Everywhere the wind moaned with the name of their homeland. They sat with old caciques who told the stories of the past, and always the four directions were pointed out, and in the center stood Aztlán. They moved north, and there Aztlán was a woman fringed with snow and ice; they moved west, and there she was a mermaid singing by the sea; and always, beneath the form in the vision they heard the soft throbbing of her heart. They walked to the land where the sun rises, and there by the side of the sea where the morning star and the sun played upon the waves before day entered, they found new signs, and the signs pointed them back to the center, back to Aztlán.
I. Searching for Other Stories
As I drove my tiny rental car through the desert Southwest during the hottest, driest part of the summer of 1999, I received many odd looks when, asked where I was headed, I replied, “I’m searching for Aztlán.” For everyone who knows of Aztlán knows that it is a bit like The Land of Oz: a magical place that does not necessarily appear on maps. Rather, to seek Aztlán is to seek a spiritual reality, where one ultimately finds not a geographic destination but instead circles back to a rooted and renewed sense of self, community, and nation. Writes Luis Leal: “whosoever wants to find Aztlán, let him look for it, not on the maps, but in the most intimate part of his being”.
Aztlán is both old and new. In classic Mexican mythology, it is a region of whiteness, of herons, the mythic place of seven caves from which the ancient Aztec peoples of Mexico emerged and moved southward to the central highland valleys of Mexico to conquer established indigenous populations and to found the grand city of Tenochtitlán (now Mexico City) in 1325. Though the geographic location of ancient Aztlán is the subject of much debate, it is generally thought to have been located somewhere to the north of Tenochtitlán. Discovering the precise geographic location of Aztlán has been the subject of much inquiry throughout history, and it has been variously placed in the modern-day Mexican state of Nayarit (on the Pacific coast about 400 miles northwest of Mexico City), in the contemporary United States of Wisconsin, Florida, New Mexico, or California, and as far away as China.
In the more-recent Chicano nationalist discourse of the 1960s and 1970s in the United States, the idea of Aztlán was recovered and proposed as the contemporary homeland of the Chicano people. Its geographic location was firmly conceptualized as that territory ceded to the United States by Mexico via the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848 – nearly half of Mexico’s national territory at the time – now located in the Southwestern United States. The mythic idea of Aztlán as a place of origin was utilized as a contemporary political strategy, to geographically ground a homeland for Chicanos as rightfully located within the United States. Without Aztlán, note Chicano scholars Rudolfo Anaya and Francisco Lomelí:
…we would be contemporary displaced nomads, suffering the diaspora in our own land, and at the mercy of other social forces. Aztlán allows us to come full circle with our communal background as well as to maintain ourselves as fully integrated individuals.
Aztlán is a story. It illustrates the mytho-poetic invention of nation whose spirit, and methods, variously contested the Anglo-American version of the national story. Chicano nationalists consciously sought to rewrite the tale of belonging and exclusion as it was written in the nineteenth century. As Paul Routledge reminds us in his analysis of song as contestatory strategy in India’s Baliapal movement, it is important to keep in mind that political dissent is frequently conceptualized and enacted culturally. Such a geopoetics of resistance, notes Routledge, works across several, intertwined conceptualizations of space: material space, imagined space, and spatial practice. As with Chicano nationalists, the Baliapal residents’ resistance to the proposed construction of a test base for missiles in their rich farmlands used song, theater, and stories as ways to establish and legitimate their a priori claims to the land. To discount the mytho-poetic dimensions of resistance would be, in both the Chicano and Baliapal examples, to present an anemic and distort picture.
Yet the story of Chicano nationalists is, in important ways, a parallel narrative to that of Anglo-American expansionists nearly a century earlier. For both tales are ultimately nationalist tales, and despite its apparently radical stance, the Chicano version shared the same exclusions that modern nationalisms everywhere contain. And in this, both tales are in turn consistent with the Baliapal case, leading Routledge to warn of the dangers of over-romanticizing the poetic dimensions of resistance:
A geopoetics of resistance discerns that articulations of collective identity can themselves be abstractions that efface differences and inequalities within particular places and within the movements themselves. Place is a heterogeneous social construct, a dynamic locus of community, which frequently involves a variety of exclusions … as well as inclusions …. While celebrating the poetic imaginaries of resistance, it thus behooves academics and activists to remain grounded in the material spaces and spatial practices of those who resist.
Many contemporary Chicana/o scholars and writers have become disenchanted with what, and whom, Aztlán left out. Unresolved tensions of race, gender, and sexuality have imploded the idea of Aztlán, much in the way that Chicanos of the 1960s and 1970s had hoped to implode the hegemonic Anglo myths and practices that have historically oppressed Chicanos. Ultimately, Aztlán was a utopic idea that rested on an uncritically romantic gesture of reversal, rather than a re-invention, of oppressive power structures.
In this chapter, Aztlán is approached as not simply opposing Anglo-American hegemony, but as also sharing important axes with it. In particular, both are narratives which turn on the oscillation between debordering and rebordering. Both are border(ed) stories. Although contemporary Chicana/o scholars have explored the exclusions of Aztlán and its declining significance as a unifying concept, the analysis has yet to be set within a larger context of the longstanding narratives of border conflict that have so profoundly shaped the landscape of the Southwest. ‘The West’ of the Anglo-American geo-imaginary and Aztlán of the Chicano nationalist geo-imaginary constituted attempts to root collective belonging to the land, and metonymically, to the nation, through the use of symbol and myth. Both turned on a debordering. In the Anglo-American account, told so well by Turner, the empty landscape allowed White Americans to flow over the land, possessing and marking it with their violently bordered nationalism. In the Chicano nationalist counter-narrative, it is both the geopolitical boundary between Mexico and the United States that is challenged, as well as the internal, racialized borders erected in the supposedly smooth space of Anglo-Nation. Yet both narratives of belonging were also narratives of exclusion, they erected borders within their supposedly smoothed spaces.
Furthermore, the significance of Aztlán as an explicitly spatialized tool of resistance has not yet been adequately explored. With the geo-imaginary concept of Aztlán, Chicano nationalists set their sights on the same arid expanse of the Southwestern United States as Anglo-Americans had claimed for their version of desti-nation in the previous century. Chicano nationalists envisioned an entirely different landscape, albeit still a nationalist landscape, from that of the Anglo-Americans whose vision, and reality, they were challenging. The freshly extended storyline of contemporary Aztlán legitimated the presence of Chicanos in what was now an alien Anglo-nation as part of a longstanding entitlement to the land through historic origins. Rather than constituting an ‘invasion,’ the growing Chicano presence in the US Southwest thusly understood constituted instead a reverse diaspora of sorts, a rightful return to a historic homeland that completed a necessary step in the destiny of the Chicano nation. Aztlán, because of (not despite) being a story, was deployed in a carefully, powerfully strategic fashion to contest the dominant Anglo-American narration of the United States of America. Aztlán as a mythic idea was consciously projected onto the desert terrain of the US Southwest as a way to legitimate, root, and define the presence of Mexican-descended peoples residing in that region. The Chicano nationalist recovery of Aztlán as a precisely-located geographic entity telescoped and focused the fuzzy geography of ancient homelands to serve a concrete political agenda. Aztlán illustrates well my claim that place stories can be powerfully real and really powerful.
The Aztec people migrated from the north around the 9th or 10th Century A.D. They arrived when Mexico’s Central Valley was already densely populated, and no-one wished to take them in. Relegated to a bit of rocky, marginal land known as Tizaapan, they were understood to be lowly Chichimecas (“sons of dogs”), called the people without a face, and often asked to work as mercenaries because of their reputation for fierceness. Yet they flourished, and assimilated the dominant Toltec culture. By the mid-15th Century, they had largely conquered and controlled the densely-settled Central Valley lake region of Mexico.
The ancestors of these pessimistic warriors had been compelled to leave their homeland. Michael Pina speculates that this migration may have arisen from a conflict in leadership between two male heirs upon the death of their father. Doris Heyden’s notes to Spanish Friar Diego Durán’s account from the late 16th Century suggest that this group left Aztlán because they were subjugated to other Aztecs. Rather than accepting ongoing humiliation and subjugation, they decided to emigrate. Most accounts of the pilgrimage also hold that the warrior sun god Huitzilpochtli had promised the Aztec people a triumphant destiny in the south as rulers of a new empire, conquering and receiving tribute. To move southward was thus a chapter in their destiny as chosen people. “He wishes to extol his own name and raise the Aztec nation to the heavens. He will make us lords of gold and silver and of all metals, of splendid feathers of many colors, and of precious stones of great value”. Along their trek south, the Aztecs, under the guidance of Huitzilpochtli, received technology and knowledge (bows and arrows, spear throwers, and nets for hunting and fishing), and were imbued with a sacred authority to rule over others. “Within this context the Aztec journey from Aztlán does not correspond to an escape from disgrace, nor a nomadic wandering, but rather assumes the sacred aura of a pilgrimage directed by a supernatural being”.
The northern region from which they originated was the subject of much curiosity for Moctezuma Ilhuicamina (Moctezuma the First), ruler of the Aztec empire from 1440-1469. According to Durán’s account, Moctezuma Ilhuicamina sent sixty of his most powerful sorcerers northward in search of this homeland, Aztlán, desiring to know the land that their ancestors had left behind, and to greet Coatlicue, the mother of Huitzilpochtli, if she still lived. According to their accounts, they used magic to turn themselves into animals and quickly cover the vast distance to Aztlán. Upon the wizards’ return, Moctezuma Ilhuicamina listened to wondrous tales of a mountain rising up from surrounding waters, with caves or grottos in its side. Aztlán was described as a paradisiacal pre-Colombian Garden of Eden with abundant food crops, birds, enormous and beautiful fish, and the refreshing shade of many trees. In Aztlán, there was no sickness, strife, suffering, poverty, old age, or death.
Encountering Coatlicue, the priests were given a demonstration of how this magical place worked. Coatlicue’s servant, an old man, began to descend the hill. Before the astonished eyes of Moctezuma Ilhuicamina’s priests, he grew younger and younger as he descended:
When he reached the Aztecs, he appeared to be about twenty years old. Said he …. “Behold, my sons, the virtue of this hill: the old person who seeks youth can climb to the point on the hill that he wishes and there he will acquire the age that he seeks.”
Importantly, the myth of Aztlán is inextricably entwined with the mythic enterprise of historical recovery. Upon conquest in the early sixteenth century, the vast majority of indigenous peoples and their constructions were destroyed in a sweeping attempt to stamp out the pagan profile of the Indians of the New World. Spaniards slaughtered Indians by the hundreds of thousands, tore down their temples, and burned pictorial records of indigenous history. Thus only a precious few pre-conquest codices (pictorial accounts painted on deerskin or bark) survived the Spanish immolations. Other ‘eyewitness’ records were written shortly after conquest, often by Spanish clergy in tandem with indigenous peoples. Furthermore, the Aztecs themselves may have earlier burned their own historical records in 1433, shortly after their decisive conquest of the Tepanecas of Azcapotzalco (part of the lake system in Mexico’s Central Valley). This allowed the Aztecs to re-write history and put forth a new version, one more favorable to the imperial power that the Aztecs were swiftly becoming. Finally, tales of a glorious land ‘to the north’ could well have been embellished, even wholly invented, by indigenous peoples anxious to rid themselves of meddlesome 16th Century Spanish explorers. The legends of Cíbola and the Seven Cities of Silver, of an island of gold called California and ruled by an Amazon queen, and of a golden land called Quivira, beckoned in the minds of Spaniards as a receding horizon of fantasy, drawing them ever-northward in search of riches. As John Chávez explains,
A fabulously rich Quivira had probably never been part of the local Indian conception of the plains area, but had been invented purely for the imaginations of the Spaniards. Since the Spanish had conquered and brutally occupied the Pueblo villages, the Indians most likely fabricated the urban wealth of Quivira in order to lure Coronado into a wilderness from which they hoped he would never return.
Thus, the ‘true story’ of Aztlán has been subject to recovery, partiality, and political strategization since pre-Conquest times. The Chicano utilization of Aztlán, then, can be seen as part of an ongoing re-invention of this mythic place for diverse political ends.
[T]he appropriation from the elitelore of ancient Mexico of such a seminal emblematic device as Aztlán was the most brilliant political maneuver of the Chicano cultural nationalists. Nothing their critics have done has managed to surpass or equal this feat of organizational strategy. Under no other sign or concept, derived from the left, center, or right, were as many Chicanos mobilized and as much enthusiasm galvanized into political action – except for the concept of Chicanismo itself. For a movement hungry for symbols that could both distinguish it from other movements and unite it under one banner, Aztlán was perfect. So perfect, in fact, that almost two decades after it was unfurled it is still the single most distinguishing metaphor for Chicano activism.
The Chicano Movement, or El Movimiento, arose in the United States in the mid-1960s, inspired in great part by the African-American civil rights struggles occurring at that time. The Chicano Movement was focused in those states bordering Mexico: California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas; though there were also active Chicano communities in Colorado and the city of Chicago. El Movimiento was broad-based, encompassing rural farmworkers and Chicano youth in urban barrios (neighborhoods) and universities. Chicanos fought for political, educational, linguistic, labor, and cultural reforms that would elevate and dignify the status of people of Mexican descent dwelling in the United States.
To call oneself a Chicano was (and is still) not simply to underscore one’s Mexican heritage; many people of Mexican descent in the United States chose to call themselves ‘Mexican-Americans’ rather than Chicanos. To be a Chicano also entailed a profound political statement. Chicanos agitated for radical social and political change, based in an ethos of self-help and solidarity understood in racialized terms. Chicanos argued that decades of pressure to assimilate into the Anglo-mainstream of the United States had wrongly devalued the long, proud history, culture, and values of Mexican-Americans. This had in turn impeded economic progress for Mexican-Americans and resulted in a sort of cultural self-destruction. To call oneself a Chicano thus indicated a rejection of earlier liberal, assimilationist, or accomodationist agendas vis-ŕ-vis the Anglo-dominated social, economic, political, and cultural milieu. Finally, the term ‘Chicano’ was also closely associated with the working class and identification with one’s indigenous heritage.
Some leaders, particularly during the early years of El Movimiento, were political nationalists who advocated the secession of the Southwest from the Anglo-republic of the United States of America, if not fully, at least locally with regard to Chicano self-determination in local governance, education, and means of production. Inspired by Cuban and Vietnamese nationalist struggles at the time, many Chicano nationalists used a model of internal colonialism to understand the situation of an indigenous population (as they saw themselves) annexed by the expansionist US hegemon and dispossessed of their land and capacity for self-determination. For example, Rodolfo Acuńa, author of the canonical Chicano studies text Occupied America, drew on the core-periphery thinking of Andre Gunder Frank, Samir Amin, and Immanuel Wallerstein to argue that the annexation and exploitation of the indigenous land and labor of the Southwest had provided the wealth necessary for the economic expansion of Anglo-dominated United States. Most Chicano nationalists did not express the extreme desire for secession from the United States. Yet for some Chicano nationalists, like Alianza Federal de Mercedes (Federal Land Grant Alliance) leader Reies López Tijerina, the only viable solution was to fully repossess the Southwest: culturally, economically, and politically. During the Alianza’s occupation of New Mexico’s Echo Amphitheater in 1966, López Tijerina stated: “Fidel Castro has what he has because of his guts …. Castro put the gringos off his island and we can do the same”.
Aztlán itself re-surfaced in the Chicano movement in the Plan Espiritual de Aztlán (Spiritual Plan of Aztlán), a document written in Denver at the First Chicano National Youth Conference in 1969. The Plan Espiritual constituted the ideological framework of the Chicano Movement, emphasizing nationalism and self-determination. Importantly, the first sentence of this key document states the fundamental Chicano nationalist goal of reclaiming Aztlán as the land of the Chicano forbearers and as such the rightful homeland of the Chicanos, land which was brutally and wrongfully invaded by the ‘gringos.’ Writer Rudolfo Anaya views the claiming of Aztlán as a naming ceremony, and as such it constituted “…one of the most important acts a community performs.” Indeed, Aztlán became a key organizing concept for El Movimiento:
Chicanos interpreted their nationalist cause as more than a political movement; they were involved in the regeneration of sacred time and space, as the ultimate concern of Chicano nationalism sought to transcend the existent temporal and spatial barriers and establish a homeland patterned after the primordial homeland from which the Aztecs originated. This would be a spiritual nation rooted in a sacred landscape charged with the power of an indigenous spirituality and justified by the validity of their national liberation struggle.
The spiritual and political homeland of Chicano nationalists was clearly designated as those lands annexed by Texas in 1845 and ceded by Mexico in the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (including the contemporary US states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, Utah, and parts of Colorado, Wyoming, Kansas, and Oklahoma). According to Chicano nationalists, this ‘lost land’ had been colonized time and again: by Spain, France, The Lone Star Republic of Texas, the California Republic, the Confederacy, and the United States of America. Yet, by virtue of an understood blood relationship to the indigenous inhabitants of this region, Chicanos claimed that these lands were in fact their historical birthright. By identifying a fixed geographic homeland Chicanos were making a powerful claim to space, to legitimacy, and to an identity culturally and politically independent of Anglo-America. The power exercised by Anglo-Americans was thus illegitimate, “Because in reality, if you were born in Texas, California, New Mexico, Arizona, or Colorado, you were not born in the United States of America, but in occupied Mexico”. Chicano nationalists had made an important reversal: the invaders were in fact the invaded; Anglo-Americans, who have no blood ties to the land or its indigenous inhabitants, were both alien and illegitimate. In taking back the Southwest, Chicanos sought restitution of their land, and the identity that they perceived to be fundamentally tied to this place.
The mythic dimensions of Aztlán were not stripped away by contemporary Chicanos, particularly those who considered themselves cultural nationalists. They were instead utilized as unifying factors, in an attempt to create a smooth space (albeit a far different sort of smooth space than that envisioned by Anglo-Americans in the nineteenth century). Aztlán was proposed as the site for building a utopic future, built on ‘brown power’ and newly-revitalized pride in the indigenous culture, values, and social structure understood by Chicanos to be at the root of their identity. Though more materialist-inspired Chicanos found the paradisiacal hopes for Aztlán too fanciful, many envisioned Aztlán as “a social, political, economic, and cultural utopia, free of liberal politicians, welfare programs, police brutality, discrimination, poverty, and identity crises”. Chicano nationalists in the United States saw Aztlán as a common ground for Chicanos who, geographically, politically, and spiritually, existed in diaspora. One of the crucial gestures of claiming Aztlán involved the perceived need to overlook differences amongst Chicanos, in favor of the greater good arising from unity. Concepts of unity were central to understanding the Chicano movement, and notions of the Chicano Movement as one large family (‘La Familia Cósmica’ or ‘La Familia de La Raza’), carnalismo (brotherhood), and La Raza (‘the race,’ ‘the people,’ or ‘The Bronze Race’ in the Plan Espiritual). Ralph ‘El Duke’ Peterson understood the Chicano Movement to be like a stone, in that it was formed of diverse particles, yet these were “welded together by years of outside pressure and tempered in the fires of slavery and oppression.” Utopias are by their very nature smooth spaces. Indeed, their impossibility derives from the inadmissibility of striation.
Inventing a myth of a golden past can have the effect of lulling the group into inaction and a false understanding of its own history. It may lead to worship of ancestors who, in their own society, were as oppressive as the current enemy.
One cannot assert the wholeness of a Chicano subject when the very discourses that go into its identity formation – be they discourses surrounding the mutability of gender identity, sexuality, class and cultural identification, linguistic and ethnic association – are incommensurably contradictory.
Aztlán has been used to obscure and elide important issues surrounding Chicano identity, in particular the significance of intracultural differences, despite the admitted failure of social scientists and historians who have attempted to create models of Chicano ethnicity based on ethnic commonalities.
In geographically affixing the floating homeland of Aztlán for a concrete political purpose, Chicano nationalists attempted to reverse what they understood to be a fundamentally race-based apartheid lived by Chicanos in the Anglo-dominated Southwest. Yet the views of Chicano nationalists from the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s reflected the largely male, working class, and mestizo background of the majority of Chicano nationalist activists and scholars. This particular positionality led to exclusions that would eventually undermine the integrity seen as necessary and desirable to maintain a unified Chicano vision of home. Race, gender, and sexuality constituted cracks in the (counter-) hegemonic discourse of unified Chicano struggle. Native Americans in the Southwest had also long claimed the desert Southwest as their homeland, yet they were included only rhetorically by Chicanos anxious to invoke a genealogy that tied them to this land. Chicana feminists and queer Chicanas/os, who did not fit comfortably (or at all) into the patriarchal family model proposed as the template for Aztlán, were in a sense left homeless. These pressures led, ultimately, to an implosion of Aztlán.
An important distinction between Anglo-American and Chicano nationalism was that the latter explicitly included Native Americans, while the former chose to dichotomize space through the imposition of a geopolitical border between the Mexico and the United States, effectively silencing autonomous claims to space on the part of Native Americans. By contrast, indigenism was at the heart of the Chicano Movement in its early years. El Movimiento’s valorization of a glorious indigenous past as constituting a purity of historical origin which was subsequently corrupted though colonization is drawn directly from the post-Revolutionary Mexican indigenist movement. In the 1920s, as Mexico began to reconstruct its economic, political, and social structures after the devastation of the Mexican Revolution (1910-1917), a form of cultural nationalism known as indigenismo arose whereby “Mexico’s revolutionary elites asserted their commitment to the moral and economic elevation of the Indian, who they claimed was central to the national experience”.
Yet in both the Mexican national reconstruction, and the US Chicano Movement of a half-century later, ‘the Indian’ operated in a highly problematic fashion, one which reworked, but did not eliminate, the deep anti-indigenous racism of the dominant Mestizo groups in question.
For Chicano nationalists of the 1960s and ‘70s, a central political gesture involved explicit territorial claims to the US Southwest as their lost homeland. Yet these claims squarely overlapped the claims of Native American nations to the same lands. Furthermore, the ‘real’ Aztlán of Aztec myth probably, unromantically, lay far to the south of the contemporary US Southwest, somewhere in the Mexican state of Nayarit. In order to skirt these thorny issues, Chicano historians such as John Chávez constructed what Daniel Cooper Alarcón has termed an “odd” argument, one that “tries to shore up the Chicano claim to that region by rewriting Chicano genealogy and linking it to the ancient Cochise civilization” in the US Southwest. Similarly, Native American scholar Jack Forbes, who considers Chicanos to be ‘our lost brothers,’ argued that Chicanos, or Aztecas del norte (Northern Aztecs), constituted “the largest single tribe or nation of Anishinabeg (Indians) found in the United States today”. Chávez went so far as to make the dubious claim that “Since Chicanos are racially 70 to 80 percent Indian, they do indeed have much in common with Native Americans …”. Modern-day Aztecs (Chicanos) are, according to Chicano scholars anxious to emphasize their ties to Native Americans, undeniably linked to Southwest Native Americans through language and shared cultures of food, folklore, and values. Long before the arrival of Europeans, American Indians in the present-day United States Southwest were influenced by Central Mexican ceramics-making, maize cultivation, language, and blood exchange, spread by extensive trading networks. These cultural, historical, and blood alliances, it was argued, naturally united the Native American and Chicano in their claims to the Anglo-dominated Southwest.
Yet Native Americans made solely cameo appearances in Chicano nationalist discourse. Critiquing John Chávez’s Lost Land specifically, Alarcón notes how “Native Americans are not included in his discussion about the region, except when he requires their presence in order to legitimate Chicano claims to the Southwest”. Native Americans cast only blurry shadow-figures, functioning as a “dehistoricized fetish” that gave “a veneer of ‘origin’ and ‘authenticity’” to Chicano nationalist discourse.
Chicano nationalist discourse suffered from a related lack of specificity regarding the hugely varied Native American populations of the Southwest, as well the historical, geographic, racial, and class diversity amongst Chicanos themselves. In this lack of specificity, real claims to space, and identity, were erased on all sides. Some Mexican- Americans didn’t consider themselves to be Chicanos, or to have Mexican ancestry, or to be indigenous in the slightest. New Mexican hispanos, for example, viewed their heritage as predating Mexican immigration to the Southwest and harkening directly back to a centuries-old lineage of Spanish conquistadors. Sizeable groups of Chicanos living outside of the Southwest borderlands proper (for example, in Chicago) saw their potential claims to space silenced through the insistence on the Southwest as homeland. Most Native Americans in the Southwest did not consider themselves to be modern-day Aztecs, Chicanos, or Mexican-Americans. Discussion did not even begin to mention Asian- and African-Americans, who could also potentially assert historical claims to the region.
The simultaneous invocation of a glorious indigenous past, and the erasure of specific Native American claims to the Southwest, points to the incredibly fraught relationship to the Indian in the American imaginary more generally. As Michael Taussig has written, “Going to the Indians for their healing power and killing them for their wildness are not so far apart”. The reinscription of the Indian-as-other into the very heart of Chicano nationalist discourse was ironic, since the ‘nation within a nation’ internal colonial model was the framework through which Chicanos understood their own subordination in Anglo society. Yet Chicano mestizos by definition were themselves also colonizers, if history were allowed to reel backward prior to 1848 (and it wasn’t, in foundational Chicano nationalist texts) and to speak of mestizaje as involving both Spaniard and Native American. The Plan Espiritual de Aztlán does not deal with this discomforting role-reversal in which colonized becomes colonizer in the historical long view. Neither does The Plan explore the realities of Aztec expansionism and their own brutally colonial presence in Mexico’s central valley prior to Cortez’s arrival.
The prospect of thinking about Spanish-speaking men dominating Native Americans simply muddies the picture of Anglo-Mexicano relations too much for the internal colonial model to embrace. Internal colonialism, in fact, has never been able to satisfactorily explain how to deal with the complex problem of mestizaje between Spaniards and Native Mexicanos. By picking up the story in 1848, internal colonialism avoids the problem and can simply label all the inhabitants of the recently conquered territory as Mexicans.
The racialized borders were to be maintained starkly dichotomous. Truly considering Native Americans and their claims to land as viable and different from those of Chicano nationalists threatened to destabilize what was, ironically, a deeply bordered narrative of belonging and exclusion.
Another sort of rebordering was enacted by Chicano nationalists, one that involved the minds, bodies, and labor of Chicana women and queer Chicanas/os. Aztlán was understood by Chicano nationalists to be modeled on the ideal(ized) Chicano family structure, with male leadership, carnalismo (literally, brotherhood, “nationalist yet blatantly patriarchal in practice”), and the respect of elders providing a hierarchical, patriarchal leadership structure as the basic organizing principle of the Chicano political collective. Thus, the Chicano utopia would be a decidedly male utopia, with the Chicano male’s privilege and power over Chicana women intact. For example, Armando Rendón, the author of the Chicano Manifesto, clearly connected his personal sense of honor and masculinity with a nationalist discourse: “The essence of machismo, of being macho, is as much a symbolic principle for the Chicano revolt as it is a guideline for family life ….Macho, in other words, can no longer relate merely to manhood but must relate to nationhood as well.” It would also be a heterosexual place, with the family-based father-mother reproductive dyad providing the fundamental moral foundation of the Chicano community and political movement. To question the patriarchal family or heterosexuality as an organizing principle of the Chicano Movement constituted a betrayal, not only of the Chicano nation (La Raza) as conceived by its founding fathers, but also of the Chicano family, traditional gender roles, and heterosexuality themselves as the understood moral backbone of the larger political movement.
As feminist scholars have recently argued, nationalism tends to draw upon stereotyped and limiting views of women (and men), often rooted (and legitimated) in heterosexual, patriarchal family structures. Patriarchal families are rarely comfortable or even safe sites for women, children, or non-heterosexuals. In this, Chicano nationalism of the 1960s and 1970s was no exception. For critic and writer Cherríe Moraga, the heterosexuality enforced in Chicano families and the control of Chicana women are tightly bound together, and this is what has made the critique of power relationships nurtured within Chicano families such an untouchable topic:
We believe the more severely we protect the sex roles within the family, the stronger we will be as a unit in opposition to the anglo threat …. [yet the Chicano] too, like any other man, wants to be able to determine how, when, and with whom his women – mother, wife, and daughter – are sexual. For without male imposed social and legal control of our reproductive function, reinforced by the Catholic Church, and the social institutionalization of our roles as sexual and domestic servants to men, Chicanas might very freely ‘choose’ to do otherwise, including being sexually independent from and/or with men. In fact, the forced ‘choice’ of the gender of our sexual/love partner seems to precede the forced ‘choice’ of the form (marriage and family) that partnership might take. The control of women begins through the institution of heterosexuality. (italics in original)
Elizabeth Martínez states that “Aztlán has always been set forth in ferociously macho imagery,” an imagery that buttresses the material practices of patriarchy and homophobia in Chicano nationalism. Alluding to the huge paste-on wall murals that lurk in Mexican restaurants in the United States, Martínez describes the kitsch scene of the Aztec warrior holding the swooning Azteca princess in his arms as he gazes off into the horizon, as a landscape of sexualized possession that holds an enduring appeal to the secret fantasies of “the average Chicano”. The idolization of male iconic figures of resistance – Che Guevara, Fidel Castro, Pancho Villa, and Emiliano Zapata – have likewise legitimated the masculine heroism of El Movimiento’s political agents. These strengthened the already deeply-rooted suspicion that Chicana women were fundamentally apolitical, and should be concerned foremost with the private (feminine) space of the home and not the public (male) space of politics. Within El Movimiento, a women’s ‘place’ was understood to be parallel to her place within the patriarchal Chicano family: to selflessly serve men. “[M]ujeres [women] in the Movimiento were indeed sin nombre [nameless], anonymous workers and theorists pushed to the background, kept in their places …”.
Like leftist movements more generally, questions of gender subordination within the Chicano movement were seen by the Movement’s leaders to be non-existent at best, divisive at worst. Gender concerns constituted a sort of false consciousness, one that could be reduced to the class – and for Chicano nationalists, race – oppression that drove the oppression of all Chicanos, male and female. Once class and race divisions were overcome, gender inequalities would naturally melt away because they were secondary oppressions, derived from the fundamental inequalities of race and class. The surface of struggle was smoothed of gender through silencing these concerns. Insisting on gender as intrinsically important was seen by the leaders of El Movimiento as unnecessarily dividing Chicanos, sapping the strength-in-unity represented by Aztlán. To question the masculinism of the Chicano Movement was to question one’s loyalty to Chicano men, and to risk being seen as a betrayer of El Movimiento. “You are a traitor to your race if you do not put the man first”.
However, the infinite delay of coming to terms with what many Chicanas saw as illegitimate gender-based inequalities in the workplace, home, and El Movimiento became a source of intense border conflict. “[T]he predominantly male-centered authoritative discourses … promised to include Chicanas in the cultural record of the practices of ethnic resistance if they accepted their exclusion as female subjects and dwelled only on their ethnic similarities with Chicano males …. these promises rarely materialized”. For many Chicanas who grew weary of seeing their intellectual and physical labor on behalf of El Movimiento remain un(der)-valued, and their concerns silenced, the notion of Aztlán-as-home was soured. The home was lived as a source of profound ambivalence: as both “a genuine bastion of Raza self-defense against a hostile society”, and at the same time, as a persistent locus of female subservience to the political concerns and careers of Chicano men.
For lesbian and gay Chicanas/os, the idealized notion of home held dear by Chicano nationalists was arguably even more profoundly alienating than it was for straight Chicana feminists. For in the heterosexual home, there was no place at all for the queer Chicana/o. In her hugely important Borderlands=la frontera: the new mestiza, Gloria Anzaldúa centers her discussion on the evolution of her identity as a Chicana lesbian feminist, the physical and spiritual exile that this evolution required, and her longing to return home. She writes of homecoming in terms of homophobia: “Fear of going home. And of not being taken in. We’re afraid of being abandoned by the mother, the culture, La Raza, for being unacceptable, faulty, damaged.” As Sonia Saldívar-Hull has commented in her review of Anzaldúa’s work, choosing to be queer in the borderlands constitutes “the ultimate exile”, while Anzaldúa herself refers to the repercussions of her choices as an “intimate terrorism”.
Lesbianism, in particular, was perceived to deeply threaten La Familia. Refusing to go along with traditional gender roles was seen to strike at the root of the male privilege sown and nurtured within the hetero-patriarchal Chicano family, to potentially contribute to the genocide of La Raza through a perceived refusal of heterosexual reproduction (regardless of whether Chicana lesbians chose to have children or not), and to blaspheme against the teachings of the Catholic Church. Queerness had the potential to rip open the foundation of Chicano nationalism – the individual Chicano family, as well as “La Familia de La Raza” – from the inside. Woman-identification and queerness were viewed not just as betrayals, but also as a sabotages, of Chicano identity, culture, and politics. Perhaps in an effort to overlook the complicity of their own queer brothers and sisters (literally, as well as their siblings in El Movimiento), some Chicano nationalists viewed homosexuality as white society’s most formidable tool of deception, as “his [the white man’s] disease with which he sinisterly infects Third World people, men and women alike” (emphasis in original). Yet, many feminist and queer Chicanas/os were acutely conscious of their transgressions and viewed these as a deliberate critical strategy for opening the movement up from the inside. “I made the choice to be queer….I will not glorify those aspects of my culture which have injured me and which have injured me in the name of protecting me” (emphasis in original). The difficult reconciliation of El Movimiento with its own homophobia becomes imperative:
I guarantee you, there will be no change among heterosexual men, there will be no change in heterosexual relations, as long as the Chicano community keeps us lesbians and gay men political prisoners among our own people. Any movement build on the fear and loathing of anyone is a failed movement. The Chicano movement is no different.
Aztlán illustrates the power of narrative to contest political processes and the material construction of meaning and belonging that surround the ongoing negotiation of the nation. The Aztlán of Chicano nationalists staked an explicit claim to place, and via this claim, to an identity, presence, and legitimacy that was not derivative of or subordinate to the Anglo-American majority. To claim the Southwest as the rightful homeland of Chicanos was a key gesture, one seen by many as providing the necessary grounding, understood both literally and figuratively, for El Movimiento to unite Chicanos under the banner of a common cause.
Yet by bounding and fixing Aztlán geographically, and emphasizing the color line dividing Chicanos and Anglos, El Movimiento constructed identity, and solidarity, in bordered terms. Other differences, both exogenous and endogenous to the Movement, were exiled from Aztlán lest they disrupt the painstakingly leveled terrain of Chicanos Unidos against the uniform Anglo oppressor. But erasures of class, race, gender, and sexuality were never truly buried; they were instead merely displaced, and created a constant din of dissent from the margins.
In fact, the suppression of internal difference by Chicano nationals brought to the forefront the fractures amongst Chicanas/os along lines of gender and sexuality, and between Chicanos and others claiming the same place. The pressures that these suppressions gave rise to ultimately led to an implosion of Aztlán as a generally useful political, spiritual, and geopolitical construct. By the late 1980s and early 1990s, many Chicanas/os felt that Aztlán had become “very much an empty symbol,” and there was talk of a “second departure” from Aztlán. “[T]here is no turning back to racial utopias which polarize the forces of oppression along ethnic lines and create fictitious narratives of domestic bliss with the concept of a male-centered familialism”.
Aztlán overwrote previous Anglo-American claims to the same lands, while it intersected in problematic ways with historic and contemporary Native American narratives centering on this region. These accounts all tied different human collectives to the same landscape in ways that were often in direct confrontation with one another. The writing, erasure, and overwriting of these collective texts of belonging and exclusion have lent the desert Southwest a palimpsest-like character, when viewed in light of national and proto-national (ethnic or religious) ties. Daniel Cooper Alarcón has theorized the concept of Aztlán itself as a palimpsest of sorts, a multi-layered narrative that has been, since the burning of the Aztec historical records in 1433, been written and written-over time and again as an self-affirmative story told from the viewpoint of the group in power. If Aztlán is, in turn, seen as a chapter in the landscape history of the arid Southwest, or Greater Mexico, it can be viewed as adding a discrete layer to the palimpsest that is this place.
By over-writing prior narratives, Alarcón claims, a flattening of historical texture and a suppression of difference is inevitable. And this is what Paul Routledge has claimed, as well, for understanding the geopolitical dimensions of resistance based in his work in the Baliapal movement:
But the songs also spoke for the population of Baliapal, and they did so in an inevitably distorted way. By selectively representing the material and imagined spaces of Baliapal, and the associated spatial practices of Baliapalis, the songs dissimulated the econooomic, caste, gender, and political relations of power imbued in speaking for the movement. A singular, wealthy, male voice spoke on behalf of the tens of thousands of (predominantly illiterate) peasants.
Perhaps counter-hegemonic nationalist claims to space, claims that must of necessity flatten the layers of historical narration in order to present a unified voice vis-ŕ-vis the dominant nationality, are inherently risky:
Nationalisms work through such differentiae because they have to, caught as they are in the conflicts of modernity and modernisation, in conditions of uneven development that, within the spaces of colonialist domination, may yield no resources but the geographical, ethnological and cultural peculiarities of a region which, in the rhetorics of nationalism, become the indices of origins, roots, hidden histories and shared heritages….Whatever momentum of reidentification and reterritorialisation nationalisms make possible, they always turn on their own strategy of terror: their own interiorisation of a centre, their own essentialising of a dominant frame of differentiation, their own pograms and expulsions.
In this, the Aztlán of Chicano nationalists is in keeping with many other minority and Third World national projects, which typically draw on tradition and folklore, involving “a process of selecting one of many possible sets of experiences from their history, in order to narrativize it linearly and frame it as the ‘authentic representation.’”. As I suggest in the introduction to this book, perhaps the modern nation-state itself is immanently unstable, even those nationalisms that are intended to be deliberately contestatory. If the modern nation-state is predicated on bordered difference, then exclusion is always present. It cannot be otherwise. Aztlán represented an attempt to heal the wounds left by exclusion from the Anglo-American national discourse. Yet, because Aztlán was forged on the same template as all modern nationalisms, it too was born of difference and exclusion. Aztlán was profoundly, fatally, bordered.
The Chicano nationalist story, rooted in the fabulous geographic imaginary of Aztlán, is in the end a story of the failure of modern nationalism. This failure is not due to external factors, but to a crisis or paradox that is internal to the praxis of the modern nation-state. The Chicano movement of the 1960s and 1970s was, at the end of the day, a nationalist movement and suffered from the same flaws as other nationalisms. Despite a good faith effort at contesting, and eventually displacing, hegemonic Anglo-American nation, Aztlán did not constitute moving beyond the nation. A true alternative to the nation-state, AlterNation, was denied.
Yet Rafael Pérez-Torres has suggested that Aztlán has become not just an empty symbol (as Alarcón suggests), but that Aztlán has become an empty signifier, and as such, paradoxically saturated with meaning:
Aztlán as borderlands marks a site that both belongs to and has never belonged to either the United States or Mexico …. As an empty signifier, Aztlán names not that which is or has been, but that which is ever absent: nation, unity, liberation….the term Aztlán consistently has named that which refers to an absence, and unfulfilled reality in response to various forms of oppression.” 
In Pérez-Torres’ vision, Aztlán has come to provide a sort of ever-receding north, a contemporary Quivira that by its very slipperiness compels constant movement. In its transversality, the paradoxical space of a refigured Aztlán very much echoes, and is spatially superimposed upon, the West of Anglo-American nationalism.
By the mid-1980s, a shift in master symbol was underway, one involving the inevitable movement suggested by Pérez-Torres, away from the Aztlán of Chicano nationalists to ‘the borderlands’ of Chicana/o writers, scholars, and artists. This exchange of master symbol is indicative of a larger shift in Chicana/o praxis, away from a decidedly modern, national project to a post-nationalist, perhaps even post-modern sort of project. The borderlands posited a vision of a newly smoothed space, on which was fractal in nature. Though it played on and around the geopolitical boundary between Mexico and the United States, the concept of the borderlands ultimately subverted the boundary. It was accompanied by a parallel discourse of smooth space, one that harkened directly to the nineteenth-century Anglo-American vision of expansionism. These contending visions of smooth futures will be explored in the next chapter.
 Rudolfo Anaya, Heart of Aztlán (Berkeley: Editorial Justa Publications, 1976), pp.129-30.
 P.13 in Luis Leal, ‘In Search of Aztlán’, in Rudolfo A. Anaya and Francisco Lomelí (eds) Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland (Albuquerque: Academia/El Norte Publications, 1989), pp.6-13.
 John R. Chávez, The Lost Land: the Chicano Image of the Southwest (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1984), p.8; Leal, “Aztlán”, pp.10-11.
 When I write of the Chicano nationalist period, from the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s, I use the term Chicano purposely, as the masculine singularity implied in the term is appropriate for the spirit of this period. Later in the paper, I use the term Chicana/o to refer to the multiple gender and other subject positions that can be claimed under this broadened term. See ‘A note on ethnic labels’, in Adela de la Torre and Beatríz Pesquera, eds, Building With our Hands: New Directions in Chicana Studies (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), pp.xiii-xiv, for further discussion and suggested readings.
 P.iv in Rudolfo A. Anaya and Francisco Lomelí, “Introduction”, in Anaya and Lomelí, Aztlán, pp.ii-iv.
 Paul Routledge, “Geopoetics of Resistance: India’s Baliapal Movement” in Alternatives, 25(3), 2000: 375-89.
 Ibid, p. 385.
 Ibid, p. 387.
 Fray Diego Durán, The History of the Indies of New Spain ed., transl., ann. Doris Heyden (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1994), p.12, note 2; p.19 in Michael Pina, “The Archaic, Historical, and Mythicized Dimensions of Aztlán”, in Anaya and Lomelí (eds), Aztlán, pp.14-45.
 Carlos Fuentes, The Buried Mirror: Reflections on Spain and the New World (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1992), p.99.
 Pina, “The Archaic, Historical, and Mythicized Dimensions of Aztlán”, pp. 23-4.
 Durán, The History of the Indies of New Spain, p.12, note 1.
 Ibid., p. 24. Durán was convinced that the Aztecs were a chosen people of God because of his belief that they constituted one of the ten lost tribes of Israel.
 Factions of the original migrants settled and remained along the route. Those who reached the end of the journey changed their name to, variously, “Mexica,” “Mexica-Aztecs,” or “Mexicans” along their pilgrimage. Ibid., p.13, note 3, also p.25.
 Pina, “The Archaic, Historical, and Mythicized Dimensions of Aztlán”, p.25.
 Durán, The History of the Indies of New Spain, p.220.
 See especially ibid., and Fray Bernardino Sahagún, General History of the Things of New Spain (Florentine Codex), second edition, transl. and ann. Arthur J.O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble (Santa Fe, New Mexico: The School of American Research and the University of Utah, Monographs of the School of American Research, 1978 ).
 Pina, “The Archaic, Historical, and Mythicized Dimensions of Aztlán”, pp.29-30; Fuentes, Buried Mirror, p.102.
 Chávez, Lost Land, p.16.
 P. 149 in J. Jorge Klor de Alva, “Aztlán, Borinquen and Hispanic Nationalism in the United States”, in Anaya and Lomelí, Aztlán, pp.135-71.
 Yet it is important to note that Chicano activism (as well as the broader spectrum of Mexican-American activism) has a long history and did not spring forth suddenly in the mid-1960s without antecedents. There were also multiple influences on El Movimiento besides African-American civil rights struggles, particularly anti-Vietnam War and pro-revolutionary Cuba sentiments amongst (some) Chicanos and sectors of the larger US population at that time. See Rodolfo Acuńa, Occupied America: a History of Chicanos (fourth edition) (New York: Longman, 2000 ); David Montejano, ed., Chicano Politics and Society in the late Twentieth Century (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1999); Ignacio García, Chicanismo: the Forging of a Militant Ethos Among Mexican Americans (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1997); Francisco A. Rosales, Chicano! The History of the Mexican American Civil Rights Movement (Houston: Arte Público Press, 1996).
 There were diverse strands of Chicano nationalism, ranging from those more focused on cultural issues, to those inspired by a more-materialist or even Marxist agenda; those who considered themselves more nationalist or even radically separatist, to those who were less extreme in their outlook. See Rafael Pérez-Torres, “Refiguring Aztlán”, Aztlán: A Journal of Chicano Studies, 22(2) (1997), pp.15-41, and Klor de Alva, “Aztlán, Borinquen and Hispanic Nationalism in the United States”, for detailed discussions of political as opposed to cultural nationalists.
 García, Chicanismo, p.95.
 See especially ibid.
 See Rosales, Chicano!, and Jack Forbes, Aztecas del Norte: the Chicanos of Aztlán (Greenwich, Connecticut: Fawcett, 1973).
 Chávez, Lost Land, p.144.
 Acuńa, Occupied America.
 For a detailed discussion of this approach, see Ramón Gutiérrez, “Chicano History: Paradigm Shifts and Shifting Boundaries”, in Refugio I. Rochín and Dennis N. Valdés, eds, Voices of a New Chicano History (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2000), pp. 91-114.
 Quoted in Chávez, Lost Land, p.140.
 The brief text of El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán is reproduced in Anaya and Lomelí (eds) Aztlán, pp.1-5.
 P.230 in Rudolfo Anaya, “Aztlán: a Homeland Without Boundaries” in Anaya and Lomelí, eds, Aztlán, pp. 230-41.
 Pina, “The Archaic, Historical, and Mythicized Dimensions of Aztlán”, p.36.
 Quoted in Forbes, Aztecas del Norte, p.307.
 Rosales, Chicano!, p.23.
 García, Chicanismo, p.18.
 Quoted in Forbes, Aztecas dl Norte, pp.311-2.
 P.124 in Genaro M. Padilla, “Myth and Comparative Cultural Nationalism: the Ideological Uses of Aztlán” in Anaya and Lomelí (eds) Aztlán, pp. 111-34.
 Pérez-Torres, “Refiguring Aztlán”, p.21.
 P.36 in Daniel Cooper Alarcón, “The Aztec Palimpsest: Toward a New Understanding of Aztlán”, in Aztlán: A Journal of Chicano Studies, v. 19(2), 1992: pp. 33-68.
 See Gutiérrez, “Chicano History”, and Rosa Linda Fregoso and Angie Chabram, “Chicana/o Cultural Representations: Reframing Alternative Critical Discourses” Cultural Studies, v. 4, 1990, pp. 203-12.
 Helen Delpar, The Enormous Vogue of Things Mexican: Cultural Relations Between the United States and Mexico, 1920-1935 (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1992), p.90.
 Pérez-Torres, “Refiguring Aztlán”, p.30.
 Alarcón, “Aztec Palimpsest”, p.57.
 Forbes, Aztecas del Norte, p.13.
 Chávez, Lost Land, p.4.
 Guillermo Lux and Maurelio E. Vigil, “Return to Aztlán: the Chicano Rediscovers His Indian Past” in Anaya and Lomelí, Aztlán, pp.93-110.
 Alarcón, “Aztec Palimpsest”, p.59.
 Pérez-Torres, Movements in Chicano Poetry, p.183.
 Michael Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1987), p.100.
 P.187 in María Montoya, “Beyond Internal Colonialism: Class, Gender, and Culture as Challenges to Chicano Identity” in Rochín and Valdés (eds) Voices of a New Chicano History, pp. 183-95.
 Sonia Saldívar-Hull, Feminism on the Border: Chicana Gender Politics and Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), p.19.
 Armando B. Rendón, The Chicano Manifesto (New York: Macmillan, 1971), p.105.
 See Gutiérrez, “Chicano History”; Cherríe Moraga, “From a Long Line of Vendidas: Chicanas and Feminism”, in Anne C. Hermann and Abigail J. Stewart, eds, Theorizing Feminism, Parallel Trends in the Humanities and Social Sciences (Boulder: Westview Press, 1994), pp.34-48; and Beatríz Pesquera and Denise Segura, “There is no Going Back: Chicanas and Feminism”, in Norma Alarcón, Rafaela Castro, Emma Pérez, Beatríz Pesquera, Adaljiza Sosa Riddell, and Patricia Zavella, eds, Chicana Critical Issues (Berkeley: Third Woman Press, 1993), pp.95-115.
 See Tamar Mayer, “Gender Ironies of Nationalism: Setting the Stage’ in Tamar Mayer, ed., Gender Ironies of Nationalism: Sexing the Nation (New York and London: Routledge, 2000), pp.1-22; Norma Alarcón, Caren Kaplan, and Minoo Moallem, “Introduction: Between Woman and Nation”, in Caren Kaplan, Norma Alarcón, and Minoo Moallem, eds, Between Woman and Nation: Nationalisms, Transnational Feminisms, and the State (Durham: Duke University Press, 1999), pp.1-16; and Nira Yuval-Davis, Gender and Nation (London, Thousand Oaks, and New Delhi: Sage Publications, 1997).
 Moraga, “From a Long Line of Vendidas”, pp. 40-1.
 P.127 in Elizabeth Martínez, “Chingón Politics Die Hard: Reflections on the First Chicano Activist Reunion’, in Carla Trujillo (ed) Living Chicana Theory (Berkeley: Third Woman Press, 1998), pp.123-35.
 Ibid., p.127.
 P.47 in Angie Chabram-Dernersesian, “And Yes … the Earth Did Part: on the Splitting of Chicana/o Subjectivity”, in de la Torre and Pesquera (eds) Building With Our Hands, pp.34-56.
 Saldívar-Hull, Feminism on the Border, p.23.
 Emma Pérez, “Sexuality and Discourse: Notes From a Chicana Survivor”, in Carla Trujillo, ed., Chicana Lesbians: the Girls Our Mothers Warned Us About (Berkeley: Third Woman Press, 1991), pp. 159-84.
 For a recent reiteration of this fear, see Ignacio M. García, “Juncture in the Road: Chicano Studies Since ‘El Plan de Santa Barbara’” in David R. Maciel and Isidro D. Ortiz (eds) Chicanas/Chicanos at the Crossroads: Social,Economic, and Political Change (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996), pp.181-203.
 Moraga, “From a Long Line of Vendidas”, p.37.
 See essays in Alma M. García (ed) Chicana Feminist Thought: the Basic Historical Writings (New York and London: Routledge, 1997).
 Chabram-Dernersesian, “And Yes … the Earth Did Part”, p.40.
 Martínez, “Chingón Politics Die Hard”, p.127.
 Chicana feminists adopted varied stances toward the family as a source of oppression, of strength, or of both. Cherríe Moraga (“From a Long Line of Vendidas”) and Sonia Saldívar-Hull (Feminism on the Border), for example, provide quite different personal accounts of their experiences with and views of family. The numerous excerpts of key Chicana essays in Alma García (Chicana Feminist Thought) provide a rich account of the varied Chicana feminist views of family, the Chicano movement’s early years, and diverse stances vis-ŕ-vis mainstream feminism in the U.S. See also Beatríz M. Pesquera and Adela de la Torre, “Introduction”, in de la Torre and Pesquera (eds) Building With Our Hands, pp.1-11; Beatríz M. Pesquera and Denise Segura, “With Quill and Torch: a Chicana Perspective on the American Women’s Movement and Feminist Theories” in Maciel and Ortiz (eds) Chicanas/ Chicanos at the Crossroads, pp.231-47; Pesquera and Segura, “There is No Going Back”.
 Anzaldúa, Borderlands = La Frontera, pp. 41-2.
 Saldívar-Hull, Feminism on the Border, p.73.
 Anzaldúa, Borderlands = La Frontera, p.42.
 Ibid.; Carla Trujillo, “Chicana Lesbians: Fear and Loathing in the Chicano Community’, in Alarcón, et.al. (eds) Chicana Critical Issues, pp.117-25.
 Moraga, “Long Line”, p.43.
 Anzaldúa, Borderlands, pp.41, 44.
 Moraga, “From a Long Line of Vendidas”, p.47.
 Alarcón, “The Aztec Palimpsest”, p.39.
 Chabram-Dernersesian, “And Yes … the Earth Did Part”, p.52. Though see Laura Elisa Pérez, “El Desorden, Nationalism, and Chicana/o Aesthetics’, in Kaplan, Alarcón, and Moallem, Between Woman and Nation, pp.19-46, who argues that Chicana feminism was present at the birth of Aztlán, and that queer and feminist Chicana/o thought has refigured, not imploded, the notion of Aztlán.
 Alarcón, “The Aztec Palimpsest”.
 Routledge, “Geopolitics of Resistance: India’s Baliapal Movement”, p. 386.
 Emphases in original. John Tagg, with Marcos Sanchez-Tranquilino, “The Pachuco’s Flayed Hide: Mobility, Identity and Buenas Garras” in John Tagg, Grounds of Dispute: Art History, Cultural Politics and the Discursive Field (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992) pp. 183-202.
 P.11 in Smadar Lavie and Ted Swedenburg, “Introduction: Displacement, Diaspora, and Geographies of Identity”, in Smadar Lavie and Ted Swedenburg (eds) Displacement, Diaspora, and the Geographies of Identity (Durham: Duke University Press, 1996) pp.1-25. See also Padilla, “Myth and Comparative Cultural Nationalism”.
 Pérez-Torres, “Refiguring Aztlán”, p.37.