Copyright by Jessica L. Peña Torres 2020

Jessica L. Peña Torres 2020 The Thesis Committee for Jessica L. Peña Torres Certifies that this is the approved version of the following Thesis:

México (expropriated): Appropriation, Representation and Re- Choreography of Ballet Folklórico

APPROVED BY SUPERVISING COMMITTEE:

Rebecca Rossen, Supervisor

Paul Bonin-Rodríguez

Héctor Domínguez Ruvalcaba México (expropriated): Appropriation, Representation and Re- Choreography of Ballet Folklórico

Jessica L. Peña Torres

Thesis Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School of The University of Texas at Austin in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Master of Arts

The University of Texas at Austin May 2020 Dedication

Esta tesis está dedicada a mis padres, Ricardo y Yamani Peña, por darme el mejor ejemplo y la certidumbre de que soy una campeona; a mis hermanos Ricardo y Karla, por siempre apoyarme y creer en mí. Y a mi futuro esposo, Alan Márquez Dueñas por sostenerme y dejarme volar alto. Los amo. Acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to my colleagues and faculty in the Performance as Public Practice Program of the Department of Theatre and Dance at the University of Texas at Austin. In addition, I would like to thank my thesis committee members: Dr. Paul Bonin- Rodriguez and Dr. Héctor Domínguez Ruvalcaba. I would especially like to thank my thesis advisor, Dr. Rebecca Rossen, for her unsurmountable support throughout the duration of the program –it has been a true honor to have had your advice in this overwhelmingly growing process. I am also grateful to the officers of the Latinx Theatre Initiative at UT Austin for granting me the space and trust to develop this work (Juan, Natasha, Sam, Ryan, Manuela and Savannah), and to the LTI advisors: Clarissa Smith-Hernández, Robert Ramírez, and Roxanne Schroeder-Arce for their unconditional guidance. In addition, I would like to thank Dr. Eric Wiley for inspiring me to conduct research and to combine the fields of theatre and dance in performance. I would also like to thank the ensemble members of México (expropriated) for their incredible work in this project: Marina DeYoe Pedraza, Erica Priscilla Saucedo, Venese Alcantar, David Cruz, Anna Joaquin, Jesus Valles, Aly Redland, and Sara García. También quisiera agradecer a mis padres Ricardo y Yamani Peña por todo su apoyo moral y a mis hermanos Karla y Ricardo Peña Torres por su cariño. A mis amigas Sara Castillo y Talía Lanz, AnaB Medina y a mi prometido y futuro esposo Alan Márquez Dueñas por nunca dudar que terminaría este gran proyecto con éxito.

v Abstract

México (expropriated): Appropriation, Representation and Re- Choreography of Ballet Folklórico

Jessica L. Peña Torres, M.A. The University of Texas at Austin, 2020

Supervisor: Rebecca Rossen

This thesis explores the ballet folklórico dance form as established by choreographer Amalia Hernández in the second half of the 20th century through her company, Ballet Folklórico de Mexico. Through archival and historical research, performance analysis, and Performance as Research, I examine the appropriation, exoticization, and representation of lo mexicano as rendered by Ballet Folklórico de México through an examination of three of their most representative cuadros: Fiesta en Jalisco, Fiesta en Veracruz, and “Danza del Venado.” I argue that in addition to helping forward the nationalistic project of the post- revolutionary period, Ballet Folklórico de México reinforced hegemonic notions of mexicanidad through the development of characters such as el charro, la china poblana, los jarochos, el negrito y la mulata, and el venado. Sixty years after the company’s foundation, Ballet Folklórico de México continues to paint the same romanticized, nationalistic, and static image of Mexico that Hernández staged in the 1950s.

vi Table of Contents

Introduction ...... 1

Description and Significance ...... 3

Literature Review ...... 5

Mexican Dance Studies ...... 5

Dance Studies ...... 7

Mexican Studies ...... 8

Performance Studies ...... 9

Methodology ...... 12

Chapter Breakdown ...... 14

Chapter 1: Ballet Folklórico de México and the Formation of “lo mexicano.” ...... 14

Chapter 2: La China y el Charro: Gender Representation in Ballet Folklórico ...... 15

Chapter 3: El son jarocho: Racism, Stereotypes, and Exoticism in Ballet Folklórico...... 15

Chapter 4: Faulty Ethnography: Appropriation in Ballet Folklórico ...... 16

Chapter 5: México (expropriated)...... 16

Chapter 1: Ballet Folklórico de México and the Formation of lo mexicano ...... 17

Mexico After the Revolution: Indigenismo and Mestizaje ...... 19

Amalia Hernández ...... 26

The Origins of Ballet Folklórico de México ...... 29

Criticism and Support for the BFM ...... 35

BFM’s Appeal to Domestic Audiences ...... 43

Conclusion ...... 45 vii Chapter 2: La China y el Charro: Gender Representation in Ballet Folklórico ...... 47

The Origins of “Jarabe Tapatío” ...... 48

La China Poblana as the Idealized Mexican Woman ...... 50

The Charro as the Embodiment of the Macho Mexicano ...... 52

La Canción Ranchera, Mariachi, and the Ranchera Films ...... 54

Ballet Folklórico de México’s Fiesta en Jalisco ...... 60

Conclusion ...... 65

Chapter 3: El son jarocho: Racism, Stereotypes, and Exoticism in Ballet Folklórico ...... 66

The History of Colonization in Veracruz ...... 67

The South of Veracruz: Birthplace of the Son Jarocho ...... 70

El Carnaval de Veracruz ...... 74

Fiesta en Veracruz: Hernández Version of the Sotavento ...... 75

Conclusion ...... 84

Chapter 4: Violence of Appropriation: “Danza del Venado” ...... 87

Essence and Authenticity ...... 88

Hernández’s Ethnography Methods ...... 91

From the Pueblos’ Folk Dances to Ballet Folklórico ...... 96

Danza del Venado: Traditional v. Hernández’s Adaptation...... 98

The Violence of Cultural Appropriation ...... 103

Conclusion ...... 108

Chapter 5: Practice as Research–México (Expropriated) ...... 110

Authoethnography ...... 114

First viñeta: Aztec dance ...... 118

viii Second viñeta: Burlesque dance ...... 124

Burlesque: a Medium of Transformation and Female Agency ...... 125

Third Viñeta: Jalisco ...... 131

Fourth viñeta: Norte. “La Danza del Venado” ...... 136

Fifth viñeta: Veracruz ...... 141

Conclusion ...... 144

Works Cited ...... 147 Vita...... 155.

Introduction

I saw the Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández live onstage for the first time at the Strathmore Theatre in North Bethesda, MD in 2015. I was 24 and had only studied ballet folklórico for three years. Even though it was a reach, I dreamed about dancing for Hernández’s company. That night in Bethesda, I became enamorada of the colors, the technique, and the professionalism of the most famous dance company in

Mexico. The female dancers, all tall, very thin, and, significantly, light-skinned, looked like Barbie dolls to me. For days, I daydreamed of their high battements in Guerrero, the lightness of their faldeo in Jalisco, and their pas de vals in Revolución.

A few months later, I moved to Mexico City to audition for the company, but a quick visit to their website shattered my hopes in seconds. The section “Auditions” listed under “requirements”: “Estatura minima: mujeres 1.68 m” (Minimum height: women

5’5’’). I was four inches too short. I thought about the dancers I had seen perform and could not help but compare my short height to their statuesque, pale bodies.

A month or so later, I was dancing with the Ballet Folclórico Nacional de México de Silvia Lozano, a forty-year-old-company founded by a former dancer of Hernández’s,

Maestra Silvia Lozano. In rehearsals, it did not take long for me to start hearing chisme about what it was like to work for other major folklórico companies in the city. I heard rumors that teachers and administrators in Hernández’s company bullied dancers if they had darker skin or were “overweight.” More interesting, however, was criticism about how Hernández’s works were not “authentic” or “traditional,” but, rather, highly stylized.

All of this chisme reminded me of the dances I had witnessed in Bethesda. The cuadros were very beautifully executed, yes, but the technique, including the port de bras, the battements, the forward-carrying of the upper body, the lightness of the feet, the emphasis on turnout, and the precision of the turns, resembled that of classical ballet companies. The press deemed Hernández “La Emperatriz del Tesoro Mexicano del

Folklor” (the Empress of the Mexican Treasure of Folklore) who brought to the world stage the “incomparable culture of Mexico”? (“Amalia Hernández y el Ballet Folklórico de México”). How did Hernández’s use of Western, classical dance factor into these achievements?

The look of the dancers and the audition requirements also raised questions about whether or not the average Mexican woman, who is likely less than 5’5” with a range of skin colors, would be the right height and color to represent the “incomparable culture of

Mexico.” What was the company trying to accomplish by featuring these bodies onstage?

With more than “100 national tours, visiting a total of 60 countries and more than 300 cities” (“Auditions”), Hernández’s company has an incredibly large reach and thus, an indisputable influence on how Mexican and international audiences envision Mexico.

Additionally, the company may be the only exposure that a lot of people, including

Mexicans, will have to “Mexican traditional dance.”

How does Hernandez’s company sell the image of Mexico to the rest of the world? How does this legacy shape Mexican understandings of what it means to be

Mexican? How and why does she infuse folkloric dances with ballet technique? If her dances are not particularly “authentic,” then what claims to indigeneity, if any, does she

have? And how did she acquire the indigenous dance material she has adapted to the stage?

In this thesis, I explore the ballet folklórico dance form in imagining lo mexicano by focusing on Ballet Folklórico de México, Mexico’s leading and most influential company. I argue that BFM has helped the state and the social elite shape an exoticized

Mexico for the consumption of foreigners and tourists, and has, within Mexico, offered a problematic embodiment of mexicanidad that reflects racial, nationalistic, class, and gender biases. In addition, I consider Hernández flawed ethnographic methodology which included appropriating and stylizing folk dances through the infusion of ballet and modern dance techniques. The company presents these dances as “authentic” to its paying audiences, and does not offer any reciprocity, support, or acknowledgment to the communities from which Hernández “borrowed” these dances. In addition, her legacy has and continues to permeate many dance companies who imitate BFM’s dances, inadvertently reproducing a colonialist model of exoticization and cultural theft.

DESCRIPTION AND SIGNIFICANCE This thesis looks at ballet folklórico as a concert dance form that is rooted in cultural appropriation and adaptation to serve the state and social elite. In addition, I consider how folklórico’s representation of “Mexican” identity reinforces racist and heterosexist ideals. My broader aim is to assess how discourses of what it means to be

Mexican has permeated Mexico’s collective consciousness and has been embodied and performed through ballet folklórico’s practices and performances. More specifically, I assess Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández’s history and repertory, the

company’s promotion of post-revolutionary ideas about the nation and mestizaje, and

Hernández’s colonialist, ethnographic practice of “borrowing” indigenous dances from communities such as the Yaqui. I explore these themes by analyzing three critical dance pieces: “Danza del Venado,” Fiesta en Jalisco, and Fiesta en Veracruz, which have been staples in the company’s repertory since its foundation.

I conclude by describing an autoethnographic performance project in which I engage with my own identity and relationship to an unethical practice that has permanently marked my body. Some of the guiding questions for this project included:

“What do I do with the years of training?” “What should I keep and what should I unlearn from ballet folklórico?” “How can I advocate for more ethical ways of preserving cultural traditions through my artistic practice?”

In regard to ballet folklórico, specifically, it seems ironic that pieces such as

Fiesta en Jalisco depict an idyllic world in which gallant men court gracious women, when the crude reality in Mexico reveals that these hegemonic images are indeed complicit in the unsurmountable violence towards women and queer people. While companies like Hernandez’s aim to “preserve” the cultural traditions of Mexico, they do not utilize their platform to address the reality of what it actually means to be Mexican.

Instead, they continue to paint a romanticized, exoticized, and static version of Mexico that does not and has never existed, while taking advantage of indigenous populations and their cultural traditions.

There is little scholarship that offers new ways to think about ballet folklórico.

Thus, there is a distinct need for this project. Although there are archival materials about

the Ballet Folklórico de México’s history and some critical writing about the company’s foundation and repertory, not much has been written about the ethics of Hernández’s practice for acquiring dances from indigenous communities. There is also a need for more scholarship on ballet folklórico and its relationship to nationalism, identity construction, appropriation, and racism and classism, particularly from a dance studies perspective.

Few Mexican studies scholars include dance in their discussions of lo mexicano; and those that do, like Sydney Hutchinson (2009), does so as an ethnomusicologist and not a dance scholar. My thesis aims to address this gap by merging fields of inquiry and drawing upon my unique expertise as a former professional ballet folklórico dancer with experience performing in big and small dance companies both in Mexico and in the

United States.

LITERATURE REVIEW This thesis is set at the intersection of performance studies, dance studies, gender studies and Mexican studies, and draws theories and methods from a variety of fields.

Mexican Dance Studies Most of the literature in Mexican dance history include works focused on the development of modern dance in Mexico, such as Alberto Dallal’s La Danza en México

(1986), or monographs on folk dances from diverse regions. There is little scholarship published that discusses ballet folklórico in the post-revolutionary period. However, there are several shorter studies that I build upon in this thesis. For example, in "The Ballet

Folklórico de México and the Construction of the Mexican Nation through Dance”

(2009), Hutchinson argues that through cultural manifestations that bridged both the

Spanish and the Indigenous nature of the mestizo, artists forged a Mexican identity that served two purposes: to unify the country in a time of uncertainty and to re-establish order to foster a climate of tourism. She features Hernández in her consideration of how the concepts of indigenismo and mestizaje factored in to BFM’s repertory. Similarly, in

“The Jarabe Tapatío: Imagining Race, Nation, Class and Gender in 1920s Mexico”

(2016) Gabriela Mendoza-García argues that codifying dances like “Jarabe Tapatío,” or the Mexican Hat Dance, helped support Mexican homogenous ideas of the nation in the early 20th century. Moreover, she suggests that the teaching of the jarabe, propelled by the Secretaría de Educación Publica, was a multi-faceted process in which school- teachers, peasants, indigenous, and other people from the lower classes negotiated the collection, transmission, and performance of folklórico dances.

While Hutchinson and Mendoza-Garcia focus on Mexican dance and nationalism,

Lawrence Alan Trujillo’s The Spanish Influence on the Mestizo Folk Dance of Yucatán,

Veracruz, and Jalisco, Mexico (1974) and Anita Gonzalez’s Performing Mestizaje:

Official Culture and Identity in Veracruz, Mexico (1997) consider the connections between dance, Mexican identity, and colonialism. Of particular interest to me is

Trujillo’s discussion of the Spanish influence in regional dances of Yucatán, Jalisco, and

Veracruz, and how gender functions in danced characterizations of el charro and la china poblana. Gonzalez’s work provides detailed discussion of how dance artists including

Hernández traveled to the provinces to gather songs and dances from Totonac, Zapotec and the jarocho tradition to bring them to Mexico City (113).

This thesis seeks to build on these writers’ contributions by broadening and deepening the kinesthetic and materialist analysis of this work by analyzing rehearsal practices, costumes and choreographic choices, and the felt experience of what it means to embody the character of the nation as intended by the founders of the form.

Dance Studies Ballet Folklórico utilizes folk dances of diverse communities in Mexico as inspiration for movement, form, and themes. However, choreographers of the form infuse it with ballet and modern dance technique to make it appealing and “professional” for

Western audiences. I employ a dance studies approach to analyze the body, choreography, and the use of the folk traditions in stagings of Mexican national identity.

In Choreographing Difference: The Body and Identity in Contemporary Dance

(1997), Ann Cooper Albright argues that descriptive movement analysis of dance works is a way to “evoke the experience of watching a dance by luxuriating for a moment in a more lyrical and descriptive style of writing” (xvi). Following Albright’s descriptive and analytical practices, I dedicate a section in each chapter to thoroughly describe and analyze the cuadros of the canon I am investigating. I am also interested in Albright’s discussion of the multifaceted relationship between body and identity. For instance,

Albright argues that “Because dance comprises the daily technical training of the dancer’s body as well as the final choreographic production, dance can help us trace the complex negotiations between somatic experience and cultural representation” (xiv).

Albright’s framework helps me consider the complex ways in which the folklórico repertory and technique reinforced ideas of a homogenous nation.

Like Albright, Rebecca Rossen writes about “how cultural identity, nationality, ethnicity, race, and gender are formed and performed through the body in its motions”

(5). In Dancing Jewish (2014), she explores how American Jewish choreographers indeed “dance Jewish.” I am particularly interested in her writing on early-century Jewish modern dancers who, when staging Jewishness, performed a kind of self-exoticization that created distance between “modern” dancers and “modern” Jews and more “ethnic” or

“traditional” Jews. As a dance form that embodies the nation, ballet folklórico likewise took on identity markers of the “domestic exotic” that created distance between rural folks and the urban elites. In addition, I am interested in Rossen’s investigation of how gender and ethnicity are intertwined in representations of Jewish identity. For Rossen,

“Jewish dancers and choreographers have not only struggled with the ethnic, national, and racial histories that have been inscribed on their bodies, but also with their gendered histories” (5). To create hegemonic notions of mexicanidad, Hernández created cuadros that established a distinct gender binary and reinforced heteronormativity as essentially

Mexican.

Mexican Studies Because ballet folklórico is rooted in Mexican history, specifically the post- revolutionary period, I drawn upon diverse scholars who focus on the nation-building project that ensued after the armed conflict ended in 1920. This period brought about the modernization of the country, where the exoticization of indigenous peoples became a vehicle for attracting tourists to Mexico and the establishment of characters such as el charro and la china poblana created a gender binary rooted in machismo.

In “La Moda Mexicana: Exotic Women,” (2008) Joanne Hershfield explores the concept of mexicanidad, the state’s attempt to construct a national identity at the beginning of the 20th century. Exploiting the richness of indigenous cultures, she argues that intellectuals and politicians forged an “authentic” image of Mexico, the “domestic exotic,” rooted in stereotypes of indigenous communities, which the nation then used for capitalist consumption—a strategy I see at play in BFM’s work. Like Hershfield, Hector

Domínguez Ruvalcaba (2008) considers how images in media contributed to shaping nationalism in post-revolutionary Mexico, but with a particular focus on representations of machismo in literature, cinema and the visual arts. Similarly, Olga Nájera Ramírez has considered how the Mexican charro came to represent masculine traits favored by the proponents of lo mexicano. As such, the charro often appeared “pursuing and ultimately capturing the woman” he partnered in the dance (1994 7). Given Hernández’s Fiesta en

Jalisco depicts the charro as a virile man who courts and protects the feminine, helpless ranchera, both Ramírez’s and Ruvalcaba’s investigations support my inquiries into the role of gender plays in ballet foklórico’s nationalism.

Performance Studies In order to examine the repertory of BFM, I utilize theories and methods from performance studies, specifically performance ethnography and autoethnography, the concept of disidentification, and Practice as Research.

Given my consideration of ethnographic and auto-ethnographic practices in ballet folklórico, I engage with the scholarship of Dwight Conquergood. In “Performing as a

Moral Act: Ethical Dimensions of the Ethnography of Performance,” (1985)

Conquergood speaks about a “dialogical performance,” a genuine conversation between the ethnographer and the cultural performers. Hernández’s ethnographical practices, in fact, were anything but dialogical. One of the categories that Conquergood identifies— the “rip-off”– relates strongly to Hernández’s methods for taking indigenous dances and transforming them for the stage, without establishing reciprocity. Conquergood’s framework has helped me contextualize Hernández’s process for gathering material from the communities she visited and argue that her practices are rooted in colonialism and appropriation.

I also draw upon the work of several scholars working at the intersection of

Latinx and performance studies to help inform my approach to developing ideas about identity in performance, specifically my own. José Esteban Muñoz (1999) defines disidentification as “the survival strategies the minority subject practices in order to negotiate a phobic majoritarian public sphere that continuously elides or punishes the existence of subjects who do not conform to the phantasm of normative citizenship” (4).

Although his concept is rooted in queer people of color’s navigation through a heteronormative, white supremacist society, I thought a great deal about how disidentifying from folklórico might help me assess, critique, and re-perform my position in this tradition. By following Muñoz’s concept, I have been able to critically and creatively evaluate the politics of my mestizo body in performance. One mode of undermining norms through performance is cabaret. Thus, I have also been influenced by

Laura Gutiérrez’s discussion of Mexican performance artist Astrid Hadad. In Performing

Mexicanidad (2010), Gutierrez explains how Hadad uses queer cabaret, satire, and

10 parody to play with tropes of lo mexicano. Hadad’s work inspired me to create an original performance piece, discussed in the final chapter, that critically intervenes in Mexican cultural and national discourses to roast and reclaim iconic images of mexicanidad.

Lastly, in order to fully realize a performance component of my thesis, I have drawn from the work of artist/scholars who utilize embodied scholarship, or a Practice as

Research (PaR) method. Scholars such as Robin Nelson (2013) and Vida Midgelow

(2018) assert that practice is a key method of inquiry when undertaking performance research. In this multi-mode practice, Nelson argues that doing becomes the knowing.

Similarly, Midgelow notes that the PaR approach allows artists to “re-think the making and shaping of choreography as a (re)generative process,” in order to place “emphasis upon processes of making rather than the consuming of choreographic objects" (32). In other words, the developing of choreography is just as significant as the finished product.

PaR also asserts that art—creative writing, dance, performance, etc—can serve both as evidence in and the product of a research inquiry.

In Dancing Jewish, Rossen achieves this two-part goal—performance as evidence and research—through her exploration of what she terms “embodied scholarship.” By using her performance training, Rossen is able to use her body to fill in gaps in the archive and in turn, give body to historical figures. For Rossen, embodied scholarship demands that the choreographer invent and implement theories and practices that move with archival research and historical writing. Like Rossen, Sherril Dodds uses embodied scholarship and practice-as-research in her article “The Brutal Encounters of a Novice b- girl” (2018). Throughout, Dodds speaks about her attempt to speak from her body rather

than about her body. In addition, Dodds uses performative writing crafted in the style of a diary to narrate the process through which she entered the dance form of b-girling both methodically and corporeally.

Following Rossen, I investigate what it means to “dance Mexican” by choreographically engaging with complex definitions of lo mexicano, and draw upon

Dodd’s narrative writing style to account for my own PaR in the creation of an original performance piece and its complimentary writing.

METHODOLOGY Because I am investigating ballet folklórico through an engagement with Mexican studies, dance studies, and performance ethnography, I utilize diverse research methods that fit each of these approaches and disciplines. Thus, my methodology includes archival and historical research, oral history, performance analysis, embodied scholarship, and

Practice as Research methods. My education in the Performance Studies field supports my discussion of the dances’ historical context, as well as the analysis of the choreography and performance.

First, I study the history of the foundation and development of the Ballet

Folklórico de México through archival research. This has included accessing photographs, biographies, programs, and videos from the Benson Library in UT Austin. I have also evaluated Hernández’s oral accounts and writing from dance critics within and outside of Mexico.

Because ballet folklórico technique and repertory is passed down generationally from maestro to student, the thesis utilizes oral histories from former members of BFM. I

conducted interviews with Professor Isaías Ángel Mariano, an instructor at the Escuela

Nacional de Danza Folklórica in Mexico City, an experienced folk dance ethnographer and a former member of the Ballet Folklórico de México during his training years. In addition, I spoke with Maestra Silvia Lozano, a former BFM dancer who started her own company after disagreeing with some of Hernández’s practices of appropriation and stage adaptation. My analysis of BFM’s approach also draws on my own experience dancing for Lozano, learning folklórico repertory, and performing on diverse stages across

Mexico and the United States.

In addition, I provide detailed performance description and analysis of the most well-known dances of the ballet folklórico repertory through BFM’s videos, which are widely available on the internet, as well as live performances that I attended when residing in Mexico City (2015-2018). One major source for this thesis is the documentary

Amalia Hernández y el Ballet Folklórico de México - Entrevista y Documental de 1992, which, in addition to looking at Hernández's most famous cuadros through video recordings, reveal some of Hernandez’s ethnographic practices.

As an artist, I constantly think about how the performing arts can be a vehicle to achieve visible, effective change. In a country such as Mexico, where the class, race, and color of one’s body determines opportunities that are afforded in life, I cannot ignore my position as a fair-skinned, middle-class woman who is about to receive a master’s degree.

While I acknowledge my privilege, I also recognize that I have a responsibility to act in favor of social justice. Because I belong to the class that has appropriated indigenous materials through my professional work as a folklórico dancer, I seek through my

scholarly and artistic work to address these power dynamics. Even though I recognize that my embodied archive has been majorly constructed through frameworks, characters, and structures of the folklórico tradition, embodied scholarship and PaR methods have helped me develop creative, corporeal ways to explore these conflicts and translate them into the body.

Through these multiple approaches– archival research, interviews, performance analysis, embodied scholarship and PaR, I complicate the following questions: what are these oral histories, performance analysis, and archival research telling me about the complex Mexican identity that is reflected through dance? Is it possible to reinvent the ballet folklórico dance form to reflect its colonial history? How can I get out of the theoretical and move into my body, so that I can perhaps create new ways of conveying my historical past and, possible, to “right” some of the unethical practices carried by past folklórico practitioners.

CHAPTER BREAKDOWN

Chapter 1: Ballet Folklórico de México and the Formation of “lo mexicano.” In the first chapter, I discuss the world-renowned Ballet Folklórico de México, its foundation and development by Amalia Hernández. Hernández, born into the cultural elite of Mexico City, certainly contributed to popular understandings of lo mexicano through the foundation of the Ballet Folklórico de México (BFM) in 1952 and throughout the company’s subsequent development and expansion. I analyze the company’s use of exoticization as a tool for creating a national identity, one deeply rooted in the ideas of nationalism pushed in post-revolutionary Mexico. Focusing on “Documental Ballet

Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández” (2002), and a 2016 performance of the company in Guanajuato, among other sources, I argue that Hernández’s representation of lo mexicano served the fervent nationalism movement that ensued in post-revolutionary

Mexico.

Chapter 2: La China y el Charro: Gender Representation in Ballet Folklórico In this chapter, I argue that Hernández’s performance of characters such as el charro and la china poblana helped her construct a national identity based on a gender binary that demarcated suitable behavior for Mexican men and women. This representation, moreover, further incorporated heterosexist and machismo ideology into the social imaginary of what it means to be Mexican.

Chapter 3: El son jarocho: Racism, Stereotypes, and Exoticism in Ballet Folklórico. When visiting the provinces of Mexico, such as Veracruz, Hernández actively searched for folk dances and represented them through her stylized adaptations. This section explores the history of the region of the Sotavento from the dates of the Spanish colonization to the development of the famous Carnaval de Veracruz. Through an analysis of the BFM’s famous piece, Fiesta en Veracruz, I argue that Hernández not only stylizes the son jarocho through ballet and modern dance aesthetics but also perpetuates racist images of Afro-Mexicanos through two of the piece’s minstrel characters: el negrito and la mulata.

Chapter 4: Faulty Ethnography: Appropriation in Ballet Folklórico

Since one of the most iconic examples of Hernández’s faulty ethnographic work is evident in the piece “Danza del Venado,” which features the hunting of a deer by two Yaqui hunters. I analyze and compare this piece to a traditional danza from the

Yaqui community. In addition, I apply Conquergood’s principles for ethnography to

Hernández’s choreographic practices as evidenced in the documentaries named above. As an artist influenced by the ideology of indigenismo, Hernández exoticized the Yaqui people through her stylized version of the ceremonial dance. I utilize Kristie Dotson’s

(2011) theory of testimonial oppression and Erich Hatala Matthes’s (2019) theory of cultural appropriation as epistemic violence to argue that by “borrowing” cultural artifacts from the Yaquis, the BFM continues to oppress an already marginalized group.

Chapter 5: México (expropriated). The final chapter discusses my auto-ethnographic process for creating México

(expropriated), a cabaret-style performance, which I developed throughout the 2019-

2020 academic year with an ensemble of Mexican and Latinx performers. México

(expropriated) uses neo-burlesque dancing and devised scenes in order to complicate questions that deal with my mestizo identity and the repercussions of perpetuating hegemonic notions of the nation through folklórico. The work also revisits the canonical folklórico pieces discussed in the thesis. In this chapter, I write from my disidentified folklórico female dancer body about representation and subversion of hegemonic and stereotypical gender roles in Mexican folk dance and address the violence of appropriation in folklórico’s stylized interpretations.

Chapter 1: Ballet Folklórico de México and the Formation of lo mexicano

In a 2019 interview, Maestra Silvia Lozano, director and founder of the Ballet

Folclórico Nacional de México Aztlán de Silvia Lozano and former principal dancer with

Amalia Hernández, recounted for me some memories from her time dancing for the

Ballet Folklórico de México (1955-1960). For example, she recalled that President

Adolfo López Mateos (1958-1964) once attended a performance of the Moiseyev Dance

Company, a world-famous Russian folk dance group. According to Lozano, the President thought it was incredible that Russia had such impressive performing folk arts, given that

Mexico had an important and even richer folk tradition. Secretary of Education Jaime

Torres Bodet was also at this performance; his response was to ask Celestino Gorostiza, director of the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes (INBA) (1952-1958), to find a Mexican folk dance company that could represent Mexico and perform regularly at the Palacio de

Bellas Artes in Mexico City for visitors and tourists.

The company that received this golden opportunity was Ballet Folklórico de

México de Amalia Hernández (BFM), and since that first performance in October 1959, it has become the most influential dance company in Mexico. Through its extensive repertory, BFM offers a vision of Mexico that seeks to highlight the country’s cultural richness. According to the company’s website, Hernández’s “more than eighty choreographies inspired by the different regions of the country,” created a vast repertory of dances that to this day, are still performed in stages all over the world. The beautiful movement of the skirts (or faldeo), the crisp footwork (or zapateado), and the uprightness of the upper bodies, as displayed on their website, in videos shared on the internet, and in

their live shows, portray a Mexico that is strong and elegant. The variety of rhythms, movement, sounds, colors, and costumes offered creates a mosaic that suggests a diverse yet unified Mexican culture. Without a doubt, artistic director Hernández aimed to present a spectacular image of Mexico through her choreographic work. Although the company has been immensely successful at becoming a cultural ambassador for Mexico by touring internationally, there is much to be said about their exoticization of indigenous people, perpetuation of racist and stereotypical tropes, and presentation of a heteronormative and “state-approved” vision of Mexico’s past and present.

Born into the cultural elite of Mexico City, Amalia Hernández contributed to popular understandings of lo mexicano through her foundation of the Ballet Folklórico de

México (BFM), which she established in 1952, and throughout the company’s subsequent development and expansion. Although critics and folk dance directors have criticized the company for its stylization of folk dances, there is not much scholarship that explores how Hernández’s company and aesthetic contributed to the insurgent nationalist project in the mid-twentieth century and beyond.

In this chapter, I argue that Hernandez played a significant role in forwarding

Mexico's post-revolutionary nationalist agenda by embodying mestizaje through her choreographic work and constructing a ballet folklórico "tradition" that to this day, offers its audience an idealized and static portrayal of a diverse, yet unified, Mexico. First, I explore how the historical, political, and social context of the first half of the 20th century affected Hernández’s vision of an exotic Mexico. Indeed, post-revolutionary Mexican nationalism drew on images of indigenous peoples to represent the problematic

stereotype of the “domestic exotic” while supporting a mestizaje ideology as the future of the Mexican race, which would enter the social imaginary as mexicanidad. Next, I delve into audiovisual sources such as Documental Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia

Hernández, a 2002 documentary about the company that includes filmed performances and interviews, to explore how Hernández’s representation of lo mexicano came to embody the fervent nationalism movement that ensued in post-revolutionary Mexico .

MEXICO AFTER THE REVOLUTION: INDIGENISMO AND MESTIZAJE Ballet Folklórico, as a new concert dance form, came into being at a critical moment in Mexican history. After the armed phase of the revolution ended in the 1920s, tourism declined drastically since outsiders considered the country to be “violent and dangerous” (Hershfield 130). Politicians, intellectuals, artists, and anthropologists worked to create a vision of the nation to appeal to both domestic and international audiences.

This nationalist ideology was part of a planned movement to define the country’s character and unify its divided factions by forging a united nation under the umbrella of lo mexicano. In fact, this is what anthropologist and politician Manuel Gamio argued in his 1916 book, Forjando Patria. Known as the “father of Mexican anthropology,” Gamio believed that in order to create a national identity, Mexico needed to incorporate symbols, icons, and discourses that evoked a sense of the past, in order to generate a sense of belonging in the present, and in the hopes of constructing a prosperous future (Hellier-

Tinoco 56).

The symbol of the “Indian” was one of the icons that the government identified to play this important role. As Eduardo Mijagos Días and Alexandra López Torres suggest,

the integrationist project aimed to conceptualize the “Indian as the most authentic root of the Mexican identity and specificity” (18). Headed by the federal government, the project utilized myriad outlets to forge the idea of lo mexicano; thus the trope of the “Indian” factored heavily in “education, art, radio, rhetoric, the press, mass mobilization, sport, social reform, and party organization” during the 1920s and 1930s (Hellier-Tinoco 57).

This image of the “Indian,” however, was crafted and propagated through a problematic process of exoticization.

As defined by Isabel Santaolalla, exoticism is a commodity in which “an agency appropriates a ‘colonized,’ domesticated version of an Other to meet its own needs” (qtd. in Hershfield 130). In addition, as Joanne Hershfield explains in Imagining la Chica

Moderna: Women, Nation, and Visual Culture in Mexico (2008), the term “exotic” is used to “mark places, peoples, and ideas that are unknown, forbidden, abnormal, pathological, or excluded,” and can also refer to “body type, facial characteristics, pose, and costume” that might appear “alien, unusual, wondrous or malevolent” (133-135). 19th century, Euro-American images of Mexican “popular types” reproduced in art and literature directly influenced by the ruling class’s aestheticized representations of lower- class, indigenous groups in the 1920s and 1930s, which not only exoticized the bodies of indigenous people, but also failed to recognize differences among diverse indigenous groups.

This occurred in the emerging genre of folklórico as well. In “Social and Political

Dimensions of Folklorico Dance: The Binational Dialectic of Residual and Emergent

Culture,” (1989) Olga Nájera Ramírez writes that in creating a national identity, dance

artists incorporated regional folk practices into their highly technical and aestheticized new work. “Folk dance,” she states, “offered one means through which various ethnic groups could be superficially recognized and thus incorporated into the dominant

Mexican hegemonic order” (19). Even though Mexico City was the center of cultural activity and the place for modernity, the provinces provided historical and cultural source material to intellectuals and artists who were looking to create a national identity based on “authentic” images and traditions of indigenous communities.

Adapted from westernized conceptions of Mexico, Hershfield identifies a number of characters such as la china poblana, el charro or La Tehuana, who figured frequently in the music, literature, and art of the first half of the 20th century, and how such representations came to embody the nation as “domestic exotics” for national and international dissemination. The domestic exotic was a source of inspiration for indigenismo, an ideology that asserted that the roots of modern Mexican identity lied in its Indian culture.

Indigenismo, as described by J. Jesús María Serna Moreno (2001), is a “group of policies developed concerning indigenous people by national powers, constituted or not in nation state” (87). Influenced by indigenismo, artists began incorporating images of the

“domestic exotic” into their works. Diego Rivera and David Alfaro Siqueiros, for example, painted emblematic murals in places such as the National School of Agriculture at Chapingo near Texcoco (1925-1927), in the Cortes Palace in Cuernavaca (1920-1930), and the National Palace in Mexico City on commission by the national government

(1929-1935) (“Biography”). The muralists, inspired by the image of the “Indian” as

imagined by the cultural elites, portrayed indigenous men and women in relationship to colonization and the revolutionary movement (Hershfield 138).

However, because of their supposed lack of hygienic practices, alcoholism, illiteracy, and lack of adaptability, indigenous peoples presented an obstacle to the formation of modern Mexico, or what Gamio identified as the “Indian Problem” (Hellier-

Tinoco 60). The answer to indigenismo was Mestizaje, the mixing of Spanish and Indian cultures, which became prominent in the discourse of intellectuals as the perfect solution to the “Indian Problem.” Justo Sierra, prominent writer, historian, and journalist, proclaimed in the spirit of the reconciliation of 1910 that “we are the children of two nations, of two races [...] this fact dominates our whole history; to it we owe our soul”

(qtd. in Krauze 50). Similarly, philosopher and writer José Vasconcelos saw mestizaje as the future of Mexico. Since miscegenation had been a consequence of the Spanish conquest dating back to the 16th century, Vasconcelos claimed in his 1925 essay “La

Raza Cósmica” that the future of Mexico laid on a continuation of mestizaje, which would eventually lead to the whitening of the Indian through race mixing. Vasconcelos wrote “El indio, por medio del injerto en la raza afín, daría el salto de los millares de años que median de la Atlántida a nuestra época, y en unas cuantas décadas de eugenesia estética podría desaparecer el negro junto con los tipos que el libre instinto de hermosura vaya señalando como fundamentalmente recesivos e indignos, por lo mismo, de perpetuación.” (The Indian, by means of the graft in the related race, would make the leap of the thousands of years that mediated Atlantis to our time, and in a few decades of

aesthetic eugenics the black could disappear along with the types that free instinct of beauty indicates as fundamentally recessive and unworthy, therefore, of perpetuation.)

For Vasconcelos, mestizaje was the only path for indigenous populations to survive, and for the “Iberoamerican” to become “superior.” Embodied in Vasconcelos’ thesis was direct racism towards Indians, as they were to be “cleansed” and beautified through intermarriage (Hershfield 138). Although mestizaje was certainly a better alternative to the mass genocide of indigenous communities, which is how the United

States handled their “Indian problem,” this practice was still inherently discriminatory.

Unsurprisingly, revisionist scholars have pointed out the unethical implications of

Vasconcelos’ rhetoric and have placed mestizaje at the center of heated debates. Andreas

Kurz, for instance, writes that “El racismo de Vasconcelos es obvio, su lugar utópico se reserva a una élite mestiza: los negros y los asiáticos no tendrán acceso a él, serán eliminados por la ciencia del día, la eugenesia” (2011). (Vasconcelos' racism is obvious, his utopian connection is reserved for a mixed-race elite: blacks and Asians will not have access to it, they will be eliminated by the science of the day, eugenics).

The relationship between Mexico and the world changed in the post-war years, when the United States became an industrial and military superpower. The U.S., as the new world-leader, expected its allies to adopt strong democratic measures in opposition to the Soviet Union. Such conditions pushed the Mexican federal government to aim for a fast economic development and a stronger nation-state, hoping that these measures could finally unify the divided factions and give the country a stronger position to negotiate with the United States (Velázquez 937).

Throughout the following decades, especially during the 1950s, the impact of mass media actively shaped the social imaginary of lo mexicano. Carlos Monsiváis

(1978) describes that popular culture is in reality “the result of toil manipulations of the imperial project of the cultural industry” (98). In other words, even though popular culture is often understood as that which has been organically assimilated by the majority, it has actually been forced upon them by the dominant classes. These influences become a form cultural colonialism that end up marginalizing the expressions of an indigenous popular culture. Lo mexicano, argues Monsiváis, is not dependent on political action but on songs, radio, film, and revue theatre, which help audiences “feel” the nation

(112). As such, popular film figures such as María Félix and Pedro Infante and the characters they played became the cinematographical model for stereotypes of the nation.

Spectacles, including lucha libre, teletratros, and folk dances, drove the masses to fall in line, watch television, and “identify as Mexican” (Monsiváis 116).

Moreover, Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI), the ruling political party, shaped the political climate of the time under its authoritarian regime (Velázquez 951).

Under PRI rule, the state became the central point for the organization of a society of elites and big social disparities, which claimed its legitimacy in the continuity of the revolution, economical and institutional stability, and in the nationalist discourse of mestizaje (Velázquez 960). As such, the cultural institutions of Mexico served to mobilize popular support of institutions, myths, and social prejudice. In 1946, PRI

President Miguel Alemán founded Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes y Literatura

(INBAL) in Mexico City. With a mission to “stimulate, preserve, promote, and disperse

Mexican art and culture” INBAL proclaims itself to be the “house of the creators of

Mexico and a space that the Mexican people have chosen for encounter and dialogue”

(Inba.gob.mx). By establishing a centralized institution that administered the production and consumption of the arts, PRI reinforced class divisions while INBAL had the power to define what counted as art.

Following the exoticization trend of the 1930s, the elite adopted a Euro-American perspective and continued to utilize the image of the indigenous body in mass media programming and advertisement (Monsiváis 117). The inclusion of the “Indian” in the national politics of the country, however, evolved with Neoliberal multiculturalism from the ideology of indigenismo and mestizaje to what Charles Hale (2004) calls “Indio

Permitido.” As Hale writes, this concept of “authorized Indian” alludes to the ways in which the state uses “cultural rights to divide and domesticate indigenous movements”

(17). Although Mexico’s federal government could claim that the country is in fact living in an era of prolific multiculturalism, the policies that are supposedly addressing indigenous concerns are used to effectively empower a select few whiles continuing to oppress the rest –and the majority– of indigenous groups. Contrary to eliminating inequality, these multicultural policies reconstitute racialized hierarchies in an already classist and racist society. The term “indio,” moreover, reflects the imposed capitalistic structures within which indigenous communities still have to maneuver for political empowerment.

By the 1950s, the concepts of indigenismo and mestizaje still permeated the aesthetics of artists carving material out of the provinces. In dance, this translated to an

active search for folk traditions that could be stylized and performed to accommodate the expectations of European and North American standards of high art. Most of these artists, however, hailed from Mexico City, and relegated provincial artists as connoisseurs only of folk traditions. As Gonzalez-El Hilali describes, “Generally, Mexico City’s urban elite considered theatrical activity in provincial towns like Veracruz port and Jalapa to be marginal” (105). In other words, Mexico City carried authority as far as contemporary and “high-art,” whereas the provinces only had relevance in the folkloric arts. Non coincidentally, Hernández began her choreographic career in the early 1950s by making television programs that aired folk dances.

AMALIA HERNÁNDEZ Discourses of nationalism and mestizaje enabled ballet folklórico as a new genre to develop and thrive, and Amalia Hernández, as its leading voice, to situate Ballet

Folklórico de México as the chief dance company of the nation. While school teachers were collecting folk dances from different communities and teaching them in public schools by orders of the Secretaría de Educación Pública (SEP) in the Misiones

Culturales, Hernandez’s approach to these dances was different: her fusion of ballet technique with her rendition of native folk dance traditions made her choreography professional, modern, and suited to be performed in important venues. As part of the cultural elite of the mid-20th century, Hernández became one of the most iconic Mexican dance artists who, through her articulation of ballet folklórico, contributed not only to re- imagine Mexico as a modern nation, but also to the formation of mestizo national identity as envisioned by the federal government.

Born in Mexico City on September 19, 1917 to an upper-class family, she was the oldest of five children of Lamberto Hernández, a prominent military and political figure, a merchant, and the president of the Cámara de Industria de la Construcción, and Amalia

Navarro, a school-teacher. Her family enjoyed the privileges of the upper class in revolutionary times. She trained privately with ballet dancers including Hypolite Sybine, a former Russian dancer with Anna Pavlova, and Nesly Dambré from the Paris Opera.

Figure 1 Amalia Hernández. I.N.B.A presenta Ballet Folklórico de Bellas Artes: Primer Premio en el Festival del Teatro de las Naciones en Paris. Palacio de Bellas Artes, 1961.

In addition, she learned a variety of other dance styles—tap with Tessy Marcué, regional dance with Luis Felipe Obregón and Amado López, Spanish dance with Encarnación

López “La Argentinita,” Indigenous rhythms with the Campobello sisters, Oriental dance with Xenia Zarina and theater with Seki Sano (Aguirre Cristiani and Segura Escalona 16-

18). In the documentary Amalia Hernández y el Ballet Folklórico de México - Entrevista y Documental de 1992, Hernández also credits influential modern dancers—Waldeen

Falkenstein, Anna Sokolow, and José Limón—with introducing her to modern dance.

Anna Sokolow, who had come to Mexico under the invitation of Carlos Mérida, the dance director of INBA in 1939, decided to stay after her initial tour. Throughout the

1940s, she influenced a generation of modern dancers known as “las Sokolovas”

(Kosstrin). Similarly, the Texas-born Falkenstein first arrived in Mexico in 1934 while touring with Michio Ito and stayed when Gorostiza asked her to direct the Ballet de

Bellas Artes. Known as the founder of Mexican modern dance, Falkenstein trained important figures of Mexican dance such as Guillermina Bravo, Josefina Lavalle, Dina

Torregrosa, Lourdes Campos, and Amalia Hernández. Both Sokolow and Falkenstein were secular, leftist Jews who established relationships with like-minded, Mexican, leftist intellectuals and artists of the time such as Xavier Guerrero, Diego Rivera, David Alfaro

Siqueiros, Silvestre Revueltas, and theatre director Seki Sano. They also created choreographic work with folkloric themes that reflected the Mexican post-revolutionary sentiment so prevalent in the works of the leftist artists named above (Kosstrin).

Hernández’s path, however, took a different direction than that of her colleagues.

For instance, Hernández’s family discouraged her from seeking a career in the arts. When

Hernández dropped out of the Escuela Normal, where she was supposed to complete her

formation to become a school-teacher as her grandmother and mother had done before

her, her parents sent her to San Antonio, TX, so that she could learn English. Without her

parents’ approval, she continued to attend ballet classes while studying in the United

States (Documental). In spite of her father’s opposition to having his oldest child perform

in public, Hernández joined the Academia Mexicana de la Danza as a dancer, teacher,

and choreographer in 1946.

In the early 1950s, Hernández joined the Ballet Moderno de México under the direction of Falkenstein, her mentor and former instructor. For Falkenstein, Mexican modern dance had to be rooted in the most “archaic Mexican culture” (qtd. by Cardona in

Documental). By 1952, however, Falkenstein left the company and Hernández took over its direction. Although Hernández claims that she began choreographing modern dance, she ultimately shifted the company’s focus towards the folkloric, while at the same time, mixing folkloric dance forms with ballet aesthetics. Mexico’s Secretaría de Turismo took note, ultimately supporting the company’s work within and outside Mexico as a means to show the world that “this is our dance” (Documental).

THE ORIGINS OF BALLET FOLKLÓRICO DE MÉXICO “¿Qué hacemos copiando a otras culturas? Nunca vamos a igualar a los europeos en ballet clásico. ¡Vamos a hacer lo nuestro!” (“Why are we copying other cultures? We are never going to be like the Europeans in classical ballet. Let’s do our own!”) –Hernández qtd. in Documental.

The 1950s was a prolific decade for Mexican dance enterprises. Alberto Dallal,

dance scholar and critic of the Centro de Investigaciones Estéticas of the Universidad

Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM), considered it to be the “Golden Age” of

Mexican modern dance. Inspired by American choreographers such as Martha Graham,

José Limón, and Anna Sokolow, Mexican artists developed works that featured aspects of

Mexican culture from its pre-conquest times –i.e. Bonampak (1951) by Ana Mérida.

Influenced by their northern neighbors, choreographers such as Guillermina Bravo,

Felipe Segura, and Josefina Lavalle also utilized themes of universalism and romantic humanism in their pieces (Gonzalez-El Hilali 78).

Hernández, who formally started choreographing in the early 1950s, was strongly influenced by folkloric dance research first undertaken by Nellie and Gloria Campobello.

As part of the Misiones Culturales, the Campobello sisters gathered indigenous dances and rhythms from the rural areas in Mexico and documented them in books such as

Ritmos Indígenas de México (1940). Influenced by the nationalist project, they created dances that infused European modernist aesthetics with Mexico’s indigenous cultures

(Reynoso).

Following the Campobello sisters’ footsteps and influenced by her colleagues,

Hernández created pieces that featured images of lo mexicano. As a member of Mexico

City’s cultural elite, Hernández incorporated western aesthetics of “high-art” into her choreographic works. In the words of Nájera Ramírez, “Hernandez could be classified as a romantic nationalist who used folklore as ‘raw material’ which provided a colorful flavor but which needed to be refined for the gene” (21). In other words, Hernández took this “raw material" from indigenous and Black populations which conveniently provided her with an “exotic” set of practices, rituals, ceremonies, and dances. With her

background in ballet and modern dance, Hernández created a renewed, refined, and highly technical version of the dances of the provinces.

While the company claims that it was “thanks to [Hernández’s] talent, discipline and dedication, [that] this group has been able to achieve the national and international stature which it now holds” (Aguirre Cristiani and Segura Escalona 22) much of

Hernández’s success is due to her strong connections to politicians and influential figures of the time. In 1952, for instance, Hernández worked with magnate Emilio Azcárraga

Vidaurreta, owner and major shareholder of several television stations named

Televicentro (now Televisa), to create pieces for his television show “Función de Gala,” which aired folklore programs (Hellier-Tinoco 140-141). Because the television show aired once a week, Hernández created one program each week for a total of 67 weeks.

Although the company started the “Función de Gala” with eight dancers, it kept growing through the work with the television network to include twenty dancers, most of whom were colleagues of Hernández (Aguirre Cristiani and Segura Escalona 36). I wonder what the company would have been without the help of one of the most influential men in the history of Mexican telecommunications, who famously supported the dominating political party of the time (PRI), and who controlled public television, and with this, influenced public opinion for the remainder of the century.

Having established a reputation through the television programs, Hernández’s name became synonymous with “Mexican dance.” In 1959 Miguel Álvarez Acosta, director of Mexico’s International Cultural Promotion Organization, requested that

Hernández choreograph a special dance program for the Pan-American Games in

Chicago, U.S. The games, which had had its previous iteration in Mexico City in 1955,

occurred at a moment of high tension as the Cuban Revolution was affecting the entire

Pan-American movement. Amidst the nervousness and political unrest, Hernández

traveled with her troupe to the games. This is when the company adopted a new name:

Ballet Folklórico de México (BFM), which marked the moment in which Hernández’s

group both claimed itself to be and was positioned as a project of the nation. BFM served

the nation-state by creating a composite image of lo mexicano that, although they adopted

traditions from diverse regions in Mexico, manufactured a uniform picture of what the

government deemed was important to emphasize in the name of cultural representation

and the preservation of tradition.

In the Pan-American games, for instance, Hernández chose a repertoire to

perform in Chicago that included dances such as “Antiguos Sones de Michoacán,” “El

Cupidito,” “Fiesta Veracruzana,” “Los Quetzales,” “La Danza del Venado,” and

“Navidad en Jalisco,” that hailed from very different parts of Mexico. (Aguirre Cristiani

and Segura Escalona 38). By providing a wide diversity of regional or mestizo dances

(“Antiguos Sones de Michoacán,” “Fiesta Veracruzana,” “Navidad en Jalisco”) in

combination with indigenous dances (“Los Quetzales,” “Danza del Venado)”, Hernández

was offering an international public a sampling of the different regions of Mexico.

After their success in Chicago, Hernández asked Celestino Gorostiza to present the ballet as part of the on-going tourist exhibit at the majestic Palacio de Bellas Artes in

Historic Downtown Mexico City. Arguably the most important performance space in the country, Palacio de Bellas Artes has always been a standard of excellence for the fine arts.

Its history dates back to the very beginning of the 20th century. As a celebration for the first centennial of the Independence War, President Porfirio Diaz commissioned the construction of a new national theatre. Following the Art Nouveu style, Italian architect

Adamo Boari built the colossal palace utilizing steel and concrete for its structure and covered it in white marble, with Carrara marble and bronze sculptures made by the hands of foreign artists. With the Revolution of 1910, its construction came to a halt, and it was not until 1934 that it was inaugurated under the name Museo de Artes Plásticas (“Museo del Palacio de Bellas Artes”). On October 11, 1959, Ballet Folklórico de México performed for the first time in this historical place, and with President Adolfo López

Mateos’s blessing, they obtained the opportunity to perform there regularly. After 60 years, the BFM continues to perform in this very same venue three-times a week.

Figure 2 Ballet Folklórico’s advertisement in El Informador [Jalisco]. 1 Nov. 1961.

I have attended three live performances of the BFM –two times in Palacio de

Bellas Artes and one time in Strathmore, MD– and the repertoire has been the same each

time, with little to no variation. The full-length concert opens with Matachines, an all-

male ensemble piece that represents the pre-conquest religious dances of the Matachines

of Northern Mexico. Next is the colorful and highly-technical Guerrero, which features

beautiful yellow skirts for the barefoot female dancers, which they kick with powerful leg

extensions. Revolución, their next cuadro, is a dramatic representation of las soldaderas,

the women of the Revolución Mexicana. The characters of the charro and the ranchera appear in Charreada, where dancers skillfully show their roping abilities associated with the old Haciendas. The closing number of the first act is without exception Fiesta en

Tlacotalpan (formerly Fiesta en Veracruz), where dancers exude the joy and vivacity of the son jarocho of the region of Sotavento. The cuadro that opens the second act is

“Danza del Venado” of the northern states of Sonora and Sinaloa, which shows the hunting of the deer by paskolas (hunters). Next is La Vida es Juego, a playful piece where the devil controls the life of a couple. The final cuadro is Fiesta en Jalisco, where the famous characters of la china poblana and el charro dance to the timeless “Jarabe

Tapatío” played by a live mariachi band. Looking at the company’s programming of its beginning stages documented in newspapers and programs, I can tell that the repertory has not changed much; twenty years after Hernández’s passing, the costumes, colors, and basic structure of each of the pieces of the BFM remain as she originally envisioned them.

Even though the company has more than 80 pieces in its repertory and it sometimes varies its programming in its full-length concert, the cuadros are otherwise fixed. The performance of lo mexicano as staged by Hernández in the 1950s, based on post-revolutionary discourses of indigenismo and mestizaje, persists. Professor Muzquiz argues in Bailes y danzas tradicionales (1988) that folk dances should provide “historical and geographical guidelines to let people know about their variations and its dispersion, to allow the anonymous participation of several generations to incorporate changes and updates” (50). Muzquiz’s description of folkloric traditions asserts that folklore is not

only created collectively by the people, but that it is also alive in the sense that it is not static, as it reflects the changes that different generations make to the material and adapt to their own experiences and expressions. Even though the various regions of Mexico have changed tremendously from 1952 until today, the BFM’s pieces and what they represent are more like a picture –static– and less like dance –an art form that is alive and moving, and which changes with the population it aims to represent.

CRITICISM AND SUPPORT FOR THE BFM The overwhelming success and attention that the company received since its inception in the 1950s, however, did not go unnoticed by the critics of the time. Alberto

Dallal writes in his multi-volume work La Danza En México (1986) that even though the company achieved unparalleled success, it received a variety of critiques for its

“misrepresentation and adaptation of the indigenous elements of Mexican dances, due to partial changes and the ‘accommodations’ made to achieve more attractive shows” (123).

In his account, however, Dallal argues that “the only point of critique for the company lies in that, despite its unsurmountable resources, it did not create a center for the investigation of autochthonous and regional dances” (124). For Dallal, such research would not have only aided Hernández’s productions of folkloric dances, but it would have also helped to register the canon of autochthonous dances that are bound to be lost to time, so that traditional dances would not lose their integrity, or ironically, be misrepresented through the vast national territory.

Another writer, Amparo Sevilla, who was a researcher of the Instituto Nacional de

Antropología e Historia (INAH) accused the company of working to “strengthen the state

through the incorporation of popular culture.” “Besides being marketable,” said Sevilla,

“the BFM meets the institutional expectations of dances as something beautiful for national and international tourism, achieved on the basis of widespread ignorance, not only about dance, but of popular culture.” For Sevilla, the fact that Hernández names her pieces “ballets” tells how little knowledge there is behind the creation of each piece (qtd. in Manzanos).

In an effort to create a dance company that compared in virtuosity to the European ballet companies, Hernández used the domestic exotic as a tool to sell her cuadros as an authentic representation of Mexico. Gonzalez-El Hilali explains that “not only do artists mold images of themselves from pre-existing symbols, they also, if they are professional, sell these images of culture (sometimes under the banner of authenticity) to the public”

(118). In other words, Hernández was taking dances from the provinces to create a unified national identity under the pretense that she was honoring the culture of these pueblos or in the words of the company “the Ballet of Amalia Hernández is, in reality, a living museum that transmits all over the world the cultural traditions of Mexico”

(“Historia”). By calling Hernández’s work a “living museum,” the company suggests authenticity and diversity when it actually produces and displays difference between the elites and the rest of Mexico via exoticism.

That said, BFM has consistently received key financial and structural support from the federal government, and with that support, status as a representative of the nation. For example, a state newspaper reported that Hernández visited Present López

Mateos in the residence of Los Pinos, where he recognized that Hernández’s recent tour

in Europe had given Mexico “a position in the artistic world.” In addition, he told

Hernández “It’s been a pleasure to salute and congratulate you. You know that you have all the support and boost of the government to continue the splendid work that you have done in favor of our dances” (qtd. in “Los Integrantes del Ballet Folklórico” 5).

Defenders of the group, however, claim that the political climate in Mexico in the late 1950s and early 1960s was a primary incubator for her success. Patricia Cardona, dance scholar and dramaturg of the Centro Nacional de Investigación, Documentación e

Información CENIDI Danza José Limón, claims in the 2002 documentary film: “we must place Hernández in the political-cultural context, of which the Mexican state took advantage in an extraordinary manner.” By giving her economic support, the federal government was building a “cultural embassy, such as Alicia Alonso’s ballet company had become a Cuban cultural embassy in Fidel Castro’s revolutionary times.” For

Cardona, these companies became a sort of ‘business card’ with which to present a nation to the rest of the world. Thus, the federal government both utilized Hernández’s company for tourism purposes, while also giving her the tools to eventually become “Mexico’s

Official Cultural Ambassador.” As such, Hernández and her dancers toured the United

States, Cuba, and Canada among other destinations. This government ‘seal of approval’ also gave Hernández the resources to create a polished and professional company that she felt could stand up to the best European dance companies.

For the critics of the late 20th century, according to Cardona, modern dance should have been “more essential, less folkloric” (Documental). For other critics,

Hernández actually advanced the folk form through her stylization. Michel Descombey,

French choreographer and dancer, claims that, before Hernández, folk dances served only as “an amusement in a pueblo and the people do not make it a spectacle, the people dance for their own pleasure.” “We must recognize,” says Descombey, “that if the world knows

Mexican dance, they knew Amalia Hernández first, they knew ballet folklórico”

(Documental). Descombey, of course, does not call Hernández’s work “a spectacle” in a derogatory manner; on the contrary, for him the high status the BFM reached under

Hernández’s direction is due to her efforts to make her shows appealing objects of consumption for a paying audience.

Another example of how Hernández further contributed to develop the concept of lo mexicano to be consumed by foreign audiences was the BFM’s participation in the

Festival of Nations in Paris. In 1961, the BFM was selected to participate as Mexico’s official representative. With more than fifty dancers on stage and a large repertory of pieces, including a pre-conquest number, Hernández took first prize for Mexico

(Documental). This feat was documented in newspapers throughout the world, which brought the company numerous invitat ions to perform internationally [See images].

For instance, following the Festival of Nations, Hernández signed a one-year contract with the American producer and impresario Sol Hurok to tour around the world.

With a design team that included multi-disciplinary artist Miguel Covarrubias, scenic designers Antonio López Mancera and Robin Bond, costume designers Dasha and

Delfina Hernández, and the choral direction of Ramón Noble, Hernández created a company with highly technical virtuosity. This meant that Hernández’s dancers needed to not only execute folkloric dances but were also required to know ballet and modern dance

technique. In the words of Descombey, “to dance folklore well, a professional dancer

must have the technical bases of dance, both classic and modern” (Documental).

According to Descombey, this technical ability in her dancers allowed Hernández to

present a truly professional company. Without a doubt, the professionalization of ballet

Figure 3 News clip featuring Hernández at the Festival of Nations in Paris. I.N.B.A presenta Ballet Folklórico de Bellas Artes: Primer Premio en el Festival del Teatro de las Naciones en Paris. Palacio de Bellas Artes, 1961.

U.N. of Dance: U.N. of Dance (Continued) New York Times (1923-Current file); Sep 9, 1962; ProQuest Historical Newspapers: The New York Times pg. 348

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission.

Figure 4 New York Times (1923-Current file); The New York Times, 9 Sep. 1962, p. 348.

folklórico led the BFM to become the staple dance troupe that performed before

presidents, kings, and princes. Among the personages that the BFM performed for were

Jacqueline and John F. Kennedy, Walt Disney, Charles de Gaulle, Mahatma Gandhi,

Rudolf Nureyev, Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter and many more (“Amalia Hernández y el

Ballet Folklórico de México”).

As time passed, however, questions arose as to the “authenticity” of the performances. Professor Isaías Ángel Mariano of the Escuela Nacional de Danza

Folklórica in Mexico City and a former dancer of the BFM, said to me in a recent interview that one of the problems he sees with Hernández is that she “sold [her work] as if that was indeed the culture of the country.” For Mariano, this was a dishonest way to present a work that was rooted in stylization of the folk tradition. “My biggest fight,” said

Mariano, “is that she sells her work as the Mexican tradition.” As a form that is alive and constantly evolves, folk dance cannot be encapsulated under a label of authenticity. In the company’s documentary, however, Cardona states that Hernández’s intention was to present a ballet that was “spectacularly Mexican,” with an acknowledgment that this was the Ballet Folklórico de Amalia Hernández. By putting Hernández’s name on the title of the company, it was to be understood that the pieces presented were not the traditional dances of the autochthonous regions of Mexico, but Hernández’s own creations, which were only “inspired by the regional dances.” The spectacularization of folk dances, indeed, is Hernández’s gravest problem. “This happens,” said Sevilla, “when they take the dance out of its context, they change the choreography, the style, the character, all of the

elements are transformed without informing the public that such is the starting point” (qtd.

in Manzanos).

Looking at the company’s marketing materials such as posters, programs, big

billboards and internet ads, however, the question arises if the BFM’s audiences are

intentionally deceived by the images of tall, strong dancers in colorful costumes. “I

believe that tourists know what this is all about,” says Cardona in the documentary. “If

they wanted to know the regional dances in their true form, they would go to the different

regions of Mexico to watch the rituals in the pueblos.” Would they, though? Would not a

tourist trust that if Palacio de Bellas Artes, an historical performance venue of the Instituto

Nacional de Bellas Artes y Literatura, is hosting Ballet Folklórico de México three times-

Figure 5 Ballet Folklórico de México's Advertising Poster. emiliogarcia.myportfolio.com/ballet-folklorico-de-mexico-63-anniversary. 2018.

a-week, then that the performances are indeed an authentic representation of the diverse regions of Mexico?

BFM’S APPEAL TO DOMESTIC AUDIENCES Because of its many international tours and presence in folk dance festivals, it

could be argued that the BFM only served a tourist audience; however, the company’s

efforts to reach a domestic audience are well documented. For example, an April 1965

issue from El Informador, a newspaper from Guadalajara, demonstrated great pride in the

company’s international successes: “After a triumphant tour of diverse cities in the

United States and Canada, the elements of the Ballet Folklórico de México returned to

the country via plane. The director, Amalia Hernández, showed numerous newspaper

clippings with complimentary comments that the critics made on the magnificent

performance of the Mexican dancers in the cities where they danced” (“Regreso

Triunfante” 11-B).

Nowadays, the company utilizes social media to reach a Spanish-speaking public.

The BFM’s official Youtbe account, for example, includes dozens of videos that

document the audience’s reaction after seeing Hernández’s full-length concert. Some of

these videos record the endorsement of “important” people who attest to Hernández’s

cultural legacy. The first of these “Testimonial” videos features personages of the public

and private sectors such as Enrique Krauze, President Felipe Calderón, Fernando

Landeros Verdugo (President of Teletón and Fundación México Unido), Rafael Tovar de

Teresa (Former Director of the Bicentennial), Gerardo Estrada Rodríguez (Professor of

the College of Political Science of UNAM), Luis Ortiz Macedo (Professor of the

Architecture Graduate School of UNAM), Roberto Hernández Ramírez (President of the

Administrative Council of Banamex), Saúl Juárez Vega (General Director of INBA 2001-

2006) as well as acknowledged dance scholars and choreographers such as Maestra

Sylvie Reynaud Avramova (Director of the Compañía Nacional de Danza), Alberto

Dallal, and Cecilia Lugo Ruiz (Director of Contempodanza).

Krauze, a well-regarded historian, affirms in the video that the work of the BFM is “an art that combines the music with the coloring of Mexico, with the rhythms of

Mexico. It’s probably one the most complete and plastic authorships of what it means to be Mexican.” President Calderón (2006-2012), who closes the video’s remarks, adds that

“thanks to the Ballet, many generations of Mexican women and men throughout the world have been able to appreciate magnificent choreographies. Throughout five decades, this Ballet Folklórico de Amalia Hernández has been the Artistic Ambassador of Mexico by taking the company beyond our borders. I am sure that they will continue to promote the pride of being Mexican for many years to come in the five continents.” The video, from beginning to end, plays an ominous, quite dramatic background music and between each “testimonio,” it shows short clips of the company performing the repertory. It is as if, through this video, the company is advertising its power and influence by heralding the support and admiration of significant personalities from the cultural, private, and public sector.

Another of these videos is titled “¿Por qué te sientes orgulloso de ser mexicano?”

(Why are you proud of being Mexican?) and it was filmed after a special performance celebrating Mexico’s Independence Day on September 2019. One of the responses from

the general public was: “I’m very proud of my roots, my culture, my gastronomy, all of my country, and my people in general. That makes me very proud and very Mexican.”

Another one mentioned: “A reason of why I came to see the Ballet of Amalia Hernández is because it is the best in the world. I love the colors, choreography. Everything is beautiful. And I feel proud of being Mexican for the colors, the culture, our diversity.”

Although more responses were documented, the themes of “pride,” “colors,”

“gastronomy,” “costumes,” and “traditions” were a constant in the answers.

As evidenced by these responses, a whole century after the armed conflict of the revolution ended, the company is still carrying forward a nationalistic project that enables multitudes of people to experience BFM’s spectacular display of mexicanidad.

CONCLUSION Ballet Folklórico de Mexico de Amalia Hernández has been the most influential dance company in Mexican history since its foundation in 1952. With a repertory that is essentially unchanged over 60 years, Hernández’s work continues to uphold Mexican nationalist ideologies rooted in post-revolutionary Mexico such as indigenismo and mestizaje. Even though BFM aims to represent the people of Mexico, it actually presents a romanticized, exoticized, and static image of its diverse regions, when it could be offering a live, changing, honest, and moving picture of lo mexicano through its numerous dance pieces

For Mexican and Mexican-American audiences, there is in fact substantial merit in Hernández’s work because of how she makes her audience feel when they watch it.

Indeed, as Mariano notes, the company’s biggest success has been how it “addressed the

nationalist pride in the Mexican people.” But the show also plays an important role in marketing Mexico to international audiences: “When I see [the show], I leave wanting to sing the national anthem, because that is the objective,” Mariano concludes. “And it is made for tourists, so that they feel what is Mexico.”

Chapter 2: La China y el Charro: Gender Representation in Ballet Folklórico

Jalisco, a state in the Pacific coast of Mexico, is the home of tequila, mariachis, and colonial histories. Besides being the “whitest” region of central Mexico, Jalisco’s folkloric dances have become the epitome of Mexican dance traditions. “Son de la

Negra” and “Jarabe Tapatío,” for instance, are two of the most frequently performed pieces in the repertoire of any folklórico dance ensemble, from professional companies to amateur groups. The main characters of these dances, which have romanticized the idea of an exotic Mexico since post-revolutionary times, are the “gallant” charro and the

“coquettish china poblana” (Hutchinson 213).

In this chapter, I consider how the gendered identities of these two characters became integral to the development of an insurgent nationalism that aimed to unify the country through the ideology of mestizaje. Drawing from Sydney Hutchinson, María del

Carmen Vázquez Mantecón, Olga Nájera Ramírez, Gabriela Mendoza-García, and utilizing the performances of the Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández’s

Fiesta en Jalisco as primary source, I will explore the complexities of gender representation in ballet folklórico. I argue that these dances, which continue to be performed as staged in the 1950s, perpetuate a rigid heteronormative image of what it means to be Mexican and embody an idealized mestizaje that not only exoticizes the archetypes of the china poblana and the charro but is also machista and anti-feminist.

THE ORIGINS OF “JARABE TAPATÍO” As stated in the previous chapter, the choreography of folkloric dances in Mexico dates back to post-revolutionary times, specifically to the 1920s and 1930s: “The ideology of mestizaje,” Hutchinson writes, “and the proliferation of national folkdance companies were both critical in the nation-building processes of the postcolonial period”

(207). Hutchinson also notes that mariachi music, which incorporates both Spanish and indigenous influences, was another vehicle to advance the mestizaje discourse proposed by the cultural elite. Instruments from European descent such as the guitar and the violin combined with Mexican instruments such as the guitarrón to create a sound that became uniquely Mexican.

Similarly, the “Jarabe Tapatío,” known outside of Mexico as “Mexican Hat

Dance” became Mexico’s national dance, with the china wearing tri-color hair bows, referencing the Mexican flag and colorful skirt, and the charro in his mariachi hat. As a former professional ballet folklórico dancer, I could argue that most, if not all, professional and collegiate ballet folklórico companies have a version of the “Jarabe

Tapatío” in their repertoire.

The word “jarabe” means syrup, and “tapatío,” which comes from the Nahuátl word “Thapatiotl,” (Cashion qtd. in Trujillo 55) is the word used to name people from the city of Guadalajara. Since “jarabes” are constructed by different musical scores, they presented a good opportunity for the combination of both European and Mexican sounds that resulted in a completely mestizo mix. Though the dance aimed to signify indigenismo, ironically “the dance from Jalisco is 80% Spanish,” says Dr. Arthur Campa,

author and folklorist, with Spanish sounds coming from Seguidilla, the Fandango, and the

Sambra (qtd. in Trujillo 50). Similarly, the dances from Jalisco inherited faldeo

(skirtwork) and a strong zapateado (footwork) by both women and men that are also

Spanish in origin.

In “The Jarabe Tapatío: Imagining Race, Nation, Class, and Gender in 1920s

Mexico,” (2016) Mendoza-Garcia, shows how the “Jarabe Tapatío” became an icon of

Mexican dance and a tool for the post-revolutionary nationalist project. According to

Mendoza-García, the dance became key in the Misiones Culturales in 1920s Mexico, which aimed to unify the country through the image of a homogenous mestizo. These cultural missions (1923-1955) had the task to “collect, disseminate, and codify the music and folkloric dance traditions so that they could be taught in the public-school system”

(321). As such, public school teachers –who had no formal anthropological, ethnomusicological or dance training, were suddenly in charge of gathering and teaching folkloric dances in their communities. Some of the most prominent public performances of the “Jarabe” by public school students, for example, took place in important spaces such as in Chapultepec Park and in the inauguration of the National Stadium. Mendoza-

García argues that the “Jarabe Tapatío” was closely involved in the Misiones Culturales’s main purpose of unifying the country through the image of the china poblana and the charro, the symbol of mestizaje. She adds that political figures used dances such as the

“Jarabe Tapatío” to “continuously redefine the politics of those in seeking or having power” (339). In other words, the federal government deliberately used the “Jarabe

Tapatío” to fortify the image of the mestizo and used its two characters to their political advantage.

In addition, the “Jarabe Tapatío” has furthered a heteronormative discourse of what it means to be Mexican. The dance originated from the “Guajolote,” a dance of the

Huichol community where the male bird courts the female bird (Trujillo 58). Similar to the “Guajolote,” in “Jarabe Tapatío” the charro, always played by a male dancer, pursues the china poblana, always played by a female dancer (Hutchinson 209).

LA CHINA POBLANA AS THE IDEALIZED MEXICAN WOMAN In particular, the “Jarabe” perpetuated hegemonic gender roles. Maria del Carmen

Vázquez Mantecón (2000) notes that the china poblana, as a symbol of Mexican identity, represented the “grace and virtue of the Mexican woman,” who served as the object of heterosexual male desire by balancing a dichotomy between wife or prostitute (124). This character also appeared frequently in the writing of 19th-century authors who described her as a mestizo woman who did not conform to society standards but rather enjoyed the freedom of her love encounters.

Manuel Payno, novelist of the pre-revolution period, continued the sexist and racist stereotype into the 20th century by writing frequently about the china poblana’s sexuality. He described them as women with “ardent and expressive eyes, olive countenance, thin black hair, small feet, flexible waist, round, svelte, and shapely figure, without an esteemed education, very clean, that knew how to read, sew, and cook in the style of the country, that danced jarabes and other sones in the fandangos and that could recite from memory the catechism of Father Ripalda” (qtd. in Vázquez Mantecón 126).

His descriptions both sexualized and idealized the china poblana, who served both a nationalist agenda and the male gaze.

The story of how chinas became poblanas is disputed. In 1834, Carl Nebel heard that the costume had been designed in the city of Puebla by a woman named Mirra, originally from Delhi and sold as a slave as Catarina de San Juan, a name she had received from the Jesuits in Philippines. In Puebla, she married the Chinese slave

Domingo Juárez, from whom she received the name china (Vázquez Mantecón 127). The most riveting part of this legend, however, is that although Catarina de San Juan was married, she kept herself a virgin –a desirable aspect for a woman under Mexican patriarchal customs and beliefs.

Another story claims that Spanish in the 16th century used the word “china” to refer first to indigenous women and then to mestizo women that worked as maids.

Another possible root of the word was that “china” was the name given in Puebla to women born from indigenous women and black men. It seems as though the “china,” regardless of her origin story, always embodied the “domestic exotic,” discussed at length in chapter one, an icon of Mexican nationalism that was both “domestic” (homegrown and domesticized in terms of gender roles) and “foreign” (exotic and alluring).

Following the nationalist trend of the time, Payno denominated their costumes as the “traje nacional,” which also became a metonym for the china’s “seductress body.”

The costume, as described by Payno, included an underskirt with ends in zigzag and covered with a silk or wool petticoat coated in ribbon or sequin. On top, the chinas wore an elegant chemise embroidered with silk or sequin that showed their nude neck

(Vázquez Mantecón 126). The costume that the china poblana wears today on stage is very similar to Payno’s description. When dressed as chinas, female folklórico dancers wear an embroidered white chemise, a bell-shaped skirt covered with sequins often picturing a national image –such as the Mexican national emblem, and a headpiece featuring two big bows, red character shoes, and beaded jewelry.

As dancers, women in ballet folklórico companies hope to be cast as the china, as this is a piece performed by soloists. In my former dance company, the two tallest women would perform the china, as long as they were technically proficient in their zapateado and had the stage presence required for the piece. As the fourth-shortest person in a large dance company, I never had the chance to perform this dance for a live audience.

THE CHARRO AS THE EMBODIMENT OF THE MACHO MEXICANO Similar to how the china poblana became a romanticized version of the Mexican woman, the charro became “the symbol of the ideal Mexican man” (Mendoza-García

319). During the conquest, the Spanish brought horses to Mexico and those who owned and knew how to ride these majestic animals were regarded as the upper class for their

European ascent. The hacendados (landowners) often knew how to break wild horses, ride them, and perform all sorts of tricks, a feat that reflected their male prowess and social standing. The patriarchal system of 19th century Mexico put men, regardless of class, in charge of women and children in the absence of the hacendado. As such, the vaqueros (horsemen) often learned how to execute these acts in spite of their socioeconomic class. This mixing of the upper, middle and lower classes in the charrería culture led to the formation of a male identity that denoted unity, an unbreakable code of

ethics, and an unyielding bravery to defend the family and the hacienda (Nájera Ramírez

4).

After the revolution ended in 1920, a nationalistic discourse called for the romanticized construction of a specific image of the charro as a strong, skilled, hard- working man to represent male vigor. His costume, for instance, had to be of “colores serios” (somber colors) to reflect his social status. In ballet folklórico dance, this character came to represent masculine traits that were favored by the proponents of lo mexicano. As such, the charro often appeared “pursuing and ultimately capturing the woman” he partnered in the dance (Nájera Ramírez 7).

But not only is the charro the maximum expression of male prowess, but also the representation of the nation itself. Hector Domínguez Ruvalcaba argues in his book,

Modernity and the Nation in Mexican Representations of Masculinity: from Sensuality to

Bloodshed (2008), that the meaning of the nation became entangled with and akin to masculinity. As Ruvalcaba explains, “political cartoons of the nineteenth century reiterate the definition of power as virility, and effeminacy as antinational representation” (3).

Thus, the charro became a metonym for the nation.

The gender/power dichotomy between charro and china poblana, moreover, helped build a composite picture in the social imaginary of what Mexican men had to be and do in order to be considered real men. Ruvalcaba thus roots machismo to the 1870s, arguing that “Mexican masculinity is an invention of modern colonialism, in which sensualizing means disempowerment” (3). Interestingly, the macho male is not a one- dimensional figure, but rather a paradoxical character who is homosocial but despises

homosexuality and sensuality. As Ruvalcaba explains, “effeminacy constitutes a device for emasculating political enemies—whereas the military and charro (Mexican cowboy) garment denote empowerment” (3). In other words, there is no room for the charro to be effeminate, let alone sensual, since he acquired power through the reproduction of macho behavior.

In ballet folklórico, this code of behavior directly translated to a rigid performance of masculinity through strong stomping, straight backs, forcibly chasing the china poblana and embodying machismo through the charro. The charro is in charge of the courting, leading the china poblana in different stage positions and keeping the rhythm with strong stomping. The china poblana, conversely, is delicate, very feminine, and gracious.

LA CANCIÓN RANCHERA, MARIACHI, AND THE RANCHERA FILMS As further discussed in Chapter 1, the 1950s became a decade where the mass media continued the construction of the national identity that had begun in the 1920s.

Carlos Monsiváis (1978) notes that the “canción ranchera,” which took from the tradition of the regions and added a melodramatic element, was transmitted through the radio to all parts of the country. He argues that “the biggest success of the cultural nationalism turned melodrama is the creation of the ranchera song that takes the narrative spirit of the corrido, structures it and rewrites it as a desperate monologue, and adds the pedagogy of the romantic song” (111). Its roots, says Monsiváis, were the boom of mariachi music and the ranchera film.

Mariachi music, internationally tied to notions of mexicanidad, has its beginnings in 1938, when Don Gaspar Vargas founded the world-famous Mariachi Vargas in

Tecatitlán, Jalisco. The original instruments of the mariachi ensemble were two violins, a small vihuela, a guitarrón, harp, and a drum but both the harp and the drum were dropped. According to an urban legend, says Monsiváis, Emilio Azcárraga suggested that trumpets should be added to the instrumentation of mariachi music. By 1950, famous songwriter and singer José Alfredo Jiménez became the embodiment of machismo through his popular songs such as “El Rey,” “Si nos Dejan,” “Camino de Guanajuato,” and “Media Vuelta.” Mariachi ensembles throughout the world still play dozens of songs from his repertoire.

The cinematographic success of the ranchera comedy further influenced popular culture. In the late 1930s and early 1940s, the film industry demanded music that could strengthen a regional identity (i.e “Ay, que lindo es Michoacán”) in order to increase both domestic and international audiences. Jorge Negrete, with his distinctive mustache and charro hat, became the star in ranchera films such as ¡Ay Jalisco, no te rajes! (1941) and

Allá en el Rancho Grande (1949). Although the ranchera film established components of mexicanidad, for Monsiváis, it was not resistant to colonialism; on the contrary, it was

“the most poignant and subdued imitation of the cowboy comedies.” El “sombrero charro,” for instance signified the “adoration of machismo and the country aristocracy”

(114).

In the decades where the ranchera films and mariachi music were deemed as the most representative elements of lo mexicano, Hernández created her rendition of Jalisco.

From looking at archival materials such as programs and journals, I can see that the main elements of the cuadro have resisted the passing of time, different castings, and even

Hernández’s own death in 2000. When Hernández returned to Mexico after receiving first place in the Festival de Teatro de las Naciones in Paris in 1961, the INBAL published a hand-program with a description of the cuadros Hernández presented in the international fair. The following is a short description for Navidad en Jalisco as published in the 1961 program:

Figure 6 “Navidad en Jalisco.” I.N.B.A presenta Ballet Folklórico de Bellas Artes: Primer Premio en el Festival del Teatro de las Naciones en Paris. Palacio de Bellas Artes, 1961.

A world-wide holiday, Christmas is the occasion for any number of religious and

profane ceremonies, that with the passage of time, have acquired a local character.

Jalisco has its own interpretation of the biblical passage and creates a live musical

mosaic, of colors and joy. The notes of the mariachi provoke the dance at the

church doors, and the spectacle culminates in the breaking of the piñata,

wholehearted amusement that marks the climax of the Christmas nights.

A few years later, the journal Artes de México (1967) dedicated their 88th issue to the BFM, which provided a multi-language description of each of the cuadros in

Hernández’s repertory. Besides describing the Mexican tradition of re-creating the nativity scene, the section on Navidad en Jalisco of this journal publication adds: “The ballet ends with a lively series of dances —"El Gusto,” “La Negra” and the world famous

“Jarabe Tapatío.” In addition, the journal includes a section for Fiesta en Jalisco, which appears as its own suite. The description of the dance reads:

The large state of Jalisco together with its famous capital of Guadalajara is the

land of the charros, the Mexican horsemen and also of the mariachis, the

musicians who have become a national institution. Here we have a fiesta in

Guadalajara and it begins with the typical paseo or promenade in which the boys

and girls of the town gather together of an evening in the main square to eye one

another, to stroll and show off their grace and beauty and perhaps even begin a

courtship —all this to the sound of the mariachis.

After the sentimental song “Guadalajara,” the charros perform the traditional

dance “El Tranchete,” a dance especially suitable for the horsemen for the noise

of their spurs is an integral part of the dance. After the jingling and rattling of the

spurs the women join the men to dance “La Madrugada” (The Dawn) whose [sic]

words say: "Star of the dawn, lend me your brightness so that I can follow the

steps of this young girl who is now leaving." When the agile heelwork of this

dance ends, we hear the well-known song “Camino Real de Colima” (Royal

Highway to Colima) played and sung by the mariachi who then break into the

tunes of “La Negra” (The Negrees) and the “Jarabe Tapatio” (usually known

outside Mexico as the “Mexican Hat Dance”). These two dances which close this

ballet show us the force, vitality and gaiety of the people of Jalisco.

From the description above, I infer that the dance opens the same way it does

now, 53 years after the printing of the issue. In addition, I corroborate how the

perpetuation of a heterosexual relationship as a component of lo mexicano is indeed the

main theme of the whole cuadro, which the journal describes as “boys and girls of the

town gather together of an evening in the main square to eye one another, to stroll and

122 Figures 7 and 8 “Navidad En Jalisco." Artes de México, no 88/89, 1967.

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121

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I I

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This content downloaded from 128.83.214.19 on Sun, 19 Apr 2020 03:55:48 UTC Figures 9 and 10 "Fiesta En Jalisco." Artes de México, no 88/89, 1967.All use subject to https://about.jstor.org/terms

show off their grace and beauty and perhaps even begin a courtship.” Moreover, the

naming of mariachi music as “the musicians who have become a national institution”

reflects the nationalist discourse pushed by the BFM through their cuadro. In “El

Tranchete,” the depiction of charro culture (“suitable for the horsemen”) illustrates the

macho behavior as imagined in post-revolutionary Mexico. Finally, the closing of the

suite with “La Negra” and “Jarabe Tapatío” confirm that the BFM performs Fiesta en

Jalisco as originally staged by Hernández in in the 1950s-1960s in theatres all over the

world. Because of the international reach of mariachi music and the images of the charro

and the china poblana as elements of lo mexicano, it is no coincidence that Hernández

features this cuadro as the closing number in all of her live performances. After a visit to

Guadalajara in 1964, where the tapatío audience offered her a warm welcome after a

performance of the BFM in El Teatro Degollado –Guadalajara’s most important

performance venue–, Hernández claimed that Jalisco was indeed one of her biggest

inspirations. Jalisco is one of the entities of our country that she has represented “with love and enthusiasm through the choreographies of the Ballet, which has triumphed all over the world,” said Hernández (qtd. in El Informante 8-A).

BALLET FOLKLÓRICO DE MÉXICO’S FIESTA EN JALISCO Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández presents Fiesta en Jalisco, a suite of dances from the region, as part as their full-length performances. For this analysis, I look at a recorded performance in the Festival Internacional Cervantino in

2016. Colloquially known as “Cervantino,” this state-sponsored annual festival has become a hub for international and national artists from diverse disciplines (opera, theatre, dance, literature, visual arts, etc.), who come to colonial Guanajuato on October of every year to perform for thousands of people. According to their official website, the

Cervantino is the “most important artistic and cultural activity in Mexico and Latin

America.” Founded in 1953, the festival has become a crucial drive for international and domestic tourism. Carmen Romano de López Portillo, wife of Mexican President José

López Portillo (1976-1982), and President of the Festival (1983), noted that the

Cervantino is indeed “una oportunidad para que conozcan nuestra cultura y bellezas naturales y para mostrarles la hospitalidad de un pueblo que crea y se esfuerza por una alternativa más justa y humana, sin distingos de raza o credo, y refrendar así nuestra vocación pacifista y de amistad con todas las naciones del mundo” (Memoria 5) (an opportunity for you to get to know our culture and natural beauties and to show you the hospitality of a people who create and strive for a more just and humane alternative, without distinction of race or creed, and thus endorse our vocation for peace and

friendship with all nations of the world). Having the BFM perform as the closing number at such paramount festival in Latin America, which drives thousands of tourists to

Guanajuato every year, suggests that the federal government continues to endorse the

BFM as the most important dance company in Mexico.

I had the chance to attend the Cervantino in October 2015 and noted that the BFM was indeed performing at the closing ceremony with their full-length concert at the

Alhóndiga de Granaditas, an historic site associated with the Mexican Independence War.

For their final cuadro, the BFM performed Fiesta en Jalisco, as usual. The suite opens with an all-male mariachi band playing the famous “Guadalajara” song, which conveys through its poetic lyrics a sentiment of pride and nostalgia for the tierra tapatía. Relying on images of the province such as “tierra mojada” and “rosa temprana,” the song mentions elements of lo mexicano such as the mariachi, la birria, the beautiful women, los jarritos, and tepache. In addition, the lyrics survey the different pueblos surrounding the metropolis, such as Tlaquepaque and Zapopan. The most interesting verse of the song, however, is in the very last stanza: “Guadalajara, Guadalajara, tienes el alma más mexicana.” Aside from opening a cuadro that presents the most iconic elements of mexicanidad, this song personifies the city of Guadalajara and makes it female, tying it to the nation while emphasizing some of the city’s most “exotic” and traditional elements.

After the first song ends, fourteen charros enter the stage dancing to “Son de la

Culebra.” The male dancers wear the costume as described by Nájera Ramírez, which includes a black charro suit with silver brooches on the outside of the legs and a big red bow tie. Moving in a single file, they one-by-one, gallantly take off their hats for the

audience while executing a strong zapateado, reminiscing how the charros in ranchera films of the 1940s and 1950s starring Jorge Negrete or Pedro Infante would salute the women when entering a scene. The charros continue moving through the stage to form a straight diagonal and, just before the song ends, offer a joyful and very distinctive grito:

“Hey!” From my experience as a ballet folklórico dancer, I often saw companies begin their Jalisco cuadro by introducing the male dancers first. Maestra Silvia Lozano, for instance, said to me that she likes opening the cuadro with the men to “start strong.”

The next song, “Tranchete,” offers another opportunity for the dancers to display their virility. In this particular piece, the charros open their chests, hold their fisted hands behind their backs, strongly stomp on the floor and daringly look at the audience with their straight upper bodies. In a strong evocation of the nation, they dance almost exactly the same; there is no room for individual expression but rather they evoke a hyper- masculine, unified corps de ballet.

Not surprisingly, the songs in this suite recount stories of “traditional” heterosexual love. Trujillo (1974) writes that both sones and jarabes are influenced by folk legends that describe men courting women or men saving woman from despair. For example, “Son de la Culebra” narrates the story of a woman washing clothes in a river when a snake (the culebra) approaches. There are several versions as to how this story ends, and in each of them the woman cries for help, to which the charro responds with courage and valor, sometimes getting bit by the snake, sometimes triumphing over the snake and saving the woman (Trujillo 49).

Another example of the suite, and the next song of the cuadro is “Son de la

Negra.” This popular song tells the story of a beautiful black woman that the charro courts. Composed by Blas Galindo in 1940, “La Negra” is most often featured in the

Jalisco cuadros of many ballet folklórico companies due to its vibrant music and the grandiose skirt movements. The famous lyrics of the song are written below:

Negrita de mis pesares, Little black woman of my sorrows, ojos de papel volando. eyes like fluttering paper. Negrita de mis pesares, Little black woman of my sorrows, ojos de papel volando. eyes like fluttering paper.

A todos diles que sí, You tell them all yes, pero no les digas cuando but you don't tell them when. Así me dijiste a mí, That is what you told me; por eso vivo penando! that is why I live in suffering

Cuando me traes a mi negra, When will you bring me my black que la quiero ver aquí woman? Con su rebozo de seda, I want to see her here que le traje de Tepic. with her silk shawl that I brought her from Tepic.

The BFM’s version of the famous “Son de la Negra” is stylized and presentational. In it, the women wear the china poblana costume, made up of a silky red skirt with an underskirt ending in a zigzag cut, red character shoes, and a peineta on their heads –a very Spanish look. They gracefully execute a refined faldeo and their footwork is elegant and light. The men, however, start with movement and posture that emphasizes their ruggedness as they court the women: their gaze is down, their hands clenched in fists behind their backs, and their stomps are strong and sharp. Nájera Ramírez describes that in folk dances “while the woman flirted seductively, only the male made the first overt move towards establishing a relationship” (7). In other words, she does not ever

kiss him, but rather places her face very close to his, and they both repeat this teasing throughout the song in the midst of quick turns and other dance movements. As another marker of the rigid gender binary, the chinas dance much of the piece on one section of the stage while the charros dance opposite them on the other side of the stage, emphasizing how roles for women and for men are truly polar opposites in Mexico.

The last and most iconic number of the cuadro is “Jarabe Tapatío.” Starting with a single couple, this dance features highly stylized skirt movement and an even more presentational style. For instance, the women hold the skirt very high up with their elegant arms and keep their chest open throughout the dance. Moreover, when they turn around, they execute a beautiful renversé (the arching of the back that occurs during a turn), their eyes never leaving their partner. The most iconic part of this dance comes when the charro drops the hat between him and the china poblana, and they both dance around it; this section might be the reason why the dance is known outside of Mexico as the “Mexican Hat Dance.” The china poblana performs an elegant bow to pick up the hat, and the charro kicks around and on top of her head in what culminates in a swift turn. For the finale, the happy couples face the audience while the female dancer holds the hat up in the air. They finish in an open position, as the charro kneels down and the china poblana places a foot on top of the charro’s knee and bends her back in an astonishing display of flexibility.

In this piece, dancers not only perform in normative gender roles, but the company also yells a vibrant “¡Viva México!” right before the “diana,” the last part of the dance. The eighteen couples on stage make an effective attempt to tell you, the audience,

that this dance is indeed a celebration of our country, a performance of Mexico. Adding to the nationalist chant, the live mariachi band plays right in front of a backdrop painted with a monumental colonial cathedral, which embodies the three pillars on top of which

Mexico became its own nation at the end of the Independence war in 1821: Catholicism, independence, and mestizaje. The ultimate aim of this dance is to inspire each viewer to feel “orgulloso de ser mexicano” (proud of being Mexican).

CONCLUSION By analyzing BFM’s Fiesta en Jalisco, I present evidence as to how the most performed dance pieces of ballet folklórico, “Jarabe Tapatío” and “Son de la Negra,” perpetuate heteronormative gender roles through the characters of the china poblana and the charro. Besides presenting a rigid gender binary, Hernández’s vision of Jalisco also forwards ideas of machismo and heterosexism. In addition, these dances push forward a nationalist discourse of mestizaje that reaches both domestic and international audiences in festivals such as Festival Internacional Cervantino. As a ballet folklórico practitioner myself, I can attest to how maestros of the form have been teaching these dances for decades following the style created by Hernández in the 1950s and wonder: how can I begin to unpack these gender stereotypes and possibly challenge a dance that has become the most iconic image of Mexico?

Chapter 3: El son jarocho: Racism, Stereotypes, and Exoticism in Ballet Folklórico

“Our third root, our African heritage is completely ignored; which is to say the cultural legacy that comes from the African population brought to American territory is neglected” (Cruz-Carretero 73).

Veracruz is one of the most culturally diverse states in Mexico. La Villa Rica de la Veracruz, its colonial name, was the port of entrance for Hernán Cortés, since its geographical location by the Gulf of Mexico and its close distance to Mexico City made it an accessible gateway for colonization. Thus, it is not surprising that African people, brought to Mexico through the slave trade, entered Mexico primarily through Veracruz.

Over time, indigenous, Spanish, and African peoples mixed and birthed a hybridized culture that integrated elements from its three roots. The African people and their descendants became an important yet invisible part of the population.

Fiesta en Veracruz (1959), (also titled Fiesta Veracruzana or Fiesta en

Tlacotalpan), with its incredibly fast zapateado and elegant costumes, has become one of the most iconic works not only in Amalia Hernández’s Ballet Folklórico de México but in every other folk dance company. Because it incorporates dance numbers such as “El

Pájaro Carpintero,” “Morena,” “Coco,” and “La Bamba,” this cuadro has become representative of jarocho culture from the state of Veracruz, specifically the historical region of Sotavento.

The history of colonization in Mexico dates back to the 16th century, however, the concept of exploitation of the “other” for the consumption of a few remains as current as it was in times of the Spanish conquest. Although Hernández aimed to present jarocho culture positively in Fiesta en Veracruz following mestizaje ideology through stylized

and virtuosic performance, I argue in this chapter that the piece (re)presents racists stereotypes and minstrelsy in its rendition of the carnaval. While replicating racist tropes, the bodies on stage are, ironically, almost too “white”: in fact, BFM dancers possess tall, thin bodies and light brown complexions, that reinforce European ideals. Is this the most accurate way to represent the people of Veracruz, one of Mexico’s most racially diverse regions? Drawing on Anita Gonzalez-El Hilali’s Performing Mestizaje: Official Culture and Identity in Veracruz, Mexico, I analyze a performance of Fiesta en Veracruz filmed at the Festival Internacional Cervantino 2016 to comment on the company’s appropriation of jarocho and Afro-Mexican culture in service of Hernández’s nationalist agenda.

THE HISTORY OF COLONIZATION IN VERACRUZ The history of racial diversity in Veracruz dates back to the Spanish conquest.

The Totonacas arrived in Jalapa, Veracruz around 1313 while Black people, coming mainly from Africa, were brought into Mexico by the Spanish conquistadores. Leonardo

Pasquel writes in Cronología Ilustrada de Xalapa: 1178-1911 that “because the city sits along one of the major thoroughfares that connect Veracruz Port with Mexico City, it later became an important colonial town” (qtd. in Gonzalez-El Hilali 94). The Spanish conquistadores first brought African peoples into the country through Veracruz in the

16th century, mainly through the town of Orizaba, and then through Tuxpan and

Campeche, which became the main centers for slave distribution in the Nueva España

(Cruz-Carretero 73).

During colonial times (1521-1810), Black enslaved people labored in sugar plantations and other industries or served as domestics in large haciendas (Cruz-

Carretero 73). As Pepe Lozano describes in the article “Embracing the African Presence in Mexico,” (2006) “Africans worked in the sugar and silver industries helping to establish Mexico City and many other cities and towns throughout Mexico” (1). Since indigenous people were dying in increasing numbers in the most tropical areas of the

Nueva España such as Veracruz, the Spanish replaced them with African enslaved people in much of the hard-labor (Cruz-Carretero 74).

Some slaves, however, reacted to the system of oppression and were able to rebel against it. They ran away from the haciendas and built up palenques, which became the name for safe houses for those with enough luck to escape their owners: “These fugitive slaves received the name of maroons or cimarrones. Orizaba was the perfect place to establish palenques, since it is located in the middle of mountains in Veracruz. In this location, a cimarrón of the name of Yanga lead a group of maroons that stayed fugitive for 30 years” (Cruz-Carretero 75). Since Spaniard troops had a difficult time subverting this group of rebels, they granted them the opportunity to establish a free town exclusive to black people. In 1630, the cimarrones established the Free Township of San Lorenzo de los Negros, near Córdoba in Veracruz. San Lorenzo, which later adopted the name of

Yanga in honor of the first runaway slave leader, became a place for racial mixing between Spanish, Indigenous and black populations (Cruz-Carretero 75).

The racial mix between blacks and Indians or blacks and Spanish, however, was not as highly regarded as the mix between Spanish and Indian. The process of mestizaje

placed an emphasis on what it meant to be truly Mexican. According to Vaughn “much of mexicanidad hinges in large part on the rather hegemonic assumption that Mexico is a mestizo nation–a nation that is a racial mixture of Indians and Spaniards” (54). Where does that leave black mestizos, or mulatos? As a response to this differentiation between mestizos and themselves, Afro-Mexicanos created a clear distinction between themselves and indigenous, since indigenous peoples represented the other group that was at a social disadvantage against the mestizos. For instance, “blacks hold a generally pejorative view of Indians, not unlike the general view held by mestizos –Indians are poor, ignorant, backward, etc” (Vaughn 51). Still, the mestizo majority oppressed both Indigenous people and Afro-Mexicanos.

In present-day Mexico, there is not a significant effort to acknowledge the African root of our mestizaje. Since Afro-Mexicanos mostly live in the Costa Chica in the state of

Guerrero, the people from Mexico City and other urban areas do not recognize this part of Mexican history. In the words of Vaughn, Afro-Mexicanos “face subtle racism, and are targets of racial stereotypes, some of which they, unfortunately, subscribe to. Being black affects who they want to (or feel they can) marry, and to a certain extent, it affects their own expectations of themselves” (54). In other words, the Mexican mestizo majority has ignored Afro-Mexican contributions to the development of the country since colonial times. For instance, as part of the nationalist project during the post-revolutionary period, most artistic manifestations failed to appropriately include the Afro-Mexican influence in works of art or literature. Amalia Hernández, nonetheless, made an effort to represent the

Mexican black heritage of the Gulf state in her cuadro Fiesta en Veracruz. Looking at

Hernández’s piece, however, I wondered: are Afro-Mexicanos really represented?

THE SOUTH OF VERACRUZ: BIRTHPLACE OF THE SON JAROCHO The “domestic exotic,” as I explain in Chapter 1, was exploited by artists looking to create work that appealed to both a domestic and an international audience. Anita

Gonzalez-El Hilali has argued that artists like Hernández traveled to the provinces to gather songs and dances from Totonac, Zapotec and the jarocho tradition to bring to

Mexico City: “Veracruz, with its multi-racial population and persistent jarocho heritage, was ideally situated as a breeding ground for the invented mythos of the Mexican province” (Gonzalez-El Hilali 105). As such, Veracruz became the perfect device with which to create a culturally rich, national identity.

The region famously represented in Hernández’s Fiesta en Veracruz is that of southern Veracruz, which comprises land between the rivers Papaloapan and Tonalá.

Alfredo Delgado Calderón writes in Historia, Cultura e Identidad en el Sotavento (2004) the history of this rich region, which was inhabited by indigenous, Blacks and Spanish people and as such, became the melting pot for diverse cultural elements and traditions.

The south of Veracruz is divided among several regions itself, which are the Tuxtla, the

Santa Martha Sierra, the basin of the Papaloapan or the Coatzacoalcos or the industrial corridor, the valley of Uxpanapan and the plains of the beach of Vicente-San Juan.

Altogether, this region receives different names such as the metropolitan Olmec area,

Veracruz meridional, south of Veracruz, basin of the Papaloapan, Sotavento and Isthmus of Veracruz (Delgado Calderón 13).

Extending from southern Veracruz to parts of Oaxaca and Tabasco, the Sotavento has very distinguished cultural traits that were born out of the mix of cultures of the

“mestizos, nahuas, popilucas, mixes, mazatecos, zapotecos and chinantecos.” This region, however, also integrates other elements such as the “quema del año viejo, la rama, los portalitos, el carnaval, el complejo culebreros-hombres rayo” the agriculture of tubers, the caldo de piedra, the sancturaies of Otatitlán and Catemaco, the dances, the mythology, among others (Delagdo Calderón 31). Nevertheless, the element that most distinguishably identifies the Sotavento is the son jarocho. Created in the second half of the 18th century out of rites of passage such as births, baptisms, weddings, and funerals, the music of the son jarocho was played by jaraneros (Delgado Calderón 37). The music of the son jarocho was festive, and jaraneros played “using numerous stringed instruments and incorporating dance and song/poetry” (González-El Hilali 366). The son jarocho, moreover, became a part of the fandango, a name that was given to the gathering of people not only in Veracruz, but the whole coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the center and the western part of the country. Originated by blacks and mulato fishermen and sailors, the fandangos were attended by Afro-mestizo cowboys, muleteers, and militiamen

(Delgado Calderón 37). Black communities of the south of Veracruz celebrated important life events in the form of fandangos, which included live music and dance.

The Mexican Revolution of 1910 brought important changes to the life of the

Veracruzanos but, surprisingly, the son jarocho did not diminish in popularity. According to Delgado Calderón, “even in the 30s and 40s of the 20th century, the son jarocho seemed strong and vital” (46). In the second half of the 20th century, however, with the

arrival of Veracruz-born Miguel Alemán to the Mexican presidency, a new form of son called “son comercial” became popular. This style was aestheticized to cater to a new audience of mass media.

In the 1950s, artists began exploring folkloric traditions of the provinces in the areas of music, dance, theater, cooking, and regional costuming in a “scientific” manner

(Gonzalez-El Hilali 150). Maestro Miguel Velez Arceo, founder and director of the Ballet

Folklórico de la Universidad Veracruzana (1964), spoke to Anita Gonzalez in an interview on how the artistic impulse to find folkloric material in the otherwise relegated areas of the country indeed started in Mexico City but dispersed quickly to the provinces.

A contemporary of Hernández, he compared his work to hers. His work, he commented, was rooted in “intensive anthropological, investigative techniques” since his company needed to “fulfill university expectations of research-based performance” (Gonzalez-El

Hilali 150-151). For Velez, there was no competition between him and Hernández, since he was mostly focused on “working to rescue and research, where she mostly continue[d] making and creating spectacle” (qtd. in Gonzalez-El Hilali 151).

Focused on creating a vibrant image of Mexico rooted in its folkloric traditions,

Hernández created pieces that evoked a romanticized version of the dances of the

Sotavento region. This romantization set as “traditional" many elements of jarocho culture, such as the white laced dresses of the women, the hats, the red bandanas, the botines (boots) for men, the distinct garigoleo (embellishment) of the harp, and the stylized way in which dancers performed the sones. In the words of Delgado Calderón,

“the representative elements of the jarocho culture became ‘official,’ elements that had

little to do with the social context of the son and the way it was lived by the inhabitants of the Sotavento” (48). As she had done with other regions of México, Hernández created a new and aestheticized version of the jarocho culture that still, to this day, strongly represents the region of Sotavento.

Fiesta en Veracruz (now presented as Fiesta en Tlacotalpan), was presented officially by the Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández as one of the cuadros of a full-length concert in the Pan-American Games in Chicago, IL in 1959. Since then, it has become an indispensable piece in her repertory. After performing the piece nationally and internationally for more than 60 consecutive years, Hernández’s representation of

Veracruz has permanently permeated jarocho culture to the point where the fandangos taking place in Veracruz today have incorporated aesthetic elements created by

Hernández in the 1950s. In fact, the once “traditional” fandangos now contain visual and musical elements that are a mix of the original celebration and those crafted by

Hernández and other promoters of the “son commercial.”

By creating her famous cuadro Fiesta en Veracruz, Hernández permeated the social imaginary of jarocho culture all over the world. Beyond the Sotavento region in

Veracruz, thousands of young and old jaraneros and bailadores continue to perform as part of fandangos and international festivals in the United States, Venezuela, Colombia,

Bolivia, Morocco, and Germany. While some are insistent in returning to the “son tradicional,” others have incorporated research in anthropology, history, and sociology into the performance of the sones (Delgado Calderón 61). Some others, however, have come to know the sones only as envisioned by Hernández in the 1950s.

EL CARNAVAL DE VERACRUZ Another aspect that the BFM incorporated into its rendition of Fiesta en Veracruz is the famous carnival of the city of Veracruz. Andrew Grant Wood writes in

“Introducing La Reina del Carnaval: Public Celebration and Postrevolutionary Discourse in Veracruz, Mexico” (2003) that even though after the revolution ended and people from

Veracruz were adopting diverse pastimes, “no one activity proved more significant, however, than the revival of Carnival in 1925” (87). In the carnaval, the objective was to hunt the “enemy of the people,” known as Mal Humor. It is important to note, however, that the carnival underwent a transformation process before and after the revolution.

According to Wood, the new carnival was blending traditional elements of the original pre-Lenten festival of the 18th and 19th centuries with new ideologies of nationalism “to create a ritual synthesis that downplayed social conflict and contributed to the legitimation of post-revolutionary power” (88). Since Hernández choreographies pushed the nationalist discourse of the post-revolutionary period, it is not surprising that she integrated this centuries-old festivity into her famous cuadro.

The history of the carnival, nonetheless, has its origins in the poor areas of the port city of Veracruz. The carnival during colonial times started when people living in the barrios negros outside of the city created new forms of music and dance collected from

European, African and Indigenous traditions. In the late 18th century, people dressed in colorful costumes and danced to African rhythms known as chuchumbé. After the French occupied Mexico in the 1860s, imperial bureaucrats such as Archduke Maximilian decided to establish regulations to control the popular festival. In 1867, a new “Carnaval

del Imperio” restricted the celebration to only three days (Wood 92). However, after the revolution ended, a return to the idea of rebellion as part of the festival was celebrated by the post-revolutionary coalition. In the words of Wood, “Carnival would encourage a ritualistic dissolution of the old order while simultaneously disseminating post- revolutionary discourse” (93-94). Since its revival in 1925, the carnival is organized by a committee of volunteers and features dance, music, and colorful costumes and masks.

As part of the carnival, characters known as cabezudos y gigantes or mojigangas take center stage. These are larger-than life head pieces made out of sugar cane and paper that carnival performers wear as part of their costumes. The use of masks in the carnival, in fact, has origins in age old celebrations. The website of the Carnaval de Veracruz notes that “before the birth of carnival, in the beginning of civilization, the ancient pueblos utilized masks, costumes and the concept of joy and celebration in different times of the year, for which this tradition can be considered as the origin of such festivity”

(“Historia.” Carnaval de Veracruz). In Fiesta en Veracruz, Hernández incorporates elements of the “domestic exotic” present in the carnaval such as the colorful costumes and the colossal heads of the cabezudos and gigantes in an attempt to represent the popular carnival of Veracruz. Her cuadro, nonetheless, appropriates jarocho culture and presents the Afro-Mexican population of Veracruz through minstrelsy with the cabezudos of negrito and mulata.

FIESTA EN VERACRUZ: HERNÁNDEZ VERSION OF THE SOTAVENTO How does Hernández incorporate the histories of racial diversity of the Sotavento region in Veracruz? In order to look at the elements of jarocho culture present in the

cuadro, I analyze a video of a performance of Fiesta en Veracruz at the Festival

Cervantino in Guanajuato in 2016. This piece, which usually closes the first act of the evening-long performance, features the female dancers of the BFM wearing the

“traditional” jarocho costumes made of a white lace blouse and double-circular skirt with a train, a black apron embroidered with a red rose, Spanish peinetas and colorful flower and ribbon adornment on their heads, heavy jewelry, and a Spanish fan. The male dancers wear white guayaberas and white cotton pants with a red bandana tied around their necks, along with a white sombrero. The image of the jarochos is uniform and a strong representation of the state of Veracruz and its Caribbean influence.

The piece begins when the female dancers enter the stage performing a traditional danzón, “Danzón Nereidas” by Mexican composer Amador Pérez Torres “Dimas.” This

Cuban inherited music and dance style appears professional and rehearsed: the women carry their upper-bodies with lightness, as they elegantly fan themselves and tease the audience with their long eyelashes. The men enter and join their sensuous movement in what becomes a partnered dance, where symmetrical formations catch the eye of the spectator. Different from other cuadros, this piece features smooth circular hip movements. Combining Caribbean influence and Western aesthetics, Hernández showcases her formal training by choreographing a sequence that looks almost like a

European waltz.

Figure 11 “Conjunto jarocho.” Artes de México, no. 88, 1967.

After this slow and elegant danzón, a 6-piece conjunto Veracruzano enters the This content downloaded from 128.83.214.19 on Tue, 07 Apr 2020 05:05:12 UTC All use subject to https://about.jstor.org/terms stage and play a beautiful son jarocho. The all-male musical troupe wears the same costumes as the dancers: the scenery is dressed by the white costumes of the musical and dance ensemble. The harp player, executing the garigoleo described by Delgado

Calderón, takes the spotlight but quickly enough, a second harp player joins in on what becomes a musical duel. On the background, two male dancers introduce two tarimas, 4 x 4 ft. wooden platforms, on stage. The conjunto continues to play the son with lively vocal inflections that evoke acoustic images of the Sotavento. The music is syncopated and complex: the conjunto serves as harbinger of what is to come.

Immediately after the son ends, two female dancers enter the stage and stand on each of the tarimas. Once on these small-scaled stages that are reminiscent of the

fandango, they perform zapateado and faldeo to the son “Morena.” The two dancers exhibit their technical virtuosity, as they execute multiple renversé (the arching of the back that occurs during a turn) evoking synchronized swimmers who execute complicated choreography in an uncannily uniform manner. Their professional make-up, perfectly styled hair, flashy jewelry and tooth-paste smile remind me of what Mexican

Barbie dolls would look like. Like the American doll, these dancers are tall, slim, have a light-brown skin complexion and even look alike.

After “Morena,” male dancers enter the stage to show off their virtuosic footwork to the traditional son “El Pájaro Carpintero.” In this piece, the dancers’ feet are light like the flight of a woodpecker in those white botines. Similar to commercial Irish dance, their upper body stands tall while their arms hang loose but firm on their sides and their feet move in a fast and syncopated zapateado. It is quite impossible to look away from their incredibly fast-moving lower body.

I wonder, as I watch these dancers, how many of the visual, kinethic, and aural elements were adopted from traditional fandangos and how many were introduced by

Hernández in the second half of the 20th century. At this point, I do not believe it is possible to discern which elements date back to the first fandangos and which were

Hernández’s invention: they have been mixed and combined to create a new highly stylized product.

In “El Canelo,” the next piece, the dancers partner up in heterosexual couples.

The women shimmy their shoulders and fan themselves flirtatiously while looking directly at their male partners. They use the skirt to envelop the men, get close to them

but never enough to actually touch their face, similar to the careos I describe in Jalisco

(Chapter 2). After this song, “Coco,” another traditional son, features the dancers performing frontal for the receptive audience. The stage is now filled with 36 dancers moving uniformly to the live conjunto. At one point, all the male dancers get on the two tarimas while the women display their voluminous skirts. To say that this cuadro exudes joy is an understatement: the whole ensemble is a vibrant living caricature of Caribbean culture.

The dance that takes the spotlight is “La Bamba,” which became internationally famous with Ritchie Valens’ performance in the feature film La Bamba (1987), directed by Luis Valdez. This dance features a single heterosexual couple that ties a red ribbon in a big moño (bow), which signifies marriage. As this couple perform quick movement along the red ribbon, the rest of the ensemble surround them in a semi-circle while executing the lightning-speed zapateado that Veracruz is now famous for. The popular son speaks about the sailor culture of Veracruz through the lyrics “Yo no soy marinero, yo no soy marinero, soy capitán, soy capitán, soy capitán” (I am not a sailor, I am not a sailor, I’m the captain, the captain).

After the perfect execution of this famous piece, the characters of the Carnaval de

Veracruz join the ensemble: two cabezudos of a mulata and a negrito dressed as jarochos followed by three gigantic mojigangas enter the stage in colorful costumes. The two jarocho characters are a stark reminiscent of Jim Crow-era minstrelsy. The full ensemble

Figure 12 Ballet Folklórico de México dancers perform “La Bamba.” Artes de México, no. 88, 1967. of dancers join in to “Sarna” and “El negrito de Batey,” the last of the songs of the

59 cuadro. Some of them carry props of fish and other marine animals that are stuck to long poles. The female dancers shake a silver sonaja to the rhythm of the music. They

This content downloaded from 128.83.214.19 on Tue, 07 Apr 2020 05:05:12 UTC All use subject to https://about.jstor.org/terms incorporate energetic skips and circular faldeo, as well as a coquettish shoulder shimmy.

By this point, a big part of the ensemble has stepped down to the house to dance closer to the audience. At the end of the cuadro, they bow elegantly and exit the stage. (“El Ballet

Folklórico de Amalia Hernández Engalardonando el #CervantinoEnTV4 @tv4guanajuato”).

As the closing number of the BFM’s first act, Fiesta en Veracruz depicts the joy and vitality of the people of the Sotavento. Hernández’s musical and choreographic display supports the narrative of a romanticized provincial town; the inclusion of “La

Figure 13 Mulata and Negrito in Ballet Folklórico de México's Fiesta en Tlacotalpan. Chochol Veracruzano, 10 June 2015, facebook.com/photo?fbid=506187919531865&set=a.506187002865290

Bamba,” for instance, is a direct insertion of the theme of romance and marriage in the province. As imagined by the elites, the entire pueblo, represented by the ensemble, attends the jubilant celebration of the union of a heterosexual couple.

Evidencing that Hernández adapted and stylized the folk dances from the provinces, the dancers of this cuadro demonstrate presentational qualities of classical ballet. Among other examples, they face the audience with their chests open, move with an unbelievable lightness of the feet, and prove their technical virtuosity throughout the execution of the cuadro. The two women executing renversés, for instance, showcase

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53 Figure 14 Ballet Folklórico de México dancers perform “La Bamba.” Artes de México, no. 88, 1967.

their flexible backs while maintaining balance on the tarimas; the perfectly symmetrical

formations, in addition, resemble those of a corps de ballet; finally, the elegant faldeo of

This content downloaded from 128.83.214.19 on Tue, 07 Apr 2020 05:05:12 UTC the women combined with the princeAll -uselike subject attitude to https://about.jstor.org/terms of the men remind me of a character

dance in any of the classical ballets of the Russian Empire. Through the examples listed

above, Hernández adapted various aspects of jarocho culture to adhere to her aesthetic

vision of a professional dance company.

Moreover, although the cuadro is certainly spectacular, it homogenizes the

region. One example is that some of the sones, such as “Pájaro carpintero,” “Morena,”

and “Coco,” are from a different style of dance known as “Veracruz Antiguo,” not

Sotavento. In “Antiguo,” dancers wear different costumes (the women, for example, wear

a long, A-shaped flower print skirt and a simple chemise) and the body has a different

posture than in the dances of the Sotavento region. In addition, the first dance, “Danzón

Nereidas” does not belong with the sones, since danzones were primarily introduced in

dance halls and not in the fandangos. By presenting a single and uniform cuadro of the

state of Veracruz, Hernández simplifies a complex culture and presents it in a unified version of the vastly diverse region.

Through the inclusion of vivid imagery, Hernández further stereotypes and exoticizes the region of the Sotavento. As González explains “In the case of Veracruz, selected icons that symbolize Veracruz culture serve as source material for crafting.

Seacoasts, jarocho dancers, Olmec heads, and sailors are symbols of the province. Artists accept these symbols as markers, then rearrange them for artistic commentary” (118). In

“La Bamba,” for instance, Hernández uses the image of the sailor in the lyrics and the jarocho in the dance; in the carnaval, she uses the fish and sea animals, as well as the giant mojigangas to create a choreography rooted in the most “authentic” aspects of the region.

The most problematic aspect of the cuadro, however, is the inclusion of the negrito and the mulata cabezudos. As manifestations of the Cuban Teatro Bufo, these two characters perpetuate racist imagery and stereotypes of Afro-Mexicanos. Robin Moore

(2016) explains that uniquely Cuban, Teatro Bufo was in fact influenced by North

American minstrelsy traditions. Similar to American images of the Jim Crow era, the depiction of black characters in Teatro Bufo served to ridicule the African population of

19th century Cuba. In addition to blackface, the genre also included local customs as well as singing and dancing. Different from the American tradition, however, by 1880, Teatro

Bufo also depicted white and mixed-raced characters as well as a wider variety of blackface types. The history of Teatro Bufo is important to include in my analysis of

Hernández’s work, since similar to how ballet folklórico continued to differentiate among

indigenous populations, the mestizo middle class, and the cultural elite, this kind of theatre served the “colonial elites to convince themselves that that Africans were inherently inferior” to them (Moore 28).

In Teatro Bufo, a comic actor played the character of the negrito that both defined and circumscribed black behavior that extended the representation beyond the stage and into the social imaginary, reinforcing stereotypes that “the working class were motivated by greed, lust, a desire for revenge, and so forth” (Moore 34). The mulata represented a sensuous mixed-race woman. In theatre, the stock character often appeared as a domestic servant or a rumbera who sought after romantic relationships with rich white men. Like the negrito, mulatas represented a danger to the social hierarchy of the colonial society

(Moore 39).

The genre came to Mexico when blackface shows were banned in Cuba and the few troupes that survived traveled to Mexico (Moore 273). The influence of Teatro Bufo can be seen not only in Mexican and Cuban films of the mid 20th century, but also in

Hernández’s portrayal of two of their stock characters in Fiesta en Veracruz. I assert that her inclusion of the negrito and the mulata in cabezudos is akin to blackface minstrelsy.

By continuing to feature them in one of her most well-known cuadros, Hernández perpetuates a history of discrimination of people of African descent in Latin America and even worse, dresses it as a colorful celebration of Sotavento culture.

CONCLUSION Since the times of Hernán Cortés, Veracruz, a state located in the Gulf of Mexico, had the perfect location to become a main port of entrance for both Spanish and Black

peoples coming into the rest of Mexico. As such, Veracruz became an incredibly racially and culturally diverse space for the creation and practice of traditions such as the

Carnaval de Veracruz and the son jarocho. Hernández, as many other intellectuals and artists, traveled to southern Veracruz, best known as the Sotavento region, to appropriate both indigenous and African practices into the repertoire of her company, Ballet

Folklórico de México.

Fiesta en Veracruz has become one of the most famous cuadros mestizos in the repertory of the BFM through more than 60 years of performance. Nevertheless, the appropriation of certain elements of the jarocho culture in Hernández’s cuadro exoticizes the people of Veracruz. Through imagery, sound, and movement Hernández perpetuates images of heteronormativity, racism, and exoticization of jarocho culture, specially of the

Afro-Mexican population in the form of minstrelsy.

Taking images and motifs of the indigenous and Black communities of the provinces, Amalia Hernández promoted the post-revolutionary discourse that sought to incorporate aspects of folk life into the mainstream urban centers through art. Hernández, thus, appropriated movement and other folk characteristics of the communities of the

Sotavento to create a new and aestheticized version of Veracruz, one that was more easily digestible for audience consumption. Since she became “Embajadora Cultural Oficial de

México” and was entrusted as the “Emperatriz del Tesoro Mexicano del Folklor”

(“Amalia Hernández y el Ballet Folklórico de México”), Hernández had the power to re- tell the stories of the provinces. As a ballet folklórico practitioner myself I wonder, how

can I continue to practice this dance form while recognizing and navigating its problematic histories of colonialism, exoticization and racism?

Chapter 4: Violence of Appropriation: “Danza del Venado”

“Las culturas musicales indígenas de México se insertan en la vida contemporánea de México y son una ‘ventana’ auditiva a las maneras propias de habitar, interactuar, pensar, sentir el mundo […] No son culturas musicales homogéneas ni estéticas, se expresan de variadas maneras a partir de sus propias circunstancias históricas, geográficas, sociales y prácticas colaborativas” (Luna Ruiz 34).

While most cuadros of the repertoire of the Ballet Folklórico de México portray the ideology of mestizaje in pieces such as Veracruz, Jalisco, and Chiapas, there are some that carry the ideology of indigenismo to show the most “exotic” aspects of indigenous communities. The most famous piece in this category of dances is without a doubt “Danza del Venado.” Featured in the marketing material of the company through the image of a bare-chested male dancer wearing a loincloth and the head of a deer as a headpiece, "Danza del Venado” has become a signature piece in Hernández’s Ballet

Folklórico de México. In “Danza del Venado,” Hernández depicts the indigenous Yaqui of the states of Sonora and Sinaloa.

This practice of adapting a Yaqui dance to the stage evidences how Hernández capitalized off a culture that has been victim to repeated efforts of colonization since the conquest took place in the 16th century. The notions of mexicanidad continue to permeate the social imaginary through Hernández’s legacy, which in the case of the

Yaqui culture, is represented through her stylized, appropriated version of a traditional dance. Drawing on Dwight Conquergood’s methodology for ethical ethnographic research (1991; 1985), Erich Hatala Matthes’s theorizations of cultural oppression and appropriation (2019), and Kristie Dotson’s categorization of testimonial oppression

(2011), I argue that Hernández’s practice of appropriation and stylization of indigenous dances, specifically in “Danza del Venado,” constitutes a form of violence.

Figure 15 Ballet Folklórico de Bellas Artes Advertisement; El Espectador [Jalisco] 3 Nov. 1961.

ESSENCE AND AUTHENTICITY Maestra Lozano recounts that when her own father went to see her dance with

Hernández, he astutely pointed out that what the BFM was presenting “was not folklore.”

He reminded Lozano “remember, we have been there and over there and that is not how people do it.” After some thought, she agreed with him. “Tiene razón,” she said. “That is not folk, exactly as it should be. That essence is lacking.” In talking about Hernández’ work, Lozano pointed that pieces such as Guerrero and “Son de la Negra” feature

astonishing leg raises. “What we do is called danza escénica because the originality is lost at the moment you take that dance out of its place of origin,” she said. “I cannot say

‘I’m original,’ because even if that is so, it’s already left its origin, it’s already lost its authenticity.”

For Lozano, folklórico choreographers should strive to preserve the “essence” of the region in the adaptation from the pueblo to the stage. This strive for “essence,” though, is a response of what I would call “White-xican privilege” or the privilege of whiter-skinned mestizos in Mexico. Anthea Kraut explains in her book Choreographing the Folk: The Dance Stagings of Zore Neale Hurston (2008) that for folk practitioners,

“its primary value has been its perceived untaintedness by the ‘corrupting’ forces of modernization, urbanization, and commercialization, generally figured as its

‘authenticity’” (25). In Mexico, many ballet folklórico directors indeed pride themselves in how their work is as close as possible to the “authentic” dances of the pueblos when in reality, there is no single “authentic” dance; as a form that evolves with the people, folk dances change and adapt to the new generations. For Kraut, who studies the stagings of black folk dance in the U.S., this “authenticity” is a constructed category.

In fact, when I danced for Lozano, I heard many colleagues, including Maestra

Lozano herself, comment how the work of BFM is highly-stylized and thus has lost the

“essence” of the cuadros in this transformation. Kraut argues that such notions of

“artistry and authenticity” insist on preserving “essential” elements of folk dances (210).

These terms, however, are “socially constructed categories that have something to do with the reproduction of race, class, and gender hierarchies and the policing of the

boundaries of modernism” (Kelly qtd. in Kraut 211). In other words, when modern dance artists claim to be able to extract the “essence” or preserve the “authenticity of the folk,” such claims reveal race and class privilege, while underscoring differences between choreographers and the people they claim to represent. Thus, like the white, American artists of the 1930s who appropriated black folk dance into their (white) modern dances,

Hernández, influenced by the ideology of indigenismo, combined Euro-American dance technique with both the movements and ritual practices of indigenous cultures.

In recent years, dance historians have explored how Euro-American modern dance choreographers took from the “Otherness” of foreign cultural expressions to legitimate their female bodies. Such strategies aided them to desexualize the female body, which was often seen as “available” in the early 20th century. Ruth St. Denis, for instance, made a career in dance by drawing upon Orientalism to create her main body of work. As

Rebecca Rossen (2011) has argued, this modern dance ideology “suggested that (white) modern choreographers could encapsulate the essence of an ethnic or racial group and universalize this material for the theatrical stage, whereas (non-white) ethnic dance artists merely presented an unadulterated, authentic enactment of their heritage” (337-38). Like

St. Denis, Hernández, a mestiza, which she publicly claimed herself to be, aimed to encapsulate the “essence” of folk dances in the pieces she created for the theatrical stage.

According to Rossen, distinctions between white and “ethnic” dancers reinforced a dichotomy between “high” art and “low” art. In the case of Hernández, this differentiation indeed positioned her work as “high art,” whereas the dances of the

pueblos were considered to be only a source, or raw material, that needed to be transformed into art.

HERNÁNDEZ’S ETHNOGRAPHY METHODS As a mestiza, Hernández came into contact with regional and indigenous dances from a colonial context. As an example, her family frequently employed the company’s musicians to perform in “peasant attire” in front of guests in business suits. As such,

Hernández learned to exoticize the folk traditions of Mexico as part of colonial methods of objectification of the colonized (Hutchinson 218-219).

As I explain in Chapter 1, Hernández promoted indigenismo in service of the nationalistic project of the post-revolutionary period by creating pieces with the “Indian” as the center, which made up a big part of the repertoire she frequently presented in and out of Mexico (Hutchinson 211). Nowadays, the company still includes these pieces in most of the performances. In a video of a presentation at the closing ceremony of the

Festival Cervantino in Guanajuato, Mexico in 2016, for example, the company begins its performance with Matachines, a stylized version of the Matachines dance from the northern state of Chihuahua. (“El Ballet Folklórico de Amalia Hernández

Engalardonando el #CervantinoEnTV4 @tv4guanajuato”).

The indigenismo present in Hernández’s repertory is, however, the result of problematic ethnographic work. Viviana Basanta, Hernández’ youngest daughter and former dancer of the BFM, explains in the company’s official documentary how

Hernández created her choreographic work. According to Basanta, Hernández had two very distinct methods for developing her pieces. The first method involved working with

material of indigenous communities that were still alive and that had an active dance tradition, such as the Purépechas in Michoacán. Supported by anthropologists, Hernández studied the dance profoundly and attended that community’s festivities. Once in the region, she talked to “informantes,” instructors of the region who were experts of the tradition she was studying and sometimes, she would bring them to Mexico City. With the information she gathered, she created a general design and often added a narrative to dramatize the pieces.

The second method, or what Basanta called “the dances that did not exist, because from the pre-conquest dances there was nothing left,” involved a more creative approach.

Hernández would look at ancient codices and talk to anthropologists and historians. From a drawing in the codex or from the shape of a pyramid, she would start developing movement until she “arrived at another figure.” This is how she would compose movement from something that “did not exist,” said Basanta.

Figure 16 “El Pueblo del Sol.” I.N.B.A presenta Ballet Folklórico de Bellas Artes: Primer Premio en el Festival del Teatro de las Naciones en Paris. Palacio de Bellas Artes, 1961.

Experts in anthropological studies of the regions Hernández’s visited to conduct research, however, had grievances about her methods for collecting data, specifically about the “dances that did not exist.” Mayan Studies scholar Ramón Arzápalo, full-time researcher of the UNAM, said in an interview to Proceso (1986) that the Mayan piece in the BFM’s repertory “is not folklórico, it is simply invented.” Arzápalo recounted that when visiting Yucatán, Hernández spoke to Maestro Alfredo Barrera Vázquez but only to solicit information regarding costuming. “I didn’t see her conduct any kind of research,” said Arzápalo. For Arzápalo, when languages are translated from one culture to another, they are often transferred as isolated elements, which with a bad translation, give an air of primitivism and exoticism that does not really exist in the original. “That is a result,” said, Arzápalo “of the intellectual or academic unfitness from the interpreter or translator.” “Without a deep understanding of the Mayan culture and its systematization,” added Arzápalo, “everything that is done is a speculation, there is no guarantee.”

Regarding the dances from the communities that were still alive, there is much to be said on Hernández’s ethnographic methods. As mentioned by Basanta and by

Hernández herself in the 1992 documentary, her research included traveling to the location, filming the original piece, and taking “su esencia, su estilo y empiezo a hacer la coreografía” (“I take their essence, their style and I start to make the choreography”

““Amalia Hernández y el Ballet Folklórico de México - Entrevista y Documental de

1992.”). Dwight Conquergood writes in “Rethinking Ethnography: Towards a Critical

Cultural Politics,” that “the obligatory rite-of-passage for all ethnographers –doing fieldwork–requires getting one’s body immersed in the field for a period of time

sufficient to enable one to participate inside that culture” (180). For Conquergood, good ethnographic work involves the participation of those performing the research. In the

1992 documentary, Hernández does not mention participating in the festivities or returning to work with the members of the community from whom she has taken the dance pieces for her repertoire; she stays distanced from the subject(s) of study.

Indeed, Hernández’s ethnographic practices go directly against what

Conquergood deemed as dialogical performance in “Performing as a Moral Act: Ethical

Dimensions of the Ethnography of Performance.” This “dialogical performance” is a genuine conversation between the ethnographer and communities. Because of

Hernandez’s detachment from the cultural practices of the pueblos, I would categorize

Hernandez as being guilty of the “rip-off,” or the appropriator, in Conquergood's four pitfalls of ethnography. According to Conquergood, “the sin of this performative stance is

Selfishness. A strong attraction toward the other coupled with extreme detachment results in acquisitiveness instead of a genuine inquiry” (6). Attracted to the indigenous peoples of Mexico for what Western audiences deemed as their “exotic nature” and traditional practices, Hernández conducted this research in an egotistical and colonialist exploitation of the culture of these communities. Although her intentions of taking the “essence” of the dances from a variety of communities might have not been as obscure as the definition of the appropriator indicates, there is a definite monetary gain by the company that performs these dances for a paying public and no comparable benefit for the community that has been ransacked of their cultural practices. César Delgado, researcher from the CENIDI Danza “José Limón,” has publicly denounced Hernández’s

commercialization of indigenous dances. “While the groups that create and practice folk dance live in misery,” he said, “Ms. Hernández has amassed wealth.” He added, “that is why she should be taxed and the collected amount should benefit the needs of the carriers of folklore” (qtd. in Manzano).

Hernández’s vision and her methods for appropriating folk dances to turn them into spectacle for a paying public is an abuse of power. She “rips off” material from communities, enabling capitalist consumption of the indigenous other. In referencing her work, Hernández affirms that she “make(s) it for the theatre, make(s) it for the public, make(s) it for the spectacle” (“Ballet Folklórico de México”). When visiting the communities, Hernández was looking to find choreographic resources to formalize and exoticize through her stylized adaptations. “Mi inspiración es fácil de que surja porque el folklor de México es muy rico; está vivo en un porcentaje muy alto. He encontrado material en todas partes.” (My inspiration is easy to find because the folklore of Mexico is very rich; it is alive in a very high percentage. I have found material everywhere

“Ballet Folklórico de México”). As Conquergood noted, “potential performers of ethnographic materials should not enter the field with the overriding motive of ‘finding some good performance material’,” which was the main purpose of Hernández’s field work (6). Hernández, as part of the nationalist movement, was exploiting the culturally rich indigenous communities for the creation of an aestheticized, modern performance of

Mexico.

The critiques to her appropriative methods, however, did not seem to burden her.

In an interview between Hernández and Lewis Segal from Los Angeles Times (1997),

Segal pointed out that the BFM’s success have led folklorists and specialists to criticize

Hernández for how she theatricalizes Mexican dance and fails “to accurately preserve the complexities that make it unique” (2). Hernández’s response was to insist that the artist has the right to put a stamp on the material and compared her adaptation of folk dances to how Bartok, Mozart, and Brahms adapted folk music. For Hernández “the very idea of professionalism imposes change” (qtd. in Segal 5).

Although Segal’s article focuses on Hernández’s version of the Guelaguetza, an annual festival that celebrates the diverse dances of the state of Oaxaca, I believe her general approach to autochthonous dances is relevant to my discussion of “Danza del

Venado” for how she incorporates materials from indigenous communities in Mexico. In his article, Segal features the comments of José Guadalupe Villareal, a Zapotec dancer from Oaxaca that objects to Hernández’s version of the Guelaguetza on two issues. First, is the matter of ownership. “Historically,” said Villarreal, “we have hieroglyphics in our ancient pyramids that show how this dance has always been part of our culture, going back to 500 years before Christ, when the Zapotec kingdom flourished” (qtd. in Segal 3).

Second, is the matter of adaptation, Villarreal told Segal. “She changed a lot of the steps and made it very stylized. You see her dancers mostly walking and this whole dance is about jumping. She also changed the story of the dance and changed the tradition, which is important to keep” (Villarreal qtd. in Segal 3).

FROM THE PUEBLOS’ FOLK DANCES TO BALLET FOLKLÓRICO

“Before Amalia there was folklore, there was ballet and modern dance, but there was no ballet folklórico” — “Amalia Hernández y el Ballet Folklórico de México.”

According to Basanta, after Hernández collected the dances from the regions, she would bring them to Mexico City, where she created the general choreographic design and added a narrative to dramatize the piece. Folklorists in Mexico, however, have described how when choreographers take folk dances from the autochthonous communities to theatricalize them and adapt them to the stage, the dances in fact transform into something completely different and are no longer considered folk dances.

Professor Rodolfo Muzquiz writes about the nature of folkloric dances in Mexico. For

Muzquiz, folklore strictly means that the material is “popular, anonymous, oral, collective, functional.” For Muzquiz, to transfer a folk dance to the stage will ensure that the dance will lose its “objective and function, its spontaneity, its freshness, its reason to be” (50). In other words, the very nature of folk dance ties it to the geography and the community in which it is danced; to stage a folk dance will inherently modify the piece.

In addition, Muzquiz argues that choreographers take the form but not the content of the dance due to a lack of understanding of the tradition. He claims that choreographers often lack the "knowledge of the what and the why” (54) and in the adaptation, the dance pieces undergo a comprehensive transformation that is not always positive. Muzquiz adds that these misunderstandings yield to stylized costumes, often created by foreign designers, and “big gift bows on the head,” (54) which is the case of many ballet folklórico companies. Maestra Lozano comments that when she was dancing for Hernández, she brought Dasha, an American designer to stylize the costumes, which directly relates to Muzquiz’s comment on the styling of the traditional garments.

Hernández’s practices of adaptation from the field to the stage, her so-called

“borrowing” of material, is a violent form of cultural appropriation.

DANZA DEL VENADO: TRADITIONAL V. HERNÁNDEZ’S ADAPTATION. Originally from the Yaqui community of the northern states of Sonora and

Sinaloa, “Danza del Venado” represents the hunting of a deer, an important symbol in

Yaqui culture. Diana Brenscheidt Genannt Jost (2017) offers a comparison between the

Ballet Folklórico de México’s adaptation of “Danza del Venado” and the traditional dance of the Yaqui and Mayo cultures. She discusses the difference in costumes and the incorporation of athleticism as part of the process of exoticization that the BFM carried on in an effort to export Mexican culture to world fairs, such as the ones in Paris and

London and the Pan-American games in Chicago.

In the BFM’s famous version of the piece, the deer dances in an expression of desperation at realizing he is about to be hunted. The deer is often played by a highly- defined muscular man of the company, who, similar to the traditional folk dance, wears the head of a deer as headpiece on top of a long dark wig. The sound underscoring the piece is percussive; rattlers and horns create an ambience of exotic mystery through the venue’s speakers. In addition, the backdrop upstage that depicts the dry Sonoran Desert suggests a mysterious, faraway land.

The dance opens with two Yaqui hunters wearing white muslin shirts and pants, a black bandana on their heads, and rattler cuffs around their ankles. They move across the stage through skilled jumps and kick their legs higher than 90 degrees in the air. With rehearsed synchronicity, they execute movements that reflect their technical ballet and

Figure 17 The Hunters in Hernández's "Danza del Venado." BalletfolklóricodeMéxico.com.mx modern dance training. The dramatic interpretation of the dance indicates the beginning of a ritual of esoteric nature. A minute into the dance, sounds of an upset wild creature are played through the theatre. The deer enters the stage leaping through the air with virtuosity reminiscent of that of a prince of a Russian ballet, like Nijinsky or Nureyev in

Le Spectre de la Rose. However, he also incorporates body movement that reflect his animalistic nature: he contorts, contracts his chest, flexes his upper body muscles, runs around the stage with apprehension, quickly switches direction, changes weight, suddenly jerks his leg, shakes the rattles on his hands and ankles, and puppeteers the head of the deer to mimic the deer’s more “natural” moves. His whole demeanor indicate that he is indeed aware of what is about to befall. Wearing nothing but the headpiece, rattler cuffs

around his ankles, and a leather loincloth that only covers his pelvis, the deer offers a

marvelous display of male prowess and strength.

Voices of Yaqui chants enter the soundscape to accompany the percussive rattlers.

Suddenly, the hunters come back on stage with bows in hand encroaching aggressively

close to the deer. The deer moves quickly to avoid his fate while the hunters kick high in

the air resembling martial arts fighters. One of the hunters shoots an invisible arrow and

hits the deer, who receives the hit with a painful chest contraction and falls to the floor

but gets up fast enough to try and run away from his predator. Nevertheless, he is too

weak: his wound slows him down. Knowing they have completed their task, the hunters

leave him alone on stage. The deer resists dying; he contorts, jerks his legs and arms and

tries to get up but it is all in vain. The music dwindles down as our protagonist begins to

Figure 18 El Venado in Hernández's "Danza del Venado." BalletfolklóricodeMéxico.com.mx

100

accept his fate and the lights go out as he lies immobile on stage.

Significantly, in the traditional Yaqui “Danza del Venado,” the deer does not execute virtuosic leaps or bodily contortions. As Edward H. Spicer writes in his ethnography Los Yaquis: Historia de una Cultura (1994), it is difficult to truthfully interpret a dance such as this one. In attempting to understand them, Spicer argues “we must rely, as usual, to selection and risk, as usual, the chance to distort the reality” (116).

In the chapter titled “Las Artes Religiosas: Teatro, Danza y Bufonada,” Spicer claims that for Yaquis, religion is very closely tied to their cultural expressions. While drama as a religious manifestation has been limited to ceremonial practices, dance has been omnipresent in their culture, both as sacred –such as the “Danza de Matachines”– and commercial –such as “Danza de los Pascolas.” Thus, while the “Danza de los Pascolas” is an important element of the Yaqui religious community “puede que sea separada de ese contexto religioso con fines comerciales” (it might be separated from that religious context with commercial purposes) (Spicer 121). The “Danza de las Pascolas” are, at its core, a dance that features a soloist, rather than a group performance. Each “pascola” dancer has an individual style that focuses on the use of the arms, posture, and some individually created movement. Different from the “Matachines,” where the performers dance for a supernatural entity, the Pascolas perform for their audience.

In describing the profane dances of the Yaquis, Spicer asserts that only one has survived: “Danza del Venado” or del Maso. Performed in tandem with the “Danza de los

Pascolas,” this dance is sometimes performed for money outside of the Yaqui communities. Spicer claims that it is indeed possible that this particular dance has

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changed essentially from sacred to partially secular in recent times (122). An important affirmation that Spicer makes regarding my main argument, is that “Danza del Venado” is never performed independently from the “Danza de los Pascolas.” Spicer claims that

“Danza del Venado” keeps some of its religious elements because, while the dancer performing the role of the deer does so for an audience, he does not acknowledge their presence, allowing the dance to maintain its sacred roots. The version of this dance that the BFM routinely performs as part of their evening-long shows does not include “Danza de los Pascolas;” “Danza del Venado” has been historically been presented on its own.

In a video that documents a “Danza del Venado” in Etchojoa, Sonora, a slim man, rather than a highly muscular dancer, plays the character of the deer. In a setting that reflects a community festivity and not a performing arts venue, I can see that the three musicians, traditionally called Masobuikame (singers of the deer), are sitting on the floor and playing a variety of percussive instruments composed of “raspadores de palo” on top of cut-out pumpkins –the same instruments Spicer describes in his ethnography. The three musicians sing in unison in the Yaqui language, which Spicer argues is sometimes

“archaic” and very difficult to translate into today’s Yaqui. The dancer who plays the deer wears a knee-length cloth, ankle cuffs with rattles, the head of the deer as a headpiece with red ribbons covering the antlers of the deer, as well as a many necklaces.

He holds two rattles in his hands and stomps barefoot on the dirt ground while shaking the rattles in rhythm with the music and song chanted by the musicians. Most importantly, there are no balletic leaps or demonstration of male prowess through the

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showing of muscles. The traditional Yaqui dance is much simpler in movement but richer in meaning and ceremony.

THE VIOLENCE OF CULTURAL APPROPRIATION The BFM’s performance of “Danza del Venado,” which has become a signature piece of their repertory, not only changes the overall aesthetics of the dance by infusing ballet and modern dance technique but also further marginalizes a community that has historically suffered oppression by the mestizo majority. By offering a problematic and exoticized vision of the dance, Hernández’s version contributes to exert violence on the

Yaqui people through cultural appropriation and testimonial smothering.

Erich Hatala Matthes (2019) has argued that cultural appropriation is a form of oppression rooted in imbalances of power. For Matthes, cultural appropriation not only constitutes silencing, exploitation, misrepresentation, and offensiveness, but it also evidences and even amplifies inequality and marginalization between two distinct groups

(1003-1004). By taking traditional dances from indigenous communities like the Yaqui,

Hernández was exploiting and misrepresenting the Indian “other” by appropriating their culture. This act of appropriation, however, has been disputed amongst scholars and artists who claim that folk material cannot be copyrighted, and as such, cannot be appropriated since it belongs to a larger community and has no particular author.

For Mexican people, myself included, it is always difficult to talk about cultural appropriation, since ethnicity in Mexico is complex. On one hand, there is an acknowledgement that most Mexicans are not direct descendants from either Indigenous nor Spanish ancestry; we belong to a third group of people, the mestizos. Most Mexicans

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are indeed the product of centuries of miscegenation, often times forced, of Indigenous and Spanish peoples. As such, mestizos understand that we do not belong to the

Indigenous groups that are still alive and active; we, after all, do not live in their communities or participate in their everyday activities. Thus, we cannot claim a right to cultural artifacts based on ancestry. On the other hand, because there is indigenous blood in our heritage, it is understandable that we might want to learn about our Indigenous ancestors’ past and cultural traditions. In addition, there are many “danzas patronales” that were inspired from pre-conquest indigenous dances but that were adopted by

Catholic celebrations, such as “Danza de Matachines,” and that are still performed today by both Indigenous and mestizo people. As such, it is particularly difficult to assert where we, mestizo Mexicans, stand in the appropriation debate. As Matthes writes, “how to understand who counts as a cultural group member is a central (and fraught) aspect of the cultural appropriation debate” (1004).

Although it is difficult to establish an absolute on what does and does not count as cultural appropriation, I view Hernández’s ethnographical and choreographic practices as cultural appropriation. For instance, Matthes argues that in the account of appropriation as oppression, cultural property is not key in understanding the cultural appropriation debate, but rather, the concept of power (1005). As part of the cultural elite of the second half of the 20th century, Hernández had considerable power in comparison to the indigenous groups from which she took and adapted the dances she now presents as

“authentic.” Following cultural appropriation literature, Matthes remarks that cultural appropriation is an extension of colonialism, and as such, “it is wrongful because of the

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ways that it infringes of group autonomy” (1010). In order for the appropriation to be ethical, groups would have the power to authorize or object the use of their cultural dances, which is not the case with the BFM performances of the "Danza del Venado.”

It is important to note, however, as the company’s official documentary points out, that Hernández’s nationalist ideology aligns with other mid-century Mexican artists.

For example, composers such as Carlos Chávez, José Pablo Moncayo, and Silvestre

Revueltas created music inspired by nationalist themes; Martín Luis Guzmán promoted the memory of caudillo Pancho Villa through his literary works; and Mexican cinema portrayed images of the costumbrista life (Documental). In other words, Hernández was not the only one taking from indigenous communities to build her repertory, but rather, she belonged to a movement that influenced a number of prominent composers, choreographers, and novelists in the 1950s.

Still, there were unethical and colonial practices in Hernández’s work that are worth discussing. As Richard Rogers has argued, “the appropriation of elements of a subordinated culture by a dominant culture without substantive reciprocity, permission, and/or compensation” (qtd. in Matthes 1005) constitutes exploitation. In regard to the relationship between BFM and the Yaquis, for example, there are no accounts of compensation or reciprocity. Most importantly, the company presents this dance for show, whereas indigenous dances are often sacred, ceremonial actions that address participants from within (not outside of) communities about their cosmovision. As

Xilonen María del Carmen Luna Ruiz writes, “for the indigenous pueblos, culture is not

‘represented’ as theatre, for them, their music and dance is reality” (35).

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Similarly, Kristie Dotson (2011) has argued that appropriation constitutes epistemic violence and silencing. She claims that through colonial epistemic violence, there is “the devastating effect of the ‘disappearing’ of knowledge, where local or provincial knowledge is dismissed due to privileging alternative, often Western, epistemic practices” (236). In relation to the BFM’s version of “Danza del Venado,”

Hernández privileged Western aesthetic values in the adaptation and stylization of the piece, thus erasing the Yaqui symbols reflected through the body of the performer.

BFM’s practice exemplifies Dotson’s concept of epistemic violence by creating

“circumstances where silencing occurs [which] can help distinguish the different ways members of oppressed groups,” in this case the Yaqui community, “are silenced with respect to giving testimony” (237).

Moreover, epistemic violence in testimony, according to Dotson, “is a refusal, intentional or unintentional, of an audience to communicatively reciprocate a linguistic exchange owning to pernicious ignorance” (238). Such ignorance does not necessarily mean the audience’s culpability, but rather the harmful practice of silencing. Dotson explains that there are two types of testimonial oppression: testimonial quieting and testimonial smothering. Testimonial quieting, on one hand, occurs when the audience

"fails to identify a speaker as a knower” (242). In the case of the “Danza del Venado,”

BFM (as interlocutors for the Yaquis) and the audience undervalue the Yaqui community as knowers based on stereotypes associated with indigenous communities –which Dotson refers to as “controlling images.” Since indigenous peoples are grouped under negative images as being “lazy” and “backwards,” their credibility as ‘knowers’ suffers. This

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epistemic violence, as Charles Mills suggests, is produced by the audience’s active practice of unknowing (qtd. in Dotson 243). Moreover, Nancy Tuana describes it as

“ignorance produced by the construction of epistemically disadvantaged identities” (qtd. in Dotson 243). In the case of the BFM audience, they execute such violence by failing to identify the speaker, in this case the Yaqui, as a knower due to pernicious ignorance in the form of negative stereotyping.

On the other hand, there is epistemic violence in what Dotson calls testimonial smothering. This type of testimonial oppression is “the truncating of one’s own testimony in order to ensure that the testimony contains only content for which one’s audience demonstrates testimonial competence” (244). This incompetence of the audience, indeed, must appear to follow from pernicious ignorance, in which the speaker changes their testimony as a type of coerced silencing because the testimony concerns “unsafe” material for the audience. In the case of “Danza del Venado,” smothering of the testimony occurs when as interlocutors for the Yaquis, the BFM, fails to mention the genocide of the Yaqui community by the Mexican government in an effort to display only comforting images, or in other words, content that will not feel “unsafe” for the audience. In their website and hand program, the company only includes the following in regard to the piece: “The ‘Danza del Venado’ is a ritualistic dance celebrated by the indigenous people of Sonora and Sinaloa. This dance is a dramatization of the hunting of the deer, cultural hero of these pueblos by the paskolas (hunters)” (“Danza del Venado”

BalletFolkloricodeMexico.com.mx). Most audience members who attend BFM’s performances are likely unaware of the Yaqui genocide and the brutal violence that this

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community suffered at the end of the 19th century by the hands of the Mexican government. By including information about the war between Mexico and the Yaquis in their performance of or program notes for the “Danza del Venado,” the BFM could make the audience understand the ways that dominant, mestizo majority has oppressed this indigenous population.

CONCLUSION “Danza del Venado” is a ceremonial dance of the Yaqui community that has been wrongfully appropriated by the most important dance company in Mexico, Ballet

Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández. By stylizing the dance through the infusion of ballet and modern dance technique, the BFM not only exoticizes but also silences and oppresses a community that has been historically marginalized and butchers the symbolic meaning of the traditional dance. Added to Hernández’s problematic adaptation is the cruel history of genocide of the Yaquis by Mexican people. Aside from completely failing to acknowledge this tragedy in their performance or their marketing materials, the

BFM also utilizes the image of the deer in most of their publicity (Hutchinson 221). As

Delgado put it: “BFM is handled as a factory. Most of the earnings go directly into the director’s pockets” (qtd. in Manzano). In sum, Hernández hides a violent past behind a virtuosic yet manipulated folk tradition that she commercializes for her company’s own benefit.

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Figure 19 BFM advertising a public performance; “¡HOY! Celebrará el Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández su 63 aniversario en el Teatro de la Ciudad Esperanza Iris”; FabricadeMitos.com, 27 May 2015. www.fabricademitos.com/hoy-celebrara-el-ballet-folklorico-de-mexico-de-amalia- hernandez-su-63-aniversario-en-el-teatro-de-la-ciudad-esperanza-iris/.

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Chapter 5: Practice as Research–México (Expropriated)

Press Release:

About México (Expropriated)

Heavy zapateado, burlesque dancing, and a mix of mariachi, son jarocho, polkas and electronic music work together to create the space for Mexicó

(expropriated), a bi-lingual cabaret performance that surveys the diverse regions of Mexicó through a discussion of its most revered danzas folklóricas. With songs such as “Son de la Negra,” "La Bruja," and “El Circo,” Jessica Penã Torres explores the folkloric diaspora of Mexico while inviting the audience to reflect upon a heritage that has been as appropriated as Carolina Herrera’s latest collection.

Under the musical direction of James Parker, Penã Torres and the ensemble will unearth long-believed traditions of ballet folklórico and put them under the microscope for the audience to cast judgement: should we keep these dances in the repertoire or should we re-choreograph them to reflect their colonial histories?

Feb 10, 2020

I can’t believe it’s been a week since rehearsals started. I get really nervous planning for rehearsals –I always think that I need to bring more material prepared, that I need to have done more, deeper research or that I have to choreograph full sections before even starting. However, I also know myself, and know that if

I’m focused, I can work really well in the studio with the dancers. After all, Marina

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and Erica are SO creative and inventive. I believe the three of us make an

incredible team.

Marina, half Puerto-Rican and half American, is an old friend I met in the

summer of 2012 when we were in undergrad. We both collaborated multiple times

in devised work with Thirteen O’Clock, a theatre company based in the Rio Grande

Valley, TX. Marina is not only a skilled actor, but also a fantastic puppeteer, a

trained dancer in modern AND folklórico, and a great deviser. As soon as I started

working on this piece, I thought of asking Marina to be a part of it. Also, she is

funny as hell. Her character’s name is Mari, short for Marina.

Figure 20 Marina DeYoe-Pedraza as "Mari." Figure 21 Erica Priscilla Saucedo as "Eri." Photo by Juan Leyva. Feb. 2020. Photo by Juan Leyva. Feb. 2020

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Erica is a new friend. She is a 1st year MFA student in the Dance and

Social Justice program here at UT. Without even seeing her dance, I knew she would be a great addition to the piece. Like me, Erica is interested in exploring the meanings ascribed to the Latina body; Erica’s focus, however, is in the experience of Latinas in the United States. Because of her Mexican heritage, Erica shares many of the customs and traditions and understands what I mean when I talk about Mexican identity. When I asked her if she would be interested in being in my piece, she did not think about it twice. Her character name is Eri, short for

Erica.

I will be playing the character of Pari, short for Parangaricutirimucuara del

Pico de Orizaba Carmen Sánchez Lozano Márquez. Inspired by the divas of the

Golden Age of Mexican Cinema (like as María Félix or Dolores del Río), I crafted this character to parody everything that is wrong with dance directors in Mexico.

As Pari, I am also embodying the figure of the one and only Amalia Hernández.

Same as Hernández, Pari is a strict, methodic visionary whose objective is to build a successful and widely recognized company. Like Hernández, she looks in the dances of the provinces and the indigenous communities for material to craft an imagined and romanticized version of Mexico that she can sell to a (paying)

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audience. Different from Hernández, however, Pari utilizes the sensuality of her female body to explore the characters of the folklórico canon.

For the first rehearsal, I laid out the plans for the piece from beginning to end. I showed them videos of the Ballet Folklórico de México performing the most iconic pieces of the repertoire, such as “Danza del Venado,” “Jalisco,” and

“Veracruz.” Since Aly, our stage manager, and Anna, our dramaturg, were in the room, they had really good questions regarding the intention for the piece. “What are we critiquing? The traditional dances or the companies that appropriate and perform them?” Although I feel that all of this is very clear to me (I have been

Figure 22 Figure 3 Jessica L. Peña Torres as "Pari." Photo by Juan Leyva. Feb. 2020.

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working on this idea for more than a year now), I understand that I need to convey the details more clearly to my collaborators. I remember James Parker, the composer, told me in a designers meeting that every time I talk about the project, things seem clearer for him. I have to remember to be clear in my communications.

AUTHOETHNOGRAPHY México (expropriated) is an embodiment of the auto-ethnographic research I undertook in the completion of this thesis. An original 70-minute-long piece of dance theatre, this work is my first try at rechoreographing ballet folklórico. Utilizing contemporary dance, folklórico zapateado, flamenco, burlesque, and text the ensemble and I developed five viñetas that explore three different cuadros of ballet folklórico. I discuss each individual viñeta in the sections below.

Very much inspired by Astrid Hadad’s 2019 summer performance of Hecha in

Mexico, which I had the chance to see in Teatro de la Ciudad Esperanza Iris in Mexico

City, I developed this piece to satirize the notions of mexicanidad as imagined by

Mexicans and non-Mexicans alike. Same as Hadad, I aim to make a feminist critical intervention in national discourses of mexicanidad. Lauded for her ability to utilize parody, irony, and satire, scholars such as Laura Gutiérrez (2010) have argued that Hadad

“takes pleasure in dismantling dominant conceptions of national, cultural, sexual, and gendered identities” (64) and has been doing so since the late 1980s.

Although the work could not come to completion due to the COVID-19 pandemic that hit the Western Hemisphere in mid-March 2020, I take this chapter as my

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opportunity to document my artistic and academic exploration of ballet folklórico following Practice as Research methodology (PaR) as delineated by Robin Nelson (2013) and Vida Midgelow (2018). As Nelson explains, in PaR methodology the doing becomes the knowing. In other words, by dancing, choreographing, writing, and performing

México (expropriated), I am both researching and providing evidence of my research inquiry. This last chapter of the thesis serves as the written documentation of the artistic process, as well as analysis of my choreographic practices as developed through the course of rehearsals. As Midgelow suggests, a PaR approach allows artist/scholars to explore the process of creating work as just as significant as the performance of that work before a live audience. Through rehearsal notes in the form of journal entries, excerpts of the script, description of choreography and my vision of the how the piece would have been had I performed it, I provide evidence of the artistic process for Mexico

(expropriated).

Following Muñoz’s concept of disidentification as described in his book

Disidentifications: Queers of Color and the Performance of Politics (1999), I aim to complicate the politics of my mestizo body through my artistic work. Reflecting upon

Muñoz’s theory on how identity has been “formed in response to the cultural logics of heteronormativity, white supremacy, and misogyny –cultural logics that [he] suggest[s] work to undergrid state power” (5), I argue that these same notions have been thrust upon

Mexican identity. Inspired by Muñoz’s theory, I explore the social imaginary of what it means to be Mexican and actively use choreographic and theatrical tools to disidentify from these hegemonic notions, specifically as they influenced the creation of the ballet

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Figure 23 Poster for Mexico (expropriated). Photos by Juan Leyva. Design by Khristián Méndez Aguirre. Feb 2020. folklórico form. Since disidentification is a “strategy that works on and against dominant ideology,” I use it to challenge the traditional elements of lo mexicano. By disidentifying form the ballet folklórico form, I am “working on and against” (11) the cultural structures that I learned from a discipline that trained both my body and my artistic practices. In

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addition, like Muñoz, I am interested in creating counterpublics that can challenge the homophobia, sexism, and racism/colorism in Mexican culture.

Lastly, I am influenced by my advisor and Professor Rebecca Rossen, whose book, Dancing Jewish, includes three sections that describe an auto-ethnographic dance project for which she asked two of her subjects to make her a “Jewish” dance. Similarly, in Mexico (expropriated), I explore notions of mexicanidad, as I actively think over the question “what is it to dance Mexican?” By exploring tropes and characters of Mexican folklore such as la china poblana, el charro, el Venado, el Negrito, and la Mulata, I investigate what it means to perform “authenticity” and who, in reality, are the characters that contributed to the nationalist project of the post-revolutionary period, specifically as

Hernández featured them in her world-famous repertory.

In addition, I rely on Rossen’s exploration of Jewish identity in relation to gender.

For Rossen “Jewishness is not a matter of essences, but rather a repertory of images, themes, and frames that signify ‘Jewish’” (3). In her book, she argues that gender is a strong element in the staging of Jewish identity and by negotiating ethnicity and gender in tandem, Jewish choreographers have been able to challenge “traditional models for femininity (or masculinity); advance social and political agendas; and imagine radical new possibilities for themselves as individuals, artists, and Jews” (5). Influenced by

Rossen’s methods, I argue that mexicanidad is a construction of hegemonic images and by examining the role of gender, specifically, I can begin to imagine new possibilities to stage mexicanidad and challenge traditional gender roles. Similar to Rossen, I can use my dance training to reclaim female agency in this evening-long performance.

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Through Mexico (expropriated), I seek to undermine stereotypes of lo mexicano, performatively unveil the unethical and inauthentic practices of folklórico, and actively reject heterosexist, racist, and homophobic gender roles embedded in both traditions.

Created to consolidate a national identity, ballet folklórico serves to reinforce the hegemonic notions of mexicanidad, which I aim to dismantle through a creative approach.

FIRST VIÑETA: AZTEC DANCE

Program note: The Aztecs were the dominating culture of Mesoamérica before the Spanish arrived in México in 1521 and conquered Tenochtitlan. Strong warriors and astute strategists, they built grand cities that helped establish their reputation among other tribes. The remaining of their empire can be examined through their paintings, colossal pyramids, and what historians captured in books; however, there is no certainty in how they moved. How can we recreate a dance based on a culture that disappeared centuries ago?

An ensemble of dancers enter the stage. Some enter through stage left, some through stage right, some from the audience. The lights are dim, projecting a blue/purple color onto the space. The music plays “prehispánico” music, with rattles, flutes, and drums as instruments. A horn leads the melody. The dancers move closer to center stage. They wear “traditional” Aztec costumes: feathered and colorful headpieces, ankle and wrist cuffs with rattles, and a rigid ensemble of shiny gold material covering their upper chests and pelvises. Their makeup is somber and grave; dark colors cover their eye lids and thick black ink delineates their strong facial features.

The music crescendoes as the dancers get closer and closer together. They create a small circle on stage as they lift their knees and stomp on the floor with their bare feet. On the left hand, they hold a rattle that marks the tempo of the dance. The dancers move in perfect unison with elegance. Their chests are lifted, their stomachs are tucked in, their spines are erect. They move in and out of the circle following the same percussive rhythm dictated by the music and their own feet. The music slows down. The dancers gather in the circle again, this time with a firm and slow walk and they face out for the first time. Their gaze is outwards and upwards, as if directing the energy from their chest and solar plexus to the rest of the space. They open their arms as they all exhale in unison. They go

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down to their knees and repeat this ceremonial gesture: something is about to begin.

The music crescendoes again and the dancers hold each other by the forearms, and facing inwards, they move right on the circle in a rhythmic movement of the feet (there is no stomping this time, just effective, efficient movement). They change directions and move left. One by one, they start moving outwards, towards the audience, as they adopt poses that denote strength and nobility – these must be warriors of the Aztec Empire. The poses continue and the lead dancer, a male, heads Center Stage. A woman wearing a white tunic enters stage right. Her pace is slower, she seems afraid of what is about to happen. She goes down on the floor and places her elbows down, her chest up and her head back.

The music gets louder. The rest of the dancers make a semi-circle upstage and go down on their knees, repeating once again the ceremonial gesture. The lead dancer picks up a dagger, takes it up to the skies and looks sharply at the chest of the woman.

The EMCEE comes running in quickly from stage right.

EMCEE Pérate, pérate carnal. Córtale ahí. No vayas a acuchillar a la niña esta. (To the stage manager) Aly, bring the lights up please.

The EMCEE dismisses the dancers, who walk casually off stage. He turns to face the audience.

EMCEE

Hi! ¡Hola a todos! My name is Alejandro Ignacio Díaz Fernández, and I am el presentador de la carpa “El Gigante.” Tonight we are going to witness a variety of performance acts, like the Aztec piece you just saw. Don’t worry about my interruption of the “ritual,” ha! It’s all made up. ¡De verdad! All of the dance representations of Aztecs you see are all fake. Really! I mean, we have no way of knowing how the Aztecas moved before our dear colonizadores came to La Nueva España. But you know, people like to pretend ‘cause they’re supposedly portraying a glorious past, so… we let them! AND, they make some good money out of these performances… Si conocen a los Aztecas, vedá? Esos guerreros culeros que dominaban a todas las demás tribus en Mesoamérica? (Looks at audience). Ay por Dios, por algo Texas es número 48 en educación. A ver, les voy a explicar rapidito la historia de México.

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Feb 20, 2020

This is the third week of rehearsal and well, a lot has happened between the first couple of rehearsals and now. David and Venese, two dancers, and Jesus, our

EMCEE, have all joined our rehearsals. David is a fourth-year undergraduate student of the Dance program. His family is from Veracruz, Mexico and like me, he is interested in learning about Mexican identity through performance. On top of being skilled and trained in contemporary dance, David has experience performing ballet folklórico. He will play the character of David, a young and naïve burlesque dancer in Pari’s cabaret.

Although Venese is a first-year student of the Dance program, she is a professional dancer but has now just returned to finish her undergraduate degree at UT. Like most of us in the cast, Venese’s heritage is also Mexican. She is interested in learning more about Mexico’s history and the dances we call

“traditional.” She will be playing the character of Veni, a recent graduate of the

Nellie y Gloria Campobello school of the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes in

Mexico City. Like the dancers Pari is looking for, Veni is trained in ballet and modern dance, is light-skinned and has the body type of the professional dancer.

Jesus is a whole other thing. Hailed in the Austin theatre community as

“Best actor” (he has won a bunch of B. Iden Payne awards already) for his performance and writing of the autobiographical piece (Un)documents, Jesus is a

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Mexican immigrant who has made Austin his home. Because of his skilled ability

to make you laugh and cry all at the same time, I asked him to be the EMCEE of

the piece.

Figure 24 David Cruz as "David." Photo by Figure 25 Venese Alcántar as "Veni." Photo by Juan Leyva. Feb. 2020. Juan Leyva. Feb. 2020.

Although we have been working mostly on Jalisco, we have also had a

chance to choreograph the Aztec dance. The energy of the dance is getting real and

I love it. I decided that Venese should be the virgin we will be sacrificing towards

the end of the piece–she is the smallest dancer of us all. Also, I discovered in

rehearsal that I would love an original piece of music that we can dance to. I don’t

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think we can do much with what I’ve seen on Youtube videos so far; the music that the big folklórico companies use is kind of strange. We need something more exciting, something that depicts that glorious past that we want to convey in our dance.

Figure 26 Jesús I. Valles as “EMCEE.” Photo by Juan Leyva. Feb. 2020. How do I re-choreograph a dance that does not exist? As Fernández, the EMCEE, tells the audience, all Aztec dances are “fake,” which means they were created by a choreographer and are not really an authentic representation of an Aztec cultural manifestation. As Viviana Basanta, Amalia Hernández’s daughter, describes in the 2002

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documentary of the company, Hernández created dances from what “did not exist.”

Furthermore, Basanta explains that Hernández designed these pre-conquest dances by looking at images of pyramids, for example, and creating tableaus inspired by them.

Then, she pieced together these tableaus with movement and created full works. Because the BFM performs pieces like “Azteca” as imagined by Hernández, audience members are deceived by their “authenticity” and may take them as a “real” performance of the

Aztec empire.

Thinking about authenticity, I decided to create a piece that was similar to those presented in big ballet folklórico companies. Following their aesthetic, this first viñeta is highly stylized, and presents a Mexico that is grand, colorful, and mysterious. Because the dancers are trained in modern and ballet dance technique, it was easy to choreograph a piece that displayed their high extensions, flexibility, strong kicks, virtuosic turns, and quick jumps.

As I was choreographing this piece, however, I thought about what the audience would think when they see it: will they accept what we are presenting as a farce, and understand that we are purposefully critiquing what ballet folklórico companies present as authentic? Will they take what they are seeing at face value, thinking that this is how

Aztecs danced in pre-conquest times? Or worse, think that I’m perpetuating these problematic images? My hope is that audiences will understand that this work seeks to complicate understandings of Mexican identity and cultural representations. Even if they are a little confused by the sudden break of the fourth wall with the EMCEE’s intervention, I hope that at least I can clearly convey that my intentions to undermine

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some long-held beliefs about Mexico, while showing that what is often presented on stage is most often not authentic.

SECOND VIÑETA: BURLESQUE DANCE

Program note: Long legs, revealing outfits, red lipstick, and rosy cheeks. Burlesque is a stage form that is often associated with enticing and tantalizing the audience. What if we could entice them to want to know more about what we have to say? In this viñeta, we use sensuality and the body to reveal ugly truths and celebrate our (female) agency.

The dancers are all wearing burlesque attire. Pink Lights come up. Pari is sitting on stage alone. Music “Bumps and Grinds” comes on. Eri, Mari, and David come on stage dancing.

After Pari, Eri, Mari, and David have finished dancing, they get up and face the audience. Music “Sonny Lester and His Orchestra - Lament” plays low in the background. Pari grabs a microphone. Lights dim.

PARI Hola, hola, buenas noches. (Goes up to people to shake their hands). Qué pena, disculpen ustedes que no me he presentado. Qué vergüenza. (Catches her breath) Hello! My name is Parangaricutirimicuara del Pico de Orizaba Carmen Sánchez Lozano Marquez… but you can call me Pari. Are you having fun tonight? Yes? No? Okay, well, don’t fret. My girls, Mari (pointing at Mari), Eri (pointing at Eri), David (pointing at David), and I are here to make it all more sparkly and fun for all of you tonight. (The four of them shimmy and shake). We are “Coctel explosivo,” (Image coctelexplosivo.jpg is projected) and we are here to make you laugh (the four of them giggle), to make you cry (the four of them make a sad face), and to make you (Mari throws a moaning) “ah.” Tonight, les contaré la historia de México. You know, your southern neighbor, with the tequila, the mariachi, the sombreros, las margaritas, los tacos, los narcotraficantes, (making eye contact with an audience member) exactly, that one. You see, it wasn’t always like that. No, no. We were, in fact, a very different country about a hundred years ago. Before the revolución. Back then, we didn’t have sombreros, or not the ones you’re thinking of anyway. Everything was haute couture, everything was… más fino. Pero bueno, los locos caudillos de la revolución turned everything upside down and well, people like me ended in a place like this. (Music fades out) You see, before la revolución, I was performing in the most beautiful, most elegant palaces in Mexico City. I was a star. Yo ERA

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una estrella en ascenso, directito a la fama. People would pay, and I mean, REALLY pay to see me sing and dance. Pero ahora, bueno, only the international stars get to perform in el Teatro de la Ciudad o El Palacio de Bellas Artes and people like me have to conform to these spaces. (Talking to the venue manager) No, no, muy lindo, sí, lindísimo. Me encanta. Me encanta… (looking around) la decoración, ha, ha. But so, it is what it is and I am here tonight. And I will tell you all that there is to know about my México lindo y querido.

But for now, I’m going to keep dancing ‘cause they don’t pay me for talking over here. (To the sound cabin). Música, maestro.

Eri and Mari exit the stage and Pari sits on a chair. Lights change to blue. Music comes on with Tintan’s “Contigo.” After the song has ended, the three dancers gather. Mari goes upstage to sing “Bésame Mucho”. The song fades when the three dancers have gathered center stage and Pari gets the microphone back. Lights change to the dim

Burlesque: a Medium of Transformation and Female Agency When I took the Gender and Sexuality in Physical Performance class with Dr.

Rossen in the Spring 2019 semester, I worked on a creative response to Sherril Dodd’s article “Embodied Transformations in Neo-Burlesque Striptease.” I created a short neo- burlesque piece in which I engaged with the song “Mein Herr” from the musical Cabaret starring Liza Minelli. For the words “Mein Herr” that Liza repeats throughout the song, I recorded the monotone, robotic-like Google voice saying “Mein Trump,” which I substituted in a mix of the song. Wearing a sexy ensemble of corset, fishnets, shiny gloves, and a silk robe, I (partially) undressed before my audience while also wearing a traditional mask from Michoacan’s “Danza de los Viejitos.” Once the song got into the chorus, I executed folklórico footwork while the Google voice altered the meaning of

Liza’s famous song to reflect my critique of Trump’s treatment of Mexican people and his efforts to build a border wall.

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At the end of the performance, my classmates commented about the effectiveness

of using the burlesque form to critique Trump’s policies. They also commented on my

use of the folkloric footwork, which coupled with the sexy outfit and the mask, invited

the audience to be “seduced” by my own rhetoric. Michael, one of my colleagues in the

Performance as Public Practice program, mentioned that it would be interesting to

explore my critique of Ballet Folklórico through a burlesque performance. I immediately

began developing ideas that could incorporate the burlesque form for the freedom it

afforded me in this creative presentation.

After the short performance, I went back to Dodd’s article. I specifically reflected

on how Dodds aims to “explore how notions of ‘transformation’ are articulated in the

production and reception of female neo-burlesque striptease and to reflect on the extent to

which this paradigm offers opportunities for change beyond the site of performance”

(75). Because I seek to challenge folklórico’s notions of

mexicanidad, and I am looking to re-choreograph these

dances to both reflect a colonial history and to complicate

images of lo mexicano, I use neo-burlesque as the

medium to reclaim agency of my folklórico-trained

female body and deconstruct images of female and male

dancers as envisioned by Hernández.

Figure 27 Viejitos mask, used In rehearsals, this theoretical framework evolved to perform “Danza de los Viejitos” in the state of into my modus operandi. To invite the dancers (and Michoacán. mexicandancemasks.com/?p= myself) to feel comfortable with our own bodies and how 10845

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we presented them on stage, I often turned to music that influenced our mood at the moment. For instance, I once played “Taki Taki,” a reggaetón song by Ozuna and Selena

Gomez, to help us warm up and consciously feel how every part of our bodies were present in the rehearsal space. I thought, how do you wake up parts of your body that ballet folklórico does not feature such as the hips, chest, or the pelvis? Although I was not intending to use reggaetón in the piece, I knew that it needed to get out of the rigidity of ballet folklórico somehow. As a former ballet folklórico dancer, I had a strict notion of what my body “should look like.” Whether on rehearsal or on stage, I must stand up tall with a straight back, tuck my stomach in, lift up my chest, look straight, drop my pelvis, roll the shoulders back and down, and share the weight of my body equally between my feet. If I am trying to deconstruct a dance form that heavily relies on Eurocentric notions of beauty, however, how can I start to unpack those long-held beliefs in a simple warm- up sequence so that I can create movement that is not held back by these notions? That day in rehearsal, the dancers and I let the music and our bodies dictate what part of our bodies should be moving. We did whole-body undulations, hip circles, chest isolations, head rolls that moved to the beat of the song, a lot of repetition, kept our bent our knees in what Charles O. Anderson –in an Africanist aesthetic-based contemporary technique class–calls “koba,” and of course, soft caressing of our faces and bodies. While folklórico establishes a rigid heteronormative way in which dancers can move, it does not allow for intimacy with our own bodies. Similar to classical ballet principles and aesthetics, the form is 100% presentational. What good would it be to give ourselves pleasure if the end goal is to entertain and amaze the audience? By allowing and encouraging dancers to

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confidently assert their individuality and sensuality, I sought to disidentify with the normative and rigid impositions of the folklórico form.

Besides providing us with freedom to move and explore our own kinespheres and the touch of our own bodies, burlesque dance gave me the framework of using improvisation as a tool to give each performer the opportunity to show individuality on stage. Since ballet folklórico, much like ballet companies, enforces uniformity through their corps de ballet, I wanted to give each dancer the agency to both explore the movement possibilities of their character and also to develop an individual style. In one rehearsal, I asked the dancers to crawl on the floor towards the audience and seduce them with a spark of energy that matched the high points of the song. I did not ask them to move in a specific way but rather gave them a very general direction. The result was truly magical: Erica introduced athletic moves that included a jerky inversion and David brought all of his effeminate sensuality to the studio.

PARI ¿Qué tal? ¿Les gustó? Ay, muchas gracias. Sí (looking at Eri and Mari) estas chicas son tremendas, tremendas. Now, before I forget, I want to tell you about the charro. El charro mexicano (sound of a horse neighing. Image of Mauricio Garcés appears on screen) That strong, virile, brave man who comes to my rescue every time I need him. Ah, yeah. Ese guapo, alto, bigotón que me vuelve loca con sus canciones y su amor machista. Sí, sí. Machista. Ay, pero no se espanten. Don’t we love that girls? (Searching for the audience’s approval). I gotta tell you, I truly love machismo. I mean, quién no quisiera que su macho alfa la cuidara y la quisiera por siempre y para siempre. Que la tomara entre sus brazos y la besara con amor y pasión bajo la luz de la luna llena en una noche de Octubre. (Looks at dancers, who seem confused) Ah sí, se me olvidaba que Mari and Eri over here are not into men. Ajá, that’s what I said. But don’t worry, they’re just friends. Pues les voy a cantar una bonita canción para que vean lo mucho que nos quieren nuestros machos mexicanos.

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¡Música, please!

Lights change to red. The song “Mátalas” plays as Eri and Mari dance together on stage, ranchero style. Pari puts on a mariachi had and a reboso. She starts singing with the microphone.

November 7, 2019 “Mátalas” by Alejandro Fernández “Mátalas Con una sobredosis de ternura Asfíxialas con besos y dulzuras Contágialas de todas tus locuras Mátalas Con flores con canciones no les falles Que no hay una mujer en este mundo Que pueda resistirse a los detalles”

To create this piece, I asked the dancers to free-write on the following questions before rehearsal: Have you ever felt a victim of misogyny? How was the experience? How did you feel it in your body? You can write it in poem or prose!

Don’t edit yourself. I just want to get our minds and emotions on the same chapter.

We got together at the Ballet East studio in East Austin. I asked the dancers to share their experiences with machismo or misoginia. Although retelling these stories is certainly hurtful to recreate in one’s mind, it does give a little bit of solace to know we are not alone.

We talked about how, at a very young age, some of our friends, partners, or even cousins felt they had the power to touch us, to control us, to hurt us and our bodies. We talked about how machismo is so present in our families, in our Latino families. We talked about the pain of the past and how we have kept these feelings

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in specific parts of our bodies, where it literally hurts when we think of those experiences. We talked about how important it is to keep a system of support amongst women. Because we have all felt that pain.

Then, we moved to explore the meaning of the song. “Mátalas” is a popular ranchera piece in the mariachi repertoire. It speaks about how, when a man yearns to be with a woman, or rather, enjoy a woman’s pleasures, he can “kill” her with an

“overdose” of tenderness, or “asphyxiate” her with kisses and sweet love, or “spread their crazy” over the women. The singer urges his (male) friend to “kill” them (the women) with flowers and songs, since women, after all, cannot resists these

“detalles” or signs of affection.

We also shared stories of our families enjoying this song, since it is known, after all, for its romantic nature. Superficially, one would think that this song is about how a man can court a woman; about how it doesn’t take much to win over a woman’s heart but attention and gifts. Of course, we cannot ignore that this piece is in fact a reinforcer of the romantic love that promotes femicide in

Mexico. A song like this is definitely a provocateur for jealousy, feeling of possessing a partner’s body, and the common belief amongst macho men that women cannot escape the sexist stereotypes. Even worse, this song literally calls out men to “kill” us.

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THIRD VIÑETA: JALISCO

Program note: Jalisco, a state in the Pacific coast of Mexico, is the home of tequila, mariachis, and colonial histories. Besides being the “whitest” region of central Mexico, Jalisco’s folkloric dances have become the epitome of Mexican dance traditions. “Son de la Negra” and “Jarabe Tapatío,” for instance, are two of the most frequently performed pieces in the repertoire of any ballet folklórico, from professional companies to amateur groups. Although these dances are certainly beautiful, they perpetuate heteronormative gender roles through the characters of the china poblana, the ranchera, and the charro. In this viñeta, we take these traditions and re-examine them through song and dance.

David and Mari dance to the traditional Jarabe Tapatío. They are in a sort of dress-rehearsal. Pari enters the stage interrupting.

PARI Ay, Mari, no, es que tú no entiendes. Tienes que (demonstrating) quebrar la espalda. Así en cambré. Que se note tu técnica, chingado. A ver.

Mari tries. Pari tries to manipulate her back. Mari can’t go lower anymore.

PARI Let me do it myself. Quítate. (To the stage manager) Música, Aly!

The song continues and Pari starts dancing in Mari’s place. She exaggerates all of the back movement, as well as the technical aspects of the piece. David keeps dancing without much change.

Ay, no. Tú también, muchachito. (To the stage manager) Aly! Stop the music. Corazón, necesito ver tu téc-ni-ca! Estás así nomás parado como soldadito. Ay, Dios qué voy a hacer con este muchacho. (Takes a deep breath) Necesito verte así, como macho, con huevos. Sacando el pecho y pisando fuerte, recio. Show them how manly you are.

David tries rehearsing the steps with strength, following Pari’s directions.

Ándale, así, machito. I think we’re going to give you a mustache pa’ que se te note lo hombre caray. Lo joto NO lo podemos estar mostrando en la pieza de Jalisco. Entiende. ¡No es el carácter de la región!

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To create material for Jalisco, we played with devised scene work. We created scenes that talked about the expectations that the social imaginary holds for Mexican women, especially as embodied by the character of china poblana. One of these scenes was set in the future, in the year 4000, where women have to compete against each other to get jobs as avatars. Besides discussing capitalism, competition, beauty standards, and

European aesthetics, the team used different props and costume pieces I had brought in and incorporated them into the scene. Although devised within 10 minutes, the scene was incredibly thought-provoking and exciting. Jesus, playing an avatar designer, used a special glove with which he could control the physical and psychological features of the women who were applying to be the company’s next avatar. Erica, the first candidate, was able to transform herself into a younger woman by moving her skirt up or down to show more or less skin. She could change her movement quality, her facial expressions, and her entire demeanor following Jesus’ commands. It was really disturbing to associate what the team was able to devise in such a short amount of time with the way women are expected to look like and behave to be considered desirable.

The rehearsals led us into big and important discussions about the female body, specifically as it relates to shape, size, and the color of the skin. We thought about what the “ideal” body for a ballet folklórico company dancer might be and developed some interesting scenes that directly critiqued this belief amongst ballet folklórico directors.

In addition, we discussed how male dancers must always perform a macho identity; as I discuss in Chapter two, there is no variation in how they interpret the character of the charro. I talked to the dancers about my personal experience as a

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professional folklórico dancer. In more than one company, I heard teachers and directors mention that all men should dance like “real men,” implying that their sexuality should not be an obstacle to perform the charro as it should be performed. In ballet folklórico, after all, there is no space for men to be delicate or effeminate; they should always present as heterosexual men who are strong, stand tall, lift their chests up and clenches their hands in fists behind their backs. This way to present the male body is how folklórico practitioners embody the macho.

These conversations and some dramaturgical work led us to discover that it was important for us to talk in the piece about the patriarchy, machismo and the indisputable homophobia in Mexican society. I kept going back to Dr. Domínguez Ruvalcaba’s book on machismo in Mexico, as he related it to sensuality and violence. One of the book’s first quotes is “Machismo is concerned with the deep contradictions expressed in the linkage between sensuality and violence. Modern civilization proposes sensuality and provokes violence” (2). As such, we explored what it is like to embody machismo through sensuality. We each performed our own version of sensuality in a very burlesque version of “Son de la Negra,” which I choreographed for all of us. I played with switching from zapateado and rigid upper bodies to light changes of weight, caressing our own bodies and playing with undulation of our pelvises –which never happen in a ballet folklórico piece. I took some of the choreography I learned as a ballet folklórico dancer and broke it down to the basic steps so that the dancers could learn them and help me devise new ways to move. In other words, we used the traditional steps to incorporate new meanings and interpretations. After all, my intention was to criticize the

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romanticized version that Jalisco depicts of heteronormative relationships, where the man has to be the charro/macho and the woman has to be the graceful ranchera or china poblana.

Moreover, I pushed heteronormative folklórico boundaries by centering David, a male dancer who identifies as queer, and encouraging him to reclaim his own sensuality and explore effeminacy while performing a very sexy charro. The female dancers, as well, got our own chance to be as strong and aggressive and as smooth and delicate as we wanted, all in one section of the work. By breaking traditional gender norms, the cast was able to imagine possibilities for alternatively performing mexicanidad.

Our version of “Son de la Negra” was particularly representative of what I wanted to accomplish in terms of gender and sexuality in ballet folklórico. Since I’m asking myself and the dancers to re-choreograph these folk traditions in a way that represents a more nuanced and complicated version of Mexico, I’m especially appreciative that the team and I were able to explore these contradictions of machismo and effeminacy.

Through displays of sensuality, strength and re-imagined virility and femininity that we applied to dance to “Son de la Negra,” the cast used the burlesque form to disidentify from folklórico dance traditions.

MARI Si yo fuera la china poblana… If I could be anything I wanted I think I would be a mountain lion. Go Wherever I want kill and eat whatever I find. Or I would be a scorpion. Defend myself by puncturing and poisoning those who try to smother me.

134 Or I would be a horse so I can buck off the charros and vaqueros that wish to mount me Better yet I would be a mountain so vast and tall that I am too dangerous to climb If I could be anything, I would be la china poblana.

To further explore the character of china poblana, I taught the dancers a very traditional version of “Jarabe Tapatío,” almost exactly as I learned it during my time dancing with Maru Montero Dance Company in Washington, D.C. Maru, who is a former dancer of Hernández, taught me the “Jarabe” as she learned it while dancing for the

BFM. The dancers quickly learned the rhythms, the weight changes, and the “character” of the dance. We, then, discussed the origin story of the character –all of the versions that

I have researched until now. I tasked them with writing a short text in which they described a “china” that could be anything she wanted. They, then, selected an image of the china poblana they imagined.

In the end, we each choreographed a solo piece using the traditional “Jarabe

Tapatío” music but reflecting the personality of our own china poblana. Both Marina and

Erica came up with chinas that had much more agency than dancers typically have in a ballet folklórico company. Drawing upon only a few dance moves that we learned together as part of the traditional dance, their chinas were strong, defiant, not very feminine and yet beautiful in how they moved. Marina, for instance, used a long piece of fabric to produce circular and eclectic motions. Aside from performing with humor,

Marina conveyed the difficulty of navigating the female identity as imagined in ballet folklórico. Erica, too, used the rehearsal skirt to play with the voluminous fabric.

Indicative of how men spread their legs in public spaces, she sat on a chair with her legs

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spread wide-open and passively let the music play without performing for her audience – a big no-no in ballet folklórico. Nonchalantly, she started moving her feet to the rhythm of the “Jarabe” and then skipped around in a weighted, intentional way that made her charismatic and unexpectedly beautiful.

For the final performance, we included a short poem that Marina wrote titled “Si yo fuera la china poblana.” Through vivid imagery, Mari explores the possibility of escaping stereotypes and reclaiming agency by becoming either a mountain lion, a horse, or even a mountain, all too dangerous for men to dominate. She imagined her china as being “whatever [she] wanted” and capable of defending herself from all predators that try to subdue her. Utilizing Marina’s interpretation of the poem as background music,

Erica dances a beautiful solo that combines contemporary technique, footwork and tender yet assertive gestures. She manipulates her skirt around and travels up and down the studio following, through varied movements such as jumps and turns and small gestures,

Marina’s words. When Marina says “puncturing,” for example, Erica puts her foot down and “squashes” one of the china poblana’s imaginary enemies. Although we did not get a chance to perform the piece for a live audience, this section aims to provoke the audience’s sensibilities and make them wonder what it would be like if women could in fact be whatever they wanted.

FOURTH VIÑETA: NORTE. “LA DANZA DEL VENADO”

Program note While most pieces of the repertoire of ballet folklórico companies portray the mestizo identity in pieces such as Veracruz and Jalisco, there are some that carry the ideology of indigenismo to show the most “exotic” aspects of the various

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indigenous communities in Mexico. “Danza del Venado” is a ceremonial dance of the Yaqui and Mayo communities that has been wrongfully appropriated by most ballet folklórico companies. By stylizing the piece through the infusion of ballet and modern dance technique, ballet folklórico practitioners silence and oppress a community that has been historically marginalized and butchers the symbolic meaning of the traditional dance.

PARI A ver, les explico. Last time I was visiting my family in Sonora for Easter, they took me to see these danzas in a Yaqui community, an indigenous community up north. They call them Danzas de Pascolas. Sí, muy interesante. I talked to some people, they call them “informantes,” and they explained to me what those danzas mean. See, there’s men that dress as animals and perform these very strange but very interesting dances. Something about their connection to nature y no sé qué más. Ya saben que a mí se me olvidan esas cosas. Bueno, this dance que me gustó se llama “La Danza del Venado.” I found these very amazing pictures that my brother took from our trip and you can see photos of la danza.

Pari projects photos from the original danza. The dancers watch.

I love that they wear the head of the deer on top of their own head. How exotic, no? Sí, ¿qué opinan? I was thinking that we could have David open our presentation with “Danza del Venado.” You could come in bare-chested, all macho and guapo with a loincloth covering your uy-uy-uy...

DAVID Pero, ¿a poco a los gringos les va a impresionar eso? I thought you said you wanted to present something “technical” and “spectacular”?

PARI ¡Claro! Pero, we won’t present la danza like that, of course not! Vamos a quedar mal frente a la gente del gobierno. No, no. I was thinking that with Veni’s help, we can create a similar dance using their music and story but adding technique into it. Sí. Like, big splits and jumps to show off that we, too, are good, technical dancers. MARI I won’t do it. ERI Ay sí. Cómo no. MARI

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De verdad. I don’t like performing for the gringos. One thing is to dance “Jarabe” y “la Negra”, but it is a very different “thing” to pretend to be a tribe. Yo no sé nada sobre estos yakis. And now we’re going to perform their dances? Qué asco

VENESE I’m with Mari, this doesn’t feel right. ERI And what’s your plan? We’re just going to walk out of an opportunity like this? Imagine Mari, we could finally get out of this smelly cabaret and perform for the big crowds. If we win this competition, we would go to El Gabacho first, and then… we could be traveling to Europe and Asia! I’ve always wanted to go to Paris… Imagine…

DAVID Ay sí! I’ve always wanted to go to Rome. I bet those Italian men would die to dance the tarantella with me…

ERI ¿Y por qué no? I mean, Pari is right. Our traditions are the most beautiful. Look at that video, those fotos! We could rescue the culture of Mexico, take it to the big stages in the whole world! Put Mexico’s name en alto. We could finally be morenos on stage, without having to apply makeup to cover our brown skin… we could shine for who we really are, instead of trying to look like the Russian ballerinas Pari always talks about.

MARI Pero Eri, the gringos won’t think higher of you for dancing these pieces. ¿Tú crees? Believe me. I know how those people think. Recuerda que mi papá es un gringo. They will look at you like a caged animal in a zoo, except, we won’t be in a cage but on a stage. For them, we’re exotic creatures that they can only stand from a distance. They like to picture us wearing nothing but a loincloth because that makes us fit their idea of what Mexicans are: backwards, dirty, stupid Indians. They will pay to ogle at us on a big stage as long as we stay there. I mean, look at how they treat their own indigenous peoples.

VENESE And it’s not just the gringos and Europeans. It’s also the fifís here in your own Mexico City…

DAVID ¿Qué es eso de fifís?

VENESE

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Fifís. The upper class. The people who go to see the opera and the symphony. The owners of the tall buildings in Reforma and Polanco. It’s our own people, too.

MARI Mhmm. I’m sorry but I won’t take part. Además, ¿qué culpa tiene David?

DAVID Ay, don’t you think I would look cute with the head of a deer on my head, jumping around with a blindfold and showing my strong, naked body…

MARI Mi amor, you’re beautiful with or without clothes and you should be in the spotlight. But it is not right to go and copy dances from a group of people we don’t even know. And besides, we barely get paid for what we do now. How are we supposed to pay them for doing their dances?

For this particular viñeta, it was difficult to decide what to do. After much thought, I finally concluded that the best course of action was to not choregraph anything.

I talked to the dancers and their reaction was very positive. They, like me, felt that the best way to approach this particular piece was to create a scene in which the characters discussed the ethical implications of performing a dance from an indigenous community that we did not know much about. As I discuss in the fourth chapter, to perform this dance as choreographed by most ballet folklórico companies is to perpetuate colonialist forms of oppression. Because I am challenging the choreographic practices of big ballet folklórico dance companies such as Ballet Folklórico de México, it was natural to decide against creating a choreography for “Danza del Venado.”

The hardest part was deciding what material to include in the scene. We wanted to present the complexity of the argument from different perspectives, so we knew it was important to include the view from the artistic director. Embodying Amalia Hernández’s figure and reasoning, Pari is not looking to purposefully exoticize the Yaqui people, or to

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take advantage of their place in society. Much like Hernández, Pari’s aim is to take the beauty of Mexico’s folk dances to places like the Pan-American games in Chicago or the

Festival of Nations in Paris. As Hernández, Pari’s goal is to create a high-art form of

Mexican dance that could enter important performing arts venues in the country and around the world. As the person playing the character of Pari, my objective was to give the audience Hernández’s perspective into why she appropriated the many dances of indigenous communities throughout Mexico, using “Danza del Venado” as an example.

By positioning myself as the company director, I am offering a critique of Hernández’s ethnographic work that appropriates the culture from a disadvantaged community to make it spectacular.

In the scene above, I imagined the moment in which Hernández discovered the

“Danza del Venado,” recorded it, and took it back to her company so that she could adapt it and choreograph it, a process I understand as the ethnographer’s rip-off. In this scene, however, I also imagined what it would have been like if the dancers in this case spoke up about the injustice of taking a piece from its place of origin, stylizing it with modern dance technique, and performing it for a paying audience without giving anything in return to the community from where it came.

Something I did not have the chance to explore in this scene, though, is how the image of the Venado is featured in a lot of the marketing materials for the company. As I discussed it with the dancers, I believe it is very hypocritical that the federal government, which has historically supported the BFM through federal grants and concessions, was responsible for the death of thousands of Yaqui people in the late 19th and early 20th

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century and yet benefits from a piece of their culture. In the future, I hope to continue working on this particular scene, so that the dialogue amongst the dancers can explore the many and complex elements pertinent to the ethical ethnographical argument.

FIFTH VIÑETA: VERACRUZ

Program note: La Villa Rica de la Veracruz was the port of entrance for Hernán Cortés, since its geographical location by the Gulf of Mexico and its close distance to Mexico City made it an accessible gateway for colonization. As such, Veracruz became the place for the introduction of African people, who became an important yet invisible part of the population. In this viñeta, we analyze and re-choreograph ballet folklórico’s use of jarocho and Afro-Mexican culture.

We spent some of our last rehearsals talking about Veracruz. Since it sits in the

Gulf of Mexico, this state was the port of entrance to both the Spanish and the African people coming into Mexico back in the days of the Spanish conquest. As it happens with every colony, the oppressed communities, mainly the black people living in the outskirts of the city, started creating ways to express themselves. They gathered in parties that became known as “fandangos,” where musicians played the jarana and attendees stood on a tarima to dance to the rhythm of the sones. In the spirit of the improvisational quality of the fandango, I thought that the whole piece should end with a big improvisational section, where one by one, the dancers could perform their most honest version of themselves as Mexican or Mexican American people.

Before the improvisational section, though, I wanted to include a dance portion that reflected the cultural kaleidoscope that is Veracruz. Its music, after all, is beautifully complex. The sones are incredibly fast and involve lightning-speed zapateado. As a

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music genre, it incorporates sounds and rhythms of African syncopation, Spanish footwork, and folklore from the region. Because of the promising opportunities I envisioned with this piece, I started choreographing it the first day of rehearsal. I chose

“Morena,” a song of the son jarocho tradition, interpreted by the band Sonex from Jalapa,

Veracruz. This version of “Morena” worked great for my piece because Sonex is known for playing traditional sones with contemporary musical instruments such as electric guitars and drum sets. In addition, they keep the folk vocal quality in the voice and acoustic instrumentation, just like in a traditional fandango. The result is full of energy, with spaces for improvisation, exploration and play.

In addition, we spent some time learning the traditional choreography to both “La

Bruja” and “La Bamba” as I learned them from my time as a ballet folklórico dancer. In

“La Bruja,” the female dancers traditionally enter the stage wearing the white-laced dress and a candle on their head. While the lyrics of the song tell the story of a “bruja,” a woman who turns her lovers into “zetas” and “calabazas” the women move in geometrical formations while balancing the lit candle on their head. “La Bamba,” moreover, explores the image of the sailor as a symbol of the Port of Veracruz. In this dance, a heterosexual couple executes complex zapateado to the joyful son and tie a red bow with their feet, which they display for the audience at the end of the song. These two sones are some of the most widely known pieces in the repertory of the Veracruz cuadro of many ballet folklórico companies.

To re-choreograph these pieces, I had Venese, Marina, Erica and I perform the traditional version of “La Bruja,” which would be followed by the traditional “La

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Bamba,” with Veni and David as the featured couple. Midway through “La Bamba,” however, when Veni and David were going to be working on making a bow with their feet, Eri was going to grab Veni and dance with her in a female-to-female courtship. The end of this section would mark the beginning of the improvisational part of the viñeta.

Unfortunately, as the rehearsals ended due to the COVID-19 pandemic before I was finished choreographing this section, I did not get a chance to explore kinesthetically all the aspects of this piece I would have loved to. One of the most exciting elements I did not get to play with were the colossal characters of cabezudos and gigantes, also known as mojigangas, that the Ballet Folklórico de Mexico presents in its famous piece

Fiesta en Veracruz. As I discuss in Chapter 3, the main figures that the BFM features in one of its most revered pieces of the repertory are the Negrito and the Mulata. Since these characters are a direct legacy from Teatro Bufo in Cuba, they replicate racist imagery similar to blackface minstrelsy in the United States. I thought about how I might re- appropriate offensive and hurtful pieces of history in Latin American countries and use this to devise one of the cabezudos after Andres Manuel López Obrador, Mexico’s current president. I actually got the gigantic cabeza of the country’s leader sitting in my parents’ living room, waiting for its chance to take center stage.

Even though we did not get too far in our discussion of the Mulata and the

Negrito and what they signify in Mexico’s social imaginary, Anna shared a presentation with the ensemble in which she talked to us about colorism in Latin American countries.

As a Mexican mestizo woman of a lighter skin color, I can attest to how being whiter than most other Mexicans has given me advantages in life; I have never been discriminated

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against for the color of my skin, and friends, who have digested colorist notions of

beauty, have called me “prettier” than them just for having a lighter skin tone. As I

investigate notions of Eurocentric aesthetics that the BFM perpetuates in its pieces, it is

imperative to include a discussion of colorism and

racism present in this specific cuadro.

I hope that when things are back to normal and

I have the chance to come back to this work, I can

continue to investigate how these two figures could be

reinvented to better reflect a more nuanced image of

Veracruz in a non-racist, more progressive, and

innovative way. Moreover, I would like to present this

piece before a live audience to get a taste of what the Figure 28 Cabezudo of Andrés Manuel López Obrador. Photo fandangos feel like in the jarocho communities. by the author. March 2020. Although I recognize that the dancers are not

themselves jarocho and that we do not have the cultural heritage to properly participate in

a fandango, I can be honest in how I present this section of the work. I could tell the

audience that although the dancers are not jarochos, they are Mexican, Mexican-

American and Latinx, and that what we bring to the tarima is the most truthful and joyful

representation of ourselves, which I believe is the main purpose of a fandango.

CONCLUSION Colorful lights, elegant costumes, presentational smiles and headpieces that not

even Lady Gaga could dream of… ballet folklórico offers its audience a taste of Mexico’s

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regional and cultural diversity. Through my auto-ethnographical project that explores, among other themes, the politics of my mestizo body, I conclude that ballet folklórico desperately needs to be re-choreographed to reflect its colonial history of cultural appropriation and exoticization. I believe that professional, collegiate, and amateur companies of the form need to revisit the way they incorporate the pieces of the canon into their repertory if they wish to stop perpetuating racist, heterosexist, classist, and unethical images of the diverse regions of Mexico.

When audiences think about Mexico, they often think of mariachi music, the strong charros, the beautiful china poblana, and all the other images that represent lo mexicano. These images, however, continue to paint a romanticized vision of Mexico that has never existed. As a millennial coming of age in Reynosa, Tamaulipas –now famous for making the headlines of major newspapers as an incubator for cartel violence and drugs– I think of an alternative image of Mexico to the embodied in ballet folklórico concerts. Just in 2020, for instance, the number of femicides in my home country has increased to an alarming 10 per day. Ballet folklórico does not present this reality, nor the one lived by the many marginalized communities in Mexico; there’s no room for the bad and the ugly in this form.

This thesis marks the completion of my two years as a student of the Performance as Public Practice program of the University of Texas at Austin. In it, I aimed to revisit the history of this beautiful yet problematic form of dance that I professionally performed as part of big and small dance companies in both Mexico and in the United States.

Besides providing readers with a thorough description and analysis of three of the

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cuadros in the repertory as performed by Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia

Hernández, I have utilized performance studies as both a lens a method of research to complicate the understanding of an underexplored dance discipline.

This final chapter serves as written evidence of my auto-ethnographical project

Mexico (expropriated). Through satire, humor, burlesque, and deep and embodied engagement with ballet folklorico’s technique and archive, I created a piece with my ensemble that, though not performed before a live audience, provided me with the rare chance to engage and disidentify from the ballet folklórico form that marks my body and

Mexico’s history.

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154 Vita

Jessica L. Peña Torres is an interdisciplinary choreographer, performer, producer, and scholar. At UTPA, Peña Torres performed with the Latino Theatre Initiatives, the UTPA Dance Ensemble and the UTPA Ballet Folklórico, with whom she received Dance Magazine’s “Outstanding Student Performance” Award at the American College Dance Association Festival in 2014 for their performance of Nuevo León at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. As director and producer of The Debt Ultimatum, an originally devised work, Peña Torres contributed to UTPA team’s first place in Clinton Global Initiative’s “Up To Us” national college competition in 2014. In Mexico, Peña Torres performed with the Ballet Folclórico Nacional de México de Silvia Lozano nationally and internationally and with Compañía de Danza Kaana. At UT Austin, Peña Torres choreographed for The Tempest; Mr. Burns, a post-electric play; The Women of ____ (a song not song) (Texas Theatre and Dance, 2019), Lloronx (Cohen New Works Festival, 2019); Spring Awakening (Texas Theatre and Dance, 2019); and Everybody. Peña Torres is completing a Master of Arts in Performance as Public Practice at the University of Texas at Austin in May 2020 with her thesis México (expropriated): Appropriation, Representation and Re-Choreography of Ballet Folklórico.

Email: [email protected] This thesis was typed by Jessica Lizette Peña Torres

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