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Chapter 3 opens with lyrics from a song by Silvio Rodriguez, titled “Sueño con Serpientes.” Anzaldúa describes her mother’s warnings about snakes: “A snake will crawl into your nalgas, make you pregnant” (47). She describes an encounter with a rattlesnake while chopping cotton as a young girl with her mother: It bit her boot, and her mother killed it. In the morning she felt the venom coursing through her blood, but she was “forever immune.” Since that day, Anzaldúa has been deeply connected to the serpent, attempting to assimilate her animal body into her soul.
She describes Coatlalopeuh, la Virgen de Guadalupe’s Indigenous name. Coatlalopeuh is descended from fertility goddesses, with the earliest known as Coatlicue, “Serpent Skirt.” The male-dominated Aztec culture divided Coatlicue’s light and dark powers. After the conquest of Mexico, the Spaniards further desexed Guadalupe, creating a divide between the Catholic deities as pious virgins and the Indigenous deities as beastly “putas”—“whores.”
Anzaldúa goes on to describe the rise of the Virgin of Guadalupe as the most important religious figure for the Chicano. Embraced by the Mexican revolutionaries, striking farmworkers, and the Zoot Suiters, she is more venerated than Jesus in Texas and Mexico. Synthesizing the old and new world, she is a symbol of the mestiza. Guadalupe, with la Chingada (the raped, abandoned mother) and la Llorona (the mother who seeks her lost children and is a combination of the two) is the mother of the Chicano people, and yet, Chicano culture continues to apply a virgin/whore dichotomy to these three goddesses. The Aztecs took the first step toward this dichotomy in their move from a balanced, matrilineal society to a war-mongering patriarchal society. Anzaldúa details this history of the Aztecs, pointing to this ideological change as the reason for the fall of their empire.
Returning again to the presence of the serpent throughout her life, Anzaldúa discusses how her encounters with the otherworldly have been silenced by the dominant white culture. Institutionalized religion is partly to blame, as it characterizes the spirit world as witchcraft, encouraging a “split between the body and the spirit” (59). Still, Anzaldúa has la facultad: “[T]he capacity to see in surface phenomena the meaning of deeper realities” (60). She believes these faculties are more pronounced in people “who do not feel psychologically or physically safe in this world” (60). Fear develops this sense and ultimately allows the person to experience communion with the soul. The price for this ability is the loss of innocence.
Anzaldúa opens with a poem, centered on the page with white space interspersed throughout. The poem describes a “protean being […] obsidian […] she is eyeless […] smoking […] night” (63-64). She goes on to describe her mother covering the mirrors when her father passed, acknowledging the mirror as an ambivalent symbol that embodies the simultaneity of seeing and being seen. This contradictory feeling is the Coatlicue state.
This is Anzaldúa’s secreto: that she was not like the others. A prose poem interspersed in the text opens with: “She has this fear that she has no names that she has many names” (65). She describes herself as a prickly pear—spineless, defenseless, always coming up with defense strategies to escape feelings of inadequacy. Chicano people need Coatlicue, she says, to process these feelings of terror, as “Coatlicue da luz a todo y a todo devora” (68)—Coatlicue gives light to everything and devours everything.
Anzaldúa first encountered Coatlicue at the Museum of Natural History in New York. As a statue, she has no head nor hands; she is all serpents and eagle claws. Goddess of birth and death, Coatlicue depicts the contradictory. Anzaldúa encounters her when she is unwilling to know some truth about herself: When she is afraid, she descends into mictlán, the underworld. As the subsection proclaims, “The Coatlicue State Is a Prelude to Crossing” (70). The consciousness that Coatlicue engenders is painful, as it requires a shift in thinking that is uncomfortable. Anzaldúa then describes feeling lazy since “all her life she’s been told that Mexicans are lazy” (71).
Anzaldúa ends the chapter reckoning with the challenge of self-determination: “When to bow down to Her [the divine within] and when to allow the limited conscious mind to take over—that is the problem” (72). She describes the intense physical experience of letting the serpent take over, letting the power of her inner self be unleashed. This is “that which abides” (73). It is the Coatlicue state, and Anzaldúa leaves the chapter with a declaration borne from this experience: “I am not afraid” (73).
These chapters introduce another symbol key to Anzaldúa’s explication of Contradiction as Mestiza Consciousness: the serpent. Here, the contradiction arises from organized religion and white culture, which have edged Indigenous fertility goddesses into the dark while also appropriating elements of their iconography and power. The division of Catholic saints as virgin/pure and Indigenous deities as dark/evil is a false one, Anzaldúa suggests, but one that is deeply rooted in the mestiza or Chicana psyche.
This division has far-reaching implications, making the process of embracing its contradictions a painful but necessary rebirth for the mind and body. Western philosophy, for example, traditionally regards the mind and body as distinct and often implicitly (if not explicitly) prioritizes the former, treating the body as “impure.” Anzaldúa rejects this framework, insisting on the body’s relationship to the divine and the psychic. She proposes her own framework: la facultad, which positions “the other” as the one with the most intense relationship to psychic knowledge, effectively flipping dominant knowledge paradigms that not only privilege a white (male, straight, etc.) worldview but also all that is associated with it. By detailing her intense physical experiences within what she calls “The Coatlicue state,” Anzaldúa proposes subjectivity as truth: The Coatlicue state is real because Anzaldúa has experienced it. Just as she writes about her acceptance of her intuition and “Serpent self,” Anzaldúa asks the reader to accept her intuitive experiences as real.
Anzaldúa’s explicit naming of both the Coatlicue state and la facultad is also significant, developing the theme of Language as Identity and Performance. In ascribing terms to them these liminal, psychic experiences, Anzaldúa gives them power in a world that has otherwise deemed them false. It is a rhetorical strategy similar to others Anzaldúa employs, such as bouncing between her personal experiences and the broader cultural context for Coatlapueh in a way that blurs the boundaries between an individual and the environment they emerge from (itself a challenge to Western philosophy’s tendency to treat these as discrete). With her words, Anzaldúa seeks to embody mestiza consciousness.
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