Even though I have gathered more than enough information from the world of sex work in Quito to write my dissertation and should really turn my attention to conducting formal interviews with police generals, government officials and tourist agencies, I feel drawn to the streets. When I came back to the streets for the first day after my vacation I was elated. After having worked with these women for a year and a half now, I felt like I was revisiting old friends. I was received warmly and it was so satisfying to greet each woman with a big hug. Even though they are my “subjects,” these women have become some of my closest friends in Quito. They wanted to know all the details of my trip home, asking about my family and the cold in New York. As always, they joked about sneaking into my luggage the next time I head back to the states. Many of the women thought I had disappeared, never to return. They thought I had abandoned them forever. Of course such a thought fills me with guilt because although this time was just a quick visit home, one day, I will in fact “abandon” them forever. These friends of mine don’t have computers, they don’t use the internet so it will be hard to stay in touch with them when I go home for good. But at the same time, I know that when I come back to visit they will be on the same corner, with the same faces and the same lives. It makes me sad to recognize that while I was home enjoying friends and family, trotting about to various holiday parties and dinners, that these women’s lives hadn’t changed and even though it was the holidays many of them had worked through Christmas and the New Year. Some had returned to their family’s home on the coast for a couple days but most of them simply didn’t have the funds to travel, even for the holidays.
My first day back I felt excited to be with my adopted community, but again, also sad to recognize that they were still immersed in their daily struggles to survive. A huge part of my identity as an anthropologist is trying to reconcile the guilt that comes from being a privileged gringa who for example, can fly across continents to see my family for the holidays. At the very least, I take solace in the fact that these women don’t seem to resent or judge me due to my privileged position. Perhaps it’s because they can’t possibly know just how privileged I am. Despite my own turmoil, the women greeted me with nothing but warmth and happiness. I am so grateful that they accept me for who I am.
My first day back on the streets was a typical day of chaos and drama. I laughed to myself as I compared my gentle, quiet world back home to my first day back with the women. I got caught up on all the action of the past month: who was in jail, who had moved to work in a different city, who was pregnant, which women were fighting with one another, how the police had been treating them, how business was going, etc. etc. (Business was slow over the holidays they explained because everyone spends their money on their families for Christmas and don’t seek sex). Emilia proudly confessed that she hadn’t smoked crack since she last saw me, over a month ago, and that she was now living in a private room rather than in the hotel. On the other hand, women whispered to me that Kara had lost a lot more weight over the past month due to her growing heroin addiction. And indeed, when I greeted Kara, I was startled by her appearance, she was gaunt and wore dirty jeans.
As usual, Victoria came up to me in her rough way and promptly asked me for money to feed her children—I didn’t even care that she didn’t acknowledge my absence, I was happy to see her. She is a crack addict who lives in the hotel with her three children and over the past year she has said little more than six words to me at a time. I went with her to buy lunch for her kids, not trusting her to hand over money that she might use for drugs.
I found out that Alex was now eight months pregnant! She is a very slender woman and when I left she hadn’t begun to show yet—well, all the pregnant women hide their bellies very well. But she actually came up to me to show off her belly and asked if I could come for the birth in several weeks. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and I couldn’t help but wonder how clients would respond once they saw her undressed. Or perhaps she avoids undressing altogether.
I learned that Riki’s husband had been put in jail for five years due to killing a man during a robbery. When I asked if she would remain with him until his release she laughed at my question and said, “Anita, love is love. I will be right here for him when he gets out.” She explained that she visits him every Sunday where they are given privacy to have sex. She invited me to her wedding on Feb. 14th (that will take place in jail.) I accepted with honor—it will be my first prison wedding.
A police car kept rounding the corner and the officers stared me down as usual. The police rotate their positions every few months so new officers are always in the area and obviously, they always try to figure out who I am, what I’m doing. They will learn soon enough.
I greeted all my “friends” who are robbers and addicts. They called out to me, “Anita, where have you been—we thought you’d gone forever.” No, I called back, just home for vacation. Some of them looked a little tougher, others looked healthier. One of the men I was once most scared of came and gave me a big hug. One of his friends, a hard looking guy, looked on with astonishment. To my relief, my friend told him, “No, this is Anita—you don’t know her? She’s “ ‘good people.’” I’m fairly certain his friend was wondering why he was hugging me instead of robbing me. It was nice to be back. I love being on the street, shooting the shit with all these dynamic, interesting people—seemingly a world apart from my friends and family from home, but not so different, at the end of the day. They live under very different circumstances, but they are still my friends—good people whom I’m deeply attached to.
Friday, January 28, 2011
What now?
Without a doubt I am in a transition period with my fieldwork. I was gently told by my advisors at NYU over the holidays that I was ready to start writing my dissertation. Daunting news, to say the least, I find myself confused and not sure where to begin. As my blog entries demonstrate, I have immersed myself in the world of sex workers in Quito’s historical center. I am in a privileged position, not really in a place to complain, but am overwhelmed by all the information I have gathered about these women’s lives. The proposal I came to the field with has changed significantly, as it is supposed to, as one becomes more familiar with the on-the-ground dynamics of one’s fieldsite. I came to the field with the idea of studying how street prostitution in Quito is regulated since it falls under a legal grey area of jurisdiction. Prostitution between consenting adults has always been legal in Ecuador, as in most of Latin America, but it should exist behind closed doors. Brothels are strictly regulated and must have a license, which is very expensive to renew (to be done annually). The written laws about brothels are crystal clear and the government prefers that prostitution exist only within these closed locations.
Where does that leave street prostitution? Technically it is not illegal. In reality, there are no written laws referring to street prostitution. In my opinion this is because it’s too difficult to put strict parameters on it and furthermore, it is impossible to enforce. There are dozens or more unregulated “hotels” in Quito’s historic center that serve as brothels but have avoided the expensive bureaucracy of becoming legal. They operate undercover, as “hotels” and although women stream in and out of these places all day with clients, police have a frustrating time trying to prove that they are actually brothels. I recently spoke with the owner of Hotel Aztec, where the women on my corner service their clients and he told me defiantly, “I have no control over what actually happens in my rooms—it’s none of my business and to deny entry to these women would violate their civil rights.” Obviously he knows exactly what happens in his hotel rooms because every time a woman enters with a client, the client’s bed fee of $3 includes a condom and a stack of paper towels.
Although there is no law stating that these women cannot work on the streets they are constantly harassed by police over other types of infringements, like loitering. The women claim they are not loitering because they are working. It becomes a vicious, ridiculous cycle—the police find any reason at all to clear the streets, but usually the women have been tipped off and take cover in near-by stores or in the hotel itself to hide until the police have left the area. The police view street prostitution as a nuisance more than anything else and don’t have the power to either shut down the hotel or herd the women to prison. That’s not exactly true because they often perform “operatives” where they stop each woman on the street and search her for drugs. In a radical new law to avoid placing drug addicts in jail, one is now allowed to carry a small amount of drugs (any type of drug) on one’s person for personal consumption. But these amounts also fall into grey areas and some police claim that the person is carrying more than the defined amount, solely to bring a woman to jail. Often during “operatives” when the police are determined to sweep the streets they illegally bring all the women to jail—at least the ones they can get their hands on. For the most part these women, even though they have the right to be on the streets, long disappear by the time police show up in their vans.
I am still interested in this messy situation of how street prostitution is regulated because it is so arbitrary and clear laws don’t exist to protect these women’s rights to work. The only reason why the police try to get these women off the streets is due to the complaints of the residents in the neighborhood. For instance, their presence is offensive to the schoolchildren in the area who must walk by them on the way to and fro from school. The residents complain, call the police and so then the police must act. It gets complicated because some of the police have developed personal relationships with the sex workers (some of them are loyal clients). I think the police are mostly apathetic towards street prostitution but because these women are viewed as a public menace, whose sexuality must be confined to private spaces, they are forced to take action.
Once in a while, the police do close down the hotel where the prostitutes work. They fine the owner for all sorts of obscure reasons, but it’s nearly impossible to catch the women in the act to prove that prostitution is happening there—even though everyone, the residents, store keepers and the police know that this hotel is a brothel. Yes, women and their clients enter and exit the hotel all day in increments of 15 minutes but as the owner says, who knows what’s happening in his rooms. A bit silly really—but the police must find other reasons to shut down the hotel—things that have to do with obscure red-tape about running a hotel.
My thesis was to prove that women’s sexuality must be confided to closed, private spaces and I think I have enough evidence to prove that. But aside from the regulation of prostitution, I’ve learned much about these women’s personal lives. It’s now the time to focus on one argument I can make about these women. I have been drawn into their lives and now find myself wanting to write about how sex workers’ identities are conceptualized. This is not so different from my “original” topic of how street prostitution is regulation but for example, I’ve learned so much about how different groups of society view these women. And most importantly, how they view themselves. They view themselves as hardworking mothers who have chosen this occupation over other low-paying jobs given their education level. They could work as domestic servants and earn $240 a month or work in the street and earn double that amount. Some groups view these women as social pariahs, especially the new business owners in the neighborhood who want to gentrify the area and attract more tourism. The old-time business owners, who have had stores in the neighborhood for generations view these women favorably—also as hard-working mothers. Most of them have developed friendships with the women since many have known each other for 10 or more years.
For me it’s a fascinating conflict of identity that these women must juggle. In Latin America mothers are venerated as saints—indeed, to be a “complete” woman here, one must be a mother (I have no children and therefore, have been told literally dozens of times that I’m not a woman yet). At the same time, prostitutes represent “fallen” women, partly due to biblical undertones referring to Mary Magdalene. It is inconceivable in this Catholic country that these sex workers could also be good mothers—or that mothers could be sex workers, when in fact, as I’ve said many times, I have yet to meet a sex worker who is not a mother. The reason why they’re on the street is to provide for their children. They are single mothers whose partners have deserted them and have turned to the streets to work. But these women are incredibly conflicted about what they do. They yearn for acceptance from greater society and feel incredibly guilty that they turn tricks for a living.
In my thesis I would like to focus on these struggles of identity and what it means to be a mother in Latin America. One observation that will serve for my thesis is that, in my opinion, many of these women hope to restore their “honor” through their children. Many of them bring their children to church on Sundays, are strict with them about their homework and do everything within their means to ensure their children’s success in life. They are fighting with all their means to prevent their children from ending up on the streets like themselves. Perhaps I will start there, with that premise….
Where does that leave street prostitution? Technically it is not illegal. In reality, there are no written laws referring to street prostitution. In my opinion this is because it’s too difficult to put strict parameters on it and furthermore, it is impossible to enforce. There are dozens or more unregulated “hotels” in Quito’s historic center that serve as brothels but have avoided the expensive bureaucracy of becoming legal. They operate undercover, as “hotels” and although women stream in and out of these places all day with clients, police have a frustrating time trying to prove that they are actually brothels. I recently spoke with the owner of Hotel Aztec, where the women on my corner service their clients and he told me defiantly, “I have no control over what actually happens in my rooms—it’s none of my business and to deny entry to these women would violate their civil rights.” Obviously he knows exactly what happens in his hotel rooms because every time a woman enters with a client, the client’s bed fee of $3 includes a condom and a stack of paper towels.
Although there is no law stating that these women cannot work on the streets they are constantly harassed by police over other types of infringements, like loitering. The women claim they are not loitering because they are working. It becomes a vicious, ridiculous cycle—the police find any reason at all to clear the streets, but usually the women have been tipped off and take cover in near-by stores or in the hotel itself to hide until the police have left the area. The police view street prostitution as a nuisance more than anything else and don’t have the power to either shut down the hotel or herd the women to prison. That’s not exactly true because they often perform “operatives” where they stop each woman on the street and search her for drugs. In a radical new law to avoid placing drug addicts in jail, one is now allowed to carry a small amount of drugs (any type of drug) on one’s person for personal consumption. But these amounts also fall into grey areas and some police claim that the person is carrying more than the defined amount, solely to bring a woman to jail. Often during “operatives” when the police are determined to sweep the streets they illegally bring all the women to jail—at least the ones they can get their hands on. For the most part these women, even though they have the right to be on the streets, long disappear by the time police show up in their vans.
I am still interested in this messy situation of how street prostitution is regulated because it is so arbitrary and clear laws don’t exist to protect these women’s rights to work. The only reason why the police try to get these women off the streets is due to the complaints of the residents in the neighborhood. For instance, their presence is offensive to the schoolchildren in the area who must walk by them on the way to and fro from school. The residents complain, call the police and so then the police must act. It gets complicated because some of the police have developed personal relationships with the sex workers (some of them are loyal clients). I think the police are mostly apathetic towards street prostitution but because these women are viewed as a public menace, whose sexuality must be confined to private spaces, they are forced to take action.
Once in a while, the police do close down the hotel where the prostitutes work. They fine the owner for all sorts of obscure reasons, but it’s nearly impossible to catch the women in the act to prove that prostitution is happening there—even though everyone, the residents, store keepers and the police know that this hotel is a brothel. Yes, women and their clients enter and exit the hotel all day in increments of 15 minutes but as the owner says, who knows what’s happening in his rooms. A bit silly really—but the police must find other reasons to shut down the hotel—things that have to do with obscure red-tape about running a hotel.
My thesis was to prove that women’s sexuality must be confided to closed, private spaces and I think I have enough evidence to prove that. But aside from the regulation of prostitution, I’ve learned much about these women’s personal lives. It’s now the time to focus on one argument I can make about these women. I have been drawn into their lives and now find myself wanting to write about how sex workers’ identities are conceptualized. This is not so different from my “original” topic of how street prostitution is regulation but for example, I’ve learned so much about how different groups of society view these women. And most importantly, how they view themselves. They view themselves as hardworking mothers who have chosen this occupation over other low-paying jobs given their education level. They could work as domestic servants and earn $240 a month or work in the street and earn double that amount. Some groups view these women as social pariahs, especially the new business owners in the neighborhood who want to gentrify the area and attract more tourism. The old-time business owners, who have had stores in the neighborhood for generations view these women favorably—also as hard-working mothers. Most of them have developed friendships with the women since many have known each other for 10 or more years.
For me it’s a fascinating conflict of identity that these women must juggle. In Latin America mothers are venerated as saints—indeed, to be a “complete” woman here, one must be a mother (I have no children and therefore, have been told literally dozens of times that I’m not a woman yet). At the same time, prostitutes represent “fallen” women, partly due to biblical undertones referring to Mary Magdalene. It is inconceivable in this Catholic country that these sex workers could also be good mothers—or that mothers could be sex workers, when in fact, as I’ve said many times, I have yet to meet a sex worker who is not a mother. The reason why they’re on the street is to provide for their children. They are single mothers whose partners have deserted them and have turned to the streets to work. But these women are incredibly conflicted about what they do. They yearn for acceptance from greater society and feel incredibly guilty that they turn tricks for a living.
In my thesis I would like to focus on these struggles of identity and what it means to be a mother in Latin America. One observation that will serve for my thesis is that, in my opinion, many of these women hope to restore their “honor” through their children. Many of them bring their children to church on Sundays, are strict with them about their homework and do everything within their means to ensure their children’s success in life. They are fighting with all their means to prevent their children from ending up on the streets like themselves. Perhaps I will start there, with that premise….
Monday, January 24, 2011
Absent
Some of you have contacted me to see if everything is okay due to my long absence. I’m not sure where to begin but I shall start here….right now. I have recently returned to Quito after being with my friends and family in the States for three weeks over the holidays. I feel refreshed from the visit and plan to resume my fieldwork in the following days. Obviously, I haven’t updated my blog for a long time. There are many reasons, professional and personal as to why I disappeared, all of which make the perfect blog entry to signal my return…
Starting in October, I began teaching at a local university, FLACSO, as a professor in their visual anthropology program. My program at NYU also focuses on visual anthropology which is why I am also incorporating a documentary film as part of my fieldwork. I was lucky to have the opportunity to teach the course, “The History and Theory of Ethnographic Film” (ethnographic films are specifically the documentaries anthropologists make). My class lasted until mid-December and as an intensive course, and as my first time as a full professor, I dedicated all my time to it and no longer had the time to visit the streets (or so I convinced myself). I only went a few times during all of November and December. Just like some of my readers, the sex workers also wondered what had happened to Anita (a discussion worthy of another entry).
Everything happens for a reason, and although my class took me away from my research, I now realize that I desperately needed a break. I was close to emotional burnout, which might seem like an obvious reaction to my work, but it wasn’t obvious to me. In fact, I have always shrugged my shoulders, sighed, and half-rolled my eyes when people ask me, “Isn’t it so hard to work with prostitutes? How do you deal with the emotional burden, etc. etc.” I never took those questions seriously because I didn’t see how it was different from working with any other population—and because quite simply I thought it wasn’t affecting me. Ha. Ha. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’m sure if I were to review my blog I would be able to see the emotional turmoil in my entries like flashing lights, but when you’re out there living it day-in, day-out, you become desensitized to your work, until suddenly it creeps up on you like an approaching train. I started having tough days in which I suddenly felt super “lazy.” So lazy that I couldn’t possibly drag myself out of bed to go down to the Centro. With a bit of hindsight I realized that this “laziness” was a symptom of deeply buried fear, anxiety, and an inexplicable “heaviness” weighing on my shoulders.
I realize that the days in which I couldn’t get to work were actually much needed mental health days. They were days that I needed to be alone, to rest and recover. I was hard on myself about it, wondering “what is wrong with me” when I’ve always loved my work and felt at home on the streets. It was strange to suddenly feel uncertain about going to the Centro. I would envision myself on the streets with dread and feel completely overwhelmed. That had never happened before--I was confused to why it was happening now. I was having trouble sleeping and felt stressed about everything in my life. I didn’t understand what was going on inside of me, but I knew I had to respect this emotional response and take action—the action I took was to distance myself from my fieldwork. I decided to focus on my class and to spend more time reading academic texts, rather than go to El Centro.
I had to be willing to let my project go for a moment so I could get some much needed breathing room. I felt confused as to why I was feeling everything now, after having been in the field for more than a year. Wasn’t I supposed to be a seasoned anthropologist by now? A least a hardened ethnographer who had been exposed to and “survived” countless emotionally charged moments on the streets—moments when I had accompanied a friend to the hospital after her pimp had broken her leg in three places, or when I listened with great sadness to these women’s lives filled with violence and destitution.
I often remember wiping tears away from my eyes at the horror of these women’s hardships. But I always told myself that once I got on that bus heading northward, I would leave the sadness of my day’s work behind. This strategy functioned for a time but as I became more and more immersed in the lives of these women—as they trusted me more and saw me as a kind ally, they began to confide in me their darkest secrets. I had never been exposed to such raw, heartbreaking tales. I’ve suffered plenty in my own life, we all have our own history of pain and suffering, but the things I heard were on a different scale. I am lucky enough to have a loving and supportive family. I come from a privileged background and compared to these women’s lives I’ve led an incredibly sheltered life.
Perhaps I bulldozed my way through thru the first part of my fieldwork, suppressing my emotions because I knew I had to if I wanted to conduct a “successful” ethnographic investigation. I knew I had to listen with an open, sympathetic heart and indeed I love that part of my work. I think my ability to listen to these women is the greatest gift I can give them as an anthropologist in the field. No, I’m not fighting for policy changes to improve these women’s lives on a grand scale. We don’t do that as anthropologists. But I’ve come to terms with that (with much guilt) and realize that sometimes the greatest help comes in the form of being a good listener (especially to members of a marginalized community who are ignored and dismissed by greater society). But as any therapist might recognize, listening to stories of tremendous trauma can affect one’s own emotional state. I finally realized it was affecting mine.
Even writing my blog entries felt like a painful experience because I didn’t want to revisit the things I witnessed/experienced on the streets. I yearned for wholesome worlds--perhaps I should work in a kindergarden with children who had yet to be scarred by life’s relentless pain. Obviously that’s not the answer nor would I be happy in such an environment. But this experience has made me question why I am attracted to such dark underworlds. My theory is that many anthropologists study themselves, in some way (often subconsciously). Without a doubt I struggle with my own demons. These people are my people. Although I am not a sex worker I identify with some of their struggles, especially those concerning addiction. I have not wanted to reveal too much about myself in my blog, but I’m now willing to take the risk to expose myself.
I too have experienced drug and alcohol abuse, like many of the women. We share a common bond. Although I am now clean, I relapsed when I first entered the field (something I’ll discuss in another entry). I’m testing the waters with this confession as discussing one’s own personal battles in the field is still taboo in anthropology. Anthropologists never share their behavior during fieldwork—we are supposed to be neutral observers who “do everything right,” when in fact everyone knows plenty of anthropologists have sex with their informants in the field, for example. But still, no one ever includes such “horrors” in their final academic products--it would be frowned upon in the academy. We are supposed to be “perfect” beings, perhaps a touch “superior” then our informants. .
My plan is to write a book charting my own relapse after 8 years of sobriety, which is directly related to my fieldwork. I have slowly realized that sharing my personal experiences is critical to the integrity of my doctoral thesis. The field did affect me. In my opinion, we become part of the world we study, for better or for worse, and any anthropologist who denies that has not experienced the intensity and intimacy of becoming fully immersed into a community. I know I’m not supposed to discuss my personal battles but again, for the integrity of anthropology as a discipline we must include ourselves as active participants in our work (and in our final products). We have been taught to silence and ignore ourselves when we conduct our investigations. But we can’t do this discipline justice if we refuse to reflect how fieldwork changes us as human beings. Although its taboo to say, I’ve learned more about myself during the past year and then I have about my informants. We must break this barrier of silence because I cannot believe any anthropologist returns from the field the same person as when he/she enters it.
Imagine how liberating this would be, in our discipline of self-righteousness. We claim to no longer work as colonial imperialists but without sharing our own vulnerabilities and seemingly “unethical” behavior in the field we remain infallible beings, apart and above our communities. We need to humanize own experiences to pave the way for future anthropologists’ reflections on their fieldwork. Without analyzing how our fieldwork affects us, we’re missing the point. Anthropologists don’t have to feel guilty or ashamed for whatever they experience in the field. Of course there are limits (and it’s up to every anthropologist to decide what those limits are) but many things happen that are a natural consequence of participating in the communities we study.
Starting in October, I began teaching at a local university, FLACSO, as a professor in their visual anthropology program. My program at NYU also focuses on visual anthropology which is why I am also incorporating a documentary film as part of my fieldwork. I was lucky to have the opportunity to teach the course, “The History and Theory of Ethnographic Film” (ethnographic films are specifically the documentaries anthropologists make). My class lasted until mid-December and as an intensive course, and as my first time as a full professor, I dedicated all my time to it and no longer had the time to visit the streets (or so I convinced myself). I only went a few times during all of November and December. Just like some of my readers, the sex workers also wondered what had happened to Anita (a discussion worthy of another entry).
Everything happens for a reason, and although my class took me away from my research, I now realize that I desperately needed a break. I was close to emotional burnout, which might seem like an obvious reaction to my work, but it wasn’t obvious to me. In fact, I have always shrugged my shoulders, sighed, and half-rolled my eyes when people ask me, “Isn’t it so hard to work with prostitutes? How do you deal with the emotional burden, etc. etc.” I never took those questions seriously because I didn’t see how it was different from working with any other population—and because quite simply I thought it wasn’t affecting me. Ha. Ha. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’m sure if I were to review my blog I would be able to see the emotional turmoil in my entries like flashing lights, but when you’re out there living it day-in, day-out, you become desensitized to your work, until suddenly it creeps up on you like an approaching train. I started having tough days in which I suddenly felt super “lazy.” So lazy that I couldn’t possibly drag myself out of bed to go down to the Centro. With a bit of hindsight I realized that this “laziness” was a symptom of deeply buried fear, anxiety, and an inexplicable “heaviness” weighing on my shoulders.
I realize that the days in which I couldn’t get to work were actually much needed mental health days. They were days that I needed to be alone, to rest and recover. I was hard on myself about it, wondering “what is wrong with me” when I’ve always loved my work and felt at home on the streets. It was strange to suddenly feel uncertain about going to the Centro. I would envision myself on the streets with dread and feel completely overwhelmed. That had never happened before--I was confused to why it was happening now. I was having trouble sleeping and felt stressed about everything in my life. I didn’t understand what was going on inside of me, but I knew I had to respect this emotional response and take action—the action I took was to distance myself from my fieldwork. I decided to focus on my class and to spend more time reading academic texts, rather than go to El Centro.
I had to be willing to let my project go for a moment so I could get some much needed breathing room. I felt confused as to why I was feeling everything now, after having been in the field for more than a year. Wasn’t I supposed to be a seasoned anthropologist by now? A least a hardened ethnographer who had been exposed to and “survived” countless emotionally charged moments on the streets—moments when I had accompanied a friend to the hospital after her pimp had broken her leg in three places, or when I listened with great sadness to these women’s lives filled with violence and destitution.
I often remember wiping tears away from my eyes at the horror of these women’s hardships. But I always told myself that once I got on that bus heading northward, I would leave the sadness of my day’s work behind. This strategy functioned for a time but as I became more and more immersed in the lives of these women—as they trusted me more and saw me as a kind ally, they began to confide in me their darkest secrets. I had never been exposed to such raw, heartbreaking tales. I’ve suffered plenty in my own life, we all have our own history of pain and suffering, but the things I heard were on a different scale. I am lucky enough to have a loving and supportive family. I come from a privileged background and compared to these women’s lives I’ve led an incredibly sheltered life.
Perhaps I bulldozed my way through thru the first part of my fieldwork, suppressing my emotions because I knew I had to if I wanted to conduct a “successful” ethnographic investigation. I knew I had to listen with an open, sympathetic heart and indeed I love that part of my work. I think my ability to listen to these women is the greatest gift I can give them as an anthropologist in the field. No, I’m not fighting for policy changes to improve these women’s lives on a grand scale. We don’t do that as anthropologists. But I’ve come to terms with that (with much guilt) and realize that sometimes the greatest help comes in the form of being a good listener (especially to members of a marginalized community who are ignored and dismissed by greater society). But as any therapist might recognize, listening to stories of tremendous trauma can affect one’s own emotional state. I finally realized it was affecting mine.
Even writing my blog entries felt like a painful experience because I didn’t want to revisit the things I witnessed/experienced on the streets. I yearned for wholesome worlds--perhaps I should work in a kindergarden with children who had yet to be scarred by life’s relentless pain. Obviously that’s not the answer nor would I be happy in such an environment. But this experience has made me question why I am attracted to such dark underworlds. My theory is that many anthropologists study themselves, in some way (often subconsciously). Without a doubt I struggle with my own demons. These people are my people. Although I am not a sex worker I identify with some of their struggles, especially those concerning addiction. I have not wanted to reveal too much about myself in my blog, but I’m now willing to take the risk to expose myself.
I too have experienced drug and alcohol abuse, like many of the women. We share a common bond. Although I am now clean, I relapsed when I first entered the field (something I’ll discuss in another entry). I’m testing the waters with this confession as discussing one’s own personal battles in the field is still taboo in anthropology. Anthropologists never share their behavior during fieldwork—we are supposed to be neutral observers who “do everything right,” when in fact everyone knows plenty of anthropologists have sex with their informants in the field, for example. But still, no one ever includes such “horrors” in their final academic products--it would be frowned upon in the academy. We are supposed to be “perfect” beings, perhaps a touch “superior” then our informants. .
My plan is to write a book charting my own relapse after 8 years of sobriety, which is directly related to my fieldwork. I have slowly realized that sharing my personal experiences is critical to the integrity of my doctoral thesis. The field did affect me. In my opinion, we become part of the world we study, for better or for worse, and any anthropologist who denies that has not experienced the intensity and intimacy of becoming fully immersed into a community. I know I’m not supposed to discuss my personal battles but again, for the integrity of anthropology as a discipline we must include ourselves as active participants in our work (and in our final products). We have been taught to silence and ignore ourselves when we conduct our investigations. But we can’t do this discipline justice if we refuse to reflect how fieldwork changes us as human beings. Although its taboo to say, I’ve learned more about myself during the past year and then I have about my informants. We must break this barrier of silence because I cannot believe any anthropologist returns from the field the same person as when he/she enters it.
Imagine how liberating this would be, in our discipline of self-righteousness. We claim to no longer work as colonial imperialists but without sharing our own vulnerabilities and seemingly “unethical” behavior in the field we remain infallible beings, apart and above our communities. We need to humanize own experiences to pave the way for future anthropologists’ reflections on their fieldwork. Without analyzing how our fieldwork affects us, we’re missing the point. Anthropologists don’t have to feel guilty or ashamed for whatever they experience in the field. Of course there are limits (and it’s up to every anthropologist to decide what those limits are) but many things happen that are a natural consequence of participating in the communities we study.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Women’s Maximum Security Prison
Perhaps women’s prison is no walk in the park, but compared to the conditions of the men’s prison it’s like being in a playground. In fact, the maximum security prison does have a giant playground—authorities allow children up to age four to accompany their mothers for the majority of their sentence. In the past month I’ve visited both the minimum and maximum security prisons, visiting different sex workers from the street. Several Sundays ago, I was awakened by the shrill ringing of my cell phone in the early morning. It took me a moment to place the caller’s name and face together but then I recognized R., one of my favorite women from the street. She sounded worried and spoke in a voice so soft I could barely hear her. She said, “Anita can you please come to Inca (the maximum security prison), I need to see you immediately.” It occurred to me that that’s why I hadn’t seen R. for so long. I went to buy some food to bring and jumped in a cab northward.
When I tried to enter the prison, a massive concrete structure, walls laced with barbed wire, they searched me as usual and told me I couldn’t bring my cell phone inside. That surprised me since R. had definitely called me from a cell phone inside. I was stupid enough to try once again to enter with my cell phone, now hidden down my pants (as I’ve witnessed many of my friends do when we visit people). I quickly learned that I’m not quite a smooth as my friends and they confiscated it from me. I laughed it off, while they just sighed and ushered me in. R. was waiting for me near the front door. Once again, like the male prison, I was surprised by the lack of supervision inside. I couldn’t see any guards at all and the women roamed around as they wished. It was a massive structure and it was divided into many different sections, each filled with cells, but the first floor was basically entirely open. It almost seemed like a bus depot. There were stores with people selling things like toilet paper, toothpaste and other toiletries. Food stalls also existed, the rich smell of roasting pork and popcorn filled the air. Some women sold soft drinks and water. I came in with a group of nuns and when we entered the courtyard which had the playground I noticed all sorts of religious groups meeting with women in corners, whispering with bibles in hand.
Ironically, R. herself said she finally found my number because she had jotted it down in her Bible—that’s one of the only things they allow people to bring into prison with them. I was flattered that I had “made it” into her Bible, I thought it was reserved for information about family members. R., quickly shared her story, how she landed in the maximum security prison. She had been there over a month and her length of stay was still unknown. She explained to me that one night she went dancing at a club with her husband and son. Unknown to her, her husband had hid his gun in her purse after they entered when she went to the bathroom. When they left later that night, full of booze and drugs, her husband spotted someone on the street to rob. Suddenly, the police appeared out of nowhere and realized what was happening. Although R. thought she would be excused from the crime (because it was her husband who did it), when the police searched her and found the gun, she was hauled off to the police station with the rest of her family. R. was shaking with anger when she told me this. First, she was furious that her husband had dared to hide his gun in her purse and secondly, he hadn’t even bothered to tell her. Obviously, she was now charged as an accomplice and with possession of an illegal weapon. She was hauled off to the maximum security prison while her husband and son went to the men’s equivalent prison.
R. needed my help to get a lawyer. She also wanted me to contact the head of the sex worker organization to see if she had any contacts. But R’.s biggest fear concerned her son who is HIV positive and who no longer had access to his medication in prison. She wanted me to find an NGO that specialized in the rights of people with HIV and AIDS. It was well beyond my expertise but over the next few weeks I hustled to get R. as much information as I could. I brought her letters from different organizations, from a lawyer and the president of the sex worker organization. R. called me constantly to ask for more help. Unfortunately, most of her needs were impossible for me to fulfill. It made me wonder how HIV+ people in prison in the United States manage their medication. R.’s situation was incredibly complicated, especially since she was the target of a stupid act by her husband. Despite her resentment towards him, R. said she was glad she had possession of the gun because he would be locked away for much longer, given his prison record.
Soon enough, after I hadn’t heard from R. in a while (in fact, I was beginning to get worried), she appeared on the streets one day. It was our secret that she had been in prison for a month, the rest of the women thought she had gone to visit family on the coast. R. said she was ashamed to tell anyone because she hadn’t been to prison in years, and had never been in the maximum security prison. Although she had been released, R. still owed the prison money, for food and for the bed she rented every night. The $1 bed fee had added up given her five week stay.
When I tried to enter the prison, a massive concrete structure, walls laced with barbed wire, they searched me as usual and told me I couldn’t bring my cell phone inside. That surprised me since R. had definitely called me from a cell phone inside. I was stupid enough to try once again to enter with my cell phone, now hidden down my pants (as I’ve witnessed many of my friends do when we visit people). I quickly learned that I’m not quite a smooth as my friends and they confiscated it from me. I laughed it off, while they just sighed and ushered me in. R. was waiting for me near the front door. Once again, like the male prison, I was surprised by the lack of supervision inside. I couldn’t see any guards at all and the women roamed around as they wished. It was a massive structure and it was divided into many different sections, each filled with cells, but the first floor was basically entirely open. It almost seemed like a bus depot. There were stores with people selling things like toilet paper, toothpaste and other toiletries. Food stalls also existed, the rich smell of roasting pork and popcorn filled the air. Some women sold soft drinks and water. I came in with a group of nuns and when we entered the courtyard which had the playground I noticed all sorts of religious groups meeting with women in corners, whispering with bibles in hand.
Ironically, R. herself said she finally found my number because she had jotted it down in her Bible—that’s one of the only things they allow people to bring into prison with them. I was flattered that I had “made it” into her Bible, I thought it was reserved for information about family members. R., quickly shared her story, how she landed in the maximum security prison. She had been there over a month and her length of stay was still unknown. She explained to me that one night she went dancing at a club with her husband and son. Unknown to her, her husband had hid his gun in her purse after they entered when she went to the bathroom. When they left later that night, full of booze and drugs, her husband spotted someone on the street to rob. Suddenly, the police appeared out of nowhere and realized what was happening. Although R. thought she would be excused from the crime (because it was her husband who did it), when the police searched her and found the gun, she was hauled off to the police station with the rest of her family. R. was shaking with anger when she told me this. First, she was furious that her husband had dared to hide his gun in her purse and secondly, he hadn’t even bothered to tell her. Obviously, she was now charged as an accomplice and with possession of an illegal weapon. She was hauled off to the maximum security prison while her husband and son went to the men’s equivalent prison.
R. needed my help to get a lawyer. She also wanted me to contact the head of the sex worker organization to see if she had any contacts. But R’.s biggest fear concerned her son who is HIV positive and who no longer had access to his medication in prison. She wanted me to find an NGO that specialized in the rights of people with HIV and AIDS. It was well beyond my expertise but over the next few weeks I hustled to get R. as much information as I could. I brought her letters from different organizations, from a lawyer and the president of the sex worker organization. R. called me constantly to ask for more help. Unfortunately, most of her needs were impossible for me to fulfill. It made me wonder how HIV+ people in prison in the United States manage their medication. R.’s situation was incredibly complicated, especially since she was the target of a stupid act by her husband. Despite her resentment towards him, R. said she was glad she had possession of the gun because he would be locked away for much longer, given his prison record.
Soon enough, after I hadn’t heard from R. in a while (in fact, I was beginning to get worried), she appeared on the streets one day. It was our secret that she had been in prison for a month, the rest of the women thought she had gone to visit family on the coast. R. said she was ashamed to tell anyone because she hadn’t been to prison in years, and had never been in the maximum security prison. Although she had been released, R. still owed the prison money, for food and for the bed she rented every night. The $1 bed fee had added up given her five week stay.
More Census
I had to write yet another entry about the census because I’ve never experienced anything like this. Yesterday when I wrote my entry, I felt fairly blasé about the whole thing—I certainly didn’t take seriously the “orders” to stay at home. That is, until I tried to leave my building this morning to go for a walk. Always with my best interests in mind, my doorman said, “Where do you think you are going Anita—they’ll take you to jail!” “Ha ha,” I replied. He said, ‘I’m serious, do you see anyone on the street?” It’s true, I peeked my head out the door, looked both ways and was startled by the silence. Not a car on the street and not a human to be seen. It was dead quiet. I still didn’t want to buy it—I told him, “But I’m a foreigner, why do they want my info?” Carlos shook his head at my “silly” question and replied patiently, “Anita, even tourists will be part of the census—they can’t leave their hotels.” Wow. That really surprised me. If even the tourist industry had shut down for the day that meant the country had truly come to a halt. It felt like the calm before a storm—as if we were preparing for another presidential coup. We were definitely in a police state, as the only cars about were the police making their rounds.
I enjoyed my day at home waiting for the censors, it was the perfect day to catch up on laundry, cleaning, cooking, work, etc. I was surprised when I finally heard the knock on my door and stepped aside to allow two teenage girls from the local high school enter. I had imagined two men wearing a government uniform with baseball caps saying, “Census 2010” written in cursive across the top. Although they broke into giggles every five minutes, making me wonder what freaky thing I had said, it was a benign, fairly short process. What surprised me the most was that the vast majority of their questions centered on the condition of my home. Obviously, by asking about whether I had a private bathroom, knowing the materials used to construct my walls and floors, the number of bedrooms I have and what electronics I use in my house are all indicators of my economic status. Indeed there were endless questions the conditions of my apartment, some of them unexpected—like for example if I drink water directly from the tap, drink boiled water or buy it filtered (I boil my water). Another, how many light bulbs do I have in my house and how many are the environmentally friendly type (to my relief, six out of eight were environmental bulbs). Other questions were definitely not directly towards people like me who live in fancy high-rise apartment buildings. For example, how do I get rid of my trash? I just throw it down the trash chute.
Other questions were very predictable and centered on me as an individual: how do I self-identify racially, level of education, occupation, marital status, number of children, with whom do I live, do I receive remittances from family members abroad, age, nationality if not Ecuadorian, how many hours do I work weekly, how long is my work commute, and where do my family members live. Apparently, the entire survey was voluntary, something they informed me after we had finished. I think they started to get annoyed because I started asking them more questions about the survey than they had asked me. I was fascinated that about 80% of the questions focused on housing conditions as an indicator of economic status. I asked why they didn’t just come out and ask about my annual or monthly income. The giggling girls didn’t have an answer, but I assume it’s because such a direct question about income would be considered unbelievably inappropriate here, survey or no survey. It is impolite anywhere, but here in Ecuador where the vast majority of the population makes so little, perhaps they decided the housing questions were just as good an indicator and probably something people are less likely to lie about. The girls told me that above all, the government wants to know the population of each city and in what conditions people live.
At 5:00pm the census was over and people were allowed to leave their homes. I went for a walk, along with many other people in my neighborhood. I’m now listening to the familiar sounds of cars pass by my building once again. Perhaps people were going stir-crazy sitting at home all day, but I enjoyed the peace, in which I could imagine for a moment that I lived far away from the city. Although the girls did not know for sure if the results would be published, I will be very curious to find out what information was collected. The next census will be in 10 years, and just like this one compared to 10 years ago, the demographics of the country will shift radically—mostly due to the recent in pouring of immigrants from almost everywhere.
Oh yeah, and I'm sure people are thrilled they can drink booze again, although I believe stores will still be closed for the night.
I enjoyed my day at home waiting for the censors, it was the perfect day to catch up on laundry, cleaning, cooking, work, etc. I was surprised when I finally heard the knock on my door and stepped aside to allow two teenage girls from the local high school enter. I had imagined two men wearing a government uniform with baseball caps saying, “Census 2010” written in cursive across the top. Although they broke into giggles every five minutes, making me wonder what freaky thing I had said, it was a benign, fairly short process. What surprised me the most was that the vast majority of their questions centered on the condition of my home. Obviously, by asking about whether I had a private bathroom, knowing the materials used to construct my walls and floors, the number of bedrooms I have and what electronics I use in my house are all indicators of my economic status. Indeed there were endless questions the conditions of my apartment, some of them unexpected—like for example if I drink water directly from the tap, drink boiled water or buy it filtered (I boil my water). Another, how many light bulbs do I have in my house and how many are the environmentally friendly type (to my relief, six out of eight were environmental bulbs). Other questions were definitely not directly towards people like me who live in fancy high-rise apartment buildings. For example, how do I get rid of my trash? I just throw it down the trash chute.
Other questions were very predictable and centered on me as an individual: how do I self-identify racially, level of education, occupation, marital status, number of children, with whom do I live, do I receive remittances from family members abroad, age, nationality if not Ecuadorian, how many hours do I work weekly, how long is my work commute, and where do my family members live. Apparently, the entire survey was voluntary, something they informed me after we had finished. I think they started to get annoyed because I started asking them more questions about the survey than they had asked me. I was fascinated that about 80% of the questions focused on housing conditions as an indicator of economic status. I asked why they didn’t just come out and ask about my annual or monthly income. The giggling girls didn’t have an answer, but I assume it’s because such a direct question about income would be considered unbelievably inappropriate here, survey or no survey. It is impolite anywhere, but here in Ecuador where the vast majority of the population makes so little, perhaps they decided the housing questions were just as good an indicator and probably something people are less likely to lie about. The girls told me that above all, the government wants to know the population of each city and in what conditions people live.
At 5:00pm the census was over and people were allowed to leave their homes. I went for a walk, along with many other people in my neighborhood. I’m now listening to the familiar sounds of cars pass by my building once again. Perhaps people were going stir-crazy sitting at home all day, but I enjoyed the peace, in which I could imagine for a moment that I lived far away from the city. Although the girls did not know for sure if the results would be published, I will be very curious to find out what information was collected. The next census will be in 10 years, and just like this one compared to 10 years ago, the demographics of the country will shift radically—mostly due to the recent in pouring of immigrants from almost everywhere.
Oh yeah, and I'm sure people are thrilled they can drink booze again, although I believe stores will still be closed for the night.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Dry Law: Census 2010
Ecuador takes its census very seriously. Officially it takes place tomorrow, Sunday November 28th. For the past month Quito has been bombarded with news about it: billboards, posted signs, leaflets on cars, massive mailings, radio and television announcements, etc. It is a big deal. Such a big deal that they have implemented a dry law for this weekend, which other Latin American countries impose during presidential elections. No establishments, from stores, bars, restaurants, liquor stores, and supermarkets are allowed to sell alcohol which basically means that all clubs and bars are closed for the weekend. No one is out and about. Last night when coming home in a taxi from a friend’s house Quito was a ghost town. The law began at 12:00pm on Friday afternoon and lasts until Monday morning. It seems illogical to me because usually when my friends go out on Saturday night and get wasted, they are forced to stay in bed all Sunday to recover. They can’t leave their homes in order to nurse their hangovers. Won’t people be more animated to catch up on errands (not that any stores will be open) or play football if they aren’t hung over? Oh well. I guess the authorities have their logic. But the entire thing seems incredibly draconian—by law I don’t think people are allowed to leave their homes. Most definitely anyone who sells alcohol will be taken to jail and fined. I wonder if that will be the same for those of us who don’t really care about the census and plan to wander the streets tomorrow. In many ways, I feel “immune” to the census since I’m a foreigner—I’m just passing by so why do they need to record my existence in Ecuador? Although, I’ll probably end up staying at home, simply because all my friends are Ecuadorian and they’re truly scared to leave the house tomorrow.
I’m not sure why Ecuador takes its census so seriously. I can’t even remember knowing when the U.S. had its last census. Again, I wonder what they are hoping to record—do they hope to identify different racial groups, which I have already explained in my last post is next to impossible, or do they just want a number count of how much Quito and other cities have grown per population? I wonder how us transients fit into the picture. All I know is that a nun will be passing by my house at some point to tomorrow to ask questions about who I am. I’m curious to know what she’ll ask and how this information will serve the Ecuadorian government. I will be curious to get the results of the census, if it is made public.
I’m still not entirely sure of the logic between the three days of dry law and the census tomorrow, but I guess supposed sobriety leading up to it will ensure that people stay in their homes tomorrow? Or is it some sort of punishment? Obviously house parties are in full effect this weekend—plenty of people have stored up on alcohol for their weekend and many homes will be filled with liquor, music and merry-making. But without a doubt, it is strange to see all Quito’s night life shut down. In my memory at least, the United States has never implemented a dry law for any occasion—to me it seems like a draconian, authoritative decision, bordering on an abuse of civil rights. Although, I believe in Massachusetts one cannot buy alcohol on Sundays. For me, I’m content to spend a weekend at home, catching up on work. But I don’t think the census will prevent me from going down to the Centro tomorrow, I am very curious to see if the women will be working on the streets. Although knowing the police’s relationship with some of the sex workers, they will haul them off to jail for leaving their homes, even if it’s illegal for them to do so. Which is exactly why I want to go and check things out. I can always say I’m just a tourist passing through…
I’m not sure why Ecuador takes its census so seriously. I can’t even remember knowing when the U.S. had its last census. Again, I wonder what they are hoping to record—do they hope to identify different racial groups, which I have already explained in my last post is next to impossible, or do they just want a number count of how much Quito and other cities have grown per population? I wonder how us transients fit into the picture. All I know is that a nun will be passing by my house at some point to tomorrow to ask questions about who I am. I’m curious to know what she’ll ask and how this information will serve the Ecuadorian government. I will be curious to get the results of the census, if it is made public.
I’m still not entirely sure of the logic between the three days of dry law and the census tomorrow, but I guess supposed sobriety leading up to it will ensure that people stay in their homes tomorrow? Or is it some sort of punishment? Obviously house parties are in full effect this weekend—plenty of people have stored up on alcohol for their weekend and many homes will be filled with liquor, music and merry-making. But without a doubt, it is strange to see all Quito’s night life shut down. In my memory at least, the United States has never implemented a dry law for any occasion—to me it seems like a draconian, authoritative decision, bordering on an abuse of civil rights. Although, I believe in Massachusetts one cannot buy alcohol on Sundays. For me, I’m content to spend a weekend at home, catching up on work. But I don’t think the census will prevent me from going down to the Centro tomorrow, I am very curious to see if the women will be working on the streets. Although knowing the police’s relationship with some of the sex workers, they will haul them off to jail for leaving their homes, even if it’s illegal for them to do so. Which is exactly why I want to go and check things out. I can always say I’m just a tourist passing through…
No Indians Allowed
Recently I spoke with an historian of Quito’s historic district (El Centro) and he gave me some shocking news. Indigenous people are still forbidden to enter La Compañía de Jesús, Quito’s grandest, most opulent church, famous for its ornate golden interior, dating from the early seventeenth century. Built by the Jesuits, one of the earliest orders to arrive in Quito, more than seven tons of gold were used to gild the walls, ceiling and altar. The first time I entered La Compañía it took my breath away. I walked around mesmerized by the gilded gold, elaborately dressed virgins, crying saints, candle-lit corridors and the smell of incense in the air. I sat in one of the pews and imagined wealthy Quiteños doused in rich perfume sitting around me. They have been attending its high mass every Sunday for centuries and indeed, it is the preferred church for weddings among Quito’s elite. When the Spaniards arrived in Quito in 1535, one of the first things they did was to establish “Indian” churches to convert (i.e. conquer) the indigenous population. It was a clearly demarcated system in which the “indios” had their churches while the Spaniards attended their own. In each indigenous parish the Spaniards, (the Jesuits) constructed a church. It’s incredible just how many churches exist in Quito’s historic center. There’s at least one church, if not two, in every neighborhood of El Centro. Not surprisingly, the Spaniards and their descents attended the fancy, more ornate ones, while the very simple structures, bare and marked with just a wooden cross, were reserved for the indigenous. While strolling around the Centro it’s fairly easy to guess which church belongs to which community.
I’m not sure if the segregation of churches has ever existed as a written law in Ecuador. Today it continues to exist as an unspoken social contract. It shouldn’t shock me that indigenous are not allowed into La Compañia, since rampant segregation still exists in every other realm of society. Despite the majority indigenous group, CONAIE’s powerful uprising of the early 1990s, which served as a model for other indigenous groups around Latin America (especially for Bolivia’s uprising a decade later), they still remain on the outskirts of society in many ways. Although powerful political leaders exist in Congress, the majority of indigenous persons still live in abject poverty, especially those who remain in rural villages. In these communities the rates of domestic violence and alcoholism are higher than the national average, as well as the level of basic education.
Obviously this unspoken contract that “indigenous” people are not allowed into La Compañia becomes extremely complicated when no one really knows who is “indigenous” in the first place. When surveys are taken, apparently anywhere between 25%-45% of the population identify as indigenous. These surveys mark individuals who self-identify as indigenous, but in reality, the vast majority of Ecuadorians are a diverse racial mix—most of whom have carried some indigenous blood for centuries. That makes this rule of forbidden entry into the church very complicated. Ecuadorians have a vast range of physical features; some of my friends here, all of the upper class, are completely white, European, while many of the prostitutes with whom I work are Afro-Ecuadorian. The majority of the population is mestizo, a mix of indigenous features and countless other things. Some of my friends “look” very “indigenous” even though their families have lived in Quito for generations. I wonder if they ever get questioned while entering certain churches. It seems like it’s the individuals who continue to wear traditional clothing representative of various indigenous communities who would be targeted for exclusion from La Compañia. Without a doubt, these individuals are indigenous, even though I have friends who if they also wore traditional clothing, would be “mistaken” for being part of an indigenous community. And quite frankly, my friends would be appalled to be mistaken for an “indigenous” person. Without a doubt, race is incredibly complicated to identify/define here.
I had the most fascinating experience last spring when I attended a fancy wedding at La Compañia. It was an exciting opportunity to attend a very Catholic wedding, (high mass), in an extremely traditional church that has existed for centuries. I felt as if I had fallen back in time and enjoyed observing all the Quiteños around me, and listened with astonishment all that the priest said (I’m not Catholic, and it was the first time I had attended a high mass of this type). But I was absolutely floored when during one section of the wedding a series of indigenous persons came down the aisle as part of the ceremony, offering different gifts to the bride and groom as good luck. They offered tokens from “their” culture, like a chicken, special candles, other animals and symbolic objects. Then several communities did traditional “Indian” dances down the aisle. It struck me as so bizarre to suddenly praise and to include the customs of these rejected indigenous communities into a wedding of Quito’s most elite.
As far as I know, my friends in no way include traditional customs or even express any affinity to indigenous customs or their rights in any other part of their life. It was simply a show and now that I know that indigenous are only allowed in the church as performers, I’m left deeply disturbed. They are not allowed to participate as members of the church community as fellow worshipers, but only as objects of entertainment for the rich. And surely the wealthy must feel good about themselves, paying homage to the traditional “Indian” part of their culture. It disturbed me greatly, although no one can help where they are from. I don’t judge my friends who got married, it just shocked my anthropological system like a zap of electricity. I feel even more disturbed knowing that these performers at the wedding are prohibited from entering the church during any other time.
I’m not sure if the segregation of churches has ever existed as a written law in Ecuador. Today it continues to exist as an unspoken social contract. It shouldn’t shock me that indigenous are not allowed into La Compañia, since rampant segregation still exists in every other realm of society. Despite the majority indigenous group, CONAIE’s powerful uprising of the early 1990s, which served as a model for other indigenous groups around Latin America (especially for Bolivia’s uprising a decade later), they still remain on the outskirts of society in many ways. Although powerful political leaders exist in Congress, the majority of indigenous persons still live in abject poverty, especially those who remain in rural villages. In these communities the rates of domestic violence and alcoholism are higher than the national average, as well as the level of basic education.
Obviously this unspoken contract that “indigenous” people are not allowed into La Compañia becomes extremely complicated when no one really knows who is “indigenous” in the first place. When surveys are taken, apparently anywhere between 25%-45% of the population identify as indigenous. These surveys mark individuals who self-identify as indigenous, but in reality, the vast majority of Ecuadorians are a diverse racial mix—most of whom have carried some indigenous blood for centuries. That makes this rule of forbidden entry into the church very complicated. Ecuadorians have a vast range of physical features; some of my friends here, all of the upper class, are completely white, European, while many of the prostitutes with whom I work are Afro-Ecuadorian. The majority of the population is mestizo, a mix of indigenous features and countless other things. Some of my friends “look” very “indigenous” even though their families have lived in Quito for generations. I wonder if they ever get questioned while entering certain churches. It seems like it’s the individuals who continue to wear traditional clothing representative of various indigenous communities who would be targeted for exclusion from La Compañia. Without a doubt, these individuals are indigenous, even though I have friends who if they also wore traditional clothing, would be “mistaken” for being part of an indigenous community. And quite frankly, my friends would be appalled to be mistaken for an “indigenous” person. Without a doubt, race is incredibly complicated to identify/define here.
I had the most fascinating experience last spring when I attended a fancy wedding at La Compañia. It was an exciting opportunity to attend a very Catholic wedding, (high mass), in an extremely traditional church that has existed for centuries. I felt as if I had fallen back in time and enjoyed observing all the Quiteños around me, and listened with astonishment all that the priest said (I’m not Catholic, and it was the first time I had attended a high mass of this type). But I was absolutely floored when during one section of the wedding a series of indigenous persons came down the aisle as part of the ceremony, offering different gifts to the bride and groom as good luck. They offered tokens from “their” culture, like a chicken, special candles, other animals and symbolic objects. Then several communities did traditional “Indian” dances down the aisle. It struck me as so bizarre to suddenly praise and to include the customs of these rejected indigenous communities into a wedding of Quito’s most elite.
As far as I know, my friends in no way include traditional customs or even express any affinity to indigenous customs or their rights in any other part of their life. It was simply a show and now that I know that indigenous are only allowed in the church as performers, I’m left deeply disturbed. They are not allowed to participate as members of the church community as fellow worshipers, but only as objects of entertainment for the rich. And surely the wealthy must feel good about themselves, paying homage to the traditional “Indian” part of their culture. It disturbed me greatly, although no one can help where they are from. I don’t judge my friends who got married, it just shocked my anthropological system like a zap of electricity. I feel even more disturbed knowing that these performers at the wedding are prohibited from entering the church during any other time.
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