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lvmdayofdead · 10 years ago

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"For Mirrah", a poem about La China Poblana by Xanath Caraza

Read poet Xanath Caraza's short story "China Poblana" from her collection of short stories, Lo que trae la marea/ What the Tide Brings (Mouthfeel Press, 2013). Visit the poet's blog to read about her recent visit to the city of Puebla de los Ángeles in the state of Puebla in Mexico where China Poblana's story of becoming a Mexican historical figure began.

"China Poblana" by Xanath Caraza

For Mirrah

They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me, the people who baptized me to save my soul. However, I had seen how they saved the souls of those who converted before me. I had no choice. If I did not give in to them, I would be sent back to the Portuguese pirates who kidnapped me the first time. I accepted their doctrine; I opened myself up to it, and it comforted me. Even back then, I already suspected that my destiny would be tragic and I would never see my parents again. These memories are tangled and lost in my mind. I still remember the unmistakable scent of sandalwood from my mother's clothes. I remember the long black beard of my father. At times, in spite of my eighty-two years of age, I feel my mother's nighttime hugs she tended to give me before going to sleep, her lullabies and her warm presence by my side.

Spanish—I never let them know I had learned to speak. I refused to do it in front of them. Quietly, pretending not to understand anything, I carefully followed the words of my different masters; this is how the years went by for me. They did not bother me. I refused to produce the languages of the Spaniards and Portuguese who snatched me away from the beach. It was that day, the day I was quietly strolling along with my younger brother and a couple of servants.

Suddenly I saw them hit our old faithful servants and then slit their throats. I do not know what they did to my little brother. It was all very confusing. I was terrified. I was only eight years old; my brother, I do not really know; he was small, delicate, and had obsidian eyes. In the midst of the pandemonium, I did not see what had happened to him. I hadn't thought about this in all these years. What I do remember is that I decided on that day that neither of those languages would come from my lips. I refused to produce them.

They never noticed that, in spite of my young age, I already spoke five languages, to which I added theirs, Spanish and Portuguese. I also learned Tagalog because I spent five years in the brothels Filipinos ran for the Spanish, Portuguese, and British sailors. However, I never let them know that either.

They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me, the people who baptized me to save my soul. We, my family, were from northern India, from an arid place, faraway. I remember we trekked overland for days and days before we arrived in the south. I don't actually know how long. I remember we would first camp in the desert at night and later in more jungle-like places. I loved seeing the nighttime stars while my mother told my little brother and me stories about our grandparents. I know it was a long trip because I remember several full moons along our journey.

We hadn't been in the southeast of India long before they kidnapped me. We had settled into a house as large as the one where I had been born. It had wide corridors where the fresh morning air lingered among white columns and the walls of intricate stucco designs. The interior fountains decorating the courtyards were filled with a subtle mist created by the morning breeze. The mist covered me completely, which I loved feeling when awaking.

Among the columns, I enjoyed running through the long corridors and seeing my clothes flying behind me like the tail of a shooting star. However, I did this in secret, when I knew no one could see me. If anyone realized what I was doing, they would scold me, telling me it wasn't appropriate for a girl of my standing. I knew what they were referring to even though my parents were simply my parents. I knew they were important people in India; they reminded me of this every day. They made me feel proud of who we were and where we came from, and at the same time, they taught me to be compassionate.

They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me. My brother, even though he was younger than me, was my father's heir. As his older sister, I would be his advisor, his conscience, the keeper of my family's cultural heritage. That would be my fate. I was destined to help him make difficult decisions in private because it was not a woman's place to appear in public in matters of the state. I was destined to help him during these difficult times to see with clarity and not doubt himself.

That is why, in spite of my young age, I received daily practice in making important decisions about the fate of the household. They were preparing me. It was up to me to decide what flowers would be bought every day, their color, type. It was up to me to decide what food would be eaten over the course of the week. However, I've forgotten so many things too. I remember we would go to the markets every morning to buy fresh produce for the day. I remember the limitless colors all around me. The air was filled with aroma of spices. I remember the scent of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom permeating my clothes. A pair of servants always took me, along with my grandmother, to the best food and flower stands. I selected whatever I thought best, which my grandmother would proudly and silently approve each time. I knew how to select fabric; I would choose the most beautiful colors, blues, oranges with golden threads interwoven, iridescent purples, reds, and white silks. I was fascinated by the delicate feel of silk in my hands. I've never felt that smoothness again. Perhaps it only existed in my imagination. I don't know, but that's how I remember it.

They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me. I knew how to read and write. I learned when I was very young. I had to be good at it in order to take care of the household budget. There was a tutor who was always with me, ever since I was a little girl. I imagine that was not typical. That's another secret I kept to myself when I got to Mexico. In Mexico, I realized that most adults didn't know how to read. As for me, since I'd been doing it for years, I could read and write in Spanish as soon as I learned the language.

It was also my duty to teach my brother to find solutions for the simple problems children have; they told me this very clearly. That was my destiny, and that's how I remember it.

After the Portuguese kidnapped me the first time, I'm not sure how I ended up with a group of Jesuits. They welcomed me. They baptized me. They protected me for a while, but it's all very foggy to me. They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me. However, the Portuguese had other plans for me. They kidnapped me again and took me to the Philippines.

That time was the worst. I was still very young. I must have been beautiful because I remember that when they left me at the brothel the women there started looking at my body, checking out my teeth, my hair, my most intimate parts. Many of the women were from China. There were a couple of Africans, and other girls looked like they were from India. I erased that time from my mind. I would just closed my eyes and let my mind wander to other places. Then, I wouldn't feel the rough caressing anymore, and the bodies that smelled like sweat mixed with alcohol no longer matter to me. They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me.

The first time I was very frightened. The other women bathed me in rose water; they rubbed me down with jasmine essential oils from head to toe. They wrapped me in soft fabrics, and painted my nipples, lips, and the tips of my fingers with a combination of honey and saffron powder. They brushed my long hair and adorned it with tiny white flowers. They made me eat caramelized ginger and gave me a kind of tisane to drink. I don't know what it was, but it kept me relaxed and produced heat in my body. Heat I had never felt before. And then, I felt a deep, deep pain in my soul, which to date, I have never been able to erase. I also remember a stench mixed with alcohol coming from the mouth of a man I don't even recall. When I awoke there was a red stain on the cotton sheets where I had been sleeping.

They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me. They say I spent around five years in the Philippines. I don't know precisely, and then one day I was put on a ship without any explanation. Who was going to bother telling me if I wasn't anyone? It took a long time to reach port. The trip lasted several months. I was on board with other people from Indonesia, with Indians and even Chinese. I remember the galleon was filled with stockings, scarves, bedspreads, and silk tablecloths. There were also Persian rugs, rolls of cotton from India, fans, chests of drawers, chests and trunks, lacquered jewelry boxes, combs, bells and jangles, folding screens and porcelain from Japan. They had cloves, pepper and cinnamon. They were also transporting camel wool, wax, carved ivory, reeds for making baskets, jade, amber, precious stones, wood, cork, shells covered in mother of pearl, nacre shells, iron, tin, gunpowder, and Chinese fruit.

We disembarked at the port of Acapulco. The captain took my arm and pulled me over to a man who was already awaiting at the Manila Galleon. They spoke for I do not know how long, but then he left. Years later I found out that he was one of the Viceroy's servants. The Viceroy had explicitly asked the captain to provide him with a woman as beautiful and exotic as a flower from his garden. Nevertheless, when I arrived in Acapulco, the Viceroy's financial situation was shaky, and he sent his servant to inform the captain he would not buy me.

A couple of nights I spent in the Acapulco port alongside other Filipinos, men, and women from Indonesia and China. We were all locked up. Most were in chains. They no longer needed to shackle me. I did speak with that group; they were my equals. I didn't understand everything they were saying, but the pain was the same. I thought I would be taken to another brothel. That didn't happen. Within a couple of days, a very rich man was watching me. The slave market wasn't open yet. However, we were outside while they were preparing for the auction that was about to begin. I saw him talking to the captain and giving him a significant amount of money. Then I was handed over to him. I was thirteen or fourteen years old at that time. They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name.

We left in a caravan with an endless supply of things he had bought, including me. The trip was very hard. I traveled through landscapes I had never seen. I saw mountains similar to the ones from my childhood, but these had snow on top. I'd never seen snow before. At night when we were camping, I remembered the starry night sky from a trip with my parents. It was the first time I had thought of them since we'd been separated. The food I was given had different flavors. It was hearty and spicy. In some fashion, it reminded me of the food in India. At night during that trip, the sounds of the animals were completely unlike any animal sounds I had ever heard before. There was a feline purring that intensified my childish imagination and my nighttime fears.

We entered the city of Puebla before sunrise. The cobblestone streets were empty. In the distance, I could see the snow-covered volcanoes I was going to see for the rest of my life. As I entered the house where I would live for many years, the first thing I saw was a fountain in the courtyard. The house had corridors like the home of my childhood. It wasn't as big as my childhood home and, although it was beautiful, the finishes weren't as elaborate as in my parents' home. I was suddenly able to remember many things I thought I had forgotten. They took me to the kitchen and handed me a cup filled with a thick black liquid. I did not want to try it, but experience had taught me it was best to eat whatever they offered and whenever they offered it. To my surprise, it was delicious. It comforted me and gave me energy.

They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me. I lived in that house for many years. They treated me well, almost like the daughter they could never have. Although, in reality, I was just another servant who, unbeknownst to the lady of the house, provided sexual favors to the man who had bought me, but I wasn't the only one. I never liked doing it; I hadn't liked doing it in the Philippines either, but at least he wasn't demanding. The encounters were sporadic, and, as the years passed, they were reduced to simple caresses.

The church where I used to go to mass was right next to the house where I lived. I went to eight o'clock mass every morning. People there loved me. They would greet me and admire my clothes. My clothes were not like the ones I had in India, but I always tried to design them the way I remembered them. I did not have the same fabric, but I improvised. It was one of the few freedoms I had. I imagine it was part of my allure as well.

On the streets, there was a great deal of poverty and hunger. For years, even though I was a convert, I did not forget the religion I was born into. I had learned as a child to be devout. The least I could do was to hand out leftovers to the people living on the streets—the fruit and vegetables from the house that were going bad. I managed to hand out leftovers every day. I knew what it meant to be hungry. The church I went to liked that type of gesture.

In spite of my years there, I remained silent. I did not even speak with the other servants. That was not my world. My world and all its sounds, scents and colors had been left behind. They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me.

My clothing caught everyone's eye, and I wore it with pride. It was all that was left from the world I dreamed about and to which I knew I would never return. I was in the habit of covering my head whenever I went outside. That, along with my devotion, made people think I was a saint.

When the master of the house died, he freed me, but I knew I'd have to figure something out in order to survive. That's when I went to live with a Chinese man. I had known him for years. I agreed to live with him because I did not have a choice. That was the time when I began making a serious effort to make my clothes as well as possible. People loved them and bought them with enthusiasm.

I took advantage of the fact that people thought I was like a saint. That is when I realized I could have apparitions of the Virgin Mary. It was a sure way of making a little money without needing to look for a man. They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name.

Now I've grown older. Women continue to knock at my door asking me to make dresses for them, like the ones from the land where I was born. Other people want to see me go into a mystical spell, but I can no longer do it. At night, I feel the nighttime hugs my mother used to give me before going to sleep, her lullabies and her warmth by my side. Now I will definitively return to my beloved India. Now no one will call me Catarina de San Juan; they'll call me by my real name. I'll return to that day on the beach with my little brother with his obsidian black eyes, and this time, yes, we'll make it home when we are supposed to, and our parents will be waiting for us with open arms. They call me Catarina de San Juan, but that is not my real name. That is the name they gave me, the people who baptized me to save my soul. My real name I no longer remember.

Xánath Caraza is a traveler, educator, poet, and short story writer. Caraza's bilingual poetry and short story collections are Sílabas de viento/Syllables of Wind, Noche de Colibríes: Ekphrastic Poems, Lo que trae la marea/What the Tide Brings, Conjuro, and Corazón Pintado: Ekphrastic Poems. Caraza writes the column,"US Latino Poets en Español", she is a writer for La Bloga and for Revista Zona de Ocio, and teaches at the UMKC. This 2014 Caraza shares historical context and poetic reflection to our re-interpretation of La China Poblana cultural identity through written text and with one of her short stories, "China Poblana". She will also participate at the Dead Poets Virtual Reading at the Sin Fronteras Café on October 31 and November 1.

For more information on the LVM Day of the Dead Festival, and for a complete listing of events and map, visit the latino.si.edu then click on the sugar skull icon. Connect with the Smithsonian Latino Virtual Museum on Twitter and Instagram @Smithsonian_LVM #LVMDayofDead

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#lachinapoblana #xanath caraza #Day of the Dead #DiaDeLosMuertos #MexicanCulture #Latino Culture #short story #lvmcelebración #lvmdayofdead

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lvmdayofdead · 10 years ago

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Learn about historical Mexican figure La China Poblana as a feature of the 2014 Latino Virtual Museum’s Dia de los Muertos celebration, as we continue to explore and experiment with 3D space for representation and re-interpretation of cultural identity through virtual experience. Last year we contextualized the mythical spirit, La Llorona who made appearances at the ’River of Memories’ as part of our exploration of cult customs and beliefs varying from ancient Mesoamerica to those currently practiced in today’s Latino culture. This year, the beautiful La China Poblano will join La Llorona, making a fashionable appearances during our celebration after our Ofrenda tributes and Altar building activities taking place on UTEP Miner 1 Island in the virtual world of Second Life.

View our 2014 Dia de los Muertos/Day of the Dead Calendar of Events to learn about our real and virtual activities. Join us in person or from where ever you are via the web!

A special thank you goes to Poet XánathCaraza who has collaborated with us again this year to include historical context and poetic reflection to our re-interpretation of these cultural identities through written text. Last year Xánath graced us with a beautiful poem contextualizing the mythic of La Llorona in the poem ”Ante el río/Before the River”, available for listening on our Sound Cloud channel. Experience this poem through an interactive Zeega created to illustrate the story of the mythical spirit.

Xánath Caraza is a traveler, educator, poet, and short story writer. Caraza’s bilingual poetry and short story collections are Sílabas de viento/Syllables of Wind, Noche de Colibríes: Ekphrastic Poems, Lo que trae la marea/What the Tide Brings, Conjuro, and Corazón Pintado: Ekphrastic Poems. Caraza writes the column, "US Latino Poets en Español", she is a writer for La Bloga and for Revista Zona de Ocio, and teaches at the UMKC. This 2014 Caraza shares historical context and poetic reflection to our re-interpretation of La China Poblana cultural identity through written text and with one of her short stories, “China Poblana”. She will also participate at the Dead Poets Virtual Reading at the Sin Fronteras Café on October 31 and November 1.

Read below to learn more about La China Poblana.

Historical Figure La China Poblana

La China Poblana is a historical figure from the city of Puebla, within the State of the same name, Puebla, México. Her image revolves around her clothing, which is a national symbol of Mexcian as well as Mexican American cultures. Numerous little girls dress up as La China Poblana to have their picture taken as a remembrance of her. Her dapper, colorful and cheerful clothing is an image that comes to mind when thinking of Mexico.

In Mexico, La China Poblana is Catarina de San Juan, her popularized name. Catarina de San Juan is her baptismal name and her name at her untimely death, she was brought as a young woman from the Philippines, but originally from India. Her real name was Mirrah. Thus, La China Poblana was not Chinese or originally from Puebla, but, as just mentioned, she was originally from India.

Mirrah, again originally from India and at the age of eight, was captured by Portuguese pirates. These pirates took her to the Philippines, where she remained for five years. Afterward, she was taken to Mexico on the Nao de China or Galeón de Manila (the China or Manila Galleon). She arrived at the port city of Acapulco and was then taken from there to Puebla, Puebla.

In the city of Puebla, Mirrah was reknown for her beauty as well as her wardrobe. Her clothing, of which she herself was the seamstress, caught the attention of the people. Her clothing reflected details from India, which she attempted to adapt with the cloth and notions she was able to find in Mexico. During her old age, to support herself, she took on the job of seamstress for others. Many people sought her out so that she would make similar clothes for them to her own clothing, which had sequins and bright colors. Gradually, her fame grew, being known for the myth of how she dressed became larger than life.

People began to call Mirrah La China Poblana (Chinese woman from Puebla) because in Mexico there was a habit of referring to all persons who had arrived on the Galeón de Manila as Chinese. It was a reference to being Asian and did not recognize the multitude of nationalities and ethnicities that exist in Asia. What is more in reference to the name La China Poblana, poblano or poblana is the name for people who are from the city of Puebla in the State of Puebla in Mexico. When Catarina de San Juan died, her remains were buried in the church of Compañía de Jesús in Puebla (Company of Jesus). This was the church where she used to go to mass every morning. Catarina de San Juan was liked very much by the people of the city of Puebla due to her piety and because Catarina de San Juan had the habit of seeing apparitions of the Virgin Mary. This captivated the city of Puebla.

The myth of La China Poblana has been reinforced over time throughout Mexico. Every few people actually remember who Catarina de San Juan was and only began remembering the concept of La China Poblana, a beautiful young woman, with brightly colored clothing. This attire has become one of the symbols of Mexican culture.

SIGN UP to receive weekly email updates for the 2014 Smithsonian Latino Virtual Museum Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) Real/Virtual Celebration!

#lachinapoblana #MexicanCulture #DiaDeLosMuertos #Day of the Dead #SecondLife #Mesoamerican #xanath caraza #lallorona #Ofrenda

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