One particularly amusing example of this type of acceptance is especially apparent from a certain style of meme that overwhelmed Facebook in October of 2014. These “Rana René” (Kermit the Frog, in English) memes expressed a sense of abandoned aspirations. In these memes, the frog expresses desire for something—a better physique, nicer material goods, a better family- or love-life—but concludes that it is unlikely to happen, and that “se me pasa,” “I get over it.”
As many entries in the blog affirm, local cultural aspects are often reflected or made even more visual on social media. As I have written before of my fieldsite, there is a certain normativity that pervades social life. Material goods such as homes, clothing, electronics, and even food all fall within an “acceptable” range of normality. No one is trying to keep up with Joneses, because there’s no need. Instead the Joneses and the Smiths and the Rodriguezes and the Correas all outwardly exhibit pretty much the same level of consumerism. Work and salary similarly fall within a circumscribed set of opportunities, and because there is little market for advanced degrees, technical education or a 2 year post-secondary degree is usually the highest one will achieve academically. This acceptance of normativity is apparent on social media as well. One particularly amusing example of this type of acceptance is especially apparent from a certain style of meme that overwhelmed Facebook in October of 2014. These “Rana René” (Kermit the Frog, in English) memes expressed a sense of abandoned aspirations. In these memes, the frog expresses desire for something—a better physique, nicer material goods, a better family- or love-life—but concludes that it is unlikely to happen, and that “se me pasa,” “I get over it.” Similarly, during June and July of 2014 a common form of meme contrasted the expected with reality. The example below demonstrates the “expected” man at the beach—one who looks like a model, with a fit body, tan skin, and picturesque background. The “reality” shows a man who is out of shape, lighter skinned, and on a beach populated by other people and structures. It does not portray the sort of serene, dreamlike setting of the “expected.” In others, the “expected” would portray equally “ideal” settings, people, clothing, parties, architecture, or romantic situations. The reality would always humorously demonstrate something more mundane, or even disastrous. These memes became so ubiquitous that they were even used as inspiration for advertising, as for the dessert brand below. For me, these correspondences between social media and social life reinforce the assertion by the Global Social Media Impact Study that this type of research must combine online work with grounded ethnography in the fieldsite. These posts could have caught my eye had I never set foot in northern Chile, but knowing what I know about what the place and people look like, how they act, and what the desires and aspirations are for individuals, I understand the importance of these posts as expressing the normativity that is so important to the social fabric of the community.
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To be clear, I was always treated with kindness and respect by the luchadores while training and performing. Of course there was always an element of tension around issues of gender and sexuality. I was a white woman, highly educated, from a middle-class background in the United States. I wrestled with working-class mestizo men from La Paz and El Alto, of varying ages. Our relationships were always professional. Occasionally one would invite me to dinner at his house, and I would have to weigh several factors—our interactions up to that point, the time he had suggested, whether other people would be present, and what I might know about his current familial and romantic situation—before deciding whether to accept or reject. Photo courtesy of Niko Scruffy D I rejected a request from a 50 year old luchador to accompany his family to a festival that would go late in the night, but agreed to meet him for tea later in a public restaurant in El Alto, trying not to alienate him to the detriment of my research. I accepted an invitation to a 27th birthday party for another luchador, which took place in a bar, and to which several of the other luchadoras were invited. I hoped this would allow us to be friends more than just wrestlers who train together. He tried to kiss me goodnight, but I quickly slipped away, and neither of us ever mentioned it again. These experiences were in part because I was doing research in a male-dominated social setting. Indeed, in many ways, they served to inform my analyses of what Bolivian women might experience in their own involvement in wrestling. Of course my gringa-ness, foreignness, and lack of familial ties to anyone in the group make my situation slightly different. But these instances still tell us something about gender relations within the context. But these experiences are not related just to my subject matter. In my current research, I have to be wary, not only of walking alone at night in Alto Hospicio, but also of the advances of police officers and public city officials when they send me non-work related Whatsapp messages. I have spoken with countless women about their similar experiences, one of whom was even evicted from her apartment in her fieldsite in a small conservative Middle Eastern area after refusing the advances of her landlord. To say that these experiences are frustrating is an understatement. They are not just an annoyance of daily life, but they profoundly impact one’s ability to do research, and maintain community ties. In just three short days it will be the two-year anniversary of the day I finished fieldwork. Yet I still feel the effects of these types of gendered relations. Today I received a facebook message from one of the more senior and well respected luchadores in La Paz. At first I was flattered to receive a message because he asked when I will be wrestling again. “Quiero venir a verte” [I want to come watch you]. But the conversation quickly turned Luchador: Your husband is Jorge*? Nell: No, I don’t have a husband. And unfortunately I don’t know when I will wrestle again. Luchador: Oh, then he’s your friend with benefits? That’s what he told me. [unclear if he’s referring to ‘friend with benefits’ or marriage] Nell: Um, no. We don’t know each other well, so I don’t feel comfortable commenting on my private life with you. Luchador: Yes, I know you. You’re the gringuita. Nell: Yes, of course, but we are not friends. I’m not sure why it matters to you and I find it disrespectful. Luchador: Sorry. Bye. *Pseudonym
And with that I most likely lost an important contact. Of course, I’m in a better position now, because my fieldwork is finished, some of it is published, and I’ve moved on to a new project. But I’m stuck now in a position of whether I even mention this to Jorge*, my former wrestling partner, and a fairly good friend. Do I continue as a friend always wondering if he is telling others that I am something of a significant other or sexual plaything to him? Do I mention it to him and confront the problem head on, most likely with little benefit either personally or professionally? Or do I assume what this older luchador said to be correct and silently stop being his friend. I realize this is the type of problem many anthropologists face, regardless of gender, regardless of region, and regardless of topic. But as I recently wrote about the perception of women anthropologists flirting, extroverted actions of men are interpreted differently than those by women. This is something that will not be “solved” easily, particularly when we consider that many times this happens in places where there is less awareness of “rape culture,” less ability for women to participate in social life, and more complicated relationships between race, class, cosmopolitanism, and locality. I do intend to keep up a conversation about it though. I wrote recently about the ways Chileans were watching and reacting to their team in the World Cup (both here and here). Essentially I described the way their behaviors, both on the street and on social networking sites violated the norms I have observed for nine months. While people are often ambivalent about citizenship—including both politics and belonging (see various definitions of “citizenship” including Goldberg 2002:271, Hansen and Stepputat 2006:296, Moodie 2006, Ong 2004, Richardson 1998, Stychin 1998)—when it comes to the national fútbol team, people very visually support them, decorating their homes, donning red clothing or Chilean flags, and posting wildly on Facebook, even the people who usually post very little content online. Yet, a winning national team can easily produce such a response. The 2014 Olympics, in which the Chileans fielded only two athletes—both skiers—provide an excellent counter example. Coverage of the games was hard to find, even on the nightly news, and I didn’t know a single person who knew when the Olympic games were scheduled, let alone planned to watch. On the other hand, the national fútbol team was impossible to ignore. The supermarkets and home improvement store were covered in promotional products. Corner tiendas were suddenly filled with flag themed hats, banners, and noisemakers, and on game day, at least half of the people I passed on the street were clad in red, after the team’s uniforms. Facebook was filled with funny memes relating to the team before the game, during play with nervous statements and goal celebrations, and after with photos of people celebrating in the street. There was clearly excitement about the team’s chances. Excitement over the World Cup was not at all about being part of a world event, but was an expression of national pride and focused on the Marea Roja’s potential to come out on top. So, then, I wondered what would happen when the team lost. I hoped, of course, that wouldn’t actually happen. That they would fulfill that potential and defeat every opponent they encountered. Unfortunately, last Saturday in a nail-biting game against Brazil, in which the home team was literally brought to their knees, the Chilean team lost. As the game ended with Gary Medel crying on screen, I expected complaints from fans. Perhaps they would blame the referees. Perhaps particular Brazilian players would be singled out for exaggerated trips or other unfair play. Maybe the coach, Jorge Sampaoli would be chastised. Or possibly, even, certain Chilean players would be blamed for mistakes. "Brazil, never forget who had you like this" But what I found was a great outpouring of pride. “They left everything on the field,” countless memes proclaimed. Other variations included “Proud to be Chilean” “They gave everything. Thank you men. Chile is grand!” “Thanks Chilean [team] for leaving Chileans with a proud name.” “We lost but I’m happy about the last match. Chile gave everything that they could. They beat Australia, the put the fear in Holland, they put Spain on the airplane home, and they had Brazil on their knees. I love you Chile. Conchatumareeeeee” Gary Medel, who cried, was hailed as a “great great warrior.” Though I expected the typically machista northern Chileans would poke fun at his emotional outpouring, I saw no joking about him crying. Plenty of memes included pictures of his face distorted and moist with tears, but the accompanying texts were ones of pride. He posted one such picture on his own Facebook page with the text “The tears are for all of you.” This photo was shared without negative comment by six of my Facebook friends. One popular meme even depicted him with the presidential sash. Another photo shared by a neighbor depicted the whole team walking off the field with Medel shedding tears in the center. “Seeing this photo gives me great pain. Chile is grand!” Drawing on Bernett (1966) and Riordan (1977), Joseph Alter observes that athletes are often “made into a symbol who unambiguously stands for his or her country” (1994:557) in a way that is divorced from Politics with a capital P and works at the popular political level (Rowe 1999). Athletes easily become national icons because they occupy the position of fantasy figures and are divorced from the economic infrastructure (Alter 1994). Sports can ideologically reach communities in ways that politicians and government agencies cannot (Levermore 2008:184). Cho calls the “nationalist sentiment or ideology” created and perpetuated through sport, “sporting nationalism,” and suggests that unlike hegemonic forms of nationalism such as government propaganda, this form fosters “an emotional, expressive attachment…[which] often elicits voluntary patriotism” (2009:349). Gary Medel indeed is an excellent example of the ways an athlete may become even more iconic in their moments of defeat, when their emotions both reflect those of their fans, and are reproduced on television and social media in a way that I would describe as simulacramous (see Deleuze and Guattari 1987—and yes, I did just invent the world “simulacra-mous”). Northern Chileans still maintain that they are forgotten by national politics and leaders. Their “national pride” is not one of blind adherence to national logics, agendas, or belonging. Rather the underdog status of the Marea Roja worked in parallel with Hospiceños underdog status within the nation. Just as they proclaimed during the recent earthquake that “Hospicio is Chile too,” with the national team’s successes and even close loss, it was as if they claimed “Chile is a formidable fútbol nation too!” "[Brazil] won the game. [Chile] won the respect of the world." See my other blogs on the World Cup:
The World Cup on Social Media Worldwide Seeing Red: Watching the World Cup in Northern Chile Part of the Red Sea: Watching the World Cup in Northern Chile Where is the South American Futball Unity? Alter, Joseph 1994 Somatic Nationalism: Indian Wrestling and Militant Hinduism. Modern Asian Studies 28(3):557-588. Bernett, H. 1966 Nationalsozalistische Leibserziehung Schorndorf bei Stuttgart: Verlag Karl Hofmann. Cho, Younghan 2009 Unfolding Sporting Nationalism in South Korean Media Representations of the 1968, 1984 and 2000 Olympics. Media, Culture, and Society 31(3): 347–364. Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari 1987 A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Brian Massumi, trans. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.Dibbits 1986 Goldberg, David Theo 2002 The Racial State. Malden: Blackwell Publishers. Hansen, Thomas Blom and Finn Stepputat 2006 Sovereignty Revisited. Annual Review of Anthropology 35:295-315. Levermore, R. 2004 Sport’s Role in Constructing the “Inter-state” Worldview. In Sport and International Relations: An Emerging Relationship. R. Levermore and A. Budd, eds. pp. 16–30 London and New York: Routledge. Moodie, Ellen 2005 Microbus Crashes and Coca-Cola Cash: The Value of Death in “Free-Market” El Salvador. American Ethnologist 33(1):63-80. Ong, Aihwa 2004 Cultural Citizenship as Subject Making: Immigrants Negotiate Racial and Cultural Boundaries in the United States. In Life in America: Identity and Everyday Experience. Lee D. Baker, ed. Pp.156-178. Malden, CT:Blackwell. Richardson, Diane 1998 Sexuality and Citizenship. Sociology 32:83-100. Riordan, J. 1977 Sport and Soviet Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rowe, David 1999 Sport, Culture, and the Media: The Unruly Trinity. Buckingham: Open Univeristy Press. Stychin, Carl Frederick 1998 A Nation By Rights: National Cultures, Sexual Identity Politics, and the Discourse of Rights. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. I had a unique opportunity this morning. I was given access to an apartment of a friend whose boyfriend (pololo) had started moving some of his things in. I took the opportunity to snap some shots of his stuff: the most important things for daily living he had transplanted into her space. I thought something a little different might make for an interesting post. the first things to appear: toiletries. the second thing he brought over: a large, flat screen television. mostly used for watching dvds of the walking dead. various articles of clothing and a motorcycle helmet. he sold the motorcycle about a year ago, but keeps the helmet on prominent display binoculars. i'm informed that so far they have only been used to watch neighbors on their balconies. stereo. a recent birthday present to himself skateboard. his polola says she's never seen him use it, but he occasionally comments on hills that he deems worthy of using it on. I suspect these items would be common in Northern Chile, but I cannot be sure. I am curious what might items might be the most important for a woman moving into her boyfriend's apartment. Would the amount of toiletries and clothing be bigger? Would the number and size of electronics be smaller? Or perhaps different in nature (hair dryers instead of stereos)? I am equally curious how these things vary from culture to culture.
I am reminded of my summers during grad school when I would pack up my car with the essentials and drive twelve hours from Washington D.C. to Chicago to spend two months with my boyfriend. Two boxes of books, a suitcase of clothes (another small duffle bag for shoes), my computer, and my bike helmet were the essentials. Obviously these things vary person to person, but this instant of beginning to move in with a significant other is not only important for the relationship. The things we move with us first, the things we deem most essential to daily life, these items of material culture give a unique and deeply revealing look into a person. I'm curious what other people have taken or would take when beginning to move in. Whether it is with a significant other, a friend, or simply an extended stay with family-what are the essential material possessions you take with you? Please leave a comment! this fieldnote has also been posted on the WHY WE POST blog at University College London When Daniel Miller came to visit my fieldsite in Northern Chile a few weeks ago, I took him on a walking tour of the city. He had just arrived from his own fieldsite in Trinidad, and as we walked he kept remarked that two places are quite different. They share certain aspects: warmth, nearby beaches, revealing clothing, and gated homes. Yet, he told me that compared to the razor wire or broken glass-topped fences in Trinidad, these just didn’t seem as intimidating. Similarly, we discussed the ubiquity of car alarms as the continuously sounded that evening as we sat in my apartment. “Are they really protecting anything if one goes off every three minutes?” I asked. read the rest of this entry on the WHY WE POST blog Since I have been in the US awaiting my residency visa for Chile, today I give you a note from the home field. In the early days, they each brought notes they had collected while browsing at Barnes and Noble. Now, using Kindles or iPads, they check out their personalized recommendations on Amazon.com, noting in particular pages counts for each electronic edition of the book, as they balance a glass of wine in the other hand. These seven women, between the ages of 50 and 60 live in a town of 2,000 people nestled in Midwestern United States farming country. They are middle class women who teach elementary school, work as hospital administrators, or have recently retired from corporate insurance company jobs. All have grown children and though some are previously divorced, all are married now. the book club women search Amazon reviews for their next reading in July 2013 These group meetings, though specifically organized around reading and discussion, always involve wine, politically charged discussions (one woman left the group after criticizing the others for being too liberal), and gossip. Even today, rather than finding out about life events on Facebook, I often find out about former high school classmates’ engagements or expected children through these women’s exchanges of information. And while these are great topics, the best gossip for them are younger men and women’s extramarital affairs. “We’re old and lead boring lives,” states Jane, with one son living nearby and the other several hours away. “We have to live vicariously through other people’s scandals.” Their favorite was when a neighbor of Katherine, a mother of two daughters who now live abroad, split with his young wife and moved in with the older and in their judgment, “trashier” woman across the street. They began referring to her as the “real housewife” of the town, referencing the popular Bravo channel reality television shows about wealthy women in cities around the United States. When the neighbor’s divorce was final and he moved with his new girlfriend to a nearby town, they were all disappointed that their first-row seat to the drama no longer existed. Today, at a casual gathering for lunch, these same seven women drank coffee, ate quiche, and talked about Facebook. More accurately, one of the women described it as “bitching.” “I don’t care that your little Timmy lost his first tooth. I don’t need to see a picture of that!” said Katherine, an elementary school teacher. They complained about too many pictures of food, and status updates about cooking. “I mean, if they’re a famous chef fine. But I’m sorry, Mr. Smith from the pharmacy, I just really don’t care that you’re cooking sausage for dinner tonight” retorted Lucinda, whose two daughters, their husbands, and her three grandchildren both live in the suburbs of Chicago. She continued, “But that’s better than the ones who post really exciting things and just make you feel bad about yourself: Oh great, you went on vacation in Jamaica. Oh what a beautiful new pool you had put in. Oh, and your daughter graduated from law school. Give me a break!” “But we still look at it” shouted Lucinda’s sister Louise. “Why?” “Well,” chimed in Marlene—whose four children are spread from across town to across the country, “we have to keep tabs on them.” Then imitating mouse clicks she sneered, “What’s that bitch up to today/” Lucinda added, “Plus when I get Christmas letters in the mail I know which ones I just really don’t want to read. The ones with Caribbean vacations and kids with doctors just go straight in the garbage. I don’t need them making me feel bad about myself!” It’s been a common finding among the fieldsites of the Global Social Media Impact Study, that parents primarily use Facebook to keep in touch with their children (you can find a number of examples on the blog). To an extent this is true among these women, many of whom have children and grandchildren far away. They post silly videos of grandkids, and comment on their daughters’ and sons’ photos and status messages. One who is something of a fictive aunt to me constantly chides my posting on Facebook in Spanish, because she can’t understand what I say. Though usually when she does the other women offer to show her the translate button that automatically appears. But as their conversation over lunch reveals, Facebook is also a venue for keeping tabs on the community. They learn the gossip they later discuss in person.
As Henry Jenkins describes in the film Teenage Paparazzo, “When we gossip about someone, the person we're gossiping about is actually less important than the exchange that takes place between us. We’re using that other person—the celebrity, the town whore, or whatever—as a vehicle for us to share values with each other, to sort through central issues. In many ways, the women use information from facebook to police the boundaries of their in-group, as well as what is acceptable social behavior and what is not. Though they all do so good-naturedly, and would never want this information to be learned by those they criticize, this gossip and criticism form a major part of their friendship bonds with each other. As such, social networking, and Facebook in particular contribute to a major way that these women learn information about the community, to be discussed in person. They say Alto Hospicio is bad. Scary. Dangerous. Don’t walk by escuela Pablo Neruda. “Ten cuidado en el día. En la noche no pasas.” Don’t go into anyone’s house. Don’t eat or drink anything anyone gives you. Be wary of the taxis. Be wary of the busses. Be wary of walking. Don’t trust anyone.
I take this all with a grain of salt. But I also realize the importance of safety. I stick out here. At the city government office this morning, the young security guard gave me a heavily accented “goodbye” as I left. Two hours later, as I walked home from buying an empanada for lunch, I passed a woman who practically shouted at me “Ud. parece norteamericana!” [You look Northamerican!] I just laughed. It’s not like she asked me if I was. Though maybe it was a veiled question. But we both kept walking. I am deeply curious of what people think of me. Not everyone here looks like they’re from the altiplano, but they don’t look like me. I’m not sure if this makes me safer or more at risk. Probably a bit of both. Sure, I clearly am not from here, and this may expose me to some risk. But because I’m so easily recognizable, it doesn’t take people more than 2 or 3 sightings to realize I’m here for a while. I’m not lost or just passing through. I’m that gringa that was at the supermarket last week. So, I’m starting to feel slightly better about this place. Not better enough to go out and about wandering the city after dark. There are some blocks on which I don’t feel comfortable doing that at 2pm. But I do think that a lot of the places in the world that are deemed “dangerous” are stigmatized for poverty, lack of resources, lack of regimentation, and possibly a few overblown cases of violence (see Goldstein 2004). I mean, a gunman (maybe 2?) opened fire in a heavily secured military building in Washington, DC today, killing at least 13 people. Granted, the stigma of Alto Hospicio did not appear out of thin air. In 1999 several young girls between ages 13 and 16 were kidnapped, raped, and killed. Some speculate their organs were harvested for the black market. But the worst of the story is that the police (both local and national) refused to put resources into investigating, assuming and assuring the parents that their daughters had run off to be prostitutes or drug mules. Because that’s what young, poor girls do. When one girl escaped, they were forced to admit their drastic mistake. The documentary Santas Prostitutas by Veronica Quense explores the events. This event, over ten years ago, still casts a shadow on Alto Hospicio. And in some ways this was part of the decision to do research here. As one colleague put it, “I’m very excited by the idea of showing a different side of one of Chile’s most infamous cities.” When I told one local woman about my project, she responded, “Que buena iniciativa ojala pueda capturar las cosas positivas de la ciudad y la cultura y no como los hacen los medios de comunicación especialmente la televisión que ensucian mostrando solo las cosas malas que aquí suceden me gustara leer su estudio sera interesante.” [What a great project. Hopefully it will capture the positive aspects of the city and the culture, unlike what the media does, especially television that tarnishes, showing only the bad things that happen here] Let’s hope I find those positive aspects and show them to a wider audience. On my first day of training, when Edgar asked if I’d rather my traje have pants or a pollera, I immediately knew pants made more sense. Perhaps they would not provide the visual beauty of a pollera swirling through the air, but they certainly would be easier to wrestle in. And Edgar was not the only person who suggested I wrestle in a pollera. The LIDER luchadoras, Juanita and Benita were constantly trying to get me into one. On a Friday afternoon while we sipped coffee at a stall in Mercado Lanza, the two giggled trying to decide what color pollera would look best on me. Juanita was wearing a blue sparkly shawl and Benita’s was white. They took turns holding them up to my fact to see what color would look nice on a gringa. Even at my dissertation defense, I was asked why I didn’t wear a pollera to wrestle. during my dissertation defense, I explain-oh so eloquently-why I do not wear a pollera to wrestle My answer, simply, is that I have no right to wear a pollera. The pollera is often considered to be the most visible symbol of Bolivian indigeneity, which is not just a racial category, but a class-based subjectivity and a political identification. The pollera has a long history, from being institutionalized dress for hacienda workers to a visible symbol of working-class women’s political protest throughout the twentieth and into the twenty-first century. Wearing the pollera is not just a clothing choice, but is a performance of identification with these histories and contemporary associations. As a gringa with no stake in any of these categories associated with the pollera, it seemed that for me to wrestle in one would appear as a farce. Sure, seeing a gringa in a pollera might be just as amusing for Bolivians as the “cholitas luchadoras” are for the foreigners that flock to their shows. But that doesn’t mean that I have a right to wear one. As Jaya Bedi writes so eloquently, “The political context in which cultural symbols exist is important. Cultural appropriation happens — and the unquestioned sense of entitlement that white Americans display towards the artifacts and rituals of people of color exists too. All ‘appropriation’ is not merely an example of cultural sharing, an exchange between friends that takes place on a level playing field.” And I think my position is actually strengthened by the time I did wear a pollera (outside of the ring). When I appeared at Shirley’s party in a pollera and Gonz shouted “cholita punk.” My friends were amused because my representation was ironic. As I write in my dissertation (I think it’s still in there, but Cholita Punk was sadly cut), “Irony often functions as a ‘frame shifting’ mechanism (Coulson 2001) in order to express humor. When I entered the party wearing a pollera, Gonz shouting ‘cholita punk’ shifted the frame from the representation of cholitas as traditional and thoroughly Bolivian icons, to something integrated with the international youth culture of punk rock. Even my own laughter at wearing the pollera and braids played on the disjuncture of a U.S. gringa in clothing with cultural meaning in the Andes. And most certainly, when Luis suggested I wrestle, irony was used to disrupt the usual interpretation of a mujer de pollera.” Now there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging the ways cholitas are no longer merely a form of local subject, but now are globally active citizens (I have 2 chapters on that). But the point remains that for a gringa to appear in public (versus the private party) in a pollera most certainly degrades the rich history of the skirt and the complex ways of identifying employed by the women who wear them daily. And we must not forget that ways of identifying are not neutral. The “chola,” the mujer de pollera, the indígena are marginalized and historically stigmatized categories in Bolivia. And the “Bolivian woman” in general is discriminated against all over the hemisphere, from Buenos Aires to Phoenix. Again I refer to Bedi, who writes, “If the use of the bindi by mainstream pop stars made it easier for South Asian women to wear it, I’d be all for its proliferation — but it doesn’t. They lend the bindi an aura of cool that a Desi woman simply can’t compete with, often with the privilege of automatic acceptance in a society when many non-white women must fight for it.” To paraphrase her, what makes a white woman’s use of the pollera problematic is the fact that a gringa wearing one is guaranteed to be better received than if a Bolivian woman were to step out of the house rocking one. On me, it would be a bold new look (sure to catch lots of stares, but no one’s going to shew me away from a fancy restaurant). On a Bolivian woman it’s yet another marker of her Otherness. A symbol of her failure at whiteness, at cosmopolitanism, to participate in a global citizenship. Dina, Juanita, and Claudina (from LIDER) show off their bad, cosmopolitan selves Of course the cholitas luchadoras work hard to combat this image of the mujer de pollera as local not global, stigmatized not empowered, marginalized not powerful. And they have made excellent advances. But we’re not there yet. Despite the mujeres de pollera that have been elected or appointed to high profile government positions, it is still an Other form of dress. One worth celebrating. But not yet ready to be paraded in public as the funny thing the gringa’s wearing. Maybe some day…..but for now my beautiful pollera will stay in a closet in Illinois.
Friday was the birthday of my friend Carrie (who I met in Potosí), a Canadian woman who is a graphic designer in La Paz. To celebrate, I met she and her friend Lisa who had flown in for the occasion at 2pm to get massages. They had just climbed Huayna Potosí, a 6000+ meter mountain, and their bodies were aching. I had been promising myself since finishing the final draft of my dissertation that I would relieve the aches of hunching over a laptop for months with a massage. We had reservations at a small local beauty shop on Calle Linares for 2:30, but as we were about to start walking they called us back. “Necesitamos cancelar la cita porque apagó la electricidad.” Well, what should one suspect in La Paz? Instead we walked to Hotel Europa, where my friend who works for the Inter American Development Bank always stays when he is in the city for business. We walked through the giant automatic revolving door and the climate was immediately different. Warm and slightly humid. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were pumping oxygen into the building as well. After consulting the front desk, we walked through the lobby to the pool and spa and asked for massages. They could only accommodate one every 15 minutes, so Carrie began first, while Lisa and I used one of the saunas. We chose the “wet” sauna (labeled in English), thinking that some humidity might be nice in contrast to the usual dry altiplano air. This was a corporeal experience I had never had in La Paz. My body has been exposed to sunburns, dog bites and subsequent rabies vaccines, many scars from cut glass, back spasms, dislocated knees and other various injuries from wrestling, constant colds, constant shivers, a month-long undiagnosed illness I swear was typhoid, and what must be at least 90% of the parasites known to humans—not to mention the general lack of oxygen one lives in every day here. image from february 2012 But in the sauna it was hot, wet, and smelled of lovely herbs. Water droplets pooled on my skin and I couldn’t tell if it was sweat or condensation. Either way, the outside air is never moist enough for either to happen. At first I didn’t like the sensation of the hot wet air I pulled into my lungs, but after five minutes I breathed more deeply, hoping it would clear away any mucus that might be stuck in the respiratory system waiting to make me resfriada (or worse). After ten minutes it was time to start my massage. I was completely naked beneath my towel and slightly embarrassed in the brief moments between hanging it up and having my but covered as I laid face down on the table. But the young Bolivian woman didn’t flinch, and she set to work rubbing the backs of my thighs. I thought about how she might have learned to be a masseuse. How she came to work at this hotel. What neighborhood she lives in. Whether she lives alone, with her partner, with her parents. If she has children. If she takes a trufi or minibus back to her neighborhood after work. If she prefers tucumanas or salteñas. How she celebrates her birthday. After forty five minutes I wrapped my towel around me again and went to the shower with the small pack of shampoo and soap I was given. It was a nice hot shower and I wondered if the women who work in the hotel ever shower there, or if they’re stuck with the electric showers in their frigid bathrooms at home. Do they even notice, having grown up in this place that is always cold?
My favorite example of the ironic appreciation of lucha libre, which I saw live on Friday night, is the band Surfin Wagner. I first heard of them because the lead singer was a friend of a friend, but quickly discovered they had quite a following of Paceños. The band’s name is derived from a famous Mexican luchador, Dr. Wagner, otherwise known as Manuel González Rivera. He began wrestling in the 1960s as a rudo, but by the early 1980s—when the members of Surfin Wagner and my friends were young children—he had become a technico. In 1985 he lost his match in a well-publicized event and essentially retired. The band, like my friends who I wrote about here, creates humor using a frame shifting strategy by combining lucha libre aesthetics with surf music. The band members use lucha libre inspired names (Pedro Wagner, Médiko Loko—a misspelling of famous Mexican luchador Médico Loco, Roy Fucker—after a Japanese anime character later used in Mexican wrestling, El Momia, and Comando—both popular characters in Bolivian wrestling), and wear lucha libre head-masks along with their Hawai'ian print shirts. They describe their music as “el Garage, el punk y principalmente el Surf, siempre con un toque de sátira e ironía” [garage rock, punk, and principally surf, always with a touch of satire and irony]. The “biography” of the band on their website suggests that the band members are legitimate luchadores (again with irony), and they point out the incongruity of a surf band in a country without access to the sea. Clearly their use of the lucha libre aesthetic is meant to evoke laughter rather than contribute to a serious musical appreciation. So, over these last three posts, I've tried to give a sense that for many Paceños lucha libre in general, and the cholitas luchadoras’ participation specifically, are a light-hearted representation of Latin American culture. In a sense, lucha libre is positioned as authentically Latin American in a now-globalized world. As they combine cholas with punk culture or classic Mexican luchadores with surf rock, they reterritorialize these “traditional” icons by merging them with global symbols. |
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