. Although in a recent publication (Mata Amado and Medrano 2011), the name “Lavaderos” was discarded for “Mejicanos,” I find the use of a single name to describe both a shore site and an underwater offertory deposit potentially confusing and therefore maintain a distinction between the Lavaderos underwater deposit and the onshore site of Mejicanos in this chapter. 5. That Amatitlán and Pacaya played an important role in the beliefs of the earliest inhabitants of the area is evidenced by the preponderance of rock art around the lake (Carpio Rezzio 1998; Carpio Rezzio and Román Morales 1999, 2000, 2002). One rock outcropping was even carved as an effigy volcano (Carpio Rezzio 1998:437, Fig.2; Carpio Rezzio and Román Morales 1998:809; 2000:111). 6. The only scientifically excavated Teotihuacán-­ style censer from Escuintla was found at Los Chatos, in the larger site of Montana, dating to approximately AD 350–400 (Bove and Medrano 2003:56, 58). 7. Though one example of this format has been found at Teotihuacán (Berrin and Pasztory 1993: Cat. 69), it appears to be very rare there (Berlo 1984:38, Pl.10; Borhegyi 1966:363). 8. I have argued elsewhere (Henderson 2014) that these butterflies might be better understood as moths, nocturnal creatures famously attracted to the light of open flames. Importantly, unlike butterflies, which use a hard-­shelled chrysalis, moths employ soft, woven cocoons, more closely echoing the textile-­w rapped mortuary bundles of the cremated dead. References Andrews, Anthony P., and Robert Corletta 1995 A Brief History of Underwater Archaeology in the Maya Area. Ancient Mesoamerica 6(2):101–117. 97

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­Ethnography. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Parsons, Lee Allen and Barbara J. Price 1971 Mesoamerican Trade and its Role in the Emergence of Civilization. In Observations on the Emergence of Civilization in Mesoamerica, edited by R. F. Heizer and J. A. Graham, pp. 169–195. Contributions of the University of California Archaeological Research Facility, No. 11. University of California Department of Anthropology, Berkeley. Poole, Deborah A. 1991 Rituals of Movement, Rites of Transformation: Pilgrimage and Dance in the Highlands of Cuzco, Peru. In Pilgrimage in Latin America, edited by N. R. Crumrine and A. Morinis, pp. 307–338. Greenwood Press, Westport, CT. Popenoe de Hatch, Marion and Edwin M. Shook 1999 La Arqueología de la Costa Sur. In Historia general de Guatemala, vol. 1 (epoca precolombina), pp. 171–190. Asociación de Amigos del País, Fundación para la Cultura y el Desarrollo, Guatemala City. Preston, James J. 1992 Spiritual Magnetism: An Organizing Principle for the Study of Pilgrimage. In Sacred Journeys: The Anthropology of Pilgrimage, edited by A. Morinis, pp. 31–46. Greenwood Press, Westport. CT. Preucel, Robert W. and Lynn Meskell 2004 Places. In A Companion to Social Archaeology, edited by R. W. Preucel and L. Meskell, pp. 215–229. Blackwell Publishers, Malden, MA. Rathje, William L. and Jeremy A. Sabloff (editors) 1975 A Study of Changing Pre-­Columbian Commercial Systems: The 1972–1973 Seasons at Cozumel, Mexico. Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology Monographs 3. Harvard University, Cambridge. Reese-­Taylor, Kathryn 2012 Sacred Places and Sacred Landscapes. In The Oxford Handbook of Mesoamerican ­Archaeology, edited by D. L. Nichols and C. A. Pool, pp. 752–763. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Ringle, William M. 1999 Pre-­Classic Cityscapes: Ritual Politics among the Early Lowland Maya. In Social Patterns in Pre-­Classic Mesoamerica, edited by D. C. Grove and R. A. Joyce, pp. 183–223.

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. Rosenswig, Robert M. 2012 The Southern Pacific Coastal Region of Mesoamerica: A Corridor of Interaction from Olmec to Aztec Times. In The Oxford Handbook of Mesoamerican Archaeology, edited by D. L. Nichols and C. A. Pool, pp. 419–433. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Santley, Robert S. 1983 Obsidian Trade and Teotihuacán Influence in Mesoamerica. In Highland-­Lowland Interaction in Mesoamerica: Interdisciplinary Approaches, edited by A. G. Miller, pp. 69– 124. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. Schmolck, Helmuth 1941 Wo die Amates stehn: Legende einer Landschaft Guatemalas. Where the Amates Stand: Legend of a Province in Guatemala 1913–1936. Manuscript on file in German and English, Milwaukee Public Museum: Box 266, Folder SFB Publications #2. Sharer, Robert J. 1974 The Prehistory of the Southeastern Maya Periphery [with Comments and Reply]. Current Anthropology 15(2):165–187. Sharer, Robert J.(editor) 1978 The Prehistory of Chalchuapa, El Salvador. University of Pennsylvania Press, Phil­ adelphia. Shook, Edwin M. 1952 Lugares arqueológicos del altiplano meridional central de Guatemala. Antropología e Historia de Guatemala 4(2):3–40. Shook, Edwin M. and Alfred V. Kidder 1952 Mound E-­III-3, Kaminaljuyú, Guatemala. Contributions to American Anthropology and History, No. 53. Carnegie Institution of Washington, Washington. Smithsonian Institution, 2002, February. Global Volcanism Program’s Website http://vul​ can​.wr.usgs.gov/Volcanoes/Guatemala​ /­description_guatemala_volcanoes.html. Fuego: http://volcano.si.edu/volcano.cfm​ ?vn=342090 Stark, Miriam T. 1998 Technical Choices and Social ­Boundaries in Material Culture Patterning: An Introduction. In The Archaeology of Social Bound­ aries, edited by M. T. Stark, pp. 1–11. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, D.C.

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CHAPTER 6

Yearning for the Ancestors Elite Identity in Cotzumalhuapa Sculpture Oswaldo Chinchilla Mazariegos

The study of ancient social identities on the Pacific coast of Guatemala is a difficult puzzle for modern archaeological research. Documentary sources provide some information about the linguistic affiliation of the region’s inhabitants in the sixteenth century (Chinchilla Mazariegos 1998; Thompson 1948; Akkeren, this volume), but there is little information about earlier populations. Archaeological and linguistic evidence suggests important demographic shifts through the Preclassic and Classic periods through poorly known processes that may include migration, invasion, and depopulation at various stages. In this chapter, I address the problem of elite identity, as reflected in the sculptures of Cotzumalhuapa, a major Late Classic city located on the Pacific coastal piedmont of the modern department of Escuintla, Guatemala (Figure 6.1). Because of their distinctive style, the Cotzumalhuapa sculptures have long been interpreted as the creation of immigrants to the Pacific coast. These interpretations were based on the assumption that stylistic or iconographic features contain objective clues about the ethnic and cultural affiliation of their creators (e.g. Cheek 1975; Gavarrete 1929; Parsons 1969; Popenoe de Hatch 1987; Stoll 1958; Thompson 1948). I challenge those assumptions. I argue that the sculptures hold important clues about their creators’ identity but not in the traditional sense of indications about their origin or linguistic affiliation. Instead, the sculptures hold clues about the sub-

jective ways in which the political leaders of Cotzumalhuapa represented themselves and marked their differences from competing groups. This interpretation does not necessarily imply outright manipulations of elite ideology. The linguistic affiliation and historical roots of a people provide anchors for the development of distinctive ethnic or national identities. However, identity is less about the objective realities of phylogeny or language and more about the establishment of boundaries relating to a group’s perception of its own membership, ­origins, and history as opposed to those of others (Barth 1969; Jones 2007; Love, this volume). As summarized by Emberling, “Ethnicity is best seen as a process of identification and ­differentiation, rather than as an inherent attribute of individuals or groups” (Emberling 1997:306). The thrust to mark differences vis-­à-vis competing groups is often an important element in the construction of identities and their outward manifestations in public art. Moreover, for the construction of social identities, it is often irrelevant whether they are rooted in objective facts or not (Anderson 2006; Hobsbawm 1983). This chapter is concerned with the identity of the ruling elites, which may or may not have coincided or overlapped with the identities of commoners. Conceivably, the population of Cotzumalhuapa may have encompassed numerous segments, including migrants from v­ arious parts of the coast and adjacent highlands who may have spoken different languages and may 104

Yearning for the Ancestors

Figure 6.1. Map of south-central Guatemala, with the location of sites mentioned in the text (drawing by

Oswaldo Chinchilla).

have claimed various affiliations. The archaeological evidence is scarce, and it will not be reviewed here. My observations derive from the study of monumental sculptures that largely reflect the aspirations and interests of their patrons — ​the rulers and their retinues. Elite identity is inextricably related to the achievement and maintenance of political power. As discussed by Schortman et al., this involves “the creation and propagation of at least two distinct social identities, one linking ­rulers and the ruled within a polity, and the other uniting paramounts in a network covering vast territorial expanses” (Schortman et al. 2001:312). In this essay, I argue that Cotzumalhuapa art condensed the rulers’ claims to a local identity, based on links with ancient forebears, while at the same time it contained public statements about their participation in broad networks of elite interaction. I will examine recent finds from archaeology and iconography to suggest (a) that

the Late Classic Cotzumalhuapa rulers traced their roots back to local Preclassic predecessors and made a substantial material investment to acknowledge such ties; (b) that the city’s distinctive sculptural style developed in reaction to the earlier dominance of Teotihuacán-­related artistic traditions in the coastal plain of Escuintla; and (c) that the sculptures of Cotzumalhuapa manifest the rulers’ participation in widespread networks of elite interaction that extended to northern Yucatán and other regions of Mesoamerica. The Traditional Question: Maya or Mexican?

The identity of the creators of the Cotzumalhuapa sculptures has been the subject of protracted debate. Early observers attributed the sculptures to the Pipil — ​a name that has been applied to various groups that spoke Nahua languages in Guatemala and El Salvador at the 105

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time of the Spanish conquest (Gavarrete 1929; Matthew and Romero 2012; Thompson 1948:49). Otto Stoll first pointed out elements in Cotzu­ malhuapa art that were reminiscent of the highland Mexican codices, such as items of p ­ ersonal adornment, speech scrolls, and numerals indicated by series of circles (Stoll 1958:16–18). Soon after, Eduard Seler (1892) asserted that the Cotzumalhuapa sculptures were not Maya. In retro­spect, these interpretations were credible at a time when students saw the dichotomy between “Mexican” and “Maya” as an essential tool for the interpretation of Precolumbian cultures. This view prevailed in the first half of the twentieth century and remains influential, despite advances in archaeological research that allow more nuanced views of the interaction between diverse Mesoamerican peoples. Using the nineteenth-­century “Maya versus Mexican” dichotomy scholars sought to determine the origin of the Cotzumalhuapa people by linking elements in the local sculptures with parallels in highland Mexico or the Gulf coast (Borhegyi 1965; Jiménez Moreno 1959, 1966; Parsons 1969; Thompson 1948). This approach proved deceptive, as better documentation of art styles throughout Mesoamerica has shown the purported links to be rather vague. “Mexi­ can” or “Teotihuacán” deities, identified in Cotzumalhuapa art by Thompson (1948:20–22) and Parsons (1969:196), are either misidentified or better explained as manifestations of widely distributed Mesoamerican icons. Moreover, archaeological research has failed to show breaks in material culture that might explain the Late Classic florescence of Cotzumalhuapa as the product of inmigration (Braun 1982; Chinchilla Mazariegos et al. 2009; Popenoe de Hatch 1987). The Pacific Coast has long been acknowledged as a region that experienced repeated population shifts and waves of political influx, perhaps stimulated by its rich cacao ­production and its location along an important trade route (Gasco, this volume). Best documented are Late Postclassic events that included the expansion of highland Maya kingdoms into the coastal piedmont and the Aztec conquest of Soconusco — ​ both searching for control of valuable cacao and

other luxury goods (Chinchilla Mazariegos 1998; Gasco 2003; Zamora Acosta 1980). A persistent question concerns the dating of the arrival of Nahua speaking migrants. Archaeological research by Bove (2002; Bove et al. 2012) showed that the Pipil did not arrive on the coastal plain of Escuintla before the Postclassic period, when they established a series of small centers throughout the region. The Pipil were the dominant group during the Postclassic, but the shallowness of their archaeological traces suggests that they were not directly related to their predecessors, the Classic populations of the coast, whose linguistic identity remains obscure. The dearth of documentary sources makes it difficult to assess population shifts before the Postclassic. Current evidence does not offer support for Jiménez Moreno’s (1959, 1966) and Borhegyi’s (1965) suggestions of a Late Classic migration to the area. However, Teotihuacán-­ related iconography and local adaptations of pottery and figurine styles from highland Mexico suggest an earlier influx of migrants during the Early Classic, perhaps originating from Teotihuacán itself (Berlo 1984; Hellmuth 1975; Neff 2005; cf. García-­Des Lauriers, this volume). According to Bove and Medrano (2003) they controlled the major site of Montana, located on the lower coastal plain, not far from the Pacific littoral. This was the dominant center in Escuintla during the San Jerónimo phase, ca. AD 450–650 (Chinchilla Mazariegos et al. 2009). In his archaeological study of Bilbao, Lee A. Parsons (1969) interpreted the Cotzumalhuapa sculptural style as a direct derivation from Teotihuacán art. His work anticipated major discoveries of Teotihuacán-­style pottery revealed by agricultural and looting activities in the 1970s (Hellmuth 1975). However, more recent research shows that the Teotihuacán presence centered on the lower coastal plain around Montana; it had little impact at Cotzumalhuapa and other sites along the volcanic piedmont. Moreover, Bove’s and Medrano’s (2003) research at Montana confirmed that the dating of Teotihuacán presence on the coast is significantly earlier than the Late Classic florescence of Cotzumalhuapa and its sculptural style. 106

Yearning for the Ancestors The Teotihuacán influx left a durable imprint on the coast, and multiple motives in Cotzumalhuapa sculpture are rooted in Teotihuacán art. Yet the style departed significantly from that model. In an important essay, Barbara Braun contested Parsons’s (1969) interpretation of Cotzumalhuapa sculpture as derived from Teotihuacán. Her words are worth citing. Teotihuacán art is overwhelmingly two-­ dimensional in format, but the prevailing artistic canon is basically at odds with Cotzumalhuapa art; it is characteristically hieratic rather than dynamic, repetitive and patterned rather than varied and individualized, and fundamentally non-­human in its orientation. Moreover, the forms are squat rather than tall, geometric rather than organic, slack rather than tense, and their disposition in the surface is at great variance with Cotzumalhuapa style (Braun 1982:240). The contrast between Cotzumalhuapa and Teotihuacán art is so marked that it may have resulted from the conscious choice of the Cotzumalhuapa sculptors and their patrons to distance their public artistic displays from the Teotihuacán artistic canons that were largely associated with the formerly dominant lords of Montana. Rather than imposing cultural patterns inspired from abroad, the Cotzumalhuapa rulers may have justified their dominance by tracing their roots to ancient rulers who preceded penetration of the bearers of Teotihuacán culture on the coast. Archaeological and iconographic evidence in support of this proposition will be discussed in the following sections. The Preclassic Roots of Cotzumalhuapa During its heyday in the Late Classic period, Cotzumalhuapa was an extensive city that included the major architectural compounds of Bilbao, El Baúl, and El Castillo — ​usually treated as separate sites by earlier authors (Figure 6.2). Intensive surface collections and observations on the distribution of sculptured monuments show that the city covered an estimated 10 km² (Chinchilla Mazariegos et al. 2006; Chinchilla 107

Mazariegos 2011a, 2012a). The major architectural compounds and the surrounding settlements were linked by a complex system of paved causeways and bridges, whose stone-­ construction involved a major labor investment. For example, the 14 m wide Gavarrete Causeway extended 2.5 km, joining the acropolises of El Baúl and Bilbao. While most of the causeway was laid at ground level, its construction entailed land filling at certain places, diversion of small streams, and the construction of a major bridge across the Santiago River. Finely carved monuments were placed at selected locations along this and other causeways (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2011a, 2012a). Surface collections reveal variations in settlement density across the city. As currently understood, the hub of the Late Classic city extended around El Baúl and El Castillo. This sector has the highest concentration of surface materials, while excavations and geophysical surveys at several locations reveal substantial buildings with stone architecture. By contrast, the southern part of the city, around the Bilbao acropolis, had a significantly lower density of Late Classic settlements. The contrast between the southern and northern parts of the city was made evident by recent excavations at the urban development Residenciales Santa Lucía, west of Bilbao (Figure 6.2; Genovez et al. 2009). Despite the proximity of this sector to the Bilbao ­acropolis, Late Classic dwellings were sparse, and they did not include significant stone architecture. By contrast, households in the El Baúl and El Castillo sectors normally include buildings with stone-­faced platforms, stairways, and walls (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2011a). Altogether, the evidence suggests that the southern part of the city was peripheral in terms of Late Classic settlements. Yet it included the major compound of Bilbao, with an impressive array of Late Classic buildings and sculptures. Current evidence indicates that Bilbao was the main locus of Preclassic activity at Cotzumalhuapa. Lee A. Parsons’s excavations in the 1960s produced enough pottery from mixed architectural fills to define Middle and Late Preclassic phases, anchored with radiocarbon dates.

Figure 6.2. Map of Cotzumalhuapa, showing the estimated urban extension and the area with stronger

­concentration of settlements during the Late Classic period (drawing by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

Yearning for the Ancestors Another important sample of Preclassic pottery came from a test pit excavated 500 m north of Bilbao (Parsons 1967:56–94). Our recent excavations west of the Bilbao acropolis confirmed Parsons’s reports of early occupation (Genovez et al. 2009). A casual walk in Residenciales Santa Lucía yielded more Late Preclassic sherds than full seasons of research in the El Baúl and El Castillo sectors. Occupation was never intense, but the excavations revealed caches with Usulután, Arenal, and other Late and Terminal Preclassic vessels (Figure 6.3a–e). A recent excavation in the southern part of the Bilbao acropolis revealed a series of stratified floors going back to the Late Preclassic period. This excavation was prompted by the discovery of Monument 93, a large boulder whose upper surface was carved during the Late Classic period. At that time, it protruded above the level of the final construction stage of the acropolis. However, the excavation revealed that the boulder originally stood on a Late Preclassic occupational surface and was gradually buried by six successive construction fills, two of which date to the Late Preclassic period (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2012b). A further indication of the early prominence of Bilbao came from Parsons’s discovery of Monument 42 (Figure 6.4), a finely carved fragmentary stela in Late Preclassic style that shows the legs and loincloth of an individual standing on a reptilian head — ​probably an oversized hieroglyphic sign that may be interpreted as a toponym (see Stuart and Houston 1994). During the Late Classic period, the lower half of the stela was deposited along with a large number of stone artifacts and Classic sculpture fragments in a “ceremonial dump”, a complex cache deposit associated with the Monument Plaza at Bilbao (Parsons 1969:48–49, 112–13). The presence of Monument 42 is consistent with the evidence of substantial Preclassic activity at Bilbao. A different situation prevailed at El Baúl, where the archaeological evidence for Preclassic activity was missing until recently. Yet, the site was long renowned for a major Preclassic sculpture. El Baúl Stela 1 (Figures 6.5–6.6) was found in the 1920s on the western side of Structure 21 (Figure 6.7), a prominent mound where important Late Classic sculptures also stood

(Monuments 14, 26, and 27; Thompson 1948:31; Parsons 1969:133). Walter Lehmann (1926, 2000) first interpreted the chronological notation on Stela 1 as an Initial Series date corresponding to the Long Count position 7.19.7.8.12. This reading was later amended by Michael D. Coe (1957) as 7.19.15.7.12, corresponding to AD 36 in the Goodman-­Martínez-Thompson correlation of the Maya and European calendars. The date still remains among the earliest known in Meso­ america. Lehmann’s reading spurred heated controversy about the precocious development of writing outside the Maya lowlands (Graham 2008). Despite the monument’s importance, no serious investigation of its archaeological context was conducted before it was removed from its original location in the 1960s. Thompson (1948:32) reported digging at the foot of Stela 1, but his brief description includes no information on the size and depth of the excavation, nor does it describe any associated features. He concluded that the stela was erected at this location in late times, judging from a small mixed lot that included sherds from the Late Classic San Juan phase. Thompson also excavated deeply into Structure 6, the tallest building in the acropolis, reporting no Preclassic materials. In 1997, Sonia Medrano and I excavated part of a sunken court that lies immediately south of Structure 21. A radiocarbon date from below the court floor yielded a calibrated date of AD 625[676]862, placing the construction of this sunken court no earlier than the Late Classic period (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2009). Ceramic materials were predominantly Late Classic, with less than 10 Preclassic sherds from the entire operation, according to Medrano’s analysis. Settlement survey around El Baúl yielded similar results. Preclassic sherds are negligible in surface collections and excavations from the El Baúl and El Castillo area. Yet, there is some degree of sherd concentration around El Baúl in the Late Preclassic Colojate phase (AD 100–400), suggesting that the site had acquired some importance by this time (Chinchilla Mazariegos et al. 2006). The contradiction between the early date of the stela and the dearth of Preclassic evidence at El Baúl prompted a recent excavation in the 109

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Figure 6.3. Late Preclassic pottery from

Residenciales Santa Lucía, west of Bilbao: (a) Usulután tripod vase; (b) Usulután tripod vase; (c) Red-slipped bowl with composite silhouette; (d) Acome (Arenal) incised bowl; (e) tripod bowl with conical feet (photos by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

Yearning for the Ancestors

Figure 6.5. El Baúl Stela 1. El Baúl Archaeological Museum, Santa Lucía Cotzumalguapa (photo by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

tural fill of the acropolis, below Structure 21. More research is required to reveal its architectural configuration, but there is a distinct possibility that El Baúl Stela 1 originally stood at a Late Preclassic compound that was eventually buried underneath Late Classic constructions. The monument may still have been standing when this ancient compound was chosen to become the major architectural group of the Late Classic city. At this time, the builders of the El Baúl acropolis took care to raise the old stela and relocate it at the base of Structure 21. Thus it appears that both Bilbao and El Baúl were loci of Preclassic activity at Cotzumalhuapa. The archaeological record suggests that the Preclassic occupation of Bilbao was more intense, judging from the abundance of Preclassic materials at the acropolis and its surroundings. El Baúl was probably smaller, yet substantial enough to serve as a theater of ritual activities

Figure 6.4. Bilbao Monument 42. Museo de la Arqueología de Cotzumalguapa, finca Las Ilusiones, Santa Lucía Cotzumalguapa (photo by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

western side of Structure 21, around the place where the stela was originally found (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2012b). The excavations revealed a long and complex series of construction stages. The structural fills were largely devoid of ceramic materials, perhaps explaining ­Thompson’s failure to report a Preclassic construction stage under Structure 6. However, a small number of diagnostic sherds suggest that there is a Preclassic construction stage within the deep architec111

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Figure 6.6. El Baúl Stela 1 (drawing by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

that included stelae dedication. Late Classic building activity makes it hard to estimate the size and importance of Late Preclassic Cotzumalhuapa in relation to other contemporary centers on the Escuintla coast such as El Bálsamo, Monte Alto, Vista Hermosa, or Los Cerritos Sur (Shook and Popenoe de Hatch 1978; Bove 1989). But Cotzumalhuapa stands out among them because of the presence of finely carved stelae with hieroglyphic inscriptions. The Bilbao sector remained important during the Early and Middle Classic periods. Accord-

ing to Parsons’s excavation data, Bilbao Structure C-­2 dates almost entirely to the Middle Classic Laguneta phase (before AD 650). However, Cotzumalhuapa did not participate in the sphere of Teotihuacán interaction centered at Montana. Notwithstanding his interpretation of Cotzumalhuapa art as a direct derivation from Teotihuacán, the fact is that Parsons (1967, 1969) did not find Teotihuacán-­style incensarios or cylinder tripods at Bilbao. Scattered finds such as two flower-­shaped adornos recovered in 2007 at Residenciales Santa Lucía (Figure 6.8) show 11 2

Figure 6.7. Map of El Baúl, showing the original location of Stela 1, on the west side of Structure 21 (drawing

by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

Oswaldo Chinchilla M azariegos

Figure 6.8. Fragmentary adornos in Teotihuacan style, from excavations at Residenciales Santa Lucía, west of

Bilbao (photos by Gilberto Cruz, Cotzumalhuapa Archaeological Project).

that some Teotihuacán-­style artifacts reached Cotzumalhuapa, but they are hardly indicative of a strong Teotihuacán influx in this region. By Late Classic times, the hub of the city moved north to the El Baúl and El Castillo sector, while the Bilbao area became largely peripheral in terms of settlement. Nevertheless, it remained important, and major effort was invested in the construction of the site’s extensive platforms and the stone-­paved causeways that linked this great compound with El Baúl and El Castillo. The Bilbao acropolis was also endowed with one of the richest sculptural inventories found anywhere in southern Mesoamerica. I suggest that this corresponded to the Late Classic rulers’ desire to assert links with the ancient, Preclassic and Early-­Middle Classic center and its former rulers, whom they regarded as their own predecessors.

spacing suggests a double-­column reading order. Erosion and exfoliation have destroyed all but the outlines of some of the glyphic cartouches, rendering the text unreadable. Though i­ llegible, the inscription attests to the presence of a precocious scribal community at Late Preclassic Cotzumalhuapa. Judging from the known distribution of early writing, the local scribes participated in a broad information network extending across the Pacific coast to highland Chiapas, the Gulf coast of Mexico, and the Maya lowlands (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2011b). Exfoliation also destroyed significant elements of the design, but enough remains to recognize a male character standing on a basal band with incurving ends. Basal bands of this type were commonly used on Late Preclassic monu­ ments at Izapa, Kaminaljuyú, and other sites (Quirarte 1973:13–15; Guernsey 2006:78). On the El Baúl stela, the basal band frames a cluster of badly worn designs that may have formed a place name. The main character holds a short staff tipped with an undulating point. More than a weapon, this appears to be a ceremonial object, perhaps a long-­hafted knife embellished with a hanging tassel. The latter is visible only as an exfoliated

El Baúl Stela 1 El Baúl Stela 1 (Figures 6.5 and 6.6) has one of the longest hieroglyphic texts known from Preclassic times. The text is arranged in two vertical columns, the first of which is entirely devoted to calendrical information. The second column has an estimated 32 glyph blocks whose regular 114

Yearning for the Ancestors

Figure 6.9. Detail of El Baúl Stela 1, showing the character’s headdress (drawing by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

area below the spiral-­adorned shaft. The character’s left arm is eroded, but enough remains to suggest that it held a hanging object — ​perhaps a bag with banded designs that appear behind his leg. The headdress (Figure 6.9) includes a large flower and what appears to be a broad-­rimmed hat crowned by a serpent, recognizable by the bifid tongue that hangs over the flower. His para­phernalia also include a large earspool next to the head of a zoomorphic creature with upturned snout and multiple teeth. The position of this creature by the character’s earspool evokes similar motifs that reappeared centuries later on Early Classic Maya monuments, such as Tikal Stelae 31 and 40. On Tikal Stela 31, the ­piscine head projecting above the ruler’s earspool can be identified as part of the name of the site’s dynastic founder (Schele 1992; Martin 2003:5). The

question remains whether the motif on the El Baúl stela may form part of a name clause included in the character’s headdress, matching the later Tikal examples. Behind the standing character there is an upright pole, crowned with a head. Two long straps crisscross each other along the shaft. A tripartite motif appears under the head — ​opposed scrolls on either side of a straight element. This motif may represent gushes of blood. Houston et al. point out the parallel between representations of dripping blood on Chocolá Monument 1 and the basal elements of day signs at Izapa and ­Kaminaljuyú (Houston et al. 2006:93). The basal ele­ment of the deity head on top of a pole in the El Baúl stela is similarly shaped, and therefore may also have calendrical significance. Arguably, the monument refers to sacrifice by ­decapitation, 11 5

a

b

Figure 6.10. Bilbao Stelae 3 (a) and 4 (b). Notice severed heads presented to gods or ancestors (drawings

Oswaldo Chinchilla).

Yearning for the Ancestors culminating with the placement of the head atop a pole. That was the probable purpose of the undulating knife held by the main character. Decapitation is a common subject on Preclassic monuments from southern Guatemala. Examples include Kaminaljuyú Stela 10, Chocolá Monument 1, El Jobo Stela 1, and Izapa Stela 21. However, on the El Baúl stela, the victim’s countenance is not human. The snarling mouth and elongated forehead, with abundant convoluted scrolls emanating like smoke or clouds, suggest it is a deity head. Taube (1995:95) identified this head as a Preclassic form of the Maya rain god Chak. However, it may belong instead to an early form of K’awiil, a deity characterized by its elongated, smoking head in Lowland Maya art. The scene is watched from above by another character that emerges from an angular opening, provided with regularly spaced tabs that suggest teeth. The opening resembles a gaping mouth that overlaps the clouds emanating from the severed head. Comparison with early monuments from the Maya lowlands suggests that the emerging head may belong to an ancestor, perhaps invoked through the sacrificial offering of the severed deity head.

able effort to mark their connections with them. Standing at the city’s major royal precinct, the stela may have portrayed the renewed glory of the Late Classic city, and its ruling elite, as deeply rooted in the achievements of its Late Preclassic predecessors. Further clues derive from comparisons with Late Classic sculptures. Popenoe de Hatch (1987:​ 474) first noted the continuity of subject matter between El Baúl Stela 1 and the Late Classic stelae from Bilbao. She compared the head that emerges from a celestial opening on El Baúl Stela 1 with the paramount characters on the upper register of Bilbao Monuments 2–8 (Figures 6.10– 6.12), and saw this as an indication that the Late Classic people of Cotzumalhuapa descended from the Preclassic inhabitants of the region. There is no way to prove the veracity of this interpretation without recourse to skeletal series that are still missing from the archaeological record. Nevertheless, Popenoe de Hatch’s observation may be better understood as evidence of the Late Classic Cotzumalhuapa rulers’ will to make public statements about their long ties — ​factual or not — ​with their Preclassic forebears at Cotzumalhuapa, and perhaps specifically with the individual portrayed on the El Baúl stela. An important iconographic detail is the serpent that crowns the headdress of the main character of the El Baúl stela. The people who re-­erected the monument surely noticed this feature, considering that serpents with projecting, bifid tongues are frequent components of headdresses on Late Classic Cotzumalhuapa sculptures. Some of the best examples appear in the upper register of Bilbao stelae 2, 4, 5, 6, and 8 (Figures 6.10b and 6.11a–d). This attribute may have marked a link between the paramount characters of the Bilbao stelae and the ancient ruler of El Baúl Stela 1. Both were probably regarded as forebears of the Late Classic Cotzumalhuapa lords. I concur with Popenoe de Hatch (1987:​506) that the paramount characters on the Late Classic stelae are ancestral figures, perhaps apotheosized in death. As noted, this is the role of the characters that emerge from paramount locations in lowland Maya stelae. Their position on the monuments’ upper register

An Ancestor Cult? The prominent display of Stela 1 in one of the most important Late Classic precincts of El Baúl begs an explanation. The early hieroglyphic text may have still been readable, although the Late Classic Cotzumalhuapa people were probably unable to understand the script that, to the best of our knowledge, fell in disuse throughout the Pacific coast at the end of the Preclassic. Yet perhaps they could read the date, inscribed in the Long Count system still used at the time in much of the Maya area. While the monument’s stylistic conventions were far removed from their own, there is no reason to doubt that they could make general sense of the sculpture’s imagery. The resetting of the ancient stela at the El Baúl Acropolis — ​likely the royal palace and administrative center of the Late Classic city — ​suggests that the Late Classic Cotzumalhuapa people, especially the rulers, were not only aware of their Preclassic predecessors in the area but invested consider117

a

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c

d

Figure 6.11. Paramount characters on Bilbao stelae. Notice the speech scrolls of the characters below who present headdresses and game animals: (a) Stela 2; (b) Stela 8; (c) Stela 5; (d) Stela 6 (drawings by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

Yearning for the Ancestors s­ uggests a ­heavenly setting, and the character on Monu­ment 3 (Figure 6.10a) is likely the Cotzumalhuapa Sun God, as first suggested by Seler (1892:245). Another parallel is the sculptures’ focus on sacrifice by decapitation, represented on El Baúl Stela 1 by the severed deity head placed on top of a pole. Bilbao Monument 1 has an explicit scene of human sacrifice by dismemberment and decapitation — ​the main character holds a severed head, while standing on a dismembered torso. Monuments 3 and 4 also feature severed heads (Figure 6.10). From this perspective, the Bilbao monuments reiterate the subject matter of the El Baúl stela — ​invocation of a deified ancestor through sacrifice by decapitation. Other types of offerings are also featured: game animals on monuments 5 and 8, and headdresses on monuments 2, 4, and 6. While sharing important iconographic themes with the Preclassic stelae, the Late Classic sculptures employed new iconographic and stylistic conventions. Most intriguing are the vines that grow around the paramount characters on the Bilbao stelae, lush with flowers, fruits, and precious objects that include jewels, conchs, bivalve shells, and sacrificial knives. It appears that these characters reside in a paradisiac place, surrounded by luxurious vegetation and precious objects. When invoked by the celebrants below, they emerge among the wild budding stems that fill this glorious place. In fact, they themselves may have been conceived as blossoms emerging from the portentous foliage, for they appear in front of large motifs that seem to be oversized versions of the objects growing out of the prolific vines. On monuments 3 and 7 (Figures 6.10a and 6.12), they emerge from gigantic maws that have alternating fangs and molars. The fiery ­character on Monument 3 is likely the Cotzumalhuapa Sun God, who emerges from a similar opening on El Castillo Monument 1. There are indications that this maw played an important role in Cotzumalhuapa religion as the entrance to a heavenly garden that is also the place of the Sun God (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2008, 2011b). The paramount characters on these monuments are

Figure 6.12. Bilbao Monument 7. The lower half of this monument is missing (drawing by Oswaldo Chinchilla).

probably ancestors, residing in a flowery paradise that is also the abode of the Sun God. In the iconographic program of the Bilbao stelae, they become manifest as flowers or fruits growing from the lush vegetation of this paradise when invoked through the chants, offerings, and sacrifices presented by the characters below. A useful comparison can be made with the captioned vines representing ancestors at the Castillo Viejo, Chichén Itzá, discussed by Schmidt et al. (2008). The building’s jambs and pillars show a series of lush vines, full of flowers and birds including quetzals sipping nectar. The hieroglyphic captions at the base of the carvings read u baah u nikte’ u mam, literally, “his image, his flowers, his grandfather,” followed by the 119

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name of a lord who bears the royal titles ch’ajom and ajaw. Schmidt and his coauthors conclude that the carvings show the flowering paradise where the lord’s grandfather or his ancestors reside. Because of the way in which such captions normally refer to the associated images, they suggest that the heavenly plants may personify the ancestors themselves. Likewise, the paramount characters on the Bilbao stelae can be understood as oversized, personified buds growing from the surrounding vegetation. In several ways, the subject matter of the Bilbao stelae reiterates the much earlier iconography of El Baúl Stela 1. However, by the Late Classic, invocation of the ancestors emphasized their glorious destiny in a flowering paradise. The subject corresponds to widespread Mesoamerican religious beliefs that acquired especial importance during the Late Classic period at Cotzumalhuapa and Chichén Itzá.

Aztec mythology. Indeed, the paramount beings on the Bilbao stelae are denizens of a flower­ing place similar to portentous places recorded throughout Mesoamerica and the southwestern United States, often associated with the sun and the spirits of the dead (Carlsen and Prechtel 1991; Chinchilla Mazariegos 2013; Hill 1992; López Austin 1994). Karl Taube (2004, 2005) identified representations of such places in Classic Maya and Teotihuacán art (Taube 2004, 2005). In both, he documented versions of “Flower Mountain,” a hill with flowering vegetation, associated with music, the sun, and the spirits of the dead. Taube traced representations back to Preclassic lowland Maya and Early Classic Teotihuacán art. Examples of the latter include flowering mountains on Early Classic Teotihuacán-­style incensarios from the Pacific Coast of Guatemala (Henderson, this volume). The iconography of the Cotzumalhuapa Flower World is rooted in Teotihuacán art. In particular, the elaborate flowering speech scrolls that abound at Cotzumalhuapa first appeared in the Pacific coast on Early Classic molded cylinder tripods. Cotzumalhuapa sculptors turned the rather short speech scrolls represented in those objects into extremely long and elaborate versions. The most elaborate appear on Bilbao Monument 21, where the flowering songs of the central character grow to encircle the entire scene, creating a landscape of abundant vegetation, flowers and fruits, precious objects, and birds of bright plumage (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2011b, 2012c, 2013). The Bilbao acropolis has the largest concentration of sculptures that display themes related to Flower World iconography at Cotzumalhuapa. While not absent elsewhere, no part of the city has a comparable concentration in terms of number, size, and elaboration of sculptural representations of flowering places. Few examples can be found in the extensive sculptural inventory of the El Baúl acropolis. The concentration of Flower World themes at Bilbao may relate to the compound’s connotations as a major locus of Preclassic activity and its probable use as a ritual center for the cult of ancestors.

Elite Identity and Late Classic Internationalism

While the Late Classic sculptures of Cotzumalhuapa stressed the rulers’ ties with Preclassic forebears, they were not archaistic. Instead, they shared important iconographic ­ conventions with contemporary sites from distant regions, manifesting the local rulers’ participation in broad networks of elite interaction. Several authors (Parsons 1969:182; Piña Chan 1980:100– 102; Taube 1994) have noted parallels between the sculptures of Chichén Itzá and Cotzumalhuapa, and recent revisions of the chronology at both sites indicate that they were partly contemporary (Chinchilla Mazariegos et al. 2009; Cobos 1998; Ringle et  al. 1998). Perhaps the closest analogy is found in representations of flowering vines that also function as elaborate speech scrolls. The shape of the vines and their flowers are very simi­lar at both sites. Beyond the stylistic parallels, the shared artistic themes suggest p ­ arallel beliefs related to the evocation of flowering places through chanting and sacrifice. Noting the lush vegetation that grows around the probable ancestors on the Bilbao stelae, Thompson (1948:19) suggested a ­correspondence with Xochitlicacan, the “House of Flowers” of 1 20

Yearning for the Ancestors As noted, Flower World themes in Cotzumalhuapa art find strong parallels at Chichén Itzá. The Flower World of Chichén Itzá is strongly connected to the cult of ancestors. The sculptured façades of the Initial Series Group display paradise scenes featuring music and dance, prodigious vines overgrown with flowers and fruits, birds of bright plumage, including quetzals, and precious objects such as headdresses, jewelry, and cacao pods (Gonzáles de la Mata 2013; Schmidt 2002). While no explicit representations of human sacrifice appear in these friezes, the Chichén Itzá Ball Court panels show flowering vines growing from decapitated bodies. The association of flowering vines, precious objects, cacao, music, chanting, and human sacrifice is strongly reminiscent of the Bilbao sculptural program, which also shows ball players involved in human sacrificial rituals (Chinchilla Mazariegos 2009). Early scholars tended to explain these features at Chichén Itzá and Cotzumalhuapa as the result of foreign intrusion from highland Mexico or the Gulf coast. Nowadays, the Chichén Itzá reliefs are largely considered creations of Maya peoples from Yucatán, while the city’s interaction with highland Mexico and other Mesoamerican regions are vigorously debated (Kowalski and Kristan-­Graham 2007). Flower world iconography and the religious beliefs that inspired it have deep roots, both in the Maya area and highland Mexico. Priests and artists from Cotzumalhuapa and Chichén Itzá inherited a pool of ideas from the Maya area enriched by centuries of contact with the peoples of highland Mexico and other regions. The renewed manifestation of the Flower World cult in monumental contexts at Chichén Itzá and Cotzumalhuapa may relate to broad religious trends taking place in eastern Mesoamerica during the Late Classic period. López Austin and López Luján (1999) and Ringle et al. (1998) see widespread innovations in Mesoamerican art stemming from religious cults that had spread across the area by the end of the Late Classic period, possibly correlated with broad social and economic processes. While they emphasized the cult of the Feathered Serpent

as the distinguishing feature of such cults, evidence from Chichén Itzá and Cotzumalhuapa suggests that the Flower World cult was an important component of religious trends across the Maya area during that period. Final Comments The archaeological context and iconographic analysis of the Cotzumalhuapa sculptures offer clues about the social and political identities espoused by members of the ruling elite at Cotzumalhuapa. The rulers portrayed themselves as heirs of Late Preclassic predecessors, evidenced by their re-­erection of El Baúl Stela 1, and by their great architectural and sculptural investment at the ancient center of Bilbao — ​perhaps a religious shrine dedicated to the cult of ancestors. I interpret their yearning for ancient, local roots as a reaction against the strong identification of the competing center of Montana with Teotihuacán art and religion (Bove and Medrano 2003). This interpretation challenges earlier views that see Cotzumalhuapa art as derivative of external influences from various parts of Mexico, including Teotihuacán. While stressing ancient, local roots, Cotzumalhuapa sculptures also depict members of the Late Classic ruling class as practitioners of a religious cult that emphasized the imagery of the Flower World, the sun, and the ancestors and evocation of that imagery through song, dance, and human sacrifice. From this perspective, the members of the Cotzumalhuapa ruling class connected themselves to a widespread religious cult that became fashionable in different parts of the Maya area during the Terminal Classic period and which produced monumental expressions at Cotzumalhuapa and Chichén Itzá. Many questions remain about the complex cadre of demographic and linguistic shifts that is apparent in the archaeology of Pacific Guatemala, posing strong challenges for the study of identities. Further studies, focused on nonelite material culture at Cotzumalhuapa and elsewhere on the Pacific coast, would contribute to our understanding of the complex palimpsest of social identities that coexisted among the ­ancient peoples of this region. 1 21

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Yearning for the Ancestors Florido: Arqueomusicología de las Américas, edited by Matthias Stöckli and Arnd Adje Both, Vol. 1, pp. 109–125. Ekho Verlag, Berlin. 2013 The Flower World of Cotzumalhuapa. In The Maya in a Mesoamerican Context: Comparative Approaches to Maya Studies, edited by Jesper Nielsen and Christophe Helmke, pp. 79–92. Anton Saurwein Publishing, Markt Schwaben, Germany. Chinchilla Mazariegos, Oswaldo, Frederick J. Bove, and José Vicente Genovez 2009 La cronología del período clásico en la costa sur de Guatemala y el fechamiento del estilo escultórico Cotzumalguapa. In Cronología y periodización en Mesoamérica y el norte de México. Quinto coloquio Pedro Bosch Gimpera, edited by Annick Daneels, pp. 435–471. Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, México D.F. Chinchilla Mazariegos, Oswaldo, Elisa Mencos, Jorge Cárcamo, and José Vicente Genovez 2006 Paisaje y asentamientos en Cotzumalguapa. In XIX simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, edited by Juan Pedro Laporte, Barbara Arroyo, and H. Mejía, pp. 103–118. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Cobos, Rafael 1998 Chichén Itzá y el clásico terminal en las tierras bajas mayas. En XI simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 1997, edited by J. P. Laporte, and H. Escobedo, pp. 791–801. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Coe, Michael D. 1957 Cycle 7 Monuments in Middle America: A Reconsideration. American Anthropologist 59:597–611. Emberling, Geoff 1997 Ethnicity in Complex Societies: Archaeological Perspectives. Journal of Archaeological Research 5:295–344. Gasco, Janine 2003 Soconusco. In The Postclassic Mesoamerican World, edited by Michael E. Smith and Frances F. Berdan, pp. 282–296. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Gavarrete, Juan 1929 Antigüedades de Cotzumalguapa. Anales de la Sociedad de Geografía e Historia de Guatemala 5:308–311. [Originally published in La Semana, No. 60, 20 de febrero de 1866.]

Genovez Castaneda, José Vicente, and Oswaldo Chinchilla Mazariegos 2009 Proyecto arqueológico Residenciales Santa Lucía. Informe final. Report presented to the Instituto de Antropología e Historia de Guatemala, Guatemala. González de la Mata, María Rocío 2013 Reflejos de un Universo Mítico en la Iconografía de Chichén Itzá. In XXVI simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, edited by Bárbara Arroyo and Luis Méndez Salinas, pp. 835–845. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Graham, John A. 2008 Leyendo el pasado: la arqueología olmeca y el curioso caso de la estela C de Tres Zapotes. In Olmeca: balance y perspectivas: memoria de la primera mesa redonda, edited by María Teresa Uriarte and Rebecca B. González Lauck, pp. 39–63. UNAM/INAH/ Fundación Arqueológica del Nuevo Mundo, México, D.F. Guernsey, Julia 2006 Ritual and Power in Stone: The Performance of Rulership in Mesoamerican Izapan-Style Art. University of Texas Press, Austin. Hellmuth, Nicholas 1975 The Escuintla Hoards: Teotihuacán Art in Guatemala. Progress Reports 1(2). Foundation for Latin American Anthropological Research, St. Louis, MO. Hill, Jane H. 1992 The Flower World of Old Uto-­Aztecan. Journal of Anthropological Research 48:117–144. Hobsbawm, Eric 1983 Inventing Traditions. In The Invention of Tradition, edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, pp. 1–14. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Houston, Stephen, David Stuart, and Karl Taube 2006 The Memory of Bones: Body, Being, and Experience among the Classic Maya. University of Texas Press, Austin. Jiménez Moreno, Wigberto 1959 Síntesis de la historia pretolteca de Mesoamérica. In Esplendor del México Antiguo, edited by Carmen de Cook de Leonard, Vol. 2, pp. 1109–1196. Centro de Investigaciones Antropológicas de México, México. 1966 Mesoamerica before the Toltecs. In Ancient Oaxaca: Discoveries in Mexican Archaeology and History, edited by John Paddock, 1 23

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Utz’ib, Serie Reportes, 1(5):17–34. Asociación Tikal, Guatemala. Popenoe de Hatch, Marion 1987 Un análisis de las esculturas de Santa Lucía Cotzumalguapa. Mesoamérica 14:467–510. Parsons, Lee A. 1967 Bilbao, Guatemala: An Archaeological Study of the Pacific Coast Cotzumalhuapa Region, Vol. 1. Publications in Anthropology 11. Milwaukee Public Museum, Milwaukee, WI. 1969 Bilbao, Guatemala: An Archaeological Study of the Pacific Coast Cotzumalhuapa Region, Vol. 2. Publications in Anthropology 12. Milwaukee Public Museum, Milwaukee, WI. Piña Chan, Román 1980 Chichén Itzá: La ciudad de los brujos del agua. Fondo de Cultura Económica, México D.F. Quirarte, Jacinto 1973 Izapan-­Style Art: A Study of its Form and Meaning. Studies in Pre-­Columbian Art and Archaeology 10. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collections, Washington, D.C. Ringle, William M., Tomás Gallareta Negrón, and George J. Bey III 1998 The Return of Quetzalcoatl: Evidence for the Spread of a World Religion during the Epiclassic Period. Ancient Mesoamerica 9:183–232. Schele, Linda 1992 The Founders of Lineages at Copán and Other Maya Sites. Ancient Mesoamerica 3:135–144. Schmidt, Peter J. 2002 Proyecto Chichén Itzá: informe de actividades, julio de 1999 a diciembre de 2002. 3 vols. Centro INAH, Mérida, México. Schmidt, Peter J., David Stuart, and Bruce Love 2008 Inscriptions and Iconography of Castillo Viejo, Chichén Itzá. PARI Journal 9(2):1–17. Schortman, Edward M., Patricia A. Urban, and Marne Ausec 2001 Politics with Style: Identity Formation in Prehispanic Southeastern Mesoamerica. American Anthropologist 103:312–330. Seler, Eduard 1892 Los relieves de Santa Lucía Cotzumalguapa. El Centenario. Revista ilustrada. Organo oficial de la junta directiva, encargada de disponer las solemnidades que han de conmemorar el descubrimiento de América 3:241–252. El Progreso Editorial, Madrid. Shook, Edwin and Marion Popenoe de Hatch 1978 The Ruins of El Bálsamo, Department of

pp. 1–82. Stanford University Press, Palo Alto, CA. Jones, Siân 2007 Discourses of Identity in the Interpretation of the Past. In The Archaeology of Identities: A Reader, edited by Timothy Insoll, pp. 44–58. Taylor and Francis, London. Kowalski, Jeff Karl, and Cynthia Kristan-­Graham (editors) 2007 Twin Tollans: Chichén Itzá, Tula, and the Epiclassic to Early Postclassic Mesoamerican World. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. Lehmann, Walter 1926 Letter. Verhandlungen der Berliner Gesell­ schaft für Anthropologie, Ethnologie und Urgeschichte, Jahrgang 1926, pp. 171–177. Appended to Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 58 (1926). 2000 Letter from Puerto Mexico. In Early Scholars’ Visits to Central America: Reports by Karl Sapper, Walter Lehman, and Franz Termer, edited by Marilyn Beaudry-­Corbett and Ellen T. Hardy, pp. 103–111. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California, Los Angeles. López Austin, Alfredo 1994 Tamoanchan y Tlalocan. Fondo de Cultura Económica, México, D.F. López Austin, Alfredo and Leonardo López Luján 1999 Mito y realidad en Zuyuá: Serpiente Emplumada y las transformaciones mesoamericanas del clásico al postclásico. Colegio de México/Fondo de Cultura Económica, México. Martin, Simon 2003 In the Line of the Founder: A View of Dynastic Politics at Tikal. In Tikal: Dynasties, Foreigners, and Affairs of State: Advancing Maya Archaeology, edited by Jeremy A. ­Sabloff, pp. 3–45. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe, NM. Matthew, Laura E., and Sergio F. Romero 2012 Nahuatl and Pipil in Colonial Guatemala: A Central American Counterpoint. Ethnohistory 59:765–783. Neff, Hector 2005 Orígenes y evolución de las tradiciones cerámicas del periodo clásico en la costa del Pacífico de Guatemala. In Iconografía y escritura Teotihuacana en la costa sur de Guatemala y Chiapas, edited by Oswaldo Chinchilla Mazariegos and Bárbara Arroyo. 1 24

Yearning for the Ancestors Escuintla, Guatemala. Journal of New World Archaeology 3(1):1–38. Stoll, Otto 1958 [1884] Etnografía de la república de Guatemala. Seminario de Integración Social Guatemalteca, Guatemala. Stuart, David and Stephen D. Houston 1994 Classic Maya Place Names. Studies in Pre-­ Columbian Art and Archaeology, No. 33. Dumbarton Oaks Library and Collections, Washington,D.C. Taube, Karl 1994 The Iconography of Toltec Period Chichén Itzá. In Hidden Among the Hills: Maya Archaeology of the Northwest Yucatán Peninsula, edited by Hanns J. Prem, pp. 212–246. Acta Mesoamericana, Vol. 7. Verlag von Flemming, Möckmühl, Germany. 1995 The Rainmakers: The Olmec and their Contribution to Mesoamerican Belief and Ritual. In The Olmec World: Ritual and Rulership, edited by Michael Coe, pp. 83–103. The Art Museum, Princeton University, Princeton, NJ.

2004 Flower Mountain: Concepts of Life, Beauty, and Paradise among the Classic Maya. Res: Anthropology and Aesthetics 45:69–98. 2005 Representaciones del paraíso en el arte cerámico del clásico temprano de ­Escuintla, Guatemala. In Iconografía y escritura teotihuacana en la costa sur de Guatemala y Chiapas, edited by Oswaldo Chinchilla Mazariegos and Bárbara Arroyo, pp. 35–54. U tz’ib, Serie Reportes, 1(5). Asociación Tikal, Guatemala. Thompson, J. Eric S. 1948 An Archaeological Reconnaissance in the Cotzumalguapa Region, Escuintla, Guatemala. Contributions to American Anthropology and History, No. 44. Carnegie Institution of Washington, Washington D.C. Zamora Acosta, Elías 1980 El control vertical de un máximo de pisos ecológicos: aplicación del modelo al occidente de Guatemala. In Economía y sociedad en los Andes y Mesoamérica, edited by José Alcina Franch, pp. 245–272. Universidad Complutense, Madrid.

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CHAPTER 7

Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco

[128.104.46.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-01 19:53 GMT) UW-Madison Libraries

Janine Gasco

Understanding the complex ways that identity is ascribed to and constructed by i­ndividuals and groups has long been an important yet contentious issue within anthropology and the social sciences in general. Historians, ethnohistorians, and archaeologists who pursue this issue for peoples of the past face an even more daunting task. Not only do we have to consider the multiple identities that any single individual might have, but we also must accurately discover appropriate signifiers of identity in documents or in the archaeological record. Within Mesoamerican studies, we have seen a growing interest in the issue of identity, regardless of whether the focus of study is contemporary peoples or historical populations (e.g., Berdan et al. 2008; Chance 1978; Hawkins 1984; Rice and Rice 2009; Stark 2008; Warren 2001). The study of identity can be approached in many ways, evidenced by the diverse papers in this volume. The approach taken here is to explore how linguistic patterns and changes in material culture may be linked to identity shifts in the Soconusco region (Figure 7.1) from the late fifteenth century to the early twentieth century. The linguistic history of the Soconusco region over the almost five centuries covered here is quite complex. Multiple indigenous languages were spoken from the Late Postclassic period to the early twentieth century, and it is almost certain that this pattern existed in earlier periods

as well (Love, this volume; Love 2007). The Soconusco region has long been recognized as an important corridor for the movement of goods and people (Chinchilla, this volume; García-­Des Lauriers and Love, this volume). In the case of people, groups from outside the region sometimes settled there, either temporarily or permanently. Since the Spanish invasion, the long-­term linguistic trend in the Soconusco region has been a shift from the use of multiple indigenous languages to Spanish. Today, the great majority of Soconusco’s residents speak Spanish and do not self identify as indigenous, nor do others identify them as such. In previous research, I have documented the disappearance of native-­ language speakers across the region and the growth of a Spanish-­speaking ladino population (Gasco 1991, 2006). In Chiapas and parts of Central America, the term ladino has come to refer to groups who are culturally nonindigenous (see Adams 1994; Field 1994; Warren 2001). Historically, however, the term was used in Spanish America to refer to indigenous individuals who spoke Spanish and were familiar with Spanish customs (Adorno 1994). Whereas today, indigenous populations and ladino populations are often characterized as polar opposites in terms of cultural identity, this was not the case in the past and may be greatly exaggerated even now (Gasco 2006; Warren 2001). 1 26

Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco

Figure 7.1. Map of the Soconusco region.

The research presented here is intended to help explain the broad, region-­wide linguistic trends noted above. It focuses in some detail on changes in the distribution and use of native languages in communities across the Soconusco from the Late Postclassic period to the early twentieth century. Shifting linguistic patterns, together with evidence regarding changes in material culture, provide us with clues about shifts in identities over the course of several centuries. Linguistic affiliation can be difficult to identify in the archaeological record, but because this study focuses on the Late Postclassic period to the early twentieth century, there are a number of documents that provide valuable i­ nformation. Most information regarding language use in Soconusco comes from travelers’ accounts, census documents, legal documents, and parish rec­ ords. Of course, these documents have their

own specific problems. Documentary evidence for language use is often incomplete. Unless the people providing the information spent extensive amounts of time in a community, they may have simply been unaware of which languages were spoken. Fortunately, evidence from numerous documents comes from individuals who lived in the area and presumably were aware of linguistic patterns in their communities. The Soconusco region occupies the coastal plain and piedmont of the modern state of Chiapas, Mexico. Until the late nineteenth century, a small portion of southwestern Guatemala was also included. It has been a natural corridor for the movement of peoples for millennia, conquered and colonized several times by groups who spoke multiple languages. Immigration, conquest, and colonization have all contributed to a host of changes across the region, ­including 1 27

Figure 7.2. Map of towns in the Soconusco region.

Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco linguistic patterns and material culture. It is worth noting that the linguistic situation in Soconusco historically was quite different from that in neighboring Guatemala. In large part, this is due to differences in the geophysical layout of the two regions and their proximity (or lack thereof) to neighboring highland Maya groups (Gasco 2001). People living on the Guatemalan coastal plain and piedmont had long-­ established ties with neighboring highland Maya groups, and issues linked to identity were often affected by these ties (Akkeren, Braswell, Chinchilla, this volume). In contrast, Soconusco residents did not have close historic ties with the much more distant highland Maya groups in the Chiapas highlands. The complexities of Soconusco’s linguistic landscape can be seen in the town-­by-town data for the period between the late sixteenth century and the early twentieth century (Tables 7.1–7.61 and Figure 7.2). The data are organized by parish, or partido — ​the ecclesiastical and administrative division within the province. The number of partidos varied somewhat throughout colonial history. Typically, partidos were named for the principal town in the partido, but this too changed over time. For much of the Colonial ­period, Soconusco was divided into six partidos. To organize the data, I use the name of the partido as it appeared in the late eighteenth century. The entire northwest half of the colonial Province of Soconusco was included in a single partido, the partido of Tonalá. This region is environmentally distinct from the southeastern half of the colonial province. It was sparsely populated (dubbed “Despoblado” early in the Colonial period) and had only three to five towns. The area receives much less rainfall than the one to the southeast, and cacao, which was the backbone of the economy in the southeast, could not be grown in the northwest (see Ortiz 2011). The town of Mapastepec, at the southeastern edge of the partido of Tonalá, was among the eight Soconusco towns conquered by the Aztecs. No mention is made in any of the Aztec documents of towns farther to the northwest. The Aztec “tributary province” of Xoconochco was made up of eight centers and their subject towns from Mapastepec to Ayutla (Mapastepec, 1 29

Acapetahua, Xoconochco, Huixtla, Huehuetán, Mazatan, Coyoacan, and Ayutla, Figure 7.2). The Spaniards may have created the colonial Province of Soconusco based on linguistic affinities rather than any existing political links between northwest and southeast. A 1586 report by Franciscan friar Alonso Ponce (1991 [1586]) noted that a “Zoque-­like” language was spoken in all towns from Tiltepeque (just to the northwest of the modern town of Tonalá) to Tilapa, a town that lies next to the Rio Tilapa in southwestern Guatemala. In the Late Postclassic period, throughout the Colonial period, and right up to the present, the bulk of the population in the region has lived from Mapastepec to the southeast. Late Postclassic to Early Colonial Periods

Based on evidence from early colonial documents, a general consensus among linguists and others is that at the end of the Late Postclassic period, at least four languages were spoken in Soconusco. A Mixe-­Zoque language (most closely linked to Mixe), called Tapachultec by linguists, was the native language, the “lengua materna,” of the entire Soconusco region. There were also pockets of people who spoke one of two Nahua languages: Pipil or “mexicana corrupta” was presumably introduced as part of a Nahua diaspora in the Epiclassic or Early Postclassic periods, and a variety of Nahuatl, “mexicana legitima,” which was most likely introduced as part of expansion into the region by central Mexican Nahuatl speakers in the Late Postclassic (Campbell 1988; Knab 1980; Thomas 1974). Archival documents show that a fourth language, Mam, a Maya language, was spoken in several communities in the foothills north of Huehuetán. Testimony from a 1599 legal document2 indicates that these communities had been founded before the arrival of Spaniards by Mam speakers who had migrated from the Cuilco region of Guatemala. It is not absolutely clear how these linguistic groups were dispersed across the Soconusco landscape. A 1576 report by García de Palacio (1983 [1576]) indicates that in Huehuetán — ​ which was by then the regional capital — ​Pipil or “mexicana corrupta” and the mother tongue,

?–1664

Postcl–pres

Postcl–pres ?–1726 ?–1778 Postcl–pres ?–1664 ?–1684

Apazapa

Ayutla

Coyoacán Chacalapa Chiltepec Nahuatlan Tilapan Tonalapa

1586 / Ponce

same same same same same same

otra Mam

Mexicana Mexicana

Postcl–pres

1788–pres Postcl–pres

Metapa Tapachula

Tuxtla Chico Postcl–pres

visited: “Zoque”

otra

Mam

??–pres ??–1684 ??–1617

Cacahuatan Copulco Ilamapa del Mar Mazatán

1656

Dates

1599

Mam Mam

1599

Town

1586 / Ponce

visited: “Zoque”

visited: “Zoque”

Mixed: Mam, Mixe-Zoque, ­Nahuatl, K’iche’? same visited: “Zoque”

1573

Table 7.2. Parish of Tapachula

Dates

Town

Table 7.1. Parish of Ayutla

Mam

Mexicana

Mexicana

Mam

1735

Mam

Mam Mam

Mam

1656

K’iche’, Teco, ­Chicomuseltec Mam, K’iche’, Teco, Chicomuseltec

Chicomuseltec

Mam, Sipacapense

18th c. padrones, lang. of immigrants

Mexicana and C ­ astellana, mezcla de indígenas con d ­ escendientes de africanos

1845 / Pineda

Mexicana, Castellano, mezcla de ­indígenas con descendientes de africanos Mexicano, Castellano Mam, Castellano, mezcla de ladinos con indígenas K’iche’, Castellano, mezcla de ladinos con indígenas

Mexicano, Castellano

1845 / Pineda

none mentioned

18th c. padrones, language of immigrants

Mexicana Mam

1735

K’iche’

Nahoa Mam

Nahoa

Nahoa

1925 / Espinosa

none mentioned

1925 / Espinosa

Dates

1565

?–1740 ?–1684 ?–1857 ?–1857 ?–pres

Nejapa Talibe Tepeguistin Tlacualoya Tuzantan

“Mexicana ­corrupta” (­Nahuat/Pipil)

1576/García de Palacio

Mam Mam

Mam

Mam

Mam

1599

1735

Mam Mexicana Mam Mexicana Mam Mexicana Chicomuseltec?* Mexicana

Chiapanec

Mam Mexicana

1656

Mam

Kaqchikel Mam, Chicomuseltec, Tzeltal, Coxoh

18th c. padrones, lang. of immigrants

?–1684 ?–1684 ?–1735 ?–1735 ?–1735 ?–1735 ?–pres ?–1735 1778–pres

Amastan Caguala Guilocingo Gueypetahua Mazapetahua Tianguistlán Tizapa Zapaluta Pueblo Nuevo**

visited: “Zoque”

1586/Ponce

Chicomuseltec?* Chicomuseltec?* Chicomuseltec?* Chicomuseltec?* Chicomuseltec?* Chicomuseltec?* Chicomuseltec?* Chicomuseltec?*

1656

Mexicana Mexicana Mexicana Mexicana Mexicana Mexicana

1735

* “como los de Comalapa”, but see Campbell (1988:228) who argues for Motocintlec. ** formerly Guilocingo

Dates

Town

Table 7.4. Parish of Tizapa

Chicomuseltec

Chicomuseltec

Nahoa

Nahoa

Nahoa

1925

Nahoa

Mexicana, indígenas

1925/Espinosa

Nahoa

Mexicana

Mexicana

Mexicana, Castellano, mezcla de indígenas con descendientes de africanos

1845/Pineda

Mexicana, indígenas

18th c. padrones, lang. of immigrants 1845/Pineda

Note: occasionally the towns of Cuilco, Tepehuistin, Tlacualoya, Ilamapa, and Nejapa constituted a separate parish. * como los de Comalapa, where Chicomuseltec was spoken, but see Campbell (1988:228) who argues for Motozintlec.

?–1857 Postcl–pres

Ilamapa Huixtla

Cuilco ?–1684 Huehuetán Postcl–pres Nahuatl, letter from town council

Town

Table 7.3. Parish of Huehuetán

Tuzanteco (closely related to Motozintlec; Campbell 1988)

Pipil & Nahuatl (Knab 1980)

1960s

Postcl–pres ?–1611 ?–pres

Postcl–1767 ?–1735 Postcl–1797 ?–1684 ?–1582

Acacoyagua

Acapetahua Cacaluta Escuintla

Ocelocalco San Lorenzo Soconusco Zacapulco Cececapa

indios muy ladinos indios muy castellanos

?–pres

visited:”Zoque”

visited:”Zoque”

Dates

Mexicana

otra

Mexicana

Mexicana

Mexicana

1735

Postcl–pres ?–pres

1735

Zoque otra otra otra

Zoque

otra

Zoque

1656

Mapastepec Pijijijiapan Quezalapa Tonalá Tiltepec

1586/Ponce

visited: “Zoque”

visited: “Zoque”

1586/Ponce

Town

Table 7.6. Parish of Tonalá

Dates

Postcl–pres

Town

Table 7.5. Parish of Escuintla

Castellana

Castellana Castellana

1845/Pineda

Mam, Tzotzil

Nahoa

Nahoa Nahoa

1925/Espinosa

Mam, K’iche, Chicomuseltec, Zoque, ­ Chiapanec, Tzeltal, ­Zapotec, Motozintlec, Kaqchikel

Mam, K’iche’, Chicomuseltec, Zoque, ­ Chiapanec

18th c. padrones, lang. of immigrants

Mexicana, Castellano, mezcla de ladinos con indígenas

Mexicana, indígenas

Mexicana, indígenas

1845/Pineda

Nahoa

Nahoa

Nahoa

1925/Espinosa

Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco “Vebetlateca,” were spoken. Vebetlateca, presumably named after the town of Huehuetán, is generally thought to refer to the Mixe-­Zoque language that is called Tapachultec by linguists. Curiously a decade later in 1586, Franciscan friar Alonso Ponce and his companions, who traveled through the province, noted only the presence of a “Zoque-­like” language in the eleven Soconusco towns they visited, including Huehuetán (Ponce 1991 [1586]). Ponce notes, however, that business across the Province was conducted in Nahuatl. The migration of Mam speakers into Soconusco apparently began shortly before the Spanish conquest, and, according to the documentary record, entirely new towns (Cuilco, Tlacoaloya, Tepeguis, Ilamapa, and Nexapa) were founded by these immigrants. Presumably, these towns were populated exclusively by Mam speakers (Figure 7.2). It seems, then, that by the end of the Late Postclassic period and into the Early Colonial period, Nahuatl had become if not a l­ingua franca across the entire region, at least the lingua franca of elites. We know that after the Aztecs conquered the Soconusco region in the late 1400s officials were posted to the province (Voorhies and Gasco 2004; Gasco and Voorhies 1989). Two high-­ranking military officials stationed in Soconusco are named in the Codex Mendoza: Omequauh (“Two Eagles”), who held the office of tezcacoacatl, and Acueyotl (“Wave”), who held the position of tlilancalqui (Berdan and Anawalt 1997:117, 135). It is possible that these individuals, their successors, or their descendants became the regional leaders under Spanish colonial rule. A 1530 document, one of the earliest colonial documents I have seen from Soconusco, mentions the names of the regional leaders who were making tribute payments to the Spanish Crown in 1530–31 for the entire region. These leaders all have Nahuatl names.3 The document specifically names Tlatuscalca,4 yndio gobernador de Soconusco and Huecamecatl, a principal. A few decades later, in the 1560s, several indigenous leaders with Nahuatl surnames wrote letters to the King of Spain in Nahuatl (Anderson et al. 1976; Gasco 2005). At least two of these officials

have surnames that are also terms for Aztec officials. Don Francisco Atenpaneca’s surname is a term for an Aztec military officer (Berdan and Anawalt 1997:125) and Melchoir Tepizqui’s surname (also spelled as Tlapizqui) is a term for a minor Aztec official. Throughout the mid-­to-late sixteenth century, several Nahuatl-­language documents from Soconusco exist in archives. To the best of my knowledge, there is not a single colonial docu­ ment written in Tapachultec. It is also worth ­noting that almost all the toponyms in the region are Nahuatl names. This phenomenon is common across Mesoamerica, and is generally attributed to the fact that Nahuatl-­speakers accompanied the Spaniards during the conquest and presumably were charged with naming places. Apart from a linguistic influence (principally in place names and written documents in the Colonial period), and perhaps a role for former Aztec officials in the early colonial government, there is little evidence in the archaeological record for the adoption of a Nahuatl identity across the Soconusco region. There is not even evidence of a strong Aztec presence in the Soconusco, in spite of the fact that Aztec officials lived in the region, and an Aztec military garrison was reportedly established near the town of Soconusco. Despite the occasional report of “Aztec” or “Mixtec” ceramics in Late Postclassic archaeological sites in Soconusco (see Navarrete 1996), the bi- and polychrome ceramics found at excavated Late Postclassic sites do not appear to have been produced in central Mexico or the Mixteca. The analysis of a small sample of Late Postclassic sherds using Laser Ablation Inductively Coupled Mass Spectrometry (LA-­ICPMS; Gasco et  al. 2006) and Instrumental Neutron Activation Analysis (INAA) (Holland et al. 2008) revealed that whereas highland Oaxaca and highland Guatemala may have been the sources for some bi- and polychrome pottery, none of the sherds studied come from central Mexico, nor do they appear to be of Mixtec origin. The archaeological data from Late Postclassic sites across the Soconusco demonstrate ­conclusively that the region was well-­integrated 1 33

Janine Gasco

Smith 2003) suggests the emergence of a pan-­ Mesoamerican identity in the Late Postclassic period. As a result, the presence in Soconusco of ceramics with iconography that is stylistically similar to ceramics from elsewhere in Mesoamerica, the occasional construction of double-­ peaked temples (Voorhies and Gasco 2004), and a vaguely Aztec-­like sculpture found recently at a Late Postclassic site near Tapachula (Figure 7.3) should not necessarily be interpreted as a product of the Aztec conquest of Soconusco or as evidence that local residents had adopted a Nahuatl identity. Instead these probably reflect the fact that people in Soconusco had adopted a wide range of what had become pan-­Mesoamerican symbols. Yet we have evidence that at least four linguistic groups lived in the Soconsuco in the Late Postclassic and Early Colonial periods. How would material culture reflect this? Would the average household in Huehuetán, which at least by the 1570s, may have been a rather cosmopolitan and multilingual town, have the same sorts of goods that a household would have had in a monolingual Mam town? In multilingual towns, were there internal divisions or barrios of different ethnolinguistic groups, and if so, would we be able to identify these divisions in the archaeological record? Did local elites in the Late Postclassic period adopt the trappings of central Mexican Nahuatl speakers? We know, for example, that the pochteca presented local elites in places like Soconusco with special cloaks that were gifts of the Mexica ruler (Voorhies 1989). On the other hand, were there some towns, far from the regional capital, where only Tapachultec was spoken, and if so, was the material culture of a typical family in these towns any different from that in the provincial capital or the Mam towns? Unfortunately, we do not yet have archaeological data that can answer these questions. Other evidence suggests that by the late sixteenth century, the linguistic situation was becoming more complex. High mortality rates of the local indigenous population led colonial officials to encourage indigenous people from elsewhere to migrate to the region to bolster the

Figure 7.3. Stelae from site near Tapachula.

into a pan-­ Mesoamerican economy (Gasco 2003; Voorhies and Gasco 2004). Soconusco residents had access to and used a wide range of goods — ​including ceramics, groundstone implements, obsidian tools, and jewelry — ​that either originated in distant locations or were stylistically similar to products that were popular across Mesoamerica. In fact, the widespread use across Mesoamerica of what are often referred to as “international” styles and symbols (Boone and 1 34

Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco labor force. In 1574, the governor of the province, Luis Ponce de León, urged the king of Spain to relocate Indians from outside the region to the Soconusco. He argued that bringing in an additional 4,000 immigrants would more than double the tribute the king could acquire from the region (Ponce de Léon 1961 [1574]). A 1573 report5 from the Parish of Ayutla, in the southeastern part of the province (Figure 7.2) indicates that by this date, communities in this part of Soconusco were already multilingual. This document includes lists made by the parish priest of every indigenous resident of the towns of Ayutla, Tonalapa, Chacalapa, Apatzapa, Chiltepec, Cuyoacan, Nahuatlan, and Tilapan. Approximately half of the residents of these towns have native surnames, including Nahuatl, Mam, Mixe-­Zoque, and possibly K’iche’ surnames (Lyle Campbell, personal communication, July 1981). It doesn’t seem unreasonable to infer that the presence of people with surnames from these languages indicates that they also spoke them. Curiously, two of these towns, Ayutla and Chiltepec, were among the towns visited by Ponce 13 years later in 1586. They were described as towns where a “Zoque-­like” language was spoken. Just a few years after, in 1599, the indigenous residents of Nahuatlan and Chiltepec complained that their priest said mass in “mexicano” and that he could not speak Mam, their native language.6 It seems likely that multilingualism was a growing phenomenon in colonial Soconusco, although we have also seen that at least four languages were spoken in Late Postclassic times. So how was this multilingualism reflected in the material culture of the region? The evidence suggests that by the late sixteenth century, Spanish observers who were casual visitors to the area apparently were unable to determine the linguistic identity of the indigenous residents. It is not terribly surprising that many Spaniards did not recognize different indigenous languages, although at least one of Ponce’s companions on the 1586 trip across Soconusco, Antonio de Ciudad Real, was considered an able linguist (Thomas 1974:29). But the confusion suggests that as early as the late sixteenth century, external markers of

linguistic identity were subtle at best and perhaps altogether absent. The fact that such observers were apparently unable to recognize that multiple languages were spoken in some towns — ​perhaps because they did not recognize the languages, but also because of an absence of ethnolinguistic markers — ​raises concerns about other reports that state that a single language was spoken in any given town. This is especially the case for those reports by travelers who only had fleeting contact with the indigenous residents of Soconusco towns. Travelers’ reports are certainly valuable resources, but to achieve a deeper understanding of many issues, it is generally necessary to carry out a great deal of archival research. P ­ arish records, legal documents, and a wide range of other documents reveal details about local issues that a casual observer is likely to miss. This seems to be the situation when it comes to identifying languages spoken in Soconusco towns in the Early Colonial period. Middle-­Late Colonial Periods By the mid-­seventeenth century, a report describes the presence of at least eight languages across Soconusco (Reyes 1961). According to this observer, the Ayutla parish was now entirely Mam-­speaking. In the parish of Tapachula, Mam was spoken in Tuxtla Chico and Cacahuatan while a second language, unnamed, was spoken in Tapachula, and a third unnamed language was spoken in Mazatán. In the Parish of Huehuetán, the towns of Cuilco, Nexapa, Tepeguistin, and Tlacualoya were described as Mam-­ speaking. Remember, these were the towns that reportedly had been settled in the Late Postclassic by immigrants from the Mam-­speaking region of the western Guatemalan highlands near Cuilco. Elsewhere in the Parish of Huehuetán, “mexicano” (Nahuatl) was spoken in Huehuetán and Talibe, and Chiapanec was spoken in Huixtla. Tuzantán, in the parish of Huehuetán, as well as all eight towns in the parish of Tizapa are described as speaking the language spoken in Comalapa — ​generally assumed to be ­Chicomuceltec (but see Campbell 1988:227, who argues that this refers to Motozintlec). Finally, in 1 35

Guilocingo Mazatepahua

Huehuetán Huixtla Ilamapa Tepeguis Tlacoaloya Tuzantán

Tapachula Tuxtla Chico Cacahuatan Mazatán Nahuatan

Tizpa

Huehuetán

Tapachula

1

1 59 2

1

1

1

6 4

Mam

1 4

2 2

K’iche’

1 2

Kaqchikel

1

Motozintlec

1

1

Tzeltal

1

Tzotzil

1

1

4 10

2

2 1

1 4

1

1

1 3

Teco (Tektitek) Chicomuceltec Sipakapense Coxoh Zoque

1 1

4

Chiapanec Zapotec

Home towns of immigrants and their linguistic affiliation. Mam: Colotenango, Chimaltenango, Chiquirichiapa, Coatepeque, Huehuetenango, Huitán, Ixtahuacán, Malacatan, San Gaspar (Ixchil?), San Pedro Nécta, San Pedro Sacatepequez, Tacana,   Tajumulco, Tutuapa K’iche’: Coyotenango, Quezaltenango, Samayaque, San Francisco (Zapotitlán?), San Pablo (Jocopilas?), San Antonio Retaluleu, Santa Catalina Retaluleu Kaqchikel: San Miguel Milpaduenas (Duenas), Solola Motozintlec: Motozintla (San Francisco de la Sierra) Tzeltal: Ocosingo, Soyatitán Tzotzil: Ciudad Real (Barrio de San Antonio) Teco/Tektitek: Cuilco Chicomuceltec: Chicomuselo, Comalapa, Yayahuite Sipakapense: Sicapaca Coxoh: Escuintenango Zoque: Ocosocuautla, Quechula, Teapa Chiapanec: Chiapa Zapotec: Ixtaltepeque, Tehuantepec Towns whose linguistic affilications are unknown: Chichiltenango, San Felipe de los Llanos, San Lucas, Tlatotepeque

Ayutla

Escuintla Acacoyagua Acapetahua Soconusco

Escuintla

Parish/partido Town

Table 7.7. Linguistic affiliation of immigrants to Soconusco, 1718–1765

Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco the parish of Escuintla, three towns (Acacoyagua, Escuintla, and Ocelocalco) are described as Zoque-­speaking. Other, unidentified languages were spoken in four other towns. An ecclesiastical report from 1735 lists the language spoken in Soconusco towns at that time. But the situation in many of these towns may have been more d ­ iverse. As we saw for the Early Colonial period, there is reason to be skeptical about reports that a single language was spoken in a given town. Table 7.7 summarizes data from several eighteenth century padrones (censuses) of Soconusco towns that list indigenous immigrants from 43 towns outside of the region where as many as 13 languages may have been spoken (see Gasco 1991).7 Here, as in the 1573 evidence from the partido of Ayutla mentioned above, I infer that an immigrant from a town with a well-­ established linguistic affiliation probably spoke that language — ​at least on arrival in Soconusco. For example, in five towns (Escuintla, Acacoyagua, Huixtla, Tapachula, and Tuxtla Chico), somewhere between four and eight languages may have been spoken just by immigrants. In some cases, these languages were in addition to the native language of the community. How was this linguistic diversity related to material culture? We saw a moment ago that even by the late sixteenth century, Spanish observers apparently were unable to identify people who belonged to different linguistic groups. So, did this blurring of the external markers of linguistic identity begin as early as the late sixteenth century and continue to the end of the Colonial period? Excavations at the colonial town of Ocelocalco uncovered a range of artifact classes that included indigenous as well as introduced items (Gasco 1987, 1989a). I have argued elsewhere (Gasco 1992) that most introduced items may simply have been replacements. For example, colonial lead-­glazed and majolica polychrome serving vessels replaced Postclassic polychrome vessels, metal cutting tools replaced obsidian cutting tools. Only horse-­related items represent a completely new set of activities. Ocelocalco was reportedly inhabited by Zoque-­speaking people 1 37

(presumably Tapachultec), but at least some town residents also spoke Nahuatl and Spanish. Ocelocalco was abandoned in the 1760s, so we cannot trace changes in material culture into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. However, the great majority of artifacts we found there, as well as the general design of the houses, were easily recognized by the contemporary farmers who made up my field crew. It is entirely possible that the average eighteenth-­century house in a small Soconusco town would have looked very much like the average late-­twentieth century house there. Like their ancestors, contemporary residents have readily replaced ceramic serving, cooking, and storage vessels with plastic or metal ones, but the uses have not changed. At the end of the Colonial period, the great majority of the population of the southeastern portion of Soconusco — ​that is, Soconusco proper — ​continued to be identified as indigenous. While the northwestern region had large populations of mulattos and blacks (Gasco 1989b; Ortiz 2011). Postcolonial Period In 1821, Mexico and Spain’s other New World colonies gained their independence. Soconusco refused to join either Mexico or the Central American Federation, but by 1842, Soconusco had been annexed to the Mexican state of Chiapas. As part of the effort to assess the resources, population, and status of the entire state, Emeterio Pineda was commissioned in 1845 to carry out a detailed survey (Pineda 1999 [1845]). In Ayutla, Pineda found a population that spoke both Mexicana and Castellano, and he describes them as a mix of indigenous and African descendants.8 In the partido of Tapachula, he describes Tapachula as populated by a mix of indigenous peoples and ladinos speaking Mam and Castellano. Tuxtla Chico also was a mix of indigenous and ladino, but here K’iche’ and Castellano were spoken. Mazatán’s population was a mix of indigenous and African descendants, and Mexicano and Castellano were spoken. He reports that in Cacahuatan and Metapa, Mexicano and Castellano were spoken, without commenting on the heritage of the population. In the

Janine Gasco

partido of Huehuetán, the town of Huehuetán is described as having a mixed population of indigenous residents and African descendants. Elsewhere, in both Huixtla and Tuzantán, he reports that only Mexicana was spoken. In the partido of Tizapa, the population was entirely indigenous for both Tizapa and Pueblo Nuevo (formerly Guilocingo), and only Mexicana was spoken. In the partido of Escuintla, Escuintla itself was populated by a mix of indigenous people and ladinos, while Acacoyagua and Acapetahua were completely indigenous and only Mexicana was spoken. People living in towns in the partido of Tonalá were all Spanish-­speaking. In 1925 a brief document lists the languages spoken across Chiapas as well as the towns where these languages were spoken (Espinosa 1988 [1925]). Espinosa reports that Mam was spoken in Tapachula, K’iche’ spoken in Tuxtla Chico, and Nahoa (Nahuatl) was spoken in the remaining Soconusco towns: Acacoyagua, Acapetahua, Cacaotan, Escuintla, Huehuetán, Huixtla, Mazatán, Metapa, Pueblo Nuevo, Tizapa, Tuzantán, Mapastepec, Pijijiapan, and Tonalá. No other information is provided, so we do not know whether Espinosa found such languages used widely in these places or if there were just remnant populations. Other evidence indicates that the last speakers of Tapachultec, the Mixe language thought to have been the native tongue of the region at the time of the Spanish invasion, died in the early twentieth century (Campbell 1988:305). In the 1970s Knab interviewed two elderly residents of Huehuetán who remembered some words of Nahuatl, “mexicano legítimo,” and Pipil, or “Walibi” as it was called locally (Knab 1980). Today, there is still some interest on the part of linguists in the language of Tuzantán, which is reported to be a variety of Motozintlec called Tuzanteco (Medina Hernández 1973; Schumann 1969).

pattern that continued well into the eighteenth century. Throughout the Colonial period, a rather constant stream of immigrants arrived in Soconusco, presumably to fill the void that resulted from the high population loss among the native Soconusqueños. In several instances, we also see the language(s) reported for a single town change through time (Tables 7.1–.7), and it is clear that in many towns multiple languages were spoken. Second, what seems to have happened in response to this multilingual situation is that by the end of the Colonial period most indigenous residents of Soconusco spoke Nahuatl, at least as a lingua franca. By sometime in the early-­to-mid-­twentieth-century, Spanish replaced native languages. We are now left with this fundamental question: to what extent did indigenous people in colonial or postcolonial Soconusco self-­identify as members of a distinct linguistic group, and how was this related to material culture? We know that eventually the indigenous population of colonial Soconusco became the ladino population of today (see Gasco 1991, 2006). This process of transformation began at least by the seventeenth century when individuals from across the Soconusco were described as “indios, ladinos en lengua castellana.” These people typically appeared in court cases where they were serving as translators. They are classified as indigenous, but they are bilingual or even trilingual. If we could follow these people home, would we find that their houses and belongings looked any different from their monolingual indigenous neighbors? Based on the available data, I am inclined to speculate that in Soconusco, indigenous people who came from a wide variety of linguistic backgrounds may have coped by becoming more like each other, adopting a common language: Nahuatl in the Colonial period and Spanish by the twentieth century. If this was the case for language, was it also the case for material culture and other cultural patterns? Identity and its material manifestations may have shifted fairly quickly from distinct ethnolinguistic identities to a common “colonial Indian” identity that crosscut any linguistic boundaries. Eventually this evolved into a more generic “campesino”

Conclusion The data presented here provide overwhelming evidence for two phenomena related to identity in Soconusco. First, since the Late Postclassic period (and perhaps earlier), multiple languages were spoken across the region, a 1 38

Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco identity (for a similar situation in the Peruvian Andes, see Salomon 2002). Immigration to Soconusco by indigenous people continues, and it seems likely that the

tendency for newcomers to eventually abandon their native language and perhaps other ethnolinguistic markers will also continue.

Notes 1. Sources for tables: 1573 see note 5 below; 1586 Ponce 1991 [1586]; 1599 see note 6 below; 1656 Reyes 1961; 1735 Archivo General de Indias, Audiencia de Guatemala 375, Informe de la Provincia de Soconusco; eighteenth-­century padrones, see note 7 below; 1845 Pineda 1999 [1845]; 1925 Espinosa 1988 [1925]. 2. Archivo General de Centroamerica, A3.16 351 4485 Autos de los indios de Cuilco. 3. Archivo General de Indias, Contaduría 657, Cuentas de Estrada, Primer tributo de Soconusco, 13 abril 1530–agosto 1531. 4. It is possible that this name was misspelled and should have been Tlacochcalcatl, in which case this would also have been a high-­ranking Aztec military official (Berdan and Anawalt 1997:135). 5. Archivo General de Indias, Escribanía de Cámara 371A, Capitulos sobre Alsonso Rodriguez Viscayno 1573. 6. Archivo Historico Diocesano de San Cristobal de las Casas, Asunotos parroquiales, Averiguación sobre el padre del partido de Tuxtla. 7. All padrones are from Archivo General de Centroamerica: 1729–1735: A3.16 358 4627 (­Ilamapa), A3.16 358 4626 (Tuzantán), A3.16 358 4625 (Huixtla), A3.16 358 4628 (Guilocingo), A3.16 359 4631 (Escuintla), A3.16 359 4629 (Acacoyagua), A3.16.367 4758 (Acapetahua), A3.16 359 4632 (Huehuetán), A3.16 359 4648 (Cacahuatan), A3.16 359 4045 (Mazatán), A3.16 359 4643 (Nahuatán), A3.16 359 4647 (Tlocoaloya), A3.16 359 4639 (Tapachula); 1750–1755: A3.16 361 4668 (Acacoyagua), A3.16 361 4669 (Cacahuatan), A3.16 361 4671 (Tuxtla Chico), A3.16 361 4672 (Mazatán), A3.16 361 4679 (Huixtla), A3.16 361 4680 (Tapachula), A3.16 361 4677 (Mapastepec); 1765: A3.16 300 4056 (Acacoyagua), A3.16 300 4051 (Cacahuatán), A3.16 1254 21758 (Escuintla), A3.16 290 3908 (Guilocingo), A3.16 300 4053 (Tapachula), A3.16 300 4055 (Nahuatán), A3.16 300 4052 (Tepeguis), A3.16 300 4054 (Tuxtla Chico). 8. References to the presence of Africans and their descendants in the southeastern Soconusco region are rare, but this report suggests it is an issue requiring additional attention.

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2005 Spanish Colonialism and Processes of Social Change in Mesoamerica. In The Archaeology of Colonial Encounters: Comparative Perspectives, edited by Gil J. Stein, pp. 69–108. School of American Research Press, Sante Fe, NM. 2006 Beyond the Indian/Ladino Dichotomy: Shifting Identities in Colonial and Contemporary Chiapas, Mexico. In New World, First Nations: First People of Mesoamerica and the Andes under Colonial Rule, edited by David Cahill and Blanca Tovías, pp. 115–143. Sussex Academic Press, Brighton, UK. Gasco, Janine and Barbara Voorhies 1989 The Ultimate Tribute: The Role of the Soconusco as an Aztec Tributary. In Ancient Trade and Tribute: Economies of the Soconusco Region of Mesoamerica, edited by Barbara Voorhies, pp. 48–94. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Gasco, Janine, Hector Neff, and Gloria Evins 2006 Postclassic and Colonial Ceramics in the Soconusco: Patterns of Production and Exchange. Paper presented at the 71st Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, San Juan, Puerto Rico. Hawkins, John 1984 Inverse Images: The Meaning of Culture, Ethnicity, and Family in Postcolonial Guatemala. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Holland, Karl, Janine Gasco, Hector Neff, and Michael D. Glascock 2008 Instrumental Neutron Activation Elemental Analysis of Postclassic and Historic Period Pottery from the Soconusco Region, Chiapas, Mexico. Paper Presented at the 73rd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Vancouver, BC. Knab, Tim 1980 Lenguas del Soconusco, Pipil y Nahuatl de Huehuetán. Estudios de Cultura Nahuatl 14:375–378 Love, Michael 2007 Recent Research in the Southern Highlands and Pacific Coast of Mesoamerica. Journal of Archaeological Research 15(4):275–328. Medina Hernández, Andrés 1973 Notas etnográficas sobre los Mames de Chiapas, Mexico. Anales de Antropología 10:141–220 Navarrete, Carlos 1996 Elementos arqueológicos de mexicanización 140

Linguistic Patterns, Material Culture, and Identity in Late Postclassic to Postcolonial Soconusco en las tierras altas mayas. In Temas Mesoamericanos, edited by Sonia Lombardo and Enrique Nalda, pp. 305–352. Colección Obra Diversa. Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia and Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, México, D.F. Ortiz Diaz, Edith Maria del Socorro 2011 El Soconusco y el despoblado: historia de la poblacion y de la economia de una provincia colonial. Ph.D. dissertation, El Colegio de Mexico, Centro de Estudios Historicos. Pineda, Emeterio 1999 [1845] Descripción geográfica del departamento de Chiapas y Soconusco. Colección Libros de Chiapas. Coneculta and Fondo de Cultura Económica, Tuxtla Gutiérrez. Ponce, Fray Alonso 1991 [1586] Viaje a Chiapas. Lecturas Chiapanecas, Vol. 4. Gobierno del Estado de Chiapas, Tuxtla Gutiérrez. Ponce de Léon, Luis 1961 [1574] Relación de la Provincia de Soconusco. Letter published as Appendix A. In La Victora: An Early Site on the Pacific Coast of Guatemala, edited by Michael D. Coe. Papers of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology 53. Harvard University, Cambridge, MA. Reyes, Luis 1961 Documentos Nahuas sobre el estado de ­Chiapas. In Los Mayas del sur y sus relaciones con las Nahuas Meridionales, VIII mesa redonda. pp. 167–194. Sociedad Mexicana de Antropología, México, D.F. Rice, Prudence M., and Don. S. Rice 2009 The Kowoj: Identity, Migration, and Geopolitics in Late Postclassic Petén, Guatemala. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Salomon, Frank 2002 Unethnic Ethnohistory: On Peruvian

­ easant Historiography and Ideas of P ­Autochthony. Ethnohistory 49(3):475–506. Schumann, Otto 1969 El Tuzanteco y su posición dentro de la familia mayanse. Anales del INAH, Epoca 7a, T.I:139–148. Stark, Barbara L. 2008 Archaeology and Ethnicity in Postclassic Mesoamerica. In Ethnic Identity in Nahua Mesoamerica: The View from Archaeology, Art History, Ethnohistory, and Contemporary Ethnography, edited by Frances Berdan, John K. Chance, Alan R. Sandstrom, and Barbara Stark, pp. 38–63. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Thomas, Norman D. 1974 The Linguistic, Geographic, and Demographic Position of the Zoque of Southern Mexico. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 36. New World Archaeological Foundation. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. Voorhies, Barbara 1989 Whither the King’s Traders? Reevaluating Fifteenth-­Century Xoconochco as a Port of Trade. In Ancient Trade and Tribute: Economies of the Soconusco Region of Mesoamerica, edited by Barbara Voorhies, pp. 21–47. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Voorhies, Barbara and Janine Gasco 2004 Postclassic Soconusco Society: The Late Prehistory of the Coast of Chiapas, Mexico. Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, State University of New York, Albany. Warren, Kay B. 2001 Introduction: Rethinking Bi-­Polar Constructions of Ethnicity. Journal of Latin American Anthropology 6(2):90–105.

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CHAPTER 8

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa Origin of Postclassic Confederations on the Pacific Coast Ruud van Akkeren

“The Maya of the Guatemalan Highlands are not Maya but Mexicans!” is a phrase that is often heard in Guatemala. Ethnicity may not be an easy term to grasp (Braswell, this volume), but language is one of the strongest indications by which it is defined. The indigenous people of Guatemala speak Maya languages and therefore should be considered Maya. If they were Mexicans, they would have spoken a Mexican language, like the sixteenth-­century Nahua who lived on the Pacific coast of Escuintla. Still, the idea does not come out of the blue but springs from the writings that the sixteenth-­ century highland Maya produced after they became familiar with the Spanish alphabet. The authors in texts such as the Popol Wuj, Título de Totonicapán, Memorial de Sololá, Rabinal Achi, or Título de Yax use a discourse of power that seems partly drawn from a central-­Mexican cosmology. This discourse includes the birth from Seven Caves; the visit to Tollan where founding fathers are officially installed as lords to receive the symbols of power and tutelary gods; the migration toward their final destination; and a life of hardship like Chichimecs. In their social organization, the highland Maya borrowed from central Mexico and even used such Nahua terms as chinamit to describe them. In their architecture and expressions of art, we also find this foreign presence. In short, there is little doubt

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that highland Maya demonstrate Mexican influences, using the term “Mexican” here in its widest sense: the area that we consider Mexican soil today. Since the first serious attempts to reconstruct the history of the highland Maya of Guatemala, scholars have located these Mexican origins at the Gulf coast (Carmack 1981; Fox 1987). In this view Maya groups such as K’iche’, Kaqchikel, or Tz’utujil migrated along the Usumacinta corridor into the highlands. To me, it was always hard to accept that we should look to the Gulf coast for Mexican influences, when they were practically around the corner, on the Pacific coast. Recent research has shown that the Pacific coast is a much better place to look for our Mexican influences (Braswell 2001, 2002; Brown 1985; López Austin and López Luján 1999; Navarette 1996). In my own investigation, I have come to similar conclusions. The Postclassic confederations like K’iche’, Kaqchikel, or Tz’utujil, never migrated as a group; they only came into being in the Guatemalan highlands. These alliances were the result of movements and migrations at the end of the Late Classic and beginning of the Postclassic. They are, in fact, a blend of three groups: Pacific coast people, highland Maya and Petén Maya (Akkeren 2000, 2002a, 2002b, 2003, 2005, 2006b, 2008, 2009, 2012).

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa Lineage History I have called the methodology that led to these insights a “lineage-­history,” similar to the approach used by central-­Mexican scholars such as Pedro Carrasco (1971), Rudolf van Zantwijk (1977), Nigel Davies (1977), Paul Kirchhoff et al. (1989), or Ursula Dyckerhoff (2002/2003). The Mesoamerican “lineage” is more complex than a simple story of patrilineal descent. Matrilineal lines were at least as important, and for high nobility both lines of descent were taken into account. Apart from consanguinity, there was also a territorial aspect in play: one could become member of a lineage by living, working on, and feeding oneself off the same land. Hence, the Mesoamerican lineage is certainly not only described through kinship. If it were not for the convolution of the expressions, it would be better to use indigenous terms: in Nahuatl there is tlacamecayotl which refers to a line of descent, literally translated by Carrasco as “human rope”; in K’iche’ we have alaxik, matrilineal line of descent, and k’ajolaxik, patrilineal line of descent (Carrasco 1971: 364; Coto 1983 [1656]:93, 462; van Zantwijk 1977:157). In short, in a Mesoamerican context we should define “lineage” as a social group that is bound either by consanguinity through patrilineal and/or matrilineal lines of descent and/or by the use of the same communal lands. Lineages never operated alone but in clusters that in highland texts are called chinamit. In my opinion, we learn more about the historical dynamics in the highlands when we move from confederation down to the lineage-­level. Highland Maya present themselves at this level, and documents are written from the point of view of the lineage or chinamit. In fact, the chinamit is the nucleus of Postclassic social-­political organization. It is reflected in the settlement pattern where every plaza represents a chinamit. Every lineage belonging to the ­chinamit had its longhouse on the plaza, and by counting the longhouses, one captures at once the ­number of lineages integrating the chinamit (Figure 8.1). These longhouses were called nimja, ­literally “big” or “long house,” though nimja is

sometimes also used as the term for “lineage.” It is a literal translation of the Nahuatl calpulli, which also means “big house” (Akkeren 2006a; ­Carrasco 1971:364; Siméon 1992:62;). The dominating lineage within the chinamit had the biggest longhouse on the plaza, and often gave its name to the chinamit. Hence, the chinamit was a corporate group that administrated and distributed its lands among its members. It originated when a dominating lineage sought to surround itself with other lineages to enhance its control over power and resources. Thus, the ruling Kaweq chinamit in the K’iche’ capital Q’umarkaaj, consisted of nine lineages, among them the Kaweq themselves who occupied the supreme political positions of ajpop and ajpop k’amja. It further included the lineages in charge of the religious cults, the Ajtojil and Ajq’uq’kumats, the lineages of the priest of the Tojil cult, Toj, and the Feathered Serpent cult. It also comprised a lineage of historians, Nim Ch’okoj, a lineage that served as tribute-­ collectors, Kejnay, and a lineage of ballplayers, Tepew. One would miss a lineage of merchants, but then the Kaweq themselves were a mercantile lineage (Akkeren 2000, 2003, 2012). Merchant Cosmology and Ideology

Returning to the Mexican influences that originated on the Pacific coast, they were the outcome of mercantile activities, followed by colonizing practices of Mexican lineages in that area (Bove and Medrano 2003). Our best information on the activities and organization of central-­Mexican merchants comes from Aztec society (Dibble and Anderson 1959). Van Zantwijk (1977:119–128) has compared its mercantile institutions with European guilds. There were two complementary guilds: Pochteca and Oztomeca. The Pochteca, apart from being long-­ distance merchants, were back home in charge of the internal domain, including religious activities in the main temple in Tenochtitlan. Their patron god was Yacatecuhtli. The second, the Oztomeca, were in charge of the external domain. Aside from being merchants, they were

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Figure 8.1. Plaza A, Kawinal, a Postclassic plaza with longhouses, together forming a chinamit

(­redrawn with modifications after Ichon et al. 1980).

also soldiers and spies and protected the long-­ distance caravans of merchants on their trips into new areas. The Oztomeca titular deity was Nacxitl. Both the Pochteca and Oztomeca had their individual gods, but the all-­embracing merchant deity was Xiuhteuctli, Lord of Fire, also called Ixcozauhqui, Yellow Face, and Huehueteotl, Old God. In Tenochtitlan both guilds had a joint temple-­pyramid for this god in the northwestern quarter of the city. The lineage in charge of this shrine was Tzonmolco, a highly esteemed calpulli. The sanctuary grounds housed, for instance, one of the seven nobility schools, or calmecac, and it was the place where the ashes of the deceased Aztec huey tlatoani were buried. The priest of the temple was also the priest who drilled the New Fire, every 52 years (Akkeren n.d.d; van Zantwijk 1977:123). 14 4

In a time without other means of communication, the long-­distance merchant was one of the few sources of news. The diffusion of ideas, styles, and religious doctrines in Mesoamerica was carried out along the network of international markets and trade routes. John Pohl, in his discussion of the spread of the Puebla-­Cholula style, points to the distributing role of the merchants. He refers to a study of anthropologist Eric Wolf that shows how Islam was spread throughout the Near East and North Africa by a class of merchants and through a series of internationally related markets (Pohl 2000:169–172). Similar processes were at work in Mesoamerica. López Austin and López Luján (1999:162) argue that the spread of the Feathered Serpent cult rode the lines of trade. With the invasion of the Spanish and the introduction of a new religion, this mechanism

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa remained functional. Motolinia relates that Christianised merchants were instrumental in spreading the doctrine to places where friars had not yet arrived.

the Xib’alb’a myth, which is perhaps the most idiosyncratic expression we have of this new mercantile ideology. The setting of this ideology is the underworld, home to the merchant deities. The heroes of both paradigms are merged in the personage of Jun Ajpu. Indeed, in the Xib’alb’a epic Jun Ajpu dies two times: first as the Maize Hero, decapitated in the House of the Killer Bats, after which his head is placed in the ballcourt to serve as the ball next day; second, as the Sun Hero, when he dies incinerated with his twin brother in the oven of Xib’alb’a, which eventually leads to his rebirth as the sun of the new era. I further conclude in the book that the chief Lord of Xib’alb’a, God L, “he who lights and guards the sacred oven,” was the equivalent of Xiuhteuctli. As various scholars have shown, God L is a god of calendrical transitions (Eberl and Prager 2005; Grofe 2009; Gronemeyer and Macleod 2010). Just like his central Mexican counterpart, Xiuhteuctli, patron of the last trecena, the last month, and the close of the Calendar Round. There is a reason for that. He is not just the Lord of Fire; he is fire. In his body of flames — ​the terrestrial fire — ​the new, celestial fire is born, that is, the sun. Hence, the Lord of Fire is often depicted together with the Sun Hero, representing two complementary generations: the old generation that supplies the requirements for the birth of the new generation (Akkeren 2012:​ 163–167). The New Fire ceremony at the end of the 52-­ year period was a moment that was conceived as the beginning of a new era, ­generating myths like those of the birth of the sun, as Sahagún (1982) and Motolinia (1970) assert, along with many modern scholars (e.g. Limón Olvera 2001:​161–163,167). As is well known, the central-­ Mexican myth of the origin of the sun, related in the Leyenda de los Soles or the Florentine Codex, situates his birth in the divine oven (teotexcalli) of Teotihuacán, and the Sun Hero was called Nanahuatzin (Dibble and Anderson 1953; Tena 2002). Elsewhere, I describe this mercantile ideology at work at the end of the Classic (Akkeren 2012).

En los primeros años que administró el bautismo, muchos de estos mercaderes bautizados que iban entre otros indios lejos á do no había llegado la palabra de Dios, ellos llevaban sus imágenes, y en sus casas que tienen los mercaderes por toda la tierra á su parte comenzaron á poner la doctrina cristiana y á enseñar á muchos por ejemplo y por palabra (Motolinia 1970:179). Yet, what is fascinating about merchants in Mesoamerica is that they were not only responsible for the spread of religious doctrines, but they formed an intrinsic part of the doctrine they endorsed, as I describe elsewhere (Akkeren 2012). In short, the main argument is that at the end of the Classic a new mercantile elite arose on the Gulf coast of Mexico–Tabasco and Campeche. Its members were a mix of Maya, Olmec-­Xicalanca and Nonoalca lineages, and descendants of Teotihuacán. This elite developed a mercantile ideology that synthesized two mythological corpuses or paradigms and their accompanying ritual expressions, summarized in the terms “Tullan,” a Teotihuacán heritage, and “Tzuywa,” which might date back to Olmec times (Akkeren 2006b). The protagonist of the Tullan paradigm was the Sun Hero whose central rite was the New Fire. The protagonist of the Tzuywa paradigm was the Maize Hero, and its ritual expression was the ballgame.1 Carriers of this new ideology — ​aptly called Tullan-­Tzuywa in the Popol Wuj — ​changed the traditional trade routes and established new centers, which a hundred years later caused the end of Classic Maya culture. The foremost city of that ideology was Chichén Itzá. Among its founders was the Kanek’ lineage. They were salt traders and owners of Salinas de los Nueve Cerros, located in the area that Maya historically and geographically identified as Xib’alb’a. I propose that Kanek’ were the ancestors of the Kaweq lineage, authors of the Popol Wuj and 145

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a

b

c

Figure 8.2. Xiuhteuctli as supreme patron god of merchants: (a) ceramic bowl from Grave 11, Las C ­ olinas (photo by van Akkeren); (b) detail of base of vessel; (c) drawing of relief on vessel wall (redrawn with ­modifications after Linné 1942, Fig. 128).

Yet apparently, the central-­Mexican o ­ rganization of merchant guilds was older. There is little doubt that Pochteca and Oztomeca at least go back to Tula times (Chimalpáhin 2003, tomo I:117; Davies 1977:282–285; Dyckerhoff 2002/​ 2003:​182). But Teotihuacán iconography illustrates that Xiuhteuctli was already one of the main titular merchant gods in this metropolis (Figure 8.2).2 I further suggest that the famous Teotihuacán lord, Spearthrower Owl, father of Yax Nuun Ayin, the central-­Mexican prince who arrived in 378 CE in Tikal to become the next successor in its dynasty, was in fact the supreme priest of the Xiuhteuctli cult. I have elaborated this idea in an article in which I argue that the 146

arrival of Teotihuacán in the northern Petén was foremost a mercantile activity (Akkeren n.d.d). Archaeology has shown that contemporary to the entrada of Teotihuacán in Tikal — ​ the Fourth Century — ​Teotihuacán merchants also arrived on the Pacific coast. Here they not only traded with local polities but also prepared the way to found entire Teotihuacán colonies on the lower coast (Bove and Medrano 2003; García-­Des Lauriers 2005, this volume). The arrival of Teotihuacanos on the Pacific Coast is particularly interesting for our understanding of the aforementioned Mexican influences in Postclassic confederations. Knowing that the central-­Mexican Lord of Fire, Xiuhteuctli, was

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa their titular god, it is worth noting that the three main Postclassic K’iche’ deities, Tojil, Awilix, and Q’aq’awits, are all variants of the same Lord of Fire.

were believed linked with increasing factionalism in the Terminal Classic concurrent with a dramatic trend toward decentralization and severe depopulation by the Early ­Postclassic. The only conclusion was that by about AD 850–​900 there were not only an elite cultural collapse but also a massive depopu­lation shortly thereafter as we were unable to securely identify Early Postclassic sites.3 (Bove 2002:14)

Classic Culture Collapse on the Pacific Coast

But why did people leave the Pacific coast to become part of new polities in the highlands? The end of the Classic was a turbulent time, politically, demographically, and climatologically. As noted, the Postclassic confederations are precisely the outcome of migrations resulting from these turbulences. They were shaped from three Classic groups of peoples: Classic Maya lineages from the northern Lowlands, Classic Maya and Mexican lineages from the Pacific coast, and Classic Maya lineages that had always dwelled in the Highlands. The Kaweq chinamit, previously described, is a fine example of this model. A historical analysis of the origin of its lineages has shown them, to be a mix of Petén lineages Kaweq, Chituy, and Kejnay, and Maya-­Mexican lineages from the coast, such as the Ajtojil, Ajq’uq’kumats, and probably also the Nim Ch’okoj and Tepew (Akkeren 2000, 2003, 2012). The descendants of Classic highland Maya mostly ended up as lineages in the less powerful branches of the K’iche’, that is, the Tamub’ and Ilokab’. The collapse of the Classic lowland Maya has been extensively studied, but it is less known that polities on the Pacific coast suffered a similar decline. Since Edwin Shook’s investigations, archaeologists have had trouble defining the Early Postclassic on the lower coast. As Shook (1965) stated, “There is no certain record to date of an Early Postclassic site in the 0–300 m elevation zone of the South Coast.” Fred Bove (2002:14), describes the Late Classic situation on the Pacific coast:

For some time, archaeologists thought they simply were unable to define the Early Postclassic ceramics (Love 2007:302–303). It was Hector Neff who, through paleoenvironmental analysis, asserted that scholars could not find Early Postclassic ceramics because there weren’t any: the Pacific coast had been struck by a severe drought lasting some four centuries, causing complete depopulation of the lower coast and substantial decline in the Bocacosta (Neff et al. 2006, this volume). Neff ’s research was corroborated by findings from the Yucatán area, droughts that caused the collapse of the Classic lowland Maya. Apparently, the climatic phenomenon covered the entire central American and Caribbean area. In the words of Neff et al., Una variedad de evidencia paleo climatológica se ha acumulado recientemente, y toda esta evidencia indica que la zona tropical del Nuevo Mundo sufría periodos de sequía entre 800 DC y 1400 DC. Específicamente, la Costa Sur de Guatemala sufría condiciones relativamente secas y variables entre 900 DC y 1300 ó 1400 DC, lo cual corresponde bien con la época de abandono indicado por la evidencia arqueológica. (Neff et al. 2006:​153) Postclassic Polities Recolonizing the Coast

The climatic deterioration of the coast led to its abandonment and migration to the adjacent highlands. In the model that I propose, the Postclassic confederations represent a reordering of these Classic polities of the Pacific coast in that new environment. However, other Maya had lived in these highlands for centuries, and they

The results of the earlier Texas-­Montana and Cotzumalhuapa projects supported an existing belief in a widespread social and demographic collapse that terminated at the beginning of the traditional Early Postclassic period (ca. AD 900). . . . These processes 147

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Figure 8.3. Migrations of lineages from the Pacific coast to the highlands. Satellite imagery from NASA, the National Imagery and Mapping Agency of the U.S. Department of Defense, and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, http://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/catalog/PIA03364), accessed Jan. 4, 2015.

also received an influx of Maya lineages after the collapse of the lowlands to the north. The foundation of these confederations begins in the tenth and eleventh centuries, probably after a century of relocation and disorder (Figure 8.3). Remarkably, there is good evidence to believe that Classic ruling lineages from the coast were assuming similar positions in Postclassic confederations, which is shown by this study as well. Thus, in the proposed tripartite origin of the Postclassic confederations, we may give supremacy to the Mexican-­Maya lineages from the Pacific coast. Yet the dynamics between coast and highland do not stop there. It is well known that the Pacific coast is one of the richest and most productive areas of Guatemala. Even in modern times, money is made on the coast! This was

no different in Prehispanic times, when it was marked by the presence of many plantations of cacao, pataxte, cotton, vanilla, indigo, common products like corn (two times a year), chile, beans, and a wide variety of fruits (Feldman 1985; Orellana 1995). It is no coincidence that the Pacific coast harbors the first traces of urbanization — ​labeled by Love (2011) the “Southern City-­State Culture”  — ​because very early in history people took advantage of its fertile conditions and relatively easy trade access (Love 2007, this volume). Thus, as soon as the coast became habitable again in the fourteenth century (Neff et al. 2006), the Postclassic confederations sent their colonists back to control these highly profitable lands. In colonial terminology, these settlements are called sujetos or estancias, a policy that con148

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa

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tinued well into colonial times (Gallini 2009; Zamora Acosta 1985:331). The colonization of the coast during the Late Postclassic is documented by many indigenous and Spanish manuscripts: Popol Wuj; Memorial de Sololá; Título de Totonicapán; Título de Santa Clara de Laguna; and the Relación geográfica of several sujetos tz’utujiles — ​ San Andrés, San Francisco, Santa Barbara. This interdependence or complementariedad de sistemas agrarias, as Gallini has named it, requires more investigation. There are indications that a complementary relationship was already present during the Classic, albeit in an inverted form, that is, the adjacent highlands were dominated from the more powerful ­polities on the Pacific coast (Chinchilla et al. 2005; Popenoe de Hatch 2005; Robinson et al. 1998). An example, seemingly, is Cotzumalhuapa and its quest to control the obsidian sources of San Martin Jilotepeque (Braswell and Garnica 1994). In a book I am preparing on the ethnohistory of the Pacific coast, I am elaborating these relationships. I will make the point that among others, the later, Postclassic, ruling lineages of San Martin and Chimaltenango, in this case Aqajal and Xpantzay, were part of the oligarchy of Cotzu­ malhuapa.

of Escuintla based on colonial documents and suggested that they may have been estancias of Esquintepeque and Cotzumalhuapa (Akkeren 2006a). This proposal coincides with the findings of Bove and his colleagues (Bove et al, 2006, 2012). Love (2007:304) summarized the findings: The Pipil presence on the Guatemalan coast dates late in the Postclassic period and four radiocarbon dates place it after AD 1300. The migration was large in scale, resulting in the very rapid population of the coastal plain in a great number of sites. The scale of immigration suggests that whole communities brought with them a pre-­existing social order with a well-­defined social hierarchy.

Pipil Sites in Escuintla: Colonies of Esquintepeque and Cotzumalhuapa

Given this model, it is convenient to present an idea that emerged when I worked with Bove and Genovez in the Pipil Project in the Escuintla area at sites such as Costa Rica, Las Playas, La Gomera, Carolina, and Yolanda (Akkeren n.d.b). Archaeology shows that the Pipil occupation is very shallow, or as Love (2007:304) puts it the “cultural deposits lie entirely within the plow zone.” However, a Late Postclassic Pipil migration is a problem. How can one explain the presence of a group of Pipil, presumably of central-­ Mexican or Gulf coast origin? How could they have migrated along a coastal area that was occupied by many other polities (Akkeren 2005, 2009, n.d.c; Gasco 2002)? During the project, I mapped and outlined the Pipil communities 149

The rapidity of the migration, with colonists bringing a “pre-­existing social order,” may well be explained by the estancias-­policy of the political centers in the contiguous highlands and Bocacosta. The Pipil sites reveal a material culture that is a mix of “foreign” — ​which should be the material culture of Postclassic Cotzumalhuapa and Esquintepeque that we still do not know very well — ​and artifacts from the Kaqchikel highlands, such as Chinautla polychrome (Bove et al. 2012). Furthermore, the estancia model correlates with linguistic findings, namely, the analysis of Pipil texts from the Escuintla area. Sergio Romero (2014) explains that the Pipil variant of these texts is an archaic form of Central Nahuatl, not a Gulf coast Nahuatl like the Pipil variant of Izalco. A hypothesis that these Nahuatl speakers go back to the Middle Classic and were descendants of the Teotihuacán colonies on the lower coast is, according to Romero, not inconceivable. This opinion has been ventured by other investigators as well. Sería aventurado ofrecer una respuesta en este punto, pero no podemos descartar la idea de que la población nahua de la costa sur de Guatemala haya tenido su origen desde el Clásico medio. (Chinchilla et  al. 2009:​466)

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Figure 8.4. Postclassic center of Rabinal, Kaqyuq, Group A (redrawn with modifications after Smith, 1955, Fig. 99).

In this context, it is worth recalling that Bove and his team found that in Escuintla many Classic period structures in the nuclear centers were reoccupied during the Late Postclassic. As an example, the Pipil site of Carolina consists of 95 structures; 30 of them were reoccupied mounds (Bove et al. 2012). This observation concurs with my own ethnographic findings. The Tz’utijil estancias on the coast, San Andrés, San Francisco, Santa Barbara, for example, were located in the area that during the Classic belonged to the Miahuatlán polity. Classic Miahuatlán provided various elite lineages for the Postclassic Tz’utujil polity. It is no coincidence that miahuatlán, “place of the maize flower,” is the Nahuatl cognate of the term tz’utujil, “maize flower” (Akkeren 2005, 2014a, 2014b, n.d.b).

Classic coastal people completely disappeared. We find a similar lack of a sense of historical continuity among archaeologists of the northern Maya lowlands. As stated, from my first attempts to reconstruct the origin of the Postclassic confederations, I have always considered the Classic Pacific coast a pool for later Postclassic ruling lineages (Akkeren 2000, 2002a). Thus, for the remainder of this chapter, I provide an example of this continuity by examining an important Postclassic lineage with coastal roots: the Toj lineage. The Toj ruled Late Postclassic Rabinal. The first lord baptized by the Dominican friar Bartolomé de las Casas, took the Christian name of don Gaspar Toj (Brasseur 1946:71). He lived in the Prehispanic city Kaqyuq,4 Red Hill, a site overlooking the actual town of Rabinal. The Toj are very likely the authors of the well-­known Maya dance-­drama Rabinal Achi (Akkeren 2000). The drama is usually said to concern a conflict between Rabinal and the K’iche’ of Q’umarkaaj, but it is actually a conflict between two ruling lineages: Toj, represented in the drama by Lord Job’ Toj or 5 Toj, and Kaweq, the ruling K’iche’ lineage in Q’umarkaaj (Figure 8.4; Akkeren 2000, 2011). As I have proposed, the Toj introduced the Tojil cult into the highlands of Guatemala

Ethnohistoric Sources: Toj and Tojil

The proposed model on the origin of Postclassic confederations allows for indigenous documents to be used in the reconstruction of Classic poli­ ties and cultures on the Pacific coast. It is necessary to stress this point, because, apart from a few exceptions, the work of archaeologists studying the Pacific coast has a shortcoming: it fails to take into account the wealth of texts from Postclassic neighbors in the highlands. It is as if 1 50

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa (Akkeren 2000:176–84, 2002b, 2005, 2008). The term is derived from the stem /toj/ which in many Maya languages means “to pay”: “pay your debt,” “pay your tribute,” “pay for your sins.”5 When in modern calendar rituals the day Toj shows up, it means one has to make up for missed duties, or one has to pay one’s debts (Sam Colop 2008:141, n.225; Tedlock 1992:115). Tojil is a god of recompense, justice and sacrifice, besides other qualities to which we come now. Toj is one of the 20 day-­signs, day number nine when starting with Imox. Its equivalent in Mexican calendars is the day Atl. Atl is duly translated as “water,” but its essence evokes a more symbolic meaning. According to Eduard Seler (1963 I:90) it refers to teoatl, “divine liquid,” atl-­tlachinolli, “water and fire,” that is, “war” and chalchiuhatl, “precious water,” which is the blood of human sacrifice. The patron god of the day Atl was Xiuhteuctli, Lord of Fire. This coincides with one of Tojil’s mayor roles, fire-­making, as we may read in the Popol Wuj:

endar of 260 days, merchants came to the temple of Tzonmolco to offer goods, throwing copal and paper covered with pieces of jade and feathers into the fire. This ceremony was called nextlahualli, or payment (van Zantwijk 1977:137–39). Tojil: Lord of Fire and Volcano Tojil’s affiliation with Xiuhteuctli has more support. Tojil, introduced into the highlands by the Toj, was also the tutelary god of the ­ruling Kaweq chinamit. The Popol Wuj mentions three tutelary gods representing the three main chinamit inhabiting the capital Q’umarkaaj: Tojil, Awilix, and Q’aq’awits. According to the indigenous authors, these patron deities were different names for the same god, an idea sustained by other K’iche’ documents.7 Q’aq’awits is the patron of the lineage called Ajaw K’iche’ or K’iche’ Lord. Despite claims by the authors of the Popol Wuj, it was the lineage of the Ajaw K’iche’ who engendered the historical founders of the K’iche’ confederation. Its ancestral forefather carries the same name in the documents, Majukotaj-­Q’aq’awits. The name is not K’iche’ but very likely Mam, as I have argued earlier (Akkeren 2000:173–74, 2002a, 2002b). It means “fire mountain” or “volcano.” We learn about his nature from a passage in the Memorial de Sololá (Recinos 1980) where Q’aq’awits dives into the Santa Maria volcano near Quetzaltenango — ​a Mam area at the time — ​ and after quenching the fire brings back a white flint knife called saqchoq in this Kaqchikel document. In the Popol Wuj the instrument is called saqitoq “white flint,” the sacrificial knife used, for example, by the lords of Xib’alb’a.

ta xepe chila tullan Tzuywa (then they came to Tullan, Tzuywa,) wuqub’ pek, wuqub’ siwan (Seven Caves, Seven Canyons,) ch’a chupam ojer tzij (it is said in the traditions) tzatz chub’inik xopon chi tullan (that they had walked a lot to arrive in Tullan) ma k’u jab’i q’aq’ (and they did not have fire yet,) xa ki e k’o ri tojil (except for those who were with Tojil) are k’u ri uk’ab’awil amaq’ (because the nation of that god) nab’e xwinaqir uq’aq’ (was the first to create its fire.) [Popol Wuj, Ayer MS 1515:folio 36r]6 Tojil is a god of fire. In return for providing this blessing, he demands blood- and heart-­ sacrifice. His name Tojil, “payment,” may have had a central-­Mexican origin. As we saw, the chief merchant sanctuary of Xiuhteuctli was part of the territory of the calpulli Tzonmolco. On certain days, dictated by the tonalpoalli or Cal1 51

Tojil as Sacrificial Knife This brings us back to Rabinal, the Toj, and the Rabinal Achi. The dance-­drama is annually performed in honor of its patron saint, San Pablo, or Saint Paul. During my fieldwork in Rabinal, I discovered that the cloak of the Saint Paul was covered with Mexican atl signs: Tojil had transformed into Saint Paul. One of the reasons for this syncretism was Saint Paul’s sword (Figure 8.5). The discoverer of the Popol Wuj, friar Francisco Ximénez, who lived for ten years in

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a

b

Figure 8.5. Front and back views of a figure of San Pablo, patron saint of Rabinal. Note sword in 5a and atl

signs on his cloak in 5b (photos by van Akkeren).

Rabinal, reports that in his days the saint was known as 1 Tijax, 1 Flint Knife (Akkeren 2000). Here we are encountering a more gruesome aspect of Tojil, as a god representing a sacrificial knife. In the Memorial de Sololá the Kaqchikel called him 9 Toj 1 Tijax and explain the term refers to a sacrificial knife. In the text of the Rabinal Achi, Tojil is referred to as Ajaw Teq’en Toj, Ajaw Teq’en Tijax, Lord Perforating Toj, Lord Perforating Flint Knife. In both terms we see the name Toj, the ninth day, combined with Tijax (Akkeren 2000:176–84). In the Mexican calendar, the equivalent is Tecpatl, one of the four year bearers. The year 1 Tecpatl is a frequently used mytho-­historical date. Furthermore, it is the calendar name of the sun of the new era, Huitzilopochtli. Interpreting the text of the Rabinal Achi, I found that this dance-­drama, probably written by the Toj family, was created to commemorate the beginning of a 52-­year cycle, the cycle we know as the Calendar Round. It was divided in four periods of thirteen years. Every thirteen

years there was a small festival called Shield Dance, but at the beginning of a new Calendar Round, after 52 years, the festival carried the name Great Shield Dance or Nima Pokob’ (Akkeren 2000: 348–54). During these festivals, dance-­dramas such as the Rabinal Achi were performed. The last thirteen days or trecena of the Aztec 52-­year cycle started with the day 1 Tochtli, with Xiuhteuctli presiding. Mexican pictographic documents show Xiuhteuctli during this last trecena in the company of another god featuring the life-­sized image of a sacrificial knife. His name is Itztapal Totec, Our Lord Obsidian Knife. In the Codex Borbonicus (folio 20) we have an image of Itztapal Totec brandishing a sacrificial knife and dressed in a flayed human skin (Figure 8.6). In the corresponding version of the Codex Borgia, Itztapal Totec is replaced by Xipe Totec wielding a knife. As it appears, Itztapal Totec or Our Lord Obsidian Knife is interchangeable with Xipe Totec, Our Lord the Flayed One: the typical conical hat of Xipe merges with the 1 52

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa

Figure 8.6. Patron gods of the last trecena 1 Tochtli: Xiuhteuctli and Itztapal Totec (redrawn from Codex

Borbonicus, folio 20).

pointed headdress expressing the sacrificial knife (Seler 1963, tomo II:236). The picture and information recall a passage from the Título de Totonicapán that describes a Tojil festival called the Great Shield Dance (nima pokob’) and the Shield Dance of Tojil (upokob’ tojil).8 The ceremony took place in the early years of the reign of K’iq’ab. It is the above-­mentioned Great Shield Dance, the festival that marked the beginning of the new Calendar Round. K’iq’ab’s Great Shield Dance in honor of Tojil fell in the year 1426 (Akkeren 2000:327–28). In the preceding months, K’iq’ab’ had waged a war upon the Mam of the Quetzaltenango area, who had killed his father K’otuja-­Q’uq’kumats. The ceremony starts out with a dance of thirteen archers who will perform an arrow-­ 1 53

sacrifice. We are told that they put on the flayed skins of thirteen sacrificed lords who had participated in the killing of K’iq’ab’s father K’otuja-­ Q’uq’kumats. The men dressed in human skins dance in a circle, impersonating gods. One of them is the son of the ruler (ajpok’ajol) and is said to dance with the sacrificial knife, decorated with silver and green stones, called Hand of Tojil (uq’atojil).9 Central Mexicans shared a similar concept, as we read with Torquemada: ...a estos cuchillos llamaban Manos de Dios y del ídolo a quien sacrificaban; . . . hacíanles muy ricos cabos y remates con figuras, según su posibilidad, de oro y plata y esmeraldas y otros muy ricos y presiosas piedras. (González Torres 1985:179)

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This son of the ruler, solemnly dancing with the sacrificial knife and wearing the flayed skin, resembles the image of Itztapal Totec, Our Lord Obsidian Knife, or Xipe Totec, who substitutes for Itztapal Totec in central-­Mexican codices. While we may know the Flaying Sacrifice as an Aztec ritual, it apparently was much older (­Dibble and Anderson 1981; Lambert 2013).

additional information. It describes a festival at which a temple-­pyramid was inaugurated; probably structure A2.11 It took place in the year 13 Aj (January 29, 1517). As explained, the cycle of the Calendar Round was divided in four periods of thirteen years. In the intermittent years, a smaller version of the Great Shield Dance was performed, called simply Shield Dance (pokob’). Only the last one was a Nim Pokob’.12 The Tz’utujil seem to have had Tojil priests in their court as well; so suggests the Provincia del Santísimo Nombre de Jesús de Guatemala, written by the Franciscan chronicler Francisco Vázquez (1937, tomo I:28–9). He recounts the story of Friar Gonzálo Méndez. In the 1540s Méndez was priest in Santiago Atitlán and discovered that young girls were disappearing. Méndez discovered they were thrown into the volcano of Atitlán

Tojil Cult in the Main Postclassic Polities

There are many reasons to think that it was the Toj lineage that introduced the Tojil cult into the highlands, foremost because in Rabinal, the place where the Toj became lords, Tojil survived as San Pablo. San Pablo was known as 1 Tijax and his cloak was covered with Mexican atl sign. The signs must have dated from Prehispanic times, meaning that in those days they associated Tojil with the day name atl. Atl is the equivalent of Toj, thus Tojil was associated with the Toj family. Thus, it may not be a coincidence that the only Great Shield Dance in the form of the Rabinal Achi, a dance-­drama in honor of Tojil, survived in Rabinal . For this reason I believe it was written by the Toj family to commemorate the beginning of a 52-­year cycle, probably the one that started in 1478. If the Toj introduced the Tojil cult into the highlands, it means this family must have recruited the priests of this cult as well. The priest was known as Ajtojil. As explained in the introduction, there was a lineage named Ajtojil within the ruling Kaweq chinamit of Q’umar­ kaaj. According to the text of the Rabinal Achi, there was a Tojil Brotherhood of twelve lords, called “Lord Perforating Toj, Lord Perforating Flint Knife,” which was recognized by Q’umar­ kaaj as well as by Rabinal.10 Interestingly, there were Tojil priests at other courts in the highlands as well. We have mentioned the Kaqchikel god 9 Toj 1 Tijax. His temple in Iximche’ might have been structure A2 on the first plaza, because, like the Tojil temples at Q’umarkaaj and Kaqyuq, it is facing east. In addition, Guillemín found the remains of paintings in the building that may actually depict the Shield Dance. The Memorial de Sololá provides

cuando el volcán vecino al pueblo de Atitlán, bramaba o tronaba, y echaba fuego y llamaradas (que suele ser con horroroso asombro) les persuadía el demonio, que tenía hambre y pedía de comer y que su manjar de más gusto eran indiecitas doncellas, como le habían siempre sacrificado en su gentilidad, echándolas por la boca ardiendo de aquella hoguera.... (Vázquez 1937, tomo I:28) The indigenous ministers involved in this sacrifice were named don Francisco Chalchiuh and a certain Ahuahuntihax [sic], which is Ajaw Jun Tijax, as we saw, one of the names for Tojil. The tale articulates Tojil’s relation with volcanoes, like the earlier discussed Q’aq’awits. Finally, the Historia Quiché de Don Juan de Torres reveals there was a lineage of Tojil priests among the Poq’om as well (Recinos 1984). This document represents the Tamub’, a branch of the K’iche’ confederation. The Tamub’ had two moieties, one of them being the Kaqkojib’. This last group, again, was divided into the Kaqkojib’ proper and the K’oq’anawil. A large part of the Tamub’ consisted of former Poq’om lineages who, after their defeat by the K’iche’ in the Baja Verapaz region, joined that same K’iche’ confederation (Akkeren 2000:118-­26, 2008, 2012). 1 54

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa Kaqkoj and Q’anawi are still common surnames in Rabinal.13 According to the Historia Quiché de Don Juan de Torres, the K’oq’anawil produced four chinamit, of which the chinamit Ajtojil was the most important. Q’anawi literally means Yellow Head. Since the Tojil priests were the dominant chinamit of the K’oq’anawil, we may venture the idea that Yellow Head was the K’iche’ version of Ixcozauhqui or Yellow Face, its Nahuatl counter­part and another title for Xiuhteuctli (Zantwijk 1977:123, 260). The importance of this piece of information is the historical implication: the fall of the Poq’om centers on the Chixoy River and in the valley of Rabinal is dated around 1100 CE. The peak of their power, however, is situated at the end of the Classic and beginning of the Postclassic (­Akkeren 2000, 2012; Ichon and Hatch 1982). Since K’oq’anawil is one of the founding fathers, these lineages must have existed already as part of the Poq’om polity at a rather early stage. It indicates that priests of Tojil were already present in the highlands during the Late Classic.

Figure 8.7. Signature of the Atonal Scribe of E­ squintepeque. Archivo General de Central America (AGCA), A1 Leg.6083 Exp.55029 (based on a photo by van Akkeren).

Atonal (AGCA A1 Leg.6083 Exp.55029). The other Atonal is linked to Cotzumalhuapa. He is mentioned in a Kaqchikel document, Testamento de los Xpantzay. According to the text, he is the son of a Xpantzay lord and a concubine who was a slave. The woman must have carried the name Atonal. Nevertheless, this Atonal became head of the Xpantzay chinamit, much to the dismay of descendants of the original line. After his death, the Atonal was buried in Santiago Saqb’inya, one of the colonial towns formed out of Prehispanic Cotzumalhuapa14 (Figure 8.7; AGCA A1.18 Leg.6062 Exp.53957: folio 39v; Chinchilla 1998; Maxwell and Hill 2006:652–53; Recinos 1984:162–65).

Atonal: The Nahua Name for Toj Lineage

Case Study: Monument 21 of Bilbao Now that we know a little of the history and cosmology provided by Postclassic indigenous documents, it is time to show how they offer insight in Classic Cotzumalhuapa iconography.15 We will do so by examining one of its most famous monuments, Monument 21 of Bilbao. We will see that its Classic imagery recurs in these Postclassic texts and that the carriers of this ideology were closely linked to the Toj-­Atonal lineage. Moreover, there is good reason to believe that the origin of this ideology goes back to the introduction of the Teotihuacán mercantile system on the Pacific coast. Monument 21 was — ​and still is — ​at the Late Classic site of Bilbao, which turned out to be the southern part of the Cotzumalhuapa polity (Chinchilla 2012b). The center of Bilbao is an “extended artificial acropolis” averaging 600 m long and 175 m wide (Parsons 1967:18), running northeast to southwest (Figure 8.8). It consists of a series of four differently levelled plazas,

If the Toj are of Mexican origin, they must have had a Nahua lineage name, likely composed of the Mexican equivalent of the day Toj, atl. Elsewhere, I have already suggested that this name was Atonal, a contraction of the words atl and tonalli, “day” (Akkeren 2005). Indeed, Atonal turns out to be the name of a well-­known Mesoamerican lineage, with roots going back at least to Toltec times, and a lineage that has produced lords, merchants, priests, and scribes (Akkeren n.d.c). In their continuous contact with Maya speakers on the Pacific coast, some families of the Atonal lineage must have lost their language, getting “Mayanized” as a result and changing their name to Toj. Conversely, in the towns of Escuintla where the people continued speaking a form of Nahua, the Atonal must have kept their original name. Indeed, at the moment I have found two cases in which Atonal are mentioned. The first one is in Esquintepeque, in a Nahua will written by a scribe whose name was Francisco Hernandez 1 55

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Figure 8.8. Map of Bilbao, Cotzumalhuapa with the location of Monument 21 (drawing by Oswaldo Chinchilla, reproduced by permission).

A–D, with D being the highest and A the lowest. Monument 21 was found on plaza B, at the foot of Temple B2 (Chinchilla 2008:1211, 2012a:79; Parsons 1967:19), and is part of a rock outcrop, creating an immense boulder. The surface of Monument 21 measures 4.02 × 3.38 m (Chinchilla 2012b:83). It is one of the largest found in

Cotzumalhuapa and dated to the Late Classic (650–950 BCE). Chinchilla (2012c:109) thinks this monument was the focus of attention at ­Bilbao and that the platform was built around it. The bas-­relief, cut in stone, represents a scene of three personages within the cartouche of an encircling sprouting vine (Figure 8.9). At1 56

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa

Figure 8.9. Monument 21, Bilbao (drawing by Oswaldo Chinchilla, reproduced by permission).

tached to the vine are personified fruits, various kinds of birds, flowers, flower buds, but also shells and sacrificial knives. Some of the birds sip nectar from the flowers on the vine. Within this cartouche, stands an impressive young man, the central figure. He sports a balloon-­ like headdress, adorned with plaques, probably shells, and bells. A thick cord is tied around this headdress. Part of the headgear is an incense bag or copalxiquipilli, a familiar item of merchants, and often part of the headdresses of lords in Cotzumalhuapa art. He is further dressed as a ballplayer with his yoke, showing a calloused left knee. There is another thick knot of rope around his waist and a loincloth with a certain image on it. In his right hand, he holds a sacrificial knife and with his left he passes a piece of fruit, ap1 57

parently just cut, to another person on a throne. An intriguing image of a skull covers his entire chest. Emerging from the teeth of the skull is the aforementioned encircling vine. A shorter vine also parts from the mouth of the youth himself. A second protagonist is an old person sitting on a throne. He wears a sort of huipil and skirt that, from the spots on it, seems to be made of jaguar skin. He wears a headband in the form of a cross-­tied snake, and above his head sits a halo of flames. This person, clearly much older, receives the cut fruits from the central figure and seems to place them in a sort of bag at the foot of the throne. Already in the bag, are fruits, sacrificial knives, and shells, all personified. A third, much smaller character, stands to the other side of the central figure, featuring a

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strange face with a pointed object coming from his mouth. He seems to be a performing artist, with a peculiar drum hanging from his neck. In one hand, he holds a human femur to beat the drum, and in the other a puppet, like a puppet-­ player. The puppet is dressed in a gown and has a headband with a flower and spreads its arms and hands. The iconography of Monument 21 has been studied by various scholars but most extensively by Chinchilla, put forward in recent articles (2008, 2012b, 2012c, 2013, this volume). In his interpretation, we are looking at the Meso­ american variant of paradise, labeled Flower Mountain or Flower World. The terms are borrowed from Karl Taube (2004, 2005) who built on earlier work by Laurette Sejourné and Janet Berlo (1984). Taube defined the concept of the Flower World by analysing the imagery adorning the so-­called theater-­style censers, from Teotihuacán themselves as well as from the Pacific coast. This terrestrial paradise is a mountain decorated with flowers and vines, populated by birds with precious feathers. The Flower World includes music and people singing, represented by speech scrolls covered with flowers, plants, and birds (Taube 2005). All these elements, including huge “song” scrolls are present on Monument 21 (Chinchilla 2012c). Building on earlier suggestions by Thomas Gann and Eric Thompson, Chinchilla (2008, 2012b, 2012c) argues that the vigorous young man is depicted in the act of human sacrifice, that is, decapitation, in which the fruits sprouting from the vine — ​including cacao pods — ​represent the severed head. In his view, the sacrificed victim par excellence is the warrior, whose soul finds solace in this Flower Paradise, dedicating himself to the Sun God. Chinchilla’s interpretation offers many useful insights, some of which I endorse. Still, I come to a different view of the fundamental message evoked by this monument. Again, knowing that after its demise Classic Cotzumalhuapa’s lineages of lords and priests moved to the neighboring highlands to join Postclassic confederations, we may refer to the texts they produced on their cosmology, religion, and politics. 1 58

Classic Tojil Cult on Monument 21 of Bilbao

The interpretation I propose here is, for lack of space, incomplete. But its core is that we have a creational couple here, the central youth and the old man on the throne. They are presented as gods but very likely were also historical personages incarnating these deities (Popenoe de Hatch 1989). In my interpretation, the scene is a Classic version of the Tojil Festival mentioned above and described in the Título de Totonicapán. Recalling the festival, we had lords and captains dancing and dressed in the flayed skins of prisoners of war. One of them, the son of the highest ruler (ajpop), brandished a sacrificial knife, called the Hand of Tojil, an aspect of the same god Tojil, called Jun Tijax or One Flint, which is the calendrical name of the Sun God of the new era. This festival in honor of Tojil ended in an arrow-­ sacrifice in which the arrows are compared to lightning, shooting stars, and comets. Earlier, I likened this festival with the dance-­drama Rabinal Achi, also celebrated in honor of Tojil and ending with an arrow-­sacrifice, a festival that marked the beginning of a new Calendar Round. We have corresponding images in central-­ Mexican calendar books. They marked the last trecena of the 260-­day calendar, which is, of course, also the last trecena of a Calendar Round and the beginning of a new cycle. These scenes depicted two personages: Xiuhteuctli or the old Lord of Fire and Itztapal Totec, Our Lord Sacrificial Knife, wielding a sacrificial knife and dressed in the skin of a flayed human. In other versions, Itztapal Totec could be replaced by Xipe Totec but always with knife and skin (Figure 8.10). This, in a sense, is the couple we have on Monument 21 of Bilbao. It is not inconceivable that at the time the monument was created the old god was already named Tojil by the Maya-­speaking part of Cotzumalhuapa’s population. Thus we have Tojil, as the old person sitting on the throne. Here, I differ from Chinchilla’s interpretation (2008:1216; 2012b:83; 2012c:117) in which this personage represents an old goddess. In his view, the person is female because of the outfit, which looks like a skirt and a huipil; because of the cross-­tied headband in the form of a

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa

Figure 8.10. Patron gods of the last trecena 1 Tochtli: Xiuhteuctli and Xipe Totec (redrawn from Codex Borgia,

folio 61).

snake, very often the headdress of the respectable older Goddess O or Mother Goddess; and because there is a rope and snake under the throne, imagery sometimes found with goddesses. Instead there are several reasons for his gender to be male. First, hardly any females are represented in Cotzumalhuapa art. The old man is sitting on a throne, suggesting lordship, an office rarely held by women.16 He is also wearing a tubular nose-­pendant that is characteristic of male deities, often warriors. In central-­Mexican codices it is the nose-­jewel of the Sun, Rain, and Fire Gods. Admittedly, one is tempted by the knotted snake headdress to identify the person as the old Mother Goddess, but precisely in Cotzumalhuapa art this element is not confined to female persons, as shown by the “floating” deities on the upper parts of Bilbao Monuments 2, 4, 5, and 6, which certainly are not all goddesses. Neither is the purported skirt and huipil an outfit only worn by females.17 The clothes of the old man are made of the jaguar skin, which was the common outfit of God L or Xiuhteuctli. We have, in fact, a fine rendering of a similar outfit on the central panel of the contemporary Temple of the Sun at Palenque, where God L, carrying

the throne of the sun of the new era, is wearing an identical jaguar skirt and cape (Figure 8.11). Here in Palenque we have the same eschatological moment of creation represented, as scholars have posited, including the presentation of a sacrificial knife and a flayed, Xipe-­like mask (Stuart and Stuart 2008:191–215). And, if we want to go back even earlier in time, the priests on either side of the Tree of Tlalocan on the Tepantitla mural, which in my interpretation represents Xiuhteuctli, are also dressed in a cape-­like huipil and a skirt (Akkeren 2012; n.d.d). There are two more elements that define him as the Lord of Fire. One is the halo of fire above his head, the flames of which are identically incised as those surrounding the Sun Hero on Bilbao Monument 3. In addition, there is the pointed ornament sitting under his chin as part of his jade necklace; it looks very much like a sacrificial knife, such as the one we find in the Codex Magliabechiano (folio 11r; Figure 8.12).18 The dot on top, strictly belonging to the earspool, may be an artistic pun to evoke the calendrical name of Tojil, 1 Tecpatl, or 1 Tijax. As explained, Jun Tijax are priestly titles that we find with the Late Postclassic Kaqchikel and Tz’utujil Maya. 1 59

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Figure 8.11. God L carrying the throne of the Sun God, detail from panel on the Temple of the Sun, Palenque

(drawing by Linda Schele © David Schele. Schele Archive Drawing 171, reproduced by permission, Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies [FAMSI] and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art [LACMA]).

Yet, the main reason for this personage to be male is the creational portent of the sculpture. With due respect for the personage on the throne, all attention is drawn to the vigorous youth at the center. He represents the powerful Sun-­Maize Hero of the new era. The combination of him and the old man provides the crux for the interpretation of this monument. Chinchilla (2012c) postulates that this monument was the principal sculpture of the Bilbao complex and that the platform was built around it. Monument 21 portrays a vital creational moment that marked the beginning of a new Calendar Round. We have two generations depicted: the established generation, represented by the Lord of Fire, Navel of Earth and Fire, tlalxicco and tlexicco, and the new generation, represented by the youth. As mentioned, in the myth of Xib’alb’a, Sun and Maize Hero are merged in

the personage of Jun Ajpu. It appears we have a similar fusion on Monument 21. This complementary couple permeates Mesoamerican iconography and mythology ­ and, indeed, is often presented as two subsequent, though complementary, generations. In the Xib’alb’a myth, they skip a generation, with the father of Xkik’ as head of the underworld and guardian of the terrestrial fire, and Jun Ajpu as the Sun Hero. In Q’eqchi’ myths, we have the principal Lord Mountain-­Valley and the Sun Hero (Akkeren 2012:224–27). As for iconography, famous examples are the Fire and Sun Gods who both appear on the rim of the Aztec Calendar Stone, or the Sun Hero with his blowgun (Jun Ajpu) and the Lord of Fire carrying his Fire Serpent in the central scene of the bas-­reliefs of the Lower Temple of the Jaguar (Figure 8.13; Akkeren 2012:199-­202, n.d.d). 160

a

b

Figure 8.12. Sign of One Flint (a); note resemblance to adornment in pectoral (redrawn from Codex

­Magliabechiano, folio 11r); (b) detail Monument 21, Bilbao, (reproduced by permission, Oswaldo Chinchilla).

Figure 8.13. Creational couple Jun Ajpu (with blowgun) and Xiuhteuctli (note the vine coming from his mouth). Detail from the central scene of Lower Temple of the Jaguars, Chich’en Itza (drawing by Linda Schele © David Schele, Schele Archive Drawing 7676. Reproduced by permission, Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies [FAMSI] and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art [LACMA]).

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As said, the scene evokes the deity Itztapal Totec or Xipe Totec of the central-­Mexican codices, Our Lord Sacrificial Knife or Our Lord the Flayed One. He wields the sacrificial knife, much like the son of the ajpop in the fragment of the Título de Totonicapán dances with the sacred blade called the Hand of Tojil. For this reason, it is not inconceivable to think these personages also represent historical figures. These cosmological roles, cast in a generational format, were performed by worldly lords and their sons (Akkeren 2007). Indeed, K’iq’ab’ earned his lordship during the festival described in this document, being the son of the deceased ajpop K’otuja-­ Q’uq’kumats. He was the one dancing with the Hand of Tojil. In fact, the youth on our monument shows aspects of a Xipe Totec-­like deity. Although lacking the conical Xipe hat, the artist placed what looks like the common incense bag as a conical element on his headdress. Another Xipe element is the image on his loincloth that, in my opinion, represents a flayed mask. Images of persons wearing flayed skins or flayed masks are at least as old as Kaminaljuyú during its apogee, and flayed masks akin to the one on his loincloth were already present in Teotihuacán (Lam­bert 2013:​3c; Scott 2004:Pl. 51). The flayed mask, also part of the iconography on the panel of the ­Temple of the Sun at Palenque, was so important in Cotzumalhuapa that artists sculpted them into single monuments, like Monument 35 of El Baúl and two tenoned heads from Aguna, a site immediately southwest of Cotzumalhuapa, which Parsons (1969:Pl. 55, Figs. e, f) already described as Xipe heads (Figure 8.14). Taube and Zender (2009) and Chinchilla (2009) have interpreted this mask as protection for a boxer, comparable to the one depicted on Monument 27 of El Baúl. While they have a strong case, some questions remain. On the one hand, why is there a sturdy round helmet, as depicted on Monument 27 of El Baúl, and on the other, a flayed mask, as on the loincloth of the vigorous youth? Flayed masks were not uncommon in Cotzumalhuapa. Chinchilla (2014) recently dug up a Xipe-­like effigy with a flayed mask at the obsidian workshop, a little north of El Baúl. Furthermore, on Monument 21, we 162

have the presence of a human femur, practically pointing at the mask. A similar bone is associated with a Xipe-­like personage on Monument 11 of nearby Kaminaljuyú (Lambert 2013). There is a lot more to be told about the iconography of Monument 21 of Bilbao, for example, how this Xipe-­like youth represents the Sun-­Maize Hero, as well as the meaning of the encircling vines. But that would digress from the main theme of this chapter: the identity and ethnicity of the peoples of the Pacific coast. Lineage History and Identity on the Pacific Coast

In this chapter I have argued for a historical continuity between Classic and Postclassic elite of the Pacific coast and the adjacent highlands. We examined the case of the Toj-­Atonal lineage and the Tojil, but that is just one of the many examples, already offered in previous writings, as well as studies in progress (Akkeren 2000, 2005, 2008, 2009, n.d.a, n.d.b, n.d.c). The cult was part of an older Mesoamerican ideology that seems to go back at least to Teotihuacán times and was the dominant ideology of merchant guilds. Indeed, there is written and iconographic evidence that the Atonal lineage goes back as far as Toltec times, and, although there is no direct proof for it, there is good reason to believe they were already present as a Teotihuacán lineage (Akkeren n.d.c; Velásquez 1992). What is fascinating is the fact that these lineages do not seem to be bound by ethnic confines but operate independently across linguistic borders. This requires an approach different from the traditional focus on ethnicity to study the identity of the polities in which they participated. I would recommend an approach that starts from the lineage, or chinamit level, when determining the identity of a polity and its population. This option is also offered by Braswell (this volume), whose alternative proposals for studying group identity in the Guatemalan Maya include the “house approach,” based on lineage and chinamit. His approach, labeled “cultural totems,” certainly has workable elements but requires an accurate and emic understanding of these totemic names. His suggestion that the term k’iche’, literally “many trees” or “woods,”

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa a

b

Figure 8.14. El Baúl Monument 35 with Xipe-like mask (a) photo by van Akkeren; (b) drawing by Oswaldo Chinchilla, reproduced by permission.

evokes the image of a confederation of many smaller groups, is incorrect and has little to do with the reason why the confederation founders chose this name. To conclude, what can we say about the cultural identity of Cotzumalhuapa, if analyzed from a lineage approach? Chinchilla (this volume) questions the Maya-­Mexican dichotomy that has long dominated studies on Cotzumalhuapa’s iconography. To him its makers are an

elite who may be emulating an international style but is still fundamentally local and seek their roots with Preclassic ancestors. I partly agree with Chinchilla’s conclusion. Given the omnipresent and profound bond between Mesoamerican peoples and local mountains, as expressed in its paramount deity, Lord Mountain-­Valley, who, in turn, is often linked with an ancestral forefather, it would be strange if Cotzumalhuapans did not feel related to the mountaintops 163

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surrounding them, like the volcanoes Fuego, Acatenango, and Agua. These mountains and their guardians are their local Lords of Fire who later merged with Xiuhteuctli, titular god of the merchant ideology introduced when Teotihuacanos began founding colonies on the coast during the Middle Classic (San Jerónimo phase). That these identifications go back to very early times is shown in Love’s contribution to this volume: he suggests that Mound 1 of Middle Formative La Blanca was likely built to mimic the Tajumulco volcano, which dominated the horizon of that early polity. But, as I said, I partly agree with Chinchilla, because what is local? Is a noble lineage, originally Teotihuacano, with a history of over 200 years on the Pacific coast of Guatemala, but now “Mayanized,” local or foreign? This is a situation we can also apply to many modern families in the U.S. Through my work, published or in progress, I have a reasonable idea of several of the lineages that belonged to the Cotzumalhuapa elite. In this study, we mentioned the Toj-­Atonal, but others are Saqb’im (Weasel), Huactli-­Tz’ikin (White Falcon), Tochtli-­Q’anil (Rabbit), Citlalli-­ Ch’umil (Star), Coyotl-­Xajil (Coyote), Xpantzay, Aqajal (Small Wasp). The lineages with double names are of Mexican origin which at one point became Mayanized. Since this is a process of several centuries, archaeologists will not find foreign influences in the cultural material they dig up. So what are they: Mexican or Maya?19 Others, like Xpantzay and Aqajal, are local Maya, but I am sure they spoke a form of Nahua as well. One will be surprised by how many modern Maya, living in communities bordering ethnically different communities, speak two Maya languages apart from Spanish.

The Cotzumalhuapa elite became engaged in the Mesoamerican mercantile network through international trade. That engagement included the participation in merchant guilds organized through lineages and lineage-­clusters — ​chinamit or calpulli — ​and the adoption and practice of the mercantile cosmology and pantheon. The Mesoamerican trade network on the Pacific coast existed long before Teotihuacán stepped in and was probably partly absorbed by this huge metropolis (Popenoe de Hatch and Alvarado 2010; Love 2007). But, once it arrived there, we have better information on this network and pantheon through Teotihuacán’s iconography. After the demise of the Montana polity, several of its lineages must have moved to Cotzumalhuapa, amalgamating with Maya lineages. For that matter, Maya lineages may have already been present in Montana. Cotzumalhuapa, which had existed since Preclassic times as two small communities, grew, flourished, and became the foremost trade center in the area during the Late Classic — ​Love’s process of urbanization (this volume). Consequently, to me, Cotzumalhuapa iconography is not an autonomous or “local” reaction to Teotihuacán dominance on the lower coast, as Chinchilla proposes (this volume), but rather a continuation, or even absorption, of its ideology. To me, Cotzumalhuapa iconography is an expression of the international mercantile ideology with irrefutable elements of Teotihuacán’s mythological corpus, which I have called Tullan. But it also has clear elements of the Gulf coast corpus of mythology, Tzuywa, an influence that, as remarked, was older in the area, given the Olmec and Cerro de las Mesas presence on the Pacific coast (Proskouriakoff 1950; Akkeren 2006b).

Acknowledgments I thank the editors for inviting me to participate in this volume and Oswaldo Chinchilla and Geoffrey Braswell for their comments.

corpuses with the catchier names Pu (Tullan) and Su (Tzuywa), a complementary dichotomy that may actually have existed in Machaquilá, the city where I locate the historical oven of Xib’alb’a. In Spanish, I have rephrased both ­ritual expressions as Juego y Fuego. 2. Central deities on these ceramics have usually been identified as Tlaloc, and in a sense they

Notes 1. Tzuywa and Tullan are the names for both corpuses employed in Postclassic indigenous documents, but Classic Maya may have labeled both 164

Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa are Tlaloque, but they represent the Tlaloc of the center, which is Xiuhteuctli or Lord of Fire, hence the flames around him. As I have proposed in my latest writings (Akkeren 2012 and n.d.d), I think it is necessary to re-­evaluate the Mesoamerican pantheon. Many years of teaching and working and living with Maya, collecting numerous texts of myths, prayers, and oral traditions, have led me to the conclusion that the single most important deity to ancient and modern Maya is what they call Lord Mountain-­ Valley. To name a few examples: Dios Mundo, in K’iche’ Rajawal Juyub’al Taq’ajal (Owner of the Mountain-­Valley); in Q’eqchi’ Qawa Tzuul Taq’a (Lord Mountain-­Valley); and in Ixil Tiux­ hil Witz, Tiuxhil Tchaq’aala, Tiuxhil Xolwitz (God Mountain-­God Plain-­God Valley). Thus, many divinities which Mayanists — ​including myself — ​have labeled as separate gods are, in fact, just aspects of the same paramount deity. There are always several mountains surrounding a community, and every top has its Owner, resulting in a hierarchy of Lords Mountain-­ Valley. The highest mountain of them all is usually considered the center, where this supreme Lord Mountain-­Valley guards the central hearth and the caves with seeds, crops, fruits, and animals. Its central-­Mexican counterparts are the Tlaloque with the center Tlaloc being Xiuh­ teuctli. Alfredo López A ­ ustin (1994) comes to similar conclusions when defining Tlaloc in his book Tamoanchan y Tlalocan, or, what he called the Dueño in Monte Sagrado — ​Templo Mayor (López Austin and López Luján 2009). I have presented these new ideas in various conferences, among which are “Un colapso menos conocido. La caída de las ciudades-­estado de la Costa Sur y el nacimiento de la confederación k’iche’” (VII Convención Mundial de la Arqueologia Maya, 13–15 junio 2014), and “La ruta de la serpiente. Los gremios del comercio teotihuacano en Mesoamérica” (workshop, Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas-­U NAM; October 21, 2014). 3. In the Bocacosta we see a drastic reduction of its population. Many radiocarbon dates were defined for the area of Cotzumalhuapa, but none fit within the 950–1300 CE range (Neff et al. 2006:​ 149). 4. Kaqyuq is the name as it appears in the text of the Rabinal Achi. The toponym is in Poq’om; today the place is called Kaqjyub’, the K’iche’ version. Both mean Red Hill. Red Hill is the generic name for “pyramid.” 165

5. The –il suffix of toj-­il serves as an “abstraktum” (abstract noun) or “kollektivum” of nouns and adjectives (Dürr 1987:125). In Q’eqchi’ the word toj means “impuesto,” and in Yucatec it is “venganza”, “pagar dudas,” and “justicia” (Haeserijn 1979:329; Barrera Vásquez 1991:801–02). 6. Translation, van Akkeren. 7. Tedlock 1996:359; Carmack and Mondloch 1983:​ folio 2v, 175. 8. Carmack and Mondloch 1983:folio 27r. 9. Carmack and Mondloch 1983:folio 27r-­v, 28r. 10. Manuscrito Pérez, folios 7, 27; Akkeren 2000:439. Manuscrito Pérez is the original copy of the Rabinal Achi used by the dance-­master in Rabinal (Akkeren 2000). 11. Translators of this document still fail to grasp the proper meaning of this passsage, mistaking the word “shield for an act of aggression. The term for Shield Dance is pokob’ chanal or simply pokob’ meaning “shield”; the word for “temple-­ pyramid” is kaqjay, “casa roja,” and laqab’ej jay is estrenar casa (Coto 1983 [1656]:224). Recinos mistook this passage for a war against the city of Nim Poq’om Oronik Kaqjay, mentioned elsewhere in the Memorial de Sololá, which is the Late Classic and early Postclassic Poqom center in the valley of Rabinal (Recinos 1980:94). Recent translators keep interpreting the ‘shield’ as an act of war against a town with the toponym kaqjay, instead of the inauguration of a temple-­ pyramid in Iximche’ (Maxwell and Hill 2006: 242–243; Otzoy 1999: 183). 12. Otzoy 1999:183; Akkeren 2000:348–51, 2007:​ 67–70. 13. That is, Q’anawi without the reverential prefix k’o; the –il- ending makes an abstract noun of the name. 14. The Cotzumalhuapa area consisted of a cluster of towns and villages. According to early colonial documents, Santiago Cotzumalhuapa and its estancias was predominantly Kaqchikel, whereas San Juan Aloteque and its estancias were predominantly Pipil, suggesting a Prehispanic multi­ethnic society (Chinchilla 1998:156–58). There are two Kaqchikel texts about this Atonal: the Testamento de Xpantzay and another document that Recinos did not include in his Cronicas Indígenas. It is still in the AGCA, registered as A1.18 Leg.6062 Exp.53957, and Maxwell and Hill included it in their Kaqchikel Chronicles (2006). From both texts, we may conclude that Atonal already governed the Xpantzay chinamit before the Spanish conquest. Yet, Atonal’s

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y Bilingüe e Intercultural, No. 4. Proyecto Movilizador de Apoyo a la Educación Maya. UNESCO/PROMEM/Países Bajos, G ­ uatemala. 2003 Authors of the Popol Wuj. Ancient Mesoamerica 14(2):237–256. 2005 Conociendo a los Pipiles de la costa Pacífica de Guatemala: un estudio etno-­histórico de documentos indígenas y del Archivo General de Centroamérica. In XVIII simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2004, Vol. 2, edited by J. P Laporte, B. Arroyo, and H. Mejia, pp. 1000–1014. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Electronic document, http://www​.­asociaciontikal.com​ /­pdf/99%20-%20Ruud​.04.pdf. 2006a El chinamit y la plaza postclásica: la arqueología y la etnohistória en busca del papel de la casa del consejo. In XIX simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2005, edited by Juan Pedro Laporte, Héctor Escobedo, and Bárbara Arroyo, pp. 223–234. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. 2006b Tzuywa, Place of the Gourd. Ancient America 9:36–73. 2007 La visión indígena de la conquista. Centro de Investigaciones Regionales y Mesoaméricanas. Serviprensa, Guatemala. 2008 Título de los señores de Sacapulas. In Crónicas Mesoamericanas I, edited by Horacio Cabezas Carcache, pp. 59–92. Universidad Mesoamericana, Guatemala. 2009 Título de los indios de Santa Clara la Laguna. In Crónicas Mesoamericanas II, edited by Horacio Cabezas Carcache, pp. 69–86. Universidad Mesoamericana, Guatemala. 2011 Rabinal Achí–la danza del tambor: ensayo sobre el significado histórico y cosmovisional del texto antiguo. In La danza del tambor — ​los últimos días del calendario Maya, pp. 403–412. Editorial Piedra Santa, Guatemala. 2012 Xib’alb’a y el nacimiento del nuevo sol: una visión posclásica del colapso maya. Editorial Piedra Santa, Guatemala. 2014a Mito e idioma en las crónicas indígenas de Guatemala. Paper presented at the Academia de Geografía e Historia de Guatemala, June 25, 2014. 2014b Historia de linajes — ​o cómo captar la

mother not only was a slave, but also branded with a mark in her face, a practice we usually associate with the Spanish. Be that as it may, it is very well possible that Atonal’s mother became a slave when the Kaqchikel were conquering lands in the Bocacosta of Cotzumalhuapa. The young Kaqchikel nation of Iximche’ carried out an aggressive conquest program well into colonial times (A1. leg.2811 exp.24781; Chinchilla 1998:163; Polo Sifontes 1979). 15. Properly speaking, these documents are, of course, colonial documents, but they describe the history and cosmology of Postclassic confederations. 16. A similar kind of throne is found on Monument 9 of Bilbao. 17. I have similar doubts about Chinchilla’s (2012a) identification of personages on other monu­ ments as females because of them wearing “skirts.” To me they are males. One may even take these skirts as the Classic equivalent of the woollen knee blanket worn today by the men of Sololá or Nahualá. 18. The pointed sacrificial knife is best visible on a detailed photo (Plate 30c) published by Parsons (1969), who uncovered the monument in his excavations. 19. After the decline of Cotzumalhuapa, these lineages would spread over the Postclassic confederations, becoming Tz’utujil, K’iche’, Mam, Rabinal, Aqajal, many of them speaking a different Maya language. Again, which Maya are they?

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Héctor Escobedo and Bárbara Arroyo, pp. 1027–1035. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Chinchilla Mazariegos, Oswaldo, Frederick J. Bove, and José Vicente Genovez 2009 La cronología del periodo clásico en la costa sur de Guatemala y el fechamiento del estilo escultórico de Cotzumalguapa. In Cronología y Periodización en Mesoamérica y el Norte de México: 435–471. V Coloquio Pedro Bosch Gimpera. Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas, UNAM, México, D.F. Chimalpáhin, Domingo 2003 Las ocho relaciones y el memorial de Colhuacan. Paleografía y traducción de Rafael Tena. 2 vols. Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, México, D.F. Coto, Thomás de 1983 [1656][Thesavrvs Verborvm]. Vocabvlario de la lengua Cakchiquel v[el] Guatemalteca, nueuamente hecho y recopilado con summo estudio, trauajo y erudición, edited by René Acuña. Instituto de Investigaciones Filológicas, UNAM, México, D.F. Davies, Nigel 1977 The Toltecs: Until the Fall of Tula. Civilization of the American Indian series. University of Oklahoma Press, Norman. Dibble, Charles E., and Arthur J. O. Anderson (editors) 1953 Florentine Codex, General History of the Things of New Spain: Book 7: The Sun, Moon, and Stars, and the Binding of the Years. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe, and University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 1959 Florentine Codex, General History of the Things of New Spain: Book 9: The Merchants. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe, and University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 1981 Florentine Codex, General History of the Things of New Spain: Book 2: The Ceremonies. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe, and University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Dürr, Michael 1987 Morphologie, Syntax und Textstrukturen des (Maya-)Quiche des Popol Vuh. Linguistische Beschreibung eines kolonialzeitlichen

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Tojil Cult in Classic Cotzumalhuapa Ichon, Alain and Marion P. Hatch 1982 Archéologie de Sauvetage dans le Vallée du Río Chixoy 4-­Los Encuentros. Institut d’Ethnologie, Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, R.C.P.500. Paris. Ichon, Alain, Marie-­France Fauvet-­Berthelot, Christine Plocieniak, Robert Hill, Rebecca González Lauck, and Marco-­Antonio Bailey 1980 Rescate arqueológico en la cuenca del río Chixoy. 2-­Cawinal. Institut d’Ethnologie, Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, R.C.P.500, Paris. Kirchhoff, Paul, Lina Odena Güemes, and Luis Reyes García 1989 Historia Tolteca-­Chichimeca. 2nd ­edition. Colección Puebla. Fondo de Cultura Económica, México, D.F. Lambert, Arnaud F. 2013 Preclassic Maya Representations of Xipe Totec at Kaminaljuyú. Wayeb Notes 44:1–9. Límon Olvera, Silvia 2001 El dios del fuefo y la regenaración del mundo. Estudios de Cultura Nahuatl 32:52–68. Linné, Sigvald 1942 Mexican Highland Cultures: Archaeological Researches at Teotihuacán, Calpulapan, and Chalchicomula in 1934–35. Ethnographical Museum of Sweden, Stockholm. López Austin, Alfredo 1994 Tamoanchan y Tlalocan. Fondo de Cultura Económica, México, D.F. López Austin, Alfredo and Leonardo López Luján 1999 Mito y realidad de Zuyuá: Serpiente Emplumada y las transformaciones Mesoamericanas del clásico al posclásico. El Colegio de México, Fondo de Cultura Económica, México, D.F. 2009 Monte sagrado–templo mayor: el cerro y la pirámide en la tradición religiosa mesoamericana. INAH-­Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas, UNAM, México, D.F. Love, Michael W. 2007 Recent Research in the Southern Highlands and Pacific Coast of Mesoamerica. Journal of Archaeological Research 15(4):275–328. 2011 City States and City-­State Culture in the Southern Maya Region. In The Southern Maya in the Late Preclassic: The Rise and Fall of an Early Mesoamerican Civilization, edited by Michael Love and Jonathan Kap­ lan, pp. 47–76. University Press of Colorado, Boulder.

Dokuments aus dem Hochland von Guatemala. Holos, Bonn. Dyckerhoff, Ursula 2002/2003  Grupos étnicos y estratificación socio-­política. Tentativa de interpretación histórica. Indiana 19/20:155–196. Eberl, Markus and Christian Prager 2005 B’olon Yokte’ K’uh: Maya Conceptions of War, Conflict, and the Underworld. In Wars and Conflicts in Prehispanic Mesoamerica and the Andes, edited by Peter Eeckhout and Geneviève Le Fort, pp. 28–36. BAR International Series 1385. British Archaeological Reports, Oxford. Feldman, Lawrence H. 1985 A Tumpline Economy: Production and Distribution Systems in Sixteenth-­Century Eastern Guatemala. Labyrinthos, Culver City, CA. Fox, John W. 1987 Maya Postclassic State Formation: Segmentary Lineage Migration in Advancing Frontiers. New Studies in Archaeology. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Gallini, Stefanía 2009 Una historia ambiental del café en Guatemala: la costa Cuca entre 1830 y 1902. Autores Invitados 19. Asociación para el Avance de las Ciencias Sociales en Guatemala, ­Guatemala. García-­Des Lauriers, Claudia 2005 La iconografía y simbolismo de la escultural de Cerro Bernal, Chiapas. Utz’ib Serie Reportes 1(5):1–16. Gasco, Janine 2002 Ancient Xoconochco: Occupational History. Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc. Electronic document, http://www.famsi.org/reports/99035, accessed Jan. 15, 2016. González Torres, Yólotl 1985 El sacrificio humano entre los mexicas. INAH: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ­México, D.F. Grofe, Michael J. 2009 The Name Of God L: B’olon Yokte’ K’uh? Wayeb Notes 30:1–19. Gronemeyer, Sven and Barbara Macleod 2010 What Could Happen in 2012: A Re-­a nalysis of the 13-­Bak’tun Prophecy on Tortuguero Monument 6. Wayeb Notes 34:1–68. Haeserijn, Esteban 1979 Diccionario K’ekchi’ Español. Editorial Piedra Santa, Guatemala.

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Mesoamerica, edited by Frederick J. Bove and Lynette Heller. Anthropological Research Papers 39, pp. 167–194. Arizona State University, Tempe. 2005 La conquista de Tak´alik Ab´aj. In XVIII simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2004, edited by Juan Pedro Laporte, Bárbara Arroyo, and Héctor Mejía, pp. 992–999. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Popenoe de Hatch, Marion and Carlos Alvarado Galindo 2010 Rutas comerciales del preclásico entre el altiplano y la costa sur de Guatemala: implicaciones sociopolíticas. In XXIII simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2009 edited by Bárbara Arroyo, Adriana Linares, and Lorena Paiz, pp.11–25. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Proskouriakoff, Tatiana 1950 A Study of Classic Maya Sculpture. Carnegie Institution of Washington, Publication No. 593. Carnegie Institution of Washington, Washington, D.C. Recinos, Adrián 1980 Memorial de Sololá: anales de los Cakchi­ queles, título de los señores de Totonicapán. Dirección General de Antropología e Historia, Editorial Piedra Santa, Guatemala. 1984 Crónicas indígenas de Guatemala. Publicación Especial 29. 2nd edition. Academia de Geografía e Historia de Guatemala, Guatemala. Robinson, Eugenia J., Heather A. Wholey, and Hector Neff 1998 La tradición cerámica Flesh Ware en las tierras altas centrales y costa del Pacífico de Guatemala. In XI simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 1997, edited by Juan Pedro Laporte and Héctor Escobedo, pp.751–766. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Romero, Sergio 2014 Mito e idioma en las crónicas indígenas de Guatemala. Paper presented at the Academia de Geografia e Historia de Guatemala, June 25, 2014. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino 1982 Historia general de las cosas de Nueva

Maxwell, Judith M., and Robert M. Hill II 2006 Kaqchikel Chronicles: The Definitive Edition. University of Texas Press, Austin. Motolinia, Toribio de 1970 Memoriales e historia de los indios de la Nueva España. Biblioteca de Autores Españoles 240. Ediciones Atlas, Madrid. Navarette, Carlos 1996 Elementos arqueológicos de mexicanización en las tierras altas mayas. In Temas mesoamericanos, edited by S. Lombardo and E. Nalda, pp. 309–356. INAH, Mexico, D.F. Neff, Hector, Frederick J. Bove, and José Vicente Genovez 2006 Clima y la naturaleza de la ocupación pos­ clásica de la costa sur de Guatmala. In XIX simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2005, edited by Juan Pedro Laporte, Héctor Escobedo, and Bárbara Arroyo, pp. 223–234. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Orellana, Sandra L. 1995 Ethnohistory of the Pacific Coast. Labyrin­ thos, Lancaster, CA. Otzoy C., Simón 1999 Memorial de Sololá: Edición facsimilar del manuscrito original. Transcripción al kaqchikel moderno y traducción al español. Comisión Interuniversitaria Guatemalteca de Conmemoracióm del Quinto Centenario del Descubrimiento de América, Guatemala. Parsons, Lee A. 1967 Bilbao, Guatemala: An Archaeological Study of the Pacific Coast, Cotzumalhuapa Region, Vol. 1. Publications in Anthropology 11. Milwaukee Public Museum, Mil­ waukee, WI. 1969 Bilbao, Guatemala: An Archaeological Study of the Pacific Coast, Cotzumalhuapa Region, Vol. 2. Publications in Anthropology 12. Milwaukee Public Museum, Mil­waukee, WI. Pohl, John M. D. 2000 Exploring Mesoamerica. Oxford University Press, New York. Polo Sifontes, Francis 1979 Título de Alotenango. 2nd edition. José de Pineda Ibarra, Guatemala City. Popenoe de Hatch, Marion 1989 An Analysis of the Santa Lucía Cotzumalguapa Sculptures. In New Frontiers in the Archaeology of the Pacific Coast of Southern

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2005 Representaciones del paraíso en el arte cerámico del clásico temprano de Escuintla, Guatemala. Iconografía y escritura teotihuacana en la costa sur de Guatemala y Chiapas. Utz’ib Serie Reportes 1(5):34–54. Asociación Tikal, Guatemala. Taube, Karl E., and Marc Zender 2009 American Gladiators: Ritual Boxing in Ancient Mesoamerica. In Blood and Beauty: Organized Violence in the Art and Archaeology of Mesoamerica and Central America, edited by Heather Orr and Rex Koontz, pp. 161–​220. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California, Los Angeles. Tedlock, Barbara 1992 Time and the Highland Maya. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Tedlock, Dennis 1996 Popol Vuh: The Definitive Edition of the Maya Book of the Dawn of Life and the Glories of Gods and Kings. Simon and Schuster, New York. Tena, Rafael (editor) 2002 Mitos e historias de los antiguos nahuas. CONACULTA, México, D.F. Vázquez, Francisco 1937 Crónica de la provincia del santísimo nombre de Jesús de Guatemala de la orden de nuestro seráfico padre san Francisco en el reino de la Nueva España. 4 vols. Biblioteca “Goathemala” 19. Sociedad de Geografía e Historia, Guatemala. Velásquez, Primo Feliciano 1992 [1552] Anales de Cuauhtitlan. Códice Chimalpopoca. UNAM, México, D.F. Zamora Acosta, Elias 1985 Los Mayas de las tierras altas en el siglo XVI: tradición y cambio en Guatemala. Sección Historia. V Centenario del Descubrimiento de América 5. Seville, Spain. Zantwijk, Rudolf van 1977 Handel en Wandel van de Azteken: De sociale geschiedenis van voor-­Spaans Mexico. Van Gorcum Assen, Amsterdam.

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CHAPTER 9

The Problem of Ethnicity and the Construction of K’iche’an Identity

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as the Popol Wuj and the Memorial de Sololá are documents written in a specific place and time and from a particular programmatic perspective. But K’iche’an identities were — ​and still are — ​constantly in flux. Rather than focus on the historical genealogy of various groups as Ruud van Akkeren (this volume, 2000, 2003, 2005, 2006) has so productively done, I approach the construction of identity from a theoretical perspective. Specifically, I see Postclassic K’iche’an identities as containing a number of paradoxes, the resolution of which can serve to illustrate how identities are formed and function worldwide. I begin, then, with some of these paradoxes. K’iche’an group identity was tied to place of origin and the resources found there, but some K’iche’an groups contained recent immigrants who had no historical claim to local places or resources. K’iche’an identity relied on the metaphor of kinship, but many members of the same group were unrelated. K’iche’an identity was tied to language, but a K’iche’an identity group could contain people whose ancestors were speakers of K’iche’, Tz’utujil, Mam, northern lowland languages, and even Nahua. K’iche’an peoples could be either urban or rural. K’iche’an identity literally defined group membership in terms of the wild and natural environment, yet at the same time considered members to be urban and nonmembers to be rural. K’iche’an group identity was concentrically and hierarchically nested, but an identity group could contain itself as a member and even subsume other groups. K’iche’an

This volume considers the construction and reconstruction of identity in the southern Maya region. Identity, of course, is a very broad topic, one that can be approached at almost any level of scale from the configuration of the self to the unity of humanity. There is very little thought or behavior that is interesting that is not related to identity. This makes it a slippery and difficult concept to define (see Clark, this volume). Until recent decades, however, most archaeologists focused on just one aspect of identity: ethnicity. In so doing, very few stopped to ask what, precisely, ethnicity is, who constructs it, and for what reasons. Since the 1980s, we have turned to the archaeology of other forms of identity, most profitably gender and class. At least three key issues have arisen: (1) the difficulty of “discovering” the individual in the material record; (2) the difficulty of distinguishing among gender, class, race, ethnicity, and other interrelated forms of identity; and (3) a conviction that agency plays a key — ​perhaps even principal — ​role in determining identity. One purpose of this chapter is to review the concept of ethnicity and other forms of identity from archaeological and anthropological perspectives. A second goal is to ask: who were the K’iche’, Achi, Kaqchikel, Tz’utujil, Chajoma’, and other K’iche’an groups of the Postclassic period? The nature of highland Maya identities poses many paradoxes for the ethnohistorian and archaeologist. As scholars, we tend to view these identities as fixed, because our most vibrant sources such 172

The Problem of Ethnicity and the Construction of K’iche’an Identity identity was totemic but also was goal oriented or programmatic. Finally, K’iche’an ­rulers sought to define themselves as not K’iche’an.

membership. This stylistic approach, therefore, was culture history writ small. Responses by Ian Hodder (1990) and especially Margaret Conkey (1990) reflect first-­wave postprocessual discontent with this static, interpretation- and context-­free perspective yet did not seek to define ethnicity. More focused approaches to identity emerged from two distinct movements of the 1970s and 1980s: Marxist and feminist archaeology. Archaeologists who studied gender — ​either within or beyond the feminist school — ​strongly challenged the notion that women and individuals could not be “discovered” in the archaeological record. Both feminists and Marxist archaeologists sought to expose underlying ideologies concerning class, gender, and their construction. More recently, scholars such as Maria Franklin (2001) and Mark Leone et  al. (1987, 2005) emphasize that class and gender are inescapably linked to other forms of identity such as race. Ethnicity — ​however we choose to define it — ​cannot be separated from other identities and the hierarchical notions of power that create oppression. Critical archaeologies, therefore, have made the individual more archaeologically “visible,” but identities are now viewed as more complex because of their intersectionality (McCall 2005). As the culture concept lost its primacy and went “feral” (Pyburn 2009:9) in American anthropology, archaeologists replaced it with the seemingly more acceptable, albeit not clearly defined, notion of ethnicity. The 1980s and 1990s saw much research devoted to the archaeology of ethnicity. One approach emphasized internal (or private) versus external (or public) displays of identity (Burmeister 2000; Spence 1992, 1996). Although public displays of identity are often reflexive and deliberate, the manifestation of identity in private contexts — ​especially within the home — ​can be conscious or unconscious. Such unconscious manifestations may be closely related to daily practice. For this reason agency and practice theory, which view ethnicity as but one facet of the dialectic between structure and agents, became central to archaeological discussions of identity. Agency became a

Ethnicity, Other Forms of Identity, and Agency in Archaeology

The doctrine that “archaeology is anthropology or it is nothing” was fundamental to American archaeology long before it was explicitly codified by Philip Phillips (1955:246–247). This is because the approach advocated by Clark Wissler (1917, 1923, 1926) to defining culture areas in the Americas did not differ for archaeologists and anthropologists. No clear distinction was made between ethnographic cultures and archaeological cultures. Instead, archaeologists, ethnohistorians, and ethnographers were all viewed as studying the same thing — ​the ethnic group — ​using different methodologies and focusing on different time periods. Past and present cultures were defined using trait lists. In the case of archaeological cultures, those traits were largely physical in nature and limited to material expressions observable in the archaeological r­ ecord. The New Archaeologists challenged many aspects of culture history, but did not seek clear definitions of ethnicity or identity. For example, in the 1980s Polly Wiessner (1983, 1984, 1985), James Sackett (1977, 1985, 1990), Lewis Binford (1989), and Angela Close (1989) engaged in an important debate concerning the nature of style. That debate focused on where style resides in material objects, on the sociotechnic aspects of style, and whether or not style was a conscious or unconscious expression of ethnic affiliation. How “ethnicity” is defined and how it is constructed were not thoroughly addressed, and the idea of individual style was de-­emphasized (for discussion of self-­evaluation in relationship to groups, see Wiessner 1984, 1989). This last fact reflects a commonly held belief that the individual was somehow “invisible” in the archaeological record. In retrospect, it appears that these scholars were attempting to use style — ​ observed through attribute analysis of a single class of artifact — ​to replace the trait list as a way of identifying ethnicity or other forms of group 173

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fetish in the 1990s, and Pierre Bourdieu’s (1977) notion of habitus came to be seen by many as a natural key to understanding ethnicity and other forms of identity (e.g., Dietler and Herbich 1998; Jones 1997). I take issue with three points. First, although habitus has much to do with the identity of the individual and certain forms of group identity, it has nothing whatsoever to do with ethnicity. Second, agency is not possessed by individuals or groups. It is not, somehow, essential or embodied. Instead, agency is a quality that emerges only through interaction. Third, ethnicity is a social construct — ​usually a demeaning one — ​that exists only in pluralistic, state-­level societies. For these reasons, we should be extremely careful when brandishing it as an analytical category.

individuals to change their ethnic identity depending on the social context of a given inter­ action? Hegemonic states, of course, impose ethnic identity. Does this mean that in so doing, they also are forcing habitus and daily practices upon individuals and groups? Of course not. The key here is that ethnic identity is a nonessential and often externally imposed categorization. Ethnicity exists within the discursive framework and is a rhetorical device of hegemony and resistance. It implies dominant and subaltern status. Thus, archaeologists should be very hesitant to impose ethnic categorizations on past societies. If we do so — ​as Gustaf Kossinna did — ​we subject the past to our own contemporary discourse. No One “Has” Agency

Habitus is Non-­Discursive but Ethnicity is Discursive

Bourdieu’s notion of habitus is related to Marcel Mauss’s techniques du corps and has a genealogy that can be traced back through the twelfth-­ century renaissance to the writings of Aristotle. For these earlier scholars, habitus denoted the behavioral manifestations of the essential qualities of a person. Bourdieu’s version allows for the dispositions of an individual to alter during her life as a result of and response to interaction. Certain aspects of habitus, therefore, may change. Most importantly, in all definitions habitus is generally unconscious and nonreflexive. That is, it refers to certain nondiscursive aspects of culture. If habitus manifests ethnicity, then ethnicity itself is somehow related to the essential qualities of the individual. That ethnicity may be considered essential is, for me, both politically distasteful and intellectually problematic. An equally important criticism that is particularly relevant to Bourdieu’s concept is the fact that ethnicity — ​like so many other forms of identity — ​ is rooted in discourse. Ethnicity is very much a part of the language of claims to property, rights, and history. Moreover, ethnic identity is often defined by the dominant discourse and imposed upon subaltern groups. If ethnicity is rooted in nondiscursive habitus, then why is it so easy for 174

Agents are individuals or groups and, hence, are real. But agency, as it is usually defined, is a capacity and a potential. Above all, it is an invented abstraction. It is not a property that can be seen or measured. When we write that an individual “has” agency it is a bit like saying that he has a soul. Actor-­network theory (Callon and Latour 1981; Callon and Law 1982; Law 1992), especially as configured by Bruno Latour (2005), provides a useful framework in which to reinterpret agency. Actor-­network theory (ANT) describes both conceptual and material relationships between actants. ANT does not deny that reality (past or present) exists, nor does it reject empiricism as an important tool that can be used to describe and understand interactive networks. It should not, therefore, be summarily dismissed as too “pomo.” Actants can be subjects (i.e., humans or groups), objects, or even ideas. A key aspect of ANT is that these actants are seen to be structurally equivalent nodes within an interactive network. Latour (2005:76) argues for an even stronger “generalized symmetry” that seeks to de-­emphasize the distinctions between human subjects and other kinds of actants. Thus, a common criticism of Latour’s configuration of ANT is that it ascribes agency to objects and ab­ stractions. Following generalized symmetry yet rejecting the notion of objective agency, I argue that neither objects nor people possess agency. In-

The Problem of Ethnicity and the Construction of K’iche’an Identity stead, agency emerges through the relation of a subject and another actant within the network. That is, agency exists only in the interaction between subjects, objects, and ideas. Agency does not lie in the nodes of a network; it is found in the edges that connect them. If we remove an object from a network containing people, that object does not participate in the creation of agency, hence cannot create or recreate structure. If a person is removed from a network of ideas, objects, and other people, that person cannot change society. Thus, agency is not possessed, but instead emerges and is expressed in the relationships among subjects, objects, and ideas. Agency is not merely an inherent capacity for action; it is interaction in the world. Ethnicity is a form of expressed agency. It is not possessed or produced by the essential characteristics of subjects. Instead, it emerges from interaction among subjects, objects, and ideas within a particular class of interactive networks. That class is the pluralistic state.

labeled as “ethnic” implies subaltern status. That identification and status can be ignored, hidden by the individual, rejected in a struggle to control discourse, or embraced as part of a program of resistance. These are reflexive acts that differ greatly in meaning from the unconscious repetition of daily practice. Although all human groups have a sense of self and other, it is only in the pluralistic state that such power differences exist and allow the imposition of ethnic categorization. It is this external imposition of a group identity by the dominant discourse within a state — ​and the establishment of membership criteria that may or may not be viewed within the group as relevant — ​that defines ethnicity. For the most part, ethnic categories used by archaeologists and anthropologists are creations of our own historical and current discourse. When we apply them to ancient peoples living in nonstate societies, we are not only in error but also risk presentism. Alternative Approaches to Identity

There are, of course, many kinds of group identity besides ethnicity. Group identity is often structured according to principles of descent, be it real or fictive, as well as by perceptions concerning the natural world or of history. Identity can also be defined in terms of the goals shared by group members. In this section, I present three other approaches to ethnicity that I consider particularly useful in interpreting K’iche’an identities. Cultural Totems. Ethnicity exists only within complex states, but all societies mark, classify, categorize, and even rank groups of people. Such classification entails identifying one or more cultural traits or characteristics that contrast groups with each other. In many cases, such traits are used in an emblematic way to broadcast solidarity. In this sense, cultural totems may contain stylistic content related to identity. One key point is that such traits — ​what Theodore Schwartz (1982) calls “cultural totems” — ​must contrast the identity of one group in relation to others within its world. A second key point of identity systems that rely on cultural totems is that they often are related to conceptions of

Ethnic Distinctions Are Limited to the State

Like race, ethnicity is not a precise analytical category. When anthropologists classify groups, those classifications often do not mirror emic perceptions (Cohen 1978:373). Scholars since Fredrik Barth (1969) have argued that ethnicity is a fluid social construct, but ethnic categorizations are usually demeaning. I argue that ethnicity can exist only in pluralistic, state-­level societies characterized by dramatic differences in power. “Ethnicity” is derived from the Greek noun ethnos, which was originally used to describe foreign nations. But the meaning of “ethnic group” has drifted to refer more to people who lack their own nation state, perhaps because of diaspora or conquest. Ethnic groups are viewed as colorful, exotic, and marked categories. One speaks of an “ethnic minority,” but the concept of an “ethnic majority” is practically an oxymoron, unless a dominant group feels challenged and under threat by foreigners incorporated into the state. The concept of ethnicity denotes a sense of alterity, marginality, a lack of modernity, and almost always indicates a lack of power. To be 175

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the natural world. Social structure and natural structure mirror each other; myth links and explains both systems. Schwartz’s conception of the cultural totem is broad and general. As we shall see, for K’iche’an groups, the totemic aspects of identity were more literal. Hence, two important K’iche’an groups, the “People of the Bats” (Sotz’il) and the “People of the Oaks” (Tuquche’) were recognized by their totems in the natural world and understood socially through myth. The House Society. Just as the natural world can provide a metaphor for human identity (as well as the inverse), so too can kinship. Claude Lévi-­Strauss (1987) introduced the notion of “house societies” in which the house functions as a moral actor with property and other rights. The members of such houses need not be related by actual blood or marriage alliance, instead, they rely on the metaphor of kinship to describe their affiliation. Susan Gillespie (2000a, 2000b) and Rosemary Joyce (2000) have used Lévi-­Strauss’s notion of the house society to understand Classic Maya society, but the model seems to me to be even more apt for understanding Postclassic highland Maya identity. After all, K’iche’an peoples were organized in groups that they called nimja or “great houses.” Because such great houses were corporate groups with collec­ tive property rights, it is logical to consider them as the protagonists and agents of K’iche’an history. Yes, individuals are actants, but so too are corporate groups. Identity and Project. Manuel Castells (1997) provides an alternate perspective on collective identity and posits three fundamental forms. The first, a legitimizing identity, is introduced by dominant social actors in order to extend and rationalize their authority and domination. In contrast, a resistance identity is created by those agents who are devalued or stigmatized by dominating institutions or actors. Finally, Castells proposes a third form of collective consciousness. It exists when social actors build a new identity that redesigns and redefines their position in society, and therefore transforms existing social structure. This very conscious and transformative variety is called program identity.

William Roseberry argues that Antonio Gramsci’s notion of hegemony is particularly relevant to any discussion of collective identity. But rather than considering hegemony as the monolithic creation of ideological consensus or the passive acceptance of coercion by subaltern groups, he suggests that it is better to view it as “a problematic, contested, political process of domination and struggle” (Roseberry 1996:77). The hegemonic process and discursive framework of society are not completed achievements of the state but are ongoing projects. The main point here is that we can consider Castells’s legitimizing and resistance identities — ​in fact, all forms of collective identity — ​as examples of program identities. Recognizing all forms of group identity as project identities, Roseberry asks us to consider how programs are formed and put forward, and what sorts of communities are made possible or impossible both within and outside of the project. For the Postclassic Maya highlands, specific questions might include: (1) how was identity constructed by dominant K’iche’an groups?; (2) how did certain K’iche’an groups manipulate identity in order to promote their hegemonic project?; (3) conversely, how did other groups use identity to resist that project?; (4) how did the creation of new group identities promote various projects?; and (5) what forms of community thrived in the Maya highlands as a result? In the final section of this chapter, I briefly discuss the construction and manipulation of identity by Postclassic K’iche’an groups. The Formation and Manipulation of K’iche’an Identity

K’iche’an collective identity was rooted in place and resources. Following Roseberry and Castells, the program of various K’iche’an groups was to increase access to these resources (Braswell 2001, 2003b; Hill 1984; Hill and Monaghan 1987). Resources might be physical (such as water, land, clay, or obsidian), tactical (such as access to trade routes), or intangible (such as the right to certain prestige titles). Claims to place, resources, and rights could be based on historical, moral, or legal precedent. This is the purpose of 176

The Problem of Ethnicity and the Construction of K’iche’an Identity many ethnohistorical documents, including the Memorial de Sololá (Maxwell and Hill 2006:14– 16) and the Popol Wuj. Access to resources could be gained by force — ​a favorite K’iche’an tactic — ​ or through the formation of alliances. Such alliance groups often came to include recent immigrants and neighbors who spoke different languages (Akkeren, this volume).

reminder of the fact that this large identity group was forged of many smaller groups with disparate historical and even linguistic origins. The Great House and K’iche’an Identity

The fundamental building block of K’iche’an society was the chinamit, a word borrowed from Nahua that is more or less a synonym for calpulli (Akkeren, this volume). Chinamit refers to a walled place (Carmack 1977:12–13). Its frequent synonym, nimja, means “great house.” And, of course, the Nahua root calli in calpulli means house as well. The Poqomam called this unit molab (Hill 1984), which also refers to a house. For highland Maya peoples, the metaphor used to describe the fundamental unit of social organization, land tenure, and access to resources, therefore, was the house. These houses could contain thousands of members, many of whom were not related to each other but were linked by fictive kinship. As I have argued before, Lévi-­Strauss’s house-­society model perfectly describes the chinamit system (Braswell 2001, 2003a, 2003b). Through marriage and other alliance-­ building practices, one great house could come to contain several great houses, yet both hierarchical levels would still be called a nimja or chinamit. Thus, in a paradox worthy of Bertrand Russell, the K’iche’ great house contained within it a great house also called K’iche’. Scholars including Robert Carmack (1981:Table 6.2), Robert Hill (1992), and Akkeren (2000:24) have constructed elaborately nested hierarchies of minimal lineages, principal lineages, lineage clusters, major lineages, and moieties for the K’iche’, but what is lost in these careful anthropological schemes is the paradox that only one emic unit of identity — ​the chinamit — ​is expressed. The anthropologically defined levels of identity were not seen to be hierarchical, but were conceptually equal and flat.

Totems and K’iche’an Identity

Anthroponomastics provide important clues about K’iche’an identity. Maya collective names, be they the names of families, fictive families, large-­scale alliances, or even languages, are usually totemic in nature. Today, the vast ­majority of Maya people have surnames that refer to plants or animals. Ethnohistorical records indicate that this is a Prehispanic pattern (e.g., Akkeren 2000:99–111; Christenson 2003; Maxwell and Hill 2006; Weeks 1997). This strongly suggests that many K’iche’an identity groups may once have been organized like clans, linked through myth to particular totems. For the larger K’iche’an groups, the prevailing totemic reference is to trees. As mentioned, one of the three most powerful Kaqchikel factions was called the Tuquche’ or “Oak People.” The word Kaqchikel means “Red Branch People” and refers to the color of the magical staffs given to the Mosaic figures of Gagavitz and Zactecauh at Tulan (Maxwell and Hill 2006:38–39). These walking sticks play a vital role in the ensuing migration myth, and hence may be viewed as a totemic badge of social memory and corporate inheritance. Finally, the word K’iche’ itself means “many trees.” The Kaqchikel even called the K’iche’ k’echelaj, or forest. Akkeren (2000:76–81) ­argues that this name refers to a nomadic and rural central Mexican identity, in contrast to the wuq amaq’ or “seven tribes” who lived in settlements in the central Guatemalan highlands before the migrations of the Terminal Classic period. In sum, for Akkeren, the use of tree imagery evokes a wild, nomadic, and soldierly world parallel to the Nahua identity as descendants of the Chichimecah. I suggest that the word K’iche’ also may have served as a totemic metaphor and a

The Urban and Rural Nature of K’iche’an Identity

A problematic unit of identity is the amaq’. This is usually translated as “tribe,” but “settlement” is probably more accurate. Hill (1992:15) suggests 177

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that amaq’ were larger alliances forged from chinamit, but Carmack convincingly argues that the chinamit and amaq’ are structural opposites. For him, amaq’ “signified a rural lineage population or settlement, the opposite of tinamit, or town” (Carmack 1981:59). This is curious, because — ​as noted above — ​Akkeren (2000) links the concept of amaq’ to the urban and settled world. [I]n the passage about the Amaq’ the Popol Wuj wants to convey the concept of the civilized versus the non-­civilized. They describe on the one hand local lords and lineages, living on the valley-­floor in civilized towns since time immemorial, the Amaq’, and on the other intruding warrior groups called K’iche’ Winaq or “Forest People[”]...roaming the k’ichelaj . . . feeding themselves with larvae of insects and bark. In other words it is the concept of culture versus nature, in Mesoamerica expressed in the dichotomy of Toltec versus Chichimec (Akkeren 2000:​ 77–78). This seeming paradox can be understood in terms of the program of K’iche’an identity. On the one hand, like many Mesoamerican peoples, K’iche’ans described themselves as civilized city dwellers (that is, belonging to a chinamit). They chose to view themselves as ajtoltekat, urban and civilized craftsmen, in contrast to their rural neighbors. On the other hand, a major aspect of K’iche’an identity was the notion that they were warriors descended from fierce nomads. Thus, like the Aztecs, the ruling K’iche’an lineages depicted themselves in seemingly contradictory ways as both urban and rural. Complicating matters, of course, is that by the Late Postclassic, most of the amaq’ and ruling chinamit of a particular kingdom were undoubtedly intermarried, were organized in similar great houses, lived in both towns and rural areas, and spoke the same language.

observer, the Postclassic K’iche’ appear to have emerged out of a multilingual, multicultural group. This alone is a good reason to eschew referring to K’iche’ as an ethnic identity. What united the factions of the K’iche’ polity was not a common place of ancestry, history, or even language. Instead it was a shared program of political, military, and economic gain or domination. In a series of noteworthy publications, Akkeren (this volume, 2000, 2005, 2006) has traced the history of some of the K’iche’an great houses. He argues that immigrant Itza forged the three great houses within the Kaweq Great House (the Kaweq proper, Chituy, and Kejnay). A fourth chinamit, the Nim Ch’okoj, also may have come from Yucatán, where that name (as well as the kinkajou to which it refers) is found. A fifth chinamit, the Kooja, were an ancient and royal Mam family, which Akkeren (2005) argues had its roots at Takalik Ab’aj during the Classic period. The Tz’ikin chinamit was one of two powerful Tz’utujil great houses, which may, in turn, have had distant Nahua ancestry (Akkeren 2005). Two additional chinamit, the Toj and the Q’anil, also appear to have come from Pacific Guatemala, perhaps from the Cotzumalhuapa and the Río Nahualate regions (Akkeren 2006, this volume). Finally, the Tepew Yaki (“Sovereign Mexicans”) were closely related to the ballgame and are explicitly noted as having Nahua ancestry (Akkeren 2006). K’iche’ identity, therefore, was not defined primarily on the basis of a shared history or even common linguistic heritage. It was a new identity forged through the merger of multiple groups in a common alliance. The Programmatic Quality of K’iche’an Identity

Like all forms of identity, K’iche’an program identities were fluid and changed over time. By the late fifteenth century, K’iche’an society had become significantly class based. The metaphor of kinship that defined the great houses tended to undermine this class structure (Braswell 2001, 2003a). To this end, the K’iche’an ruling class began to form a new kind of elite identity that crosscut the complex network of highland society. This new identity created social prox-

The Multicultural Quality of K’iche’an Identity

Perhaps the most perplexing quality of K’iche’ identity (here I speak specifically of K’iche’ and not of the Kaqchikel), is that to the modern 178

The Problem of Ethnicity and the Construction of K’iche’an Identity imity among elites from different territories and polities while simultaneously defining social distance between classes within the same polity. I have used the words “nahuaization” and (I now regret) “ethnogenesis” to describe the construction of this new identity (Braswell 2003b), because it was achieved by borrowing traits (including aspects of language, religion, and material culture) from Nahua peoples of Mexico and the Pacific slopes of Soconusco and Guatemala.1 Castells’s perspectives on identity can help us understand this process. By the time the Memorial de Sololá was written in the early colonial period, the project identity of K’iche’an lords had been transformed into a legitimizing identity that justified in historical and cultural terms the subjugation of commoners, including nonelite members of the ruling great houses. Castells’s notions of identity are also helpful in understanding the modern politics of the K’iche’an world. Most speakers of Mayan languages have not and do not view themselves as “Maya.” For most inhabitants of the highlands, that term refers specifically to the indigenous people of the northern lowlands and to the Mopan Maya of southern Petén and Belize. Never­theless, in the 1980s the anthropological sense of “Maya” as a presumably homogeneous ethnicity was reconstructed as a resistance identity. Many educated elite today employ the concept of Maya as a forceful project identity that can be used to alter economic, political, and social discourse in northern Central America. The formation of the Academia de Lenguas Mayas de Guatemala — ​now housed in what was once the residence of the Minister of Defense — ​is one example. It is not surprising to me that this new and dynamic project identity first took roots in the K’iche’an highlands of Guatemala.

that emerges through interaction in the world. Ethnicity is a form of expressed agency that can emerge only in pluralistic states because it is uniquely in such contexts that differences in power are sufficient to allow the imposition of identity by the dominant discourse. Finally, I warn that archaeologists and ethnohistorians who apply ethnic categorizations to past societies — ​state-­level or otherwise — ​run the risk of nonreflexive presentism. Rejecting ethnicity as a useful concept for understanding Postclassic society of the central Guatemalan highlands, I turn to other discussions of identity in an effort to untangle the seeming contradictions and paradoxes of K’iche’an civilization. K’iche’an group identity was tied to place of origin and the resources found there, but some K’iche’an groups contained recent immigrants who had no historical claim to local places or resources. The key to understanding this seeming paradox is that K’iche’an great houses were agents acting to gain control of these resources. K’iche’an identity was therefore fluid and focused on the project of controlling access to natural resources, labor, trade networks, and high-­prestige titles. K’iche’an identity relied on the metaphor of kinship, but many members of the same group were unrelated. I stress that the Postclassic highlands were organized as a house society, where many unrelated people were joined in large corporate groups — ​factions, really  — ​that employed both real and fictive kinship as a way of identifying members. K’iche’an identity was tied to language, but a K’iche’an identity group could contain people whose ancestors were speakers of K’iche’, Tz’utujil, Mam, northern lowland languages, and even Nahua. Most inhabitants of the central highlands are descendants of settlers who came to the region from the northwest at the beginning of the Early Classic period (Braswell 2003b; Popenoe de Hatch 1997, 1998). These people — ​later referred to as the wuq amaq’ — ​almost certainly spoke a language ancestral to Kaqchikel, K’iche’, and Tz’utujil. A new wave of migration brought other Mayan speakers and even non-­ Maya people to the highlands during the ­Terminal

Resolving the Paradox of K’iche’an Identities

In this chapter, I outline the history of archaeological approaches to ethnicity. I stress that ethnicity is discursive, and hence cannot be expressed through nonreflexive habitus. Moreover, I question the notion that agency is possessed, and prefer to see it as a phenomenon 179

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Classic and Early Postclassic period. By the Late Postclassic period, most of these groups were absorbed into highland society to such an extent that they spoke languages of local origin. At the same time, both the structure of the house society and the nature of the programmatic identity of the K’iche’an great houses required that distinctions be made among the groups. Thus, foreign names, titles, and even aspects of language came to serve as cultural totems that unified a particular great house and defined it as different from its neighbors. K’iche’an peoples could be either urban or rural. K’iche’an identity literally defined group membership in terms of the wild and natural environment yet at the same time considered members to be urban and nongroup members to be rural. Two of the most important tropes in Mesoamerica are migration and the synthesis of the wild and the civilized. Like their Aztec contemporaries, many of the K’iche’an great houses viewed their ancestors as outsiders who came as nomadic hunters and fierce warriors. At the same time, they considered themselves to be cultured, urban, and skilled. The contradiction of defining the great houses (as well as their counterparts, the amaq’) as both civilized and wild, and as both rural and urban, can be understood in terms of this synthesis. K’iche’an group identity was concentrically and hierarchically nested, but an identity group could contain itself as a member and even subsume other groups. The great houses of K’iche’an society were fluid, and identity was strongly programmatic. Alliances were often formed between great houses when their goals overlapped or were mutually beneficial. For this reason, one great house could come to include others. These were viewed at one level as forming the same great house, but at another were considered to be distinct. Thus, great houses could contain themselves as well as other groups. K’iche’an identity was totemic, but also was goal oriented or programmatic. Most Mayan surnames refer to plants and animals and are totemic in nature. Great houses and major factions also had totemic names, and the names linguists

now use for K’iche’an languages come from these major factions. At the same time, great houses and larger factions struggled against each other to control material and nonmaterial resources. The identities of the great houses were closely tied to these programmatic goals. Finally, K’iche’an rulers sought to define themselves as not K’iche’an. The metaphor of kinship that defined membership within the great houses created group solidarity, which in turn undermined emerging class distinctions. For this reason, members of the K’iche’an nobility sought alternative ways to create social distance between themselves and their real and fictive families. One way of achieving this was to adopt a foreign, esoteric, and powerful Nahua identity. Although it is certainly the case that some K’iche’an great houses had distant Nahua ancestors, in many other cases they did not. The nahuaization of elite K’iche’an culture was as much a product of this need to create social distance as it was an inheritance from much earlier times. Whither archaeology? Clearly, this chapter relies much more on ethnohistorical sources and cultural anthropology than on dirt archaeology as a way to move beyond what John Clark (this volume) calls purely objective identity categories and towards more subjective ones. Janine Gasco (this volume) echoes this in her discussion of “ethnolinguistic” groups of Soconusco. She describes very little difference in material culture in a region with speakers of several languages and with distinct identities. I think there are two lessons that can be learned from the K’iche’an example. First, archaeologists should learn to ask questions driven by an understanding of subjective identity, in much the way argued by Roseberry. Gasco does this quite well in her chapter. She has identified a program: cultural homogenization or acculturation. Different peoples within colonial Soconusco sought to become more like each other, not more different. What were once distinct “ethnolinguistic” groups first adopted a common language (Nahuatl) in a program to become “colonial Indians.” Later, they adopted Spanish

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The Problem of Ethnicity and the Construction of K’iche’an Identity and became campesinos. While archaeology is not a good tool for identifying language affiliation in circumstances where material culture is uniform, there are situations in which artifact assemblages are quite distinct and later become more similar. The spread of ceramic spheres is an example. We should try to understand such expansions not only in terms of migration (an old and sometimes lazy archaeological explanation), but also in terms of programmatic identities that promoted assimilation. Like Gasco, we need to ask why actants chose to adopt such programs. Second, as amply illustrated by Akkeren (this volume), archaeologists should seek to identify actants at levels of scale above the individual or even the household. Given that so many still consider the individual to be “­invisible,” it is surprising that larger units are not more frequently the subject of inquiry (but cf. Canuto and Yaeger 2000). In the K’iche’an case, it is the chinamit or

nimja that stands out as the basic building block of urban society. These are physically manifested at the various K’iche’an capitals in architectural forms, particularly the “big houses” that were the property of each distinct chinamit. Similar Classic to Postclassic structures have been tentatively identified at Copán, throughout the northern Maya lowlands, and even in southern Belize and could be the subject of comparative study. The repetition on and segregation within the built landscape of other sorts of structures and architectural groups might also help us understand group organization at a level above the household. Archaeology, therefore, can begin to approach subjective identity by asking new sorts of questions and by studying Mesoamerican society at the intermediate level of scale where group agency was most often manifested through interaction.

Note ología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. 2006 El chinamit y la plaza postclásica: la arqueología y la etnohistória en busca del papel de la casa del consejo. In XIX simposio de investigaciones arqueológicas en Guatemala, Vol. 1, edited by Juan Pedro Laporte, Héctor Escobedo, and Bárbara Arroyo, pp. 223–234. Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología de Guatemala, Guatemala City. Barth, Fredrik (editor) 1969 Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference. Little Brown, Boston. Binford, Lewis R. 1989 Styles of Style. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 8(1):51–67. Bourdieu, Pierre 1977 Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Braswell, Geoffrey E. 2001 Post-­Classic Maya Courts of the Guatemalan Highlands: Archaeological and Ethnohistorical Approaches. In Royal Courts of the Ancient Maya: Vol. 2: Data and Case Studies, edited by Takeshi Inomata

1. Akkeren (this volume) sees the process in reverse: the “Mayanization” of people whose ancestry was in central Mexico. I agree that this also happened. But I see these as parallel and essentially similar programmatic processes leading to the creation of a unified elite identity, one that was neither purely Maya nor Nahua, and that set rulers apart from commoners.

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CHAPTER 10

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects John E. Clark

The key archaeological challenge of identity research arises from two premises and one judgment. Modern social science, our own history, and personal experience demonstrate (1) that some identities are self-­ascribed and (2) that modern identities differ from ancient ones. What one thinks of one’s self-­identities matters in what one attempts to do in her world and why, and what happens after. Assuming that self-­ identities, agencies, and outcomes had causative connections in the past, it follows that our pursuits of ancient histories should consider what ancient peoples thought of their own identities. A recent turn in social science has been to view identities as mutable rather than fixed. Authors in this book assume that individual and group identities are and were constructed through social interactions, with material things being instrumental in such constructions. Contrary to hoary assumptions of yesteryear, identity is not an essential attribute of being but an ongoing aspect of performance in becoming. Of special analytical concern is the distinction between objectivist and subjectivist views of identity — ​identities ascribed to persons by others versus those claimed by persons themselves for themselves. Past problems and future prospects for identity research for southern Mesoamerica are explored in this book. I comment on arguments raised in each chapter as well as some arguments hiding in voids between chapters. Case studies range from Middle Archaic to Postcolonial so185

cieties and theoretically from Evolutionary Psychology to Practice Theory and Actor-­Network Theory. The archaeology chapters deal mostly with objectivist group identities at the scale of towns and cities; the ethnographic and historic chapters concern subjectivist group identities of confederations, communities, great houses, and lineages. My interrogations of explicit and silent assumptions of these arguments consider a wider arc of geography, identities, and theory. The unifying premise of other chapters is that identity is “constructed.” It is worth noting that “identity” and “construction” mean different things to different authors here. In previous attempts to write this chapter and address the wide-­ranging work and theory represented, I have been driven to distraction by sundry concerns raised about culture history, language labels for people, normative views of culture, reification, and essentialism. Others have addressed the most serious of these matters (Brubaker and Cooper 2000; Hall 1997). I focus here on the relationships between identity and human nature, cultural practices, cityscapes, sacred places, ritual, art, and agency. Before exploring these connections I propose terminology helpful for description and analysis. Identity and Ethnicity As technical terms identity and ethnicity are at once too broad and too narrow to serve any useful purposes. Each must be qualified. Definitions in preceding chapters foster confusion

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by comingling theories of ethnicity, identity, and personhood. Person identities and group identities do not operate on the same principles (Hall 1997:29–30). To multiply confusions, in archaeology ethnicity has served as a loose synonym for ethnos — ​the “peoples” and “cultures” described in old culture histories. As Geoffrey Braswell argues, ethnicity and ethnic identities are associated with subaltern groups in state-­level societies. Elizabeth Graham (2006) speculates that ethnic groups were rare in Mesoamerica, and she recommends exploration of group identities instead, with ethnic identity a type of group identity expected to arise under conditions of political unrest in state societies. Some simple distinctions will help navigate identity and ethnicity arguments. Studies of these phenomena are dichotomized in the literature. Old understandings are called primordialist or objectivist. Depending on the study, the opposite of primordialist is circumstantialist, optionalist, instrumentalist, constructivist, or subjectivist (Brubaker et al. 2004; Stark and Chance 2008:6–7). The latter terms convey a sense of mutable or malleable identity. As described by Philip Gleason, [P]rimordialists regard ethnicity as a given, a basic element in one’s personal identity that is simply there and cannot be changed, while optionalists hold that ethnicity is not an indelible stamp impressed on the psyche but a dimension of individual and group existence that can be consciously emphasized or de-­emphasized as the situation requires. (Gleason 1983:919, my emphasis) Tim Ingold (2000:135) characterizes the approaches as models. His genealogical model concerns identity “generated at birth, in advance of one’s lived life. In the relational model, one’s identity is created in practices” (Hutson 2010:​ 38). G. Carter Bentley (1987:27) argues that dichotomous approaches miss the critical point “in that neither explains how people come to recognize their commonalities in the first place.” The critical issue is where identity and ethnicity come from. Braswell (2006, this volume) discusses program identities. This is the notion 186

that people can shape their identities to achieve certain ends. As to identity and ethnicity, identity is the more inclusive term in that ethnic identities constitute a subset of identity. All chapters in this book concern identities rather than identity. None explicitly concerns ethnicity as a particular modality of identity. Because “identity” now connotes so many different things, its meaning needs to be specified. I use “identity” as an analytical term, rather than a common word, to refer to a domain of study and the concepts unifying that domain. In writing of persons and peoples, I use the plural “identities” even for solitary individuals. Each of us has many identities and potential for more. Identities come in many shapes and sizes, and there are different ways of assigning identity or taking on identity. Much of what needs clarifying about identity can be deduced from four common, paired sentences: (1) I am (not)..., (2) we are (not) ..., (3) you are (not) ..., (4) they are (not) . . . , Grammatically, identity is about the number and person of the subject and positive and negative predications of “to be.” In speech and thought we naturally distinguish between identity as singular and plural, and first-, second-, or third-­person views. For referring to I-­ identity or person identity, the terms self, person, and subject are appropriate. These are not equivalent terms. The concepts of person and subject appear more apropos for archaeology than self because they include the notion of embodiment not necessarily included with self.1 Identity in the singular or plural can be from first-, second-, or third-­person points of view. “You” can be singular or plural. In the singular, it is a “not-­I” close by that we assume is its own “I” from a different point of view. For any given individual the “We” must include the “I.” As a plurality, we-­identity is group identity. Most chapters here concern group identities of various sorts rather than singular identities. The notion of “They” is more open, with the only criteria for membership being a plurality that excludes “We” and “I.” As a plurality, “They” also qualifies as group identity rather than person identity. I use the Freudian term identification to refer to the manner in which identity is self-­ascribed.

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects Identification is “the process by which a person comes to realize what groups are significant for him, what attitudes concerning them he should form, and what kind of behavior is appropriate” (Gleason 1983:916; cf. Hall 1997:30). These views can be centered in the “I” and “We” of the subject and thus be subjective views of identity or self-­identification (Brubaker and Cooper 2000:15). Characterizations of identity from second-­person or third-­person perspective are objective views of identity or external identification (ibid). It is widely claimed that our sense of self is a dialectical reworking of what we think of ourselves and what we think others think of us (Earnshaw 2006; Goffman 1959; Levinas 1991; Ricoeur 1992). Chris Fowler (2004:18) describes this as personhood being “mutually authored” rather than “self-­authored.” In archaeological work we should distinguish between objectivist identities of persons and peoples (1) constructed in the past and (2) those fabricated in the present for the past. Arguments in this book exemplify how archaeologists construct identities for past persons and groups. I refer to these identities for past peoples as narrative identities or analytical identities. Every person has a narrative identity or biography as part of the self, the core of one’s self that provides a sense of coherent being through a lifetime (Fowler 2004:20; Ricoeur 1992). To distinguish between them, I capitalize Narrative Identities when referring to proposals of historians and leave narrative identities in lower-­case for selves speaking of themselves. The double entendre of my title refers to the “construction” of Narrative Identities by archaeologists as well as past constructions of identities by ancient peoples. Group identities come in a wide variety, with ethnic identities being the most prominent in recent studies. The relationship between person identities and group identities involves action and agency on the part of individuals in groups. I refer to membership identity or membership for a person’s participation in a group, collective, or institution. Institutional identity specifies membership in particular institutions. It matters not whether membership is an active choice or natural circumstance of birth and cultural in-

heritance. The principal theme of this book is that identity is “constructed,” but this is another ambiguous word that blurs distinctions among types of identities and kinds of identification. For example, many aspects of my personal identity and history as a person cannot be truthfully changed by any power on earth. What is, is; what has been, was. I cannot change my past. In contrast, many aspects of my group identities and memberships can be changed at short notice. The fluidity accorded “identity” in recent tomes is most appropriate for membership in group identities, including ethnic identity and other affiliations, rather than person identity or personhood. For ethnic identity, I follow distinctions recommended by Geoff Emberling: If ethnic refers to group-­level phenomena, then ethnic identity means an individual’s ethnic group membership, and ethnic identification is the process of identifying oneself or another with such a group. We use ethnicity so widely because it refers both to ethnic groups and to their individual members. (Emberling 1997:302, my emphasis) Rogers Brubaker and his coauthors (2004:​ 32) “suggest that ethnicity is fundamentally not a thing in the world, but a perspective on the world.” Graham (2006:110) clarifies that “the term ‘ethnic’ carries with it the implication that the people associated with a trait, or with several traits, actually define themselves in terms of possessing the trait.” Ethnic membership can be both an objectivist and a subjectivist identification at individual and group scales. Traditional archaeological studies of group identities by culture historians were classificatory and objectivist, as if group identities could be sorted on the table like so many potsherds. Not considered in these traditional views were “the subjective self-­categorizations of the people being studied” (S. Jones 1997:57). Identities involve self-­ awareness and are “constructed” through social interactions. Thus, they necessarily are contextual, situational, relational, and fluid. One is somebody always in relation to someone else; alterity is fundamental to being and awareness of being (Levinas 1987a, 1987b, 187

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1991; Moyn 2005; Ricoeur 1992). Individual persons or selves and human groups set themselves apart from perceived others, which can include animals, plants, spirits, etc., as types of persons (Fowler 2004:7; Kohn 2013). In antagonistic or dialectic social circumstances, groups establish and maintain boundaries of various sorts, ranging from actual physical barriers to behavioral distinctions. Such distinctions are neither necessary nor determined; they are socially constructed. Because identity and being have relational and contextual aspects, one cannot deal with being by itself. Identity has to do (1) with others and (2) with one’s self being with others in a lifeworld, or what Martin Heidegger calls Dasein, the “I am” of “Being-­in-the-­world” (Stapleton 2010:44).2 There are different modes of being in a given world. To understand adequately individuals who lived in Mesoamerica we need to place them in their lifeworlds. The distinctions made by social psychologists among person identity, role identity, and social identity can help in sorting ­identities inferred from the archaeological record. As described by Peter Burke and Jan Stets (2009:112),“role identities are based on the different social structural positions individuals hold, such as spouse, worker, and parent, social identities are based on individuals’ memberships in certain groups as in persons being Democrat, Latino, or Catholic. Person identities are based on a view of the person as a unique entity, distinct from other individuals.” Each of us carries each kind of identity within us and hosts a virtual ecology of selves at both the individual and group levels. Burke and Stets (2009:145)also speculate that in “preliterate or premodern societies, there may be only a few identities that are available for individuals; for example, wife, mother, sister, and gatherer may encompass most of the identities available to women in such a society. In ­societies that are more complex, there are thousands of different identities available as roles, groups, categories, and divisions proliferate.” Michael Love’s analysis of the city of La Blanca brings to the fore this proliferation of identities with urbanization. One’s membership identity in institutional circumstances differs significantly from identity

as selfhood or subjecthood. In our world, identities are stolen and falsified every day. These are official and legal identities as defined by entities with which we affiliate or have membership. From the government’s view, my identity is my name cum body, as specified by recording the names of my parents and the time and place of my birth to distinguish me from other bodies bearing the same name. As an official, recognized person or citizen I own property and enjoy other rights for which I qualify. According to different governmental agencies I am a ­number (social security, driver’s license, passport, tax number). The government and its agencies simplify my identity to a stereotype according to which part or aspect of my person they surveil. My university and church memberships essentialize in similar ways and label me with their own numbers. My identity relates to the position or role assigned to me in these institutions at any given time. From my eyes, a membership in an institution constitutes one item on my personal list of individualizing predicates — ​one item of myriads. From the institution’s objectivist view, however, my identity includes just one or two characteristics from the full list of my personhood that, for institutional purposes, it considers the core feature(s) of my identity. Thus, in the same institutional relation, my person identities (ego-­self, selfhood, and personhood) and my bestowed identity differ radically in logic and content without affecting the reality of my being. Institutional social identities are the simplest because they reduce the complexity of selves to manageable stereotypes and memberships. These are experienced and internalized from both individual and collective stances. Most institutions have rules for admission and standards for staying. Membership identities are essentialist, normative, reifying, and objectifying. Authors in this book deal mostly with institutional identities, entities, and memberships rather than identity as selfhood, personhood, or subjecthood. Current studies reject the idea of identity as a stable attribute of selfhood and propose, in its stead, that subjective self-­categorizations of being are constituted through interactions. 188

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects I think the fluidity of identity gets exaggerated from a failure to distinguish, for any individual, the “I” or “subject” from the thousands of predicates which pertain to it. Selfhood gets confused with membership identity. One adds some aspects to one’s identity all through life and discards others. Surely things that can be added or subtracted from “I am...” are not the subject per se. Something about a person’s identity should be essential enough to last her whole life through, otherwise there would be no continuity of the self (Arendt 1958; Fowler 2004:19; Sökefeld 1999). Some constancy of core identity is even more likely for group identities and associations. To resort to modern analogy, the University of Michigan football team has existed for well over a century with rather minor changes in identity, uniform, and other trappings. Individual team members come and go every year, but the team endures as a transgenerational entity, as does its sponsoring university. The same must have been true of Mesoamerican institutions and associations. Persons comprising an entity could come and go without causing major changes to the institution itself, its identity, or the attributes of that identity — ​unless all members left at the same time and were not replaced.

else? The conceived selves that populated the worlds of our remote ancestors differ radically from those now thought. I suspect we think of our ancestors as having been like ourselves, but we would have difficulty communicating with them about constructivist attitudes of self, discipline, human rights, and so forth. For most authors in this book, the Mesoamericans whose remains we study are not even fictive ancestors, so the conceptual distance between their self-­notions of personhood and our own is far greater than that separating us from Greeks, Romans, and Gauls. If we care about the subjective identities of Mesoamericans, then the conceptual gulf to bridge phenomenologically exceeds that of trying to understand John Locke, René Descartes, Aristotle, or Moses and will require much more than bathing old data in new theory. A commendable innovation of the preceding chapters is their consideration of past persons, peoples, places, and things as constructivist agents rather than primordial ones. This important first step should be followed by attempts to imagine these constructed agents in lifeworlds of their own making, and from their views of the cosmos and all beings in it. The ethnohistoric chapters present information of this sort, but much more can be done. In any course on Mesoamerica worth its salt, students learn that Mesoamericans believed in animal soul companions (naguals) or coessences (Hendon 2012; Hutson 2010) and in fate determined by the calendar day of one’s birth. In modern parlance, these notions of selves and persons known for Aztecs, Mayans, et alia involved p­ artible and extensionist selves. One’s self was not restricted to one’s body-­mind-soul-­spirit but also extended to other beings and things. One could partition parts of one’s self. An obvious corollary of such a view is that one could also harbor parts of other selves within one’s own being, as if host to some alien parasite. Such beliefs must have affected notions of group identities of various sorts. Scott Hutson argues that Mesoamericans had a relational view of identity. “A relational view is sociocentric as opposed to self-­centric and conceives of the self not as individualized, sealed off, and independent,

Mesoamericans and Their Lifeworlds

Recent advances in identity theory concern Western views and ourselves. Some insights of these new understandings must apply to selves in other lifeworlds, but not all. We Westerners were long in arriving at current understandings of mutable identities, as histories of concepts show (see Hallam 2009; Levin 1992; Martin and Barresi 2003; Rose 1996; C. Taylor 1989). Our grandparents did not believe the things about identity we do, and their great-­great-grandparents were even further removed, all the way back to fictive connections to Greeks and Adam and Eve. There is a serious lesson here. Histories of identity theory, selves, persons, individuality, etc., take pains to demonstrate how Western philosophy and science have overcome Aristotelian, Cartesian, and Lockean notions of persons. Are we Mind-­Bodies, Mind-­Spirit-Bodies, or something 189

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but rather as a node in an open network connecting other people, places, and things” (Hutson 2010:2). He calls his approach “dwelling,” a term taken from Ingold (1995) who got it from Heidegger. I prefer Heidegger’s term Dasein, from which “dwelling” derives (Heidegger 2001), because it cannot be confused in English for an ordinary concept or thing. Hutson (2010:28) grounds his relational approach on three postulates: “When subjects are inherently relational and when intentionality is dispersed throughout the network in which subjects are entangled, agency takes on very different meanings. At the least, agency becomes a property of the social group...” Braswell makes a similar point about the relationship of agency and identity, which I address below. Individuals who have different notions of themselves and their agentive powers will act in ways different than we do, thus subjectivist notions of self and person are necessarily involved with agency and actions. Discussions of Mesoamerican identities ought to take into account views of selves as composite beings capable of extension, fragmentation, and even decomposition. We should also consider Amerindian perspectivism: “the way in which humans, animals and spirits see both themselves and one another” (Viveiros de Castro 1998:469; also Chase 2015; Kohn 2013:95). Much is on the line here with our choices of ontologies and the types of selves, personhood, and associations imagined. It would make a significant difference in our analyses if we thought that the peoples of southern Mesoamerica believed in partitive selves instead of Cartesian mind-­ body dualism. If stone carvings of Maya kings shared the kings’ essence, as Stephen Houston and David Stuart (1998) argue, then for Classic period Mayans identity was an extendable quality that included objects as well as humans. This spiritual extension goes well beyond the Actor-­ Network Theory view that all things are actants that mutually influence each other (Latour 2005). A stone monument bearing a king visage was not a “thing” sometimes acting with agency; it was the king acting as himself. The ethnographic literature for post-­ Mesoamerican peoples on notions of self is a 190

vast and largely untapped resource that will be useful in future endeavors to understand Prehispanic Mesoamericans in lifeworlds of their own making. As Oswaldo Chinchilla argues, the stone monument at Cotzumalhuapa with the carved image of a king was a sentient extension of the king’s person. On the other end of the scale, Lucia Henderson’s exposition of the Volcano-­Lake pair in highland Guatemala deals with them as animated beings. Love’s proposal that people may have erected the large earthen temple platform at La Blanca to represent a mountain as the abode of the ancestors also gets at Mesoamerican concepts of the cosmos and person-­being. All such exercises require imagination and some daring, but they are grounded in Mesoamerican beliefs. The history chapters in this book provide insights into native notions of group identities. Ruud van Akkeren and Geoffrey Braswell describe highland Maya groups from the Late Postclassic and Conquest periods. Akkeren traces highland groups to their Early Classic roots. His major innovation is to delve beneath the general language labels for peoples in the documents and to trace history by following the exploits of lineage groups. He calls his method “lineage history” (Akkeren 2005). In this volume, he observes that “[W]e learn more about the historical dynamics in the highlands when we move from confederation down to the lineage-­level” and trace the movements of different groups through lineage names. Akkeren proposes that the highland Maya groups of the Late Postclassic period were confederations comprised of different groups: (1) highland Maya lineages; (2) lowland Maya lineages from the northern Guatemala lowlands; and (3) Maya-­Mexican lineages from the south coast. Braswell argues that nimja and chinamit are synonyms and equivalents of the Aztec calpulli or “great house.” In contrast, Akkeren describes chinamit as composed of nimja. Braswell indicates the fluidity in these terms for corporate groups: “one great house could come to contain several great houses, yet both hierarchical levels would still be called a nimja or chinamit.” In turn, Akkeren argues that the “Kaweq chin-

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects amit in the K’iche’ capital of Q’umarkaaj consisted of nine lineages, among them the Kaweq themselves who occupied the supreme political positions of ajpop [Lord of the Mat] and ajpopo k’amja [Vice-­Lord of the Mat]” (Akkeren 2005:2; cf. 2012:105); they were a lineage of merchants. Among the eight other lineages were those in charge of the Tojil cult (Ajtojil) and the cult to the Feathered Serpent (Ajq’­uq’kumats), a lineage of historians (Nim Ch-­okoj), a lineage of tribute-­ collectors (Kejnay), and a lineage of ball­players (Tepew). Akkeren claims that three lineages were Itza from Chichén Itzá (Kaweq, Chituy, and Kejnay), one was from Yucatan (Nim Ch’okoj), and two “Maya-­Mexican” lineages came from the south Coast (Ajtojil and Ajq’uq’kumats). These joined two Highland Maya lineages (Tamub’ and Ilokab’). “K’iche’ identity, therefore, was not defined primarily on the basis of shared history or even a common linguistic heritage. It was a new identity forged through the merger of multiple groups in a common alliance” (Braswell, this volume). Most of Akkeren’s history concerns the Ajtojil lineage. Details of basic culture history are revealed as he traces the Tojil cult back to the Pacific Coast (Cotzumalhuapa) and even further back in time and farther in space to the Mexican highlands. He provides details of Mexican lineages, merchant cults, patron deities, and names and proposes that the Maya names are translations of Nahuatl names. This is actually a necessary postulate for his approach rather than an attested fact or inference. He presumes that names with the same meaning are translations of each other, much as we would translate Ian to Jon, John, Johann, Jean, or Juan, depending on the languages in play. In like manner, the famous Mexican Atonal lineage became the Maya Toj lineage, and the fire god of this lineage cult changed from the Mexican god Huehueteotl or Xiuhteuctli to the Maya fire god Tojil. When one looks just at names, the variations in form look like differences in identity, but they are the same concept under a different label. This “translation” premise and method of detecting similarities make lineage membership appear more fixed than language identity. Akkeren points out

that lineage memberships were fluid and not necessarily based on bloodlines. One could become a member of a lineage by coresidency. This practice would indicate that individual lineage membership was mutable, whereas the institution granting the membership was stable over many centuries. Braswell’s argument for lineages addresses seven paradoxes of K’iche’an group identity, most having to do with language and metaphors of identity labels. His discussion and examples concern “program identities.” Many of the program identity options for the K’iche’ were ways to recruit people to lineage groups and increase demographic resources. Braswell describes a process of nahuaization that seems to counter the mayanization described by Akkeren. People took on identities for good reasons. Identity shifts seen in prehistory should prompt us to look for the reasons for apparent changes. Near the end of the Postclassic period, highland Maya groups migrated back to the coastal lowlands. The K’iche’ of this period conquered the eastern edge of Soconusco and held it for a decade before the whole region was conquered by the Aztecs in 1486 under Ahuitzotl (Gasco and Voorhies 1989; Voorhies 1989c). Because of the Aztec conquest and administration of this zone, information on earlier cultural entities of coastal peoples has been lost. The cultural situation in Early Postclassic times was likely complex. Barbara Stark describes two scales of identity evident in documents for Late Postclassic Mesoamerica. One is a broad, usually linguistic level combined with culturally stereotypic traits. Another level concerns polity or “city-­state” affiliation or origins. We see the linguistic scale mainly through “Aztec” perceptions and policies, that is, those of Basin of Mexico Nahuatl speakers who were integral members of the Aztec Triple Alliance, dominated by Tenochtitlan. This level of ethnicity was ascribed, but it is unlikely that ethnicity was also self-­ascribed at the same broad scale. (Stark 2008:38)

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The evidence of ethnic or culture group identities for Postclassic Soconusco comes from Aztec tribute records, which ascribe generic identity and give the eight tribute towns in Soconusco Aztec names (Gasco and Voorhies 1989; Voorhies 1989c). Evidence from early Colonial records suggests a varied cultural and linguistic landscape after the destruction of the Aztec Empire. This same variegated cultural landscape was likely the case in Early Postclassic times prior to Aztec meddling. At the time of the Aztec conquest,

the boundaries of language groups identified in early colonial documents. She observes that “as early as the late sixteenth century, external markers of linguistic identity were subtle at best and perhaps altogether absent.” If we had a better handle on the utilitarian wares involved, perhaps the pattern would not look so homogeneous. It is clear, however, that for the Late Postclassic period there was an “international” style for serving vessels that pervaded different regions. This is what Mesoamerica looked like at the end. Its beginning is discussed by Hector Neff and Michael Love in terms of hypothetical identities.

The Soconusco coastal plain . . . was divided politically into eight polities. . . . The center of each of these polities was typically at an inland location close to the foothills of the coastal range. Their territories extended across the coastal plain to the ocean and an unknown distance into the mountain range. (Voorhies 1989a:124–25)

Human Nature and Identity Neff presents a sweeping overview of “identity construction” from an Evolutionary Psychology (EP) perspective for societies of the Pacific slope of Guatemala and Chiapas over a 7,000-­ year span. He portrays identity as a “process” rather than as a condition of being. This constructivist language conceals primordial identity. The “process” to which Neff refers takes eons; nothing changed in a few human lifetimes. He defines identity construction “as the expression of evolved behavioral capacities that establish individual uniqueness.” He takes as given the evolution of psychological predispositions and mechanisms. Stripped to its core, his discussion concerns “human nature” (D. Buss 1995, 2012; Cosmides and Tooby 2005; Pinker 2002) rather than human being or identity in the subjectivist sense advocated by others here. In explaining “identity construction” through analogies, Neff discusses songbirds, bird plumage and nests, sexual selection, dominance-­ deference behavior among hunter-­gatherers, and the “conditions under which ‘identity construction’ might evolve in humans.” Of key interest are the evolutionary mechanisms behind behavioral predispositions. This is most clear in his concluding argument wherein he anticipates the criticism that his explanation recycles issues from 1960s debates over surplus. Why would surplus have been invested in costly signals? Neff ’s answer is “that under the peculiar conditions of the human niche, accumulation of prestige has emerged as a strategy with high

Given the narrowness of the coastal plain, these polities were side by side. There is no evidence of a unified Postclassic polity before pax Azteca. The limited evidence from linguistic geography, historical linguistics, and census records suggest that most of the peoples of Soconusco spoke some form of Mixe or Zoque. There is evidence of some speakers of old Mexican (Nahua vs. Nahuatl) in several of the towns (Voorhies 1989b). Janine Gasco argues that the Postclassic and Early Colonial cultural landscape of the Chiapas coast was a complex mosaic of language communities. Most groups were given a linguistic label by the few Spaniards who traveled through. Despite observing multilingualism nearly everywhere, those Spaniards characterized communities as speaking one language or another. In contrast to the evidence for numerous language groups, the artifacts of this era are singularly unremarkable and homogeneous, perhaps indicative of a generic process of assimilation or dissolution of differences in terms of material culture. This would suggest a process of unification rather than of marking differences. An important message of Gasco’s study is that artifact patterns do not obviously conform to 192

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects fitness payoffs. As a result, humans have evolved psychological predispositions to seek the maximum prestige that prevailing social and ecological conditions permit.” To derive actual fitness benefits, however, superior fitness must be advertised with counterfeit-­proof authenticity, hence the investment in costly signals. Neff ’s framework “suggests that identity construction should be linked to prestige, that it should entail public advertisement, and that such advertisement should vary in elaboration depending on ecological conditions, with stability and overall productivity being positively correlated to the scale of prestige advertisement.” The extent of prestige systems should vary depending on the stable energy available at any given place in any given decade. He predicts a positive correlation between favorable climate conditions and peak displays of “wasteful” goods. Seven millennia of prehistory for Guatemala and Chiapas show that the moments of highest energy expenditures for prestige displays correspond to moments of highest productivity (as measured by estimated rainfall). I originally titled this subsection “Evolutionary Psychology and Aggrandizers” to link Neff ’s theory to identities alluded to, and then I realized he avoids this term for the early social strivers whom Michael Blake and I posited for Paso de la Amada (Clark and Blake 1994:21). In fact, Neff avoids terms for persons as individuals and deals with individuals in aggregates. He is not interested in ancient persons but in mechanisms and psychological predispositions honed by millennia of adaptation. I am particularly interested in his views on this matter because the psychological makeup of aggrandizers was a point of disagreement between Blake and myself. I outlined our disagreement in a subsequent comparison of our practice theory model to evolutionary models.

land us squarely in the evolutionary ecology camp, or at least beg the question. Such a consequence would be ultimately unsatisfying as we consider evolutionary ecology explanations to be tautologous: organisms survive because they have useful and adaptive traits, and these are adaptive and useful traits because the organism survives. Another option is to attribute aggrandizing behaviors to the natural variability of personality types within populations of sufficient size (also an evolutionary explanation). This is the option that we followed in our original model. . . but I am less comfortable with this convenient assumption than is Blake because I believe personality types are profoundly influenced by cultural practices. (Clark 2000:102) EP explanations see the propensity to seek prestige as a basic element of human nature and mechanism of mind (Boone 1998, 2000; D. Buss 2012; Henrich and Gil-­White 2001; Pinker 2002); thus, vainglory requires no additional explanation. As Neff explains in this volume, “sexual selection assembled in humans a complex of abilities and behaviors that involve expenditures of inordinate energy constructing new identities beyond those of gender and age.” Clearly stated, the real agent with causative powers in his narrative is Sexual Selection as the handmaiden of Natural Selection. Both “construct” human identities by polishing mechanisms of the human mind and psychological predispositions. Neff ’s argument rests on a view of human behavior and human nature rather than agency: given certain circumstances and environmental opportunities, humans will generally behave in a certain way. If he is right, EP may provide a baseline for critical realism from which to gauge the variable side of human identity construction and effects of culture and agency (C. Smith 2010:​198– 206). Biological organisms rather than bona fide persons populate Neff ’s narrative. He describes bodied beings but not ­embodied agents. Moreover, his view is primordialist rather than constructivist because the individuals involved do nothing to “construct” their identities or modify their identities. They signal fitness to creatures

The aggrandizers proposed for Mesoamerica better combine personality and mind, but Blake and I are somewhat at a loss to account for their personal attributes, other than to ascribe them vaguely to socio-­historic and evolutionary processes. To attribute aggrandizing behaviors to “human nature” would 193

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sharing their makeup, but little else. Signals ­presumably conveyed information about something the senders possessed rather than what they were in the act of making. Other authors here would see the activities of making costly signals as fundamental to identity construction itself. The quotation about aggrandizers exposes differences between the human agents of practice theory and the human organisms of evolutionary psychology. Practice theorists speak of psychological “dispositions” of persons rather than “predispositions,” but the supposed causes behind these dispositions differ radically. In practice theory, dispositions are thought to be inculcated, embodied, and instilled in individuals through socialization of culture practices (habitus) and are not a biological inheritance. Accordingly, dispositions are “constructed” but not in ways some authors here imply (i.e., agents making identity choices about themselves). “These dispositions are not normally open to conscious apprehension” (Bentley 1987:​ 27). Bernard Lahire (2003:329) argues that we should distinguish between “dispositions to act and dispositions to believe.” Braswell argues that the construction of identity under the sway of habitus is not a conscious, discursive act on the part of the recipient. It happens by conforming to cultural practices while growing up. How dispositions and identities become naturalized and part of regular practice is an unanswered question in all chapters. Clearly, all humans have hardwired capacities. These are being identified by evolutionary psychologists and neural scientists (Hood 2012; Lieberman 2013; Prinz 2012; Swaab 2014). Which behaviors are products of human invention and which are creations of evolution? Humans appear to be the only creatures on the planet with both self-­ ascribed views of personhood and the ability to change their views of self. Does EP hold promise for getting at primordial human nature in a realist sense — ​a pure objective and unchanging view of human capacities? If some processes of identification are strictly of human making, which are they, and how do they relate to those of human nature? 194

Cities, Experience, and Identities Three chapters explore experiences of city ­living and their effects on practices and identity construction. Compared to farming ways of life, ­cities gathered people in greater numbers and thus forced more social interactions, greater ranges of activities, and social and political needs for crowd control. Cities were “built environments” in physical and spiritual senses. Love, Chinchilla, and García-­Des Lauriers describe different activities that may have simultaneously promoted constructions of new identities and pax urbis. New identities may have been both cause and consequence of a livable peace in a recursive process of becoming. Inferred city activities include constructing platforms, building causeways, carving stone monuments, sponsoring sports contests, engaging in long-­distance exchange, and conducting sacred rituals. All these activities qualify as “arts of government” or “governmentality” (Foucault 1977, 1991; Hoffman 2011; cf. Clark 1997). Government in this sense “is conceived of . . . as encompassing all those more or less rationalized programs and strategies for the ‘conduct of conduct’” (Rose 1996:29). In following sections, I consider the effects of architecture, art projects, sports, and rituals on identities. Here, I deal with cities as designed and constructed arenas for social interaction. It is noteworthy that by 900 BC some peoples of Mesoamerica had rudimentary writing and notation systems (Ortíz et al. 2007; Rodríguez and Ortíz 2007; Rodríguez et al. 2006), and there is evidence of even earlier calendars (Clark and Colman 2008). These devices would have been critical arts of government and should be taken into account in thinking about identity and early city life. The cities highlighted here were built centuries after the creation of San Lorenzo, Mesoamerica’s first city, and consequently benefitted tremendously from its bequeathed legacy of new identities and means of identification, the principal identity innovation of Early Preclassic times being the categorical distinction between nobles and commoners (a.k.a. pillis and macehuales among the Aztecs). San Lorenzo may have evolved accidently from village living

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Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects (Clark 2007), but later cities were teleological, top-­down projects (Clark 2009). By 1300 BC, Mesoamerican lifeworlds included at least two kinds of humans — ​nobles and commoners — ​and likely a third — ​slaves (Clark 1997, 2004a, 2004b; Clark et  al. 2010). What persons thought of their own selves, and what their rulers thought of them, would have been critical in the normal functioning of cities.3 As one of the earliest ­cities built in Mesoamerica after the emergence of new understandings of human being, La Blanca was one of Mesoamerica’s first city “projects.” La Blanca was planned from its inception. The builders had in mind specific models of what a city should look like. An intriguing element of La Blanca was its simultaneous construction as a physical space and as a spiritual community of unified persons. Love claims the community of flesh came to share a collective identity not possessed before.4 Building the city necessitated the allocation of new role identities, social identities, person identities, and institution identities. The budding La Blanca community recruited persons from outlying regions, some of whom may have spoken different languages and may have had different cultural backgrounds. As to specific processes of identity construction and formation at La Blanca, Love describes rituals and building projects. Regarding physical features of the city, the novel thing at La Blanca was its towering pyramid raised at the southern extremity of the site. Love explores implications of this pyramid as a supervised work project, a congregational facility, and a unifying physical metaphor for forging a sense of oneness among assembled immigrants. As metaphor, the mound was an obvious and compelling representation of a mountain. Tying this concept to later Mesoamerican beliefs, Love argues that volcanoes were abodes of “communal ancestors” and that a volcano was constructed at La Blanca to shelter the ancestral spirits of the peoples willing to live there. The labor contributed in materializing this metaphor added to a communal sense that all had a stake in the new city. Rituals conducted in the temple on top of the mount, and in the expansive plaza

at its foot, furthered the project of constructing community. Love considers “how the emergence of the first generation of Mesoamerican cities affected the construction, negotiation and practice of identity at multiple levels of society.” This claim brings up a fundamental paradox of cities. They require both division (social differences for decision-­making) and unity (shared work within the group) for smooth functioning. A managing and governing elite was a precondition for building La Blanca; the recruitment of thousands of commoners was a necessary post-­condition for its being. Putting the city together as a social organization required the invention of new functions, as well as social and role identities. These doubtless affected the senses of self for those chosen to carry out the roles. Adequate city functioning also required a sense of oneness. Whether or not it required an official group identity at an institutional level is not clear. Chinchilla suggests that the elites and commoners at Cotzumalhuapa were not part of the same group. Akkeren and Braswell describe fundamental distinctions between rulers and ruled within lineages and great houses. Building and peopling a city presented special challenges, especially when the experience of city living was new. Love portrays the construction of La Blanca about 1000 BC as a novel phenomenon. The assembly of Los Horcones occurred a thousand years later, and the urban renewal project at Cotzumalhuapa another three centuries after that. These authors describe tensions involved in trying to forge a sense of community from disparate demographic fragments drawn into each city. The challenge was the same: forge unity from diversity. The aggregated diversity differed, as did the means taken to homogenize and domesticate it. These three authors mention different role identities and social identities but not many person identities or group identities. The major shared identity ­argued for is “corporate” or “community” identity. This likely required a dual construction of community as place and of community as like-­ minded populace. La Blanca, Cotzumalhuapa, and Los Horcones were constructed as physical 195

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tification focuses directly on the practices that locate human beings in particular ‘regimes of the person’” (Rose 1996:25). As a concept, subjectivity combines ideas of identity and identity construction. All these issues converge in the observation that architecture can mold subjects. Architecture can also be a claim to distant connections, or what García-­Des Lauriers calls “citation.” Both aspects of architecture relate to identity issues.

cities and must have had personal identities as special places; they were also constructed as cities of flesh, meaning living residents with a shared emotional commitment to these special places. I imagine the cities having the same sorts of place identities and reputations as described by Henderson for Lake Amatitlán and Pacaya Volcano. Returning to the La Blanca project, residents of this novel urb must have shared some sense of commonality and association derived from the living arrangements in this newly famous place. Mere proximity would have made neighbors and coresidents aware of each other’s joys and sorrows, and some neighbors may even have become friends. Compared to earlier ways of subsisting on the landscape, there must have been less distance at La Blanca between houses and less space for garden plots. It would have been hard not to bump into other people. For most residents, moving to the city of La Blanca would have been a major change in circumstances, but not for others. Several thousand people came from the Mazatán region to the west who had been living in the large town and ceremonial center of Ojo de Agua, a place not unlike La Blanca in size and monumentality (Pye et  al. 2011).

Architecture Styles and Citationism

From its first reportage by Carlos Navarrete (1976, 1986), Los Horcones was known to be a special city: stone monuments carved in a Teotihuacán style were found there. In the 1970s, most Mesoamerican cities with evidence of Teotihuacán art or architecture were seen as part of its empire and beneficiaries of various kinds of “influences” radiating from this most magnificent metropolis, the greatest in the Americas. García-­Des Lauriers has found other kinds of connections to Teotihuacán. She argues that Group F was modeled after the Pyramid of the Moon complex at Teotihuacán. Talk of “foreign” influence evokes models of culture history and designations of peoples by shared artifact styles. Chinchilla addresses similar issues of foreign styles at Cotzumalhuapa. Claiming that Los Horcones was Teotihuacano because it has two stelae in Teotihuacán style and that Cotzumalhuapa was “Mexican” because its sculptural style vaguely looks like art from the Basin of Mexico no longer pass as competent analyses of ethnicity. Stylistic similarities and differences in art and architecture between sites have to be rethought. What do they mean in terms of identities and identification? Both Chinchilla and García-­Des Lauriers reverse previous explanations based on core-­ periphery thinking and frame their questions as local ones. Rather than seeing “foreign” influences at these cities as evidence of the hegemonic reach of empires and distant power-­mongers, they consider why local leaders chose to “cite” or reference foreign art styles and architecture. The notion of citationality (Hutson 2010:31) puts critical agency into local hands. Forty years ago

Architecture, Identities, and Subjectivities

In terms of cultural practices and lifeworlds, elites who managed or ruled La Blanca, Los Horcones, and Cotzumalhuapa had to solve the basic problem of how to fill cities with people and to keep their nascent cities from blowing apart from tensions caused by penning s­ trangers together. Love, García-­Des Lauriers, and Chinchilla write of the need to foster a sense of community and esprit de corps. I think their arguments concern new subjectivities rather than identities and would be more compelling if they embraced concepts of governmentality, arts of government, and techniques of self proposed by Michel Foucault (1977, 1991; also, Martin et al. 1988; D. Taylor 2011). Nikolas Rose combines these Foucauldian concepts in his “genealogy of subjectivities” approach: a “genealogy of subjec196

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects the questions were what Teotihuacanos wanted at Los Horcones and what Mexicans wanted at Cotzumalhuapa. Now, the question is what did persons at these cities want from foreign ­powers and clients. The answer is that individuals at both ends of these relationships shared interests and had good reasons and motivations for being entwined. Chinchilla argues for pan-­regional interactions of elites similar to those described by Akkeren and Braswell for Postclassic highland Maya. This interpretation of an elite interaction sphere appears appropriate for the situation in Teotihuacán times as well (Clark 1986). Relationships are never one sided, so the analytical tasks in any consideration are to determine the persons involved, the content of relationships, and how the material evidence of the relationship might reveal details of its workings through time and space. Akkeren’s lineage histories suggest that the spread of cults was one thing that united elites and may even have led to the founding of new cities and the demise of others. García-­Des Lauriers argues that Teotihuacán and Teotihuacanos were critical for the Los Horcones polity, and she speculates that some Teotihuacán merchants and warriors actually resided at Los Horcones (García-­Des Lauriers 2007:​ 247). She interprets Los Horcones as a case of international citation. Los Horcones was cosmopolitan and said to have been a gateway community in a world economic system, with influence from various parts of Mesoamerica, particularly Teotihuacán. Elites at Los Horcones professed in durable media associations to Teotihuacán. Such citations and declarations of identity were integral, according to García-­Des Lauriers, in efforts to unify individuals at Los Horcones under a singular group identity. Teotihuacán may have been the most dominant alterity through whose eyes the leaders at Los Horcones saw themselves. Group F at Los Horcones does bear some semblance to the Pyramid of the Moon complex at Teotihuacán in terms of layout and structured space, but the platforms in Group F do not appear to have been built with the talud-­ tablero style made famous at Teotihuacán. It is of interest that detected Teotihuacán influence at Los Horcones is limited to one complex, and 197

that the similarities are the ground plan and layout of buildings rather than stone facades. The mountain slope setting of Los Horcones must have presented challenges for aping a Teotihuacán ground plan designed for a level plane. Dressing individual building with talud-­tablero would have been much easier and more obviously a citation to Teotihuacán than copying an arrangement of buildings. The preference of spaced footings over facades thus presents a puzzle. If Group F were indeed a citation, then what was it to? There were easier ways to say “we love Teotihuacán” with architecture than to level a space on the mountain slope and crab in a miniature rendition of the Pyramid of the Moon complex. Extensive flat ground was available less than a mile away on both sides of the mountain pass. Why stuff the city there? Why honor Teotihuacán? And, why all the ballcourts if honoring Teotihuacán, a place that lacked formal ballcourts? What if the critical citation at Los Horcones were solely to the Pyramid of the Moon? What if the citation were to Teotihuacán gods rather than to Teotihuacanos? What specific entities and identities mattered in relations between Teotihuacanos and residents of Los Horcones? García-­Des Lauriers’s conjectures presume different situated agents: those who had visited or lived at Teotihuacán and personally knew its grandeur and others who had not and knew not. Which persons were the faux Teotihuacán elements at Los Horcones supposed to impress? Who were the “others” in the imagined negotiations of identities? Foreigners or locals? If it was local peoples under the impression they were seeing a piece of Teotihuacán, then the similarities to the distant metropolis need not have been accurate. To any enclaved Teotihuacanos familiar with both cities, architecture and sculpture at Los Horcones would have testified of outstanding differences rather than similarities. There are no tall stelae at Teotihuacán like those at Los Horcones. It is the iconography and its style on the stelae that establish connections to Teotihuacán, not their form. The Los Horcones stelae display hybridity; they were amalgams of local and international forms and styles. Perhaps

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the Los Horcones population was also mixed. Citationism at Los Horcones is thought also to have included the types of processions and ceremonies carried out in the Teotihuacán-­like spaces there. Thus far, there is no evidence for this. It is worth pointing out that scholars have no clear idea of what Teotihuacanos were doing in the famous open spaces at Teotihuacán itself.

regulations, and the evaluation of conduct, manners, and so forth entailed by them, establish a grid of codeability of personal attributes. They act as norms, enabling the previously aleatory and unpredictable complexities of human conduct to be conceptually coded and cognized in terms of judgments as to conformity or deviation from such norms. (Rose 1996:105)

Disciplined by Architecture

The stone cityscapes at Los Horcones and Cotzumalhuapa differ from the earth-­ and-clay constructions at La Blanca. Clear residential compounds, causeways, and ballcourts give the two Classic period cities a more cluttered and “closed” look than evident at Middle Preclassic La Blanca with its expansive spaces punctuated by a pyramid here and there. García-­Des Lauriers and Chinchilla both argue that the layouts of the cities they describe were important in ancient identity construction, negotiation, and discourse. Processions took place along causeways, and elites played rubber-­ball games in formal courts with spectators looking on. The size, shape, and configurations of buildings obviously established open and closed spaces of different capacities that determined what could be done and seen. But the built spaces did much more than this. Among other things, architectural elements restricted the ways in which things could be experienced. This gets to Foucault’s (1977) notion of the disciplinary effects of architecture so famously described for the panopticon.

In the tight quarters of a city, everyone watches everyone else all the time. The effects of public architecture, roads, and so forth were not just for the convenience of publics to observe performances, but the “public” itself was being defined, observed, and molded into a docile collectivity worthy of the city. In a Foucauldian view, the effects of public and private architecture on daily practice would have had a more lasting impact on personhood and subjectivity than any occasional eruptions of social effervescence, esprit de corps, or communitas evoked by public displays of grandeur, sacrality, or even sport fanaticism. Persons living in cities became different sorts of subjects, even when they did not take on different identities or change identities. The visible architecture and its arrangement at Los Horcones and Cotzumalhuapa is more extensive than anything at La Blanca. García-­Des Lauriers accords architecture and constructed public spaces at Los Horcones a role in negotiations of identity. These spaces include six ballcourts and Group F with its short avenue and small plaza. The spaces that matter in her argument are the openings between buildings rather than the buildings themselves. These spaces “shaped” experience, presumably by the basic ekistics of predetermining where people could walk, stand, sit, or mill around. The overall position of Los Horcones in a mountain pass is proof positive that the rulers who built the city knew how to herd people through tight spaces and control the movement of traffic. García-­Des Lauriers focuses on “public” space because the task she has set for herself is to explain how the inhabitants at Los Horcones became a “corporate identity” of cooperating individuals and

Foucault argued that disciplines “make” individuals by means of some rather simple technical procedures. On the parade ground, in the factory, in the school, and in the hospital, people are gathered together en masse, but by this very fact may be observed as entities both similar to and different from one another. These institutions function in certain respects like telescopes, microscopes, or other scientific instruments: they establish a regime of visibility in which the observed is distributed within a single common plane of sight. Second, these institutions operate according to a regulation of detail. These 198

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects groups. She laments the lack of information on households and the use of domestic space. Between these spatial scales one would expect to find a different kind of space — ​one designed for keeping others out, such as palaces and t­ emples. Openly public spaces and secluded spaces would have drawn meaning from each other, as would have the special and mundane activities undertaken in each. There must have been elite dwelling spaces at Los Horcones, as well as commoner dwelling spaces. Chinchilla (2011) describes a palace complex for Cotzumalhuapa that was surely exclusionary. In addition to their use for ballgames, the six ballcourts at Los Horcones are interpreted as having been used for feasts and rituals. Group F had open space serviceable for processions and rituals and also modest elevated buildings on the sides and perimeter from which processions would have been viewed. Cotzumalhuapa had similar facilities. Games, rituals, and processions were meant to be seen and presumably were carried out with appropriate pomp, color, and clamor. García-­Des Lauriers argues for “highly visible public rituals intended to create a corporate identity through shared experience.” This is coarse-­grain, shared experience as crowd enthusiasm rather than the fine-­grain experience of discipline and governmentality. Both would have been present in all such moments. This brief exposition of architecture as discipline and an art of government raises the related issue of “techniques of self ” and the manner in which state societies strive to inscribe social norms in their subjects. Cities create new subjectivities, and these probably required promotion of new technologies of self. This possibility should raise a host of new questions. For example, did La Blanca as a new city also represent a new rationale of government and new techniques of self? Did families raise children differently once they moved to cities? The new rituals involved with city living could have been arts of governing meant to discipline and form certain kinds of subjects. Practice of such arts would have affected cultural practices and eventually have become the dominant habitus. At that point, managing the city should have become

considerably easier as most long-­term residents would have been shaped into citizens. This is not the place to explore such issues. In my own work, I have tended to view the history of southern Mesoamerica as a succession of ceremonial centers and cities. It is not clear why some centers were abandoned and replaced virtually simultaneously by yet larger centers nearby. New centers must have been attractive to new residents for some reason. Some changes between centers may have involved different rationales of government and new arts of government (see Clark et al. 2010). Phenomenal Places, Persons, and Peoples

All authors here presume phenomenology in their arguments, but Henderson is the only one to make it the focus of her study. How did Meso­ americans see their lifeworld? What did they think of their own being and of other beings? A Mesoamerican view of cities leads naturally to Henderson’s analysis. In Nahuatl, the language of the Mexica (a.k.a. Aztecs), the term for city was altepetl, a metaphorical coupling of the words for “water” and “mountain,” the paired phenomena on display at Lake A ­ matitlán and Pacaya Volcano. Henderson focuses on the belching fire and smoke of this mountain in her analysis, but surely the water-­mountain pairing would not have been lost on pilgrims visiting the place. As Love argues for La Blanca, building a tall, artificial mountain in a ceremonial center likely conveyed some of this idea. The two best-­known Olmec cities (San Lorenzo and La Venta) were built on elevated plateaus in watery environments and thus were obvious water-­mountain pairs (Bernal-­García 1994, 2001, 2006; Bernal-­García et al. 2006; Clark and Colman 2012; Cyphers et al. 2006). The natural geographic situation of Los Horcones also conveys this coupling; the site is situated on the northern flank of a pyramidal mountain that literally rises from the sea. The symbolic significance of this setting certainly must have been part of choosing the city’s location. García-­Des Lauriers is currently working on this question (personal communication, 2014). Some places 199

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in Mesoamerica were more sacred and symbolic than others. The volcano-­lake pair in the southern mountains of Guatemala that Henderson describes was one such place. Henderson paints a picture of a living, vibrant, volatile landscape that shaped the actions of people living near Lake Amatitlán. Her descriptions read like personification gone wild, but they are solid blends of phenomenology of place and Actor-­Network Theory (ANT) in which objects are fundamental parts of human-­ thing networks and affect human actions. Henderson argues that the lake and volcano likely were seen as the abodes of spirits and gods and passageways to the underworld and Flower Mountain — ​important places in Mesoamerican cosmology. Her study concerns placemaking, an activity also undertaken at La Blanca, Los Horcones, and Cotzumalhuapa. Construction of these cities, and subsequent modifications and improvements to them, surely transformed them as perceived entities and possible identities. Sacred places do not have to be constructed, of course. Even so, natural places such as the lake and volcano were continually added to (offerings, parietal art, statues) and surely accrued even greater meaning. From the point of view of native peoples, there are few things that do not have identities. Anything with a name must qualify: land, creatures, gods, spirits, cities, towns, buildings, and even people. The argument that the active volcano-­ lake pair was especially important is compelling, as is the argument that it was a pilgrimage center. Henderson argues that this pilgrimage destination and sacred landscape “played a critical role in the formation of identity in the southern Maya region.” I doubt many identities were actually “formed” at the Lake during a pilgrimage, but I can imagine the pilgrimage experience being important to identity maintenance and commitment. What Henderson proposes is the ritual equivalent of a Port of Trade, a neutral place where all could come and perform rituals. The different ceramic vessels and incense burners placed as offerings in Lake Amatitlán look as if they were produced on demand, or that demand from peoples living in nearby regions was anticipated. 200

Implications of these data and inferences put a different spin on the spirituality of Lake Amatitlán. If the pots were made on demand for visitors who specified their desires to local potters, a pilgrim’s visit would have required several weeks, given the time needed to dry and fire thick ceramic forms. Witnessing the transformation of wet clay into a baked receptacle capable of containing volcanic fire would have been particularly memorable and impressive in the lake-­volcano setting. The production constraints of making pots and censers under the gaze of customers would have limited offerings and pilgrimages to the dry season. The alternative (manufacture unsupervised by consumers) would have been even stranger in terms of archaeological wisdom — ​potters of one community making credible and serviceable copies of ritual pottery from surrounding regions and then waiting for pilgrims from those places to show up and purchase them. Henderson’s analysis of Teotihuacán-­style censers from Escuintla exposes another irony. The style may have been a citation to Teotihuacán or an unconscious manifestation of the habitus of Teotihuacán potters who lived in Escuintla. The overt imagery portrayed in this foreign style, however, was to a local place, a counter-­intuitive expectation. Henderson’s thesis of the identity of place, and place as actant, describes a stationary actor that encouraged multiple identities. Thus, she inverts the arguments given for the cities of La Blanca, Los Horcones, and Cotzumalhuapa. The theme of the city chapters is “from the many, one”; her theme is “from the one, many.” The city chapters confront the problem of melding disparate identities into single “community identities.” Presumably, these cities also gained their own singular identities as special places, perhaps even sacred places. In Henderson’s study, we see the opposite — ​a unique place that churned out ethnic diversity through a “shared” experience of the same sacred place. Pilgrims came to the place to imbibe its spiritual essence, as one would today by going to Mecca or Jerusalem. Pilgrims did not go to the lake to become different persons, only better ones. One implication of Henderson’s analysis of ritually offered censers of different styles is that mendicants or pen-

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects itents brought their identities to the lakeshore with them; they left a token of it in the womb of the lake; then they returned home with their identities rejuvenated. The lake absorbed tokens of multiple identities and became even more sacred as an “international,” universalizing force where all were welcome. All were represented in the comingled offerings of fire to the lake’s underworld.5 Pilgrims of different highland Maya groups (and dialects?) participated in similar rituals and by so doing accentuated their personal spirituality and extant differences. It is possible that persons of different cultural groups participated together in some ceremonies and offering events. If so, this would have been a different dynamic of cooperation and have lead to bene­fits of mutual understandings among groups. Such rituals could have lead to increased camaraderie and brotherhood between groups and within each group. They would also have provided some “shared” experience that would have helped in interacting with members of other cultural groups, much as a sodality or a cult crosscuts ethnic and cultural boundaries. Henderson does not argue for cultic identity, but it is the only new identity I can envision arising from the rituals she imagines. Otherwise, pilgrim activities at the lake do not look like identity “construction” or “change.” The pilgrimage experience would have added to each individual’s person identity but not obviously to group identity. As for the identity of “pilgrim,” it would have been established the moment persons left their villages for that destination and would not have been created at the lake — ​only consummated there.

with the manufacture of social consensus, but as archaeologists we need to dig deeper and look for details. Just as Bruno Latour (2005) argues that attributing consequences to “social” forces is a nonexplanation, so too, attributing social unity to ritual is not an explanation, only an assertion. What occurred in the ritual? To whom? What were the effects? Joel Robbins (2010) offers a proposal for rescuing some of Durkheim’s original proposal that does not rely on the prior existence of “society.” We have all participated in rituals and know that any sense of “oneness” created therein  is fleeting. I do not consider such feelings as “identity” in any serious sense. By definition, every uniting ritual simultaneously divides participants from nonparticipants, as do different levels of participation in a ritual. Thus, there is a sense in which rituals are a basic tool of alterity and group segregation. The unifying and divisive powers of rituals raise questions regarding their scale and the participants involved. Authors here write of rituals as forging community at the level of cities or polities, but none of the rituals appears to have involved populations at this scale. Most of the rituals would seem to have created group distinctions within cities rather than between them. The question of ritual and group identity deserves more consideration. Assuming for sake of argument that rituals can promote a sense of oneness or brotherhood, what are the implications of this consequence for identity studies? Were identities created in rituals and through ritual participation, or were the effects of r­ ituals to deepen emotional commitments to extant identities and institutions? What were the effects of rituals on different kinds of identities? Did they affect person-, role-, social-, institutional-, or group-­identities? There are serious issues with ritual that personal experience may clarify. In my own case, when I was baptized at age 8, I officially became a member of my church. This ritual act granted me institutional membership and official identity by the very act, and there was no other way to become an official member. Attending church on Sundays and special days thereafter has added nothing to my membership identity, but it has affected my

Performance, Communitas, and Identity

Love’s and García-­Des Lauriers’s reconstructions of public rituals and Henderson’s consideration of pilgrimages rely on Durkheim’s (2008 [1915]) notion that public rituals and like events promote social cohesion and harmony. This is a common interpretation of ritual in archaeology and one that has outlived its credibility. Archaeological identifications of rituals pass for explanation. Durkheim’s insight is compelling enough to demarcate a domain of activity likely involved 201

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sense of belonging and selfhood. I have 20 seconds invested in baptism and more than 15,000 hours in other ritual participations. From my church’s view, I would retain the same institutional identity whether I attended meetings or not. Over the years my role identities in church have varied without affecting my institutional identity. Hence I ask, what kinds of identity do rituals affect, and in what ways? The rituals Love imagines for La Blanca seem like public posturing by officials, functionaries, and leaders with bystanders looking on. Some of these performances could have fostered camaraderie, but they do not seem to be about initiation into a group or of group identity per se as conferred by an institution. Rogers Brubaker and Frederick Cooper (2000:2) propose the terms commonality, connectedness, and groupness for such phenomena. A relevant term borrowed from Max Weber probably will not catch on: zusammengehörigkeitsgefühl, “a feeling of belonging together.” I propose that social solidarity and social integration are not identity. Rituals are important for community and group feeling but are not necessarily about identity construction, maintenance, or change. This possibility is alluded to in the La Blanca study and the different scales of ritual described. Love argues for public and private rituals at La Blanca, some shared elements between them, and possible contradictory purposes between public and private devotions. Intriguing is the proposal that La Blanca elites tried to foreclose household rituals as a strategy for creating greater community. This sounds like a classic case of governmentality and a concern for techniques of discipline and subjectivity. Domestic rituals may have been a form of resistance to the leaders of the La Blanca polity, in which case one wonders about the oneness and sense of community of coresidents of La Blanca. Love mentions attempts by “elites and rulers to construct new common identities centered on the new community.” This group identity is imagined at the scale of the city. Public rituals instilled a sense of “groupness.” Since this sense of community involved a clear hierarchy of elites and commoners, group identity accommodated

social differences among unequal coresidents, a version of Durkheim’s “organic solidarity.” I have made similar arguments (Clark 2004a; Clark et al. 2010; Hill and Clark 2001), but I do not think oneness and brotherhood involved in communitas constitute formal identity according to definitions outlined above. The self-­ascribed identity attributed to ritual is a rather thin one of coparticipation. Ritual may work more on subjectivity than on personhood. On a trip to Chiapas in February 2015, I saw a billboard that conveys this thin sense of universalizing identity: “Las mujeres ya tenemos una nueva opción: Unidos de Corazón!” [We women now have a new option: United Hearts!]. This was part of the governor’s appeals to every interest group in the state. He had billboards for young and old, male and female, and new symbols for that fourfold unity, promoting unity as a shared feeling for place as well as for him. He was the face of place. His billboards and TV ads specified classes of individuals and also brought to the fore certain social categories to which one could self-­identity for benefit. These are all well-­known ploys, and similar tactics may have been among the arts of government in southern Mesoamerica. García-­Des Lauriers writes of the ballgame as having been involved in rituals and promoting a unifying effect on participants. Imagined is a community comprised of individuals from different cultures or ethnic communities, all living at Los Horcones. The numerous ballcourts there are interpreted as facilities for creating community among strangers by providing a controlled venue for blowing off competitive steam, thus helping to resolve differences. This could have involved deeply religious ballplaying as well as secular sport. What is especially interesting about García-­Des Lauriers’s thesis is the combination of ballcourts with the Teotihuacán architectural elements at the site. Ballcourts represented a local tradition with deep historic roots, hence the city’s ceremonial core was a hybrid of new, foreign elements, and old, local elements, and included different cultural backgrounds brought into synthesis. Two different “identity discourses” were in play, one to placate locals and one to integrate newcomers. 202

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects The best information for ritual at Los Hor­ cones is not presented in this book. An offering of 55 figurine heads and other objects was found in Group B; the offering evinces social hybridity at a fine scale (García-­Des Lauriers 2012). The whole figurine heads and 20 fragments of others were perforated to serve as pendants and could well have specifically represented 60 or more individuals who participated in a dedication or rededication of Mound B1. These figurines represent a variety of styles but were all locally made, thus they are good evidence of a multicultural society at Los Horcones. “The diversity of identities [sic] visible in the assemblage of figurines...and their grouping into a single context provides the opportunity for comparison with each other and between the audience and the representatives” (García-­Des Lauriers 2012:80). A priest or priestess, or more, could have installed this cache after collecting the pendants from Los Horcones residents or others. I imagine more people involved, each removing her or his pendant to add to the collective pile, individual pledges to a collective enterprise. Reading this cache as sundry individuals practicing unity requires some assisting assumptions: (1) that the stylistic diversity of the figurine heads represented cultural diversity (i.e., these items were understood as self-­representations from different regions), and (2) that individuals of different backgrounds contributed pendants related to their own backgrounds. If true, future work at Los Horcones may find other offerings with similar blends of artifacts overtly referencing different regions and peoples. The minimal evidence of offerings, sculptures, and architecture points to hybridity and deliberate attempts at Los Horcones to amalgamate local and foreign practices and identities into a unified whole.

was being cited, and why? Chinchilla and Akkeren offer different answers for Cotzumalhuapa. Akkeren interprets Bilbao Monument 21 from the point of view of the “Maya dance-­ drama Rabinal Achi” and argues that images on the stone depict rituals recorded in the document, thereby providing a strong link between Cotzumalhuapa and the Toj lineage with its Tojil cult. Chinchilla abstains from guessing the ethnicity of the Classic inhabitants at Cotzumalhuapa.6 He argues that Bilbao Monument 21 depicts Flower Mountain (Chinchilla 2011, 2012c, 2013). Theirs is an argument destined to remain unresolved by facts because what will count as facts is in dispute. Akkeren makes a case that the inhabitants of Cotzumalhuapa were a Maya-­Mexican blend. As Chinchilla describes, the debate among culture historians was whether the artistic depictions on its stone monuments were “Mexican” or “Maya.” Assessments of art styles were relied on to identify the people qua language group. Chinchilla attributes Cotzumalhuapa art to pan-­ Mesoamerican style, with links to Chichén Itzá in Yucatan. In his “lineage history,” Akkeren also argues for strong influence from Chichen Itzá, but he has it coming into the Guatemala highlands in the Postclassic period. There is no reason it could not have been present at Cotzumalhuapa in the Late Classic and gone from there to the highlands earlier. The art clearly is not in Teotihuacán style. The Cotzumalhuapa stelae postdate the era of Teotihuacán dominance and do not look like the stelae at Los Horcones. Chinchilla argues that the evidence of Teotihuacán “influence” in terms of art style and artifacts at Cotzumalhuapa is minimal. His argument comes down to art and its role in supporting governing elites. He distinguishes between the persons who commissioned the monuments and the sculptors who executed their wishes; thus, he reads the messages and representations on the monuments as faithful depictions of the intentions and agencies of their sponsors. He argues “that Cotzumalhuapa art condensed the rulers’ claims to a local identity, based on links with ancient forebears, while at the same time it contained public statements

Art and Identification García-­Des Lauriers and Chinchilla focus on architecture, stone monuments, public processions, and rituals in the performance and construction of identities at the cities under their purview. Their detailed analyses of images on stone monuments are broadly semiotic in tone. The question of citation is critical to both. What 203

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about their participation in broad networks of elite interaction.” This is “art” in the broadest sense as the manipulation of stone monuments, their placement with buildings and along causeways, and their themes. The overall artistic program gazed toward the past and the ancestors while citing itself across space to art being made and displayed in sister centers in the northern Maya area. These were two positive means for claiming a legitimate right to rule. Equally important during the beginning of this program may have been the message of what was excluded, not displayed, not claimed. I refer to Teotihuacán. Chinchilla observes that some icons from Teotihuacán art do make it onto some Cotzumalhuapa monuments, but overall “the city’s distinctive sculptural style developed in reaction to the earlier dominance of Teotihuacán-­related artistic traditions in the coastal plain of Escuintla....” This appears to be a good case of negative citation, a deliberate move to make something different from the thing being ignored.7 With the same corpus of carved monuments kings at Cotzumalhuapa claimed (1) descent from Preclassic kings raised on the same soil; (2) their identity as “not-­Teotihuacano”; and (3) connections to kings and elites all over the Late Classic world. Many other messages were sent with some of this art concerning ballplayers, rituals, staged gladiatorial combats, and gods (Chinchilla 1996, 2009, 2012a, 2012b). Given his thesis of connections of kings to ancestors, it is remarkable that there are so few representations of Classic period kings at Cotzumalhuapa (Chinchilla 1996, 2012a). On stylistic grounds the Cotzumalhuapa monuments do not signal clearly (to us) the cultural identities of the artists who carved them. Akkeren’s analysis is of icons as depictions of things related to later Maya ceremonies. Chinchilla sees the themes as pan-­Mesoamerican and as evidence that elites at Cotzumalhuapa connected themselves to the greater world and derived some kinds of identities from this network. Contrary to what García-­Des Lauriers argued for Los Horcones, Chinchilla does not see the Cotzumalhuapa stone monuments as evidence of attempts to forge community among residents of the city. He takes identity questions

from the corporate or group level of cities down to the level of elite individuals. Identity discourse involved revered ancestors and gods as much as living persons. Part of ruler strategies at Cotzumalhuapa was to carve royal images in stone and depict them surrounded by ancestral figures. These new monuments served the same purpose as resetting old ones. History and rights to place were claimed as fundamental to rulership and rights of rulers over the ruled. Chinchilla’s thesis of the reuse of an old monument in constructing royal identity raises a broader issue. As described above, modern views of identity are roughly of two sorts. Primordial views are seen as outdated, but they may be of special importance to archaeologists writing histories of ancient peoples. The deployment of a Preclassic monument at Cotzumalhuapa looks like a “genealogical model” of identity and evidence that the elite in this city conceptualized identity as something primordial passed down from king to king. The rich dynastic histories of the Classic Maya implicate a primordial view as well.8 If Mesoamericans were primordialists and fatalists, how should we interpret constructivist views of their identities? Do we disservice Mesoamericans by placing them in a constructivist mode that we have only recently stumbled onto in our own culture? Are we inadvertently reconstructing their identities in our own image, and from our own ontology? For such questions, one needs to be clear about what kinds of identities were in play (cf., A. Smith 2004). The Cotzumalhuapa monuments, as interpreted by Chinchilla, are claims of person identities rather than role identities or social identities, but this may be too limited a view. In an irony worthy of Louis XIV — ​L’État c’est moi — ​the physical body of the Cotzumalhuapa king may have simultaneously entailed person-, role-, social-, and even city-­ identity. Agencies of Things and the Thing Called Agency

One interesting intersection between Actor-­ Network Theory (ANT) and views of Mesoamerican lifeworlds concerns agency. In ANT everything conceivable can be an actant and can exercise agency of some sort. ANT de204

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects rives from studies of the history of science that tracked how theories and innovations arose or have arisen from networks of scientists, laboratories, and things (Latour 1987, 1993; Law 2010). Implications for the “construction” of social and cultural entities are that analysts must deal with fine-­grained data to reconstitute networks of actants. In particular, one needs to understand how people use objects in all interactions and in constructions of selves and associations. How do objects constrain and empower persons and institutions? The conceptual boundaries between human persons, things, and other organisms are being blurred, and the concept of agency itself is undergoing critique. If agency is a distributed property pervading everything in a network, agency ceases to be an interesting or useful concept. Braswell concludes that “agency is not possessed by individuals or groups. It is not, somehow, essential or embodied. Instead, agency is a quality that emerges only through interaction” (also Ingold 2008). This proposal has troubled me ever since I read it. It is an important challenge that should be vetted in debate apart from identity questions. His assessment accords with Rose’s characterization of agency as a “false problem.” “Agency is...a ‘force,’ but it is a force that arises not from any essential properties of ‘the subject’ but out of the ways in which humans have been-­assembled-together” (Rose 1996:187-­188). In short, agency belongs to networks and not persons. In rethinking agency from different vantages, I start with an irony exposed in the juxtaposition of ANT views to those supposed for ancient Mesoamericans. In ANT, the mountains, lakes, rivers, caves, trees, animals, causeways, pyramids, stone sculptures, pots, and jade jewels described in site reports are actants with agency, thus their contributions to networks of interaction and agency should be taken into account in arriving at reasonable explanations of artifacts and their makers. As a research method and program, ANT requires that one specify all relationships among ancient persons and their things and clarify what influenced what. All these need to be seen as parts of webs of being and causation. The practical effect of ANT and

related notions of engagement, entanglement, and affordances (Gosden 2005; Hodder 2012; Hutson 2010; K. Jones 2005; Olsen 2010; Stoffregen 2000) has been to “decenter” human agency and knock humankind from its pedestal as the only truly acting species on the planet. Seen from an ANT perspective, humans acquire more “thing-­ness” and things acquire more “human-­ ness.” Hence, we can think of how things such as ballcourts affected the actions, experiences, emotions, and beliefs of those who played in games, watched games, or heard of games played. ANT is a method of analysis and a handy analytic for addressing archaeological data in a rigorous and thorough way. It also comes with some radical ontology. Bruno Latour (2005:45) claims that “society” in Durkheim’s sense does not exist. Everything is network, and the social associations and collectivities called “society” have to be constantly created and renewed to maintain themselves. This is another way of saying that scholars should not take society and its functioning as givens, and, more to Latour’s point, that attributing things to “social” causes is not a valid explanation. This insight should be extended to explanations attributing things to “ritual” causes as a subset of social causes. ANT privileges push-­back of all material things and how they affect human movement and action and their consequences. It deals with “relational effects” (Law 2010:187). Phenomenological views of Mesoamerican personhood and being also deal with active objects, but they are of a different sort than those proposed in ANT. Mesoamerican objects were living things with identities and could be extensions of human selves, or empowered by shared or relational personhood. The sculptures of kings at Cotzumalhuapa, for example, may have been actual extensions of living kings to a different medium of embodiment rather than mere hard objects which pushed back when shoved. Most actants in ANT act like devices with built-­in human motion sensors that activate only when humans move about. Without human agents, all the other actants on earth would lack agency. In contrast, things as perceived by Mesoamericans had their own sources of motion and action independent of humans. The difference is akin 205

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to that ­distinguishing the sun from the moon. Actants are like moons that reflect light but cannot generate it. In contrast, Mesoamerican things had their own power and did not depend on human movement for their animation. In the Mesoamerican cosmos, different kinds of things had different animating forces and thus different potentials for disrupting human lives. The thing-­agents of ANT are flat, reflective, and predictable. They are all the same in concept and supposed connections to human persons. In ANT, the difference between a pyramid and a penny lies not in the nature of their being but in their potentials to hinder or facilitate human action. Conceptually, ANT is exciting but rather listless when compared to animistic notions of things. In ANT, humans still appear to be the only entities who can think about their being and actions. Human agency is “minded” action; the agency of nonhuman actants is “mindless” action and reactionary. Thing-­agency resides in effects objects have in their engagements and entanglements with humans. In Mesoamerican and Amerindian lifeworlds, the agency of nonhuman actants was not thought to be mindless; in fact, everything had mind (Kohn 2013:72, 94). Consequently, the phenomenological turn to Mesoamerican lifeworlds is more radical than ANT and more appropriate for future identity work there. Discussions of these matters are just ramping up, but I expect one outcome of debate will be pleas to abandon the traditional usage of “agency” for the same reasons that “identity” and “ethnicity” have lost their utility as analytical terms. “Agency” will become so flaccid as to disqualify itself from precise conversation. Braswell argues that agency is only real when actualized, which is one reason he rejects the traditional meaning of agency as a “capacity” of human being. I disagree. I believe most humans act with intention most of the time, even when outcomes of actions are in doubt. The capacity “to intend” may be an important part of our ­evolutionary heritage. The importance of intentionality is brought out well by Andrew Pickering in his assessment of ANT as material semiotics.

Semiotically, as the actor-­network approach insists, there is no difference between human and nonhuman agents: human and nonhuman agency can be continuously transformed into one another. This, I think, is the sticking point for many people as far as the actor-­network approach is concerned. Specifically, the sticking point is called intentionality. We humans differ from nonhumans precisely in that our actions have intentions behind them, whereas the performances (behaviors) of quarks, microbes, and machine tools do not. I think that this is right. I find that I cannot understand scientific practice without reference to the intentions of scientists, though I do not find it necessary to have insight into the intentions of things. (Pickering 1993:565) To gauge the full effects and consequences of human agency in any situation, one needs to know what was decided and done within the parameters perceived by the agents involved. This requirement undercuts the idea of agency as mere relational effects. Braswell’s proposal privileges decisions that move bodies to action, or what is called kinesthetic intentionality (Joy et al. 2010:339), over those that maintain them immobile. In my moral world, many critical acts of agency require forbearance and inaction of my body but not my mind and soul. This forbearance has clear effects; otherwise the decision to “not-­move” would be morally worthless. But these consequences of “not acting” and “not moving” cannot be tied to a stationary body with a racing mind and obedient heart without knowing (1) the possibilities of actions and (2) the ones chosen. Our legal system, based on Judeo-­Christian principles, makes such distinctions all the time, as in the difference between involuntary manslaughter and murder, and most recently with hate crimes. What a person was thinking, and the reasons for action, are critical in judging motive, intent, responsibility, punishment. Similar consequences are not really the same because the cognitive state of the agents causing these effects was not the same. Braswell’s view of agency deals with it as 206

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects Braswell’s challenges to practice theory, habitus, and agency — ​and his promotion of Actor-­ Network Theory in their stead — ​pushed me the most and thus have been the most beneficial for me personally. It is rather disheartening to read that a theory one has been working on is passé before one has even mastered its vocabulary. Theories come and go so quickly these days that one worries about fads and about being distracted by them from real archaeology (Demarest 2009). I do not consider the theories in this book “fashionable nonsense” (Sokal and Bricmont 1998) or a distraction from serious work. Rather, I hope theories and questions highlighted by the authors here become central to archaeology. In the past decade, identity studies have moved from hot topic to genuine concern requiring meticulous work. Arguments in this book motivate me to take more care with archaeological data and to learn more about phenomenology of all stripes, ANT, semiotics, critical realism, and practice theory. In particular, I want to know what parts of these different approaches are compatible and which are not.9 Identities come in a nearly infinite variety, and there are many valid ways to study them. I am not yet persuaded that one approach significantly surpasses others. The theoretical range evident in this book is representative, and that range will only increase. As authors, we should assume — ​and hope  — ​that scholars with different theoretical persuasions will read our work. With this possibility in mind, an obvious service to others will be to present theory, assumptions, and basic concepts with greater clarity. The type of theory appropriate to any given task will depend on the kinds of identities sought and the ways in which they are conceptualized. Given the current interest in subjectivist identities, I stressed here the need for more and better phenomenology. Such studies will be greatly aided by exploring the ethnohistoric and ethnographic literature for Mesoamerican concepts of being and personhood. A disagreement I have with some arguments concerns what phenomena qualify as identity. If some things do not technically qualify, it does not make them less interesting than

roads taken and outcomes realized. Human agency in the sense of capacity takes these into account but also includes roads not taken. The whole point of agentive choice is to choose one thing rather than another. The merits of the choice can only be assessed in foregrounding the choice against things not chosen. Judging human agency as action should be done in terms of the full range of the possibilities for different actions. This may be impossible to determine archaeologically, but that is not the point. Claiming that something cannot be found and thus should not be looked for is to commit the cardinal sin of positivism and to confuse epistemological issues with ontological ones. Christian Smith (2010) makes a strong case that studies of persons need to be based on correct ontology; he advocates critical realism. Even if we cannot activate all features of an acceptable ontology in archaeology, we can at least get our own minds straight about the nature of human being, personhood, selfhood, and subjecthood. In Mesoamerican archaeology, the ontology of being will necessarily be another dual project and likely controversial. We can commit ourselves to critical realism and a universal ontology for all being, or we can deal with multiple ontologies from a phenomenological perspective of working within belief systems of various peoples, in which case we have to specify our own ontology as well as those of ancient Mesoamericans. Some Recommendations Chapters in this book propose new ways of getting at ancient identities and are early statements of long-­range research objectives yet to be actualized. Consequently, deriving substantive conclusions from them about the state of identity studies in southern Mesoamerica would miss the point. The roads traveled are clear enough. Of concern are the paths to follow. I am in no position to recommend any particular approach. Because of research interests, training, and b ­ iases I had a hard time with some chapters the first few times I read them. I still struggle to give evolutionary psychology a fair hearing, but exciting work is clearly being done in this field and will be fundamental for identity studies. 207

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the p ­ henomena that do, only mislabeled. Some authors promote identity as a “process” to get around the problem of specifying identities. Verbing this noun bothers me, but I think the intent is right. There is already a word for identity as a process, namely, identification. I think the concept of subjectification better approaches identity as a process. Of course, this is mostly ascribed identity, normally termed ascription, as seen through the eyes of governing elites or states rather than from the perspective of the governed. To be clear, ascription and subjectification differ significantly. Ascription involves seeing others as having a certain identity; subjectification involves changing peoples’ identities to conform to certain ideals. Subjectification encompasses nicely, I think, most of the identity processes imagined in this book for peoples of southern Mesoamerica. Another explanatory favorite deserving clarification is the old saw that public rituals automatically and inevitably create community identity and a sense of “oneness.” Such interpretations are ironic in this book because authors detour around the core weakness of culture history, namely, the portrayal of peoples and cultures as monolithic and homogeneous. A tenet of new theory is that identity is malleable rather than fixed by cultural tradition. Given this consensus, why would anyone expect a ritual to produce, en masse, homogenous beings of like hearts and minds? What is true for ritual should apply to other cultural practices — ​each likely affected the individuals involved in different ways and to different degrees. To discover how identities were constructed in ancient Mesoamerica, and what identities were constructed, one must delve into d ­ etails and consider persons as parts of actant networks. Assessing the impact of objects on humans will be a basic requirement of future analyses. At-

tention to detail will lead to better histories of Mesoamerican peoples. My interest in identity issues comes from practice theory and its emphasis on history, agents, and agency. From this view, searching the archaeological record for evidence of ancient agents seems a necessary and obvious thing to do and requires no justification. A different approach is evident in Hector Neff ’s chapter, a perspective I only became aware of when discussing his argument. He told me he was trying to explain some of the more intractable problems of Mesoamerican archaeology and was not searching for the agents of Mesoamerican prehistory. Neff uses identity theory to explain the archaeological record; identity is explanans. My work, in contrast, has sought to identify some of the movers and shakers of Mesoamerica’s past. In this approach, identity is explanandum. Both interpretive perspectives of identity are valid and provide different insights. In combination, they constitute a powerful analytical tool for research. Viewing identities and identity theories as phenomena to be explained, as well as constituents of explanations, should improve our Narrative Histories of Mesoamerica. The idea that ancient persons and groups may have deliberately chosen and constructed identities of various sorts provides a warrant for “motivating” our histories. What motives and intentions moved history and its individual and group agents? Surely, concerns with self-­identities and becoming certain kinds of persons were among the important reasons for social interactions and decision-­making. Heeding the dynamics of identity formation and the intentions behind identity construction should help in understanding why Mesoamericans did what they did and thus lead to more competent and accurate histories of their accomplishments.

Acknowledgments This text and arguments have been greatly aided by comments from Geoffrey Braswell, Hector Neff, Claudia García-­Des Lauriers, Zachary Chase, Oswaldo Chinchilla, Barbara Stark, Michael Love, Mary Pye, and Sandy Clark. I am grateful for their help.

Notes 1. I found the following sources useful: for self (A.  Buss 2001; Earnshaw 2006; Levin 1992; C. Taylor 1989), for person (Fowler 2004; Hallam 2009; C. Smith 2010), for subject (Hutson 2010; Rose 1996). 208

Constructing Mesoamerican Identities and Subjects 2. “Just as the type of Being that Dasein has is always Being-­in-the-­world and it is understood that there is no ‘adding on’ of the world after Dasein is considered, rather that ‘Being-­in-the-­ world’ is integral to the ontological structure of Dasein, it is also the case that Being-­in-the-­ world is always to be understood as Being-­inthe-­world-with-­Others” (Earnshaw 2006:62). 3. The role of government in shaping identities is obvious with our own and with its use of various techniques of governance and discipline. They parallel what Rose describes for psychology: “In making the human subject thinkable according to diverse logics and formulas, and in establishing the possibility of evaluating ways of thinking about people by scientific means, psychology also makes human beings amenable to having certain things done to them by others. It also makes it possible for them to do new things to themselves. It opens people up to a range of calculated interventions” (Rose 1996:65). The earliest governments in Mesoamerica likely had similar effects on shaping notions of personhood and acceptable behaviors. 4. For definitions of community, see the contributions in Canuto and Yaeger (2000) and Varien and Potter (2008). 5. No argument has been made of pilgrims taking tokens of their pilgrimage home with them, but this would seem a logical and easy thing to have done, an obvious way to show others at home that the trip had been made, and that it was a trip to remember. 6. “We do not know what language the inhabitants of Classic period Cotzumalhuapa spoke. . . . It is possible that the main population spoke a Maya language, but it is also possible they coresided from Classic times on with Nahua speakers. . . . It is very unlikely that there was only one language spoken on the south coast and adjacent highlands. . . . In lieu of a language name, archaeologists have chosen to use the geographic name of Cotzumalhuapa to designate the people of this ancient city” (Chinchilla 2012a:15, my translation). In other essays Chinchilla (2011, 2012c) argues for strong connections between Cotzumalhuapa and the Tz’utujil Maya. 7. This is a well-­k nown but little-­discussed feature of “scholarship.” Some investigators refuse to cite work of perceived enemies, and the very absence of required references in a study draws attention to them. 8. There is a compelling logic to this, as explained 209

by Jonathan Hall (1997:18) for Greeks: “It is the primordialist view of ethnicity that is more likely to be held by members of an ethnic group, particularly an ethnic group which perceives itself to be threatened. The reason for this is obvious: if members of an ethnic group do not regard their ethnic heritage as primary, there is unlikely to be much of a basis for cohesion.” 9. I have been particularly concerned with possible incompatibilities between practice theory and ANT. They share some broad areas of agreement (Buzelin 2005; Frère 2004, 2011; Schinkel 2007).

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Contributors

Janine Gasco Department of Anthropology California State University, Dominguez Hills Carson, CA

Ruud van Akkeren Independent Scholar Cobán (AV), Guatemala Geoffrey Braswell Department of Anthropology University of California, San Diego La Jolla, CA

Lucia R. Henderson Metropolitan Museum of Art 1000 Fifth Avenue New York, NY

Oswaldo Chinchilla Mazariegos Department of Anthropology Yale University New Haven, CT

Michael W. Love Department of Anthropology California State University, Northridge Northridge, CA

John E. Clark Department of Anthropology Brigham Young University Provo, UT

Hector Neff Department of Anthropology California State University, Long Beach Long Beach, CA

Claudia García-­Des Lauriers Department of Geography and Anthropology California State Polytechnic University, ­Pomona Pomona, CA

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Index

art: and construction of identity in Mesoamerican context, 203–4; quatrefoils in Classic Mayan, 20. See also iconography; rock art; sculpture art history, identity and concept of style in, 6 ascription, and identity as process, 208 astronomy, and alignment of central precinct of La Blanca, 38. See also orientations Atonal (Mesoamerican lineage), 155, 162, 165–66n14 Avenue of the Dead (Los Horcones), 62, 63, 64 Ayutla (Soconusco), 130, 135, 136, 137 Aztecs: conquests and influence of in Soconusco region, 129, 133, 134; influence of on merchant cosmology and ideology on Pacific coast, 143– 47. See also Teotihuacán

Actor Network Theory (ANT): and agency, 1, 174– 75, 204–6; and construction of identity in Mesoamerican context, 190, 200; and practice theory, 209n9 Adams, Robert McCormick, 43 Adler, Michael, 41 Africans, in Soconusco region, 139n8 agency: and analytical approaches to identity, 1, 29; and construction of identity in Mesoamerican context, 204–7; ethnicity and identity in archaeology and, 173–76 aggregation: as key process in urbanization, 32; and urbanism at La Blanca, 33, 34, 36 Agrinier, Pierre, 57 Agua (volcano), 72 Akkeren, Ruud van, 4–5, 8, 9, 30, 33–34, 145, 149, 150, 151, 163–64, 165n2, 172, 177, 178, 181, 190–91, 195, 197, 203–4 Amatitlán (Lake), role of in formation of identity in Southern Maya region, 71–96 analytical approaches, to identity, 1, 29, 187 ancestors: stelae from Cotzumalhuapa and cult of, 117–20; view of volcanoes as dwelling places of, 95 anonymity, as key feature of urbanism archaeology: and concept of ethnicity, 52–53, 173– 76, 186; and concepts of person and subject, 186; and identification of linguistic affiliation, 127; identity construction in record from Pacific coast, 18–23; identity as critical problem in, 29; introduction to issues of identity in context of Pacific coast and Southern Highlands, 1–10; and urbanization in Mesoamerican context, 31–32. See also architecture; bone tools; burials; ­ceramics; household archaeology; material culture; sculpture; stelae Archaic period, and identity construction in archaeological record of Pacific coast, 18–19 architecture, and construction of identity in Mesoamerican context, 196–99. See also ballcourts; causeways; monumental architecture; plazas; pyramids

Balberta (site), 21 ballcourts and ballgame, and identity at Los Horcones, 52, 57–60, 63–64 Barth, Fredrik, 1, 32, 33, 175 Behera, Deepak K., 93 Bender, Barbara, 93 Bentley, G. Carter, 186, 194 Berlo, Janet Catherine, 73, 76, 79, 83, 89, 90, 158 Bilbao (site), 21, 155–62 Binford, Lewis, 173 birds, and evolutionary theory on identity construction, 16–17. See also macaws Blake, Michael, 19, 57, 193 bone tools, and weaving artifacts at La Blanca, 44 Borhegyi, Stephan F. de, 74, 106 Borrero, Mario, 43 Bourdieu, Pierre, 174 Bove, Frederick J., 21, 106, 147, 149, 150 Boyd, Robert, 17 Braswell, Geoffrey, 3, 6, 7, 8, 9–10, 162–63, 186, 190, 191, 194, 195, 197, 205, 206–7 Braun, Barbara, 107 Brubaker, Rogers, 98, 187, 202 burials, and individual identification, 5 Burke, Peter, 188 butterfly imagery, on incensarios from Escuintla and Lake Amatitlán, 80, 81, 82, 97n8

219

I ndex

Pacific coast, 147; and Maya Collapse, 18, 22–23; of Pacific coast during Early Classic, 21; of Pacific coast during Middle through Terminal Formative, 20 Close, Angela, 173 Codex Borbonicus, 152 Codex Borgia, 152 Codex Magliabechiano, 159 Codex Mendoza, 133 Coe, Michael D., 19, 21, 109 Colonial period, and linguistic shifts in Soconusco region, 129–37 communitas: and identity construction in Mesoamerican context, 198, 201–3; pilgrimages and theory of, 92 community identity: and ballcourts at Los Horcones, 60; and urbanization at La Blanca, 36, 39, 41–42 Conchas phase, and urbanism at La Blanca, 34 Conkey, Margaret, 173 Cooper, Frederick, 93, 202 Copán, 62 cosmology: merchant ideology and Mexican influences on Pacific coast, 143–47; and role of Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya on identity formation in Escuintla, 71–96 Costin, Cathy Lynne, 43 constructivism, and theoretical approaches to identity, 1, 6–7 “costly signaling” systems, and prestige displays, 17–18 Cotzumalhuapa: and concept of Cotzumalhuapa nuclear zone (CNZ), 21–22; elite identity and sculpture of, 104–21; language of in Classic ­period, 209n6; and Pipil sites in Escuintla, 149– 50; Toj political confederation and Tojil cult in, 150–64 Cowgill, George, 32, 61 cultural totems, and K’iche’an groups, 175–76, 177, 180 cylindrical tripods, and iconographic depictions of Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya, 76, 77, 78, 81, 82, 89

Caldwell, Roger, 7 calendar books, and imagery on Monument 21 at Bilbao, 158 Cantón Corralito (site), 19 Canuto, Marcello A., 36 Carmack, Robert, 177, 178 Carolina (Pipil site), 150 Carrasco, Pedro, 143 Casas, Bartolomé de las, 150 Castells, Manuel, 10, 176, 179 causeways, and Cotzumalhuapa, 107, 114 censers. See incensario lids Central American Federation, 137 ceramics: and commercial integration of Pacific coastal communities during Classic period, 22; and Preclassic origins of Cotzumalhuapa, 109, 110. See also cylindrical tripods; figurines; incensario lids ceremonial activity, and Lake Amatitlán and ­Volcán Pacaya in cosmology of Escuintla, 71– 96. See also rituals Cheetham, David, 6, 19 Chiapanec language, 135 Chiapas: climate of during Archaic period, 19; popu­larity of ballgame in Late Classic, 57. See also Los Horcones; Pacific coast; Southern Highlands Chichén Itzá, 120, 145 Chicomuceltec language, 135 Chijoj (site), 83, 85 Childe, V. Gordon, 43 chinamit (lineage), 143, 147, 162, 164, 177, 181 Chinchilla Mazariegos, Oswaldo, 6, 8–9, 22, 109, 156, 158, 160, 162, 163–64, 166n17, 190, 194, 195, 196–97, 198, 199, 204, 209n6 Chitomax (site), 83, 86, 87 ch’ulel, and Lake Amatitlán, 94–95 citationality, and construction of identity in Mesoamerican context, 196–99 cities. See urbanization clans, and K’iche’an identity groups, 177. See also kinship Clark, John E., 10, 18, 63, 180, 193, 199, 202, 207 class: and craft specialization at La Blanca, 44–46; and identity in Marxist and feminist archaeology, 173. See also elites; social difference Classic period: and culture collapse on Pacific coast, 147; elite identity and Cotzumalhuapa sculpture during Late, 120–21; and identity construction in archaeological record of Pacific coast, 20–21 climate: and Archaic period in Chiapas and Guatemala, 19; and Classic period culture collapse on

Davies, Nigel, 143 decapitation: and iconography of Monument 21 from Bilbao, 158; as subject on Preclassic monuments from southern Guatemala, 115, 116, 117, 119 de Certeau, Michel, 6 diachronic perspectives, on identity formation at Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya, 95–96 Diaz-Andreu, Margarita, 52 Diehl, Richard A., 19 220

I ndex

Florentine Codex, 145 Flower Mountain (Flower World): and Cotzumal­ huapa sculpture, 119–20, 121; and Monument 21 from Bilbao, 157, 158; as pan-Mesoamerican concept, 78 Formative period, and identity construction in ­archaeological record of Pacific coast, 19–20 Foucault, Michel, 194, 196, 198 foundational rituals, at La Blanca, 39–40 Fox, John G., 59–60 Franklin, Maria, 173 Fuego (volcano), 72

documentary evidence, for language use in ­Soconusco region, 127 domestic contexts, and situational nature of identities, 5. See also household rituals dominance, and definition of prestige, 17. See also power droughts. See climate Durkheim, Emile, 201, 202 Dyckerhoff, Ursula, 143 El Baúl, and Monument 27, 162, 163 elites: and identity construction during ­Preclassic period at La Blanca, 42–43; and ­monumental architecture at La Blanca, 37–38; reflections of identity of in sculptures of Cotzumalhuapa, 104–21. See also class; prestige El Salvador, and artifacts from Lake Amatitlán, 85, 88, 89 El Tajín (site), 58, 64 Emberling, Geoff, 3, 43, 52, 104, 187 environment. See climate; landscape; water Eriksen, Thomas H., 52 Escuintla: Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya in cosmology of, 71–96, 90; and linguistic shifts in Colonial period, 132, 136; Pipil sites in, 149–50 See also Cotzumalhuapa; Soconusco Espinosa, Luis, 138 Esquintepeque, and Pipil sites in Escuintla, 149–50 essentialism, and approaches to identity, 29 ethnicity: concepts of in archaeology, 52–53, 173– 76, 186; and construction of K’iche’an identity, 172–81; definition of and use of terms, 185–89; ­language and definition of, 142; and material culture, 52–53; and theories of identity, 3, 6–7 ethnogenesis, and community identity in process of urbanization, 36 ethnohistory, and sources on Toj political confederation and Tojil cult, 150–51 Evolutionary Psychology (EP), and identity construction, 16–18, 192–94

Gallini, Stefanía, 149 Gann, Thomas, 158 García de Palacio, Diego, 129 García-Des Lauriers, Claudia, 4, 6, 8, 17, 194, 196– 99, 202–3 Gasco, Janine, 4, 5, 6, 9, 30, 180, 181, 192 Gell, Alfred, 96 gender: in Cotzumalhuapa art, 159, 166n17; and craft specialization at La Blanca, 44–46; and identity in Marxist and feminist archaeology, 173; impact of urbanization on roles of at La Blanca, 46 genealogical model, of identity, 186 generalized symmetry, and agency, 174–75 Gil-White, Francisco, 17, 18 Gleason, Philip, 186 Graham, Elizabeth, 187 Gramsci, Antonio, 176 great house, and K’iche’an identity, 177, 180. See also nimja Great Shield Dance, 152, 153, 154 group identity: definition of and use of term, 186, 187; and public rituals, 202. See also K’iche’an groups Guatemala: climate of during Archaic period, 19; map of sites mentioned in south-central, 105; and Soconusco region, 127. See also Escuintla; La Blanca; Mesoamerica; Pacific coast; Southern Highlands Guernsey, Julia, 20

Feathered Serpent: merchants on Pacific coast and spread of cult, 144; and Mesoamerican art in Late Classic period, 121 feminist archaeology, and theoretical approaches to identity, 173 figurines, as household ritual objects at La Blanca, 41–42 fire. See Xiuhteuctli fishing, and craft specialization at La Blanca, 44, 45, 46 fitness payoffs, and identity construction, 16, 23 Flannery, Kent V., 21, 33

habitus, identity and concept of, 5, 174, 199 Hall, Jonathan, 209n8 handicap principle, and identity construction, 23 Hegmon, Michelle, 96 Heidegger, Martin, 188, 190, 209n2 Heizer, Robert, 38 Hellmuth, Nicholas M., 85 Henderson, Lucia R., 4, 6, 8, 190, 199–201 Hendon, Julia, 65 221

I ndex

membership identity; narrative identity; program identity; project identity; resistance identity; role identity; social identity ideology: and iconography of Volcán Pacaya and Lake Amatitlán, 76–82; of merchant guilds on Pacific coast, 143–47, 155, 162 Iglesia Vieja, 62–63 immigration, and linguistic shifts in Soconusco ­region, 127, 129, 138–39 incensario lids, from Lake Amatitlán, 78–79, 80, 82, 83, 85, 88, 89, 90, 91, 94, 97n6 Ingold, Tim, 96, 186, 190 Insoll, Timothy, 7 institutional identity, 187, 188 internationalism, elite identity and Cotzumalhuapa sculpture during Late Classic, 120–21 Izapa (site), 20, 21, 115

Henrich, Joseph, 17, 18 heterarchy, and urbanization at La Blanca, 41–42 Hill, Robert M., II, 165n14, 177–78 Hirth, Kenneth G., 34 Historia Quiché de Don Juan de Torres, 154–55 Hobsbawm, Eric, 40 Hodder, Ian, 173 Hodgson, John, 18 Hoffman, Marcelo, 194 household archaeology, and understanding of identity in private sphere, 5 household rituals, and community identity at La Blanca, 41–42 house society, and K’iche’an group identity, 176 Houston, Stephen D., 63, 115, 190 Huehuetán (Soconusco), 129, 131, 133, 134, 135, 136, 138 human sacrifice. See decapitation Hutson, Scott, 6, 189–90

Jackson, Thomas L., 43 Janusek, John Wayne, 29 Jiménez Moreno, Wigberto, 106 Jocotal phase, and urbanism at La Blanca, 34 Jones, Sián, 52, 187 Joyce, Arthur A., 33 Joyce, Rosemary A., 37, 42, 65, 176

iconography: and ballcourts at Los Horcones, 59, 60; and ideology of Volcán Pacaya and Lake Amatitlán, 76–82, 94, 96; and influence of ­Teotihuacán on Los Horcones, 61; and Lake Amatitlán as pilgrimage destination, 89–92; Monument 21 of Bilbao and Classic Cotzumalhuapa, 155–62; and stelae from Cotzumalhuapa, 117–21. See also butterfly imagery; decapitation; Feathered Serpent; Flower Mountain; symbols and symbolism identification: and identity as process, 208; and ­sacred landscape of Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya, 93, 96; use of term, 186–87 identity: construction of in context of Mesoamerica, 189–208; Cotzumalhuapa sculpture and elite, 104–21; definitions of and use of terms, 185–89; and evolutionary theory, 16–18; and identity construction in archaeological record of Pacific coast, 18–23; introduction to archaeology of in context of Pacific coast and Southern Highlands, 1–10; linguistic patterns and material culture in Soconusco, 126–39; merchant cosmology and ideology on Pacific coast, 143–47; objectivist and subjectivist views of, 185, 186, 187, 196, 208; and Pipil sites in Escuintla, 149–50; Postclassic polities and Tojil cult on Pacific coast, 147–64; practices of at La Blanca site, 29–47; problem of ethnicity in construction of K’iche’an, 172–81; and public architecture at Los Horcones, 52–65; and role of Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya in cosmology of Escuintla, 71–96. See also community identity; group identity; institutional identity; legitimizing identity;

Kaminaljuyú: connections between Lake ­Amatitlán and, 76, 78, 82–83, 84, 88, 89; and eruptions of Pacaya volcano, 72; prestige signaling in Middle through Terminal Formative at, 20, 21; and sculpture from Cotzumalhuapa, 115 Kaneko, Akira, 62–63 K’iche’an groups, and problem of ethnicity in construction of identity, 172–81. See also Maya K’iche language, 138 kinesthetic intentionality, and agency, 206 kinship, K’iche’an identity and metaphor of, 172, 179, 180. See also lineage history Kirchhoff, Paul, 143 Knab, Tim, 138 Koontz, Rex, 58, 64 Kowalski, Jeff Karl, 62 La Blanca (Guatemala), 20, 29–47 ladino, use of term in Soconusco region, 126, 138 Lahire, Bernard, 194 lakes. See Amatitlán landscape, iconography of Lake Amatitlán and identity production in Escuintla, 82, 92–95. See also place names language: and Classic period Cotzumalhuapa, 209n6; and definition of ethnicity, 142; identity

222

I ndex

Memorial de Sololá, 149, 151, 152, 154, 165n11, 165– 66n14, 172, 177, 179 merchants, identity of and Mexican influences on cosmology and ideology on Pacific coast, 143– 47. See also marketplaces mercury, offerings of liquid at Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya, 94–95 Meskell, Lynn, 93, 95 Mesoamerica: and concept of Flower ­Mountain, 78; construction of identity in context of, 189– 208; and Feathered Serpent in Late Classic art, 121; and lineage history, 143; and “Olmec phenomenon” in Middle Preclassic, 43; and pan-­ Mesoamerican identity in Late Postclassic ­Soconusco, 134; storm gods throughout, 76, 78; and use of term ladino, 126. See also El Salvador; Guatemala; Mexico; Pacific coast; Southern Highlands Mexico: and debate on origins of Cotzumalhuapa population, 105–7; and Soconusco region in Postcolonial period, 137. See also Aztecs; ­Chiapas; Maya; Mesoamerica; Olmec; Pacific coast; Southern Highlands; Teotihuacán; Toltec Miahuatlán (political confederation), 150 Miller, Mary Ellen, 63 mirrors, significance of at Lake Amatitlán, 82 Mixe-Zoque language, 133 Monte Albán, 33 monumental architecture: and community identity at La Blanca, 37–38; and identity at Los Horcones, 52–65. See also ballcourts; plazas; pyramids Montana, and Maya lineages of Cotzumalhuapa, 164 Motolinia, Toribio de, 145 multiculturalism and multicultural ­interaction: and iconography of artifacts from Lake ­Amatitlán, 82–89, 96; and K’iche’an group ­identity, 178; and multilingualism in colonial Soconusco, 135, 138

and shift in use of in Soconusco region, 126–39; and K’iche’an identity, 179–80; and theoretical approaches to identity, 6, 30 Latour, Bruno, 10, 96, 174, 201, 205 La Venta (site): and architecture of Tzutzuculi, 63, 64; volcano imagery and form of Great Mound at, 38 legitimizing identity, 176 Lehmann, Walter, 109 Leone, Mark, 173 Lesure, Richard G., 19 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 10, 176, 177 lineage history: and identity on Pacific coast, 162–64; in Mesoamerican context, 143. See also ­k inship Lohse, Jon C., 72 López Austin, Alfredo, 121, 144, 165n2 López Luján, Leonardo, 121, 144, 165n2 Los Horcones (Chiapas), 52–65 Love, Michael W., 3, 6, 7–8, 9, 10, 17, 20, 21, 43, 93, 148, 149, 164, 188, 190, 194, 195, 196, 199, 202 macaws, and ballcourt markers at Los Horcones, 59 Mam (Maya language), 129, 133, 138 Mapastepec (Soconusco), 129 Marcus, Joyce, 33 marketplaces, and pilgrimage destinations, 92. See also merchants Martinez, Eduardo, 58, 61 Marxist archaeology, and theoretical approaches to identity, 173 Mata Amado, Guillermo, 74, 83 material culture: and archaeology of ethnicity, 52–53; and linguistic shifts in Soconusco region, 126–39 Mauss, Marcel, 174 Maxwell, Judith M., 165n14 Maya: climate and collapse of, 18, 22–23; and Flower World iconography, 121; and identity of creators of Cotzumalhuapa sculptures, 105–7; influence of Teotihuacán on, 62, 90; and Late Classical culture collapse on Pacific coast, 147; Lord Mountain-Valley and hierarchy of gods, 165n2; and Postclassical political confederations on Pacific coast, 147–64; quatrefoils in Classic art of, 20; and texts from highlands in sixteenth century, 142. See also Chichén Itzá; K’iche’an groups; Tikal McDonald, Andrew J., 63 Medrano, Sonia, 21, 74, 106, 109 membership identity, 187, 188, 189. See also group identity

Nahua languages, 129, 133, 138 Nakum, 62 narrative identity, 187 Nash, June, 38, 39 Navarrete, Carlos, 8, 52, 61, 196 Neff, Hector, 6, 7, 40, 147, 192–94, 208 negative citation, 204. See also citationality Neiman, Fraser D., 18, 23 New Archaeology, 173 New Fire ceremony, 145 nimja (longhouse), 143. See also great house

223

I ndex

Pochteca (merchants), 143, 144, 146 Pohl, John, 144 Ponce, Fray Alonso, 129, 133 Ponce de León, Luis, 135 Popenoe de Hatch, M., 22, 117 Popol Vuh, 57–58, 60 Popol Wuj, 145, 149, 151, 172, 177 population: in La Blanca region, 34, 35; repeated shifts of on Pacific coast, 106. See also aggregation; immigration Postclassic period: and linguistic shifts in ­Soconusco region, 129–35; and political con­ federations on Pacific coast, 147–64 Postcolonial period, and linguistic shifts in ­Soconusco region, 137–38 power, pilgrimages and negotiation and trans­ mission of, 92. See also elites; prestige practice-based approach, to identity, 29–30, 209n9 Preclassic period: and analysis of identity in ­Mesoamerican context, 30; and beginnings of urbanization in Mesoamerica, 30–33; and roots of Cotzumalhuapa, 107–14; and urbanization at la Blanca, 33–46 prestige, and identity construction, 17–18. See also elites Preucel, Robert W., 93, 95 private space, and situational nature of identities, 5, 6. See also household rituals process, identity construction as, 42–43, 192, 208 program identity: definition of, 186; and K’iche’an groups, 176, 178–79, 191 project identity, and Maya, 179 Proyecto Arqueológico Los Horcones (PALH), 52, 57 public architecture. See monumental architecture public sphere, and situational nature of identities, 5–6 pyramids, urbanization and community identity at La Blanca, 36–39, 40. See also monumental ­architecture

objectivist view, of identity, 185, 186 obsidian, and blade production at La Blanca, 43 Ojo de Agua, 33, 34 Olmec: and architecture of Tzutzuculi, 63, 64; and identity on Pacific coast during Early Formative period, 19; and “Olmec phenomenon” in Middle Preclassic Mesoamerica, 43 Olsen, Bjornar, 96 O’Neill, Megan, 62 orientations, of ballcourts at Los Horcones, 59. See also astronomy Orr, Heather S., 92 Oztomeca (merchants), 143–44, 146 Pacaya (volcano), role of in formation of identity in Southern Maya region, 71–96. See also ­volcanoes Pacific coast: ballcourts and ballgames on, 59, 60, 64; chronological chart for, 4; Classic period culture collapse on, 147; identity construction in archaeological record of, 18–23; maps of locations of sites mentioned, 2, 31; Mexican influences on merchant cosmology and ideology on, 143–47; Postclassic political confederations and Tojil cult on, 147–49; and repeated population shifts, 106 See also Cotzumalhuapa; La Blanca Parque Matamoros, 59 Parsons, Lee A., 106, 107, 109, 112, 166n18 partidos, and linguistic shifts in Soconusco region, 129 Paso de la Amada, 19, 32, 42 performance, and construction of identity in Meso­a merican context, 201–3 person, concept of in archaeology, 186 phenomenology, and construction of identity in Mesoamerican context, 199–201 Phillips, Philip, 173 Pickering, Andrew, 206 Piedras Negras, 62 pilgrimages, and iconography of artifacts from Lake Amatitlán, 89–92, 209n5 Pineda, Emeterio, 137 Pipil: and Cotzumalhuapa sculptures, 105–6; and languages in Soconusco region, 129, 138; sites in Escuintla as colonies of Esquintepeque and ­ otzumalhuapa, 149–50 C place names, and linguistic shifts in Soconusco r­ egion, 133. See also landscapes platforms, at Cotzumalhuapa, 114. See also monumental architecture Plaza of the Moon (Teotihuacan and Los Horcones), 61, 62, 64 plazas: and chinamit, 143; and public rituals at La Blanca, 40. See also monumental architecture

Rabinal Achi (Maya dance-drama), 150, 151, 152, 154, 158, 165n4, 165n10 Rancho Alegre, 57 Recinos, Adrián, 149, 151, 152, 154, 165n11, 165n14–15 relational model, of identity, 186, 189–90 religion: identity and expressions of, 6; merchants and spread of doctrines on Pacific coast, 145. See also cosmology; rituals; storm gods; Sun God; Tojil cult; Xiuhteuctli resistance identity, 176 Richerson, Peter J., 17 rituals: and construction of identity, 5, 6, 201–3, 224

I ndex

spindle whorls, 44–45 Stark, Barbara, 191 state: and ethnic distinctions, 175; and role of government in shaping identities, 209n3 stelae: and ballcourts at Los Horcones, 59, 64; and elite identity at Cotzumalhuapa, 114–17 Stets, Jan, 188 Stoll, Otto, 106 storm gods, in Mesoamerica, 76, 78 Stuart, David, 190 style: and definition of ethnicity, 173; identity and concept of, 6 subject, concept of in archaeology, 186 subjectivist view, of identity, 185, 186, 187, 196, 208 Sumeria, and establishment of kingship, 41 Sun God, and Cotzumalhuapa sculpture, 119, 160 symbols and symbolism: and connection between ballcourts and water-management systems, 57–58; and pyramid at La Blanca, 39. See also ­iconography synchronic perspectives, on identity formation at Lake Amatitlán and Volcán Pacaya, 95–96

208; public ceremony and ideology of rulership at La Blanca, 39–40. See also ceremonial activity; household rituals; religion Robbins, Joel, 201 rock art, around Lake Amatitlán and Volcán ­Pacaya, 97n5 role identity, 188 Romero, Sergio, 149 Rose, Nikolas, 194, 196, 205, 209n3 Roseberry, William, 10, 176, 180 Rosenswig, Robert, 21 rural areas, and K’iche’an identity, 177–78, 180 Sackett, James, 173 Sahagún, Fray Bernardino, 145 San Lorenzo (Olmec center), 19 Schmidt, Peter J., 119–20 Schortman, Edward M., 105 Schwartz, Theodore, 10, 175–76 sculpture: and elite identity in Cotzumalhuapa, 104–21; Monument 21 of Bilbao and Classic ­Cotzumalhuapa iconography, 155–62 Sejourné, Laurette, 158 Seler, Eduard, 106, 119, 151 self, and concept of identity, 186, 190, 199 self-identification, and subjective views of identity, 187 sexual selection, and identity construction, 17 Shook, Edwin, 40, 147 Smith, Christian, 207 Smith, Michael, 32 social complexity, and identity construction, 23 social construct, ethnicity as, 174 social difference: and ballcourts at Los Horcones, 60; and identity as emergent process at La Blanca, 42–43. See also class; elites social identity, 188 social interaction: and aggregation as key process in urbanization, 32; and archaeological visibility of identity, 3–5 social reproduction, of identity, 6, 7 Society for American Archaeology (2008 meeting), 3 Soconusco, identity issues and shifts in language use and material culture, 126–39 “Southern City-State Culture,” 32, 148 Southern Highlands: chronological chart for, 4; map of locations of sites mentioned, 2 Spanish, and linguistic shifts in Soconusco region, 126, 138. See also Colonial period spatial organization, and influence of Teotihuacán on Los Horcones, 52, 56–57, 61, 64 specialization, and urbanization at La Blanca, 43–46

Tajumulco (volcano), 38 Takalik Abaj (site), 20, 21, 34 Taladoire, Eric, 63 talud-tablero architectural style, 62 Tapachula (Soconusco), 130, 135, 136, 137 Tapachultec language, 133, 134, 138 Taube, Karl A., 58, 78, 89, 117, 120, 158, 162 Tenam Rosario (site), 59 Tenochtitlan, and merchant guilds, 144 Teotihuacán: ballgame and influence of at Los Horcones, 63–64; and connections with Lake Amatitlán, 85, 89, 97n6; contacts with Pacific coast during Early Classic, 21; and ­iconography of Cotzumalhuapa art, 120, 121; influence of on Preclassic Cotzumalhuapa, 114; influence of on spatial organization, artistic style, and iconography of Los Horcones, 52, 56–57, 61, 64; and merchants on Pacific coast, 145, 155, 164; ­pilgrimages and influence of on Maya, 90. See also Aztecs Testamento de los Xpantzay, 155 Thompson, J. Eric S., 106, 109, 120, 158 Tikal, 62 Tilley, Christopher, 96 Titulo de Totonicapán, 153, 158, 162 Tizapa (Soconusco), 131, 135, 136, 138 Tlaloc (storm god), 76, 78 Tojil cult, and Postclassic political confederations on Pacific coast, 150–64 Toltec, and Atonal lineage, 162 225

I ndex

Wake, Thomas A., 19 water, and symbolism of ballcourts, 57–58, 59. See also Amatitlán weaving, and craft specialization at La Blanca, 44– 45, 46 Weber, Max, 202 Wiessner, Polly, 173 Wirth, Louis, 31 Wissler, Clark, 173 Wobst, H. Martin, 42 Wolf, Eric, 144 writing: development of outside Maya lowlands, 109; and hieroglyphic texts on stelae from ­Cotzumalhuapa, 114–17, 119–20

Tonalá: local archaeology and identity in region of, 62–63; linguistic patterns in partido of, 129, 132, 138. See also Iglesia Viega; Los Horcones; ­Soconusco; Tzutzuculi trade. See marketplaces; merchants trash pits, and foundational rituals at La Blanca, 39–40 Trigger, Bruce, 37 Turner, Victor W., 92 Tzutzuculi (site), 63, 64 University of California at Berkeley Abaj Takalik project, 34 urbanization: and identity construction in Mesoamerican context, 194–96; and K’iche’an group identity, 177–78, 180; and practices of identity at La Blanca site, 29–47 Uriarte, Maria Teresa, 63

Ximénez, Francisco, 151–52 Xipe Totec, 158, 159, 162 Xiuhteuctli (Lord of Fire), 145, 146–47, 151, 152, 158, 159, 160, 161, 164, 165n2

Vázquez, Francisco, 154 Velez, Maria I., 72 Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo, 190 volcanoes: association of with ancestors, 95; eruptions of, 72–73, 78; and temple pyramid at La Blanca, 38; and Tojil cult, 154. See also Agua; Fuego; Pacaya Voorhies, Barbara, 192 Voss, Barbara L., 56

Yaeger, Jason, 36 Yoffee, Norman, 32–33, 41 Zantwijk, Rudolf van, 143 Zender, Marc, 162 “Zoque-like” language, 133, 135, 137

226