Time To Go

It happened overnight. One day we were in the hot, monsoon-rattled summer days of the southern Rockies. The next, there was a tang in the air. The simple, straightforward blast furnace had turned into something else; something complex and nuanced. Now, mornings are cool and days are shortening. The fiery sunsets over the Jemez creep ever further south. Soon, the aspens that march up the flanks of the Sangres will turn a fluorescent yellow. The sand hill cranes will mass high overhead by the thousands; honking down their 5,000-mile flyway to Bosque del Apache. The dark days are coming.

Two other things this week have me thinking about change. The first was the death of Queen Elizabeth. The second was Fiesta de Santa Fe.

The day after the Queen died, the reaction was the predictable. She was MY queen; the only monarch I have ever known. How can she be gone? It’s unthinkable.

Unthinkable, really? At age 96, after 70 years on the throne?

By day two, cracks in the narrative appeared. People interviewed on the streets of London equivocated. “I don’t know,” said one 20-something on camera. “I mean, I admired her as a person. But her role in imperialism and oppression. . . it kind of counter-balances things, doesn’t it? I think it’s time for the monarchy to go away.”

Poor Charles. Imagine facing brutal heat waves, 100 percent dependence on imported oil, the wreckage of Brexit—all without the mantle of affection enjoyed by your predecessor mum? Will his more telegenic heir get a shot? It’s a real question in Britain, one that has people unnerved. As a Yank, I don’t need to have an opinion. Although I know which way I lean.

Now, jump halfway around the world, and touch down in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The day after Elizabeth died, the town kicked off its 310th Fiesta de Santa Fe. Fiesta is a celebration of the 1692 re-conquest of the New Mexico territory by the Spanish. Twelve years before, indigenous people led by Popé (originally a medicine man; not a warrior) kicked the Spanish out in the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. To this day, it remains Native Americans’ only military success against European settlers. In 1692, led by Don Diego de Vargas, the Spanish wrested the Territory back. According to Anglo history, this re-occupation was “bloodless.” And in fact, there is some evidence that De Vargas initially followed a more collaborative approach with the Tribes. This may have been more practical than enlightened. Apache raiding parties regularly coming over Glorieta Pass from the eastern plains needed repelling. Joining forces made sense. But the cooperation didn’t last. Over time, the Spanish occupation became oppressive, with war declared on Tribal customs, culture and religion.

The original Fiesta, in 1712, was to be a solemn religious event, with a mass, sermon and processions through town. Fiesta was observed sporadically through the next century or so. In 1904, a local women’s club resurrected it to raise money for the library. This incarnation was more secular; a celebration of Hispanic traditions. A Fiesta queen and court was chosen and visited local schools. In 1911, a dramatic re-enactment of the Spanish return, La Entrada, was added. Over time, Fiesta came to include art fairs, fireworks and the burning of Zozobra (see previous post: Burning Man’s Dad).

Today, New Mexico struggles to achieve a fuller reckoning with its history, and Fiesta is under fire. Wishing a tribal person “Happy Fiesta” is about like wishing a Native American “Happy Thanksgiving.” La Entrada was dropped in 2018 at the request of the Pueblo Council Governors, who called it “divisive.” The Fiesta queen and her court no longer visit local schools. The Spanish familial coats of arms, hung from the wooden beams of the Palace of the Governors during Fiesta, were also questioned. (To date, those flags remain during Fiesta week).

For the best illustration of cross-cultural schizophrenia, my nomination would be La Conquistadora. This 29-inch wood carving of the Madonna first came to Santa Fe in 1625 with Fray Alonso de Benevides. Saved from burning in the Pueblo Revolt, La Conquistadora became a talisman for De Vargas’ victory in 1692. She lives mostly in the St. Francis of Assissi Cathedral now. But each year during Fiesta, she is paraded through town to the Rosario Chapel, east of the National Cemetery. La Conquistadora is an object of veneration, with over 300 costumes that have been sewn by the faithful. Cancer patients often donate their hair for use in fashioning her wigs. She has a lot of nicknames, including “Our Lady of Peace.” Her name, literally, mean “the conqueror.” Here’s how the Fiesta de Santa Fe website deals with the dissonance:

And so it is that La Conquistadora, a conqueror of hearts, and De Vargas, a conquistador of the new world, join forces to inspire our unique and enduring celebration, la Fiesta de Santa Fe, a time of prayer, rejoicing and hospitality for all.

Alrighty then.

Every day, all over New Mexico, friction between old traditions and new sensibilities plays out. Descendants of the old Spanish land grant families are intensely proud of their heritage and traditions—Fiesta included. In some parts of America, these Hispanic people might be identified as one of the oppressed groups. Here, to some, they are the historical oppressors. They are confronted for it. It’s bewildering, as you can see from their reactions.

“I grew up with Fiesta,” said my aerobics teacher when I asked her about it. Her surname is Hispanic, although I don’t know whether she was born with it or married it. “I loved all of it. The Fiesta; the music; the queen and court. Now, I don’t know how I am supposed to feel. I guess we all have to respect the change; be open. . .” She trails off.

On a mid-September afternoon, I sit in the courtyard of the New Mexico Museum of Art, pondering this. People ask me if I have

a favorite place in Santa Fe. This might be it. The museum is a gorgeous building, one of the best examples of Pueblo Revival architecture anywhere. Built in 1917, it has gracious lines inspired by the Pueblos at Acoma and Taos, painted vigas, and ornate corbels. Its central courtyard is a transcendent place, and I find myself coming back here again and again. Today, the air is soft and warm. The late summer flowers are a riot of color; the central fountain murmurs. Puffy white clouds mass and scud against an achingly blue sky. The monsoons are over, but there may be rain still. A few steps away, the Plaza is sleepy. The Tribal artists at the Palace of the Governors are still there; timeless, enduring. But the tourists have dwindled to almost nothing. The bandstand music of the summer nights is now a memory.

Some change we accept because we have to. The cycling of the seasons, the return of the darkness, the death of a 96-year-old.

Others? Not so easy. We rage and cry in the face of something we see as unjust; a violation of our own definition of the natural order. The death of a child. The loss of anybody or anything before what we imagine is “the right time.”

And if that change is an assault on our own cherished narrative? A confrontation of who we think we are in this world? What then? Is it within our capacity to embrace it, shape it, drive it?

The light is fading and it’s getting cold. Time to go.