Guillermo G. Mendoza

Review: Another Life by Sarena Ulibarri. Stelliform Press, 2023.

Another Life by Sarena Ulibarri, solarpunk writer and editor, depicts an ecotopian community thriving through the climate crisis after the collapse of the current global economy. In dialogue with current trends in politics and environmentalism—as well as timeless themes like the weight of history over individuals, the conflict for power between different generations, and the tension between the ideal and reality—Ulibarri explores morality and accountability in a world haunted by past actions and their environmental consequences. Can we really start over from scratch in a world so shaped by the past? Can decades of service and commitment to the greater good be condemned by a previous life?

The story follows Galacia, cofounder of Otra Vida and its current conflict mediator. The novel begins with a stunning conceptual breakthrough: Galacia’s nephew just figured out how to identify one’s past life via gene analysis. And of course everyone wants to know who they were.

Everyone but Galacia.

But here’s the deal: she’s running against Tanner to be reelected as mediator, her odds don’t look good, and she feels her opponent is too young, too inexperienced to lead the town she’s devoted her life to… And Otravidans demand both candidates reveal who they were in their past life before their public debate. Galacia has nowhere to hide when Diego, maverick scientist and her nephew, tells her she used to be “universally hated” Thomas Ramsey, “the man who had declared climate change wasn’t worth fixing because he had ships ready to take everyone who could afford a ticket to Planet B” (p. 4).

Her move? Hiding her past life from her constituents, as long as she can. Dealing with such a shocking revelation has been added to the list of the conflicts she has to mediate, only this one is about herself. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate already, Galacia also has to deal with an external threat: outside forces are trying to sabotage Otra Vida.

Another Life tackles morality, responsibility and heritage in a way only speculative fiction can. What began as a fun curiosity (having your past life figured out by science) soon turns people’s moral judgment about Galacia around. Despite the fact that she’s dedicated her whole life to Otra Vida, people suddenly hold her accountable for Ramsey’s dues, even if this character’s motives aren’t precisely those reported by historical records. Is a life of service to others and the environment enough to wash from one’s skin the faults of previous generations? Or the other way around: Can we really hold people accountable for past deeds they didn’t actually commit?

The questions raised by Ulibarri’s science fictional element (the novum) are some of the same questions asked in contemporary discussions of identity politics, privilege acknowledgement, and history revisionism. While Ulibarri resists the kind of oversimplifying that could reduce Galacia’s story to a moralistic fable, the narrative does seem to come down on one side of the debate. “I think there’s a reason we forget. We can’t get so hung up on who we used to be that we forget to be who we are” (p. 150), says one of the characters, stressing the overarching theme of Another Life: How do we deal with the past so we can move forward?

The other novum in the novel is the seed of its environmental dimension: the creation of an artificial lake in Death Valley, California, by pumping desalinated sea water into the desert through an unused oil pipeline. From the Oil to Water Project stems a social movement that will crystallize in Otra Vida, an autonomous town of about 2,000 people that by the time the novel unfolds has effectively abolished wage labor and poverty for its people by harnessing technology in sustainable ways. It has, in time and without intention, developed social classes and centralized the power in the figure of the Mediator—a power Galacia leverages in favor of the Founders (of Otra Vida) and the Inheritors (their offsprings) in detriment of the Petitioners (outsiders immigrated and accepted into the ecotopia after its foundation).

Otra Vida is not a perfect utopia after all, and Galacia is like Ramsey in a certain way. Even when they weren’t supposed to centralize power over a figure such as a president, Otravidans ended up doing so out of habit and comfort. Is it Galacia’s fault she handles power the way she does, or is it the people who endowed her with it in the first place? As a reader from outside the USA who has witnessed radically different ways of decentralized political organization, I initially thought this was a flaw in the novel. But what I thought was a lack of imagination turned into one of the central themes: even utopias have to reckon with former power and government practices and their present influence. Ulibarri thus challenges utopianism and points towards one of its big issues: it is always made by people with a political past and history.

Part of the reason I became interested in Another Life is that the novella is labeled as solarpunk. Indeed, Ulibarri has edited Glass and Gardens: Solarpunk Summers (2018), Glass and Gardens: Solarpunk Winters (2020), and Multispecies Cities: Solarpunk Urban Futures (2021), as well as authored several short stories in the same subgenre. Having both followed the development of solarpunk and read her work before, I couldn’t miss Another Life, especially since it’s one of the first solarpunk works that surpasses the length of the short story. And it has to be said: as a solarpunk novella, Another Life delivers. Reading about Otra Vida as an ecological utopia and how it functions despite the climate crisis is hopeful and reassuring. If you want to read about a community overcoming the climate crisis by building a sustainable, technologically advanced community, this novella is definitely a must.

Stylistically, Another Life employs straightforward, clear language that works well for depicting a radically different world. We can see that in the following excerpt from chapter two:

We wove through the sculpture park, where I noticed a couple of recent additions: a delightful stained glass windspinner, and a rusted gas-era pickup truck with a hundred baby dolls glued to it. Zacharia showed little interest in the collection of quirky art projects, so we didn’t linger. (p. 20)

While at first sight the particularization of the art pieces might seem excessive, it doesn’t get clunky and gives us the right amount of information so we can imagine them. This strategy of clear, particularized description and narration is used extensively. Even though I sometimes found it weird that Galacia spoke that way throughout the novel, it didn’t matter much because it’s a device which serves the purpose of depicting a utopian community to the reader in an accessible way.

And there are figures of speech after all, as seen in the following quote: “Anger started as a heat in my chest, spreading like a bushfire through my entire body. My fists curled so tightly my fingernails left red crescents in my palms” (p. 103). Beyond that, however, there aren’t many passages where Galacia’s speech takes a poetic bend. I get it: maybe it’s just not her thing, she’s not ‘poetsy’ and so doesn’t speak that way. In any case, I found the prose too literal and I don’t think the narrator’s choice justifies the reduction of such an important aspect of storytelling. There are other ways of achieving literary prose while having a protagonist narrator, such as developing her tone or her dialect. And I missed that in Another Life.

Another thing I would’ve liked to find in the story is the consequences of Diego’s discovery. Yes, finding out who they were in their past life takes over Otra Vida and has both personal consequences for Galacia and political ones by influencing the elections, and there are a couple scenes where characters speculate about the discovery’s future consequences, but I found the reaction to it quite mild. I felt the scientific breakthrough was irrelevant for the characters all along. After working as the inciting incident for Galacia’s character arc at the opening chapter, the discovery’s impact over Otra Vida’s society receives little attention. Aside from a couple of dialogue lines where characters debate its philosophical and legal implications, they treat the past life test as a curiosity to gossip about, as they do in the opening scene of the novel:

“You were an old white man?”

Cindy threw her head back and laughed. “I know, isn’t it hilarious?”

“Here, look at mine,” Alex said. Green lights flickered across the balcony as people showed off who they had been. Voices drifted from other buildings, nearly every balcony and patio in the small desert city of Otra Vida alive with discussion and laughter. (p. 3)

Not to say I don’t think people would have fun with their tests and gossip about them. The problem is it doesn’t get to be something else; we don’t really see the social consequences of a scientific breakthrough so radical in its spiritual consequences it’d surely spark a paradigm shift similar to those of the Copernican Revolution or the discussions around the Anthropocene.

Maybe that future society has seen too much, knows too much about the cosmos, so it takes scientifically proven reincarnation as a mere curiosity they could chit chat about over dinner with their pals, as if it were the result of a quirky personality test. But if that’s the case, if such a scientific breakthrough is not astounding for Otravidans because they’ve seen it all, it isn’t shown in the novella and so I kept finding their reaction unfounded and incredible. But then again, maybe it’s just me: I’d go crazy if such a thing as scientifically proving who anyone was in their past life was possible!

When I was reading Another Life, I thought: “I’d definitely be on Galacia’s side: I wouldn’t want to know.” Then I realized that’s the metaphor: past mistakes must be unearthed. Someone has to take responsibility for them, even if they’re not guilty. We forget that in order to be able to look back into the past, to take responsibility for what we see there and transform it, we need to be unchained from its biases. I guess it’s a thin line, the one between either acknowledging the past to move towards a better present, or pretending it never happened at all. Another Life tells a story about coming to terms with the past in order to build a better world, one where past deeds no longer haunt the present. Or, like philosophers Natalia Carrillo and Pau Luque put it:

Feeling guilty in a literal sense when one hasn’t taken part in an action can be an expression of narcissism and, at its extreme, can destroy the inner world and the external world. Feeling guilty in a metaphorical sense, on the other hand, can be an excuse to live an examined life in an Aristotelian sense and thus assume responsibility.^[1] (p. 103)

Galacia nearly fell for literal guilt. By telling her story, Ulibarri creates a metaphor that brings the reader close to metaphorical guilt, the kind which reveals to us that injustice doesn’t always follow a straight cause-effect line, but that doesn’t mean no one’s responsible for it.

Another Life has a couple of soft spots, but plenty of well-rounded ones. So many it makes for a fine piece of narrative art. And like any of those, it’ll shake you if you allow yourself to read it. I highly recommend you do.

1. Natalia Carrillo & Pau Luque. Hipocondria moral. Editorial Anagrama. This quote is originally in Spanish; since the text is not available in English, the translation is my own.

Una con el suelo

Guillermo G. Mendoza

Hice una manda, ¿sabes?, antes del collar, antes de todo. Le pedí a la Virgencita que nos ayudara con lo del terreno y yo la representaría en el Viacrucis. Pero me tocó ser Jesús. O algo así.

Ese día mamá no quería dejarme sola con las trocas dando vueltas por el pueblo. Sobre todo, por la amenaza. Pensó en llamar a su jefe de allá, de la maquila, y pedir el día, pero al final se fue. «Estaré bien, mami, no te preocupes», le dije en la parada del camión, con el amanecer pálido sobre nosotras. Nos despedimos con un beso, como cualquier otro día. Ni idea de que no volveríamos a vernos. Al menos no en persona, porque al siguiente domingo no regresó. Le pidieron trabajar horas extra el fin de semana. Volvió cuando todo había pasado.

Almorcé dos tazas de café. Las necesitaba. Las camionetas fueron y vinieron por la terracería, alrededor de la casa, toda la noche. Lo hacían a propósito, para robarnos el sueño. Para fastidiarnos y que les vendiéramos la tierra de ito Juan. Pero no lo haríamos. Cuando se fueron, me puse tu sudadera del Cruz Azul y a darle. Desde que te fuiste la usé. Me recordaba que estabas en el norte, viendo por nosotras. Al principio olía a ti, pero con las lavadas pronto olió a ropa nomás. Y ese día te necesitaba más que otros y quería sentirte cerca.

Escombraba el cuarto de los abuelitos y entonces lo hallé. Llevaba semanas dejándolo para luego, porque no podía entrar a la habitación sin llorar. No quería aceptar su ausencia. Pero ya ibas a llegar, para ayudarnos con lo del terreno, ¿y dónde iban a dormir tú y Norma, y Juanito? Levanté todo y barrí y trapeé sin parar de llorar. Cada barrida, cada trapeada, quemaba con cloro mi corazón, me lavaba la pena. Levanté sus cosas una por una, acariciándolas. Y así lo encontré, refundido en una caja llena de fotos viejas: el collar de ita Tonantzin, una figurita de barro añejo con forma de árbol de la vida. Te has de acordar: siempre lo trae puesto en las fotos. Lo sostuve con la palma abierta para verlo bien. Y como que se sentía vivo, como si tuviera en la mano una lagartija. Le tomé una foto y le escribí a mamá: «Mira lo que apareció». Esperaba un audio, una anécdota por respuesta, pero ya ves . . . . No la dejaban usar el celular si estaba trabajando. Me contestó al otro día: «El collar de mamá Tona . . . . Es un amuleto, hija, quédatelo. Te va a proteger». Y eso hice. Lo demás lo doné a la parroquia.

Volví a la iglesia saliendo de la escuela. La parroquia había conseguido que una maestra de teatro viniera de la ciudad por las tardes, para ayudar al grupo juvenil a montar el Viacrucis. Yo me había apuntado, así que atravesé el atrio a la sombra de los ocotes, hasta llegar al salón de usos múltiples del traspatio. Los vi hacer el calentamiento y me apuré.

La maestra nos puso un reto nuevo: improvisar una escena con algo que lleváramos en la bolsa del pantalón. Sin diálogos ni compañeros, sólo yo y lo que llevara. Y lo único que tenía era el collar. Cuando fue mi turno pasé al frente. La maestra aplaudió: corría ya mi tiempo. Tomé el árbol de la vida entre mis manos, como si fuera un pájaro herido. Aplaudió de nuevo, y con ella mis compañeros. El pájaro se convirtió en un bebé —imaginé que era tu hijo Juanito, mi sobrino—y yo lo llevé a mi pecho y lo arrullé con una canción. Otra ronda de aplausos. Me vi arrullando las cenizas de ito Juan. Sentí cómo me brotaban las lágrimas. Aplaudieron una última vez. Las cenizas fueron entonces una semilla de ceiba. Me hinqué, hice como si la plantara en el piso. La regué con mis lágrimas. Luego me levanté con los ojos cerrados, extendiendo los brazos hacia el cielo. Imaginé que un árbol brotaba de la semilla, como si fuera un chorro de agua escupido por una fuente.

Y así pasó, fuera de mi imaginación. La semilla estalló y se hizo una ceiba que llenó todo el salón. La maestra y el grupo lo vieron también. Y todo se detuvo. Silencio, miradas de asombro. Algunos se pusieron de rodillas y empezaron a rezar. No tardó nada en correrse la voz.

Toda la noche le di vueltas a lo de la ceiba. Quería una explicación. Hasta pasé a la iglesia al otro día, antes de clases, para ver si había sido real eso de que apareciera nomás con imaginarlo. ¿Y qué crees? La ceiba todavía estaba ahí, quebrando la loza con sus raíces, rozando el techo con sus ramas. La rodeaba un grupo de rezanderas que, entre murmullos, pasaban las cuentas de sus rosarios. No era un retoño, sino un árbol maduro, con su corteza de piel de lagartija toda llena de espinas y sus ramas colgando hacia abajo, cual manos extendidas hacia las mujeres que le rezaban. Y colgado de una de ellas, como si la ceiba lo alzara del piso, estaba el collar de ita Tonantzin. De la impresión lo había dejado el día anterior. No sé cómo nadie lo halló. Lo agarré y lo tuve de nuevo.

«Cipactli, ¿qué piensas de eso?».

Era el profe de sociales, el mismo que igual te dio clases. Ya sabes quién: playeras del Che todos los días, y gorrita zapatista que nunca se quita. Volví de mi lelera.

«¿Que qué, profe?».

«¿Qué piensas de la expropiación ejidal de 1990? San Miguel Ototipac perdió la mitad de sus tierras comunales para que se construyera el periférico. De eso ha sido toda la clase . . . ».

Al profe siempre le gustó hablar de política en palabras enredadas. Y si me preguntaba a mí era porque yo sabía el tipo de respuestas que le gustaban y cómo decirlas. Me conoces: siempre fui buena para hablar, desde chiquita. Siempre me pusieron a declamar el juramento a la bandera, a recitar poemas el día de las madres y esas cosas. Pero esa mañana no hallé palabras. La lengua se me hizo un nudo y sólo atiné a ver por la ventana, más allá de las canchas y las milpas, hacia el terreno de ito Juan.

El profe esperó.

Escupí una respuesta:

«Que es una mamada».

Igual y de coraje me llevé la mano al collar de ita Tonantzin. Entonces supe qué hacer.

Me fui derechito al acahual de don Ramiro cuando acabaron las clases. Estaba seco seco de tanto químico. Era el lugar perfecto para probar. Puse el collar sobre la tierra, cerré los ojos, e imaginé un jardín crecer sobre el terreno. Cuando los abrí fue como ver uno de esos documentales que ponía la maestra de biología, ¿te acuerdas? Era una de esas escenas donde ves pasar meses en unos cuantos segundos. De la tierra, reseca como piel de culebra, nacieron brotes de plantitas y crecieron en retoños y acabaron hechos una arboleda. Cuando alcé el collar, el jardín no se desvaneció, como tampoco hizo la ceiba allá en la iglesia.

Don Ramiro estuvo muy contento el resto de la semana. Fue a la iglesia, a darle gracias a la Virgencita por el milagro y hasta se echó para atrás con la venta de su parcela que la inmobiliaria insistía en adquirir. Le mandaron a los hombres de las trocas, a disque negociar, pero entonces ya se hablaba de la ceiba—ya sabes: chisme de pueblo—y con lo del terreno, el asunto escaló a milagro. Todo el pueblo estaba metido en la iglesia. Empezó a llegar gente de otros lados. Hasta vino el padre desde la ciudad, a media semana, aunque no le tocara oficiar misa, nomás a ver si era verdad eso que le decían por teléfono. Era tanta la gente que nadie tuvo miedo a los hombres de la inmobiliaria, ni aunque llegaron armados. Que se iba a hacer una capilla, que debía venir el obispo declarar santo el lugar. No se hablaba de otra cosa.

Pero yo pensaba en algo más: el terreno de ito Juan. Ya estaba bardeado y tenía un letrero que decía «Próximamente: Jardines de Gaia. Tu paraíso ecológico». Ya lo habían allanado para empezar a construir. Fui esa misma noche. Logré colarme por las calles sin toparme con las trocas, y escalar el paredón.

Habrías llorado al mirarlo. ¿Te acuerdas del cazahuite que crecía grande en la esquina, donde anidaban las golondrinas? ¿Y del níspero que trepábamos cuando éramos niños? Ya no estaban. Ya no había nada. El tecorral donde vivían las lagartijas, la lomita que se llenaba de hongos con las lluvias, el jacal donde se escondían los cacomixtles . . . Nada. Una extensión siniestra, de arena aplanada a la perfección, era todo lo que iluminaba la luz pálida de los reflectores. Y el muro de concreto alrededor. La parcela de nuestro abuelito destazada en lotes, lista para la obra.

Eché un vistazo a la caseta del velador: la ventana destellaba en azul. Tenía la tele prendida. Caminé hasta el centro del terreno, puse el collar sobre la tierra y dejé volar mi imaginación.

Del suelo emergieron los brotes, las hojitas.

Ni tú ni yo conocimos a ita Tonantzin más que en fotos viejas. Pero a mí me gustaba preguntarle por ella a ito Juan. Que cómo era, que cómo hablaba, que qué hacía.

«Era una mujer muy sabia, mijita, muy buena para las plantas», me contestaba y luego se arrancaba a contarme de su vida. Así supe quién era ella, lo que hacía. Ayudó a nacer a prácticamente todos en el pueblo. Curaba a los necesitados, nomás por buena gente, sin cobrar jamás un solo peso. Y todo con hierbas, piedras y ensalmos, como las curanderas de las leyendas.

Nuestro abuelito la extrañaba mucho. Se lo sentía en la voz cada que me hablaba de ella. Pero nunca se ponía triste, al revés: le brotaba la alegría. Un día le pregunté el motivo. «Es que sigue aquí conmigo, con ustedes, hija. Nunca nos deja». Eso fue lo que me dijo. Estábamos en su terreno, juntando hongos, y pensé que hablaba en sentido figurado, como quien dice que un ser amado vive en su corazón luego de fallecer. Pero no.

La inmobiliaria metió otra vez la maquinaria para limpiar el pedazo de monte que había crecido de la noche a la mañana. Mientras tanto, la gente se apiñonaba afuera del terreno, frente al portón; era el tercer «milagro» en poco más de una semana. El velador juró haberlo visto con sus propios ojos: vegetación creciendo de la nada, árboles alzándose en segundos a alturas de décadas, hierbas del tiempo de las abuelas, que ya casi no se veían, brotando por montones, flores reventando de la nada cual cohetones de fiesta hechos de pétalos. Lo contó todo y renunció para irse de peregrinación a Juquila. Sepa cómo no me vio a mí también, ahí parada, con mi sonrisota en medio de aquella fiesta de plantas. Lo contó todo, pero sólo los del grupo de teatro sabían quién hacía la magia, el milagro o lo que fuera. Claro que lo soltaron, hablaron de la muchachita y del amuleto del árbol de la vida. Pero nadie les hizo caso. Supongo que la gente prefería creer en los poderes de la Virgen y, por mí, mejor.

Al principio importó poco lo que hice. La inmobiliaria aplanó otra vez el terreno en un solo día. Les urgía empezar a construir, porque eso significaría que ya eran dueños de nuestra tierra, que no importaba el litigio. Pero yo estaba dispuesta a usar el collar una y otra vez, las que fueran necesarias. Usaría su magia, porque el terreno era de nuestros abuelitos y querían robarlo. Como habían hecho antes con tantas otras familias del pueblo y hasta con los ejidos comunales de la falda del cerro. Entonces—en realidad, hace no mucho—se aprovecharon de nuestra falta de dinero y de nuestros pleitos, de la tranza del gobierno para hacer el cambio de uso de suelo. Después, llenaron el pueblo de trocas con hombres armados y, así, también se aprovecharon de nuestro miedo. Y ahora ito Juan había muerto y querían quedarse con su terreno. Querían arrebatarnos su tierra, su recuerdo, mas yo no los dejaría.

Volví esa misma noche. Ya acampaba el gentío afuera del portón, guadalupanos con esperanzas de atestiguar el milagro. Los rodeé y seguí el muro, en busca de un lugar oscuro donde poder trepar sin ser vista. Y lo encontré, casi en la esquina. ¿Te acuerdas del ahuehuete del terreno de junto? Ahí mero. Su sombra oscurecía por completo la pared. Fue como si me leyeran la mente lo de teatro: ya estaban ahí, esperándome. Con su ayuda, subir fue mucho más fácil y pronto estuvimos dentro. El nuevo velador debió estar en el baño o algo así, pues no estaba por ninguna parte. Volví a poner el collar en el centro del terreno y otra vez imaginé, esta vez algo más vasto.

Un bosque se alzó del suelo.

A la mañana siguiente llegué tarde a la prepa. Una de las camionetas de la inmobiliaria esperó afuera de la casa hasta bien entrada la mañana. Pensé que no se atreverían a entrar, no con el pueblo tan alborotado, tan despierto por lo de los milagros. De todas formas esperé aún después que se fueran. Cuando por fin salí, vi el rayón sobre el portón: «te vamos a chingar si no le paras». Traté de calmarme. «No van a hacer nada, Cipactli, no van a hacer nada», me decía. Pero me temblaba todo el cuerpo y, cuando me encaminé a la escuela, cualquier ruidito me hacía saltar a esconderme.

Volví esa noche. Y también la siguiente y la siguiente. Las amenazas no pararon. Yo tampoco. No podía dejarles el terreno de nuestros abuelitos. Y ya sabían que era yo, así que dormí en la parroquia para estar segura. Estaba abierta todo el día y toda la noche, porque peregrinos de otros pueblos y hasta de la ciudad venían a ver los milagros. La inmobiliaria trajo más y más hombres armados para mantenerlos fuera del terreno. Se hizo más difícil entrar, pero el grupo de teatro me esperó cada noche y siempre pudimos colarnos entre el gentío y saltar la barda sin ser vistos. Cada mañana aparecía un bosque cubría el terreno. Y para cuando anochecía, lo habían talado de nuevo.

Empecé a quedarme dormida en clase, por las desveladas. No estaba al cien, pero pensaba que ya mero se rendiría la inmobiliaria, pues ya el obispo presionaba allá en la ciudad a la gente de la inmobiliaria y acá en el pueblo, ya se hablaba de hacerle un santuario a la Virgen ahí, en el terreno del abuelo, que daban por santo de tanta maravilla ocurrida los últimos días. Pero también porque, ¿cuánto habría gastado ya la inmobiliaria? No podrían rentar todos esos trascabos y aplanadoras para siempre. Tenían que echarse para atrás, algún día. Eso pensaba aquella última noche, mientras subía la barda con ayuda de un par de compañeros del grupo de teatro.

Salté al otro lado y eché un ojo a la cabina del velador. No había nadie. Afuera del muro, sólo silencio, ni oraciones ni canciones de iglesia, como las noches anteriores. Y no me pareció raro, no sé por qué. Caminé hasta el centro del terreno bajo la luz fantasmagórica de los reflectores. Puse el collar sobre la tierra y entonces oí el griterío: eran mis compañeros, eran advertencias. Demasiado tarde: algo me atravesó por la espalda.

No supe dónde estaba. No sentí frío ni calor. Todo era oscuro y no sentía mi cuerpo. Algo me apretaba por todas partes y no podía moverme o, mejor dicho, no tenía cuerpo que mover. Estuve así no sé cuánto, tratando de entender. Entonces llegaron los susurros, como siseos de serpiente: «Cipactli . . . Ci-pac-tli». Y de alguna forma reconocí esas voces: eran las raíces del níspero, del cazahuite, de los ocotes destazados por los trascabos, la parte subterránea de los hongos que ya no crecerían, las tuzas, las lombrices, las lagartijas, todos los animalitos sepultados en sus madrigueras por las aplanadoras. «Ci-pac-tli», susurraban en una madeja de voces. Después de un rato reconocí entre ellas las voces humanas: nuestras ancestras. Mujeres viejas, antiguas, me llamaban: «Cipactli . . . Ci-pac-tli».

Mis compañeros alcanzaron a escapar, pero a mí me tiraron aquí mismo, en una zanja. El collar se rompió en mi puño, mas ya no lo necesitaba. Las voces y yo alzamos el bosque noche tras noche. Cada mañana, ahí estaba: enorme, frondoso. No se lo pudieron explicar jamás los de la inmobiliaria. Como tampoco pudieron explicar qué hacían ahí mis restos, en la parcela.

El grupo de teatro contó la versión conveniente, la que se ha hecho verdad de tanta repetición: nos escapamos de noche para ver el milagro con nuestros propios ojos. Nos colamos sin ser vistos. Adentro estaban los hombres armados, y nos obligaron a detenernos. No lo hicimos. A ellos los detuvieron, a mí . . . . Me hicieron otras cosas. Quise defenderme y me golpearon. Mis amigos lucharon para zafarse y detenerlos. Luego, disparos. Ellos escaparon; yo no. Y nadie volvió a verme jamás. Los de la inmobiliaria no pudieron probar su inocencia. ¿Qué iban a decir? ¿Que tenían paramilitares en el pueblo? ¿Que una bruja les crecía árboles en el terreno cada noche para que no construyeran?

La gente se puso furiosa. Tantos abusos, tanto miedo . . . . Fui la gota que derramó el vaso. Tomaron el terreno del abuelo y pintaron consignas de protesta en el paredón. Hicieron un plantón frente al palacio municipal. Cerraron autopistas. Hicieron una marcha hasta la capital y tomaron las oficinas de la inmobiliaria. La cosa se fue a los noticieros nacionales. A las autoridades no les quedó de otra más que investigar. Y así dieron con mis restos. Pero eso tú ya lo viste, hermano, ya habías regresado del norte. Ya te tocó ver cómo se fue, por fin, la inmobiliaria.

Sólo me arrepiento de haberme ido así, sin decirle adiós a mamá. Le rompió el corazón identificar mis restos. Cómo quisiera decirle que no me fui, que estoy aquí. Quisiera que pudieras oírme, hermano, cada que vienes al terreno del abuelo. Pero lo sé: sientes el cariño que te hago llegar en el aroma de las flores, en el húmedo de la tierra y en la sombra refrescante de los árboles. Todo eso lo hago para ustedes. Y me gusta cuando juegas con Juanito, mi sobrino, sobre mí. Adoro escucharles la risa, a ti y a mamá. Aun así, cómo quisiera que pudieras escuchar todo esto, como cuando éramos niños y te contaba cuentos para dormirte. Quisiera tener mi voz, hablar con palabras de viento y susurrarte al oído: «Oye, no me fui, no me mataron, hermanito, no de verdad». Decirte que vivo en cada palmo de esta tierra trabajada con tanto amor por el abuelo. Decirte que, como ita Tonantzin y las mujeres antes de ella, me hice una con el suelo.

La versión en español de “Una con el suelo” fue editada por Laura Martínez-Lara.

One with the Ground

Guillermo G. Mendoza

I prayed a manda, you know? Before the necklace, before everything. I asked la Virgencita for help with Abuelito’s land, and I offered to act as her in the Via Crucis procession. But I got to be Jesus. Kinda.

That day Mamá didn’t wanna leave me alone with the company’s trocas roaming town. Not after the threat. She thought of calling her boss at the maquila and asking for a couple days off, but she went in the end. “I’ll be fine, Mami, don’t worry,” I told her at the bus stop, pale sunrise above us. We kissed each other goodbye like any other day. No idea we’d never meet again. At least not in person, because next Sunday she didn’t come back. They asked her to work extra over the weekend. She returned after it was all over.

I drank a couple cups of coffee for breakfast. I needed them. The trucks rattled over the dirt track around the house all night long. They did that on purpose, to snatch away our sleep. To wear us down so we’d sell them Abuelito’s land. But we wouldn’t. Soon they left anyway, so I put on your Cruz Azul hoodie and got to work. I’d used it since you left. It reminded me you were in el norte, looking after us. It smelled of you at first, but that soon faded off. Still, I wore it to feel you close, and that day I needed you with me.

I cleaned Abuelito’s room, and that’s when I found it. I’d put it off for weeks because I always wept as soon as I walked in. Couldn’t take he was gone. But you were about to come back to help us with the lawsuit, and where would you and Norma and Juanito sleep? So I cleaned the mess up and swept and mopped, flooded in tears. Every sway chlorinated my heart, washed away my grief. I took his things one by one, caressed them. And I found it, below a pile of crumbing pics: Abuela Tonantzin’s necklace, a small Tree of Life shaped out of clay. You must remember it: She wears it in every photo, around her neck. I held it, palm open. Its weight was like a mountain. It kinda felt alive in my hand, like I held a lizard or something. Took a pic of it and texted Ma: “Look what sprung up!” I expected a voicemail, an old anecdote for an answer, but you know . . . . They don’t want her on the phone while at work. She texted back next day: “Mamá Tona’s necklace . . . . It’s an amulet, mija. Keep it. It will protect you.” And I did. Everything else we gave away to the parish.

I went back to church after school. The parish managed to get a drama teacher to come from the city in the afternoons, to help the youth group mount the Via Crucis’ procession. I’d signed up, so I walked through the atrium, past the teocotes’ dancing shade, all the way to the utility room in the back. I could see them through the window warming up already, so I hurried.

The teacher set a new challenge: to improvise a scene with stuff we had in our pocket. No dialogue, no partner, just me and whatever I carried. And all I had was the necklace. So when my turn came I stepped forward. The teacher applauded: my time was on. I held the Tree of Life in my hands as if it was a wounded bird. She clapped again, and the drama crew too. The bird became a baby—your son Juanito, my little nephew. I cuddled him, took him to my breast and sang a lullaby. Another round of applause. I found myself swaying abuelito’s ashes, eyes wet. They cheered one last time. His ashes became a ceiba seed. I kneeled and planted it on the ground. I watered it with with my tears. Then I rose with closed eyes, unfolding my arms towards the ceiling, and pictured in my mind a tree rushing out of the seed.

And it did. The ceiba snapped into the room. Like a dream, only it wasn’t. The teacher and the drama crew saw it too. The world stilled, a silence. Then flickers of awe. A few went to their knees and prayed. Word spread right away.

All night I looked for an explanation. I even went back next morning before school, to see if all that about a tree sprouting out my imagination was real. Guess what? It was still there, tiles broken by the roots, branches so high they reached the ceiling, surrounded by a crowd of rezanderas who murmured and counted beads in their rosaries. It was fully grown, bark like a lizard’s skin roughed and thorned, branches hanging low like arms extended towards the praying women. And hung in one of the lower branches, as if the ceiba rose it from the ground, Abuela Tonantzin’s necklace. With all the rush, I’d left it behind the day before. I wonder how no one else found it. Anyway I took it back.

“Cipactli, what are your thoughts on this?”

It was the Social Studies teacher, the same one you took class with. You know him: Che Guevara shirts every single day, zapatista cap he never takes off. I snapped out of my daydream.

“Que qué teacher?”

“What do you think about the ejidos expropriation in 1990? San Miguel Ototipac lost half its common land so the state government could build the capital’s beltway. I was just talking about it.”

The teacher always liked talking politics with tangled words. And I knew the kind of answers he liked to hear. You know I was always good with words. Always the one asked to recite poems on Mother’s Day, to pledge allegiance to the flag out loud for the whole school to follow. But that morning I couldn’t deliver. My tongue knit into a hank and all I could do was stare out the window, beyond the soccer court and the cornfields, towards Abuelo Juan’s plot.

The teacher waited.

I spat out:

“That it sucked.”

I don’t know why I then took my hand to abuela Tonantzin’s necklace and knew what to do.

I went straight to don Ramiro’s wasteland when class was over. It was dry from years of chemical fertilizers. It was the perfect place to try. I set the necklace on the ground, closed my eyes, and imagined a garden growing. When I opened them it was like one of those documentaries the biology teacher used to play, remember? Like one of those scenes where you can see months go by in few seconds. A grove sprouted in the dead land. And when I picked the necklace up, it didn’t vanish either.

Don Ramiro went crazy. He went to church to thank la Virgencita for the miracle, he even turned down his land’s sale. The company even sent its ‘security personnel’ after him, to ‘negotiate.’ But by then the ceiba was the hottest news, and when the news broke about his wasteland turned to grove overnight, the whole town went crazy too. So everyone was at the church, even people from nearby towns. The padre came from the city even though it wasn’t Sunday, just to see if what he’d heard on the phone was true. There was such a big crowd in town that nobody feared the company’s thugs, despite them showing off their guns. Rumor went around about building a chapel at don Ramiro’s and asking the bishop to come declare it holy ground. The miracles of the ceiba and don Ramiro’s land were all you could hear.

But in the meanwhile, there was something else going on at Abuelo Juan’s: they’d finished the wall and raised a signboard saying, “Gaia’s Grove: Your Own Ecological Paradise.” They’d already flattened it to build. So I went there that very night. Had to dodge the trucks, but in the end I snuck in.

You would’ve cried too. Remember the cazahuite tree in the corner, where the swallows nested? And the medlar we climbed as kids? Gone. All of it was. El tecorral where the lizards sunbathed, the knoll the mushrooms crawled over after it rained, the shack where the cacomixtles hid . . . all gone. An eerie extent of flattened sand was all their ghastly lamps displayed. And the concrete wall, all around. Abuelo Juan’s beloved terreno split up into lots, ready to be built upon.

I looked towards the guard’s cabin: the window flashed blue. He had the TV on. I walked to the middle of the plot, put the necklace on the ground, and let my imagination fly.

Saplings came out of the ground.

We didn’t meet Abuelita Tonantzin, you and I. We just had family pics to know her by. So I always asked Abuelo Juan about her. “Abuelito, how was she like?”

“She was a very wise woman, mijita, very good with plants,” he’d say first, and then carry on about her life. That’s how I know who she was, what she did. She helped pretty much everyone in town when in childbirth. She healed those in need. Just for the sake of helping them, never a charge, all with herbs, stones and prayer, like una curandera from legend.

Abuelito really missed her. I felt it in his voice every time he talked about her. But he never got sad, al revés: joy sprang in him. One day I asked him why. “Es que she’s still right here, with me, with us, mija. She never leaves.” We were in his terreno, foraging mushrooms, and I thought he meant it as a metaphor or something. Pero no.

The real estate company brought back the machines to clear the copse of trees grown overnight. Meanwhile, people crowded outside the wall; it was the third ‘miracle’ in less than a week. The night guard swore he’d seen it all: vegetation grew out of nowhere, trees reached heights of decades in seconds, long gone herbs from the time of our abuelas sprouted por montones, buds exploded into flowers like fireworks made of petals. He told it all, then resigned and left for Juquila in pilgrimage. I still don’t know how he didn’t see me standing there in the middle of everything. But only the guys from drama knew who did the magic, the miracle or whatever. Oh, some of them talked all right. About the girl with the Tree of Life amulet. But nobody heard them. I guess people chose to believe in la Virgencita.

Didn’t matter at first. The company flattened it all again. They were eager to build, because that proved they owned our land already despite the lawsuit. But I would use the necklace again. I’d perform its magic, because the land was our abuelitos’ and they were trying to take it from us. Like they’d done before with other families, and even with the community ejidos on the slopes of the hill. Back then, not long ago really, they leveraged our poverty and misunderstandings and took advantage of the government’s corrupción to change the land use permit. Then they crammed our town with armed men in trocas and also harnessed our fear. And now Abuelo Juan was gone, and they tried to steal his land from us. Su tierra which he cared for all his life. But I wouldn’t let them.

So I went back that night. People were camped outside the plot’s main gate already, Guadalupanos trying to witness the miracle. I went around them and followed the wall, looking for a spot dark enough to jump out of sight. And I found it, right in a corner. An ahuehuete grew tall next to the creek, and its shade made the wall pitch black. It was like they read my mind, the guys from drama: they were there, waiting for me in the dark. With their help, everything was easier, and soon we were inside. The new guard must’ve been in the toilet or something, because he was nowhere around. So I set the necklace on the land once again, in the middle of the plot, and I imagined something vaster than before.

And a thick wood emerged.

I was late for school the next day. One of the real estate company’s trocas camped outside our home after sunrise. I thought they wouldn’t dare to break in, not with the whole town roused by the miracles. Still, I waited long after they were gone. When I went out, I saw the message scratched over the gate, saying they would fuck me up if I didn’t stop. I tried to calm myself down. “They won’t do it, Cipactli, they wouldn’t,” I kept telling myself. But my body shook all the way to school, and any rattle of a wheel over the dirt made me jump out of the road and hide.

I went back anyway. That night and the next and the next. Their threats didn’t stop, pero neither did I. I couldn’t stop and leave our abuelito’s land for them to snatch. And they already knew it was me, así que I just slept over at the parish for safety. It stood open now twenty four hours, as pilgrims arrived from neighboring towns for a chance to watch the miracle. The real estate company brought more and more men and guns to keep the crowd outside the wall. Jumping over it got harder, but the drama crew kept showing up, and every time we managed to get in unseen. Each dawn, thick woods covered the plot. And by night it was chopped down again.

I started falling asleep in class. I wouldn’t last much longer, but I thought the company had to give up soon, because the bishop declared Abuelo’s terreno holy ground a couple days after it all began. Some parishioners were even at the capital, lobbying for the realtor to give it back to the community. They wanted to build a sanctuary for la Virgencita there. But there was also the money: how much had the company spent already? They couldn’t rent all those dozers and steamrollers much longer. They had to step back, someday. Those were my thoughts that last time, as I climbed over the wall with the help of a couple guys from drama.

I jumped over and looked at the guard’s cabin. He was nowhere to be seen. Outside the wall, no prayers were sung, no murmurs sounded like the nights before. Somehow I didn’t find that odd. I walked towards the center of the plot, under the ghastly light of the lamps. I put the necklace on the ground, then heard the shouts from my companions. Warnings. All too late: something pierced my back.

I didn’t know where I was. I felt neither cold nor hot. All was dark. Something pressed on me from everywhere, and I couldn’t move. Or rather, I had no body to move. It went on like that for who knows how long. Then the whispers came. Like rustling sounds, like the hissing of a snake, they called me: “Cipactli . . . Ci . . . pac . . . tli . . . ” And somehow, I recognized them. The whispered voices belonged to the medlar, the cazahuite, the teocotes torn apart by the dozers. They were the mushrooms’ underground nerves no longer growing, the gophers and worms and lizards buried alive in their furrows by the steamrollers. “Ci . . . pac . . . tli,” they whispered in entangled voices. After a while I recognized the human ones among them: nuestras ancestras, elder women, called me. “Cipactli . . . Ci . . . pac . . . tli.”

The other guys from drama managed to escape. Me, they left right here in the ditch. The necklace broke in my fist, but I no longer needed it. The voices and I raised the forest night after night. Every morning, there it was: enorme, frondoso. The men running the real estate company chopped it down every time, until we won. They never could never understand what happened. Just like they couldn’t explain what my remains were doing in the plot.

The drama crew told the convenient version of the story, made it true by repetition: we broke into the plot to watch the miracle. The armed men were there. They grabbed the guys, molested me. I defended myself and got beaten down. My friends struggled to protect me. Shots got fired. They managed to escape; I didn’t. And no one saw me again. The company couldn’t prove its innocence. What were they gonna say? That a bruja grew a forest over their stolen plot every night?

El pueblo went mad. The whole town camped around the terreno and painted slogans on the wall. They occupied the city hall and closed down the highways. They marched to the capital and took over the real estate company CEO’s office. It all reached national news, and the federal government had to step in. That’s how they found what was left of my human body. But you already saw that, hermano. You were back, and you saw how the company left for good.

The only thing I regret is leaving like that, without saying adiós to Mamá. Identifying my corpse broke her heart. I wish I could tell her I’m not really gone, que estoy aquí. I wish you could hear me whenever you come here, to abuelo Juan’s land. But I know you feel my love in the flowers’ scent, in the embracing moisture of the ground and the cool shade of the trees. It is all for you. I like it when you play above me with Juanito, mi sobrinito. I like to hear you all laugh. Still, I wish you could hear me, hermano, like you did when we were kids and I told you bedtime stories. I wish I had my voice again, to speak with human words, to whisper in your ear, “Oye, I’m not gone, they didn’t kill me, hermanito, not really.” To tell you I live in every patch of this land Abuelo Juan tilled with so much love. To tell you that, like Abuela Tonantzin and the women before her, I became one with the ground.

The Spanish version of “One with the Ground” was edited by Laura Martínez-Lara.