The Ills of Invasion

Katarina Xóchitl Vargas

Here in Tenochtitlán, we have two seasons:

the rainy season, when we thrive. 

and the dry season, when we wither. 

When it rains, it rains stories.

On my rooftop, we barrio kids gather

to hear Conchita tell of the Noche Triste,

in 1520, when Spanish swords 

          waited, waited, waited . . .  

for the sound of joyous drumming: 

(our ancestral drumming), before . . .

          slicing, slicing, slicing-off 

the arms and legs of the danzantes.  

“They timed the massacres perfectly,”

she’d say, “for when we were happiest.” 

Dogs stop barking to listen,

and gray lizards freeze on pink walls.

In me, also are two seasons:

the writing season, when I dance.

and the dry season, when I am sick. 

The doctor says the drought 

is in my “Latina” DNA.

“Nahua DNA,” I correct.  

There are 25 million 

slaughtered ancestors in my genes.

When the withering starts

they spill into my veins all at once:

ancient danzantes with phantom limbs—

feet stomping, ankles rattling,

reawakening my Earth with ayoyotes.

With copalli, together 

we try to smoke out the topography 

of terror, drum life back in,

stomp out said crippling diagnosis.

Healing rolls in with thunder, 

as the huehuetls and I reprogram 

the rain-dance back into me. 

Flushing genocide out of my cells. 

One mazehualiztli at a time.

  *   *   *

ayoyotes: Dry shells used as percussion instrument in Nahua culture 

barrio: Spanish for neighborhood

copalli: Nahuatl for Copal incense

danzantes: Spanish for dancers

huehuetls: Nahuatl for wise elders

mazehualiztli: ancient ritual dances of the Nahuas

Noche Triste: The “Sad Night” when Spanish invaders slaughtered all the dancers of Mexico-

Tenochtitlan.