A Study of Food, Family & Nation Among the Garifuna of Honduras

Kia M. Q. Hall

2014

for those who came before me

laid the foundation

paid the tolls

created the path grandma gertie lou & grandpa george, papa, granny

for those who crossed over during this journey

you are missed

i carry on

with your spirit guiding me dad, aunt grace, four hundred, brother

with love

BAKING EREBA, EXPANDING CAPABILITIES:

A STUDY OF FOOD, FAMILY & NATION AMONG THE GARIFUNA OF HONDURAS

Kia M. Q. Hall

ABSTRACT

My dissertation examines the ways in which the poor and rural women of the matrifocal Garifuna community of Honduras are using the culinary tradition of making cassava bread (or ereba in the Garifuna language) to advance community development. I thus respond to the following research questions: How are Honduras’ ereba makers engaging in grassroots development? What concepts can be best used to understand and describe the ereba makers’ engagement in development work? Building upon the capability approaches to development, which evaluate development in terms of the opportunities individuals have to be and do what they value, this dissertation focuses on the agency and opportunities of rural villagers. Guided by a Black feminist epistemology that seeks to capture voices that have been excluded and/or marginalized in mainstream Western discourse, and specifically in international relations

(IR) and international development (ID), this dissertation proposes a transnational Black feminist (TBF) framework as an alternative to the race- and class-biased models of IR. Further, a multi-level capabilities approach that parallels the TBF framework is introduced. The multi-level capabilities approach extends capabilities beyond individuals to analyze families, nations, states and social movements. The TBF framework and multi-level capabilities approach are suggested as tools to develop intersectional analyses in the fields of IR and ID, respectively.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Research and fieldwork funding for this dissertation have been provided by several fellowships from American University’s School of International Service (SIS). I received funding from the SIS Dean’s

Fellowship during academic years 2008-2009, 2009-2010, 2010-2011 and 2012-2013. I also received a summer fellowship from SIS during the summer of 2013. Dissertation writing during the Fall 2013 semester was supported by a fellowship from American University’s Vice Provost for Research and

Graduate Studies. I received a U.S. Student Fulbright research grant, during which I conducted fieldwork from October 2011 to August 2012.

My dissertation committee, chaired by Dr. Christine B. N. Chin, has been extremely supportive throughout the entire research process. In particular, Dr. Chin has acted as mentor, guiding me to produce ever more rigorous scholarship and helping me to envision a space for myself in the academic landscape. Dr. Chin, thank you for believing in my ability and for nurturing the scholar-activist in me. Also on my dissertation committee, Dr. Skalli-Hanna has pushed me to let my voice be heard, even as I engage intellectual heavyweights. Dr. Rachel Watkins and Dr. Consuelo Hernandez have also provided much-needed support through challenging times in the field and in life during this period. Ph.D. Director

Sharon Weiner has been incredibly supportive of both my research and community engagement endeavors. Office of Merit Awards Director Paula Warrick guided me through the Fulbright application process, and has remained a supporter of my efforts to obtain funding for the research that means so much to me. Dr. James Johnson (University of Rochester), who I only met during the summer of 2013, has been incredibly supportive, providing significant guidance and pointing me towards the “collectivist” thinkers of rational choice theory; were it not for his influence, chapter 4 of this dissertation would not exist.

I must also acknowledge a circle of women who have supported one another throughout the dissertation writing process. Many of us initially met through SisterMentors, a dissertation support group for women of color. Michelle Coghill Chatman, Monica Wells-Kisura, Dora Odour and Fanta Aw are just a few of the women who have been part of this critical circle of support. Abigail Duchatelier-Jeudy has been my most consistent study partner throughout the years. We have done joint writing retreats, attended conferences together, and pushed each other beyond what at times seemed insurmountable odds. Within

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SIS, my cohort as well as other fellow Ph.D. students, have helped each other through this process. In particular, Ghazala Jalil, Sheherazade Jafari, Sharon Rogers, Sharyn Routh, and Neslihan Kaptanoglu have helped me through difficult moments in the process. In addition to my current circle of academic support, I have been fortunate to have a long string of supportive teachers and professors. In particular, I want to thank Lottie Thomas (from School Without Walls high school) and Joseph Woolfson (from Sarah

Lawrence College).

My mother (P. Quick Hall) is the reason for all of this. She has single-handedly breathed into my spirit the belief that I can do anything, go anywhere, be anyone. My mother looks at me and sees a limitless world of possibilities. When I consider all that she has invested in me, I understand the power of love. Others members of my family have nurtured my growth, including my grandmother Beulah Quick, godparents Janice K. Smith and Roland L. Freeman, Aunt Gail and family friend L. Theresa Manning.

Longtime friends Jessica Cunningham and Maori Holmes have helped keep me grounded and connected to things outside academic life. The African dance community, including Michelle Jacobs, Marie Basse-

Wiles, Sadio Rosche, Joyce Pegues and Bakara, has supported me in dancing away the stress of seemingly endless drafts and revisions. In addition to my dance family, I want to thank the Quaker and

Unitarian Universalist faith communities for always providing constant reminders of the big picture of social justice, of which this dissertation is only a small part. There are too many cousins, neighbors, and loved ones to name, so I want to simply thank the village. Hi, Billy.

Last, but not least, I have to thank the Garifuna community of Honduras. Dr. Santiago Ruiz helped me establish contacts in his hometown village and provided useful political context for navigating fieldwork. Lilia “Neela” Ruiz Alvarez and family were my family in the village. I cannot thank Neela enough for welcoming me into her home and community. As in the United States, the village extended beyond my primary family. Atanasia “Vita” Melendez Giavara, Doris Avila and Delosia “Nellie” Mejia Nuñez all provided motherly advice and care during my time in the villages. In the city of Porvenir, Lina Hortensia

Martinez opened her home and business to me and taught me about the commercial side of the cassava industry. She continues to be a friend and ally, always exploring ways to improve the lives of her native

Garifuna community. I want to thank the ereba makers of the Iriona region of Honduras, where I conducted my research. I hope that I have done your stories some justice in this rendering.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT ...... ii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... iii

LIST OF FIGUES ...... vi

CHAPTER 1 SITUATING THE RESEARCH ...... 1

CHAPTER 2 A TRANSNATIONAL BLACK FEMINIST APPROACH ...... 16

CHAPTER 3 GARIFUNA DEVELOPMENT IN LATIN AMERICAN HISTORICAL CONTEXT ...... 48

CHAPTER 4 DEVELOPMENT CAPABILITIES: SHIFTING FOCUS TO PLURAL SUBJECT AGENTS ...... 97

CHAPTER 5 EREBA PRODUCTION: GARIFUNA FAMILIES EXPANDING JOINT CAPABILITIES ...... 126

CHAPTER 6 GARIFUNA NATION, HONDURAN STATE: DISSECTING RACE AND GENDER IN THE NATION-STATE ...... 159

CHAPTER 7 MASCULINIZATION OF EREBA PRODUCTION: CONVERTING WOMEN’S WORK INTO MEN’S CAPABILITIES ...... 185

CHAPTER 8 INTRODUCING THE MULTI-LEVEL CAPABILITIES APPROACH ...... 215

CHAPTER 9 BEYOND LISTS: SUGGESTIONS FOR TRANSNATIONAL FEMINIST SOLIDARITY ...... 237

BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 268

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure

Author Attempting to Bake Ereba (December 22, 2011) ...... 1

Map of Garifuna Villages ...... 9

Author's Washboard During Fieldwork (April 29, 2012) ...... 16

From Three Images to a TBF Framework ...... 40

Garifuna Day Re-enactment of Ancestors’ Arrival to Honduran Mainland (April 12, 2012) ...... 48

Garifuna Migration Map ...... 57

Racial Statistics for Honduras ...... 68

Honduran Racial/Ethnic Identification (CIA Factbook) ...... 68

Demographic Data for Honduras ...... 69

Daughter and Mother Cooking Ereba (December 9, 2011) ...... 97

Women in Line to Grind Cassava at Molino (March 28, 2012) ...... 126

Cassava Processing Photos (page 1 of 5) ...... 135

Cassava Processing Photos (page 2 of 5) ...... 136

Cassava Processing Photos (page 3 of 5) ...... 137

Cassava Processing Photos (page 4 of 5) ...... 138

Cassava Processing Photos (page 5 of 5) ...... 139

Women Peeling Cassava on Porch (December 9, 2011) ...... 159

Men Repairing Cassava-Grinding Machine (December 9, 2011) ...... 185

Women, Young Man, and Child in Molino (February 15, 2012) ...... 215

Multi-Level Capabilities Approach (derived from Transnational Black Feminist Framework) ...... 218

Ereba-Education Capabilities Cycle (EECC) ...... 220

Identifying Joint Capabilities...... 231

Women Weighing Cassava Root (March 29, 2012) ...... 237

CHAPTER 1

SITUATING THE RESEARCH

Author Attempting to Bake Ereba (December 22, 2011)

In the picture above, I am trying to bake ereba, or cassava bread in English. Ereba1 is the primary staple food in the Afro-indigenous Garifuna villages of Honduras. Between October 2011 and August

2012, I spent ten months studying development in the Garifuna community from the perspective of the women and organizations that produce ereba. Every chapter in this dissertation begins with a photograph from my time in the Garifuna ancestral villages. This picture is the only one not taken by me. On the day this picture was taken, I was photographing a woman baking ereba. She abruptly stopped and told me it

1 On several occasions, I have been asked why I do not simply use the term “cassava bread” instead of ereba. Language is a critical cultural marker for the Garifuna people. As an example of Black feminist scholarship, this research work is a collaboration between me and the Garifuna community; it is also part of a broader social justice project. The political project of Black feminist epistemology is explained later in this chapter. However, the use of Garifuna words throughout this dissertation should be understood as a part of a joint political project to preserve Garifuna language and traditions.

was my turn to bake and held out her hand for my camera. Initially, I resisted, but she only insisted telling me that I had been watching long enough to know what to do. This is one of the many photographs she took as I struggled to bake the round disc that is supposed to cover most of the metal surface of the oven.

I start with this photograph because it is one way to represent the exchange that took place during my fieldwork. Although I entered the village with a general idea about what I wanted to study, this dissertation represents a negotiation of interests, and a co-construction of knowledge. My preliminary results were presented to villagers before leaving the area and I intend to return to share the final product that has evolved in the two years that I have been in the United States. Thus, my research process is a collaborative one through which I am accountable to the community with whom I have worked and studied and with whom I continue to engage.

This dissertation presents a Black feminist analysis of grassroots development in the matrifocal,

Afro-indigenous Garifuna community of Honduras. It examines the agency of families in the making of ereba. I explore the agency of families in the context of the Garifuna nation—defined by shared language, music and dance traditions, as well as spiritual rituals—to highlight the importance of the family as a unit of analysis within the fields of international relations (IR) and international development (ID). The importance of the family as a unit of analysis emerged from my research questions, which were as follows: “What are the principal ways in which development is pursued in the ancestral Garifuna villages of Honduras? What analytical tools or concepts can be used to understand this engagement in development?”

Using constructivist grounded theory methodology (described below), which leaves substantial room for discovery in the research process, I did not know that I would stumble upon the importance of ereba until after fieldwork began. Further, it was after fieldwork that I embedded my findings (during a secondary literature review) in the larger context of agency and nationalism explored in this dissertation.

In this short introductory chapter, I discuss the ontology, epistemology and methodology that informed my research. I also identify the location of the study and describe the structure of the remaining chapters.

Linking Ontology, Epistemology & Methodology

Standpoint feminists, including Black feminists, help IR scholars re-envision the important questions of the discipline by changing the perspective of the analysis. Steans (2006) has described their

contribution as follows: “Standpoint feminists seek to expand the research agenda of IR by locating women in international relations and/or mapping the status of women across the world. However, rather than take the ‘reality’ of the world as given, standpoint feminists attempt to move women ‘from the margin to the centre’ as the subjects of knowledge in IR” (13). bell hooks (1984) has highlighted the insight of marginal positions. Similarly, Patricia Hill Collins (2000a) described Black feminist epistemology as having the potential to “see commonalities that join women of African descent as well as differences that emerge from our diverse national histories” (xi). It is from this vantage point that I am able to draw transnational insights about the functioning of race (and racism) and gender (and patriarchy).

This epistemology is linked to certain ontological commitments. Feminist scholar J. Ann Tickner

(2006) articulated the specific contributions of a feminist ontology: “Rather than working from an ontology that depicts states as individualistic autonomous actors – an ontology typical of social science perspectives in IR and of liberal thinking more generally – feminists start form an ontology of social relations in which individuals are embedded in, and constituted by, historically unequal political, economic, and social structures (24-25). By including the family as a level of analysis, I contribute to IR scholarship by foregrounding sets of relationships previously marginalized and excluded.

In Black feminist scholarship, ontology, epistemology and activism are fused as a part of the same political project. Irma McClaurin (2001b) defined Black feminism as “an embodied, positioned, ideological standpoint perspective that holds Black women’s experiences of simultaneous and multiple oppressions as the epistemological and theoretical basis of a ‘pragmatic activism’ directed at combating those social and personal, individual and structural, and local and global forces that pose harm to Black

(in the widest geopolitical sense) women’s well-being” (63). In this way, knowledge is built through the analysis of Black women’s narratives, engaged by the researcher not simply for the sake of having conducted research, but as part of a larger political social justice project. At the very end of this dissertation I discuss how my research is connected to an ongoing awareness- and fund- raising web campaign. In this chapter, however, I will focus on other aspects of Black feminist epistemology. Similar to

McClaurin (2001b), Patricia Hill Collins (2000b) has identified placing Black women’s experiences at the center of analysis and using intersectional approaches (defined below) as two important dimensions of

Black feminist epistemology (44).

This study centers the experiences of Black women by focusing on the families of the Garifuna women who make ereba. By doing so, I take an activity that has been observed by other scholars and center the discussion of development around this “women’s work.” With an early appreciation of intersectional analysis, Virginia Kerns (1983) highlighted the benefits of an exploration of intra-group variation with regard to female autonomy:

I find that cross-cultural contrasts between ‘women here’ and ‘women there’ offer less insight than the intracultural contrasts I observed: those between young women (of childbearing age) and older (postreproductive) women, and between men and young women. Between these categories, differences emerge in ‘degrees of freedom,’ or autonomy in movement, association, and activity. Simply put, young women have less than men or older women. (191)

It is with this sort of insight that I engage in intersectional analysis of gendered capabilities within the

Garifuna ancestral villages. Decades ago, Kerns (1983) recognized the value of such an approach: “By focusing on variation among women in any given culture (not only cross-cultural similarities or differences among them, or female-male differences), we can ask why some women have more autonomy and power than others in specific domains. We can try to account for this by learning not only which conditions of their lives vary, but also how the actions they take differ” (194). An intersectional analysis of a group like the Garifuna that appears deceptively homogenous provides insight into underlying power relations.

Intersectional analysis is central to Black feminist epistemology and methodology. Collins (2009) defined intersectionality as follows: “Intersectionality refers to particular forms of intersecting oppressions, for example, intersections of race and gender, or of sexuality and nation. Intersectional paradigms remind us that oppression cannot be reduced to one fundamental type, and that oppressions work together in producing injustice” (21). Within this dissertation, I discuss intersections of race, ethnicity, gender, class, age and nationalism. In understanding the organizational structure of these oppressions, or the “matrix of domination,” as Collins (2009, 268) referred to it, specific historical contexts are informative about which types of oppression are most salient in particular contexts.

McCann and Kim (2013) have suggested that intersectional analysis also offers multiple benefits for grounding theory and understanding nuanced interactions.

(1) It grounds theory in the lived experiences of the marginalized so as to identify counterhegemonic narratives. … (2) It pushes theory beyond essentialized identity categories by allowing for nuanced accounts of complexity and variation within and across difference. … (3) It attends to the multiple domains of power (structural, disciplinary, hegemonic, and interpersonal) that operate with and through each other in the people’s lives. (4) Intersectionality maintains a

political commitment to empower its subjects through work that combines ‘advocacy, analysis, policy development, theorizing, and education.’ (162)

As discussed above, one of the goals of this dissertation is to center the lives of Black women in the context of family as active agents in their own development. In chapter 2, I will present a transnational

Black feminist (TBF) framework that pushes both feminist and race scholars in IR to consider more deeply the variation among women and racial groups. The TBF framework also examines multiple levels of analysis to explore interpersonal and structural power relations. Finally, this research is embedded with political commitments to a more just academic space and world that pay attention to how power and inequality factor into research, theory and everyday life. In addition to presenting a TBF framework in chapter 2, I also engage in theory-building using intersectional analysis to develop a modified approach to human development and capabilities (discussed later in this dissertation). Ontology, epistemology and methodology operate in coordination as a part of a political project for Black feminists. Below, I detail more specifically the mechanics of the methods engaged, and their congruence with Black feminist ontological and epistemological commitments.

Constructing Grounded Theory

Ackerly and True (2010) described the fit between a feminist research ethic and grounded theory methodology as follows: “Grounded theory is a form of structured inquiry that is useful for studying questions that themselves have been concealed by dominant discourses, conceptualization, and notions of what questions are important. By design, then, grounded theory is a research design that enacts a feminist research ethic” (204). Among the various strands of grounded theory, constructivist grounded theory stands out for its reflexivity about the role of the researcher in engagement with data.

Informed by Charmaz’s (2006) Constructing Grounded Theory: A Practical Guide Through

Qualitative Analysis, I examined data for patterns that allowed me to direct subsequent data collection in a way that filled gaps in my theoretical framework, ultimately leading to the development of the multi-level capabilities approach presented later in this dissertation. This research process was also responsible for the development of the transnational Black feminist framework presented above. Central to the goals of

Black feminist epistemology is the ability to theorize based on the “grounded” lived experiences of Black women. Black feminist anthropologist Faye V. Harrison (2008) identified the “need to make extrapolations

and weave syntheses from ethnographic cases in order to theorize the sociocultural and political- economic terrain of the contemporary global order as it is manifest in the contexts and practices of ethnographically observable everyday life” (46). Building upon an ethnographic study of the Garifuna community of Honduras, I develop theoretical frameworks for understanding sociocultural and political- economic terrain within a specific historical context. The result of this theorizing is the TBF framework for

IR analysis presented in chapter 2 and the multi-level capabilities approach for ID analysis presented in chapter 8.

One of the major distinguishing characteristics of constructivist grounded methodology is that it defines theory as interpretative and understands the researcher as an integral part of the data. The idea of the researcher being situated within the research study is consistent with the Black feminist epistemology and the feminist research ethic described above. Throughout this project I have maintained a strong commitment to the development of a research question and process that would be meaningful both to me and to Garifuna villagers participating in the co-construction of knowledge. This is evidenced in part by the shifting focus of my research question in the field. Before going to the Garifuna villages, I had not heard of nor tasted ereba. It was only after spending time living in the villages that I was able to identify the importance of this cultural food product in terms of identity, ancestry, and development. Ereba serves as a food staple in practically every household, is a part of nearly every family’s sustenance farm work, and its sale is the primary economic activity for many community women. Ereba is central to both the community’s fight against poverty and the maintenance of ancestral lands, foods and traditions.

Community members affirmed my early intuition about the cultural importance of ereba. When families have nothing else to eat, they have the food they grow and the ereba they bake. In addition to talking about the practical use of ereba as food, the ereba makers emphasized the importance of ereba within Garifuna culture. One villager, Samantha, commented, “For us, here, the most important thing to us, is the planting of the cassava.” Another villager, Santiago, said the following: “We cannot lose [the ereba] tradition because our ereba is one of the foods most important for us, as Garifuna.”

It was through community engagement that my research focus on development through the lens of the ereba makers was born. As Ackerly and True (2010) have described, this sort of attention to

relationships is expected within a feminist research ethic, and is consistent with constructivist grounded theory methodology:

Grounded theory and analysis should be grounded in the data, not the single perspective of the academic. For this reason, a feminist research ethic encourages collaboration and attentiveness to all relationships involved in the research process. With this attentiveness we can draw on our research participants and/or research assistants or collaborators to give us their (multiple) perspectives on the data. If we do this as we collect data and begin analyzing it, we should expect some common themes to emerge that can guide further data collection and analysis. (208)

Consistent with a feminist research ethic, I engaged villagers in dialogue about my research process and progress, ultimately presenting preliminary results in each of the three villages where I conducted research.

Constructivist grounded theory employs theoretical sampling, so I collected and analyzed data until I reached the point of theoretical saturation. I did not employ a statistical sampling method, but rather collected and analyzed data until I filled any gaps in the theoretical frameworks being developed. My data collection thus engaged the appropriate villagers and sought the experiences needed to continuously answer any questions or fill any holes in the emerging frameworks. In this way, my engagements with the ereba organizations and community villagers became increasingly targeted over time, as frameworks were refined.

Feminist Ethnography & Interviewing

Ethnographic fieldwork was critically important because it allowed me to build trust and rapport through participation in and observation of activities during a relatively short period of time. Fieldwork in

Honduras was funded by a ten-month Fulbright U.S. Student Research Grant during the 2011-2012 academic year. Seven of these ten months were spent in the Garifuna villages; the remaining three months were spent conducting interviews with affiliate organizations, writing in regions of the country where I had access to electricity, and meeting with contacts in other parts of the country.

During my seven months in the villages, I engaged residents in both ereba production activities and everyday community life. I participated in all aspects of cassava cultivation, from planting to clearing fields through harvesting crops. I carried cassava roots from the fields to the molinos, where cassava is ground by machine. I peeled cassava for countless hours before helping to feed the cassava into the grinding and straining machines. In the afternoons, whenever possible, I interviewed village women and

men. Through shared experiences with villagers, I learned about both Garifuna culture and development capabilities in ways that would have been difficult to explore otherwise.

While ethnography allowed me to collect an abundance of ‘thick description’ related to ereba, gender, and capabilities, the use of semi-structured and unstructured interviews allowed me to ask questions about what I experienced and observed. I use excerpts from these interviews throughout this dissertation. However, I have changed the names of participants, villages, and organizations to protect their anonymity, using pseudonyms throughout. Since the villages are small, communicating the names of villages and organizations would have the same effect as revealing names of research participants.

Because I discuss tensions within organizational leadership, comments were shared with the promise of anonymity.

As described above, the ethnographic work and interviews were engaged using a Black feminist epistemology designed to focus on the lived experiences of the Garifuna ereba makers and their families.

These methods are thus understood as feminist methods, not so much because of the technical details of the methods, but rather because of how I engaged them. Ackerly and True (2010) have described

“feminist methods” as follows: ”There are ‘feminist methods’ in the sense that when a feminist adopts and adapts a research method to her project, she does so by reflecting on the method through the lens of feminist theory or through what we have been calling a feminist research ethic. On this view, we make a method into a feminist method by thinking through our use of the method in light of a feminist research ethic” (163). It is because of the engagement of a feminist ethic that I can describe the combination of methods used in this research, including constructivist grounded theory, ethnography, and interviewing, all as feminist methods.

My ethnographic data includes observations and experiences recorded in three Garifuna villages during the seven months of fieldwork. Engaged in daily community life, I was able to interact with most of the members of the villages. Within the villages, I worked with four organizations that made ereba. The organization sizes ranged from an estimated ten to thirty active members. While my research focused on the activities of the ereba organizations, I also engaged family members of the ereba makers. I completed

100 interviews with 43 organization members and 14 adult children of the members. I worked five or six days per week, primarily in cassava fields and at cassava grinding houses, or molinos. My participation in

daily community life was also a substantial part of field observations, and included participation in church field trips, religious rituals and community meetings. Such engagement was facilitated by the small size of villages, which I selected with the assistance of initial contacts.

Site Selection

Map of Garifuna Villages

When I first arrived in Honduras to conduct fieldwork, I spent the first month talking to Garifuna organizations and activists in order to determine the best location for my study. Everyone pointed me in the same direction. They wanted me to go to the rural, ancestral villages clustered along the Caribbean coast. (See figure above.) They insisted that I would not really be able to understand Garifuna culture if I did not go to the villages. Anderson (2009) similarly identified this association of authentic “Garifuna-ness” with the ancestral villages in his conversations with the Garifuna in the more urban Sambo Creek: “From the vantage of many Sambeños, the ‘pure,’ ‘authentic,’ Garifuna subject, the ‘Garifuna Garifuna,’ lives

elsewhere, out there at the back of the beyond, an object of both admiration and pity but not complete emulation or identification” (237). I went to “the back of the beyond,” as they call it.

I am glad I followed the advice of those who pointed me towards the ancestral villages.

Understanding this project as a collaborative research effort, it was important that I find ways to let the

Garifuna people of Honduras guide my research process. Also, this region is understudied. The recent studies on transnational linkages between Honduras and the United States (US) have focused on more urban or suburban locations with better infrastructure. In this way, my research fills a gap in the literature.

It speaks to those who are “left behind” amidst the wave of migration to the US and to Honduran cities.

These rural villages are neglected and overlooked by both the literature about the Garifuna community and the Honduran state. England (2006) has noted the neglect of this region:

Within this racialized ideological context, a central element of state expansion in Honduras has been the promotion of the integration of the northeastern departments into the economy and national identity of the rest of the country. The state considered this to be an important project as the northeast had long been a sparsely populated frontier zone where Anglo dominance had long been a thorn in the side of Honduran national sovereignty. In addition, Honduran state officials often referred to it as underdeveloped and underutilized by its indigenous and black inhabitants (based on a measure of productivity primarily in terms of capitalist market-oriented production, profit-maximizing behavior, and ‘effective’ use of local resources). Thus, while the dominant development model has impacted the entire economy of Honduras, creating poverty, unemployment, peasant evictions, and the highly unequal distribution of wealth and resources in all regions of the country, the Garifuna have been impacted in particular ways based on the notion that the North Coast is an empty space waiting to be filled with ‘productive’ members of the nation. (110)

In the above statement, England (2006) highlighted the racialization (and indigeneity)2 of the Honduran state’s marginalization of the Garifuna, especially in the context of a very specific and narrow modernization development model. Entering this research with a deep personal knowledge of US racial construction and racism, I use those experiences as a bridge to learn about how the Garifuna community, is engaging in community development in the face of such marginalization.

Given all the discussions of transnational flows in the literature about the Garifuna, I was shocked to discover how few people in the villages had ever left the country, or how few were receiving remittances from abroad. The Garifuna who stay in the villages are struggling through a different sort of

2 Although I use concepts related to both race (Blackness) and ethnicity (indigeneity) in the description of the Garifuna community, race and ethnicity are fused in the Honduran context. Thus the identity of the Garifuna should be understood as representing an ethnoracial category. How this ethnoracial identity develops over time is explored in detail in chapter 2.

poverty—the sort of poverty that does not allow for the mobility that is highlighted elsewhere in the literature about this community. In her fieldwork experience, England (2006) identified the infrastructure improvements that benefitted her research community:

It was not until the 1970s that the coastal highway was built as a part of the International Development Bank—financed Bajo Aguan agricultural colonization project that brought more people and infrastructure to this area of the North Coast. It was even later in the 1980s that this highway actually reached Limón, bringing with it peasant colonists, cattle ranchers, lumber companies, agribusiness, and tourism that generally follow such infrastructural development projects of the state. Limón finally got electricity in 1998, but it still did not have telephones or a hospital with a permanent doctor. (103)

My field location was further along the unpaved “highway” to which England referred. The villages were largely segregated. In my town, there was one woman who was not Garifuna; she was married to a

Garifuna man from the village. None of the villages had electricity. My field location more closely approximated the description Gold (2009) has given of the poverty and isolation of this region:

Social scientists have noted that the areas traditionally inhabited by indigenous groups are also the poorest and least serviced areas. In this geography of poverty, those ethnic groups that have retained their native language, customs, and beliefs are also the most isolated from centers of development and consequently receive few services from the state. Many indigenous communities of Honduras lack electricity, running water, clinics, and adequate schools. (18)

The above description paints a very different picture than that of the more urban (and suburban) Garifuna communities, where they consume media and luxury goods from the US. The villages where I conducted research were small places where the men fish and the women make ereba so that families can survive.

These villages are much closer to the subsistence communities of the Garifuna ancestors.

Although these villagers would have liked to receive remittances like their more urban (and suburban) counterparts, very few of them did. The poverty in the villages is why many of the younger people were desperately looking to migrate to Honduran cities or to the US for employment. England (2006) similarly identified this desperation: “Most people are merely biding their time until they find an opportunity to leave the village for work, be it in Honduras or in the United States. While those who live in the village have the advantage of not having to pay rent or high transportation costs, the cost of basic foodstuffs is still high relative to the amount of money earned either locally or sent by family in the city” (117-118). In addition to the personal challenges of embedding myself in ethnographic participation and observation in poor villages, there were other research challenges.

Research Challenges

This research was limited, as much research is, by time and money constraints. A Fulbright research grant provided funding for ten months of fieldwork in Honduras. I spent the first month grounding myself in the cultural context and identifying the best location for the project. Ultimately, I was limited to seven months of ethnographic data collection in the villages. A further limitation to my research was the same positionality that enriches my analysis. As a Black woman doing research in a traditional Garifuna village, there were limitations on when and where I could interview men who were involved in the ereba production process. Although there were times when I might have been able to break with traditional gender norms, it would have been at the risk of damaging rapport with some of the village women.

Ultimately, I made the decision to deepen my ‘natural’ rapport with this segment of the population rather than break with cultural norms.

The greatest limitation was one of language. I am not a Garifuna language speaker, although I did learn some basic phrases during fieldwork. Thus, with a limited budget that did not include funding for research assistants or translators, all communication with villagers was in Spanish, which was a second language for both the villagers and for me. I tried to compensate for possible misunderstandings by repeating questions or asking for responses to be repeated whenever necessary. I also consulted

Garifuna friends and neighbors about the cultural meanings of various colloquialisms. Fortunately, I had the benefit of being able to consult two English-speaking Garifuna natives, Dr. Santiago Ruiz and Lina

Hortensia Martinez, who were both immeasurably supportive of my field research efforts.

Surprisingly, there was also an advantage to this language barrier. It was an equalizer in terms of education and status. Most of the ereba makers interviewed only completed formal education through sixth grade. While in English, I certainly sound like a well-educated doctoral student, in Spanish there was less educational and language distance between the villagers and me. Thus, what would have been a great educational disparity was minimized by communication in a second language. I believe that this contributed to the building of rapport. With this context provided, I will now lay out the structure of the remaining dissertation chapters.

Dissertation Chapters

This dissertation does not follow a pre-set format. Just as data collection and analysis were engaged without pre-defined conceptual bounds, the structure of this dissertation is also consciously constructed as the best way to present the research project. Kathy Charmaz (2006) suggested that we

“rethink the format [of our writing] and adapt it to our needs and goals rather than pour our work into standard categories” (154). This dissertation does exactly that. Below is a brief description of the chapters to follow as well as an explanation for the organization of the chapters in the manner outlined.

Chapter 2 puts this dissertation in perspective in relation to the fields of IR and ID. Positioning this dissertation as a Black feminist intervention, the chapter describes the historical context in which this intervention takes place. Identifying the race- and class-based bias of the disciplines, the chapter both acknowledges the advances of feminist and race scholars in IR and ID, while pushing these scholars to a deeper level of analysis. Drawing from Black feminist epistemology, the transnational Black feminist (TBF) framework is offered as a model for how IR and ID scholars alike can use intersectional analysis at multiple levels.

Intersectional analysis cannot be undertaken without attention to the relevant categories of identity and oppression that are functioning in a specific time and place. Thus, grounding the research study in relevant historical context ensures that the appropriate meanings of terms are understood. To that end, chapter 3 provides a history of the Garifuna of Honduras, including a discussion of shifts in the ethnoracial identity of the community over time. The chapter also illustrates the marginalization of the matrifocal Garifuna society within the patriarchal state, which is key to understanding the importance of forms of resistance engaged by the community. With the TBF framework defined and the study contextualized, the next chapter begins to engage the various TBF levels of analysis.

Chapter 4 engages the individual and family levels of analysis. The chapter both emphasizes the importance of an intersectional analysis of individuals and articulates the importance of a shift in focus from the individual-level analysis, prescribed by liberal scholars, to the family level of analysis, explored by communitarian and collectivist scholars. Challenging the individualist bias of the capabilities approach, contributions of more collectivist strands of capabilities scholarship and rational choice theory are engaged to demonstrate the value of the family level of analysis. Within this chapter, the plural subject

agent, or family, is defined and the “we-frame” representing a joint family consciousness is discussed.

Also, the concept of agency is explored as a temporally-directed act, and family responsibility is considered in relation to agency. Linking to chapter 4, chapter 5 uses these concepts to engage in an analysis of ereba-making as women’s work and as a joint capability of the family.

In chapter 6, the focus moves from the family level of the TBF framework to the nation within the state. This chapter explores how an understanding of family can facilitate analysis of families within nations within states. Different concepts of nation and nationalism are engaged as are the critiques of these concepts by feminist and race scholars. Linking to chapter 6, chapter 7 uses the concept of the ideal Garifuna family to explore Collins’ (1998b) six dimensions of the family ideal suggested for analyzing intersections of gender, race and nation. In this chapter, gendered shifts within the Garifuna community organizations are understood in their relationship to family, nation, and the state.

The multi-level capabilities approach for ID, which is a direct extension of the TBF framework for

IR, is introduced in chapter 8. Extending the capabilities approach to development, the multi-level capabilities approach is offered as a more robust approach to analyzing development opportunities available to individuals and groups at multiple levels. Having discussed capabilities of individuals, families and groups within the Garifuna nation, this chapter ties together the first three levels of analysis of the

TBF framework—individual, family and nation within a state—discussed in chapters 4 through 7. The chapter also provides a brief discussion of the state and transnational levels of analysis. However, the focus is on inclusion of the family level of analysis in the TBF framework for IR and inclusion of joint capabilities (of the family) in the capabilities approach to development, since those are the unique contributions of this dissertation.

Having introduced the unique contributions of a Black feminist engagement of IR and ID in chapter 8, the concluding chapter speaks to the broader implications for IR and ID and a social justice agenda integral to any Black feminist project. The TBF framework runs counter to statist IR models and top-down ID models. It does not engage in the international system level of analysis commonly used in

IR; nor does it promote the idea of global, or international, capabilities that are characteristic of an international human rights agenda. Advocating grassroots engagement and feminist solidarity among diverse groups, the concluding chapter argues that the central capabilities list developed by Martha

Nussbaum is a poor example of cross-cultural consensus and public engagement. What is needed is a shift in focus away from lists (of capabilities and rights), replaced by a focus on processes that foster transnational feminist solidarity. Using policy and practitioner examples from the field, I identify some of the pitfalls of a top-down approach to development.

Structured in this way, this dissertation has started (in this chapter) by defining the ontological, epistemological and methodological commitments of a transnational Black feminist approach. Next, an alternative TBF framework is offered as a Black feminist intervention in IR (chapter 2). That framework is then contextualized in time and space (chapter 3), before being used to explore the case of the Garifuna ereba makers of Honduras. Moving from individual to family level analyses of the TBF framework, both theoretical (chapter 4) and empirical (chapter 5) arguments are made for a shift away from a liberal, individualist bias. Exploring the complexity of race and gender in the nation and state (chapter 6), the family level of analysis is used to understand how gender, race and nation are interacting in contemporary ereba-making processes (chapter 7). Chapter 8 links the contribution of a TBF framework for IR to a parallel Black feminist intervention in ID, embodied by the multi-level capabilities approach.

Having made clear the important contribution of a Black feminist approach to the disciplines of IR and ID in the previous chapters, the final chapter takes on the question of the contribution of this dissertation to activists by articulating a path forward for transnational feminist solidarity. In this way, the dissertation is structured to take you from the (ontological and epistemological) assumptions embedded in a Black feminist approach through the theoretical and empirical engagement of a TBF approach to both IR and

ID, ultimately ending with suggestions for the future.

CHAPTER 2

A TRANSNATIONAL BLACK FEMINIST APPROACH

Author's Washboard During Fieldwork (April 29, 2012)

Above is a picture of the washboard I used during my time in the Garifuna villages of Honduras.

Underlying this deceptively simple photo is a cultural significance that must be unpacked. It is an image of development, in the sense that one does not expect to see many people using washboards in developed countries, or at least the developed regions of those countries. The image is also gendered, in that women are typically responsible for household duties such as washing clothes. There is a class

component to the extent that wealthy men and women typically hire someone to wash their clothes.

Depending on the country context, there is also likely a racial or ethnic association with the image of a washboard. Which women are the domestic laborers of a country or region? Finally, there is a generational (or age) and dis-ability component to this image. One expects to see younger, healthy, able- bodied women as the domestic workers of a country. This image represents my experience and study of development, which is embedded in social constructions of race, gender, class, and age, among other factors. Race, gender, class, and age are critically important to our study of IR and international ID.

Although Marxist scholars have given class a considerable amount of attention in the study of IR, and feminist scholars, marginalized but growing in numbers, have focused on gender, discussions of race are far and few between. The study of how race, gender, class and other factors interact is even less common in IR and ID.

This chapter focuses specifically on the importance of a Black feminist agenda, both within IR and within ID. IR, with its white, male, middle- to upper-class bias (Dunn 2008) has failed to pay sufficient attention to the importance of the intersections of gender and, even more so, race in its analysis. In contrast to the white male hegemonic discourse within IR, ID focuses its patronizing gaze on the poor, non-white “other.” In this way, the combination of IR and ID define an authoritative source of knowledge

(white, male, class-privileged) and an appropriate object of study (poor, non-white, non-European). One of the seminal texts about women of color is entitled This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical

Women of Color (Moraga and Anzaldúa 1983). The book opens with “The Bridge Poem” by Donna Kate

Rushin. The poem is about someone who is tired of having to explain one group of people to another

(e.g., Black people to white feminists or feminists to non-feminist Black activists). This chapter “bridges” the gap between the white, male, class-privileged authority figure of IR and the non-white, non-European, poor subject of ID. It does so by speaking to how the biases of the two fields are jointly complicit in the silencing of the voices of women of color, and specifically Black women, as sources of knowledge and researchers and as active agents in the realm of ID and IR.

To that end, this chapter begins with a discussion of the importance of both gender and race within IR as a means to displace a white, Eurocentric, male authority. In the second section of this chapter, I discuss the patronizing gaze of ID on the non-white other. Ultimately, both of these sections lay

the foundation for a Black feminist intervention, which I provide in the third section of this chapter. In that section I offer a framework for transnational Black feminist (TBF) scholarship in IR, which introduces the family as an important level of analysis in IR.

Race and Gender in International Relations

While the field of IR could benefit from more sustained analysis of both gender and race, feminist scholarship has made great strides since the 1990s in producing a number of thought-provoking analyses of gender in the international system. In particular, the Feminist Theory and Gender Studies (FTGS) section of the International Studies Association (ISA) has promoted feminist theory within IR. Although postcolonial theorists often note the importance of race in IR studies, there is no group within ISA dedicated specifically to the discussion of race in IR. Mittelman (2009) took note of the paltry number of articles in ISA’s flagship journal, International Studies Quarterly, that included the terms “race,” “racial,”

“racialized,” “racism,” or “racist,” in the title. Others have questioned the diversity of ISA’s past leadership.

Davenport (2008) wrote, “As far as I know there has been no black president of the association, journal editor or major award recipient” (449). The resistance to discussions about race is significant (Whitworth

1994, xiii – xiv), and the consequence is that the body of literature on race within IR is scarce, although there exist notable exceptions (Persaud and Walker 2001). Thompson (2013) wrote, “Institutions are largely perceived as colour-blind, though they are more likely colour-coded” (135). In this section, I speak to the gendered and racialized nature of IR.

Possibly the most aggressively targeted and most thoroughly erased subject within IR is the indigenous native: “Whether conservative or emancipatory in inclination, the various conceptual treatments of things like security or the good life as well as the broader theoretical approaches to international relations all effect violences through the denial/erasure of Indigenous values and knowledges” (Beier 2005, 15). It is in relation to this erasure of the native “object” that the white, male authoritative voice of IR is most easily identified. Beier (2005) uses the term “hegemonologue” to refer to

“that decidedly Western voice that speaks to the exclusion of all others, heard by all and yet, paradoxically, seldom noticed, the knowledges it bears having been widely disseminated as ‘common senses’ rather than as politicized claims about the world and our ways of being in it” (15). IR has dangerously naturalized this hegemonologue: “International Relations is profoundly monological,

speaking the voice of that knowing Western subject whose universalist pretensions generalize and naturalize the concepts, categories, and commitments of the dominating society” (Beier 2005, 182).

Below, I discuss the work of some of the scholars challenging this hegemonologue by calling for the inclusion of both feminist gender analyses and structural analyses of race.

Feminist IR

One of the early feminist scholars in IR, V. Spike Peterson (1995), pointed out the benefit of feminist analysis in understanding international processes.

Due to the reciprocal interaction between concrete realities and conceptual frameworks, when we use a gender-sensitive lens not only the ‘what’ of international relations but ‘how’ we think about it is different. Specifically, we see the extent and structure of gender inequality, the patterns situating women and men in regard to global dynamics, the significance of gender in shaping how we think about world politics, and how international processes themselves shape gendered thought and practice. (170)

What Peterson (1995) made clear is that feminist analysis is not simply about the inclusion of women. It is much more than that; it has the potential to shift how we understand the basic processes and actors within the international arena. In my case, a focus on the Garifuna community of Honduras has pointed to the importance of the analysis of the family as an actor within IR and ID. The inclusion of matrifocal families in particular not only changes the actors involved, but also changes how we understand relations between men and women, the relationship of both men and women to the state, and the relation of men and women to international and multinational bodies. Thus, a feminist analysis has transformative, not simply additive, potential within IR.

In particular, Peterson (1995) explored the consequences of the tendency to separate public and private spheres in IR; she argued that such a separation, with its statist perspective and identification of the state as masculine, essentially renders the domestic sphere, assumed to be feminine, as irrelevant

(Peterson 1995, 172). This gendered hierarchy denies the interdependence of public and private spheres

(Peterson 1995, 173). By offering a transnational Black feminist framework that includes analysis of the family, I take a step towards theorizing IR in ways that reject these false dichotomies.

Much more conservative in their thinking, Grant and Newland (1991) suggested that the absence of gender considerations in IR theory is due to the lack of women policymakers and dominance of male sensibilities. In doing so, they paint a picture of a singular, homogenous man: “International relations

theory has, overwhelmingly, been constructed by men working with mental models of human activity and society seen through a male eye and apprehended through a male sensibility. The component ideas of international relations are accordingly gendered, because women and men experience societies and their interactions differently” (Grant and Newland 1991, 1). What is the “male eye” and what is one to see through it? This artificial binary of men and women is unhelpful in that it flattens all diversity within both groups and denies the existence of genders that are neither male nor female. This essentialization suggests that there is a “women’s perspective” and a “male eye.” Even more misleading is the exclusion of the possibility of male feminists and the dangers of women who reinforce patriarchal norms. What these early feminist IR texts do not highlight is the variability within feminist IR, which is explored below.

Varieties of Feminism

Among feminist IR scholars, there are significant differences. Liberal feminists tend to be focused on making women visible in IR. They tend to study the underrepresentation of women in traditional areas of IR and identify the presence of women in IR texts when they go unnoticed, or more likely, unrecognized (Whitworth 1994, 12). Liberal feminism has been criticized for its inattention to the institutions that perpetuate gender inequality: “Liberal feminism has been dismissed as an ‘add and stir’ approach, because liberals assume that the issue of male bias can be addressed by including more women in the academy and by generating more ‘woman-centred’ research in the field” (Steans 2006, 12).

J. Ann Tickner (2001) described liberal feminism as advocating the equal right of women “to pursue their rational self-interest” (12). Of all the feminisms discussed in this section, this is the least transformative.

The idea is simply to give women the opportunity to participate in the same activities as men.

In contrast to liberal feminists, radical feminists examine relations of subordination and domination that act as forms of oppression (Whitworth 1994, 17). Radical feminism challenges the epistemological foundations of IR: “It rejects the distinction between the public and private realms, embracing as it does the new women’s movement’s most important political slogan: ‘the personal is political’. … More importantly, radical feminism points to a more profound epistemological critique of mainstream IR than does liberal feminism” (Whitworth 1994, 18). Although essentializing the concept of women, radicals challenged the institutions that liberals ignored: “Unlike liberals, radical feminists did not endorse the idea that women should aspire to being equal to men; rather, they should celebrate women’s

unique virtues that, in patriarchal societies, have been devalued” (Tickner 2001, 13 – 14). In this way, radical feminists go beyond representation to examine structures like families.

Postmodern feminists deconstruct the essentialized and homogenized notions of “women” and

“men” (Whitworth 1994, 21). They examine the underlying power relations in the construction of various gendered concepts (Tickner 2001, 19). Postmodern feminists have been criticized for de-politicizing feminism in their attempt to deconstruct gender categories: “If the category ‘woman’ is fundamentally indeterminate, then there is no rational way in which a positive alternative or vision of an alternative world order can be suggested, for each such attempt can (and should, according to postmodernists) itself be deconstructed” (Whitworth 1994, 22). Poststructuralist feminists, similar to postmodern feminists, deconstruct categories of analysis. “From a poststructuralist perspective, ‘truth’ and meaning are always in doubt and forms of identity in question, so sovereign claims to shape human identities, construct linear histories and impose social and political boundaries are necessarily problematic” (Steans 2006, 16).

Poststructuralists are also similar to postmodernists in that they avoid the political project of positioning

“women” in a particular way within IR discourse. While the deconstruction of categories provides useful reflection, the apolitical nature of these feminisms is at odds with a Black feminist agenda.

Critical feminists do not adopt an essentialized notion of “women” and “men,” but unlike the postmodernist feminists they argue “that understandings about what are considered appropriate relationships between women and men can be discovered through an examination of particular material habits, practices, and discourses of particular international actors and institutions” (Whitworth 1994, 25).

Much critical feminism is rooted in Marxist feminism, which examines gendered inequality in relation to productive and reproductive labor (Steans 2006, 15). Postcolonial feminists speak to the impact of colonialism and imperialism on women (Steans 2006, 18). The focus on colonial structures often results in much more direct attention to race among postcolonial scholars than other feminists within IR.

Unfortunately, outside of postcolonial feminism, feminist IR scholarship is consistently inattentive to imperialism and race (Chowdhry and Nair 2002, 3).

Standpoint feminists, of which Black feminists are one group, speak from the particular positionality of a group, as a way to challenge the hegemonologue: “Rather than take the ‘reality’ of the world as given, standpoint feminists attempt to move women ‘from the margin to the centre’ as the

subjects of knowledge in IR” (Steans 2006, 13). While standpoint theory, in general, has been criticized for essentializing “women,” Black feminist standpoint in particular attempts to underscore the diversity of experiences among Black women internationally and transnationally. Black feminists are an interdisciplinary group, and are particularly visible in the fields of anthropology and sociology. Within the discipline of IR, there is no Black feminist scholarship. This dissertation intends to create such an opening by engaging feminist and race scholars alike, and creating a “bridge.” By doing so, I do not simply ask that race and feminist scholars simply add an additional variable to their analyses, but instead challenge both groups to engage in analyses that examine experiences at the intersections of multiple forms of oppression and categories of difference. Above, I have discussed the starting point for feminist IR scholars; below, I engage the contributions of scholars who discuss race.

Race and IR

To find the Eurocentric bias of IR, one only need examine the canon upon which the discipline is built:

The acknowledged disciplinary canon of modern IR consists of European classical thought. For much of the twentieth century and into the twenty-first, the field of IR has been dominated by North American, European, and, to a lesser extent, Australian scholars. Thus, the majority of literature in the discipline of IR is written by and about only some of the peoples of the world— predominately Americans and Europeans. IR remains guilty of forgetting and detracting from the thought and acts of not only the people of Africa but also ‘the rest’ of the non-Western world. (Jones 2006, 2)

Although Jones (2006) noted what appears to be a problem of geography (i.e., Europe and North

America versus the world), this alone would not explain the marginalization of non-white, Western scholars. The construction of the authoritative knowledge source is white. That is not just about geography; it is also about race. Further, the call for attention to issues of race demands an alternative explanation than one of simple amnesia. Absent from this explanation are power relations, which is quite problematic. Although Jones (2006) recognized a silencing, it is a whimsical forgetfulness absent of any racist undertones: “IR’s imagination and mythological foundation involves a double maneuver of silencing or denying the historicity of non-Western societies and idealizing a distorted history of the West—more specifically, Europe” (8). According to this account, it is a preoccupation with the imagination that has so distracted IR scholars. This interpretation transforms the authoritative male that is the source of all IR knowledge into an imaginative and forgetful child; such an interpretation undermines the power dynamics

involved. Such an interpretation infantilizes the powerful hegemon, removing focus from the agency of those with significant power to invoke change.

Much mainstream IR makes no effort to problematize IR’s racist foundations. Even many of the critical theorists who otherwise problematize various constructions of class, gender and power are disinclined to include the combination of race, class and gender in their analyses (Chowdhry and Nair

2002). Persaud and Walker (2001) took note of IR’s silence, and more importantly silencing, around the issue of race: “It has been especially silent about race, as about many other practices that cannot be quickly reduced to claims about the necessities of states in a modern states-system. … The primary problem that must be addressed is not that race has been ignored in IR (there is, in fact, a fairly significant literature on racial factors in world politics), but that race has been given the epistemological status of silence” (373 – 374). This statement is significant in that it forces IR scholars to take responsibility for the silencing of race, rather than assuming that such silence is accidental. The systematic silencing of voices of individuals who are not race-, class-, and gender-privileged is intentional and structurally embedded, based on a long history of such exclusions.

Krishna (2001) echoed this sentiment that the inattention to race is an intentional act: “The discipline of international relations was and is predicated on a systematic politics of forgetting, a willful amnesia, on the question of race” (401). Krishna (2001) further identified particular “strategies of containment” employed by IR scholars in this willful silencing.

First, IR discourse’s valorization, indeed fetishization, of abstraction is premised on a desire to escape history, to efface the violence, genocide, and theft that marked the encounter between the rest and the West in the post-Columbian era. Abstraction, usually presented as the desire of the discipline to engage in theory-building rather than in descriptive or historical analysis, is a screen that simultaneously rationalizes and elides the details of these encounters. … A second strategy of containment in IR discourse is the idea of deferred redemption. This operates by an eternal deferment of the possibility of overcoming the alienation of international society that commenced in 1492. While ‘realistically’ such overcoming is regarded as well-nigh impossible, its promise serves as the principle by which contemporary and historical violence and inequality can be justified and lived with. (401 – 402)

Certainly postmodernists are implicated in this statement with their de-politicized deconstructions. What also stands out about this statement is the extent to which IR has been able to evade the very racialized history that constitutes the field, especially in relation to colonialism. The same scholars that we rely on to discuss power relations in the international system have evaded the implications of power within their own theorization. Krishna (2001) warned that such abstractions can never be devoid of power: “Abstraction is

never innocent of power: the precise strategies and methods of abstraction in each instance decide what aspects of a limitless reality are brought into sharp focus and what aspects are, literally, left out of the picture” (Krishna 2001, 403). Below, I discuss the power implications of some feminist revisions of mainstream IR theory that, in spite of their critical gender analysis, continue to perpetuate the racist norms of IR theory.

Some of the more sustained discussions of race among postcolonial scholars use imperialism

(and colonialism) as a starting point for analysis: “We begin with the premise that imperialism constitutes a critical historical juncture in which postcolonial national identities are constructed in opposition to

European ones, and come to be understood as Europe’s ‘others’; the imperialist project thus shapes the postcolonial world and the West” (Chowdhry and Nair 2002, 2). This separation is the same one constructed within the development discourse, distinguishing “the developers” from “the underdeveloped.”

Henderson (2013) eloquently captured how this dualism is reinforced and naturalized.

Racist empirical assumptions bifurcate humanity on the basis of race and determine our view of what/whom we study and how we study it/them—privileging the experiences of ‘superior’ peoples and their societies and institutions. These assumptions also lead us to privilege ethical orientations of the ‘superior’ peoples which justify their privileged status. In such a context, epistemological assumptions that reflect and reinforce the racist dualism are more likely to become ascendant, and ‘knowledge’ that supports the racist dichotomy—both the privileged position of the racial hegemon and the underprivileged position of the racial subaltern—is more likely to be viewed as valid. Such knowledge drawn from the empirical domain becomes legitimized through ethical justifications that ‘naturalize’ the racial hierarchy. (78 – 79)

As post-development scholars (discussed below) point out, the development industry is predicated on the assumptions that the West should help the poor peoples of the Third World.

Where one talks about domination, there is also a place for discussion of resistance. Persaud

(2002) drew attention to the importance of race in the study of counter-hegemonic resistance: “It is important to note that developments in theorizing race are not merely the result of intellectual practices divorced from lived history. Rather, civilizations and identities have emerged as nodal points for a re- racialization of global politics, as well as the cultural and political bases for resistance and counter- hegemonic struggles” (57). Persaud (2002) highlighted that a study of race is critical to understanding precisely how global politics is evolving.

As mentioned above, postcolonial scholars tend to pay more attention to race than other IR scholars. For example, Pettman (1996) linked the legacy of colonialism to the relevance of racial

categories today: “Colonial power made use of certain ideas of women and sexuality to construct and police both women’s bodies and racialised boundaries. It also set a racialised hierarchy in world politics, through structural relations of domination, subordination and exploitation. ‘Whiteness’ and ‘non-white’ are still significant political categories today” (25). Including a discussion of race and gender, Pettman (1996) leans toward an intersectional analysis.

Intersectional analysis is not only important because it makes visible the Black women who have been rendered invisible by discussions about Blacks (assumed to be men) and women (assumed to be white); it also makes possible the identification of a system of white privilege at work: “The patterns of inequality and privilege can often be qualitatively different. Yet certain groups enjoy unearned invisible assets from the systems of power underpinning social life. More often than not, those people are white middle/upper-class males from North America and western Europe” (Dunn 2008, 47 – 48). In this way, the silence around race in IR is complicit in continuing to distribute “invisible assets” to class-, race-, and gender-privileged individuals, or the non-poor white man. Rendering white privilege invisible also has the effect of disappearing the agency of resistance, lest individuals and groups be accused of resisting an oppression that cannot be seen, and thus does not exist.

Dunn (2008) wrote about how this privileging impacts the categorization of scholarship and of scholars within IR.

The majority of authoritative IR theory (the canon’s canon, if you will) has largely been produced by white males from North America and western Europe. Yet those in the field rarely acknowledge it as the white male North American/western European field of international relations. Rather, it is cast simply as IR; and those scholars writing from outside those positions of privilege frequently have their work labeled in ways that mark it as outside the norm: feminist, post-colonial, non-Western, and so forth. Thus, I believe it is important to recognize that the current academic discipline is built upon a foundation of white male privilege and that the process of privilege remains an active element in how the discipline continues to be constructed, reproduced, taught and practised. (51)

In this way, the authoritative, class-privileged, white male is constructed and reproduced within the discipline of IR. At the same time, IR scholars are engaged, as a group, in the marginalization of those labeled as something else, some “other.” While both advantaged and disadvantaged (in the context of this white patriarchal system) scholars write from their respective positions, the white, non-poor man is seen as producing authoritative, objective knowledge, while others are thought to be providing a

subjective perspective. This designation of white, class-privileged men as authoritative knowledge builders and holders extends beyond IR to the sub-field of ID, as is described below.

Gender, Dependence and Capabilities Within and Post- Development

The “development age,” following World War II, was characterized by the desire to help economically poor countries (Rist 2008, 70-71). Rooted in economic theory, development of the 1950s and 1960s was shaped by modernization theories that envisioned development as a phased, progressive process of Europeanization or Americanization (So 1990, 33-34). Herzfeld (2001) wrote the following about the Eurocentric bias of development: “The very framework of ‘development,’ no less Eurocentric than its nineteenth-century evolutionist predecessors such as ‘civilization,’ has made possible a cultural politics of domination over the Third World that arguably reproduces the patterns of colonial expansion in the previous century” (161). The Eurocentrism of international development, however, is masked as a universal construct:

Development as a practice and discourse embodies the European Enlightenment’s implicit project of making specific local world-views and values, those broadly described as modern and Western European, into universals. … A place-based perspective provides a fruitful standpoint from which one can understand life projects, become more open and receptive to their visions, and refuse the Enlightenment pretence of universalism. I believe that this pretence is fulfilled when the world-views and values of modernity that are promoted by development are taken to be disembedded from place, made entirely abstract and equated ultimately with ‘the global’. (Blaser 2004, 28)

It is because such place-based values are masked as universal that it is quite challenging for ID and IR scholars alike to face the historical truths of their respective disciplines.

Such place-based perspectives are salient in the sort of ethnographic development work undertaken in this research project. However, even in development contexts the old modernization theories, with their gendered and racialized connotations, persist. Chin (2009) described the racial underpinnings of such thinking:

There is seen to exist ‘proto-whites’ who, if given the correct encouragement, guidance, blueprint, and so forth, have the capability of organizing their societies and relating to others much in the same way as those in the so-called industrialized west. This belief is informed by and informs its corresponding schema of a linear developmental trajectory on which to identify, position, and evaluate people and societies. (93)

As a number of scholars who analyze gender have noted, this trajectory has also had a very gendered component.

Gender within Development Practice

Over years of development practice, there have been diverse approaches to the inclusion of women. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, women were included through a Women in Development

(WID) approach that simply targeted the inclusion of women into already established development activities: “This approach assumes that the global political economy is sound and that Southern nations need to model themselves after the North and also make sure that women are assimilated into the system at all levels” (Aulette and Wittner 2012, 206). This approach focused on women, but it did not attend to gender as a construct or to systems of inequality that might be embedded within development institutions. The advocates of this approach sought to expand existing programs to women (Moghadam

1999, 246).

The next approach, labeled Women and Development (WAD), was developed in the 1970s and was critical of the gendered nature of work and development (Bhavnani, Foran and Kurian 2003, 5). WAD questioned of the assumptions of a modernization theory that suggested all countries should emulate the

West: “[WAD advocates] argue that a range of possible paths to economic development should be created to avoid some of the pitfalls of Western capitalism, such as environmental degradation and huge gaps between the rich and poor, as well as inequities between women and men” (Aulette and Wittner

2012, 207). The WAD approach usefully suggested that all knowledge might not be generated in the

West. It opened up the possibility of knowledge construction and active development participation from so-called developing countries. This socialist feminist approach stressed that patriarchy and capitalism limit women’s options (Moghadam 1999, 246).

A third approach to women’s inclusion in development, called Gender and Development (GAD), emerged by the mid 1980s (von Braunmühl 2002, 58 – 59). The GAD approach challenged the essentialized and homogenized “woman,” pointing to the importance of a discussion about different experiences among women: “[GAD advocates] point to the enormous differences in women’s experiences by race, ethnicity, social class, and nation and call for a conceptual model and policies that recognize the diversity among women” (Aulette and Wittner 2012, 207). This approach is also marked by its attention to men, in addition to women: “GAD also argues that we cannot talk about women in isolation but rather must think of the relationships between women and men—gender relations. In addition, we need to think

of gender as not just a force that shapes women’s lives but one that creates masculinities as well”

(Aulette and Wittner 2012, 207). This is the point at which a discussion of race within ID becomes possible.

Of the above approaches, the GAD approach is the only one through which Black women can be analyzed in terms of race, gender and class. These intersections are critically important to an understanding of how race and gender shape work opportunities: “Gender and racial ideologies have been deployed to favour white male workers and exclude others, but they have also been used to integrate and exploit the labour power of women and of members of disadvantaged racial and ethnic groups in the interest of profit-making” (Moghadam 1999, 249). While the WID approach called for the inclusion of an undifferentiated and essentialized “woman” into patriarchal structures, the WAD approach challenged the patriarchal structure. While the WAD approach led to a critique of women differently positioned in terms of geography and identified knowledge outside the West, women within the context of particular states remained homogenized. The GAD approach introduced diversity among groups of women, even within particular states, and within specific economic classes in those states, by examining intersections of race, ethnicity and social class. Thus, the GAD approach made visible the diverse effects of particular development policies on different groups of women, which is especially important in the analysis of policies that may help one group of women while harming another.

Bhavnani, Foran and Kurian (2003) criticized all three approaches for an interpretation of “Third

World women as victims in need of rescuing from their cultures, assumed to be static and unchanging”

(6). In fact, “development” as discussed in these models is top-down. While the bureaucrats may change the policies, the women (and men in the case of GAD) are the passive recipients of such decisions.

Indigenous knowledges and livelihoods are ignored in such approaches. The Western colonizer remains the authoritative voice, evoking the question that postcolonial scholar Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak so famously asked: “Can the subaltern speak?” (Spivak 1988). IR and ID scholars systematically have silenced voices of the colonized “other.”

Black feminist Elizabeth V. Spelman (1988) called for an acknowledgement of both the ways in which women are oppressed and the range of responses to that oppression: “It is crucial not to see

Blackness only as the occasion for oppression—any more than one sees being a woman only as the

occasion for oppression. No one ought to expect the forms of our liberation to be any less various than our forms of oppression. We need to be at least as generous in imagining what women’s liberation will be like as our oppressors have been in devising what women’s oppression has been” (132). Spelman’s words capture the importance of attention to women’s diversity, both for understanding development problems and for finding solutions. While these gender approaches focused on changing the development apparatus, dependency theorists sought to detach from it. In their narrow focus on state- level economics, they lost sight of many other important issues, including the gender issues discussed above.

Dependency Theories

In the late 1960s and 1970s, the dependency school emerged as a response to modernization theories. It identified processes that were increasing the wealth of ‘core’ countries at the expense of poor countries at the ‘periphery’ and it advocated for de-linking the latter from the global economy (So 1990,

104 – 105). Reacting to the modernization theories of the 1950s, many saw the dependency theories as a mere reversal of that line of thinking: “Whereas one saw integration with the global economy as a pre- requisite for development, for the dependistas, or specialists in dependency theory, this would mean simply ‘development of underdevelopment’” (Munck 2010, 22). Although multiple versions of dependency theories were developed by a range of scholars, the leading dependency theorists came from Latin

America. Thus, these approaches are often referenced in discussions about development in the region.

Generally, this theory explains underdevelopment throughout Latin America as a consequence of outside economic and political influence. More specifically, the economy of certain nations is believed to be conditioned by the relationship to another economy which is dominant and capable of expanding and developing. Thus the interdependence of such economies assumes contrasting forms of dominance and dependence so that dependent nations might develop as a reflection of the expansion of dominant nations or underdevelop as a consequence of their subjective relationship.” (Chilcote 1994, 114)

Whether one agrees with the consequences of such deep interdependence of national economies, the intractable interdependence is quite obvious. In the next chapter, I explore how multinational fruit companies based in the United States have a long history of being entrenched in Honduran domestic affairs.

One of the early dependency scholars, Theotonio dos Santos (1970), described the dependency relation as follows: “By dependence we mean a situation in which the economy of certain countries is

conditioned by the development and expansion of another economy to which the former is subjected”

(231). Another dependency scholar, Cardoso (2001), described the basic dependency thesis as follows:

“The underlying hypothesis was that the international process of capitalism adversely affected conditions for development. It did not prevent development, but made it unbalanced and unjust” (248). The system was seen as intentionally unequal, designed to exploit dependent countries: “We must see it as part of a system of world economic and financial centers over others, on a monopoly of a complex technology that leads to unequal and combined development at a national and international level. Attempts to analyze backwardness as a failure to assimilate more advanced models of production or to modernize are nothing more than ideology disguised as science” (dos Santos 1970, 231). Considering the exploitative nature of the system, many scholars advocated a complete withdrawal from the international global economy (So

1990).

There is an important distinction made between undeveloped and underdeveloped countries within the dependency model: “It does not view underdeveloped as an original condition, but instead assumes that nations may once have been undeveloped but never underdeveloped and that the contemporary underdevelopment of many parts of Latin America was created by the same process of capitalism that brought development to the industrialized nations” (Chilcote 1994, 122). Thus, the

“natural” state of an undeveloped nation is preferred to the underdevelopment process that seeks to exploit dependent states. As Frank (1972) indicated, the underdeveloped state should not be understood as an earlier version of the developed state: “Even a modest acquaintance with history shows that underdevelopment is not original or traditional and that neither the past nor the present of the underdeveloped countries resembles in any important respect the past of the now developed countries.

The now developed countries were never underdeveloped, though they may have been undeveloped” (4).

In this way development and underdevelopment are understood as two sides of the same coin, while the undeveloped state exists outside of the development process.

Further, underdevelopment is often understood as an extension of other forms of subjugation:

“The concept of dependence, as it has been elaborated in recent years, refers to the situation that the history of colonialism has left and that contemporary imperialism creates in underdeveloped countries.

Dependence is imperialism seen from the perspective of underdevelopment” (Johnson 1972, 71). In

addition to an emphasis on continuity of exploitative systems, dependency theorists also focus on the historical context of Latin America’s dependence.

After political independence from Spain, dependence perspectives highlight how other colonial powers, especially Britain and British-based companies maintained important economic influence over the region. By the end of the nineteenth century this influence was being steadily replaced by the hegemonic role of the United States and its companies and banks in the economic and political affairs of the Western hemisphere. (Hunt 2010, 93)

In this way, the intrusion of the multinational fruit companies can be understood as an extension of prior forms of exploitation. In the coming chapter, I explore such exploitation.

The major problem with these approaches, in terms of understanding development, is the exclusive attention to state-level economic development. The desired outcome for these scholars is detached, independent capitalist development for Latin American states, which has mixed outcomes for the population that consists of different classes in relation to production:

This form of development, in the periphery as well as in the center, produces as it evolves, in a cyclical way, wealth and poverty, accumulation and shortage of capital, employment for some and unemployment for others. So, we do not mean by the notion of ‘development’ the achievement of a more egalitarian or more just society. These are not consequences expected from capitalist development, especially in peripheral economies. (Cardoso and Faletto 1979, xxiii)

Thus, if one is focused exclusively on state-level economic measures like gross domestic product, then dependency theories might be adequate. However, if one is concerned with a broader concept of development that includes political, cultural and social aspects, then these approaches are sorely lacking in analytical power, leaving them open to the criticism of feminist scholars. Although race and ethnicity are implicit within dependency theories at the state level, sub-state characteristics of the population are not considered in these models. The core states tend to be Euro-American and white in terms of the national identity, while the dependent Latin American states have a mestizo Euro-indigenous identity

(discussed in the next chapter). In this way, the core-periphery relationship mirrors a colonizer-colonized relationship.

Tickner (1992a), as an example, criticized the lack of attention to gender within dependency theory: “While dependency theory claims that the continued marginalization of those in the subsistence sector is a structural consequence of the dualisms produced by capitalist development, it does not acknowledge the disproportionate numbers of women among the marginalized, nor the fact that the status of women relative to men has been declining in many parts of the Third World” (88). Ultimately, the

dependency theories have a singular focus on state-level economic measures and a narrow definition of development that hinders broader analyses.

Post-Development

Identifying the Western, capitalist bias of development, post-development scholars, similar to dependency scholars, call for a detachment from development institutions (Pieterse 2000, 181). Arturo

Escobar (1997b), the scholar best-known for advocating this approach, described the hegemonic form of development as follows:

The coherence of effects that the development discourse achieved is the key to its success as a hegemonic form of representation: the construction of the poor and underdeveloped as universal, preconstituted subjects, based on the privilege of the representers; the exercise of power over the Third World made possible by this discursive homogenization (which entails the erasure of complexity and diversity of Third World peoples, so that a squatter in Mexico City, a Nepalese peasant, and a Tuareg nomad become equivalent to each other as poor and underdeveloped); and the colonization and domination of the natural and human ecologies and economies of the Third World. (92 – 93)

Escobar’s characterization of the dominant development discourse is hard to deny; his response, however, should be questioned.

While scholars have advocated different methods for the inclusion of women, or the delinking of

Latin American economies from the global capitalist system, Escobar suggests that the system is too entrenched with bias to repair. Escobar (1997b) directly addressed the bias embedded in development approaches: “Development assumes a teleology to the extent that it proposes that the ‘natives’ will sooner or later be reformed; at the same time, however, it reproduces endlessly the separation between reformers and those to be reformed by keeping alive the premises of the Third World as different and inferior, as having limited humanity in relation to the accomplished European” (93). These biases are especially evident in the early years of development studies, when the focus was on modernization approaches. Although Escobar does not write specifically in terms of race, he refers to the same colonial legacies to which scholars like Jones (2008) have referred: “The massive impoverishment of the majority of African peoples today, as well as millions in Asia and Latin America – normalized as a question of development – is not simply a humanitarian tragedy, but, in part, the product of a racialised international order, a form of global structural racism” (924 – 925). The post-development literature thus speaks to the racialized history of development, implicitly if not explicitly.

Unlike other approaches described above, post-development was not intended to improve development. Instead, Escobar (2012) articulated three intentions of post-development: “to decenter development; that is, to displace it from its centrality in representations and discussions about conditions in Asia, Africa, and Latin America” (xii); “to think about the end of development. In other words, it identified alternatives to development, rather than development alternatives, as a concrete possibility”

(xiii); and “transforming the ‘political economy of truth,’ that is, development’s order of expert knowledge and power. To this end, it proposed that the more useful ideas about alternatives could be gleaned from the knowledge and practices of social movements” (xiii). In the first statement Escobar (2012) usefully pointed out the gaze on the Third World “other.” In response, he suggested both an exit from

“development” as we have known it; he also rooted the potential for development alternatives in social movements.

As mentioned earlier in this chapter, I certainly agree with Escobar in terms of the problematic

Third World emphasis of development. However, I do not arrive at his conclusion that we abandon

“development” altogether. This disagreement is in large part discursive. Academic debates are largely about struggles over ideas and concepts. In his abandonment of “development,” Escobar simply gives over the idea of political, economic, and social improvement to the Western institutions and organizations he criticizes. In contrast to this approach, I defend the right of indigenous groups, who often are advancing change without the assistance of Western institutions, to name that progress as development.

These groups have been improving their communities long before outsiders entered with various interventions, and should maintain ownership of the idea of incremental change and progress in their communities. If anyone should own the term “development,” it should be the communities themselves. In handing over the very term “development,” Escobar reifies the authority of the West. In particular, he has criticized the work of anthropologists embedded in development institutions.

Focusing on development professionals (especially anthropologists) and institutions of the West, this body of literature has argued, “development institutions are part and parcel of how the world is put together so as to ensure certain processes of ruling” (Escobar 1991b, 674). The post-development literature thus focuses narrowly on Western institutions of development like the United States Agency for

International Development (USAID). Post-development scholars ignore the overwhelming majority of

grassroots development efforts that are small in scale and not (yet) at the level of what most would call a social movement. Grassroots development, which is the focus of this dissertation, is not directed by large,

Western institutions: “Grassroots development is a process in which disadvantaged people organize themselves to overcome the obstacles to their social and economic well-being” (Kleymeyer 1994, 4). The value of this bottom-up, small-scale development is not captured by the post-development critique. In this way, the local agency of grassroots development actors is erased.

Friedman (2006) criticized the erasure of agency within post-development: “In viewing development as all too hegemonic, the post-structuralist critics tend to reduce the so-called beneficiaries of development to passive objects who are simply acted upon. ‘Third World’ people are made the hapless victims of an all-powerful Western-led development discourse" (204). By focusing on actors in the Third

World and by using the capabilities approach to development (discussed below), I highlight the agency of everyday community women and men. This stands in contrast to the approach of post-development scholars that focus on the large Western institutions that dominate public discourse: “Development is portrayed as a singular, globalizing and totalizing ‘project’ of capitalist modernization and geopolitics”

(Simon 2007, 208). This analysis does not honor the diversity of development, nor does it claim the idea and concept of development for those populations with the deepest investment—the actual community members living in those spaces.

Post-development puts a broad range of approaches in the same category; this includes grassroots development and the capabilities approach, both of which are central to the current study.

Escobar (1997a) acknowledged that “not everything that has been subjected to the operations of the development apparatus can be said to have been irremediably transformed into a modern, capitalist instance” (510). In spite of this admission, he continues to paint “development” with a broad brush, calling for alternatives rather than claiming development on behalf of the communities engaging in the process for their own benefit.

Perhaps the most disturbing part of post-development is its abdication of any responsibility for development solutions (Pieterse 2000, 187). In this way, it mirrors the de-politicized deconstruction projects of postmodern scholars: “Post-development parallels postmodernism both in its acute institutions and in being directionless in the end, as a consequence of its refusal to, or lack of interest in, translating

critique into construction” (187). Black feminism requires a stronger commitment to research communities than is demonstrated by this abandonment of active engagement of development issues and the communities that are potentially helped (or harmed) by such initiatives. Murphy (2011), in fact, called on post-development scholars to more actively engage feminist critiques. The capabilities approach allows for a much broader understanding of development.

The Capability Approach

Amartya Sen’s capability approach created a dramatic impact on the development world when it was introduced in the 1990s. Sen (1999) focused on development in terms of the agency of individuals.

The capability approach to development understands development as (individual) freedom: “A person’s

‘capability’ refers to the alternative combinations of functionings that are feasible for her to achieve.

Capability is thus a kind of freedom: the substantive freedom to achieve alternative functioning combinations (or, less formally put, the freedom to achieve various lifestyles)” (Sen 1999, 75). By focusing on capabilities, I introduce an analysis of local, grassroots agency within a broader discussion of development that has largely focused on structural barriers.

The capabilities approach created a shift in how development institutions operated. The World

Bank responded to capabilities-based critiques of structural adjustment programs by considering local circumstances and social needs; the United Nations adopted the capabilities-based Human Development

Index (Rist 2008, 206). Building upon Sen’s approach to development, and based upon fieldwork in the

Garifuna community of Honduras, this dissertation expands the concept of capabilities beyond an individual level analysis. Garifuna women’s agency in rural, Honduran villages is highlighted in a context of power asymmetries within Garifuna families and communities. While capabilities were an excellent starting point for this research, the multi-level capabilities approach introduced later in this dissertation allows for a more comprehensive analysis of individuals, families, nations within states, and transnational groups, as well as states, which are the traditional focus of IR studies. The modified approach is based upon a Black feminist analysis; in the next section, I discuss the importance of a Black feminist intervention in the study of IR and ID.

A Black Feminist Intervention

McClaurin (2001b) has said that Black feminists, as scholar-activists, are faced a difficult task—

“the task of fashioning a research paradigm that decolonizes and transforms—in other words, one that seeks to alleviate conditions of oppression through scholarship and activism rather than support them”

(57). This dissertation addresses the need to alleviate conditions of oppression in scholarship in three distinct ways. First, the stories told within this dissertation center the experiences of Black women in the context of family. Crenshaw (1998) described how centering the experiences of Black women can be used “to contrast the multidimensionality of Black women’s experience with the single-axis analysis that distorts these experiences” (314). Thus, throughout this dissertation, it will be clear why a singular focus on gender or race is insufficient.

With Black women as the starting point, it becomes more apparent how dominant conceptions of discrimination condition us to think about subordination as disadvantage occurring along a single categorical axis. I want to suggest further that this single-axis framework erases Black women in the conceptualization, identification and remediation of race and sex discrimination by limiting inquiry to the experiences of otherwise-privileged members of the group. (Crenshaw 1998, 314)

The dominance of this single-axis framework is highlighted by the title of one of the seminal Black women’s studies texts, entitled All the Women are White, All the Blacks are Men, But Some of Us are

Brave (Hull, Scott and Smith 1982). The title highlights the sort of single-axis framework about which

Crenshaw writes. Sex-disadvantaged “women” are assumed to be white (or race-privileged), non-poor (or class-privileged) women. Similarly, race-disadvantaged Blacks are assumed to be male (or sex- privileged) and non-poor (or class-privileged) in single-axis analysis. The first step in moving beyond such limitations is centering the life stories of individuals that encounter more than one axis of discrimination

(e.g., Black women).

The second way to address this problem is by using intersectional analysis that analyzes experiences at the intersections of different forms of oppression or domination. Crenshaw (1998) noted that intersectional analysis is not simply the aggregation, or sum, of the separate analyses: “Because the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism, any analysis that does not take intersectionality into account cannot sufficiently address the particular manner in which Black women are subordinated” (315). This requires that feminist and race scholars alike adjust their analyses of the international system in order to accommodate a more nuanced analysis; it is not possible to just add an

extra variable or component: “Thus, for feminist theory and anti-racist policy discourse to embrace the experiences and concerns of Black women, the entire framework that has been used as a basis for translating ‘women’s experience’ or ‘the Black experience’ into concrete policy demands must be rethought and recast” (Crenshaw 1998, 315). Certainly, the challenging nature of this work accounts for some of the reluctance of feminist and race scholars in IR to revamp their analytical frameworks. This leads to the third step in this intervention.

This dissertation engages what McClaurin (2001a) referred to as a “vindicationist thread” to set the record straight. This dissertation begins with a history of IR and ID in order to challenge the discipline to address the historical erasures, because “histories, ideologies, institutions, and social relations do not operate in a vacuum” (McClaurin 2001a, 15). Scholars complicit in this erasure must be called to task and held accountable. To date, that has not been done: “What marks IR out as unusual today is that unlike in many other fields—perhaps above all anthropology—there has been no moment of historical reckoning, of reflection in this deeply compromised historical lineage and what it entails for contemporary scholarly practices” (Bell 2013, 2). I am speaking from the margins in order to call for such reflection. bell hooks

(2009) identified the special vantage point of marginalized people in drawing attention to such issues: “It is essential for continued feminist struggle that black women recognize the special vantage point our marginality gives us and make use of this perspective to criticize the dominant racist, classist, sexist hegemony as well as to envision and create a counter-hegemony” (hooks 2009, 43). All three of these considerations have played a role in the development of the TBF framework outlined below.

A Transnational Black Feminist Framework

International relations was concerned, after the First World War, with norms and institutions that would maintain peace (Steans 2006, 21). Scholars wanted to understand the causes of war, so as to prevent future wars. After the collapse of the League of Nations and the outbreak of the Second World

War, IR became concerned with understanding state security and state interests in an anarchic international system (Steans 2006, 21). In suggesting an alternative framework, I take the approach that other feminist scholars have taken by engaging the hegemonologue. J. Ann Tickner (1991) took on Hans

Morgenthau by giving a feminist reformulation of his six principles. Similarly, Laura Sjoberg (2012) suggested a gendering of Kenneth Waltz’s third image (discussed below). Below, I contrast my proposed

framework to that of Waltz’s. However, unlike Sjoberg (2012), and similar to Tickner (1991), I do not limit myself to one aspect of his three-image framework, but suggest a complete Black feminist reformulation.

Realism does not, as a rule, lend itself to feminist considerations: “Realism constitutes the central tradition of IR theory within North America, and one which at first glance at least may appear to be the most inhospitable to theorising about gender” (Whitworth 1994, 42). However, its dominant influence

(Hoffman 2001, 111) demands engagement, especially in any attempt to speak to the core of IR: “IR cannot be gendered unless realism (and neo-realism) is challenged, since realism involved equating sovereignty with the state, and presenting the state in woefully uncritical terms. The gendered nature of sovereignty is suppressed by realists through arguing that state sovereignty is not contentious, if we restrict our focus to states as they interact in the international system” (Hoffman 2001, 127).

In addition to realism’s inattention to gender, race scholars also point to realism’s reification of racial hierarchies: “The roots of realism—the dominant paradigm in world politics—are grounded in a rationalization of the construction of a hierarchical racial order to be imposed upon the anarchy allegedly arising form the tropics, which begged for rational colonial administration from the whites. It is little more than an intellectual justification for colonialism and imperialism in the guise of the ‘white man’s burden’”

(Henderson 2013, 85). In spite of these critiques from feminist and race scholars alike, Waltz continues to be a mainstay in IR education. What is sorely needed is a Black feminist re-visioning of IR theory.

Theodore (2008) called for a revision of how and what IR professors teach: “We need to develop an IR- based literature on race; create an IR-based pedagogy on teaching race in the IR classroom; and encourage IR students, new and old, to incorporate ideas from the margins, such that these studies are not undertaken only by the bodies they reflect” (458). To that end, I engage Waltz below.

In Kenneth Waltz’s (2001) Man, the State and War: A Theoretical Analysis, he identified three important levels of analysis where we can look to solve the important dilemmas of international relations theory: “within man, within the structure of the separate states, within the state system” (12). Since war was the most pertinent focus of international relations at the time when the book was first published in

1954, his book addresses issues related to war. He refers to the levels as “images” rather than levels of analysis because “one cannot ‘see’ international politics directly, no matter how hard one looks, and because developing a theory requires one to depict a pertinent realm of activity” (Waltz 2001, ix). The

idea is to examine images for information about what is happening on the international level, which cannot be accessed and studied directly. The transnational Black feminist (TBF) model similarly relies on an analysis of interaction between levels to highlight the important actors and processes within the international system. The TBF framework should be understood as a Black feminist re-visioning of the international (or global) sphere.

In developing the TBF framework, I intend to contribute to an alternative vision of IR with all of the potential identified by Peterson (1992):

I have argued that a feminist orientation is valuable in multiple ways: for increasing empirical accuracy and adequacy, for demonstrating the interdependence of dichotomized constructs (e.g., empirical-theoretical), for revealing masculinity bias in epistemological as well as empirical constructs, for bridging postpositivist and political, critical approaches, and for denaturalizing objectification dynamics, thus enabling alternative visions. (20 – 21)

This dissertation aims to create a space for a different type of IR, open to all the possibilities embedded in such an idea. Walker (1992) wrote that a gendered critique could open “the possibility of challenging the grounds on which the theory of international relations has been constructed as a constitutive margin that simultaneously limits and affirms an historically specific account of political identity within a spatially bounded community” (180). The model illustrated below creates an opening for new and innovative ways of thinking about IR in time and in space.

Finally, the TBF model is developed from a space of Black feminist marginality in IR. In the sections above, I have discussed the marginalization of women and of people of color from the perspective of the single-axis frameworks. Being unable to participate fully in mainstream IR discourse, and marginalized even within critical spaces, I stand on the margins of the margin—on the edge, as hooks (1984) might call it. Writing simultaneously about growing up in the segregated Southern United

States and being a Black feminist scholar, bell hooks (1984) wrote about living on the edge: “Living as we did—on the edge—we developed a particular way of seeing reality. We looked both from the outside in and from the inside out. We focused our attention on the center as well as on the margin. We understood both. This mode of seeing reminded us of the existence of a whole universe, a main body made up of both margin and center” (ix). As hooks (1984) did, I focus my attention on the center, or hegemonic discourse. Speaking from the margins is typical of Black feminist scholarship. While other standpoint feminists speak from the perspective of gender marginality, Black feminists speak about both gender and

race marginality, as well as other forms of marginality (class, age, ability, etc) depending on the author and the study.

Characteristic of Black feminist scholarship, I also respond to the needs at the margins, or the edge. As mentioned above, Black feminist scholarship aims to decolonize and transform society. While some standpoint feminists have this goal in mind, those standpoint feminists that operate under more essentialized notions of “women” miss the opportunity to identify the margins within the larger marginalized group of women. Thus their agenda does not reach the edge and is limited in its ability to respond to the needs of those individuals twice and thrice marginalized and oppressed.

Speaking specifically to the position of Black women in feminist struggle, hooks (1984) identified an important role for challenging the hegemonologue: “It is essential for continued feminist struggle that black women recognize the special vantage point our marginality gives us and make use of this perspective to criticize the dominant racist, classist, sexist hegemony as well as to envision and create a counter-hegemony. I am suggesting that we have a central role to play in the making of feminist theory and a contribution to offer that is unique and valuable” (15). Similarly, McClaurin (2001a) wrote that Black feminist anthropologists understand “identity as a seminal point of departure for our theorization” (16). It is from that vantage point that I introduce a TBF framework as a starting point for IR theorizing.

Transnational Black Waltz's Three Images Feminist Framework

Intersectional (Individual) Man Analysis

Family Analysis

Analysis of Nations (Ethnic

Groups) within States

State State Analysis

Transnational Analysis

International System

From Three Images to a TBF Framework

In place of Waltz’s three images, the TBF framework has five levels of analysis that are suggested as points at which to analyze international phenomena. It is important to mention that I do not share Waltz’s focus on state-to-state war, considering the critical importance of transnational networks in contemporary discussions of war. Also, understanding peace as more than the absence of war, I am concerned with other ways in which transnational networks are encouraging conflict and cooperation.

While the TBF model can certainly be used to analyze wars between states, it is a much more flexible framework, designed to explain conflict and cooperation more broadly. While Waltz (2001) focused on the obvious tension in war, forms of cooperation between states can provide just as much explanatory power.

This is evidenced in Mearsheimer’s (2001) extensive discussion of various state survival strategies, including blackmail, bait and bleed, bloodletting, balancing, buck-passing, bandwagoning, and appeasement. Thus, while conflict and tension should certainly be studied at these multiple levels, so should cooperation. One other important feature of the TBF framework, is that although I direct attention to these particular levels of analysis, they all interact with one another, giving us the ability to learn more about the entire international system as we study the interactions between each of the levels. Where one enters the framework and which interacting levels are the focus of attention depends on the study.

Finally, the TBF framework does not intend to simply switch masculinist categories for feminine ones; instead, the goal is a feminist re-visioning. Tickner (1992a) described the masculine nature of the three levels: “The individual, the state, and the international system, the levels of analysis favored by realists for explaining international conflict, are not merely discrete levels of analysis around which artificial boundaries can be drawn; they are mutually reinforcing constructs, each based on behaviors associated with hegemonic masculinity” (131). Although Tickner acknowledged the masculine construction of the “man” within Waltz’s text, she also de-gendered his man and re-named the image as individual. One has to be careful not to correct these “mistakes” of neorealists. Waltz and other realists would not imagine that a woman might be the cause of war, and as such women are excluded. Man in this instance is not a substitute for mankind; it is the masculine individual that realists imagine as potential starters of wars.

From Man to Situated Individual

Waltz (2001) wrote the following about the first image: “According to the first image of international relations, the locus of the important causes of war is found in the nature and behavior of man” (16). As an alternative to this focus on the “man,” the TBF framework argues the importance of an intersectional analysis that situates individuals in terms of race, class, gender, and other important factors. In response to the overwhelming influence of Man, the State and War, feminist IR scholar Marysia

Zalewski (2013) asked, “If a book with the title Woman, the State and War had been published in the same year as Waltz’s Man, the State, and War, what are the chances of it having the potential of claiming canonical status in IR theory half a century later?“ (98). I find this question disappointingly simplistic. Is the goal of feminist IR scholarship to replace men with women? What is needed is not a role reversal, but an entirely new way of envisioning the relevant terrain of IR. One of the inaugural conferences for feminist theorizing in IR, entitled “Women, the State and War: What Difference Does Gender Make?,” engaged close to seventy participants (Sjoberg and Tickner 2011, 10). A Black feminist approach contributes a more nuanced challenge of the masculinist, realist perspective. Not only does it ask about “the women;” it also insists that men and women alike situate themselves, in relation to important social categories.

Introduction of Family-Level Analysis

Possibly the most novel contribution of this framework is the introduction of a family level of analysis. Although there has been significant study of individuals and states in IR, there has not been much attention to the power and agency of families. Even though political scientists are aware of certain powerhouse families, like the Kennedys or the Clintons in United Stated politics, family units are not studied directly as a part of IR. The family has the ability to operate both nationally and transnationally, depending on the patterns of migration. Although studies about crime have paid some attention to families in the Mafia or families involved in drug trafficking, which has a direct relationship to state security, the study of families has been largely left to sociologists, or other social scientists. Even when families are discussed, the emphasis often continues to be on the individual, as dictated by a liberal tradition. Families are seen as a collection or network of individuals, with very little attempt to understand how families may be operating as a unit in ways that are irreducible to individual-level analysis. This

dissertation argues that IR would benefit both from attention to families as more than the sum of individual members.

In the case of the ereba makers, families create and access certain opportunities as a unit. For example, a village child who has an uncle in a major Honduran city has better access to education than the rural student without any urban family connections. In that way, the entire family jointly shapes the opportunities available to individual family members. The bulk of this dissertation is dedicated to examining the importance of attention to the family in the field of ID and IR.

From the State to Sub-State, State and Transnational Levels

The TBF model allows for the discussion of nations within the state. Peterson (1995) usefully noted how a unitary state model forecloses certain types of questions: “A number of questions regarding agency and the formation of group objectives cannot be asked. Rather, state-centric models take nation- state political identity as a given; they fail to problematize and therefore do not analyze questions of who in fact is acting and in the name, interests, and objectives of what group” (176). What the TBF model allows is the discussion of who acts on behalf of the state, and equally important, who is excluded from, or marginalized within, the state.

In order to encourage this nuanced analysis, I sandwich the state level of analysis within two other levels that help to explain the context in which the state operates, adopting a feminist understanding of state behavior: “Feminist understandings of state behavior frequently start from below the state level – with lives of connected individuals. Whereas much of IR is focused on describing and explaining the behavior of states, feminists are motivated by the goal of investigating the lives of women within states or international structures in order to change them” (Tickner 2006, 25). In addition to individual and family behavior, other sub-state activity (of nations engaging the state) and transnational activity both influence actions of the state.

By challenging Waltz’s model, I specifically address the weakness of a neorealist state model.

Tickner (1992b) identified three disadvantages of the neorealist statist model:

It posits the essential similarity of states, which are actually quite different in their constitution; it reifies states as ‘actors,’ rather than exploring the politics of ‘state action’; and it ahistorically projects an image of the present back onto the past. Critics of neorealist theory claim that relations among states can be fully understood only when we ask how states have been constituted historically and how they are currently being sustained or transcended. (ix)

It should be noted that I call this a transnational framework rather than an international framework, which displaces the statist bias of Waltz’s model. However, we are still able to learn valuable information about the state: “Transnational Studies allow us to theorize about the changing role and nature of the state by keeping state processes and structures within our frame of analysis and yet not confining our field of study within the borders of any one state” (Schiller 2005, 440). The state is but one actor in the international system. By examining the individual and group actors working within the state, the state is contextualized rather than being treated as a similar and simple unit in relation to other states. In order to identify the relevant groups operating at the sub-state and transnational levels, one must perform an analysis of the socio-historical context, which is engaged in the next chapter.

International System and Global Omissions

About the third image, Waltz (2001) wrote, “According to the third image, there is a constant possibility of war in a world in which there are two or more states each seeking to promote a set of interests and having no agency above them upon which they can rely for protection” (227). For Waltz

(2001), this is the most important image because it defines the international system: “The third image describes the framework of world politics, but without the first and second images there can be no knowledge of the forces that determine policy; the first and second images describe the forces in world politics, but without the third image it is impossible to assess their importance or predict their results”

(238). One may wonder, then, why I have not included a similar level of analysis within the TBF framework.

The TBF framework is not a statist model. In fact, that is why it is called a transnational Black feminist framework, rather than an international Black feminist framework. States are an important part of what happens in the world, which is why the state-level analysis is included; however, they do not define or dominate what happens globally. Even war, on which Waltz was so fixated, cannot be fully explained in terms of interactions among states. Consider the current “war on terror” and its targeting of sub-state and transnational actors. Further, from a Black feminist perspective, there is good reason to question whether wars were ever properly analyzed by this model. Consider the protests during the Vietnam War. Might that war have been better explained in terms of sub-state groups in favor of and against the war? In

particular, within the Black community, there was a strong resistance to fighting in the Vietnam War, which would be highlighted in an intersectional approach. How does one analyze the massive protests against the war and the impact of those protests on government action using Waltz’s model? The TBF framework not only incorporates important sub-state influence on global action and interaction; it also may have more analytical power for explaining wars.

Another reason to reconsider the usefulness of this third-level is its racist foundations, which

Henderson (2013) clearly identified:

Racism has not only informed the paradigms of world politics; it was fundamental to the conceptualization of its key theoretical touchstone: anarchy. The social contract theorists rooted their conceptualization of the state of nature in a broader ‘racial contract’ that dichotomized humanity racially and established a white supremacist hierarchy in their foundational conceptions of society. Late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century IR theorists built on this racist dualism as they constructed their conception of a global anarchy and the role of ‘civilized’ whites in providing maintaining and ensuring order within it by means of a system of international power relations among whites—or, at minimum, dominated by whites; and a system of colonial subjugation for nonwhites—or those nonwhites who failed to successfully resist their domination militarily. (88)

Henderson (2013) made clear who is excluded from this model—the non-white “other.” Such a model, which only tracks the behavior of the white, male colonizer, treats other international actors as unimportant. A Black feminist revision intends to make visible the actors marginalized and excluded from such a model.

While I reject Waltz’s third image, Sjoberg (2012) offered a feminist revision of the third level, by arguing that “the international system structure is gender-hierarchical” (4). She argued that whether or not all hierarchies are primarily about gender, “even hierarchies which are (first-order) ‘about’ something else are often performed in gender terms as well” (7). Essentially, gender is explored as a “sociopolitical ordering principle” within the international system. At this point, it is useful to mention that Sjoberg does not include intersectional identities in her model, but adheres to the single-axis model that privileges whiteness. Given the racist underpinnings of IR (discussed above), there is at least as much reason to believe that race is an important ordering principle in IR as gender would be. Jones (2008) wrote about the need “to go beyond the limits of discursive critique, and to develop an understanding of race and racial oppression which encompasses structural dimensions, in order to account for the way in which global racial inequality is routinely produced by an international order formally committed to racial equality and universal human rights” (908 – 909). There are two important points here. One is that there are

multiple dimensions that could reasonably compete to be analyzed as part of the international structure; the second point is that there is no need to choose among them, when multiple dimensions can (and should) be analyzed in interaction with one another.

Sjoberg’s (2012) gendered revision only draws attention to the weaknesses of single-axis analysis. Examine, for example, her analysis of the gendered relationship between states: “In terms of unit perception of relative position, there is evidence that states and other political actors position themselves relatively according to the degree to which other states meet their gender expectations or measure up to their ideal-typical masculinity” (Sjoberg 2012, 23). When Sjoberg wrote about “ideal-typical masculinity,” she is talking about white masculine ideals. Surely, she is not talking about the feminized indigenous masculinity (discussed in the next chapter) or the ascribed hypermasculinity of the Black man.

It turns out that the ideal-typical is white in her model.

Finally, there is no discussion of class. Consider the earlier discussions of dependency theories.

Are poor and Latin American countries de-masculinized within her framework? Are they feminized? There is no discussion of how the ordering principles of gender, class and race, which are simultaneously and interdependently operating, are interacting. In her attempt at a feminist revision of Waltz’s model, Sjoberg

(2012) merely made minor adjustments to accommodate the race-privileged (i.e., white) and class- privileged (i.e., non-poor) woman. It does not address the nuance encountered by all the other types of women, and thus falls disappointing short of the potential of a gendered critique about which Peterson

(1992) and Walker (1992) wrote.

An international system level is omitted because it suggests universal laws or principles, which are not advocated here. IR is sorely in need of a reminder of its rootedness in time and place:

We have to acknowledge, nonetheless, that the collectivity that identified itself as ‘the field of International Relations’ in the US is tightly, organically bound to a particular place, history, and social formation. This inescapable fact, which applies equally across ‘schools’ of thought and methodological ‘approaches’, goes far to explain why IR today has little to say about racism as an international institution or white supremacy as the identity of the American state that the field’s founders embraced and elaborated. Certainly, this problematique would provide a better explanation than one that would simply erase racism from the historical record else deny its importance. (Vitalis 2000, 355)

In this sense the TBF framework is designed to encourage IR scholars to face the historical record, in terms of race, gender, class and other salient categories of difference. In the concluding chapter, there is

more discussion about the omission of global, or international, feminist visions that are inconsistent with the TBF framework introduced in this chapter.

Conclusion

By providing an overview of feminist and race scholarship in IR and ID, this chapter demonstrates the importance of a Black feminist intervention. Filling the gap left by single-axis gender and race analyses, this dissertation engages in an intersectional analysis of grassroots development by Honduras’

Garifuna ereba makers. While this chapter contextualizes a Black feminist agenda in relation to the academic disciplines of IR and ID, the concluding chapter frames an agenda in terms of action. The six chapters between this one and the conclusion use the TBF approach to engage the specific case of the ereba makers. Just as this intervention was contextualized so too must the case study be contextualized.

To that end, chapter 3 provides a history of the Garifuna of Honduras, which illustrates the marginalization of the Afro-indigenous and matrifocal Garifuna society within the mestizo patriarchal state.

CHAPTER 3

GARIFUNA DEVELOPMENT IN LATIN AMERICAN HISTORICAL CONTEXT

Garifuna Day Re-enactment of Ancestors’ Arrival to Honduran Mainland (April 12, 2012)

In the photograph above, villagers walk to the coastline to meet a boat coming ashore. The boat contains a group of men and women who are re-enacting the arrival of the first Garifuna people to

Honduras. The actors on the boat left the village before dawn so that they would not be seen; then, they waited for the sun to rise and the villagers to come. This re-enactment is done every year in the region where I conducted my research. Villages take turns hosting the re-enactment and related ceremonies.

Speakers come from the cities to talk about what progress has been made over the past year in the

Garifuna struggle for rights and a better life for the community. Villagers from the entire region gather at the village selected to host the event. There is singing and dancing, speeches and panel discussions, the re-enactment of the first arrival and a parade through the village. This historical moment is re-enacted 48

each year, so that the young people do not forget it. In this way, the history is invoked in the present, as villagers make plans for the future. The Garifuna people are proud of their ancestry, and actively work to both preserve it in the present and ensure that important aspects are maintained in the future. This chapter introduces the history of the Garifuna people, as a point of departure for understanding how they have come to exist in Honduras and throughout Central America, and to understand their struggle for a holistic development by which they can build upon cultural tradition as a means to community development.

This chapter provides important historical background for understanding the context in which the

Garifuna people operate both nationally and transnationally. In the first section, Honduras is discussed in the larger Latin American development context. Then, the history of the Garifuna people in Honduras is discussed within three distinct time periods: 1797 – 1880, 1880 – 1998, and 1998 – present. The section about the first period (1797 – 1880) describes both the arrival of the Garifuna people to Honduras from their native St. Vincent and the matrifocality of the Garifuna society; within the discussion of matrifocality, the cultural significance of ereba is emphasized. Next, the section about the second period (1880 – 1998) provides a labor history during the height of the banana industry. In this section, the racialized and gendered construction of the labor force is examined. In particular, migration during World War II, the

1954 worker’s strike, and the recognition of the Garifuna as indigenous people all created shifts in the labor and family roles of Garifuna men and women transnationally and in relation to the Honduran state.

The next section is a discussion of the more contemporary history (1998 – present), beginning with Hurricane Mitch and ending with the recent presidential elections in November 2013. During this period, Garifuna communities have become important sites of tourism, which is an opportunity (and threat) that in many ways opened up as a result of Hurricane Mitch. The 2009 government coup and ongoing political instability challenge the Garifuna community in their struggle for sustained political, social and economic rights. This chapter highlights the importance of an intersectional analysis that includes ethnoracial and gendered identities in the history of Honduras, and of the Garifuna people specifically.

Historical and ethnographic analysis of the politics of representation surrounding ethnic or place- centered identities throughout Central America must explore both the processes of historical memory formation and transmission, be they official or contestory, high- or low-brow, and the

gendered formulations of these issues, whether interpersonal or regional, as well as the experience of them by gendered historical subjects. (Gudmundson and Wolfe 2010, 17)

In order to contextualize the place-centered identities of the Garifuna ereba makers, the broader history of the country and region must be engaged. It is only in that context that the nature of the resistance and agency can be assigned the proper meanings. Below, I begin with an overview of Honduras in the context of Latin American development.

The Racialization of Latin America

Honduras is considered part of the developing world. Thus the country’s development (or underdevelopment) is understood in that context. However, the categorization of Honduras, and Latin

America more generally, as part of the developing world is not unchallenged and continues to be contested. Wiarda and Kline (1990a) point out the complexity of Latin America’s designation as non-

Western and developing, in spite of its very Western roots:

With strong roots in Roman law, Catholicism, and the Iberian sociopolitical tradition, Latin America is Western; yet it represents a particular Luso-Hispanic variant of the Western tradition, and its social and cultural underpinnings are quite different from the variant established by the British in North America. Moreover, because of its strong Indian and (in the circum-Caribbean and Brazil) African subcultures, Latin America is sometimes classified as a non-Western area. (4)

Implied in this statement is the importance of race and ethnicity in determining whether countries and entire regions qualify as Western. To be Western is to not be African or indigenous. Wiarda and Kline

(1990b), in fact, point to the dramatic difference in the number of indigenous people—approximately 3 million in North America compared with 30 million in Latin America—as being a critical factor in understanding the differences in societal race relations in the two regions at the time of European colonization (21). While North American colonists killed many of the indigenous people who could not be confined to reservations, in Latin America there were simply too many indigenous people for such tactics.

Instead they adopted a different strategy: “The Indians were generally subdued rather than slaughtered,

Indian leaders were often co-opted into working with or for the Spaniards, and the Spanish usually replaced the Indian aristocracy at the top of the social pyramid without destroying the pyramid per se”

(Wiarda and Kline 1990b, 21).

There are other differences among the English and Spanish colonizers. North America was settled by families, while Latin American conquerors came without family, viewing the conquest as a

military campaign. The result was greater racial mixing in Latin America: “Miscegenation and more relaxed racial attitudes led to predominately mestizo or mulatto societies in many countries of Latin

America, which helps to explain the sense of national inferiority (on racial and cultural grounds) that many

Latin Americans still feel and the sense of superiority toward the area—bolstered by old-time racial prejudices—that North Americans still harbor” (Wiarda and Kline 1990b, 21). These racial hierarchies do not simply impact impressions of the people of these regions; it also has impacted the marginalization of these countries in a larger capitalist context:

Although these countries were integrated into the emerging Western capitalist world economy as colonies and exporters of precious metals (it is seldom mentioned that gold and silver from Latin America helped initiate the Industrial Revolution), Latin America as a whole received few of the benefits. It long remained on the margin of the world economic system and was considered to be a supplier of raw materials but destined to lag in terms of economic growth. (Wiarda and Kline 1990a, 4)

In this way, a relationship can be drawn between the racialization of a group of countries as too

African or indigenous to be Western, and the marginalization of those countries in the capitalist market, in spite of the countries’ integration into global capitalist systems. The racist foundations of the past continue to shape how we categorize and discuss the people and countries of today’s world. Latin America’s history of a small ruling minority continues to shape the racialization of today’s class structures: “Latin

America consisted of a small elite at the top controlling a huge mass of Indian and African slaves, serfs, tenant farmers, peasants, and day laborers at the bottom. These social classes had been rigidly stratified in the Old World; in the New World, class considerations were further reinforced by racial ones” (Wiarda and Kline 1990b, 27).

The racialization of groups within Latin America is often linked with the concepts of blanqueamiento, or the ideal of a whitening of the society, and the mestizo, a Spanish and Indian mixture that represents a racial ideal. Hernández (2013) described the personal and national significance of the blanqueamiento concept as follows:

At the individualized level, blanqueamiento revolves around the desire for a white appearance through the vehicle of interracial intimacy. Lighter children are thought to have greater opportunity for social mobility. At the same time, the individual valorization of whiteness is very much influenced by the national promotion of whiteness, best exemplified by descriptions of interracial intimacy as ‘improving the race’ (mejorando la raza). At the national level, blanqueamiento is a concept that describes a concrete state-sponsored nation-building campaign to whiten a population and the overarching racial ideology that valorizes whiteness.” (20)

The concepts of blanqueamiento and mestizaje work together in the construction of national identity. The process of mestizaje, or creating a mestizo identity, rejects African descent: “Central to mestizaje is the notion that African ancestry is inferior and needs to be mixed with whiteness in order to be ameliorated”

(Hernández 2013, 34). Mestizaje also creates a hierarchy in which indigeneity is constructed as inferior to the (white and European) Spaniard: “Within this frame, the indigenous past is often glorified as the ancestral spirit of the nation, even if contemporary indigenous peoples continue to be viewed as primitive, marginal, and—insofar as they retain distinct languages, cultures, and identities—a threat to the integrity of the nation” (Gordon 1998, 121). The mestizaje process thus lessens the threat of the indigenous native, and is constructed as a path toward racial harmony: “Mestizaje is the belief in the use of racial mixture to lighten the complexion of a nation in the movement toward whiteness and thereby promote racial harmony” (Hernández 2013, 20).

Interestingly enough, the Indian is simultaneously constructed as a threat and as a defenseless primitive being: “Objectively, Latin American Indians are the poorest, sickest, most abused, and most defenseless members of their societies” (Brysk 2000, 6). Thus, while Indians are a threat, they are feminized as a weak threat. The concept of mestizaje is gendered, being as it is constructed as an inferior part-Indian, in contrast to the fully white Spaniard:

The “passive,” or female, role characteristically was assigned to Indians, both past and present. It was from the “Indian mother,” after all, that the pan-ethnic Indian historical identity was presumed to have come. But this gendered and virulently sexist interpretation of the social order and ethnic identities also meant that contemporary Indian males were “feminized” in both old and new ways. Not only were they still denied their presumably “natural” active or dominant role, particularly vis à vis non-Indian males, but they were increasingly stereotyped as uniquely autocratic and irrational heads of families, a combination of incorrigible wife beaters and impenetrable illiterates. (Gudmundson and Scarano 1998, 343)

There are also class implications in the mestizaje process, as described below:

White elite women are completely precluded from the idealization of racial mixture. Their racial purity and class status are not implicated in mestizaje. Indeed, they are meant to continue the production of an elite white class. Instead, it is the intimacy of black women with white men that is the focus of mestizaje and its presumed ability to decrease black presence within a nation. And while interracial sexual intimacy was viewed as the prerogative of all white men, only immigrant or working-class white men were viewed as the appropriate marriage partners of black women. (Hernández 2013, 34-35)

This class-, gender-, and race-based characterization of the “underdeveloped” Honduran mestizo state as inferior to white, Western, developed states contributes to the marginalization of Honduras in international and transnational capitalist interactions.

The marginalization of Honduras extends beyond formal capitalist economies to the illicit and informal economy (e.g., drug trade). Along with other Central American countries, Honduras is one of a number of bridge countries, or “states that may neither consume nor produce sizable amounts of illegal drugs but that lie on favored paths carved out between centers of production and key consumer markets”

(Bunck and Fowler 2012, 1). Since the 1980s, Central America has been critically important in the transit of drugs from South America to North America, Europe and other markets. Further, the governments in these countries that are marginalized in licit and illicit markets seldom have the resources to challenge transnational criminal groups (Bunck and Fowler 2012, 13). Bunck and Fowler (2012) described

Honduras as the typical weak state vulnerable to the drug trade: “a very poor country, with an entrenched military, caught in a political transition, with weak civilian authority and underfunded and inefficient government institutions” (Bunck and Fowler 2012, 308). Policies in the United States, in fact, often contribute to the weakening of civilian institutions with a narrow focus on drug control: “U.S. drug control policies have contributed to confusing military and law enforcement functions, militarizing local police forces, and bringing the military into a domestic law enforcement role. They have thus strengthened military forces at the expense of civilian authorities” (Youngers 2005, 340). This dynamic has been detrimental to human rights in Latin America.

Another factor in Honduras’ status as a bridge country in the transnational drug trade is its ideal topography:

One of the largest and least densely populated of the Central American states, with one of the most mountainous terrains, the country has a long Caribbean coast, including various deep-water ports, long stretches of beach, and large tracts of uninhabited and virtually unpoliced jungle. The north coast is also marked by a series of prominent river valleys that angle inland from the Caribbean, providing excellent pathways into the interior for drug-plane pilots intent on entering the country unobtrusively. (Bunck and Fowler 2012, 256)

This above-described sparsely populated north coast was the site of my ethnography. My house was only minutes from the Caribbean Sea. My short ten-minute bus route was the site of a drug plan crash during my ten-month stay in Honduras. I never saw any police at the site, but in the days following the crash, the bus stopped for passengers to take pictures and souvenirs.3

3 Although some of my neighbors heard the sound of the plane crash in the night, I slept soundly through the entire event. As far as I know, the villagers were not at all involved in this incident, and by the time people were waking up to tend to their fields, the traffickers had fled the area.

Even within the marginalized Honduran state, the northern coast of Honduras is racialized as black and even further marginalized.4 In my first days in Honduras, during an orientation at the United

States Embassy, I was encouraged to avoid the entire region—a suggestion that did not make sense, given that as a Fulbright research grant recipient the Embassy had my research proposal in advance of my arrival. The impact of the drug trade on the Garifuna community in this region has been noted by scholars: “Among the smaller communities that dot Honduras’s Caribbean shores, the cocaine trade has most affected the Garífuna settlements” (Bunck and Fowler 2012, 297). The poverty of these communities is inextricably linked to their targeting by drug traffickers: “For purposes of the drug trade, traffickers arranging maritime or aerial transshipment schemes have been attracted to these communities, often poor and seldom receiving much law-enforcement attention from central authorities” (Bunck and

Fowler 2012, 297). This targeting of poor communities thus creates a vicious cycle in which criminals target poor villages and those criminals then engage in illegal activities without actually residing in these villages, ultimately leading to the criminalization of these poor communities.

Of course this criminalization is also linked to class, race, and gender. The communities are targeted because of their poverty. As described below, poverty can be linked to the marginalization of ethnoracial minorities within the state. When villagers are recruited for participation in illicit activities, they tend to be young men—the same young men who have been historically the target of transnational organizations looking for a cheap and mobile laborforce. Garifuna men were recruited during World War II to work as merchant marines and have a reputation for being competent seamen. Contemporary drug organizations are simply building upon the skillset developed by the US government during an earlier period in history. The tragic effect is that young Garifuna men are sometimes lured into drug transport activities as a means to provide economic support to their families.5

The consequence for the less mobile women of the Garifuna community is that the entire village and region is criminalized as drug territory, foreclosing any opportunity for tourist investment, or large-

4 Recall from the earlier discussion of speaking from the margin to the center, that for Black feminists, these spaces that lie at the margins of the margin, or the edge, have the potential for significant insight with relation to interacting forms of oppression.

5 During fieldwork the husband of one of the women I interviewed was arrested in a submarine, rumored to be Colombian, off the coast of Honduras. When I left, he had been imprisoned and there was little hope that he would ever be released.

scale investment in legal business ventures that might bring revenue to the area. In this way, the remote

(more eastern) region of the northern coast is both racialized as Black because of the presence of the

Garifuna ancestral villages and criminalized as drug territory, despite both the very gendered nature of participation in drug activities and the nonresident status of the overwhelming majority of participants in such activities. This has resulted in the criminalization of the Garifuna community, often assumed to be associated with drug activity, when that is far from the case. In this section I have described how the home villages of the Garifuna have become a favored target of drug traffickers. Below, I explore how the

Garifuna people came to live along the Caribbean coast of Honduras.

Garifuna History: A Long View of Garifuna Ethnogenesis and Migration

The Garifuna came into being on the island of St. Vincent as a mixture of African people and

Carib and Arawak Amerindians. The Amerindians were indigenous to the island. There were multiple sources of the African presence on St. Vincent during the second half of the seventeenth century, as

Johnson (2005) described: “The African presence on St. Vincent derived from Carib raids on Puerto Rico and, from survivors of slaver shipwrecks near the island, and from the arrival of fleeing maroons from neighbouring Barbados” (45). Alternatively, Fabel (2000) described the arrival around 1675 as follows:

“Several traditional stories, differing only in details, describe the original Black Caribs as the cargo of a

Barbados-bound slaver wrecked on or off St. Vincent” (145). What distinguishes the history typically relayed by the Garifuna people from that told by others is that they identify themselves as one of a few (or the only) African descendants in the Americas who evaded enslavement; this is an important distinction for Garifuna communities in the telling of their own history and of their identification as alternately indigenous and/or Black throughout history.

Although initially the island of St. Vincent was occupied by the French, Britain continued to make claims on the territory until after the War of the Austrian Succession ended in 1748, at which point Britain left St. Vincent, Dominica, St. Lucia, and Tobago, to their original inhabitants and removed white settlers

(Fabel 2000, 148). However, in 1763, after the victory in the Seven Years’ War, the British decided to once again occupy the territory both as a response to French violations of the neutrality agreement and because of the vulnerability of the French state at that point in time (Fabel 2000, 148). As Anderson

(2005) described, in the early years, the Africans and Caribs lived peaceably on the island: “During the

seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, St. Vincent remained outside the sphere of direct colonial control and provided a haven for African maroons and an indigenous people known by Europeans as

Caribs” (103). When the British took control, everything changed.

After the British gained control of St. Vincent in 1763, there were a series of battles over land disputes, during which the British denied land rights to the Garifuna. After the Second Carib War (1795-

96), during which the Garifuna allied themselves with the French, the British deported the group they called the “Black Caribs” (Gold 2009, 44-45). The separation of Black and Yellow Caribs, and the subsequent attacks on Black Caribs were rooted in the racist ideas of the British occupiers, as Gonzalez

(1997) clearly articulated:

The British continued to separate and imprison those with the darkest skins, often releasing the lighter-skinned individuals who they felt were either innocent or unwilling accomplices of the blacks. There was a strong racist component to this separation. My studies indicate that by the middle of the eighteenth century the ‘Black Caribs’ of St. Vincent were culturally and biologically indistinguishable from the so-called Yellow Caribs. Yet European observers, burdened by a racist imagination and ignorant of Mendelian genetics, insisted on distinguishing between darker, more combative Caribs and lighter, more tractable ones—and in imposing policies that preserved the distinction. (202 - 203)

The British have made such racialized divisions among groups in other contexts, including among the Miskito indigenous group of Nicaragua: “The British differentiated between those Miskitu who were supposedly ‘pure Indians’ (Tawira, or straight hairs) and those who were African Amerindian

(Zambo)” (Gordon 1998, 34). The Blackness of the Miskitos was seen as in competition with their Indian- ness. In fact, for both the Garifuna and the Miskito populations, the extent to which they are considered

Black has been used as a way to construct them as less Indian. Some authors have excluded groups of

Miskitos from indigenous groups, defining them as too Black: “As a mixed racial group the Zambo-

Mosquitos as a whole cannot be classified as Indians any more than mestizos, and this is particularly true for the Honduran sector of the Shore, where the negro influence was strongest. As such, the Zambos-

Mosquitos are not regarded as Indians at the end of the colonial period” (Newson 1986, 12). By extension, this paves the way for specific treatment (e.g., recruitment of Blacks for hard labor in tropical heat) and access to rights (e.g., communal land tiles for indigenous peoples), considered acceptable in relation to the groups. From the very beginning of their existence the Garifuna had to contend with others’ classification of their race, and the consequences of being categorized as Black. Most of this chapter will discuss the period starting in 1797, when the Garifuna arrived in what is current-day Honduras.

Garifuna Migration Map

Although not the focus of this chapter, the figure above shows a longer timeline of the migration history of the Garifuna people, dating back to 500 B.C. for a broader historical overview of the community. In the next section, I move on to discuss the period starting in 1797.

Garifuna History: From St. Vincent to Honduras (1797 – 1880)

Because of the contentious history between the Garifuna and the British described above, in

1797, the British deported the Garifuna to the British-controlled island of Roatán, just off the coast of what is today mainland Honduras. During the brutal journey, which included a six-month internment on the island of Baliceaux, nearly half of the group died (Johnson 2006, 42). The deaths were due to overcrowding, lack of fresh water, disease, and inadequate food (Bateman 1998, 203). On the island of

Roatán, the Garifuna had insufficient food and soil and battled a climate that was not favorable to their traditional agriculture (Gonzalez 1997, 205). As a result, shortly after arriving at Roatán, the Garifuna migrated to mainland Honduras and spread throughout the Caribbean coast of the Spanish territory of what is today Central America, creating settlements in current-day Nicaragua, Guatemala, Honduras and

Belize.

In the early 1800s, the Garifuna were classified as “Negroes” rather than Indians by the Republic of Central America (Bateman 1998). However, the racial and ethnic categorization of the Garifuna population was and is dynamic, taking on different meanings in response to the suppression of particular identities alongside the promotion of a national mestizo identity, during the height of banana production and more recently, during attempts to incorporate Garifuna identity into the marketing of Honduran cultural tourism (discussed below). Before engaging this interaction between Garifuna identity and the

Honduran state, it is important to understand how the Republic of Central America came to be separate independent Central American states.

By the early 1800s, the entire American continent was in conflict with Spain over independence

(Rosenberg 1986, 3). In 1821, the Central American provinces gained independence from Spain (Merrill

1995, xxv). For a short period from 1822 to 1823, the provinces were part of a union with Mexico

(Haggerty and Millet 1995, 13). By 1823, however, the provinces had gained complete independence, as the United Provinces of Central America, and by 1824, each province had created a free and independent government and administration (Acker 1988, 40). Slavery was abolished in Honduras in 1824, giving

Blacks and mixed-raced Hondurans citizenship and voting rights (Chambers 2010, 4; Euraque 2007, 89).

From 1821 to 1838, Honduras remained a province of the Central American nation (Euraque 1996, 2).

This union of Central American provinces, however, was soon dissolved: “Unable to maintain any form of central control, the federation dissolved in 1838, and Honduras became a sovereign state” (Merrill 1995, xxv). Honduras officially established its independence on November 15, 1838, and in January 1839

Honduras adopted an independent constitution, becoming the second state after Nicaragua to declare its independence (Haggerty and Millet 1995, 14; Morris 1984, 2). In 1859, the British ceded control of Roatán to Honduras (Leonard 2011, xxiv). During this period the Honduran population included a mix of people of

Spanish, indigenous, and African descent.

Along the northern (Caribbean) coast, the Garifuna participated in subsistence farming and fishing activities as England (2006) described: “There they fished, grew cassava, worked on banana plantations, and used their skill as sailors to trade up and down the coast, living an existence that was culturally and socially tied more to the Caribbean than to the interior” (England 2006, 1 – 2). Johnson

(2007), who discussed the multiple diasporic horizons across which the Garifuna engage in religious rituals, wrote about early resistance to an African identity by many Garifuna people: “Because Africa was associated with enslavement and linguistic assimilation, and because the absence of these were the exact two features by which Garifuna distinguished themselves from other groups of color, Africanness was an identification resisted as strongly by many Garifuna as it was by the nation-states in which they resided” (102). In spite of this sentiment among the Garifuna, they were designated as Black, or moreno, by people outside the community:

From the outset, the Spanish speakers on the Caribbean coast referred to the Black Caribs, or Garifuna, with the term moreno, which had a longer history as a euphemism for a black or negro. By the first decades of the nineteenth century, however, especially on the Caribbean coast of Honduras, the euphemistic reference associated with the word moreno lost ground… thereafter the term moreno was used as an ethnic reference for Black Caribs, not to be confused with moreno as a euphemism for ‘black’ in some other Latin American countries, or even in Honduras prior to the early 1800s. (Euraque 2007, 92-93)

The colonial port of Trujillo, where the Garifuna initially entered the Honduran mainland, thus became racialized as Black. In addition to being a community racialized by outsiders as Black, the Garifuna community also has a unique gendered identity.

Matrifocal Society and the Centrality of Ereba

One of the major characteristics defining Garifuna culture and society is the matrifocal nature of the community. England (2006) has defined matrifocality as follows: “It is a kinship system in which women, as mothers, serve as the foci of households, extended kin groups, and ritual” (67). In simplest terms, “To be a mother requires not only lifelong personal effort but the help of other women as well”

(Kerns 1983, 183). England cites Virginia Kerns’ anthropological work in the Garifuna community as important foundational research in rethinking gender relations: “Kerns’ study was an important first step in rethinking the model of gender relations that assumes all societies are characterized by patriarchy and male authority” (England 2006, 140). The literature about the matrifocal nature of the community has focused on the consanguineal (related through the mother) household structure, whereby women related through their mother assist each other with household and child care responsibilities. Kerns (1983) described the household structure as follows:

Households and nonresidential extended families are the basic social groups of the Black Carib. Women, as mothers, are structurally central to most households and to extended families. The focal female in an extended family is an older woman, and in most households either a young woman (with dependent children) or an older woman (whose children are grown). She provides a common focus of affection and exchange, and usually acts as the redistributor of food, other goods, and money within these groups. If the focal woman leaves the household permanently (as happens when a couple separates and the woman does not own the house), or if she dies, the household usually breaks up, often immediately. (120)

Gonzalez (1969) described this matrifocal structure as an adaptive mechanism that was developed as a response to male seasonal work: “The consanguineal household seems to be formed by default rather than as a positive mechanism oriented toward reinforcing solidarity among members of a matrilineage in which the loss of males would be fatal to the system. Males are, of course, important in many ways to a Black Carib household, but it matters little to the unit as a whole whether its male members occupy the role of brother-uncle or husband-father” (15). Within the consanguineal household structure women and men related through mothers often help to fill the role gap left by migrating men.

Gonzalez (1969) described the relationship as follows: “A woman may have several consanguineally related males (especially brothers, mother’s brothers and sons) to whom she may turn for help in child rearing, housebuilding, and clearing of fields. Although at any given time some of these men will be absent, usually there will be at least one upon whom she may call” (12-13). In chapter 4, I discuss this behavior in terms of a we-frame, or a collective consciousness of the group.

While Gonzalez understood matrifocality as an adaptive feature in response to extended male absences, England (2006) pointed to alternative explanations given by other scholars: “Virginia Kerns

(1983) argued that Garifuna matrifocality is more than a temporary adaptation to economic marginalization but rather has deep cultural and ideological roots in the kinship system of the Island Carib on St. Vincent” (71). England, agreeing with Kerns, has continued to study how the matrifocality of the community is reflected in a transnational context. England (2006) described the historical importance of matrifocality in the Garifuna community as follows:

This importance is manifested in a kinship structure that places more emphasis on maternal consanguineal ties (blood relations on one’s mother’s side) than on affinal or conjugal ties (with one’s in-laws and husband). It puts women at the center of family ritual and household affective relations, is bolstered by the common practice of matrilocal residence, and establishes women as the primary redistributors of resources within the household. … This is not to imply that matrifocality is the opposite of patriarchy or that women and men face equal sets of opportunities and constraints. Rather, matrifocality is intertwined with elements of patriarchal social structure and ideology, especially because men have an advantage in employment opportunities in the gendered labor market and in political power within the patriarchal state. (68)

I concur with the views of Kerns and England, understanding the matrifocality of the community as that existent prior to current migration patterns (discussed below). Kerns, who saw women’s autonomy as rooted in the traditions of the Island Caribs, presented a more compelling argument for the history of matrifocality of Garifuna society. Kerns (1998) looked specifically at work patterns and attitudes: “There is no cultural resistance to female employment. Many Black Carib women claim to be eager to work for wages, and very few men state an opposition to the notion or to the fact of their employment” (139).

Gargolla (2005) similarly pointed to cultural traditions among both the Carib Indians and Africans in which there was equal valuation of male and female tasks, which points to Garifuna matrifocality as a tradition more organic than reactive.

There continues to be debate among contemporary scholars about how to interpret the matrifocality of the Garifuna society. Johnson (2006), in his discussion of the increase in women

“playacting” as men in religious rituals in sync with increased male migration (52), seems to adopt

Gonzalez’s adaptive explanation. In contrast to this perspective, England (2006) described matrifocality as more than a temporary, adaptive measure: “The principle of matrifocality, whether enacted in economic kinship obligations, support networks, or ritual, is an important social glue that holds Garifuna

society together” (10). Just as significant as whether one decides that the behavior is adaptive or a longstanding tradition is how we analyze matrifocality in the context of gender relations.

Blackwood (2006) has warned that discussions of matrifocality should not become discussions about male absence: “Although ostensibly about women, the concept of ‘matrifocal households’ is an ongoing conversation about the ‘missing’ man. Matrifocal households were identified and designated as nonnormative forms of household because of the absence not just of a permanent married heterosexual couple, but, more precisely, the absence of a husband” (77). Blackwood (2006) argued that these households have to be understood and analyzed in their own right, and not just in relation to heteronormative assumptions. In a later chapter, I take on precisely that task by engaging in an intersectional analysis of the family in the Garifuna community context.

The matrifocality of Garifuna society is central to understanding Garifuna agency. Womanhood, and ultimately motherhood is one of the earliest foundations for collaborative work within the Garifuna community. Kerns (1983) has articulated the importance of motherhood in relation to collaborative work and collective action as follows: “Parenthood has profoundly different cultural meaning and social consequences for Black Carib men and women. Maternal obligations are more broadly defined and strictly enforced (largely by women). They provide the basis for collective action by women” (184). Kerns

(1983) also has described the collective work of women:

Female responsibility to lineal kin serves as an organizing principle of Black Carib kinship and ritual, and as the focus of female unity and collective action. Maternal obligations are primary, broadly defined, and lifelong. As mothers, women share common concerns and a valued identity, one that commands respect (not only from their children). Motherhood connotes strength, the capacity and duty to protect others. Women act together to achieve this end. (183)

In the remainder of this section, I describe one of the principle mechanisms, ereba-making, through which women are engaging community development. Later in this chapter, I talk more broadly about the collaborative work and coordinated action within the Garifuna community, especially as a response to state marginalization and oppression. Although there are men who are involved in the ereba production process, it is considered “women’s work” and in the realm of ereba-making men are considered assistants to the primary owners of the process, the women. Most of the ereba-making women with whom I interacted were at least in their 40s. Their daughters were often away in the cities, at least temporarily, to study. I mention the age of the women in part because this study aims to highlight intersectional variation among the experiences of the Garifuna women. Also, historically, older (postreproductive) women have been critically important to the collective work and action of the Garifuna community. Kerns (1983) noted this in her study:

In the Black Carib communities I studied, older women are not bound by most of the culturally defined and socially enforced restrictions that apply to women of childbearing age. Instead, they act as the primary enforcers of those ‘rules.’ Beyond the increased autonomy that they enjoy, older women (especially the mothers of grown children) exercise greater power, largely through their collective action and the use of a public forum in pursuit of common good. (194)

One of the ways in which these older women in their 40s can be seen working together for the benefit of the community is through the making of ereba.

The making of ereba has long been part of the Garifuna culture, dating back to life on the island of St. Vincent. Taylor (2012) wrote the following about ereba-making on St. Vincent: “In the clearings in the woods the women raised cassava (the root crop also known as manioc or yucca) in small gardens among the stumps of trees felled by men” (13). Taylor (2012) describes cassava as an indispensible staple food for the Garifuna (13). Although almost all of the texts that focus on the village life of the

Garifuna mention ereba, and identify its cultural and sustenance value, to my knowledge, my research is the first to focus on the Garifuna women who make ereba in relation to community development.

Gonzalez (1969) was one of the first to identify the importance of ereba for women as the primary agricultural producers in the Garifuna community: “A woman’s responsibility did not end with the harvest – she also processed the foods produced and converted them into edible form. For bitter manioc, this involved the laborious task of expressing the poisonous acid, and the manufacture of areba, or cassava bread, the main staple” (46). In her discussion of traditional foods, Gold (2009) also mentioned ereba production: Another classic example is the preparation of casabe or erebe, a staple food among the Garífuna made from the bitter yucca root (the ‘sweet’ yucca is also eaten), which is poisonous until it is processed to express the bitter juices. The extraction process involves peeling and grating the root and then pressing it through a long sieve called a ruguma or culebra (snake). Flour made from the dried starchy root is the basis of the thin, flat bread known as casabe. (50)6

Of the multiple accounts of the centrality of ereba in Garifuna culture, Gonzalez (1988) is among the few to address the cultural significance of the food within the culture. In Sojourners of the Caribbean,

Gonzalez (1988) discussed the changes within the ereba production process and pondered whether the tradition would stand the test of time.

The Garifuna diet will no doubt change as new foods become available or as some items become difficult to obtain. It will be interesting to observe the future of the most salient Garifuna food symbol of all, areba. The unleavened flatbread has not changed, though recently there have been improvements in grating and baking techniques introduced by development agents. As the men who make the traditional basketry implements for compressing and sifting the manioc pulp die, and as the art disappears, substitutes will probably be adopted, as they have been elsewhere.

6 Casabe is the Spanish translation of ereba, which is a Garifuna word; ruguma is also a Garifuna word, while culebra is the Spanish translation. 63

Throughout the Caribbean manioc grated on perforated tin slabs has long been squeezed through ordinary white cloth by non-Garifuna peoples, and today it is made in factories for sale both locally and in the United States. But nowhere else outside of parts of lowland South America does it have the ritual and ethnic meaning with which the Garifuna endow it. (107)

Ereba, with its deeply rooted cultural significance, is one of the most powerful symbols of the grassroots development efforts of rural Garifuna women.

Gonzalez (1988), who conducted in-depth ethnographic studies among the Garifuna of

Guatemala also spent time with the Honduran and Belizean Garifuna populations, and expressed concern about the disappearance of the ereba-making tradition. However, my own fieldwork (2011 –

2012) revealed that the ereba traditions were still being well maintained among Honduras’ Garifuna population. This is in spite of increasing out-migration from the villages to urban centers and the US. Later chapters explore how these traditions are changing and how those changes are altering other aspects of community life. I could not have done the in-depth ethnographic work among the ereba makers anywhere except in the ancestral villages of Honduras. As Garifuna people migrate to the cities, they do not have the land or resources to cultivate cassava and make ereba. Gonzalez (1988) pointed to this trend in her study of Livingston, Guatemala: “Few of the women in the larger towns where Garifuna live still know how to make areba, and it has consequently become both scarce and expensive. In Livingston it is now primarily a ritual food, used only at ancestor rites and on a few other special occasions” (107). Garifuna villagers in Honduras travel to the cities to sell to Garifuna without land to cultivate cassava.

Ereba production is growing and changing in the context of the different local spaces where we find the Garifuna people. Even as Gonzalez (1988) noted the decline of ereba production in Guatemala, she also noted the growth in Honduras: “In Honduras, by contrast, areba manufacture has been stimulated by the recent introduction of improved clay ovens with waist-high built-in griddles about three feet in diameter—the appropriate size for making areba. In some towns a gasoline-driven grater has been introduced, which reduces from three to two days the time needed to make a batch of the bread and saves many woman-hours of heavy labor” (108). This time and labor savings is particularly important for the generation of ereba makers in their forties, with whom I worked. These women are the primary bakers of ereba in the Honduran villages. This intra-group variation in age shapes development experiences, highlighting the different factors that are creating opportunities for Garifuna villagers who share a common

culture but differ in terms of gender, economic status, age, and migration history. In the section below, I discuss the inter-group contrast of the Garifuna community with other groups during the banana years.

Race, Gender and Labor During the Banana Years (1880- 1998)

Given that Honduras is often referred to as the quintessential banana republic, it is important to discuss the role of the transnational fruit companies in shaping Honduran labor, identity and culture.

Enloe (1989) characterized the “banana republics” as follows: “They are described as countries whose land and soul are in the clutches of a foreign company, supported by the might of its own government. A banana republic’s sovereignty has been so thoroughly compromised that it is the butt of jokes, not respect. It has a government, but it is staffed by people who line their own pockets by doing the bidding of the overseas corporation and its political allies” (133). This describes the economic and political entanglements of the Honduran government during the heyday of the multinational fruit companies.

The 1880s marked the beginning of considerable foreign investment by mining and fruit companies, encouraged by state concessions (Rosenberg 1986, 4). Above, I discussed Honduras’ marginalization in the capitalist market. Even when working to exploit the vast natural richness of the country, “economists have declared that Honduras is rich in natural resources but has been unable to harness those resources to its own collective benefit” (Gold 2009, xi). At the height of the mining industry in the 1880s, silver and gold accounted for 75 percent of Honduran exports (Leonard 2011, 4). The banana companies are also typical of this relationship of underdevelopment and exploitation, with their history of “buying off, threatening, and manipulating national governments as aggressively as they initially seized the lands of peasants who resisted their incursions” (Frank 2005a, 11). In spite of increasing banana production over a period of decades, Honduras’ profits were minimal in relation to the transnational fruit companies: “As their giant plantations spread across the North Coast, and the company’s control of internal transportation and foreign shipping soon monopolized the industry, the companies extracted further concessions. Until the onset of the Great Depression in 1930s, bananas were the chief Honduran export, but given the concessions, brought little prosperity to the country”

(Leonard 2011, 5).

During the 1870s, in the early years of banana production, the Garifuna acted as small-scale producers who would sell to the large fruit companies whose control over the Honduran market only grew:

“In the 1890s, approximately one hundred Honduran producers of bananas emerged. However, aided by support from the Honduran state and by greater access to capital, three North American companies took complete control of the banana export production by 1911” (McKelvey 1999, 197). When the fruit companies began to buy land for banana plantations, the Garifuna continued their relationship with the fruit companies as preferred laborers (England 2006, 42).

During this period, in the late 1800s and early 1900s, the Garifuna began to be referred to as morenos, both by the Honduran state and in documents of the fruit companies. England (2010) described the use of the term as follows: “In much of Latin America the term moreno, meaning brown, is used as a polite way to refer to Afro-Latinos without actually calling them black. It places one on the colour continuum somewhere near the bottom but with the suggestion that there is some mixture on the way to whiteness” (201). The Garifuna were thus identified on the banana plantations, and they constituted a significant part of the workforce at the height of banana production in the country: “In 1915 morenos—a term commonly applied to Black Caribs in Central America—made up ten percent of the Standard Fruit

Company’s employees. In 1929 out of the 5,125 employees of the Trujillo Railroad Company, 463 (or nine percent) were described by the company as Honduran Caribs. This was near the peak of the

Honduran banana industry” (Taylor 2012, 156).

The fruit companies created a racialized hierarchy for different types of workers, and began importing Black West Indians, because of a shortage of Black labor that was supposedly better suited to hard work in tropical conditions (England 2006, 42). The recruitment of Black laborers occurred throughout Central American plantations along the Atlantic coast: “Most of the workers on the Atlantic plantations were black, and lynch law reigned with perfect impunity to silence individual bursts of rage against white managers as well as collective worker actions. Labor conflict predictably took shape along divisions of race” (Forster 1998, 200). The Black, English-speaking laborers were given preferable jobs as crew heads (England 2006, 42). England (2006) described the positions that were considered suitable for the Garifuna laborer as follows: “They were hired in positions that would have made the accumulation of wealth difficult, positions that enabled them to maintain their valued positions as ‘good labor’ but did not enable them to engage in capitalist entrepreneurship” (43). The entrepreneurial work that shaped the

Garifuna community’s early experience as small-scale banana farmers during the 1870s to 1890s was

made impossible with the dominance of the fruit companies in the 1910s: “Their very presence also retarded the emergence of an independent entrepreneurial class in the country” (Rosenberg 1986, 5).

They were thus marginalized as good workers but incapable entrepreneurs.

The fruit companies were not only interested in the labor relations that directly impacted them; they also involved themselves in all aspects of government, national image and political life: “The companies became deeply involved in national political life, encouraging influence-peddling by unscrupulous politicians while making direct payoffs to legislators, presidents, and military officials”

(Rosenberg 1986, 5). Euraque (1998) argued that as a response to the lack of control over state affairs,

Honduran elites aimed to control the one thing they were empowered to control—the vision of the

Honduran national identity:

Elites in Tegucigalpa, and especially within the Honduran state, were too weak politically and economically to challenge or reject foreign capital; thus they attempted to reassert their dominance, at least in the ideological sphere, by asserting a national identity based on a homogenous Honduran mestizo race (which included or blended in native descendants of black slaves, the pardos and mulattos) but excluding black West Indian immigrants brought in by the banana companies, and the indigenous north coast Garifuna populations, or the morenos, as they continued to be called into the 1930s and 1940s, and well into the 1960s. (Euraque 2007, 100)

Evidence of this manipulation of the Honduran national identity, in response to the dominance of foreign fruit companies, can be seen both in the changing census categories during this time and the implementation of particular immigration laws. This manipulation of census categories continues to shape who is counted as part of Honduran society.

Below, there are two graphs showing the racial/ethnic distribution within Honduras. The first graph (on the left) is from the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) Factbook and includes a very limited set of options (CIA 2014). This mirrors the restricted census options developed by the Honduran government about which Euraque (1998) wrote. In this graph, mestizos constitute an overwhelming 90% of the population. The second graph is based on data from the Latinobarómetro company, which implements surveys throughout Latin America about different issues (Latinobarómetro 2011). In the questionnaire given by Latinobarómetro, there are seven ethnoracial categories to choose from, as well as the option not to respond. In this graph, the percentage of mestizos dramatically drops from 90% to 62.2%.

Racial Statistics for Honduras

Race/Ethnicity Self-Identified Race/Ethnicity 2% 1% 0.6% 5.8% 0.8% 1.9% 1.2% Asian 7% 9.2% Black Mestizo 13.1% 5.2% Indigenous Amerindian Mestizo(a) Black Mulato(a) White 62.2% 90% White Other

Honduran Racial/Ethnic Identification (CIA Factbook) Honduran Racial/Ethnic Identity (Latinobarómetro)

Perceived Number of People Discriminated Against by Race Nobody 1.0% 6.8% 4.0% 1% - 25% 4.8% 12.6% 26% - 50%

51% - 75%

33.6% 37.2% 76% - 99% Everyone

Don't know/Didn't respond

Racial Discrimination Poll (Latinobarómetro) 68

Demographic Data for Honduras

Age Location

4.60% 3.90% 0 - 14 years

15 - 24 years 35.50% 25 - 54 years 48% Urban 34.80% 52% Rural 55 - 64 years 21.20% 65 years and over

Age Distribution in Honduras (CIA World Factbook) Rural-Urban Divide in Honduras (CIA World Factbook)

Labor Poverty Line

Agriculture 39.8% 39.2% 40% Below Industry Above Services 60%

20.9%

Labor Breakdown in Honduras (CIA World Factbook) Poverty in Honduras (CIA World Factbook)

This dramatic decrease in the number of mestizos only reinforces Euraque’s point that people were being forced into the mestizo category as the ethnoracial categories with which they identify were being eliminated from the national census. Also noteworthy, is the choice of Black or

Amerindian/Indigenous, among which Garifuna residents might select either. Beneath the graphs about racial identification is a graph about the perception of race discrimination in Honduras, again based on a

Latinobarómetro questionnaire. Considering the racial discrimination outlined in Honduran history, it is noteworthy that a considerable portion (half) of the population believes that there is substantial (affecting more than a quarter of the population) racial discrimination in Honduras.

The second set of graphs, all from the CIA World Factbook, is provided for some context about how the rural ereba makers fit into the larger population. As the graphs indicate, being among the rural poor in Honduras is quite common, since 60% of the population lives beneath the poverty level and almost half of the country’s population lives in rural areas. Also, the agricultural work that defines the livelihood of ereba-making is quite commonplace throughout Honduras, with agricultural work comprising almost 40% of labor. Finally, although the age breakdown is somewhat crude, the population in their forties is within one of the larger age brackets (of individuals between 25 and 54) identified, with the only group larger being children under 15. Women in their forties are similarly the largest group of ereba makers. These data points demonstrate how the Honduran government has used the census as a tool to create a national identity; below I discuss some of the other legislative maneuvers implicated in the marginalization of Honduras’ Black population.

Anti-Black Legislation and Sentiments

From the 1910s to the 1930s, there was an anti-immigration legislation trend that can be linked to both a vision of a racially homogenous, mestizo country and the rise of the banana industry on Honduras’ north coast. Euraque (1998) has argued the following:

The anti-immigration legislation of 1929 and 1934, as well as antiblack labor legislation introduced into Congress between 1923 and 1925, must be seen in the context of changes in the way the government counted and classified the population—eliminating entire categories of people and reducing Honduran ethnicities to an all-encompassing mestizo—and in the context of intellectuals’ and politicians’ attempts to define the nation for themselves and for the population in a way that reaffirmed Honduran identity in a society and economy increasingly dominated by foreigners. The legislation established the racial and ethnic parameters for the acceptable homogenous, mestizo Honduras, thus also flattening a more complicated narrative of twentieth- century Honduran history. (152)

The 1929 immigration legislation required a $2,500 deposit from undesired ethnic and racial groups entering the countries, including Blacks; article 14 of the Immigration Law of 1934 prohibited the entry of specific racial and ethnic groups, again including Blacks (Euraque 2007, 100). As the Honduran government fortified a mestizo vision of Honduran identity, in response to increasing foreign control over the national economy, both legislation and census categories changed to conform to that vision. Racial distinctions that existed in 1910 between, for example, ladinos and mestizos, disappeared by the 1930s.

Euraque (1998) discussed the different racial implications of these categories: “The distinction between ladino and mestizo is important for a number of reasons. During the colonial period ladino implied a heterogeneity, inherited from the first years of the conquest, that included a range of mestizos, that is, racially mixed peoples” (154). Through this simple change in census categories, the Honduran government helped with the blanqeamiento process of the country.

As the mestizo category took on greater significance in terms of the designation of a racially homogenous state, the type of people included in the category narrowed: “Mestizo slowly came to represent a particular kind of ‘mixed’ person, that is, a person of ‘Indian’ and ‘Spanish’ miscegenation and hence different from the broader range of miscegenation suggested by ladino” (Euraque 1998, 155). The creation of a mestizo Honduran state is linked to the interaction between the residents of Honduras’ north coast and the transnational fruit companies: “The emergence of a mestizo Honduras in official census data reflects a transformation that took place in the imagination of the country’s official elites, a transformation that tied to social, political, and economic events on Honduras’s north coast” (Euraque

1998, 155).

At the same time, a series of events contributed to anti-black sentiment in Honduras: In 1925 presidential candidate General Tiburcio Carías Andino pledged to oppose immigration of black workers to the north coast; the 1929 Immigration Law discouraged black immigration; in 1930, the Klu Klux Klan was established in San Pedro Sula, the north coast’s industrial center; and in the same year an Immigration office was established, in part to help promote white immigration (Euraque 1998, 158-159).

Although the intended target of much of the anti-Black legislation was the West Indian immigrant, it had a negative impact on the native Garifuna population, who were the victims of border patrols aimed at cracking down on illegal immigration: “Many Honduran authorities based black identity solely on

phenotype and did not consider the complex historical and cultural realities of class and color in the

Caribbean. Therefore, it was inconceivable for some authorities to distinguish the Garífuna from the West

Indian, despite the clear ethnic and cultural distinctions between the two groups” (Chambers 2010, 132).

The state thus endorsed this race-based discrimination.

During this time, there was a general trend throughout Latin America in favor of the promotion of a mestizo nation: “With a few exceptions in Latin America, European culture has been valued over indigenous or African culture, and a group’s phenotypical features have often been conflated with

‘culture,’ understood not only as a way of life but also as a set of significant accomplishments” (Yelvington

2005, 239). During this period of anti-Black immigration, the banana industry was hit with the devastating impact of the Panama fungus, also called sigatoka, and the 1929 collapse of the stock market, followed by a worldwide depression (Stonich 2000, 44). The combination of these factors meant that the anti-Black legislation resulted in increased layoffs, firings, and ultimately deportations for West Indian immigrants

(Chambers 2010, 115 – 135).

Along with the disappearance of Black and mixed-race census categories, and the emergence of anti-black legislation and sentiments, there was also an attempt to erase the important role of Blacks in the history of Honduras. By the 1930s and 1940s, the histories of municipalities that were initially primarily

Black settlements began to be displaced amidst the promotion of mestizaje (Euraque 2007, 90). All of these factors have contributed to the creation of a Honduran national identity embodied by an “all encompassing indo-Hispanic mestizo” (Euraque 2007, 101). This identity excluded Black people generally, and thus marginalized the native Honduran Garifuna population. This occurred around the same time that many Garifuna people were rejecting their own classification as moreno by the state and by multinational fruit companies, to join with a broader Black population in a struggle against racism.

England (2010) wrote: “Unlike moreno, negro is used by Garifuna as a conscious political, cultural and racial identification with the African diaspora” (202).

In addition to constructing racialized work environments, the banana plantations were also gendered spaces. Enloe (1989) described the plantations as being built upon “alliances between men of different complementary interests: businessmen and male officials of the importing countries on the one hand, and male landowners and government officials of the exporting countries on the other. To clear the

land and harvest the bananas they decided they needed a male workforce, sustained at a distance by women as prostitutes, mothers and wives” (128). The plantations were thus created with men as the focus, and women as part of the periphery, if considered at all. Enloe (1989) described how executives imagined the plantation workforce:

Banana-company executives imagined that most of the jobs on their plantations could be done by men. Banana plantations were carved out of wooded acres. Clearing the brush required workers who could use a machete, live in rude barracks, and who, once the plantation’s trees were bearing fruit, could chop down the heavy bunches and carry them to central loading areas and from there to the docks, to be loaded by the ton on to refrigerator ships. This was men’s work. (133 – 134)

Women were not part of the initial calculations. Instead, the women represented the unpaid and sexual labor required for the plantation work to go smoothly (Enloe 1989, 137). However, some of this would change after the strike of 1954.

Enloe (1998) argued that the masculine space of the banana plantation created a pride all men felt: “Even male banana workers employed by a foreign company that, in alliance with local élites, had turned their country into a proverbial banana republic, could feel some pride. … Whether a smallholder or a plantation employee, a banana man was a man” (135). This begs the question: Were the feelings of the male bosses and the male workers that similar? The gendered labor hierarchies to which Enloe (1989) referred also had important racial dimensions. England (2006) has described how the “placement” of the

Garifuna within the workforce hierarchy is linked to their racialization.

In Central America, multinational fruit companies depended on racialized assessments of different labor pools to determine which jobs would be given to whom. They saw Garifuna men as ‘good labor’ because of their association with Black West Indians and willingness to work for wages. Though they were a preferred workforce, Garifuna were hired only in certain capacities, limiting their chances of becoming significant capitalist entrepreneurs or landowners. This same construction of them as good workers based on their blackness had more negative repercussions, however, vis-à-vis the Honduran state and national society, for whom blackness was equated with foreignness, thereby excluding them from full status as ‘native sons’ and from national belonging. (65)

A banana man is not simply a man. He is a man of a particular class and race. The “Blackness” of the

Garifuna population is thus important to an understanding of their treatment within the Honduran state, and as workers for the multinational fruit companies. There was a hierarchy among men on the plantations, and some men were lesser men, in the sense that they were less able to provide for their families. The 1954 workers strike challenged some of the entrenched gender norms of fruit plantations.

1954 Workers Strike

In 1954, from May to July, there was a major workers strike in Honduras: “A series of strikes broke out against the United Fruit Company operations on Honduras’s Caribbean coast. Within a few days, the strike spread to include the Standard Fruit Company operations, bringing the banana industry in the country to a near standstill” (Haggerty and Millett 1995, 33-34). The 1954 strike forever changed labor relations in the country: “The banana workers of the United Fruit Company went on strike, stimulating what was to be a sixty-seven-day nationwide general strike. The result of the strike was a settlement which recognized the right of workers to organize” (McKelvey 1999, 197). This transition did not happen without significant involvement of the United States, whose corporate interests were at stake. The United

States Department of State pressured fruit companies to recognize the unions, which were largely controlled by US interests; these unions shut out Leftists and supported corporate interests in the country

(Frank 2005a, 22-23).

Before the strike, men of all racial categories worked “what’s called the ‘agriculture’ side of the banana production—the arduous labor of tromping through the fields cutting down 75- to 12-pound stems and carrying them to cables leading to the packing plants” (Frank 2005a, 13). Although all men worked on the plantations, as mentioned above there was a hierarchy in which Black men were considered better suited for hard labor in the tropical heat and mestizo men were considered better managers. Women were only hired as secretaries to plantation executives.

After the strike women were allowed to join the workforce in capacities other than secretaries. In the 1960s, when packinghouses became part of banana plantation work, women were hired to cut stems, wash bananas and pack the bananas into boxes (Soluri 2005, 187). It is not clear whether there was a particular racialized hierarchy among women working within the packinghouses.7 However, the gendered division of labor had financial consequences. Women were not employed in “skilled trades on the

7 One of the challenges of conducting intersectional research is finding historical data that identifies the ethnicity or race of groups of women. Based on photographs I have seen in texts, the early hires in the packinghouses appear to be predominately mestizo. This would be consistent with the fact that many Garifuna women stayed in the home villages when men migrated for seasonal work and many West Indians immigrated without their wives. However, more recent photos of female banana workers appear to be more diverse, consistent with an increased feminization of low wage labor.

plantations, such as tractor driver, carpenter, or crop duster mechanic—all of which pay far better than work in the packing plants” (Frank 2005a, 13).

Although women were not hired on the agriculture side of the plantation, men were hired in the packinghouses: “In the packinghouse, by contrast, men and women work in many of the same jobs such as ‘deflowering’ the fruit (picking off dead little flowers at each banana’s end), cutting up clumps, or washing them. Other jobs are still gender specific: only women stick on brand-name labels; only men cut up the initial big stems or move boxes into shipping containers” (Frank 2005a, 13-14). Enloe (1989) discussed the important role of women, even outside of full-time employment: “They perform certain crucial jobs – as seasonal weeders, as processing-plant workers – and they supply cheap, part-time labor, to be called on when the world price drops for the company’s product” (149). Since only men were hired in supervisory roles, women were potentially vulnerable to sexual harassment (Soluri 2005, 191).

Because women began working on the banana plantations after the 1954 strike when unions had considerable strength and power, they received considerable benefits in the workplace, including job security, pay equal to men, paid vacations, pensions, holidays and health care benefits (Frank 2005a,

15). Born out of the 1954 strike, the Union of Workers of the La Tela Railroad Company, or Sindicato de

Trabajadores de La Tela Railroad Company (SITRATERCO) created a “women’s committee” that got women elected to union office positions and provided training about gender politics (Frank 2005b, 88 –

89). In addition to the racialized and gendered division of labor, there was an age bias that advantaged younger women. Fruit companies hired young, healthy women, who could stand on their feet all day. The women tended to be single mothers, in contrast to men who tended to have female companions to cook, clean, and care for children (Frank 2005a, 16). Facing discrimination on and off the banana plantations, many Garifuna men and women still opted for work abroad.

Garifuna Identity in Transnational Context

Garifuna men began to migrate in large numbers to the U.S. in the 1940s, often working as merchant marines, in order to fill job vacancies left by Americans soldiers fighting in World War II

(Johnson 2005, 46). Many worked as merchant marines for the United Fruit Company (England 1999,

11). England (2006) described how this work option was preferable to work on the banana plantations:

“Many Garifuna men chose this work because it paid better than plantation labor and they were able to

have the company regularly send a portion of their check to family members in the villages. In addition, merchant marines continued to receive checks upon retirement, which meant the possibility of living out old age in relative luxury in Central America” (44).

According to Anderson (2005), the Garifuna were treated like second-class citizens in Honduras for much of the first half of the twentieth century, and were barred from many hotels and restaurants as well as prohibited from sitting in public parks. It was not until after World War II that some of these racist policies and practices began to change due to a number of factors, including a 1940s labor movement that included Blacks. This facilitated the transition to more democratic forms of governance, antiracist initiatives launched by the Garifuna in the 1950s, and increased integration of the Garifuna into national government and organizations (Anderson 2005, 105). Also, in the state constitution of 1982, the government agreed to preserve and stimulate native cultures and national folklore (Gold 2009, 54). This initiative included bilingual education for the Garifuna. Unfortunately, state action has fallen short of promises made (Gold 2009, 54).

During the 1950s, anthropologist Nancie Gonzalez studied the Garifuna in Guatemala and observed both that there was a rejection of a Black identity and that “women enjoyed a superior status”

(Gonzalez 1997, 200). Like a number of scholars, Gonzalez found herself trying to make an empirical case for the Garifuna community’s indigeneity or Blackness. She ultimately resorted to the use of blood tests to determine that the Garifuna in Livingston, Guatemala were 75% African and 25% South American

(Gonzalez 1997, 200 – 201). In spite of the population’s insistence that they were “in no way related to other colored peoples” (Gonzalez 1997, 200), Gonzalez used these tests as an “authoritative” counter to the group’s self-identification. In the current study, identity is understood as socially constructed rather than biologically determined. The social construction of identity has been greatly impacted by migration of

Garifuna individuals and families.

In the 1960s, with the rise of a service-based economy, immigration to the US both expanded and diversified. There was an increase in the number of women migrating to the US during this period for jobs as nannies and home attendants (Gonzalez 1988, 173), as well as a more general feminization of all low- wage labor markets (Matthei and Smith 1996, 137). Although Garifuna migration to the US was initially dominated by men, by the 1960s women frequently migrated for jobs (England 2006, 2). This second

wave of immigration to the US was facilitated by US legislation that abolished overtly race-based immigration prohibitions (Johnson 2007, 17). During the 1960s, many of the merchant marines began to settle in US cities (England 1999, 11). In the 1980s and 1990s there was an economic boom that generated another wave of migration, especially in the service economy (Johnson 2007, 19). Today, there continues to be regular migration of Garifuna men and women to the US for employment.

It was in the midst of this increased transnationalization of the community that the term Garifuna became popularly used to identify the group that had over time been identified as Black Caribs, morenos, negros, and now Garifuna. The term Garifuna makes reference to both the shared Garifuna language and shared culture, emphasizing the group’s ethnic, rather than racial, identity: “This identification as Garifuna

(rather than simply negro or moreno) was strategic because it removed the Garifuna from the colour continuum and placed them alongside indigenous peoples as a group that is culturally and racially distinct from the mestizo majority and intends to stay so” (England 2010, 203). In emphasizing the difference between the mestizo and Garifuna identity, the term Garifuna continues to be used today, referring to the group’s unique history, language, and cultural traditions.

In spite of mass migration, the matrifocal nature of the Garifuna community has persisted. In her study of the transnational Garifuna community, Sarah England (2006) described matrifocality as one of the organizing principles of the transnational Garifuna community:

The kinship system and domestic structure of ‘matrifocality’ is one of the main organizing principles of the transnational community because it shapes the character of transnational households, patterns of remittances and investments, and community-level rituals of solidarity. At the same time, however, this principle of matrifocality is articulated with the gendered division of labor and other conditions in Honduras and New York City, creating a different set of resources, obligations, opportunities, and constraints for Garifuna men and women in two different locations. (28 – 29)

Although the matrifocality of the community certainly has benefits for women with regard to autonomy,

England (2006) was careful to point out the limitations of such advantages: “So while there is no Garifuna gender ideology that prevents women from working, the sexual division of labor in the patriarchal Central

American labor market means that women do not have the same earning potential as men. Many women prefer to stay in Garifuna villages where they can get by with the help of female kin, sporadic contributions from the father(s) of their children, and cultivation” (74 – 75). Thus, the matrifocality of the

community has been preserved even in the contemporary transnational context, but continues to be challenged by the patriarchal nature of the Honduran state.

The mestizo national identity of Honduras has blinded much of the population to the ethnic diversity of the country. Awareness of ethnic diversity increased in the 1980s, as Gold (2009) has described:

The indigenous movement that began in Honduras in the 1970s gained momentum in the late 1980s and 1990s and today every indigenous group in the country has organized into coalitions or federations, often with the help and participation of nonindigenous activists in solidarity with their situation. These groups are working on several fronts to retain ownership of ancestral lands; revive traditional handicrafts; promote bilingual education, health care, and sanitation; and preserve or revive traditional celebrations. (51)

The indigenous movement was critical to the alliances between Garifuna and other indigenous groups. At the same time, the Garifuna identity was continuing to engage multiple diasporic horizons through increased migration.

By the late 1980s and 1990s, in the midst of an economic boom, there were multiple paths for

Garifuna immigration and both men and women were migrating to the US. Many women also migrated to

Honduran cities for factory work. With demand for domestic labor in the 1970s and demand for home- care workers and live-in caregivers in the early 2000s, by 2005 women were nearly as likely as men to migrate to the US (Johnson 2006, 52). These trends often resulted in large numbers of working-age

“residents” being away from home villages, so much so that some ethnographers referred to the Garifuna villages as nurseries and nursing homes (England 2006, 47). Gonzalez (1988) discussed the pervasive concept of dual residence in these communities, such that even after years of absence, people are still considered residents (203). Johnson (2005) described a 2001 census of the village of San Juan in

Honduras that showed 1132 of the 1655 residents were absent from the village, being split almost evenly between US and Honduran cities (46).

Like the indigeneity and the Blackness of the Garifuna, the Africanness of the group has not been static, but is instead a dynamic component of Garifuna identity: “Until recent onomastic shifts led by

Garifuna activists, Afro-Honduran was practically a non sequitur. But Africa is now being reinstated in the awareness of the Garifuna in Honduras. It has happened under the rubric of diaspora, largely through the agency of emigrants to New York“ (Johnson 2007, 102). At this particular moment in history, Garifuna transmigrants are becoming more African and more Black through their transnational engagements with

other Black Afro-descendants. In contrast to this move toward Blackness, the reach towards an indigenous identity has long been linked to rural, agrarian life and culture.

Garifuna Indigeneity and Land Rights

Among rural Garifuna, being recognized as indigenous has been critically important in the struggle for land rights and has required overcoming a resistance to Black indigenous communities.

Taylor (2012) wrote, “In 1992 the Garifuna were admitted to the World Council of Indigenous Peoples after overcoming resistance in that body to accepting black-skinned people in the Americas as indigenous” (158). As described above, Blackness and indigeneity have often been interpreted as competing characteristics in a zero sum game; the more indigenous one is, the less Black and vice versa.

Therefore, the recognition of the Black indigenous Garifuna identity was significant. Before this recognition, the exclusion of Blackness from the Honduran national identity paired with the denial of Black indigeneity allowed the state to deny land rights to the Garifuna people (Brondo 2013, 33). Anderson

(2009) has clearly articulated the value in indigeneity for Garifuna claims to collective rights.

Indigeneity thus provided a language through which collective claims could be made and heard; it made a collective subject that the state and other actors could recognize as legitimately distinctive. Garifuna, though identifying and identified as Black, became ‘visible’ as a collective subject to the state, indigenous and environmental organizations, international NGOs, multilateral institutions, and the public media by appearing in the same metacultural frame as indigenous peoples. (134)

The indigenous identity is important in the Honduran context for access to land rights, for which Garifuna organizations have long advocated.

By the 1970s the Garifuna began to create organizations that made demands on the state for access to land rights and other opportunities. One of the two major Garifuna organizations in Honduras,

Organización Fraternal Negra Hondureña (OFRANEH), was founded in 1977. OFRANEH started with a focus on fighting racism, but by the 1990s was very much focused on land rights issues (England 2006,

161). The Garifuna engaged in this organization emphasize the indigenous roots of the community and are thus aligned with other indigenous groups in the fight for land rights:

Garifuna activists articulate autochthonous claims that include recognition of a primordial status within the nation, recovery and titling of lands and territories, promotion of Garifuna language and culture through bilingual and intercultural education, direct political representation in the national congress, and recognition of traditional forms of organization. This program aligns Garifuna with other indigenous groups of Honduras, with whom they have affiliated in the panracial Confederation of Autochthonous Peoples of Honduras. (Gordon and Anderson 1999, 291)

Particular aspects of identity thus are highlighted in relation to specific claims of groups. For the rural

Garifuna communities, land is extremely important; thus this aspect of identity is likely to be emphasized in the ancestral Garifuna communities. In cities and in the larger diasporic communities, where land is scarce, some of this emphasis on the indigenous identity of the community has been lost.

While the Garifuna emphasize their indigenous identity in relation to land rights, they often use the term ‘autochthonous’ to avoid assumptions about racial identity: “The careful use of the term autochthonous (autóctono) as opposed to indigenous (indígena)—with its connotations of biological

Indianness—allows Garifuna to make primordial claims while maintaining a racial distinction” (Gordon and

Anderson 1999, 291).8 In the context of the Honduran mestizo state, the indígena identity is the primary signifier of racial difference (England 1999, 16). However, this difference is not imagined to be

(potentially) Black, as Blackness has been almost entirely excluded from the national identity. I have found that especially among more urban and mobile Garifuna individuals, the term indigenous is rejected.9 In spite of this rejection of the indigenous identity for the more mobile members of the Garifuna community, for rural, Garifuna landowners of the northern coast, claiming an indigenous identity has been critical to land claims.

In 1974 the Honduran government passed an agrarian reform law designed to modernize the agricultural sector through commercial enterprises. The law was to redistribute unused national and private lands. The National Agrarian Institute (INA) thus encouraged peasants to migrate to the sparsely populated North Coast, where land tenure was not as “clearly defined.” As England (2006) articulated, the result of the reform was the devaluation of and encroachment upon Garifuna lands: “INA categorized the

8 I use the word indigenous throughout this dissertation for disciplinary clarity; while in anthropology, the term autochthonous is quite commonly used, within international relations the term indigenous is more often used. Thus, the term is useful in connecting to the scholarship within international relations written about other indigenous groups.

9 During my Fulbright grant application process, I had a member of one of the major Honduran Garifuna organizations review my application. In his review of the document, he deleted all references to the Garifuna community as indigenous and instead described the group as Afro-descendant and autochthonous. Doing so made it difficult to maintain coherence about comparative analyses between the Garifuna and other “indigenous” groups. The decision by some Garifuna organizations to not use the term indigenous is both intentional and political. Typically, it is paired with an emphasis on the Afro-descendant heritage, or Blackness, of the Garifuna community and linked with a political agenda to create alliances with other Afro-descendants globally.

subsistence agricultural practices of the Garifuna (and indigenous peoples) as summarily unproductive, failing to give the land a ‘social function’—that is, agricultural production for the market, cattle ranching, or resource extraction. In the end, both large landowners and colonos on the North Coast used the agrarian reform of 1974 as a way to expropriate Garifuna agricultural land” (112). The INA policies thus privileged capitalist production and private ownership. However, the Garifuna are subsistence farmers, not capitalist agricultural firms. In spite of the devaluation of subsistence livelihoods in a capitalist market-based society, for the groups that make ereba, access to land to cultivate cassava and other crops is critically important to their livelihoods. Traditionally land is communally owned and cultivated.

Garifuna villagers responded by trying to “legalize” their land to avoid expropriation by the INA.

Ultimately, many villagers lost the land that their families had been cultivating for generations because the mixed-crop swidden agricultural style of the Garifuna was not seen as taking full advantage of the land

(England 2006, 48). In other words, there are periods in which certain plots of land are not being cultivated, or are resting while other sections are being used. England (2006) has described the conflict between the reform law, Garifuna traditional agriculture, and non-Garifuna peasant “settlers” (or colonos) who were looking for land:

The problem was that what often appeared to them to be tierra ociosa was actually land Garifuna considered to be theirs by use rights (that is, family members had traditionally cultivated it) but that was currently lying fallow or otherwise not under cultivation. Because of the ‘use it or lose it’ standards of the 1974 agrarian reform, colonos could easily get legal title to lands Garifuna were cultivating but had no title to. Even worse for Garifuna communities (and even the colonos themselves), wherever colonos cleared new land, the large landowners were never far behind, ready to buy up (or take by force) parcels colonos had spent time clearing, preparing for cultivation, and obtaining legal title to. In this manner, large-scale capitalists managed to buy up large tracts of land for agroindustrial production of export crops. (116)

England (2006) highlighted both the challenges of making legal claims to land and the conflict between the Garifuna and the mestizo outsider. Engaging the discussion of making legal claims, Thorne (2004) noted that such processes can be both empowering and exclusionary: “It is empowering insofar as it accepts the legitimacy of deeply rooted, ethnically distinct community identities. It is exclusionary to the extent it demands strict ethnohistorical ‘proof’ that draws potentially controversial boundaries within and between communities, excluding those unable to generate acceptable documentation” (23). The very process of laying legal claim to lands can thus create divisions within a community.

While England (2006) focused on conflicts between indigenous and colono groups, tensions also existed (and continue to exist) among different indigenous groups. Mollett (2013) discussed the tension between Garifuna and Miskito indigenous communities, who use land for agriculture and cattle grazing, respectively. As Mollett (2006) described, struggles over land between indigenous groups are often racialized, employing the stereotypes and slurs of colonizers: “The apparent Miskito dislike for the

Garifuna mirrors colonial and postcolonial accounts classifying ‘savage’ populations and discloses how anti-black ideologies are reproduced in modern-day land struggles. In response to Miskito rhetoric, the

Garifuna, in turn, discount Miskito claims and devalue their reliance on custom and ‘indigenous’ identities”

(78). It is significant to note here that both the Miskito and the Garifuna indigenous groups have

Amerindian and African ancestry, although the Miskito do not identify as Black or Afro-indigenous: “While the Miskito do not deny their mixed race origins (with Africans), they vehemently reject Afro-indigenous or black labels and use phenotypical and cultural differences to distinguish themselves from ‘true’ morenos and negros. Not surprisingly then, the Garifuna are the most specific and frequent targets of Miskito anti- black discourse” (Mollett 2006, 91). This distinction highlights the critical importance of history, especially migration, in the construction of ethnoracial identities.

Land appropriation efforts of the mestizo settlers were accompanied by a general trend, during the 1970s, to use cultural difference to promote Honduran tourism (Anderson 2013, 280). During this period, the state promoted events that featured Garifuna dance and music. However, rather than negating

Honduras’ racist history, this promotion has been consistent with the neoliberal economic goals of the state that aim to privatize and commodify everything in a “free” market, including Garifuna culture. As

Anderson (2013) wrote, “The promotion of Garifuna culture—compatible with ongoing forms of racism and the normalization of the mestizo subject as representative of the nation—remains key to the making of Honduras and the North Coast as tourist destinations” (280). The Garifuna are not given ownership over the commodification of cultural elements. Instead Garifuna culture is appropriated by state and private agencies with minimal buy-in from the Garifuna communities.10 The purpose of such efforts is not

10 In a visit to one of the major northern coastal cities, I encountered a tourist agency called Garifuna Tours. The agency was not Garifuna-owned, nor did the organization have any strong relationship to the nearby Garifuna communities. Worse, they only employed a couple of Garifuna people at the time, so the name of the agency was quite misleading. During my time in the city, I talked to Garifuna residents in the area about this appropriation of Garifuna cultural images to sell tours. Coincidentally, I met the cousin of a 82

to enrich the Garifuna community, but rather to give international investors access to yet another one of

Honduras’ “natural resources.” As discussed later, neoliberal policies have become increasingly invasive, directly engaging families as a condition of debt relief. What the neoliberal policies as well as state legislation demonstrate is how ethnoracial and gender identities shape one’s engagement with the state and international organizations.

Although the Garifuna were not always accepted as being indigenous, by the 1990s the Garifuna were recognized by the Honduran state as indigenous and had equivalent (to indigenous) institutional status within the Honduran state (Anderson 2009, 109). However, they continued to face major obstacles to accessing land rights within the Honduran state. In 1990, the Honduran Congress passed a decree that would allow foreigners to purchase properties designated by the Ministry of Tourism as tourism zones

(Brondo 2013, 42). Previously, it had been unconstitutional for foreigners to own coastal or island territory. In 1992, the government passed a second decree, designed to promote foreign and domestic investment that accelerated land titling by enabling cooperatives to break up holdings into small plots to be sold as private land (Brondo 2013, 42).

The absence of definitive land titles made the encroachment on Garifuna lands an easy task.

Brondo (2013) highlighted the challenges the Garifuna faced in obtaining land titles:

Before 1992, none of Honduras’s Garifuna communities held definitive land titles. The first titles to be granted to Garifuna communities were titles of occupation, issued by the INA in the 1970s when their communities attempted to formalize holdings to avoid further ladino encroachment. However, titles of occupation are not secure documents; they merely state that a group of people occupies the land. They do not grant ownership of that land to those people. Titles of occupation include only the areas in which homes and community infrastructure are constructed. Thus, cultivation lands, harvest lands, and territories of spiritual significance are not included in the titles. (41)

As Brondo (2013) noted, the lack of definitive land titles created tremendous pressure on Garifuna villagers: “According to Garifuna activists, the lack of definitive property titles led national and international businessmen, military, and politicians to harass Garifuna into abandoning their land as well as strategically declare ancestral harvest and cultivation lands for tourism development” (43). The Garifuna organizations responded.

Garifuna man featured in the brochure images, who indicated that his cousin was upset that the image was being used without his permission and without compensation.

In 1992, Organización de Desarrollo Etnico Comunitario (ODECO), the second of the two most prominent Garifuna organizations involved in Honduran politics, coordinated a march with other indigenous groups and popular organizations to demand the ratification of convention number 169 of the

International Labor Organization (ILO), which provides protection for the collective rights of indigenous people (England 1999, 20). It became an annual march, and in 1994, Honduras signed into law ILO

Convention number 169. England (2006) has articulated the significance of this convention for indigenous rights: “The basic philosophy of ILO Convention 169 is that indigenous and tribal people due to their cultural difference, have a special relationship to the land that conflicts with the western notion of land as merely a commodity that is individually and privately owned” (161 – 162). The convention includes protection of territory both used for cultivation and for broader uses that include hunting, collecting medicinal plants, and use as sacred sites. This legislation gave Garifuna activists the mechanism needed to fight for land rights. In addition to land rights, the convention also advocated for bilingual education, political and economic autonomy, and fair labor practices for indigenous groups (England 1999, 18).

OFRANEH is one of the organizations that pressured Honduras to ratify ILO Convention 169.

Although they hoped that the signing would advance the titling of Garifuna communal lands, by 1995 only

14 of the 48 Garifuna communities had received definitive land titles, and even these titles did not cover the historical landholdings of the communities (Brondo 2013, 45). As England (2006) indicated, these titles were far from adequate in terms of protecting the full scope of land traditionally used by the communities: “While the communal titles provide an extra safeguard against the invasion, expropriation, and private sale of land where Garifuna actually live and where they are cultivating, the area covered by these titles is rarely enough to provide for the needs of the whole community” (230-231). England (2006) also noted that the land titles “do nothing to redress the invasions of the past and do not provide for future growth of the community” (231). In 1996, an estimated 4,000 Garifuna marched on Tegucigalpa to pressure the government to expand the community titles (Leonard 2011, xxviii; Thorne 2004, 25). As a result of the march, additional monies were allocated for the titling of Garifuna lands, and from 1997 to

2002 most Garifuna communities received titles for a significant portion of their land (Thorne 2004, 25).

Living along coastal lands initially provided protection from foreign takeover because of laws restricting the purchase of Honduran coastal lands by foreigners. However, over the years, the Honduran

government has amended laws in favor of the promotion of foreign investment and neoliberal policies. As a response, Garifuna organizations have blocked such legislation (England 2006, 30). Both OFRANEH and ODECO participated in the fight against such legislation. Anderson (2009) described their efforts:

OFRANEH and ODECO immediately protested on the grounds that the reforms would facilitate the usurpation and sale of lands within or near Garifuna communities, violating their collective rights and threatening their collective existence. They were careful to emphasize that they did not oppose tourism but a model of capital-intensive tourism in which the only role for Garifuna would be as cultural entertainers and unskilled workers. OFRANEH staged a series of protests outside of the National Congress, joined by ODECO and an environmental organization. They secured an agreement from the president of the Congress to hold further discussions. (131)

Amidst these negotiations, Honduras experienced one of the country’s worst hurricanes, Hurricane Mitch.

This changed everything.

Life After Hurricane Mitch (1998 – present)

Between October 29, 1998 and November 1, 1998, Hurricane Mitch hit Honduras, killing over

5,000 people and injuring over 12,000, with more than 440,000 moved to temporary shelters because their homes were destroyed or damaged (Ensor and Ensor 2009, 24; Frank 2005a, 31). The floods were so powerful that they altered Honduras’ topography, requiring the redrawing of maps (Stonich 2000, vii).

Although the hurricane killed more men than women, the impact on women spread to children through the worsening of infant malnutrition and mortality rates (Ensor 2009, 133). Unfortunately, there is not data about the specific impact on Garifuna women, and the assumptions that led to the conclusion that the impact is worse for ‘women’ do not necessarily hold for all women. Although Ensor (2009) suggested that

“with lower salaries and no direct access to land, poor women experienced the impact of the disaster more acutely,” (133) it is not clear how Garifuna women who historically have had greater access to land might have been differently impacted by the hurricane.

Ensor (2009) also noted that “another significant impact of the hurricane was a considerable increase in rates of female heads of households, which doubled by some accounts in both rural and urban settings” (135). In the matrifocal Garifuna society, female heads of households were common before the hurricane. Like much of the work intended to address gender inequality in developing nations, her analysis criticized civil society organizations for marginalizing gender concerns (Ensor 2009, 142).

Unfortunately, her analysis also homogenizes women, making it impossible to identify ethnoracial differences in the impact of the hurricane on diverse groups of women. While I do not question the

gendered impact of the hurricane, it is important to identify more specifically which women (in terms of race and class) were disproportionately affected. Assumptions of patriarchal households are not helpful; neither is the characterization of female-headed households as a negative consequence of the hurricane.

Hurricane Mitch destroyed most of the banana plantations on Honduras’ north coast (Frank

2005a, 31), and challenged unions that had gathered strength since the 1954 strike, literally creating the perfect storm for the fruit companies to abandon commitments to workers: “In Honduras, Guatemala, and

Nicaragua, already weakened banana unions were devastated in 1998 when Hurricane Mitch wiped out plantations throughout the region. After Mitch, Chiquita, in particular, either tried to walk away from unionized plantations or replanted them with African palms (for palm oil), which requires fewer workers”

(Frank 2005a, 12). In addition to reducing their workforce, the fruit companies also took this opportunity to leave the region altogether: “Chiquita used Mitch to accelerate the process of pulling out of direct banana production that had been underway for more than a decade. It was selling its plantations to independent, national producers, then turning around and buying fruit from them—to avoid risk and labor costs” (Frank

2005a, 31). Women workers were particularly hard hit, since it takes nine months for banana plants to produce fruit for the packinghouses (Frank 2005a, 31).

Mitch also impacted land rights, as Congress quickly acted to advance an agenda for privatization and foreign ownership that would have been difficult under other circumstances.

Despite the Honduran government’s efforts to present an image of itself as acting on behalf of all Hondurans, the priority of most politicians—in the name of encouraging post-Mitch foreign investment—was to hand over further concessions to the private sector and foreign corporations. One of the more controversial moves was the first of two votes by Congress to repeal Article 107 of the Constitution, which prohibits foreigners from owning land within approximately 25 miles of the country’s borders. (Jeffrey 1999, 31)

Congress pushed through parts of the reform, insisting that it was critical to national reconstruction

(Anderson 2009, 131-132). Some scholars have criticized the narrow focus of the Honduran government on economic growth and modernization (Ensor et. al. 2009, 201). An alternative strategy has been suggested: “Effectively strengthening the resilience of the population as a whole—while focusing on vulnerable groups such as the poor, women and children, and other disenfranchised minorities—requires a comprehensive disaster management strategy that is tied to mitigation and sustainable development and that addresses the underlying causes of exclusion and inequality” (Ensor et. al. 2009, 202-203).

Unfortunately, a number of Garifuna villages were neglected with respect to reconstruction efforts: “The

government’s reconstruction efforts focused mainly on the central parts of the country and left the

Garifuna to fend for themselves. So the Garifuna women came together to try to save their communities on their own. The Comite de Emergencia Garifuna de Honduras, based in Trujillo, the Garifuna capital, was formed” (Drusine 2005, 198). The Comite developed a range of programs to help the Garifuna community, including a seed program to save the crops most commonly grown in the community (Drusine

2005, 198).

These same villages that were neglected in terms of reconstruction were targeted by the

Honduran government and tourism agencies, working together to re-allocate landholdings for tourism.

The Honduran state immediately set up a response team and partnered with a US public relations firm to bring tourists back to Honduras; the focus was “promoting foreign tourism investment in the Bay Islands and the North Coast—areas immediately targeted for tourism development” (Stonich 2008, 56). This meant that the most vulnerable populations were targeted at the time when they had just been hit hardest.

Environmental, peasant, and labor organizations continued to fight for land reforms. In the end, their campaign was successful: “The opposition culminated in a demonstration of at least five thousand people affiliated with dozens of organizations, held yet again on October 12, 1999, Day of the Race. The

National Congress signed an agreement not to pursue the reform” (Anderson 2009, 133). Especially since the 1980s, Garifuna organizations have made a strategy of aligning themselves with indigenous organizations in Honduras (Anderson 2009, 133), and here again the strategy proved successful. Writing of the impact of these organizations, Brondo (2013) wrote that some 52 Garifuna land titles had been issued, including communal and cooperative landholdings (46). Brondo (2013) also noted the following:

“All titles have been of dominio pleno (definitive titles of ownership) and are communal titles, which means that the land cannot be sold and can only be passed through inheritance to members of the community” (Brondo 2013, 46). This was obviously a great achievement for Garifuna land activists.

The Garifuna organizations, most notably ODECO and OFRANEH, have had a significant impact on both Honduran national identity and the land rights of the Garifuna. Anderson (2005), however, has pointed to some of the limitations of their success: “Although the state continues to deny the existence of racism in Honduras and to enact policies detrimental to indigenous and Black peoples, ethnic politics

represents an important antagonist, asserting rights to cultural difference and autonomy while calling attention to racial and cultural oppression” (105). In spite of these limitations, there have been successes, as noted above. Some of the more recent attacks on Garifuna land rights aim to cripple the collective agency of the group, as Anderson (2009) has noted:

The state has tried to open a path to ‘voluntary’ privatization of recently formalized communal land regimes and legitimate the property of third parties within Garifuna communities. Within this climate, spaces of participation created by the state appear designed to diffuse and contain opposition by bringing ethnic activists ‘closer’ to government institutions, foreclosing politics of collective rights that challenge market solutions to social injustice. (169)

The notion of collective rights and communal lands is thus integral to understanding the Garifuna way of life. Below I explore in more detail the appropriation of Garifuna lands for tourism.

Garifuna Communities as Honduran Tourist Sites

In recent decades, the Garifuna villages have been re-imagined as an important part of Honduran tourism. In 1997, at a bicentennial celebration of the arrival of the Garifuna to Honduras, President Carlos

Roberta Reina communicated the importance of ethnic diversity as a resource for tourist development

(Anderson 2013, 277). Under Reina’s administration (1994 – 1998), Honduras ratified ILO Convention

169 on Tribal and Indigenous Rights, and institutionalized bilingual/intercultural education through a new office called the Special Prosecutor for Ethnic Groups and Cultural Patrimony (Anderson 2013, 280). In

2001, the Garifuna community was recognized by UNESCO as a “masterpiece of oral and intangible heritage” (López 2001).

Honduras has a six-pronged tourism plan that includes “archaeology, colonial cities, nature and adventure, beaches and culturas vivas (living culture)” (Thorne 2004, 24). The Garifuna villages are an important part of the living cultures part of the tourism plan. Although speeches by important officials, like that of President Reina in 1997, suggest that tourist development will provide economic revenue to ethnic communities, the reality has been quite different. England (2006) described the general disenfranchisement of Honduras’ Garifuna population.

In Honduras, for example, ‘blackness,’ in contrast to ‘indigenismo,’ has only recently been recognized as an integral part of the mestizo national identity, and Garifuna are largely ignored in narratives of the history, construction and functioning of the nation-state. As in most societies, marginalization from the ideological mainstream coincides with a set of social practices and policies that largely exclude Garifuna communities from the political and economic power of the state and national society. Currently this is manifested primarily through the increasing

expropriation of Garifuna land due to the expansion of agribusiness, cattle ranching, and, most recently, tourism into the North Coast, where Garifuna villages are located. (4)

England (2006) articulated how a shift in Honduran national identity, to include Blackness, was critical to the inclusion of the Garifuna community within the national identity, and subsequently as a part of

Honduran tourism. While considering this racialized context, it is important also to consider gendered concepts of land ownership.

Because the Garifuna society is matrifocal and land is inherited through matrilineal lines, these government actions to obtain and exploit coastal lands have had a disproportionate impact on Garifuna women (Brondo 2013, 81). Anderson (2009) described the transfer of land away from Garifuna women:

“Historically, land and home inheritance has passed primarily through matrilineal lines. As a result, more

Garifuna women own homes than Garifuna men and familial usufruct rights for communal lands tend to pass from women to their daughters. Therefore, the transfer of land into private property involves a significant resource loss for Garifuna women to mestiza men and, to a lesser extent, Garifuna men” (56).

This loss of land stands in sharp contrast to the headway that non-Garifuna women are making in terms of the acquisition of private land titles (Brondo 2013, 81). As described above and as articulated by

Brondo (2013), “Legislation thus focuses on the issuance of private land titles as opposed to communal land titles with matrilineally based use rights” (81-82). The fact that the land ownership trend runs in different directions for Garifuna and non-Garifuna women highlights the critical importance of an understanding of how race interacts with gender, class, and other factors that influence the opportunities available to individuals and groups.

Not surprisingly, in spite of these recent shifts to include the Garifuna as part of state-promoted tourism ventures, the community has not profited much from the marketing of the Garifuna culture and image. Anderson (2013) has described the mixed response: “The inability of Garifuna to realize market value form their culture and image produces frustration and reinforces their apprehension of racial and cultural discrimination; at the same time, the promotion of Garifuna as a tourist attraction contributes to a sense of ethnic distinction” (286). While in the rural villages where I was based there were not any tourists because of the remoteness, Garifuna people in the more easily accessible regions of Honduras echo these sentiments. In particular, Kirtsoglou and Theodossopoulos (2004) wrote about the Garifuna of the

English-speaking Bay Islands, which are one of Honduras’ prime tourist attractions: “The Garifuna of

Roatan are thus in search not only of economic development but also, and perhaps primarily, for recognition of their cultural ownership and the authority to present themselves to the tourists instead of merely being presented by other agents” (136). If Garifuna are going to be marketed as tourist attractions, they want to both benefit from the profits and have some control over the process.

The two national Garifuna organizations—ODECO and OFRANEH—represent two very different and gendered approaches to responding to the opportunity and the threat of tourism in Garifuna villages:

“Among the Garifuna of Honduras, there is clearly a rivalry and tension between the two major organizations, OFRANEH, a grassroots support organization led by women, and ODECO, a nongovernmental organization led by a man, but largely staffed by women and serving a large female constituency” (Safa 2006, 229). Although both organizations have been working for land rights under threat from tourist development, ODECO has stronger international support and works closely with the

Honduran government and the Garifuna diaspora. OFRANEH is more deeply rooted in local Honduran

Garifuna communities and tends to emphasize alliances with other indigenous groups. Brondo (2013) described the matriarchal and feminist nature of OFRANEH as follows:

OFRANEH, for instance, a matriarchal organization, offers a counternarrative of development, falling into the ‘alternatives to development’ perspective, which takes a critical stance against the discourse of modern development models and puts faith in grassroots social mobilization efforts to overcome the structures and discourses of modern development. OFRANEH’s approach can also be characterized as informed by feminist critiques of development in highlighting the differential experiences that Garifuna women face as a result of national development policy. (172)

Given the contrast between ODECO and OFRANEH, it is no surprise that OFRANEH opposed a 2004 addition to Honduran property law that guaranteed the rights of third parties to indigenous and Afro-

Honduran collective lands and created an option for communities to terminate communal land regimes in favor of private property (Anderson 2013, 287). OFRANEH also resists much of the large-scale tourist development that ODECO embraces.

ODECO also represents a shift in the Garifuna identity toward the label of Afro-descendant: “This emphasis on Africa and therefore blackness can also be seen in the rising popularity among Garifuna activists of the term African-descent (afrodecendiente) used to refer to Afro-Latinos in general” (England

2010, 204). This identity allows ODECO to connect broadly with Garifuna people transnationally, especially in the United States, who have been important collaborators in political action in Honduras. The

Garifuna population in New York City has been instrumental in protecting the land rights of Honduran

Garifuna villages (Carrillo March 18-March 24, 2004, 2; Carrillo May 6-May 12, 2004, 2; November 25-

December 1, 2004, 2). When the Garifuna communities faced privatization of communally titled lands through a constitutional amendment, the transnational Garifuna community lent its support. Through transnational collaboration, today most Garifuna villages have acquired collective legal titles to communal lands (Johnson 2005, 46; England 2006, 230-231). Unfortunately, with recent instability, some of these advances may be at risk.

Although ODECO has greater international reach, it is less likely to preserve the traditional communal land rights; contrastingly, OFRANEH, with its local and indigenous emphasis, does not have the international network to protect communal lands. Although the mobile, Garifuna elite of ODECO are more inclined to support neoliberal exploitation of Garifuna lands, what appears to be creating the transnational protection of lands, is the interests of the transmigrant Garifuna community in the US. Many of the Garifuna men who spend years working abroad intend to return to their home villages after retirement. They often build homes in these villages, and have a vested interest in the protection of the land. In this way, OFRANEH’s emphasis on protection of Garifuna ancestral lands is well aligned with the interests of some of the most politically powerful Garifuna elites in the US. Even though OFRANEH does not have the infrastructure to stay connected to this group, the US Garifuna elite funnels their interest in land protection through the organization of ODECO, despite ODECO’s more conservative, neoliberal leanings.

Honduras has a long history of strategies that “promote a development model that focuses on the private sector, and in particular exports by large (multinational) forms cooperating in economic clusters, as the engine of the national economy” (Ruckert 2009, 62). This is evidenced in the long history with fruit companies, and the factories, or maquilas, that dominate urban work. Tourism also has a high level of intervention by multinational corporations. More recently neoliberal development has taken the form of poverty reduction strategy papers (PRSP) that involve the private sector in the delivery of social services and allocation of domestic resources (Ruckert 2009, 62). These neoliberal policies, which are tied to debt relief, increasingly engage domestic, and even household, affairs.

One example of these policies is the conditional cash transfer (CCT) program. The program provides financial rewards to households for children attending school and going to regular medical appointments to receive vaccines; the families also must agree to attend training on a range of topics, from nutrition to family hygiene (Ruckert 2009, 72). These increasingly micro-level and personal approaches to macro-structural issues like poverty are important to note:

These interferences into people’s lives could be seen as new forms of disciplining and policing arrangements to make the poor behave in ‘desirable and responsible ways’, adding novel micropolitical disciplining tools to the nexus of power and control of disciplinary neoliberalism. Macro-structural elements of disciplinary neoliberalism are complemented by the (micro-political) policing of the poor through CCTs in the realm of social reproduction. (Ruckert 2009, 72)

These types of programs that police the poor point to the importance of an analysis of families in the context of neoliberal policies, and more broadly international relations. Because large financial institutions are informed by the assumption that poverty is caused by personal habits of poor people, these invasive policies and programs are part of a new trend: “Individual behavioural choices by the poor, especially the unwillingness to make adequate human capital investments, have been identified as the main obstacle to poverty reduction by the World Bank. This has caused the international donor community to focus its attention on the various ways in which the private behaviour of the poor can be better governed and regulated” (Ruckert 2009, 73 – 74).

The World Bank and other institutions thus have decided to require that the poor of the developing world be re-educated in order to alleviate the debt of those nations. Poor people of the developing world are assumed to be uneducated and backwards thinking, requiring a re-education based on Western principles. These are the same patronizing assumptions that undergirded modernization theories. Instead of calling for structural reform that provides more equitable opportunities and less exploitation of vulnerable populations, these programs suggest that poverty is created by the behavior of poor individuals.

State institutions are used as a means to family re-education; the true targets of the CCTs and similar programs is the family: “In CCT schemes, the Bank has started to identify the poor themselves as targets for new micro-conditionality and behavioural interventions in an effort to modify unwanted social behaviours” (Ruckert 2009, 74). In this context, one has to re-evaluate the importance of family in the analysis of international phenomena. Ruckert (2009) argued that the PRSPs in fact evade democratic

decision-making by embedding these neoliberal conditionalities in national development plans (75). In

Honduras’ already fragile state, such initiatives only further compromise the democratic processes of the state. Below, I explore Honduras’ most recent democratic crisis is creating significant challenges for marginalized populations. In this context, the struggle over power of and within the state has significant gender, race, and class dimensions.

Zelaya’s Ousting and the Resistance Movement

In June 2009, President Manuel Zelaya of the Liberal Party was overthrown by a military coup d’état. He was taken from his home and sent into exile in Costa Rica, and Congressional leader Roberto

Micheletti was appointed interim president (Cannon and Hume 2012, 1051; Leonard 2011, xxx). The de facto government described the events not as a coup but as a “constitutional secession of powers”

(Cannon and Hume 2012, 1051). Following a July 24 call from Zelaya for Hondurans to resist the coup- installed government, an estimated 10,000 Hondurans demonstrated on behalf of the ousted president on

August 11 in Tegucigalpa, Honduras’ capital city. In the November 27 presidential elections, Porfirio Lobo of the National Party defeated Elvin Santos, the Liberal Party candidate, and on January 27, 2010 Lobo was sworn into office (Leonard 2011, xxxi). The de facto government launched a strong public relations campaign: “The conservative Business Council of Latin America (CEAL) hired Lanny Davis, former president Clinton’s impeachment lawyer and a friend of Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, to sell the coup in Washington” (Benjamin 2009, 5). In spite of international criticism and calls for the interim government to step down, Micheletti stayed in power through January 2010 (Cannon and Hume 2012, 1051). And by the time Lobo was in office, the Obama administration had accepted the legitimacy of the new government.

While there was significant focus on the president, what may have gone unnoticed in this news story is the role of Micheletti, who was declared “member of Congress for life” only two weeks before

Lobo’s inauguration (Joyce 2010, 11). Micheletti proposed a neoliberal development plan that would eliminate extreme poverty by 2038 (Joyce 2010, 11). Considering the increasingly invasive nature of neoliberal development strategies, discussed above, there is reason for concern regarding the plans of this lifetime Congressional appointee. The ongoing control of Honduran politics by other states and multinational bodies calls into question the very independence of the Honduran state. Fasquelle (2011)

wrote that the coup makes clear “the ongoing dependency that has characterized Honduran history since our ‘Independence,’ which we have no reason to celebrate unless we turn it into a commemoration of the liberation that still eludes us” (21). This lack of independence can be seen throughout the government.

Ironically enough, Micheletti claimed that the reason for the “constitutional secession of powers” was that Zelaya was planning to crown himself “president for life.” The controversy that purportedly triggered the coup was Zelaya’s call for a non-binding poll about whether Hondurans favored convening a constituent assembly to rewrite the country’s constitution.

The poll had nothing to do with extending Zelaya’s term in office, which was slated to end in January following the presidential election in November, in which he was not running. Rather, the referendum represented a push, coming from the grassroots, to follow the path of other countries in Latin America that have rewritten their constitutions to make them more inclusive, living documents. It was a push to transform Honduras from merely an electoral to a participatory democracy. (Benjamin 2009, 4)

Of course, disputes continue about the intent of the poll. Prior to Zelaya’s ousting, the Honduran

Congress and courts ruled that the proposed referendum was illegal. However, Zelaya insisted on moving forward with the poll, which some argue demonstrated his unwillingness to comply with the rule of law and thus justified the response of those leading the coup:

President Zelaya rejected each of these rulings. He claimed that he was merely polling the Honduran public on the issue, and flatly refused to recognize the legal authority of any of these institutions to stop him, noting that each was under the control of his political opponents. Zelaya’s intransigence in the face of such strong institutional opposition made conservatives suspicious that he was planning to use a referendum win as grounds for postponing general elections and ordering the rapid convocation of a constituent assembly. (Ruhl 2010, 100)

Being “suspicious” of the president’s future actions hardly seems justification enough for the coup. There is the greater context of Zelaya’s pro-poor policies and efforts to resolve land disputes, which were likely a factor in the actions of the disgruntled Honduran elite.

Zelaya’s policies were especially popular among indigenous groups and poor people throughout

Honduras. He supported the construction of a hospital on the northern coast, and advocated for the broadening of cultural education to go beyond an emphasis on Mayan culture and to include the country’s nine ethnic groups. He also raised the monthly minimum wage (Joyce 2010, 13). Other policy changes included abolishing primary education fees, introducing a free meal program for poor children, providing free electricity to the poor, reducing gas prices, and financing micro-business projects (Ronderos 2011,

318). These programs greatly benefitted Honduras’ indigenous poor, including many Garifuna communities.

It is not surprising, given this history, that the coup had a disproportionately harsh impact on marginalized groups within the state. Brondo (2013) wrote, “From the moment of the coup, the Garifuna community was a target of repression” (169). Especially vocal in their dissent, the Garifuna community found that the regional hospital construction project, initially approved by the Zelaya administration, was suddenly cancelled in September 2009 (Boyer and Peñalva 2013, 67). The director of the first and only

Garifuna-managed hospital in the country, Dr. Luther Castillo, was forced into exile (Brondo 2013, 169).

Also, Dario Euraque, who was in charge of the Institute of Anthropology and History’s cultural education initiative, was dismissed from his position in September 2009 (Boyer and Peñalva 2013, 67).

These attacks on the Garifuna community and their supporters, however, took place in a broader context of violence and suppression: “After the coup, security forces committed serious human rights violations, killing some protesters, repeatedly using excessive force against demonstrators, and arbitrarily detaining thousands of coup opponents. The de facto government installed after the coup also adopted executive decrees that imposed unreasonable and illegitimate restrictions on the rights to freedom of expression and assembly” (Human Rights Watch 2010, 1). The administration reversed important legislation enacted by Zelaya, including policies that were important to women’s groups; they initiated a ban on the emergency contraceptive pill and dismantled a special police unit, created to investigate violent killings of women (Ronderos 2011, 320).

As a response to such government repression and policies, there were a number of protests, and the emergence of a resistance movement, the National Front for Popular Resistance (FNRP). A pillar of the FNRP, Honduran teachers declared a strike following the ousting of President Zelaya (Altschuler

2010, 23). OFRANEH was also part of the resistance movement, which was intergenerational and included traditional unions and campesino organizations as well as lesbian-gay-bisexual-transgender

(LGBT) groups and women’s groups throughout the country (Portillo Villeda 2010). The group of activists that formed the resistance movement has continued to meet. In November 2013, Xiomara Castro, Manuel

Zelaya’s wife, ran in the presidential race against National Party candidate Juan Orlando Hernández, but lost. There continues to be an active resistance movement.

Conclusion

This history of the Garifuna of Honduras contextualizes the remaining chapters. By discussing the labor history of the Garifuna on banana plantations and ultimately as a part of the Honduran and transnational workforce, I have highlighted the racialized and gendered constructions of labor. The ways in which Garifuna men and women have been characterized racially and ethnically have shaped their opportunities in Honduras and in other parts of the world. This history highlights the potential benefit of a

Black feminist analysis of development, which takes an intersectional approach.

Given the matrifocality of the Garifuna society, any discussion of the community must include a discussion of gender. Enloe (2004) defined patriarchy as “the structural and ideological system that perpetuates the privileging of masculinity” (4). This chapter both highlights the marginalization of all women in the production of Honduras’ most popular export, bananas, and calls for a more nuanced analysis of the masculinization of labor on fruit plantations.

Examining the construction of the mestizo Honduran state and the principle of blanqueamiento, this chapter engaged in a discussion of race in Honduras. The concepts of blanqueamiento and mestizaje are as much gendered concepts as they are concepts about race. The process of mestizaje is constructed through intimacy between white men and the Black women, not Black men and white women.

Thus the concept is not simply about mixing; there is a class and gender context as Hernández (2013) reminded us: “Only immigrant or working-class white men were viewed as the appropriate marriage partners of black women” (35).

Finally, this history highlights the importance of a discussion of family. Given the history and pattern of neoliberal policies within the Honduran state, we must include an analysis of the family. As

World Bank programs point the finger at families (and mothers) in identifying the causes of state poverty, we must acknowledge that there is no separation of household, national and international politics. Ruckert

(2009) provided an insightful analysis of programs that demonstrate that the “macro-structural elements of disciplinary neoliberalism are complemented by the (micro-political) policing of the poor” (72). Thus the next chapter argues for an inclusion of analyses at the level of the family.

CHAPTER 4

DEVELOPMENT CAPABILITIES: SHIFTING FOCUS TO PLURAL SUBJECT AGENTS

Daughter and Mother Cooking Ereba (December 9, 2011)

In the picture above, a daughter (left) and mother (right) bake ereba in a cooking house that has been built with side-by-side ovens. Hanging from the ceiling and leaning against the walls is lumber for the wood-burning stoves. Mother and daughter coordinate their ereba-making activities. They are committed to each other, and work together as a family unit, to produce ereba. Understanding how families work together to improve the lives of individuals, families, and communities is key to understanding Garifuna development. This chapter argues the importance of the family as an analytical unit, separate and distinct from that of the individual. Challenging the liberal emphasis on the individual, this chapter highlights the critical importance of understanding families.

Understanding family is critical to this chapter’s discussion of how to appropriately analyze development opportunities. Although this dissertation embraces an understanding of development as capabilities, or opportunities to be and do what one values, I challenge the individualist foundations of the dominant capabilities discourse. Capabilities scholars tend to argue that individuals produce families and are thus prior and primary; it is an “ethically individualistic” approach. In contrast to the individualist bias of mainstream capabilities scholars, I argue in favor of a more collectivist approach that favors an analysis of families. As foregrounded in this chapter and detailed in the next, families (operating as a unit) have been critically important in the provision of opportunities within marginalized communities.

My approach incorporates Black feminist sensibilities and sensitivity to the critical importance of contextualized group actors. Black feminist scholar Patricia Hill Collins (2000a) has emphasized the importance of understanding the diverse and heterogeneous nature of Black women’s experiences:

“Black women’s standpoint eschews essentialism in favor of democracy. Since Black feminist thought both arises within and aims to articulate a Black women’s group standpoint regarding experiences associated with intersecting oppressions, stressing this group standpoint’s heterogeneous composition is significant” (28). Building upon the extensive Black feminist tradition based on the experiences of Black women in the US, this chapter both identifies similarities between the experiences of Black women in the

United States and Honduras, and highlights the unique experiences of Garifuna women in Honduras.

Ultimately, a methodological shift toward a discussion of plural subject agents, operating as a unit rather than a collection of individuals, is advocated. As detailed below, the plural subject agent is an irreducibly collective agent created through a joint commitment to shared goals. Black women are thus analyzed in a family context, rooted in such commitments that shape agency.

In the first section of this chapter, I describe the capability approach and explain why it is an appropriate starting point for this and other development research projects. The bulk of this chapter, however, is dedicated to arguing for the incorporation of plural subject agents as an important contribution to the discussion of capabilities. In making this argument, I build upon the work of capabilities scholars that advocate for collective capabilities, whom I will call collective capabilities scholars. I also incorporate the work of rational choice theorists who advocate for more attention to groups, teams, or plural subject agents. The best way to study and understand social beings is to study them in the context of their

environment. Analyzing plural subject agents, joint capabilities and collective capabilities meets this challenge by introducing complementary (to the individual) levels of analysis.

What Are Capabilities? And Why Start There?

In Development as Freedom, Amartya Sen (1999) defined development as “a process of expanding the real freedoms that people enjoy” (1). Sen (1999) further argued the following: “If freedom is what development advances, then there is a major argument for concentrating on that overarching objective, rather than on some particular means, or some specially chosen list of instruments” (1). Thus, the value in this approach is that it shifts focus away from development economics that is at the foundation of development studies to the freedom of individuals. What, then, is the relationship between freedom and capabilities? Sen (1999) has written the following: “A person’s ‘capability’ refers to the alternative combinations of functionings that are feasible for her to achieve. Capability is thus a kind of freedom: the substantive freedom to achieve alternative functioning combinations (or, less formally put, the freedom to achieve various lifestyles)” (75).

This approach to understanding capability puts individual agency at the forefront of the development discourse and highlights opportunities for individuals. In my study of the efforts of Garifuna women to develop their community, I needed to begin with an approach that valued their agency in context. Aggregate economic indicators, like gross domestic product, offer no insight about community- level efforts and activities. In contrast to conventional economic approaches, Sen (1999) has described the benefits of the capabilities approach as follows: “This approach can give a very different view of development from the usual concentration on GNP or technical progress or industrialization, all of which have contingent and conditional importance without being the defining characteristics of development”

(285).

When scholars focus exclusively on economic measures like income, they make the mistake of equating income with development. However, income says very little about the well being and freedom of individuals. Sen (1999) has described the complex nature of the relationship between income and capability as follows:

The relationship between income and capability would be strongly affected by the age of the person (e.g., by the specific needs of the old and the very young), by gender and social roles (e.g., through special responsibilities of maternity and also custom-determined family obligations),

by location (e.g., by proneness to flooding or drought, or by insecurity and violence in some inner- city living), by epidemiological atmosphere (e.g., through diseases endemic in a region) and by other variations over which a person may have no—or only limited—control. (88)

By allowing for consideration of such intervening factors in capabilities analysis, Sen transcends the work of economists who have simply focused on income. Sen (1999) has described the added value of the capabilities approach as follows: “What the capability perspective does in poverty analysis is to enhance the understanding of the nature and causes of poverty and deprivation by shifting primary attention away from means (and one particular means that is usually given exclusive attention, viz., income) to ends that people have reason to pursue, and, correspondingly to the freedoms to be able to satisfy these ends”

(90). Reiter (2012) has described the value of an approach that goes beyond economic measures to focus on an analysis of the freedom and agency of people in the context of their lived experiences:

“Racism and sexism are concrete mechanisms limiting agency, and it is thus imperative to include an analysis of these mechanisms of exclusion in the development debate, and thus insert the voice of social scientists and local activists into the discussion currently dominated by bankers and economists” (xviii). A

Black feminist epistemology is particularly appropriate for an intersectional analysis of the experiences of the Garifuna women who bake ereba, as subjects that are Black, female, indigenous, poor and rural, all at once.

Capabilities scholars acknowledge the importance of social factors, like racism and sexism. Sen

(1999) has written the following in relation to social influences: “It is important to give simultaneous recognition to the centrality of individual freedom and to the force of social influences on the extent and reach of individual freedom” (xii). Although Sen hints at the importance that collective capabilities or capabilities of groups might have, he does not recognize collective capabilities. Instead, Sen (1999) separates social arrangements from capabilities: “Individual freedom is quintessentially a social product, and there is a two-way relation between (1) social arrangements to expand individual freedoms and (2) the use of individual freedoms not only to improve the respective lives but also to make the social arrangements more appropriate and effective” (Sen 1999, 31). With all the benefits of this approach, including its attention to individual freedom and agency, it is still necessary to incorporate additional concepts to understand the interdependencies that shape the activities of the Garifuna ereba makers of

Honduras.

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Sen’s (1999) capability approach focuses on the “expansion of the ‘capabilities’ of persons to lead the kind of lives they value—and have reason to value” (18). However, both Sen and Martha

Nussbaum—the two scholars most recognized for their writings on capabilities—reject the idea of collective capabilities and insist that capabilities be discussed in terms of individuals. Sen (1999) has written, “The success of a society is to be evaluated, in this view, primarily by the substantive freedoms that the members of that society enjoy” (18). Nussbaum (2011b) similarly has argued, “Capabilities belong first and foremost to individual persons, and only derivatively to groups” (35). Although Nussbaum and Sen, whose approaches are referred to as the capabilities approach and capability approach, respectively, have significant differences, my critique of an individualist bias applies to both scholars. As such, I do not distinguish between the two approaches in this chapter, and simply refer to the combination as approaches to capabilities or capabilities approaches.

Capabilities scholars thus define capabilities as the opportunities an individual has to do and be what he or she has reason to value. Although Sen and Nussbaum acknowledge the importance of social and political context in understanding how individual capabilities are obtained, they both reject the idea that collective capabilities should be primary considerations in understanding development. They privilege the individual that is independent and free from social entanglements. In contrast to this perspective, this chapter lays out several distinct arguments for the consideration of collective capabilities. Evans (2002) has suggested that collective capabilities depend on individual capabilities: “My ability to choose the life I have reason to value often hangs on the possibility of my acting together with others who have reason to value similar things. Individual capabilities depend on collective capabilities. … The capability of choosing itself may be, in essence, a collective rather than an individual capability” (56). In the next section I critique the way in which capabilities scholars have attempted to account for social interdependencies; then, I suggest an alternative, more effective way to understand capabilities that moves beyond an individualist perspective.

Individualist Approaches to Analyzing Social Interdependencies

In this section, I explore two different ways in which capabilities scholars attempt to analyze social relationships and interdependencies. I will discuss why these approaches are inadequate for understanding opportunities of groups, or collective capabilities. I begin with a discussion of participatory

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processes, emphasized by Sen, which are important both to individual capabilities as well as the process of capability-building. Then, I will discuss external capabilities, which are understood as advantages to friends and family of individuals with particular capabilities.

Participatory Processes

Sen (1999) has discussed the importance of political freedom in terms of democratic forms of governance, stressing the “urgency of political freedoms” (148). Sen (1999) has also identified the importance of participatory processes in value formation: “Informed and unregimented formation of our values requires openness of communication and arguments, and political freedoms and civil rights can be central for this process” (152). His focus is on openness of communication in relation to democratic governance. However, this sort of participatory engagement is also relevant for defining the agenda of a community. Even before one begins to talk about government representation, community meetings and debate can help a community determine, as a group, the critical agenda. In Honduras, this happens at the local level through the town council, or patronato, which often plays a major role in local activities.11

Sen (1999) has described a two-way engagement between public policy and participatory publics:

“Capabilities can be enhanced by public policy, but also, on the other side, the direction of public policy can be influenced by the effective use of participatory capabilities by the public” (18). Sen (1999) also wrote, “Indeed, the freedom to participate in critical evaluation and in the process of value formation is among the most crucial freedoms of social existence” (287). In spite of Sen’s discussion of “participatory capabilities of the public,” which certainly could be interpreted as a form of collective capabilities, he limits himself to a consideration of individual capabilities.

Democratic institutions and processes are similarly emphasized by De Leonardis and Negrelli

(2012). In their discussion of the capability for voice, De Leonardis and Negrelli (2012) wrote, “Democracy must be considered both as a tool for capabilities, giving everyone access to real freedom of choice and

11 During preliminary fieldwork in Honduras in August 2010, I spent time talking to Garifuna villagers about community development goals. When the patronato president discovered that I had been talking with people in the community, he indicated that I should have consulted with him before meeting with people in his community. He further suggested that in the future I should stay at his place while conducting research; his fenced-in estate was located across the (unpaved) highway from the main village. I saw this as an attempt by this young, English-speaking (trilingual) Garifuna transmigrant to monitor my activities and isolate me from more grassroots, less elite, and unofficial development narratives. I did not return to his village.

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thus enhancing larger social participation; and as a process of social discussion and public deliberation on the ‘collective goods’, relevant for capabilities” (13). Even though the authors are focusing on the individual capability of voice, it is inextricably linked with institutions and processes that have collective dimensions. De Leonardis and Negrelli (2012), in fact, wrote that “voices cannot be expressed in isolation, instead they need a collective dimension” (24). However, they stop short of calling for the consideration of capabilities for groups, even though they do discuss the importance of the individual capability for voice in collective decision-making.

De Leonardis and Negrelli (2012) write the following: “Capability for voice represents the essential political dimension of the capability approach. Freedoms involved in this capability are political in character, as voice is the medium for human expression pertaining to the political register of social action and collective decision. More fundamentally, people’s freedoms as intended as capabilities, have shown to be inherently political” (30). Although not explicitly arguing for capabilities of groups, the authors demonstrate the importance of various “collective dimensions” related to individual capabilities. In their conclusion, De Leonardis and Negrelli (2012) wrote, “So, capability for voice provides a bridge linking the individual to the social and collective dimensions of capabilities” (31).

Each of these scholars, in their emphasis on participatory processes and public deliberation, discusses one aspect of what is included in the much broader discussion of capabilities for groups.

However, the authors focus on process, rather than actual opportunities. Thus, the implication is that through collective processes, one is able to achieve individual agency. The authors do not consider the much more common scenario by which collective processes yield collective opportunities, which is not necessarily implied by a liberal emphasis on individual rights in the context of democratic societies. To see why this is problematic we might consider the Garifuna collective struggle for communal land rights, mentioned in the previous chapter. While an analysis of participatory processes may capture some of the collective action involved in the struggle, it does not capture the collective opportunity, or capability, of communal land ownership—a development outcome that transcends individual benefits. It thus provides a useful, yet incomplete, picture of the collective reality.

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External Capabilities

Another way in which capabilities have situated individual actors in social context is through the discussion of external capabilities that highlight “cases in which a person is able to achieve additional functionings through a direct connection with another person” (Foster and Handy 2009, 364). Foster and

Handy (2009) discussed external capabilities to draw attention to the importance of social relationships, as described below: “When the capability approach is used as a tool for analyzing policy, it is likely to capture, for example, a person’s expansion in capabilities from becoming literate, but likely to miss the next step, wherein the person’s literacy can enhance the capabilities of family and friends. Our goal is to recognize this important class of capabilities” (364). The concept of external capabilities moves in the right direction of understanding the importance of relationships and social interdependencies.

However, true to the liberal construction of the individual, the concept presumes the existence of an autonomous rational, self-sufficient actor. Thus, the term “external capabilities” focuses on the spread of benefits beyond the individual, or the true capability-holder. As Foster and Handy (2009) have described, “External capabilities are abilities to function that depend on direct human relationships.

Specifically, they depend on an individual’s access to the capabilities of another person” (367). This perspective implies that ideally each individual would have access to the capability in question, which is not necessarily the case.

To illustrate the distinction between the external capabilities approach and a collective capabilities approach I will use the example of the capability to communicate via cellular phone. Given a particular family—let’s call them the Ávila family—everyone has the desire to communicate via cell phone. In the

Ávila family there is a mother, a daughter and a son. The daughter buys a cell phone and allows everyone to use the phone, and in that way everyone in the family now has access to the capability of communicating via cell phone. The external capabilities approach would focus on the fact that the daughter is the only individual who owns the phone and describe the others as benefitting through external capabilities. However, in a collective capabilities approach, which sees communities as functioning not just as a set of individuals but as groups, it is not as important which individual initially purchased the phone. The individuals are not distinguished in a hierarchy that separates the true holder of the capability from others. In fact, in some cases the other individuals in question have no desire to

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have the capability of that individual—in this example, to own a cell phone. This focus on material ownership only confuses the issue of desired capabilities.

I met a family in one of the Garifuna villages that was similar to the Ávila family. The mother had no desire to own a phone, or even learn how to use a cell phone, but regularly communicated with friends and family through the use of her daughter’s cell phone. From an external capabilities perspective, we would assume that an ideal scenario would be one in which everyone owns a phone. However that is not the ideal, based on the values of those involved. The problem is that Foster and Handy describe the creation of external capabilities as originating with the sharing of a primary capability-holder rather than originating with a desired opportunity on the part of others. Foster and Handy (2009) have written the following: “Each of our examples of external capabilities involves sharing—from a person who has a capability to another who lacks it—and it is the willingness to share that creates the external capability where none existed before” (368-369).

Capabilities, however, originate with the values of the individual or group. Since capabilities are the prospective beings and doings that one values, the actual owning of the phone should not be considered a capability of the mother, since it is not something she values. For the daughter, owning a phone is a valued status symbol. Through a focus on the individual and their generosity, the external capabilities approach easily overlooks the actual desired beings or doings of everyone involved. In this example, the external capabilities approach would have focused on the acquisition of a cell phone instead of the capability to communicate using a cell phone. By focusing on the phone instead of the desire to communicate, important information is overlooked.

In the poor villages where I lived and studied, the phone was not even the most highly valued material element in such a scenario. What is much more highly valued is the pre-paid chip that goes inside the phone. The pre-paid chips, often purchased by individuals during trips to the city, represent the capability to communicate. Oftentimes, people have phones but are unable to call anyone because they do not have a chip with paid minutes. By focusing on the values rather than the perceived commodity, we arrive at a different understanding of who the real capability-holder is and who is sharing.

Similarly, if I consider the example described by Foster and Handy regarding literacy, I might question whether the desired capability is to read or to have access to news and events information. If the

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latter is the actual valued capability, then the fact that I am getting my news because of my friend’s literacy, instead of through the radio, for example, becomes less important. The concept of external capabilities gives weight to particular opportunities or commodities when shared because they seem important to the outside observer, or because the person with the capability values the item. In this sense, it loses focus on the relativity of values that are at the heart of capabilities approaches.

Also, by labeling external capabilities as inferior to individual capabilities the external capabilities approach unnecessarily creates a hierarchy among capabilities, and the individuals to whom they apply.

Foster and Handy (2009) have written the following: “A person who has individual capabilities rather than external capabilities need not face the contingencies or inherent variations in quality associated with external capabilities” (369). That Foster and Handy (2009) consider external capabilities to be inferior to individual capabilities is clear from the passage below:

External capabilities may be viewed as imperfect substitutes for their more reliable and permanent counterparts, and this can influence investment in future capabilities. On the one hand, the presence of an external capability can be a helpful coping mechanism that eases the pressure of a capability deprivation, providing an interim solution while a person builds individual capabilities. On the other hand, this coping mechanism may discourage the very investments that would reverse the capability deprivation that the external capability addressed. (372)

In this description, the capability “freeloader” is seen as lazy, and likely not to pursue their own capabilities if given extended access to the external capability. Unfortunately, this extends the initial fallacy of understanding capabilities as originating with some externally valued commodity or skill rather than with the values of those involved in the sharing. If a capability is understood to be the opportunity to be or do what one has reason to value, then if that capability has not been met, the person is likely to continue pursuing it as long as it remains of value to the person. If they are able to achieve a capability through more creative means, it seems to me that should be applauded. Instead, Foster and Handy

(2009) unnecessarily create a hierarchy of capabilities and people within their framework of external capabilities. Power is given to material ownership, whether or not it represents access to capabilities.

Capabilities of groups, often referred to as collective capabilities, do not have the stigma attached to external capabilities; they are not subordinate to individual capabilities. They are not created through acts of charity and are not placeholders until one develops their own capabilities. They are what communities share when they are thinking beyond individualistic limitations.

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These concepts—participatory processes and external capabilities—used by (individualist) capabilities scholars do not capture what I propose to include in a discussion of joint or collective capabilities. The discussion of participatory processes is capable of capturing important elements of collective action, but misses the importance of collective opportunities like communal land ownership. The emphasis on process rather than ends is, in this context, counter-productive. In the discussion of external capabilities, sharing is reinterpreted in a way that creates a hierarchy that does not necessarily exist.

Thus, while some sharing of opportunities is incorporated, it is done in a way that assumes individualistic norms and values inform such sharing.

Inclusion of participatory processes and external capabilities are attempts to incorporate the idea of social interdependencies. As argued above, by focusing on the individual as the unit of analysis these approaches lack sufficient explanatory power. In the section below, I argue that if one has determined that it is important to study groups, then one must keep those groups analytically intact. By studying capabilities of groups, through an analysis of plural subject agents that function as a unit, it is possible to see group opportunities. It is not possible to analyze such capabilities by simply studying social relationships of individuals.

From Individual to Plural Subject Agents

Capabilities approaches are unabashedly individualist. As Nussbaum (2011b) has asserted, “This normative focus on the individual cannot be dislodged by pointing to the obvious fact that people at times identify themselves with larger collectivities, such as the ethnic group, the state, or the nation, and take pride in the achievements of that group” (25). Although capabilities scholars claim to make room for considerations of social interdependencies, as discussed in the section above, their own normative individual bias is clear and consistent. Robeyns (2005b) has articulated how capabilities scholars balance individualistic and nonindividualistic dimensions of their approaches.

The capability approach is an ethically (or normatively) individualistic theory. This means that each person will be taken into account in our normative judgments. Ethical individualism implies that the units of normative judgment are individuals, and not households or communities. At the same time, the capability approach is not ontologically individualistic. It does not assume atomistic individuals, nor that our functionings and capabilities are independent of our concern for others or the actions of others. (67)

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Robeyns asserts that the capability approach is not ontologically individualistic, and does not assume atomistic individuals. An atomistically individualistic approach, however, is quite rare; most scholars recognize the importance of social relations in explaining human action and interaction. Levine, Sober and Wright (1987) described atomism as follows: “Atomism is a methodological stance which denies that relations—whether between individuals or between social entities—are ever genuinely explanatory. …

The atomist would insist, in other words, that only entities which are fully constituted non-relationally are explanatory” (70).

Even though capabilities scholars reject this extreme atomistic view, they do insist on conducting analysis at the level of the individual, or being methodologically individualist. As has been noted,

“Methodological individualism shares with atomism the view that social explanations are ultimately reducible to individual-level explanations” (Levine, Sober and Wright 1987, 71). Therefore, methodological individualism can be understood as a form of reductionism (Elster 1985, 5). In this dissertation, I adopt an anti-reductionist approach that “acknowledges the importance of micro-level accounts in explaining social phenomena, while allowing for the irreducibility of macro-level accounts to these micro-level explanations” (Levine, Sober and Wright 1987, 75). If the importance of the family unit is taken into consideration in development analysis, then scholars must adopt an approach that aims to study the family directly. Mainstream approaches to capabilities fail to do so. The mid-level, meso-level, or family-level, analysis suggested here falls somewhere between the micro-level and macro-level analyses that are more typical in social sciences.

Among capabilities scholars, there is a debate about whether an individualist or more collectivist approach is appropriate. As stated above, the dominant discourse promotes an individualist perspective.

Individualism can be understood as “the view that collective agents, shared intentions, collective action, and collective responsibility should be reductively analyzed in terms of the relations between individual agents who are group members of collectives” (McKenna 2006, 17). Individualists adhering to the liberal tradition insist on the primacy of the individual. In reference to individual agents, they argue the following:

“It is they who form collectivities in order to pursue their objectives” (Callinicos 2004, 152). Such approaches to agency tend to “privilege current Western conceptions of personal efficacy that are inapplicable in most times and places” (Schortman and Urban 2012, 500).

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On the other side of the debate are collective capabilities scholars, like Ballet, Dubois and Mahieu

(2007), who have written the following: “The capability approach is often criticized for its excessively individualistic vision, and most of its critics assimilate it to methodological individualism. The starting point of individualism is that individuals exist before the society that they constitute, and so it is through their action that wealth is created and society transformed” (186). Rational choice theorists share this bias toward methodological individualism (Scott 1995, 93). This is the dominant perspective both within capabilities approaches and within rational choice scholarship.

The intention of this chapter is to consider the more collectivist strands in both of these traditions, as well as other considerations rooted in a Black feminist epistemology, that point to the value of a collectivist or communitarian view. In contrast to the individualist perspective, communitarians argue the primacy of community: “Community is pre-existent to individuals in the sense that community is what gives meaning to the life of its members and gives them identity. Just as goals and values individuals pursue cannot be separated from the community in which those goals and values are shaped, the only way to understand human behaviour is to contextualize individuals in their social, cultural, and historical context” (Alkire and Deneulin 2002, 66). Postcolonial scholar Partha Chatterjee (1999) criticized liberal individualism for its inattention to such context: “Liberal individualism seeks to erase this level of immediacy where people are not free to choose the social locus of their birth. Indeed, liberalism seeks to forget that the question of choice here is itself fallacious, for human beings cannot exist as ‘individuals’ before they are born, and when they are born, they are already ascribed as particular members of a society” (232). This idea that community shapes individual choice, structure and action is the perspective explored in this chapter and throughout this dissertation.

From this communitarian/collectivist perspective, I adopt a methodological collectivism that

“assumes that there are supra-individual entities that are prior to individuals in the explanatory order”

(Elster 1985, 6). More specifically, I look to the importance of studying the family. While in this chapter I focus on methodological arguments, I later engage the ethical concerns of some communitarians that

“morality cannot be conceived in universal terms” (Avineri and De-Shalit 1992, 4).

In rational choice theory, the collectivist view is articulated by scholars who study groups, plural subject agents, and teams. I begin with the weaker claims of collective consciousness that simply analyze

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thinking with the group in mind; then, I move on to the stronger plural subject agent claim that argues acting as a unit is rooted in a joint commitment to shared goals. The literature about teams “seeks to extend standard game theory, where each individual asks separately, ‘What should I do?’ to allow teams of individuals to count as agents and for players to ask the question ‘What should we do?’ This leads to team reasoning, a distinctive mode of reasoning that is used by members of teams, and which may result in cooperative action” (Gold and Sugden 2007, 110). Bacharach (1999) described how team reasoning can lead to outcomes that cannot be otherwise explained: “Informally, when each member of a group works out what to do by putting herself in the position of an imaginary manager and determining the action which the manager would prescribe for her, she ‘team reasons’. Team reasoning is powerful: it reaches outcomes that other kinds of reasoning cannot reach” (118). These descriptions of team reasoning demonstrate the collectivist perspective because they begin with an understanding of how the team works, and that logic informs individual behavior.

Similarly, List and Pettit (2011), in their work on group agency, emphasize the importance of an analysis of group agents, separate and distinct from an analysis of individuals: “We have seen that to gain knowledge of group agents is to make an important advance in learning about the social world and how to intervene in it (our positive claim). And we have argued that this knowledge is unavailable in practice – even in the most idealized practice – on the basis of observing individual agents alone (our negative claim)” (76). I am in agreement with List and Pettit that we must study and analyze group agents directly.

What is captured by such analysis is the type of social phenomena that Durkheim identified by

“the collective aspects of the beliefs, tendencies, and practices of a group that characterize truly social phenomena” (Durkheim 1968, 248). Durkheim (1968) thus defined social facts as follows: “A social fact is every way of acting, fixed or not, capable of exercising on the individual an external constraint; or again, every way of acting which is general throughout a given society, while at the same time existing in its own right independent of its individual manifestations” (Durkheim 1968, 252). It is these concepts of social facts and social phenomena that I seek to capture with the inclusion of family-level analyses. To do so, I use the concept of plural subject agents, developed by Margaret Gilbert (1989).

Gilbert (1989) both built upon Durkheim’s concept of social facts and challenged an exclusive focus on individual agents by introducing plural subject agents. Gilbert (1996) has described plural

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subject agents as being founded upon joint commitments: “Two or more people constitute the plural subject of a goal, for instance, if they are jointly committed to accepting that goal together, or, as I have preferred to put it, as a body” (1). This functioning of families as a body is quite different than the individual agency that is the focus of capability approaches; it is not reducible to a set of individuals, and cannot be analyzed through a study of individuals.

The defining characteristic of the plural subject agent is the joint commitment. Gilbert described plural subjects as an indivisible unit committed to a particular goal or sharing a set of beliefs or principles.

Gilbert (1996) has described the nature of joint commitments as follows:

One notable aspect of the concept of a joint commitment is what may be called its holism. (Traditionally opposed to individualism, this might more helpfully be spelled wholism.) A joint commitment is the commitment of two or more individuals considered as a unit or whole. … Not only does the concept of the plural subject of a goal, for instance, not break down into the concept of a set of personal goals. The concept of a joint commitment that lies at its core does not break down into the concept of a set of personal commitments. (2)

The distinction between individuals promoting capabilities versus groups, or plural subjects, working for community development is significant. The joint agreement that is the foundation for the creation of plural subjects is substantively different from individual commitments. Characterized by simultaneity and interdependence, joint commitments are not simply a series of personal commitments. Gilbert (1996) has made the distinction clear in the following statement: “The individual wills are bound simultaneously and interdependently. Thus we do not have, here, an ‘exchange of promises’ … Rather, each person expresses a special form of conditional commitment such that (as is understood) only when everyone has done similarly is anyone committed. Thus all wills are bound simultaneously and interdependently” (185).

Tuomela (2006) has emphasized the social component of joint commitments: “The group members are collectively committed to satisfying their joint intention and are also socially committed to each other to performing their parts of the satisfying joint action. The collective commitment serves to keep the group members together as a unit. They function as group members toward achieving the content of the joint intention” (38). What this description highlights is the extent to which acting as a group reinforces social commitments. Similar to Durkheim (1968), List and Pettit (2011), and Gilbert (1996),

Tuomela (2003) also articulates the critical importance of the study of collective phenomena apart from individual analysis: “The social world, especially in its macro aspects, cannot adequately be studied without making use of the distinction between the notions of having an attitude or acting as a group

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member versus as a private person” (Tuomela 2003, 93). The attention to social commitments of families is quite important in the study of all communities, but has been specifically recognized as having significant analytical value in the study of Black communities.

Black feminist scholarship supports the idea that analyzing women within the context of family relations is important. Collins (2000b) has articulated this analytical value as follows.

Viewing African American families as the unit of analysis allows for construction of social class categories around actual historical material relations. Individuals may come and go, but the racial families that have been constructed from biological families persist across time. Using the individual as the unit of analysis elevates the importance of male income for Black political economy. But moving from individuals to families as another unit of social class analysis shifts the gender equation and makes women more central to class analysis. It also reveals the importance of collectively held, historical family assets to contemporary patterns of affluence and poverty. (50-51)

Using families as the unit of analysis gives a different perspective than a focus on individuals. Such an analysis highlights different race and gender dynamics not only when engaging in economic class analysis, but also in broader analyses of development that include cultural and social development. This research engages families as plural subject agents with the unique perspective that Tuomela (2006) has called the we-mode, List and Pettit (2011) have called the we-frame, and John R. Searle (1995) has called ‘We intentionality.’

Tuomela’s we-mode stands in contrast to an I-mode: “When the persons intend in the I-mode they intend solely as private persons—in contrast to the we-mode case where they must function as group members and where intending for a group reason must be at play” (Tuomela 2006, 35). List and

Pettit (2011) distinguish between the individual and group agents’ perspectives or framing with the use of an I-frame and we-frame, associated with the individual and group, respectively. The we-frame is at play when a group, or plural subject, is being considered. Not surprisingly, List and Pettit (2011) found that a we-frame perspective enhances the performance of groups: “[Successful group agents] typically also self- identify as a group, employing the language of ‘we’ just as the individual, self-identifying agent employs the language of ‘I’. This facilitates the performance of a group as a person among persons, just as individual self-identification facilitates the performance of the individual as a person among persons”

(193). Tuomela (1995) similarly articulated “the notion of a we-attitude and specifically that of a we- intention, presupposing the members’ agreement to act jointly” (120). In the next chapter, these “we-“

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consciousness concepts are explored in Garifuna villagers’ use of the “we” subject in responses to questions posed in terms of individuals.

In both African American families in the United States and in the Afro-descendant Garifuna communities of Honduras, the historical record demonstrates that examining agency at the level of the family captures critical information that would otherwise be lost in individual-level analysis. One example of the way in which the plural subject agent functions is the community response to the absence of

Garifuna men, typically for six to eight months at a time, working on fishing boats and cruise ships. When

I initially asked villagers about these extended absences, I expected to hear stories of despair about the difficulty of surviving without men because of gender-differentiated tasks, especially in relation to field cultivation. Instead, I received the following comments about male absence in the community. Camila said, “There are always men [here] for whatever emergencies,” suggesting that the absence of particular men was not a major event. When I asked village men, I received similar responses. Sebastian said, “We

[men] leave but not for much time, sometimes for three, four, or five months maximum. Afterwards, we return to our community.” Similarly Matias told me, “There are some that leave. There are others that stay here. So, the women, when the men aren’t here, well, things always go well because we [men] help when we are away. We send them money as a means to survive.”

In interviews and discussions, community members consistently emphasized the fact that not all the men would leave the community at the same time, suggesting that male absences were coordinated at the family level, if not community level, to minimize the disruption. Many people said if a husband was absent, brothers, cousins, uncles or other family members (on the woman’s side or on the man’s side) would “fill in” while the man was away. Thus, land cultivation is engaged as a capability of the family, not an individual capability. Other family members manage important gender-specific activities in the primary male’s absence, so as to have minimal family impact.

In this context, families are acting as a plural subject agent with a joint commitment to land cultivation. Such interaction is impossible to explain in terms of individual agency or personal commitments, especially since the duties of specific individuals can be completed by others within the family. Attempts to reduce such complex arrangements to individual action or individual opportunities loses sight of the larger goal of the plural subject, or family, and misunderstands the type of commitment,

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which is to the group rather than to a particular individual. This we-frame, or we-mode, represents a form of empowerment and shapes claims to communal land rights for many Garifuna women, in spite of Sen’s concerns about the dangers of such a perspective.

Sen’s individualist bias is motivated, at least in part, by the concern that the interests and preferences of particular individuals, and especially individual women, may be occluded by a focus on groups. He has clearly identified the importance of attention to “cooperative conflicts” and “intra- household bargaining.” Sen (1999) has described the position of the “deprived woman” in these scenarios as follows: “The very nature of family living—sharing a home and leading joint lives—requires that the elements of conflict must not be explicitly emphasized (dwelling on conflicts will be seen as a sign of a

‘failed’ union), and sometimes the deprived woman cannot even clearly assess the extent of her relative deprivation” (192-193). Friedman (1992) expressed similar concerns about communitarian approaches, most notably that “communitarian theory fails to acknowledge that many communities make illegitimate moral claims on their members, linked to hierarchies of domination and subordination” and “the specific communities of family, neighbourhood, and nation so commonly invoked by communitarians are troubling paradigms of social relationship and communal life” (104).

The issues Friedman posed about hierarchical structures mirrors Sen’s discussion of conflicts within the home. I argue, first, that because these agents are not homogenous and easily studied does not suggest that we cannot, or more importantly, should not study such units. Her categorization of family and nation—two themes discussed in detail in this dissertation—as “troubling paradigms” should not deter us from pursuing the rich insight we can gather from the study of such entities. I am not introducing the family as an analytical unit of study within capabilities in order to bring into the discussion “positive” notions of freedom, development, or opportunities. The family needs to be studied because it introduces a level of nuance that is overlooked in discussions of agency and capability without it. Ortner (2006) articulated the double-edged sword of such embeddedness:

On the one hand the agent is always embedded in relations of (would-be) solidarity: family, friends, kin, spouses or partners, children, parents, teachers, allies, and so forth. It is important to note this point because some of the critics of the agency concept, those who see agency as a bourgeois and individualistic concept, focus largely on the ways in which the concept appears to slight the ‘good’ embeddedness of agents, the contexts of solidarity that mitigate agency in its individualistic and selfish forms. On the other hand the agent is always enmeshed within relations of power, inequality, and competition. (130 – 131)

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Ortner (2006) highlighted the complexity of embedded agents with their simultaneous positive and negative implications. In the next chapter, in which I explore capabilities within the ereba production process, I examine precisely such complicated notions of inequality and hierarchy within the family.

Second, broad generalizations about the patriarchal and/or oppressive nature of family for women within the context of family and household structures are not very useful for understanding specific cases.

Not only is it an oversimplification that requires more nuanced analysis; in many cases the generalizations are simply inaccurate. For many Garifuna couples, “sharing a home” does not imply living twelve months out of the year in the same house. With the seasonal migration of many men for work on fish and seafood boats, women spend significant portions of the year without their spouses in the same house. The men continue to consider these houses home; they do not consider the boats where they do seasonal work home. The couples see themselves as leading joint lives with the joint commitment that characterizes the plural subject agent. In these long-distance unions, women have significant power and control over family resources.

Sen has emphasized how women can be disadvantaged in “cooperative conflicts” that occur within a household. However, with the long history of male migration in the Garifuna community, women have had considerable control over the distribution and re-distribution of resources. Thus, these women often act as a hub that connects the male migrants overseas to children in the city; the women are empowered through the interdependent web of the family and funnel resources on the basis of communal values. As such, Garifuna migration has only reinforced the matrifocality of Garifuna society. While Sen’s discussion of the “deprived” woman may characterize some scenarios, it is not appropriate for the discussion of Garifuna households. Other scholars also have given us reason to question whether it is more broadly applicable.

Agarwal (2009) has provided an alternative interpretation of Sen’s deprived woman: “The idea that women tend not to have a clear perception of their individual interests in societies such as India—that is, that they suffer from a form of ‘false consciousness’, in effect making them complicit in perpetuating their unequal position—is interesting, but debatable. The empirical evidence that can be culled points more to the contrary (165).” Highlighted in Agarwal’s alternative perspective is the importance of evidence contrary to the ideas espoused by Sen. In her own work, Agarwal (2009) linked property ownership to

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both the empowerment of women and the deterrence of male domestic violence: “Property ownership can therefore reduce her risk of suffering violence by increasing her economic security, reducing her tolerance of violence, and providing a potential escape route should violence occur (171).”

Considering the importance that Agarwal has placed on property ownership in relation to female empowerment, we have reason to rethink how cooperative conflicts might play out differently (than implied by Sen), given the Garifuna women’s history of land ownership. Instead of focusing on what a study of groups might mask, we have the opportunity to consider what a study of groups might reveal.

Black feminists have demonstrated that the study of groups of Black women is quite important. Collins

(2000a) has argued the importance of the study of the tensions within a diverse and heterogeneous group of Black women: “A Black women’s collective standpoint does exist, one characterized by the tensions that accrue to different responses to common challenges. Because it both recognizes and aims to incorporate heterogeneity in crafting Black women’s oppositional knowledge, this Black women’s standpoint eschews essentialism in favor of democracy” (28). In recognizing the realities of the Black

Garifuna woman, it is critical to analyze the family context in order to fully understand the creation of both capabilities and oppositional knowledge by this group of women.

Such analysis need not oversimplify the complexities of the family unit. Instead, it should highlight both intersectional relations and the interaction between agency, structure, and power. As Schortman and

Urban (2012) articulated, “Structure, agency, and power are thus interrelated in that political formations are continually taking shape and being challenged through the actions of individuals who manipulate the assets provided by the structure” (500). In the section below, I discuss the structures that will be examined throughout the dissertation.

The Role of Structure

In a discussion about agents and agency, one must also say something about structure, because of their interdependent and co-constitutive natures (Giddens 1984). In addition to exploring irreducibly collective agents, I also explore irreducibly collective structures in my study of Garifuna development. In particular, I explore irreducibly collective forms of social organization, or structures of living (Deneulin

2006). Deneulin (2006) described collective capabilities as being fundamental to understanding the very

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context in which individuals have the power to exercise choice among capabilities. Thus, Deneulin (2006) described the relationship between community, structures of living and agent choices:

When freedom is considered as being structured by community, structures of living together are no longer instruments which expand or reduce an agent’s set of options from which to choose, they become the condition of the agent’s very ability to choose among such a set. Freedom and agency receive their existence and value from structures of living together. The capability to choose and to act is itself a collective capability. (67-68)

Among the villages of the ereba makers, there are organizations that facilitate the production of ereba.

Through the mechanization of ereba production these organizations, called galpones casaberos, actually increase access to the opportunity to produce ereba, or the ereba-making capability. The mechanization of the process has extended the ereba-making capability to women with back problems, for example, who would not otherwise be able to produce ereba. In the next chapter, I give specific examples of how these organizations are both advancing community development through the expansion of ereba-making capabilities and complicating gendered norms and hierarchies within the traditional practice of ereba- making.

The galpones casaberos are dedicated to the well being of the individuals and families that constitute them. Further, the health of these organizations are an important indicator of well being throughout the community because of the galpones’ foundation in the villages’ most important agricultural product. In exploring the value of collective capabilities in community, Deneulin (2006) argues the importance of assessing the development of these structures of living as a critical part of assessing overall development:

Because structures of living together belong to a social group of which individuals are members, development cannot be assessed only in terms of whether the freedoms of the individual members of that social group have been enhanced, but has also to be assessed in terms of whether the structures of living together of that social group, which are supporting the expansion of human freedoms of its members, have been enhanced. (60)

My analysis of structures of living differs from Denuelin’s in that I consider families, or plural subject agents, as possible members of the galpones. As such, I allow for the possibility of structures of living that are social groups constituted by a combination of individual and plural subject agents.

From a Black feminist standpoint, the importance of groups and communal values in Black communities is indisputable. bell hooks (1989) has discussed her experience of what she described as a counter-hegemonic system of collective values in the southern region of the US: “Within black culture

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(especially among the working class and poor, particularly in southern states), a value system emerged that was counter-hegemonic, that challenged notions of individualism and private property so important to the maintenance of white-supremacist, capitalist patriarchy. Black folk created in marginal spaces a world of community and collectivity where resources were shared” (76). hooks’ (1989) description of a counter- hegemonic resistance mirrors the resistance of Garifuna communities to impending threats to communal lands, designed to achieve capitalist expansion of private property in rural areas.

In the southern region of the US, as in the Honduran northern coast, communal sharing and interdependence among Black women is seen as a counter-hegemonic space where there is power in numbers. In Garifuna history, there has been a need for the extensive collaboration of groups within various structures of living—during the forced exile from St. Vincent and today with the ongoing encroachment on Garifuna ancestral lands. The importance of communal values is evident among Black and indigenous communities globally. Studying the community through a lens that is consistent with the community’s own worldview will provide a richer, more nuanced interpretation than any reduction to an individual level analysis.

What Sen (1999) has written about women’s capabilities clearly focused on empowerment through independence: “These different aspects (women’s earning power, economic role outside the family, literacy and education, property rights and so on) may at first sight appear to be rather diverse and disparate. But what they all have in common is their positive contribution in adding force to women’s voice and agency—through independence and empowerment” (191). I do not disagree that some women can find empowerment through such means. However, what goes unexplored in Sen’s discussion is that many women also find empowerment through interdependent relationships. This contrast is one based in the underlying assumption of individualist and communitarian perspectives. While Sen’s “development as freedom” is one of independence and autonomy, “communitarians often argue that personal autonomy is better achieved within the community than outside communal life” (Avineri and De-Shalit 1992, 7).

Further, scholars like Pettit (2001) point out the importance of leaving room for the discussion of collective freedom, in addition to individual freedom: “If freedom is to be theoretically reconstructed in a comprehensive and unified way, then we have to be able to explain within that theory how it is possible to speak of free collectivities as well as of free individuals” (177 – 178).

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Oftentimes, this interdependent and collective form of empowerment has emerged in response to the context in which these women operate. Briskin (2011) has argued the importance of “expanding empowerment measures to take account of collective agency” (Briskin 2011, 213). Collins (2009) has argued that specifying the constraints that shape Black female empowerment is critical: “Empowerment remains an illusive construct and developing a Black feminist politics of empowerment requires specifying the domains of power that constrain Black women, as well as how such domination can be resisted…

Black women’s full empowerment can occur only within a transnational context of social justice” (23).

These collective, interdependent and transnational visions of empowerment stand in sharp contrast to mainstream capabilities scholars’ focus on independence as the path to freedom. In the previous section,

I described my focus on a plural subject agent, and in this section, I have discussed the importance of continuing to pay attention to structure even as our understanding of the agent is redefined. In the next section, I describe the process of agency, in which agents are engaging.

Understanding Agency

Agency is the force behind the grassroots development of the ereba makers. Emirbayer and

Mische (1998) conceptualize agency as follows: “a temporally embedded process of social engagement, informed by the past (in its ‘iterational’ or habitual aspect) but also oriented toward the future (as a

‘projective’ capacity to imagine alternative possibilities) and toward the present (as a ‘practical-evaluative’ capacity to contextualize past habits and future projects within the contingencies of the moment)” (962).

In this sense, agency has multiple temporal dimensions. Well aligned with my analysis of how Garifuna families are engaging in processes of community development, present, past, and future orientations of agency are explored in relation to ereba-making in the next chapter. The practical-evaluative aspect is explored through the daily work of ereba-making. The projective capacity of agency is embodied by the

Garifuna women’s use of economic resources to support the education of village children, in hopes that these children will create a broader set of capabilities for the community in the future. The iterational aspect of agency is embodied by what Séverine Deneulin (2006) referred to as socio-historical agency, described below; this concept is also important in the articulation of ereba-making as a part of cultural legacy.

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Collective capabilities scholar Deneulin (2006) incorporated an understanding of socio-historical agency in her approach to capabilities, thus historicizing and contextualizing the environment in which certain capabilities become available. Denuelin (2006) has linked socio-historical agency to institutions and freedom: “The notion of socio-historical agency underlines that the relationship between meeting a normative end and the institutional change required to meet it is a dynamic process that takes place in a certain historical context in a given society. The promotion of human freedoms is to be considered within the possibilities of options and choices that a particular collective history has left over as a legacy” (73). In the previous chapter, I described some of the important historical moments that have shaped the agency of Garifuna families, organizations, and communities. The importance of environmental factors is also discussed by Miller (2003), who similarly wrote “abilities such as the ability to reason or to imagine alternative possibilities to the ones socially presented to them—are themselves socially provided, conditioned, and constrained. In short, what and who an individual agent is, and which choices they make, is necessarily in large part a function of their past and present social environments” (269). The past and present are critical in the planning of communities for their future, and for their own development.

Thus, past, present and future aspects of agency are all interrelated.

Deneulin (2006) also linked the socio-historical agency of a community to its collective subjecthood and collective agency: “Socio-historical agency is something which belongs to a particular historical community, is irreducible to interpersonal relations and yet bound up with these. This entails that the subjects of development are neither individual subjects, nor collective subjects, but are both individual and collective. Development change depends on the interaction between these two forms of agency” (75). Above, I argue that we should include plural subject agents in our development analysis.

Thus we have at least three types of agents operating in a particular socio-historical context—the individual, the plural subject agent (i.e., the family) and the collective (i.e., the Garifuna community). While

I borrow from Emirbayer and Mische (1998) and Deneulin (2006) to describe how I am using the concept of agency, none of these authors uses plural subject agents in their conceptualization of the agent; that is my unique contribution to this discussion of agency and group-level capabilities.

As a rule, social movement scholars (Escobar and Alvarez 1992) focus on the larger collective. In moving from individual agents to the large, impersonal collectivities that constitute social movements, the

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family is often ignored. My argument is that these multiple levels of capability need to be explored.

Collective capabilities scholar Peter Evans (2002) has focused his attention at the level of collective action: “For those already sufficiently privileged to enjoy a full range of capabilities, collective action may seem superfluous to capability, but for the less privileged attaining development as freedom requires collective action” (56). The importance of collective action in the Garifuna fight for land rights demonstrates the historical importance of collective action within the Garifuna community. Further, to the extent that the individuals in question have faced institutionalized forms of discrimination and marginalization, collective action is often critical to overcoming these institutionalized forms of injustice and enhancing both collective and individual capabilities. In relation to individual capabilities, mainstream capabilities scholars have effectively argued the importance of individual capabilities; suffice to say that one must consider the opportunities of the individual.

What I contribute is attention to the necessity of a family-level analysis of development. In order to distinguish the discussion here about families as plural subject agents from other discussions by collective capabilities scholars, I use the terms joint capabilities and joint agency to refer to the opportunities and agency of families, understood as formed through a joint commitment. Joint capabilities are opportunities available through these family structures, based in interpersonal relationships. This is related to but different from collective capabilities that focus on larger, impersonal collectivities.

Ibrahim (2006) described collective capabilities as follows: “First, collective capabilities are only present through a process of collective action. Secondly, the collectivity at large – and not simply a single individual – can benefit from these newly generated capabilities” (398). Ferreras (2012) similarly emphasized the importance of distributed benefits in defining group capabilities: “If the group is to exercise a capability, resources must in some way be shared and distributed among the members of the group” (108). In the next chapter, I will be highlighting the importance of joint capabilities and joint action of Garifuna families. One way that we might begin to understand how and why families come to work together in pursuit of joint goals is by understanding moral responsibility. While some collective capability scholars have discussed the importance of personal, or individual, responsibility (Ballet, DuBois and

Mahieu 2007), my discussion below focuses instead on the importance of collective responsibility.

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Acting Responsibly

When discussing moral responsibility, some scholars focus exclusively on the negative aspects of responsibility, or the potential to create harm. As an example of this, Smiley (2010) suggested that an understanding of collective moral responsibility of groups comes from a “focus on their ability to produce bad things and be blamed for them” (171). In contrast to this perspective, Gilbert (2006) distinguished between backward-looking and forward-looking moral responsibility: “Backward-looking moral responsibility has to do with causation. … The forward-looking kind of moral responsibility has to do with obligation. It has to do with someone’s moral obligations or responsibilities with respect to some matter”

(94-95). The discussion of forward-looking and backward-looking responsibility can also be described in terms of ex-ante and ex-post responsibility respectively (Pelenc et al. 2013, 86). As Ballet, Dubois and

Mahieu (2007) have written, “Responsibility expresses the capability to feel and be responsible, not only ex-post (i.e. once freedom has been exercised), but also ex-ante, by the capacity to exercise self- constraint on a voluntary basis in order to satisfy one’s obligations towards others” (185). My discussion of moral responsibility throughout this dissertation will focus on the forward-looking, or ex-ante, moral responsibility that examines the responsibility or obligation that family members feel toward one another.

In addition to understanding the distinction between forward-looking and backward-looking moral responsibility, it also is important to distinguish between individualist and collectivist interpretations of collective moral responsibility. With individualist concepts of collective moral responsibility, “claims and theories about collectives are reducible to or best explained in terms of claims about behavior, actions, and psychology of individuals” (Isaacs 2006, 61). In contrast to individualist claims, there is also a more substantive concept of collective moral responsibility that makes claims about the “the moral responsibility of the whole collective … not reducible to ascriptions of individual moral responsibility” (Isaacs 2006, 61).

While some scholars, including Isaacs (2006) and Miller (2006), advocate for this more substantive conception of collective moral responsibility, Sen suggests that collective, or social, responsibility only threatens to diminish individual responsibility.

Sen (1999) has expressed concern that social responsibility might replace individual responsibility: “Any affirmation of social responsibility that replaces individual responsibility cannot but be, to varying extents, counterproductive. There is no substitute for individual responsibility. … However, the

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substantive freedoms that we respectively enjoy to exercise our responsibilities are extremely contingent on personal, social, and environmental circumstances” (283-284). Even as he recognizes various social contingencies, he pits social and individual responsibility as somehow in competition. Sen (1999) has written the following about the tension between social support and individual responsibility:

The argument for social support in expanding people’s freedom can, therefore, be seen as an argument for individual responsibility, not against it. The linkage between freedom and responsibility works both ways. Without the substantive freedom and capability to do something, a person cannot be responsible for doing it. But actually having the freedom and capability to do something does impose on the person the duty to consider whether to do it or not, and this does involve individual responsibility. In this sense, freedom is both necessary and sufficient for responsibility. (284)

Sen’s individualistic bias is apparent in his analysis of the relationship between freedom and responsibility. The implication is that individual responsibilities, like individual capabilities, are primary, while social responsibilities, and collective capabilities, are secondary. However, this simply does not hold in the Garifuna context. In communities where (individual and collective) survival has depended on both joint and collective action and a sense of responsibility to the group, these divisions are not particularly useful. Further, the two types of responsibility need not be in competition with one another. As Tollefsen

(2003) has written, “Many fear the notion of collective responsibility because they fear that the individual will be let off the hook. … The practice of holding individuals responsible is here to stay. But so is our practice of holding collectives morally responsible. And we need not fear the latter will replace the former”

(233).

Mathiesen (2006), in contrast to Sen, suggested that belonging to a group adds collective obligations and responsibilities rather than competes with individual ones: “In response to concerns about how such collective responsibility relates to individual member’s responsibility, I argue that membership in a collective does not rid us of individual responsibility for our contributory action. Furthermore, collective membership brings with it special obligations to respond and repair when our collective has acted wrongly” (241). In this way, being a part of a family, a group, or collective, adds a layer of responsibility, separate from one’s individual responsibilities. This is even more reason to analyze the special characteristics of plural subject agents in order to understand how members are responsible to one another and responsible for their communities. These additional responsibilities are both forward-looking and backward-looking: “As members of collectives we take on certain special obligations. Some of these

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are forward-looking obligations to help form the collective perspective and character in positive ways.

Some of these are backward-looking obligations to respond to and repair the harm caused by past wrongful acts of the collective” (Mathiesen 2006, 254). In the coming chapter, I explore concrete examples of how Garifuna families understand their responsibilities to the family as a unit and to members within the family, especially mothers.

Conclusion

Corbridge (2002), described the challenges of the individualistic bias of the capabilities approach as follows: “We run into difficulties that arise from the normative bias of Sen’s work (his desire to celebrate individual freedom) and the possibility that the freedoms of many poor people are best explained by collective mobilizations (not all of which are especially ‘liberal’)” (209). In this chapter, I argue for the analysis of families as plural subject agents, as a way to introduce more collectivist ideas into the capabilities framework. While both capabilities scholars and rational choice theorists are typically individualist, I build upon the work of collective capabilities scholars and rational choice theorists that study groups, teams, and plural subject agents, in order to put forth an argument for the study of families in development analysis.

In this chapter, I have focused on the predominant conceptual framework (i.e., the capabilities approach) engaged in this dissertation. While there are many reasons to use the capabilities approach as a starting point, especially its emphasis on human agency and non-economic dimensions of development, there is also considerable room for improvement. It is a good starting point for discussing development, especially development that goes beyond economic considerations, but needs to incorporate more collectivist interpretations of capabilities and agency. The importance of collectivist considerations has been discussed by Black feminist scholars as important to making visible the labor of

Black women. The strong liberal, individualist bias of the capabilities approach, and Western social science more generally, assures that the individual will be studied. In this chapter, I made an argument for why and how we should study the family as well. Thus, I demonstrate theoretically, the importance of the second level of the TBF framework.

In the next chapter, I will apply this logic to my specific case of development among the Garifuna ereba makers to demonstrate the empirical value of this level within the TBF framework. I will discuss my

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fieldwork in relation to these concepts to demonstrate that an understanding of Garifuna development among the ereba makers requires attention to how families are operating through joint commitments to achieve joint goals (i.e., working as plural subject agents). I will explore families as irreducibly collective agents (i.e., plural subject agents) and galpones as irreducible collective structures (i.e., structures of living). However, that will not prevent me from studying hierarchical structures within families. Being jointly and interdependently committed does not mean being equal partners. Further, I will describe the various ways in which the agentic processes of families are oriented toward the past (iterational), future

(projective) and present (practical-evaluative). By the end of this dissertation, I will articulate an alternative capabilities approach that takes into consideration the collectivist concepts introduced here.

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CHAPTER 5

EREBA PRODUCTION: GARIFUNA FAMILIES EXPANDING JOINT CAPABILITIES

Women in Line to Grind Cassava at Molino (March 28, 2012)

I took the above picture while working with women at one of the molinos, or cassava-grinding houses, in Zafra. The picture is a reminder of the hard work and determination of the women in the

“Women Warriors” galpón, or ereba-making organization. When the molino of “Women Warriors” is running, there is always a line. So that no diesel is wasted, the molino is only opened when a queue of women is ready to feed their washed and peeled cassava through the grinding machine. The woman in

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front, with hand on hip, challenges those who refuse to acknowledge the powerful agency of marginalized people—poor, Afro-descendant, indigenous, and so forth. She is not weak. She is not anyone’s victim and does not need any form of neoliberal re-education to reform her habits. The evidence of this is manifest in her ability to maintain her family using longstanding ancestral traditions passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter. I stand in solidarity with her in her challenge of those uneducated in the ways of Garifuna traditions that might mistake her lack of money for some character flaw. For those in doubt, this chapter provides a lesson in how Garifuna families, led by Garifuna women, are expanding the joint capabilities of their families through the making of ereba.

In the previous chapter, I discussed in detail the weaknesses of an individualist capabilities approach. I suggested that we (1) expand out notion of capabilities to consider the family as a plural subject agent, (2) explore joint agency in its iterational, practical-evaluative, and projective forms, (3) analyze collective structures of living, and (4) examine the Garifuna community we-frame. This chapter does so through the lens of the ereba makers. In the first section of this chapter, I explore the Garifuna family as a plural subject agent. I begin with a quote from a well-respected community elder who informed me that the Garifuna community is a “community of families.” Building upon that assertion, I draw from interviews, personal interactions and observations in the community to substantiate this idea of a community of families. In the second section of this chapter, I describe the ereba production process as a we-mode goal and discuss the various aspects (iterational, practical-evaluative, and projective) of agency involved. In section three, I examine the galpones casaberos (plural of galpón) as structures of living.

Finally, in section four, I discuss the broader operation of a we-frame in community life outside of ereba production. This chapter’s goal is to demonstrate the analytical usefulness of these collectivist concepts in understanding development capabilities among the Garifuna ereba makers of Honduras.

A Community of Families: Understanding the Garifuna Plural Subject Agent

During an interview with longtime church leader and community activist Mariana, I asked her about her hopes for the future of the community. It was during this interview that I first heard the Garifuna village described as a community of families. Below is how she described her vision for the future:

For my Garifuna brothers and sisters, I would like for us to forge ahead, forge ahead helping, first, one another. First, asking God to give us strength and patience. And one waits to see the development of our communities, more that of the family, the development of the family, because

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we cannot talk of communities if we do not mention the family because the families are what forms the community. So, right now, each family already knows how it is managing. In each family, there is development and I hope that God continues blessing us.

Mariana was a member of the administrative board of “Women Warriors”—one of the four galpones casaberos with which I worked. She also had experience working with a number of nonprofit organizations that had implemented projects in the community, and had assisted in collecting and recording census data for the villages. Thus, Mariana was very much in touch with how the community understands itself in contrast to how others might see it. No one works in Zafra without Mariana knowing about it, and being involved. Her home was one of the first that I was brought to when I entered the community; she was one of my first interviews. As a community leader, she has helped nonprofit organizations to implement various projects in Zafra, and she has led community-based efforts to improve living conditions. Thus, when she says that community development is family development, she speaks from a history of engagement with externally- and internally-initiated community projects. She is articulating the value sought after by her community. They are not looking to simply advantage individuals in the community; they are looking to empower families.

In addition to talking to Mariana about the impact of development on families, I was also able to witness and interact with Mariana in her family life. Her household operated in a way that exemplifies the joint commitments and shared goals of plural subject agents. The result was a family unit in which everyone helped with all family activities, from clothes washing to land cultivation to dish washing to ereba baking. Mariana’s home was one of the few places where I saw a man helping a woman who was baking ereba. Only women do the actual baking; however, her husband was sifting the cassava flour to prepare it for baking.12 On one occasion, when I went with Mariana to her cassava field, we returned to find her husband washing clothes. I am not sure whether I actually asked the question, or if it was simply because of the surprised expression on my face, but Mariana explained that when he goes to the fields, she washes clothes, and she goes to the field, he washes. She said that everyone pitches in. This was

12 To see men helping in this way is rare. Mariana however is a strong community and family leader. Her husband displayed a willingness to assist her in all household matters to an extent that I did not often see in other households. The gendered nature of family roles was blurred in this context. In spite of the husband’s willingness to assist, he was not interested in being photographed performing these typically female tasks. When I asked to photograph him sifting cassava flour, he declined.

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early evidence that tasks were not assigned to individuals, but rather to families—families with shared goals and joint commitments.

I would later see further evidence of such joint action of Garifuna families, which I describe below in the discussion of the Garifuna community we-frame. One of the most interesting aspects of Garifuna families was how they were socially constructed, or what events create a family unit. Oftentimes when families, especially indigenous or traditional families, are discussed, family boundaries are described in ways that are rigid and fixed. Outside onlookers construct traditional and indigenous families in terms of bloodline alone. When Friedman (1992) identified the “troubling paradigms” of family, neighborhood, and nation, it is in large part because of what she understood as the lack of “voluntariness.” However, when the Garifuna family is understood not simply in terms of bloodlines, but also in terms joint commitments to shared goals, it is possible to understand how families are constructed through such commitments.

Daniel’s Sister-Cousin

During my time in the villages, I did four rounds of interviews. The first three rounds of interviews were with members of the galpones; during the last round, I interviewed adult children of the members. At the point when I was interviewing the children, I had spent a significant amount of time in the villages and knew a lot about the members of the galpones. The point of interviewing the adult children was to identify possible shifts in the strong communal ethic of the older generation. Since so many of the children had spent time in the cities, either working or going to school, I took seriously the possibility that the older generation, who lived in villages before the unpaved highway was carved out and when transportation by boat was the only way to get to the city, might think differently about commitments to family and community.

Mariana had a son named Daniel, who I interviewed. While normally I tried to interview individuals alone, there were times when doing so was not possible or not appropriate. In particular, I often interviewed males in the company of women because social convention would have made it inappropriate for a woman of my age (mid-thirties) to be in a private space with a married man, or even a single man that I was not dating. On this particular day, I was interviewing Daniel in the family home, while Mariana was listening. I asked Daniel, whether he had ever lived with relatives other than his parents or had relatives come and live with him. My intention was to better understand how family networks factor into

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child rearing. He said that he had a cousin who grew up living with his family. Mariana immediately and harshly corrected Daniel, indicating that the “cousin” who had lived with them sixteen years since she was two years old was his sister, not his cousin. She first scolded him for suggesting that this young woman could be anything but his sister, and then turned to me to say that Daniel was referring to her adopted daughter and that he should have indicated that it was his sister.

How should we interpret this? Who is telling the truth? What is an ethnographer to record? As I explored how other families were constructed, I found similar stories. Because family is about commitment to a particular group of people and shared goals—in Mariana’s house this included household maintenance and land cultivation—then the body of individuals jointly committed is defined and treated as family. At least it is defined as such by the middle-aged women of the Garifuna villages.

The question of whether that conception of family will persist within the younger generation remains to be seen. Also, the intersectional analysis of what family means to villagers who are young and Garifuna and male will likely produce a different response than that of the typical Garifuna ereba maker, who is female and middle-aged.

Becoming Family

In addition to having the benefit of Mariana’s insights about family, I had my own experience of

“becoming family.” During my fieldwork, I stayed in two different homes of one family. First. I stayed with the brother of the person whose home I was renting, because the house needed to be cleaned (and exterminated). Then, once the home was ready, I moved into the house I was renting. The house was across from the home of the owner’s sister, which was the old family home, where all the children were raised. I was living alone, which I thought would be preferable, considering my schedule and the confidentiality of my interview and observation notes and documents. The owner’s sister, Emma, lived with her son, Benjamin, and daughter, Nicole. After I moved into her brother’s home across the path, there were immediate signs that I was more than just a neighbor; I was considered part of the family.

During my first week living in the house, Emma offered to have Benjamin live with me. Initially, I thought that she was offering to have him stay for the first couple of nights, thinking that I might be scared to be in the house alone. To my surprise, she was actually offering to have Benjamin live with me for the entire ten-month period that I planned to stay in the village. I certainly had noticed that it was rare for

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women to live alone; in fact, I cannot recall any women who were living along in the villages. However, I was still taken aback by what seemed such an extreme offer. Who allows their youngest child to stay with a stranger for practically an entire year? He was not even thirteen yet. What I came to understand was that Emma did not see me as a stranger, or a renter; she saw me as an addition, however temporary, to the family. She often shared food with me. Within my first week in the house, the other members of her family came to welcome me. She watched the house when I was away in the city. It was not simply

Emma’s behavior that signaled my entry into family; it was the behavior of the entire family.

Benjamin started calling me his sister. It took me some time to realize this because he did not say it in Spanish. He would say it in Garifuna as we were walking through the village. When I realized that he was often repeating the same Garifuna phrase, I asked him what he was saying, and he said that he was calling me his sister. It was striking that even his communication about the relationship was embedded in

Garifuna culture. He was not saying it for my benefit; he was not even saying it in our shared language.

He was saying it in his native language, and in front of people who would know that I was not his blood sister. In addition to saying that I was his sister, he began to treat me like family. He came to the house and helped out with chores; he and his uncle—the one with whom I stayed before moving into the house—exterminated the bats in the house. When Benjamin had ripe coconut, he would bring one to the house to share. He would even come to the house to do homework.

In turn, I responded by treating Emma, Benjamin and Nicole as family. When I had fresh fruit, which was both hard to find and hard to preserve without electricity, I would share it with the family. When possible, I would go with the family to work in the cassava fields. My relationship with this family was the context through which I was integrated into community life and activities. When people asked who I was or why I was in the community, initially I went into long explanations about my research. Later I realized that people were seeking to identify me in relation to a family, and Emma’s family was my family. When I mentioned them, my presence made sense to villagers. The research information was interesting to some, but it did not explain my presence in the village; my link to a family did.

Nicole similarly thought of me as part of the family, which became clear during an outing to the fields. Although many days I worked with galpones in two neighboring villages, there were days when I was in my home village of Cuenca. On these days, I would typically ask to go with the family to the fields.

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Although no one wanted to take me during the rainy season (September to January) for fear that I would slip and fall, I had several occasions to go with the family to their cassava plot during the dry season. On this particular day, Emma, Benjamin, Nicole and I had been working for several hours pulling cassava root from the ground. Before heading back to the village, about a mile away, we filled the sacks with cassava root. With “fancier” sacks that had straps, Emma and Nicole strapped the cassava to their foreheads with the sacks swinging back and forth against their backs. Without a proper sack of my own, I hoisted my load over my shoulder, alternating every five minutes or so to readjust the sack, which was digging into the flesh of my shoulders.

On the walk back to the village, Nicole and I passed a young man, who asked who I was. Without any hesitation, Nicole answered (in Spanish) that I was her sister. To my surprise, the young man accepted her answer without question. I thought that certainly he must know that I don’t speak Garifuna, which I would speak if I were her sister. For Nicole, as with Emma and Benjamin, I was functioning as family—living in the village, in her family’s home, eating her mother’s cooking, helping to cultivate our family’s land; I was part of the family, and she was my sister. Although this example, similar to that of

Daniel’s sister-cousin, was bounded within village life, I also encountered examples that transcended village life.

Host Family

Diego was a local math teacher in Cuenca and a member of the “Community Cassava” galpón.

During his interview, we talked about his daughter who was studying in the city. I asked with whom she was living. He said, “She is living with some relatives we have out there.” I asked how he was related to the people with whom his daughter was staying. I asked this question because where students study, and ultimately what they study, since different universities offer different career options, is largely determined by the family network. I was trying to identify patterns in the family-education networks. When I asked

Diego how the people were related to him, he said, “They are people who care for her, not close relatives that we know. No. Rather they are people who we know host students. So, she is staying with them.” How could the people who are caring for his daughter be anything but family? They are jointly committed to the care of his daughter. Here again, we see how family is constructed through joint commitments and shared goals.

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The Value of Plural Subject Analysis

Through an examination of joint commitments and shared goals, we are able to understand the social construction of the Garifuna family, the focus of Garifuna community development. Mariana’s explanation of a “community of families” stands in sharp contrast to Nussbaum’s “principle of each person as an end.” In an individualist capabilities approach, families and communities are only significant in terms of their ability to facilitate the capabilities of individuals. Rejecting the importance of collective capabilities as an end, Nussbaum (2000) wrote the following:

We may thus rephrase our principle of each person as an end, articulating it as a principle of each person’s capability: the capabilities sought are sought for each and every person, not, in the first instance, for groups or families or states or other corporate bodies. Such bodies may be extremely important in promoting human capabilities, and in this way they may deservedly gain our support, but it is because of what they do for people that they are so worthy, and the ultimate political goal is always the promotion of the capabilities of each person. (74)

In contrast to this utilitarian perspective, plural subject analysis allows us to take into account the role of families in a way that goes beyond understanding the family as a utility for individual ends. This is especially important in the Garifuna context, since as Mariana so eloquently described, the community understands itself not as a collection of individuals, but as a collection of families.

Collective capability scholar Deneulin (2006) has demonstrated an understanding that families are greater than the sum of their individual members.

The family cannot be reduced to its separate members, but exists in the inter-dependent relationships which they have with one another. These family relationships enter as an important component of individual well-being. Nonetheless, the capability approach considers that the value of democratic freedom or family relationships is relevant only to the extent that these goods are components of individual human well-being, to the extent that they make the lives of individuals better. (57)

In addition to Mariana’s statement above, my personal experiences in the village reinforce the value in understanding how family is being constructed in Garifuna communities. Individuals exist in the context of families. When I first arrived in the village, people were constantly asking about my family. “Do you have children?” “Are you married?” “Where are your parents?” In other contexts, the barrage of personal questions might have seemed rude. I am embarrassed to say it took months for me to realize that people were simply trying to place me in the only way that made sense within the cultural context. Everyone is a part of a family, and they wanted to know to which family I belonged. Once I understood the questions, life became much easier as I simply referred to myself in relation to Emma’s family. I told people that I

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was with her family and that I was working with her brother (the one who was renting me his home) to learn about the community. That made sense to everyone, and the community began to describe me in relation to a family, which my Garifuna family, including Emma, Nicole and Benjamin, had already been doing.

Ereba-making as a We-Mode Goal Obtained Through Joint Agency

For the rural, Garifuna family, working the land is of primary importance. In the past, a family could sustain itself through a combination of farming and fishing. As villagers have become increasingly dependent on goods from the city, it is no longer the case that villagers can live entirely off the land.

However, many of them continue to identify the agricultural work they do as their primary profession.

Especially for the women, who are often dependent on the sale of the ereba that is the end product of their agricultural work, ereba sales provide economic empowerment equivalent to wage work. It allows them to send their children to the cities for education, which is one of the top priorities of villagers.

The family, understood as a plural subject agent, is the primary agent advancing the production of ereba. Ereba is thus produced through the joint agency of the family. The family is the smallest unit of analysis that one can use to understand the ereba production process and the we-intentions of the family members involved in the process. In this section, I will highlight both how families are working together and how they understand their work as a joint operation. The we-frame of the Garifuna family is thus a critical consideration in the discussion of ereba-making. Below, I describe the ereba production process by which families through joint agency, with we-intentions, come to produce ereba.

Making Ereba

Ereba is made from bitter cassava root. The process of making ereba starts with the harvesting of cassava. During the dry season, on Thursdays, I went with the “Fish to Cassava” galpón to cultivate the land, which made a tremendous impact on my access to ereba maker narratives; it helped make me part of the community. It was exciting, but also arduous work. Pictured below are some of the steps in the ereba-making process: harvesting cassava, carrying firewood and cassava, weighing cassava root at the molino, peeling and washing cassava, grinding cassava (with modern or traditional technology), straining cassava dough (with modern or traditional technology), and cooking cassava.

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Cassava Processing Photos (page 1 of 5)

Women Harvesting Cassava (February 16, 2012) Boy with Cassava Root (March 12, 2012)

Woman Carrying Cassava (January 26, 2012) Woman Carrying Firewood (February 16, 2012)

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Cassava Processing Photos (page 2 of 5)

Women Weighing Cassava (March 29, 2012) Family Peeling Cassava (February 6, 2012)

Women Washing Cassava (February 11, 2012) Women Standing in Line at Molino (March 28, 2012)

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Cassava Processing Photos (page 3 of 5)

Woman Grinding Cassava Root (March 20, 2012) Traditional Grinding Process (June 26, 2012)

Women Straining Dough (February 9, 2012) Traditional Straining with Ruguma (December 19, 2011)

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Cassava Processing Photos (page 4 of 5)

Flour Block (modern) (February 9, 2012) Flour Cylinder (traditional) (December 19, 2011)

Cookhouse (May 5, 2012) Woman Sifting Cassava Flour (December 22, 2011)

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Cassava Processing Photos (page 5 of 5)

Woman Spreading Cassava Flour (December 17, 2011) Woman Flattening Ereba (May 5, 2012)

Woman Sweeping Away Excess Flour (May 5, 2012) Woman Flipping Ereba (December 17, 2011)

Woman Trimming Edges (December 17, 2011) Ereba Product with Trimmings (May 5, 2012)

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The days of field work with “Fish to Cassava” started before dawn. I would walk to the highway around 4am to wait for the bus, headed in the direction of Carmona. Unlike the reliability of the urban buses to which I am accustomed, these buses sometimes came early, most often came late, and occasionally did not come at all. The goal was to try to get on a bus within an hour or so. My primary contact in “Fish to Cassava” was Alejandro. I would call him when the bus arrived in Cuenca, so that he could walk to the highway from his house in Carmona. He would then wave down the bus as it passed.

As that time of morning, it was completely dark, and since I was not initially well acquainted with the route, this was the best way for me to meet up with the group.

From the highway, it was a mostly uphill walk of less than two miles to the cassava field. Even though the sky was dark on these walks, the streets were filled with other villagers walking to their fields, holding homemade lanterns. Since the villages are small, and everyone knows each other, people would often call out in the darkness to say hello or ask me to identify myself. After several weeks, people came to recognize me, since I was the only one on the afternoon bus wearing rain boots and carrying a machete.

To get from the highway to the cassava field, Alejandro and I had to balance along logs over a mud pit, wade through a small creek, and climb a steep mountainside. The field work is done for several hours, starting before sunrise, and going until the sun is high in the sky. On a typical day, this would mean five hours of work from 5am until 10am. Men and women work at the same time, but will typically work on separate tasks. Men are responsible for clearing wooded areas; women are responsible for weeding and for harvesting the cassava. The work is backbreaking, and the villagers do not have any modern machinery. In spite of this, the women talk, laugh, and sometimes sing through the workday.

One of the women in the group taught me how to clear weeds using a machete. Bent over at the waist, the machete is swung back and forth to clear out all the weeds. Stubborn weeds were dug out with the machete blade. A garden hoe was used to remove larger roots and to do a final sweep of the earth.

Initially, I had trouble even distinguishing the weeds from the cassava roots, which should be left in the ground, but with much encouragement from the women of the group, I learned. The machetes would quickly lose their sharp edge, against the weeds, roots, and occasional tree stumps. The women periodically stopped to sharpen the blades of their machetes, and to take a snack break when needed.

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On the return walk to the village center from the mountainside, women carried firewood for cooking. During the dry season, firewood for the entire year is collected and stored. Women wrap the wood in cloth sacks and strap the sacks to their foreheads so that the wood swings along their backs.

That leaves their hands free for tools and cassava. Men carry their tools, but rarely carry firewood. When I went with “Fish to Cassava” the entire group participated in cassava cultivation together. When individual women go to the fields “alone” (not with one of the galpones), they typically take children (as in my trip with Emma, Benjamin and Nicole described above) or they go with friends or neighbors. Although the women may be working separate plots, they are usually within yelling distance of each other. Children help carry cassava and firewood back to the village, along with any fruits or vegetables that will be eaten in the coming days. Without refrigeration (due to the lack of electricity), villagers go daily (or almost every day) to the fields to harvest what they will consume in the next day or two.

Before the cassava is processed for ereba, it has to be peeled and washed. Peeling is a major community event. Sometimes women peel cassava at their homes; more often it is done at the molinos. If one peels cassava at the molinos, she is more likely to receive the help of other villagers. During my time in the villages, I spent hours peeling cassava at the molinos. Even on days when I did not go to the fields,

I would go to the molinos to listen to community gossip (or at least pick up some new Garifuna words) and help with cassava peeling. I even purchased a knife to use exclusively for cassava peeling. The villagers would sit around in a circle; most of the group was female, including both young and older women. Young boys would also accompany their mothers; sometimes older boys or men helped to peel, but it is not a common sight. The women talked, laughed, and sometimes sang while peeling.

Most of the people gathered to peel cassava were either women who had harvested cassava that day or family members (e.g., children or husbands) of those women. However, there is another group of women who come to help, without having any cassava of their own. Sometimes these are older women who are no longer able to work in their own cassava fields. Other times, these are women who simply come for the camaraderie. We (women who come just to peel) would shift around the circle, moving from one woman’s pile of cassava to another’s. By the time a woman finished peeling, it is often lunchtime. Her day likely started in the fields at 5am, before she returned to the village to peel cassava. Therefore,

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children and husbands often bring food to the women at the molinos. More often than not, the women would share their lunches with me in order to thank me for peeling cassava.

After the cassava was peeled, it was washed, ground and strained. The molinos had large sinks available for washing the peeled cassava roots. These modern-day cassava-grinding houses have introduced modern technology to the process of grinding and straining cassava. For a small fee, women can pay to have cassava ground into wet dough and strained into dry blocks of cassava flour. Although this modern processing dramatically speeds up the process, families still maintain the traditional tools for grinding and straining cassava, for times when the molinos are not operational. The grinding of the cassava happens first, and is followed by straining.

Traditionally, grinding was done by a circle of women bent over wooden boards embedded with sharp pebbles to grate the cassava. Today’s machinery can grate in minutes a quantity of cassava that used to take hours to grind manually. The traditional method of straining cassava involved the use of a ruguma, which is a long, straw cylinder in which the wet dough is placed. The ruguma is hung on a tree or house beam and weight is gradually added to strain out the liquid. Modern-day cassava straining has been mechanized with a hydraulic (car) jack used to squeeze wet cassava dough that has been placed in metal baskets. Traditionally, both the grinding and the straining of cassava was done by large groups of women, much the way the cassava peeling continues to be done today. These women would sing special songs and socialize during hours of grinding and straining work. In chapter 7, I go into more detail about the grinding and straining process, and the shift to machinery.

After the cassava cultivation in the fields, and the washing, peeling, grinding and straining in the molinos, the final, and arguably most important, step in the ereba production process is the baking of ereba, which is done exclusively by women. The cooking is done in cook houses, which are separate from the main living quarters. Most families have cook houses; if a woman does not have her own, she will use the cook house of a family member, friend, or neighbor. Although the woman is the only one who actually bakes the ereba, another person (most often a child) will be sifting the cassava flour while the woman is baking.

Scooping out mounds of flour between one hand and a flat, rectangular-shaped panel of wood, women spread the cassava flour in an even circle over the stove. She then evenly smoothes, and flattens

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the flour into a circle. The round disc of flour is flattened with the wooden panel and evened out by adding additional flour. Unneeded flour is swept away with a straw hand broom. When the large cassava tort has been formed to a desired thickness, she flips it over using both the wooden panel against the hot stove and a hand on top. Once flipped, she smoothes, evens and flattens the second side. Then, she cuts the edges with a knife or machete so that the cassava tort makes a perfect circle. Finally, she cuts the tort in half and places the halves in a neat pile, with a wooden block on top to maintain the flatness. This baking process can take hours as she prepares all the cassava flour that was ground and strained the previous day. The ereba sits until the next day, when it is completely dry and flat. Then, it is stored away for later consumption, boxed for transport, or sold.

Ereba-making as a ‘We-Mode’ Goal

Only women bake ereba, and ereba-making is considered women’s work. In spite of this, the production of ereba is done (in all stages) with a we-frame that considers both the family and other community women. Further, men and children of the community participate in various stages of the process, not for individual gain, but because of the we-frame with which the entire process is engaged.

Tuomela (2003) has characterized the we-mode as follows: “Rational holders of a collective we-mode are assumed to mutually believe that they by their collective activities can (or probably can) suitably achieve their goal. A collective we-mode goal is in the first place ‘for’ (that is, for the use of) the collective (social group) in question and, in this context equivalently, is held in the we-mode” (94). In this sense, that ereba- making activities are done for the benefit of family and community is clear.

Let us review how each of the steps of the ereba production process include a consideration of the group (i.e., family or community). First, the cultivation and harvesting of cassava includes gender- specific roles that assume the participation of both men and women. Without both men clearing the wooded areas and women cultivating the crops, it would be impossible to conceive of even having a cassava harvest. Also, carrying cassava from the fields to the village and peeling cassava are often not feasible without the assistance of others. Sometimes a woman has nearly one hundred pounds of cassava to carry from a field several miles away from the main village. And how are we to understand participation of women without cassava peeling other women’s cassava for hours, if not through a we-

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frame? Older women regularly go to the molinos to help peel cassava, thinking not of themselves, but of family and community.

By the time a woman is baking ereba, she has likely had the assistance of a husband in clearing the field, children in harvesting, sisters in peeling, and friends in baking. Women do not engage in this process alone; it is a community project. In fact, all community members engage the work in the context of a we-frame. It is in this context that ereba-making is a we-mode goal, one in which an entire community—a community of families—exercises joint agency to bring about the end product of ereba, which is valued by all. The value of ereba, and the joint agency engaged to produce it, is related to the

Garifuna community’s past, present and future. Emirbayer and Mische (1998) defined human agency as

”the temporally constructed engagement by actors of different structural environments—the temporal- relational contexts of action—which, through the interplay of habit, imagination, and judgment, both reproduces and transforms those structures in interactive response to the problems posed by changing historical situations” (970). Building upon this definition, below I examine how ereba-making engages

Garifuna history, present, and future.

Iterational (Past) Aspect of Joint Agency

Emirbayer and Mische (1998) described the iterational, or past aspect of human agency as follows: “It refers to the selective reactivation by actors of past patterns of thought and action, as routinely incorporated in practical activity, thereby giving stability and order to social universes and helping to sustain identities, interactions, and institutions over time” (971). Garifuna identity is constructed and reconstructed through language as well as various cultural traditions and rituals. Agricultural work generally, and ereba-making specifically, is an important part of connecting to Garifuna history. The importance of agricultural work is not just related to the community’s physical survival; it also has spiritual and ancestral linkages. The villagers expressed tremendous pride in doing work that links them to their ancestors. People regularly shared stories about learning to work the land with their mothers and grandmothers. When I was struggling to learn the difference between weeds and valuable harvest, the women often laughed. They then taught me what I needed to know, saying that they had been learning to work the land from the days of their childhood. They enjoyed sharing memories of these traditions passed down.

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Maria Jose said, “As [ereba] is from our ancestors, from it we live. So, for my part I wouldn’t want our culture to disappear. From [ereba], we are living. Because even though we don’t have money, from it we survive. So, it is important in our lives.” Samantha also spoke of the Garifuna ancestors saying, “We are accustomed, acclimated to the life of our ancestors. We are acclimated to our land, our work, our culture.” Gabriela, who was sent to the city to live as a child, shared her thoughts from that period about returning home: “I am going to return to my village. I am going to work [the land] with my mother because

I like to eat cassava. I like to eat yam. I like to eat everything the land produces.” These quotes illustrate the way in which the joint agency engaged in ereba-making interacts with history, ancestry and memory.

Ereba-making is part of a legacy of community survival and ancestral heritage. The first two quotations are also embedded in the language of a we-frame. The “we” in these statements refers to the community of families, about which Mariana spoke. Although the last quotation uses an I-frame, it discusses family and land. Interestingly enough, the last quotation is from one of the children of the galpón members.

Once again, the age of villagers seems to factor significantly into their framing. This could represent the potential for a future shift in the we-frame of Garifuna communities.

Practical-evaluative (Present) Aspect of Joint Agency

Emirbayer and Mische (1998) defined the practical-evaluative aspect of agency as follows: “It entails the capacity of actors to make practical and normative judgments among alternative possible trajectories of action, in response to the emerging demands, dilemmas, and ambiguities of presently evolving situations” (971). There are two ways in which the ereba makers are engaging contemporary demands and dilemmas. The first, and most obvious, usefulness of the joint agency of ereba-making is that it is critical to community survival. In the statements below about the importance of the community’s agricultural work, the language of the “we” frame is again utilized. Mariana said, “We are living from the agriculture.” Similarly, Martina said, “There is land to work. We work the land. That is what is here in the community, the land. And from the land, we live. The community lives.” In the villages, I would often hear comments similar to these that emphasized that villagers were using what they knew best in order to make a life for themselves and for their families.

The joint agency of Garifuna families is also aimed at a second concern, which is in part present- oriented and in part future-oriented, regarding the lack of a stable ereba market. In addition to being the

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sole bakers of ereba, women are also the primary sellers of ereba. Due to the abundance of ereba in rural areas, it is necessary for women to travel to the cities to sell ereba produced in the villages. The survival of the ereba market thus depends on demand in the cities, rather than demand in villages. All of the galpones with which I worked were desperately looking for a stronger market for ereba.

Although there are spikes in ereba sales during holidays, when there is an influx of Garifuna people returning home from the cities or from abroad, what the ereba makers want is a steady market.

Several villagers expressed their frustration. Alejandro said, “We are vigorously searching for a market for our product because right now there is a lot of cassava to pick to process ereba and we don’t have sales demand because we don’t have a market that demands of us, asks of us, the quantity of ereba that we can produce.” Catalina talked about how important ereba is to the overwhelming majority of the village:

“The only hope we have to be able to move forward is the sale of ereba because that is our work. And I know that if one day the moment arrives in which ereba has a demand at a global level, we will be able to say that the community will be able to develop because that is the agricultural work of almost 95 percent of the people in the community.” Zoe spoke to the importance of ereba for the single mother: “Right now, what I would want, as a producer of ereba, as a single mother, I would want my community in general to have a good market for the production and sale of ereba because there is always production. And if we had a good market, with the product that exists, our product would be in that market.”

Again, these statements are in the language of the we-frame. Not being able to sell their most abundant food product is a concern for the present, daily survival of the community, and the families that make up the community. However, in addition to being a problem for the present, not selling ereba also poses a challenge for the future of the community. As described below, this is especially true for single mothers like Zoe.

Projective (Future) Aspect of Joint Agency

Emirbayer and Mische (1998) defined the projective element of agency as follows: “Projectivity encompasses the imaginative generation by actors of possible future trajectories of action, in which received structures of thought and action may be creatively reconfigured in relation to actors’ hopes, fears, and desires for the future” (971). Ereba sales are the primary income for village women trying to send children to school. Since the local school only has classes through 9th grade, children who want

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access to further education must go to the cities. In addition to sending large boxes of ereba to their children in the city for consumption, village women also pay for children’s education with sales of their ereba. At times, the children themselves are responsible for selling the ereba that is sent to them.

Valeria, the president of the all-women’s “Women’s Traditions” galpón, described the importance of an ereba market for single women as follows:

We need a market to sell ereba throughout all seasons because my group of single mothers and single women need to sell ereba because our children are going to school or high school and to the universities in the city. And there, we have to pay for housing, food and transportation. And if we don’t sell ereba, we can’t support them. … This is what we need most, a market, a stable market to sell ereba and to move our children ahead. Yes.

Especially for the single mothers of the villages, the joint agency engaged in ereba-making is related to the hopes and desires they have for their children’s futures. As is typical of the middle-aged ereba maker,

Valeria employs a we-frame to talk about the mothers’ focus on the education of their children. “Women’s

Traditions” consisted primarily of single mothers, who made this future orientation of their agency explicit.

This highlights how the intersectional analysis of mothers who are single can produce a different emphasis on this particular aspect of ereba-making as a means to secure the future education of one’s child. Others were concerned about the education of community children, but for single, middle-aged,

Garifuna mothers ereba-making was strongly linked to the desire to educate children. The relationship is explored in further detail in chapter 8, when I discuss what I call the ereba-education capabilities cycle.

For the outsider onlooker, it is quite difficult to distinguish the single mother from mothers who are partnered. Because of the regular migration of men for work in Honduran cities, seasonal labor on boats, and migration in the US, whether a mother is single or not, one is likely to find her working and caring for the family without the physical presence of a male partner. Mothers—single or not—often work together to bake ereba and support community children. It is only when one inquires about the financial resources used to support a family that one can determine whether a woman is receiving financial support from a spouse or mate. However, this does not necessarily mean that the woman is better off financially than single women, who often receive some support from men in their family (e.g., uncles, brother, fathers, etc.). The joint agency exercised by families comes in many different forms.

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The Value of an Analysis of Joint Agency

As we have seen in this section, an analysis of the joint agency of families, employing the we- frame, is critical to understanding how and why ereba is made in the Garifuna community. It is through the family unit that villagers organize the cultivation and processing of cassava. Further, the community of families are engaged in joint agency that is aimed at preserving a rich ancestral heritage and culinary art

(iterative aspect), feeding and sustaining the families of the villages (practical-evaluative aspect), developing a market for their most abundant product (practical-evaluative and projective aspects) and securing a future education for their children (projective aspect).

An individualist capabilities approach overlooks the joint agency engaged in ereba-making, instead focusing on the agency of individuals. That approach lacks the explanatory power of one that considers families working together in the context of community. Why would a woman leave her house to peel other people’s cassava for hours every day? Why do men spend hours clearing forest on land that is not theirs? That is what families jointly committed to preservation of cultural heritage, community survival, and the education of the next generation do; they work together as a unit to ensure that these things happen. This story is not about an individual, or a set of individuals; instead it is about a community of families.

Galpones Casaberos as Structures of Living

In the villages I worked with four galpones. In Cuenca, I worked with “Women’s Traditions” and

“Community Cassava.” “Community Cassava” was the first galpón in Cuenca. It was started with the cooperation of all the families and intended to serve the entire community. “Women’s Traditions” developed later, when a group of women within the community felt they would be better served by opening their own molino; it is an all-women’s organization. While initially this may have created some tension between the two organizations, today they work together, and often alternate days when they have their molinos open, so that the ereba makers always have someplace to grind and strain cassava.

Also, I often encountered members form one organization at the other organization’s molino because it was closer to their cassava field, or otherwise more convenient. Emma was a member of “Community

Cassava;” however, I often found her peeling cassava at “Women’s Traditions.” While the president of

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“Women’s Traditions,” Valeria, had a clear mission related to serving single mothers and single women, women who were married were also a part of the group.

In addition to working with the galpones in Cuenca, I also worked in the nearby villages of Zafra and Carmona. In Carmona, I worked with the mixed-gender galpón “Fish to Cassava” that was cooperatively run by a group of cousins. Finally, in Zafra, I worked with “Women Warriors,” which was an all-women’s organization. In order to work with these organizations, I would ride the local bus to the villages in the morning, and then return to Cuenca in the afternoon. In Zafra, I became very close with a woman I will call Sofia. She prepared lunch for me everyday, and if she was away in the city, her daughter prepared my lunch. Building rapport in Zafra came easily. My first visit was with my neighbor from Cuenca, Joaquin, who I came to think of as a grandfather; he was in his nineties, and we regularly went on walks together, during which he would tell me the history of the villages. His daughter, Gabriela, was the president of “Women Warriors” and he took me to meet her and Mariana within weeks of my arrival in Cuenca.

“Fish to Cassava” was the most difficult group with which I had to build rapport. It was the only group whose introduction did not include a family connection. As I have already mentioned, in my home village I was considered part of Emma’s family. So, everyone treated me as part of her family. With “Fish to Cassava” there was no family introduction, and I had to earn my way into the group through my work in the fields and in the molino. Working with “Fish to Cassava,” I realized that participating in cassava cultivation was critical to my integration into the community. Women would talk to me in the fields, even if they were not interested in doing interviews. While some women agreed to do interviews, I think many thought of it as something that the more educated representatives of the group should do. My relationship with “Fish to Cassava” moved along in slow phases, and there were important milestones. There was the day when I was given the responsibility of recording the names of clients at the molino and the weight of clients’ cassava; another day, I was invited to the cabo del año, or one-year anniversary, of the death of a member’s grandfather. With each milestone, I grew closer to the group and learned more about its members. It was primarily through cassava cultivation in the field and work in the molino that I became part of the group. This was important since the galpones were the organizations organizing the important work of ereba production in the villages.

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Galpones as Structures of Living

Deneulin (2006) discussed structures of living as structures that condition agent’s capabilities.

The very nature of making ereba, from harvesting to baking requires the coordination of families, and the galpones are the groups, or structures of living, that are organizing families to that end. Valentina, one of the members of “Community Cassava,” said the following: “We work united. We work united when we pick cassava. We unite to peel that cassava. We help one another mutually. Almost all the Garifuna work is done communally. It is united, communal.” As such, the galpones open the space for and affirm the joint capability of ereba-making. Especially in the case of older women who have health problems, the technology of the molinos provides them an opportunity that would otherwise not exist.

The galpones further structure the opportunities of families by promoting joint agency and communal sharing. A number of members discussed the importance of communal sharing as linked to tradition. Some were concerned that the community was losing these values. While community members are concerned that communal values may be at risk of being lost, the galpones reinforce the tradition of sharing among families. Within these organizations, members find tremendous support. Samantha said,

“In the cooperative, we are all united.” Diego emphasized collective work: “There is a lot of collective work. The people always help one another do things for the benefit of the community’s development.”

And Julia talked about living peacefully with mutual understanding: “We live peacefully and united. … We get along well. We understand one another.” For each of them, the galpón represents the desire to maintain communal living and sharing traditions.

One of the ways that the galpones advance the communal values of sharing is by promoting

Garifuna mutual assistance through support of galpón members in times of crisis. The organizations often lend money to members for medical costs or for the burial costs of a family member. They provide support to individuals however and whenever needed, if at all possible. In spite of the general aversion to accepting loans from non-governmental organizations working in the villages, there was the sense that the galpones provided a more caring and understanding form of financial support. Whereas nongovernmental organizations that discover that a borrower spent a business loan to bury a relative may judge individuals harshly for mixing business and personal funds, the galpones operate in a we-frame that understands the family as the base for community development.

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Finally, the galpones are creating joint capabilities through the redistribution of resources among families in the community. While most (three of the four) did not have much profit, “Women Warriors” regularly redistributed profit among its members. The organizations continue to grow because of the contributions of their members, and members benefit from the profitability of the organization. Thus, when we consider Deneulin’s (2006) insistence that in assessing development we must examine whether structures of living are enhanced, it is clear that these structures are promoting a feedback loop of individual and joint capabilities. Thus the capabilities of both the individual and the family are simultaneously and interdependently enhanced through the galpones.

When we consider how the joint capability of ereba-making is interdependent with other joint capabilities of the family, it is clear that the galpones are providing an important foundation for broad- based community development. Ereba sales are critically important in the attainment of other capabilities.

Zoe spoke about buying food for her children: “The production of ereba, more for the single women of the community, has benefitted us a lot. When there is a good market, then, from that [profit], we can buy food for our children. We can dress our families. And part of that [profit], even more of it, is for our children’s education.” Natalia mentioned school supplies: “[Ereba] helps us when we sell it, with buying pencils for our children, with notebooks, with household goods. Sometimes we buy soap. When we sell the ereba from here, it gives us a little help.” Julieta talked about ereba as a path to acquiring a home: “Ereba has a lot of importance because there are various people who, from the same ereba, have acquired homes. …

The same ereba can acquire the professions of our children. It has given an education to our children, from selling the same ereba.” Ereba is thus a capability multiplier. It helps villagers to obtain many of the other things that they need—from pencils to food to houses. The structure that facilitates ereba production is the galpón. Thus the galpones help to structure community development.

Value of Analysis of Structures of Living

Nussbaum (2011b) has written the following about the individualist nature of her approach to capabilities: “[The capabilities approach] stipulates that the goal is to produce capabilities for each and every person, and not to use some people as a means to capabilities of others or of the whole” (35).

Ingrained in Garifuna culture, however, is a tradition of communal sharing. This context is one in which individuals hope to be a means to capabilities for others; in fact, that is sometimes considered a

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demonstration of one’s commitment to the community. Nussbaum, however, rejects such interdependent webs of capability. In contrast to her approach, collective capabilities scholar Deneulin (2006) offers a way to understand the community structures that allow for the attainment of various capabilities. Above I have discussed how the galpón qualifies as one such structure.

The Garifuna We-Frame

One of the most interesting expressions of the we-frame that I observed was the way in which people responded to the absence of community members. In this section, I give several examples of accommodations indicative of a we-frame at work. First, in Zafra, I spent much of my time with Sofia and her family, often eating lunch with them. I soon became aware of a man who regularly came to the house for meals—not to eat with us, but simply to pick up his meals. He would enter the house with an empty pot, Sofia would fill his pot with food, and he would leave and return the next day with the pot emptied for another day’s lunch. When I asked who the man was, Sofia said that it was her cousin’s husband. Her cousin was away from the village at the time. I asked her if the man was able to cook. Sofia said that he was able to cook but that she wanted to cook for him. She explained that she did not see any reason for him to cook when she was there.

As part of the same family, Sofia understood herself as part of a jointly committed body with the shared goal of feeding the family. If a “cooking member” of the family is away, another member steps in so that the goal is still achieved. They employ team reasoning to determine how to meet the shared goal.

This is distinct from notions of reciprocity in which individuals do things for each other in turn, because all involved are concerned for the benefit of the family unit rather than concerned with repayment to a particular individual. These acts are also distinguishable from a simple shared value of sharing. Sofia was not simply passing out meals to anyone who was hungry; the commitment to feeding this particular man was tied to his membership in her family.

I personally experienced the operation of this we-frame in my family life. One morning I awoke to the sound of Emma’s brother, Nicolas, cutting the grass around the house where I was living. In this village, cutting the grass does not typically involve a lawnmower. Instead, men use sharpened machetes to cut the blades of grass manually by making long sweeping movements. I had not asked him to do this, but as a woman living alone, he was responding to the family goal of maintaining the house. Other

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community members similarly offered to do (or did) tasks typically done by men. A neighbor, Lucas, installed a propane tank for the burners I used to cook and fixed electrical and plumbing problems in the house. Another neighbor, Tomas, helped me hang a hammock. The list is extensive. Any task that was considered typical male labor was done by community men, who offered to assist me.

The Value of a We-Frame

Apart from overlooking the joint capability of ereba-making and the joint action of families, an individualistic capabilities approach also fails to identify the operation of a we-frame. How could such an approach explain a man that I barely know cutting my lawn? How would it explain another male neighbor hanging a hammock? Individual agency and individual capabilities do not bring clarity to an analysis of

Garifuna village life. Examining any of these cases at the individual level misses something critically important about the joint agency of families and galpones with the shared goals of meeting the needs of the community. These deeds cannot be explained by my personal relationships with these men, some of whom I barely knew when they offered their services. The only context in which these interactions make any sense, is one in which agency is examined in relation to the plural subject agent of the family. It is only through the lens of a we-frame that one is truly able to understand these capabilities, and thus development, among the Garifuna ereba makers.

Intersectional Nuance

When I write about “ereba makers,” I am usually referring to a middle-aged mother. As is often the case in Garifuna matrifocal society, they tend to be the heads of their households. The women who bake ereba are typically women in their 40s who have spent most of their lives in the villages. That they have spent most of their lives in the villages is also an indication of education level. Only recently have area schools provided education through ninth grade. Most of the adults I interviewed had between a second and sixth grade education. As mentioned earlier, only recently has transportation to cities been facilitated by the construction of an unpaved highway. Of course, the low levels of education also limit opportunities outside the village. Thus, these women tend to be “poor” by their own definition13 and by

13 I was initially concerned that I might be characterizing the community or its people as poor even though they might describe themselves in a different way. To find out how community members understood their villages, I asked questions about how they would describe their villages to someone who had never been 153

national and international standards. Through the joint agency of the female-headed household and the structures of the galpones that coordinate and organize ereba-making, they are able to contribute to the development of their communities. However, as is often the case, this type of power generates and promotes certain inequalities.

These women place considerable pressure on younger Garifuna women in the villages. Although the older women pool resources to educate both young men and women of the village, there is undeniably a double standard. While young men are able to have children with relatively little social stigma, young women who become pregnant before finishing their education are shamed. While initially considered potentially good investments, these women are blamed for wasting the resources of their families. This is especially the case if the young woman gets pregnant while attending school in the city.

Alejandro described these women as a burden on their families: “The other problem I am seeing is that the young women leave in search of work, and sometimes they return pregnant. So they involved themselves in other types of ‘work’ that they should not have been doing. Perhaps because of their sexual needs, they involve themselves in these things. It isn’t right because they go in search of a better life, not in search of a larger burden on their families.” Mariana suggested that a woman who gets pregnant does not really want an education: “Sometimes when parents send a child to the city, the young women come back pregnant. They leave the city pregnant! They don’t want to learn. They don’t want to obtain the education that is being gifted to them. And what they are being given will serve them in the future because once one has graduated he/she can do whatever he/she wants with his/her life. Right?

And when you end up pregnant you just have to care for your child.”

When a young woman returns to the village pregnant (or with a young child), she is no longer considered a good investment. Instead, she is required to work the land with the older women. In this sense, it is possible to understand ereba-making as the default plan for women who do not have the resources or capabilities to be successful in the city. These women feel ashamed, for having failed their families. One young woman, Guadalupe, opened up about returning from the city pregnant: “I am struggling for my daughter; that is why I am baking ereba. I didn’t have the intelligence to succeed when

to Honduras. I also gave them the opportunity to to tell me about their lives. Descriptions of personal histories and characterizations of the villages were replete with references to poverty.

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my mother sent me to school. I failed. I left the city pregnant. That is why I am no longer studying.

However, I am working with my mother, baking ereba and clearing fields to move ahead, to fight for the future of my daughter.” The double standard exists because there was no parallel discussion about the fathers of these children, even though sometimes children of men were left with rural family members while the fathers left in search of work in the cities, or returned to school. Since men are not expected to care for children on a daily basis, having children in no way complicates a career or education in the city.

For young women, it changes their entire life path.

Some might point to this disparity as demonstrating the need for an emphasis on individual capabilities. I would respond in two ways. First, ignoring the family context that complicates the pregnant woman’s life does not allow one to effectively analyze or address the challenges faced. This complexity exists at any level of analysis, including the individual level. Second, trying to resolve these challenges by imposing a liberal individualist intervention also is not an effective response. While one might be able to resolve the immediate issue of the stigma of the pregnant woman by removing her from that context as an example, a slew of other issues is introduced as one removes the young woman from the support structures of family. When these women return to their villages, they have homes to live in and a community of women to assist them in childcare. In spite of my push against a liberal analysis or intervention, I am not condemning these young women to a life without education. Within the villages, there is space to raise issues of concern for the community at various community-wide meetings. This is an acceptable space for women to bring up issues related to unfair treatment and to have those concerns heard. In particular, such pleas are likely to be heard if they garner the support of other young women who successfully complete their education or young men who would like pregnant women to be given second chances so that the men would not have to carry the brunt of the financial burden of the family.

The community is constantly responding to diverse challenges, and I look forward to seeing how this issue is resolved by the community.

Important to note here is that this shaming is primarily promoted by the middle-aged Garifuna woman. As Khan (1987) noted, these women have significant power and independence in the community: “In Garifuna as in other societies, there are certain cultural expectations that distinguish and separate individuals belonging to different stages of the life-cycle. Behavioral standards and expectations

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for post-reproductive women often change, and this new stage is marked by freedom from many of the cultural restrictions on their earlier behavior” (184). While the older women, as a group, certainly hold significant power in the community, they have created a standard that is difficult to meet for the younger women who follow in their footsteps.

Thus, both age and gender are significant factors in the freedom one has in relation to sexuality:

“If women’s sexuality among the Garifuna is more controlled then men’s, this control comes less from male authority or proprietary rights of women and more from surveillance by middle-aged women, who enforce a moral code that discourages young women from being unfaithful” (Kellogg 2005, 161). Even though all of the older women have children, they think that with the wider range of opportunities available to the younger women, young women should be more committed to their education and/or profession.

During my time in the villages, older women expressed satisfaction that I did not have any children, seeing it as a sign of my dedication to my studies. This only highlights how age, gender and parenthood create different experiences and opportunities.

Another important way in which age impacts the ereba-making experience is through old age and disability. While most of the women I met enjoyed making ereba, there were some who did not. In all cases, no one wanted to have to make ereba for his/her very survival; no one enjoys being poor or struggling to survive. The question is more one of choice (capabilities) than of selection (functionings).

Women want to be able to make ereba without needing to make ereba. Ereba production is filled with the spirit of women’s solidarity, rooted as it is in the exclusive baking labor of women. However, the burden of continuing the long-held traditions of one’s ancestors can be overwhelming for some. Amanda said the following: “[Cultivating] cassava is hard work, very hard. Well, I want to abandon it, but as it is the legacy of my ancestors. Well, I have to continue until God takes me from here.” On the one hand, she is proud to be part of the legacy; on the other hand she is tired of working so hard for so long. This is obviously a woman who feels she has no choices. However, one does not have to dread the work to acknowledge its arduous nature; as Martina said, “This is barbaric work. Some people with machetes, others with shovels, still others with other types of tools. That is how we work, planting cassava, without machinery and without help from anyone.” It is in fact backbreaking work, and was more so that way before the molinos.

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Many women discussed the health challenges of working in the fields and baking ereba. I heard complaints of back pain from bending over for hours in the field. Women spoke of vision problems as a result of the smoke that comes from the wood burning stoves. When observing women baking, I often had to leave the cooking houses because my eyes were burning and I was unable to keep them open in the smoke-filled dwellings. Ereba production takes its toll on one’s body over time. As Martina said,

“There is no end to the pain in my body because of the many sacrifices.” Worse, the health challenges were complicated by the lack of health resources in the area. Although I met many women with vision problems, few of them had prescription glasses, or had been to a doctor to have their eyes examined and the problem diagnosed. In spite of these health challenges most women said that if given the choice to do something else, they would continue producing ereba. However, it is clear that as women became older and the work more difficult on their bodies, this began to shift.

Of course, these physical challenges can easily be linked to the failures of the state to extend services to the marginalized Garifuna villages along the northern coast. There is one hospital in the region, operated by a Cuban-trained Garifuna doctor, who rotates brigades of Cuban doctors to staff the hospital. The Honduran state is completely negligent in its responsibilities to the Garifuna citizens in these villages. However, this negligence should not be interpreted as a mistake, but rather understood as a willful negligence that lays in wait for the abandonment of these coastal lands so that they may be sold to the highest bidder. These villages are a thorn in the neoliberal side of a Honduran government intent on encouraging the exploitation of any and all natural resources in the country.

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have explored the collectivist concepts of the plural subject agent, joint agency, structures of living, and a community we-frame in the context of the ereba production process. I started by discussing the Garifuna community as a community of families. Although traditional indigenous families are often discussed in ways that suggest they are rigid formulations of blood relation, I illustrated how the construction of the Garifuna family is based more in commitments and shared goals than in bloodlines. I both described the ereba production process as a we-mode goal and identified the iterational, practical- evaluative, and projective aspects of the joint agency engaged by families. Next, I examined how the galpones casaberos are functioning as structures of living that organize the joint capability of ereba-

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making and promote communal sharing values that encourage other joint capabilities. Then, I discussed the broader community we-frame, outside of the ereba production process.

In the final section of this chapter, I highlighted some intersectional distinctions in relation to age, gender, parenthood and health that are impacting how different members of the community are experiencing ereba-making capabilities. By engaging in intersectional analysis, I identified individuals who might be challenged or disadvantaged within the plural subjecthood of family. I identified young Garifuna women who become pregnant as a vulnerable group, because they are held to a higher standard than their male counterparts. Further, I examined how the arduous nature of ereba production work and the consequent health problems can complicate the image of an empowered group of women simply carrying on in the name of tradition. There are some women who would quit ereba production if they could, although that group is in the minority. That many do not have that choice only highlights the importance of the discussion of capabilities that are generated by families.

Up to this point, I have gone from a discussion of individual capabilities to families and joint capabilities, demonstrating the value in the first two levels of the TBF framework. Next, I continue my discussion of the framework by discussing how the family operates within the nation and state. Chapter 6 engages in a theoretical discussion of family in the context of a racialized and gendered nation and state, while chapter 7 illustrates the relevance among the Garifuna ereba makers. Having discussed the individual and the family, the next chapter focuses on the nation within the state. In this way, I continue to apply the various levels of the TBF framework to the case of the Garifuna ereba makers of Honduras, demonstrating the usefulness of such a framework.

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CHAPTER 6

GARIFUNA NATION, HONDURAN STATE: DISSECTING RACE AND GENDER IN THE NATION-STATE

Women Peeling Cassava on Porch (December 9, 2011)

The women and young girl in the picture are peeling cassava in order to make ereba. Almost as soon as a young girl can hold a knife, she learns how to peel cassava. Then, there is the young boy. A picture is worth a million words. He is learning that cassava peeling is women’s work, optional for men who may occasionally want to help out. (Based on the tilt of his head, he is also wondering why I am taking a picture of something so commonplace as cassava peeling.) These women are not just ereba makers; they are also mothers and heads of households. They socialize young Garifuna girls and boys about what it means to be a Garifuna man or woman; they teach them about Garifuna culture. Garifuna women, through their roles as biological and cultural reproducers of the Garifuna family, teach about the

Garifuna nation. In this way, understanding Garifuna identity and a Garifuna nation requires an

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examination of how race, gender, and family are interacting in the context of the Honduran state. To that end, this chapter examines concepts of nationalism as well as their critiques in order to explore how race, gender and family operate within the Garifuna nation.

Throughout this chapter, I use several related but distinct concepts. When referring to the

Garifuna nation, I am referring to the “imagined community” (defined below) of individuals sharing the

Garifuna language and cultural traditions. Because of the history of Garifuna migration discussed earlier, the Garifuna nation is geographically dispersed throughout the Americas. Garifuna nation is ideational and is developed through the imaginings of the people who would characterize themselves in ethnoracial terms as being Garifuna. Because much of the scholarship on nationalism refers to ethnic groups, in this chapter I will be identifying the Garifuna people as an ethnic group even though the term ethnoracial more accurately captures the simultaneously Black and indigenous (or autochthonous) identity of the group.14

When using the term Garifuna community (not imagined), I make reference to the physical spaces—villages and cities—where concentrations of Garifuna people are found; this Garifuna community, or collection of villages and cities, includes individuals that would self-identify as Garifuna in ethnoracial terms, as well as non-Garifuna people, who are living in community with the Garifuna people.

Recall that it is possible to become family through joint commitments to shared goals. In the village of

Cuenca where I lived, there was a mestizo woman, who was married to a Garifuna man who was working in the US. She spent most of her time living with their son in the Garifuna village, running a small grocery.

She lives in and is part of the Garifuna community.

This chapter begins with a discussion of capabilities. By examining what capabilities scholars have written about power, women and the state, I make the argument that capabilities approaches can be enhanced by a discussion of the family and nation. In the exclusive focus on individual capabilities, mainstream capabilities scholars are unable to speak effectively about the power relations, inequalities and hierarchies that shape the lives of individuals with deeply rooted family commitments. The second

14 In an earlier discussion about race and IR, I used the shorthand of race to identify the Garifuna as Honduras’ native Black population. Although the term ethnoracial more accurately captures the dual racial/ethnic identity of the Garifuna, the term race was used to link to a particular body of literature. The chapter on the history of the Garifuna in Honduras supported the categorization of the Garifuna as Honduras’ native Black population and also supports the description of the Garifuna as an ethnic group in this chapter. They are one of nine ethnic groups identified within Honduras.

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section of this chapter engages major theories of nationalism in order to provide a discussion of the nation-state, or rather the incongruent nature of nations within states.

The third section of this chapter engages the concepts of machismo and marianismo to evaluate masculinity and femininity in the Latin American state. While ultimately I find these concepts problematic, I do engage them because of their popularity among some scholars who discuss masculinity and femininity in Latin American states. In section four, I look at feminist critiques of nationalism, as well as literature about how race and ethnicity are implicated in nationalisms. Of particular significance in this section are the relationship of feminists to non-feminist female activists and the use of the fictive mestizo ethnicity in the construction of Honduran national identity.

This discussion of the fictive mestizo ethnicity is important foregrounding for the next chapter, which examines family and nation through the lens of the ereba makers. There are two nationalisms functioning in the space occupied by Honduras’ Garifuna ereba makers—that of the Garifuna nation and that of the mestizo Honduran nation. That the Honduran national identity is built around a fictive mestizo ethnicity makes it no less powerful or relevant. In the next chapter, I engage more deeply these competing nationalisms of the Garifuna nation and the Honduran state, which are introduced below.

Finally, in the fifth section of this chapter, I discuss family. Building upon the previous chapter’s discussions of family in the Garifuna community, I examine how family can be used to understand the tensions between racialized and gendered nationalisms. Ultimately this chapter frames the discussion in the next chapter about what we can learn about gender, race, and nation by an analysis of Garifuna families engaged in ereba-making.

Capabilities, Power, Women & the State

To reiterate, Sen’s (1993) capability approach focused on the individual and “his or her actual ability to achieve various valuable functionings as a part of living” (30). Sen (1993) has focused both on individual capabilities and on individual agency, writing the following:

A person’s ability to achieve various valuable functionings may be greatly enhanced by public action and policy, and these expansions of capability are not unimportant for freedom for that reason…. But the fact that freedom has that aspect does not negate the relevance of active choice by the person herself as an important component of living freely. (44)

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Although Sen acknowledges the usefulness of groups, he rejects the study of capabilities of groups, including families. Unfortunately, this creates a void in his approach in terms of understanding the treatment and practices of certain types of people (e.g., ethnic minorities, women, etc.) in the context of the larger society. Koggel (2003) noted this inattention to power dynamics: “If not entirely absent from

Sen’s account, power and oppression are not sufficiently recognized as factors of inequality in women’s lives that are relevant to the kinds of policies required, at both the global and local levels, for increasing women’s freedom and agency” (165). Barkin (2010) also has called for greater attention to power in understanding capabilities.

If it is accepted that effective empowerment, both individual and collective, is difficult in today’s world, then the absence of serious consideration of power relations in the capability approach explains why even successful distribution of the ‘goodies’ essential for enhancing individual endowments has been unable to raise social groups and their nations from the morass of globalized impoverishment. (142-143)

Barkin, in this statement, highlights the importance of a discussion of both power and nation. In order to understand opportunities available to various groups, one first has to understand the context in which they operate. While Sen has given some attention to both women and the state, Nussbaum’s work is more marked by attention to these issues.

Nussbaum (2000) argued “that international political and economic thought should be feminist, attentive (among other things) to the special problems women face because of sex in more or less every nation in the world, problems without an understanding of which general issues of poverty and development cannot be well confronted” (4). Ultimately, Nussbaum wants basic constitutional principles

(as articulated by her central list of capabilities) to be implemented by the governments of all nations, as a minimal threshold of what is required for, as she puts it, human dignity. Nussbaum (2000) justified her focus on states in terms of accountability: “Even a highly moralized globalism needs nation states at its core, because transnational structures (at least all the ones we know about so far) are insufficiently accountable to citizens and insufficiently representative of them” (105). There are several problems with her model.

First, while she brings attention to issues of gender, she ignores issues of race that have an undeniable impact on citizenship rights, and the interpretation of the social contract. Henderson (2013) usefully articulated this distinction: “Unlike the social contract, which presumably proposes a singular

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homogenous humanity from which civil society will emerge, the racial contract established a heterogeneous humanity hierarchically arranged and reflecting a fundamental dualism demarcated by race” (79 – 80). The distinction between the social contract and the racial contract highlights a second issue. Nussbaum ultimately draws attention to nations and states to advance a global agenda, based upon a centralized list of capabilities. Such an agenda does not consider the variable ways in which the same policies impact the lives of diverse peoples.

Nussbaum is not very interested in the grassroots efforts of marginalized communities. She has focused almost exclusively on state action: “The approach is concerned with entrenched social injustice and inequality, especially capability failures that are the result of discrimination or marginalization. It ascribes an urgent task to government and public policy—namely, to improve the quality of life for all people, as defined by their capabilities” (Nussbaum 2011b, 19). In this way she privileges a discussion of human rights (Nussbaum 2011a). Unfortunately, this approach overlooks the importance of agency at the grassroots level, which is the focus of this dissertation. While she is searching for the ideal top-down solution, I am engaging bottom-up alternatives. Further, liberal conceptions of rights exclude the family as a unit, which is critical to the expansion of development opportunities, or capabilities, in the Garifuna community.

In addition to Nussbaum’s focus on state action, she gives us other reasons to think that she is less than sympathetic to the struggles of marginalized groups. Her approach to capabilities draws heavily on the work of Aristotle and his “valuable human functionings.” In spite of Aristotle’s belief that slaves, women and menial laborers were poorly endowed and incapable of acting as full citizens, Nussbaum attempts to adapt his teachings to humanize these groups (Alexander 2008, 126-127). Agathangelou and

Ling (2004) have argued that she falls short in these attempts: “Insisting on the liberal norms of

‘personhood, autonomy, rights, dignity, self-respect’ as a universal good, Nussbaum fails to consider their mix with other norms, values, practices, histories, and institutions” (26). This dissertation, in contrast, aims for a more historically embedded analysis of Garifuna individual and group capabilities.

The approaches of both Sen and Nussbaum are limited by the absence of a consideration of joint or collective capabilities for groups of women. This creates a conflict between the approaches’ stated intentions to address all women’s (and men’s) capabilities, and their rejection of the importance of

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collective capabilities in the lives of some women. Robeyns (2010) has suggested that the ethically individualistic and ontologically nonindividualistic nature of the capability approach is conducive to feminist research; she argues that the approach’s “ethical individualism rejects the idea that women’s well-being can be subsumed under wider entities such as household or the community, while not denying the impact of care, social relations, and interdependence between family or community members” (67).

While Robeyns (2010) seems to believe that Sen’s approach to capabilities is helpful because it disentangles “poor women” from the family, I argue that we should understand women within these contexts, however hierarchical, diverse and complex they may be. Removing the analytic complexity without altering the material reality only moves the researcher farther away from a nuanced understanding of the dynamics at play. In the next section, I discuss the literature on gender and nation as a starting point to understand the complex intersectional lives of Afro-descendent, indigenous, Black, and poor Garifuna mothers within the context of both nation and state.

Discontinuity in the Nation-State

Conventional conceptualizations of the state and nation have focused on territorial claims. For example, Coakley (2012) defined a state as a “self-governing territorial entity with a central decision- making agency which possesses a monopoly of the legitimate use of force in ensuring compliance with its decisions on the part of all persons within its borders” (11). Similarly, he defined a nation as “an ethnic group whose members are mobilized in the pursuit of political self-determination for that group” (Coakley

2012, 12). It should not take long to realize that in today’s context of mostly multi-national states, the term

“nation-state” can be problematic. The borders of nations and current-day states often do not match. In this context, some have identified a resurgence of nationalism, which can be defined as “either (a) a form of political mobilization that is directed at rectifying a perceived absence of fit between the boundaries of the nation and the boundaries of the state; or (b) the ideology that justifies this” (Coakley 2012, 12).

Gellner (1983) similarly described nationalism as “a theory of political legitimacy, which requires that ethnic boundaries should not cut across political ones, and, in particular, that ethnic boundaries within a given state – a contingency already formally excluded by the principle in its general formulation – should not separate the power-holders from the rest” (1). Even though the Garifuna make specific claims to land

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(as discussed in chapter 3), the Garifuna do not have a separatist agenda of creating a separate nation- state.

These conceptions of nationalism are quite narrow, and only account for one of the three dimensions across which Calhoun (1997) described nationalism. The first dimension is nationalism as discourse, which entails “the production of a cultural understanding and rhetoric which leads people throughout the world to think and frame their aspirations in terms of the idea of nation and national identity, and the production of particular versions of nationalist thought and language in particular settings and traditions” (6). This dimension is clearly relevant in the case of the Garifuna and the efforts within the community to preserve language and music traditions. The second dimension described by Calhoun

(1997) is “nationalism as project: social movements and state policies by which people attempt to advance the interests of collectivities they understand as nations, usually pursuing in some combination

(or in a historical progression) increased participation in an existing state, national autonomy, independence and self-determination, or the amalgamation of territories” (6). This dimension is also relevant in the case of the Garifuna population, and is most obvious in the efforts of Garifuna organizations, especially ODECO and OFRANEH, that are partnering with other marginalized groups to advocate for political, social, cultural and economic rights. Calhoun’s third dimension is the attempt to reconcile a disconnect between nation and state boundaries. As mentioned above, the Garifuna do not occupy contiguous territory; they also have not attempted to create a Garifuna state.

Sinha (2004) also provided a more flexible definition than Coakley (2012) and Gellner (1983) that is better suited to the discussion of the Garifuna communities:

The nation may be defined as a group whose members, on the basis of some combination of beliefs in a common origin, a common history, and a common destiny, constitute themselves as a community and lay claim to a specified territory and political representation, ranging from cultural autonomy to political statehood. There is, however, no one universal and inevitable form of the nation. Nations are necessarily constructed around a myth of their own uniqueness. (234)

Sinha’s definition allows for the fact that the Garifuna have a unique history, and that they are making multiple claims to disconnected territories along the Central American coast in separate states, even though they identify as one ethnic group. This chapter explores the importance of race and gender in a discussion about the contrast between a Garifuna nationalism, mobilized around cultural autonomy, in the context of Honduran nationalism, which is constructed around a fictive mestizo ethnic identity. Yuval-

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Davis (1997) recognized the importance of such embedded analysis of nations within states: “The notion of the nation has to be analysed and related to nationalist ideologies and movements on the one hand and the institutions of the state on the other. Nations are situated in specific historical moments and are constructed by shifting nationalist discourses promoted by different groupings competing for hegemony.

Their gendered character should be understood only within such contextualization” (4). To that end, this chapter focuses on concepts of gender and race in relation to nationalism.

Further, the cultural claims of the Garifuna are not restricted to the state, but rather operate in a transnational context. The designation of the community as a “masterpiece of oral and intangible heritage” based on the transnational efforts primarily of Garifuna organizations in Belize and Nicaragua

(López 2001, 43) is evidence of a brand of nationalism that engages the idea of autonomy in a context broader than the state. Yuval-Davis (1997) usefully pointed out that “membership of ‘nations’ can be sub-, super- and cross-states, as the boundaries of nations virtually never coincide with those of so-called

‘nation-states’“ (3). The particularities of a Garifuna brand of nationalism are discussed in detail in the next chapter.

One of the most useful conceptualizations of nation and nationalism come from Native women activists, who suggest that many indigenous nationalisms are constructed in ways that are not represented by mainstream theories:

Whereas nation-states are governed through domination and coercion, indigenous sovereignty and nationhood are predicated on interrelatedness and responsibility. In opposition to nation- states, which are based on control over territory, these visions of indigenous nationhood are based on care and responsibility for land that we can all share. These models of sovereignty are not based on a narrow definition of a nation that would entail a closely bound community and ethnic cleansing. So, these articulations pose an alternative to theories that assume that the endpoint to a national struggle is a nation-state and that assume the givenness of the nation-state system. (Smith 2008, 312)

In previous chapters, I have discussed the interdependence and joint responsibility of the Garifuna community. I also discussed the importance of communal land to the Garifuna people. The Garifuna community is not in violent opposition to other groups. Thus, Garifuna nationalism is not adequately captured by traditional theories, although I use these theories as a starting point for this discussion.

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The Modern Nation

Nationalism literature falls into two major categories based on how scholars define the relationship of nationalism to processes of modernity. Scholars who identify nationalism as based in modern processes of modernity are called modernist or constructionist; those who link nationalism to pre- modern ethnic identities are ethnicist, traditionalist, or primordial in their argument (Calhoun 1997, 8;

Gellner 1997, 13; Day and Thompson 2004, 9; Wilford 1998, 8). Commonly identified as two of the most influential scholars to write about nationalism (Duara 1996, 152), both Ernest Gellner and Benedict

Anderson are modernists. While Gellner (1997) rooted nationalism in industrial growth that required the development of a homogenously educated workforce, Anderson (2006) linked nationalism to the spread of print capitalism.

Gellner (1997) emphasized the distinction between an agrarian and an industrial society.

However, he does not make room for the reality of large-scale agrarian societies within the modern state.

In spite of the modernity of Honduran cities, much of the country continues to operate as it did in previous times, with few modern amenities and with social structures and institutions of the past. In short, the

“modernity” of the Honduran city has not reached the rural exterior. Identifying the modern, industrial society and the agrarian society as mutually exclusive in time (i.e., an agrarian age) and space (i.e., wholly industrial societies), Gellner (1997) defined as contradictory their cultures: “concerning the role of culture in agrarian society: its main function is to reinforce, underwrite, and render visible and authoritative, the hierarchical status system of that social order. … It cannot at the same time perform a quite different role: namely to mark the boundaries of a polity” (20). Such an approach is inappropriate for examining Garifuna nationalism that emerges from the rural, agrarian towns of Central American modern states; it constructs agrarian culture as backwards and ultimately focuses on the intent to “modernize” society into industrial cities. Bhabha (1990) usefully encouraged scholars to both “articulate that archaic ambivalence that informs modernity” and “begin by questioning that progressive metaphor of modern social cohesion” (294). By examining agrarian space in modern time and examining the Garifuna family within the context of a homogenous Honduran mestizo trope, I intend to accomplish both of these tasks.

Anderson (2006), on the other hand, defined a nation as an imagined community. He wrote, “It is imagined because the members of even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow-

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members, meet them, or even hear of them, yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion”

(Anderson 2006, 6); further “it is imagined as a community, because, regardless of the actual inequality and exploitation that may prevail in each, the nation is always conceived as a deep, horizontal comradeship” (Anderson 2006, 7). This is a good beginning for understanding both the Garifuna nation and the Honduran mestizo nation-state. Many of the Garifuna villagers I met had never travelled outside of the country; they probably will not meet Garifuna in other Central American countries, much less the

Garifuna in the US. In spite of that fact, they continue to see themselves as a part of the same transnational Garifuna nation. The mestizo national identity is in fact an invention of the Honduran state.

However, it was constructed to unite a supposedly homogenous Honduran population as one community; as discussed later, it is simultaneously constructed as a tool of unification and exclusion.

Ultimately, Anderson (2006) traced nationalism to the invention and growth of print capitalism, which he wrote “made it possible for rapidly growing numbers of people to think about themselves, and to relate themselves to others, in profoundly new ways” (36). Garifuna nationalism in the rural ancestral villages, however, is not an outgrowth of print capitalism. The rural, poorly educated (with between a second- and sixth-grade education) Garifuna adults who were the subjects of my study connect to multiple diasporic horizons of the Garifuna people because of oral histories passed down over generations. This leads to a second criticism of Anderson’s imagined communities: his discounting of the importance of both spoken language and oral histories.

Anderson (2006) wrote, “It is always a mistake to treat languages in the way that certain nationalist ideologues treat them – as emblems of nation-ness, like flags, costumes, folk-dances, and the rest. Much the most important thing about language is its capacity for generating imagined communities, building in effect particular solidarities” (133). The Garifuna language is cherished as arguably the most important part of the culture. It is the focus of transnational preservation efforts. Further, the language itself maintains stories and relationships that are not translatable. Although Garifuna scholars have developed the language in written form, it is primarily an oral language, and a large percentage of

Garifuna language speakers do not read or write the language.15

15 When I refer to the Garifuna language, and its significance to the Garifuna people, I am referring to the oral language. In the villages, what is valued and what communities are working to preserve is the oral language tradition. During an interview with one of the younger Garifuna women, she talked about going 168

Gilroy (1987) critiqued Anderson’s “privileging of the written word over the spoken word” (45).

Although Anderson (2006) referred to the “print elevation of languages” (43), this hierarchy that he created between written and oral language is quite problematic in the case of the Garifuna language, which is both relational and gendered. Women and men use different words to communicate the same actions and relationships. The gender of the speaker changes the words used in the language, which I initially discovered when I was trying to learn Garifuna phrases from Benjamin, “my Garifuna bother,” and later confirmed with a Garifuna language scholar. Preservation of the oral Garifuna language tradition is thus important to the construction of gendered Garifuna relationships.

Although Anderson’s “imagined communities” are a good starting point for a discussion of nationalism there is also much room for improvement. Pierson (2000) identified four major shortcomings of Anderson’s analysis: (1) his separation of nationality from gender, (2) a lack of attention to the structures of subjectivity and identity formation, (3) his conviction that nationalism and racism have separate origins and trajectories, and (4) an insufficient emphasis on the violence inherent in the national project (41 – 42). In my analysis, I address these shortcomings by discussing (1) the gendered nature of the construction and reproduction Garifuna society, (2) the socially constructed nature of family, (3) the way in which racism was critical to the formation of the Honduran national identity, and (4) the violently racist expulsion of the Garifuna from their original homeland of St. Vincent. Gilroy (1987), in his study of politics and race in Britain, also challenged Anderson’s suggestion that race and nationalism are not intimately related: “The politics of ‘race’ in this country is fired by conceptions of national belonging and homogeneity which not only blur the distinction between ‘race’ and nation, but rely on that very ambiguity for their effect” (45). As has already been discussed in chapter 3, it is clear that considerations of both race and gender are jointly implicated in the construction of the Honduran state. I return to this question of how race and nationalism are interrelated later in this chapter.

Duara (1996) critiqued the modernist views of both Gellner and Anderson for suggesting that states are unified subjects: “In privileging modern society as the only social form capable of generating political self-awareness, Gellner and Anderson regard national identity as a distinctive mode of to the city for an education and taking a Garifuna (written) language course; she said she felt stupid because she did not even recognize the language. This highlights the extent to which the written language project is alienated from the oral traditions of the ancestral villages.

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consciousness: the nation as a whole imagining itself to be the unified subject of history” (153). As demonstrated by the history of Honduras discussed in chapter three, the state of Honduras is a state of multiple nations, in spite of its promotion of a singular mestizo national identity. The construction of a

Garifuna trans-national identity is similarly complex. Duara (1996) noted the multiple, simultaneous imaginings of a community: “Individuals and groups in both modern and agrarian societies identify simultaneously with several communities that are all imagined; these identifications are historically changeable, and often conflicted internally with each other” (153).

Consider in this context the multiple diasporic horizons of the Garifuna—with their homeland in

St. Vincent, as part of a Black diaspora, as citizens of various Central and North American states, and as part of an indigenous collective identity. It is important to note that these diasporic horizons are much broader than the Garifuna nation and have multiple temporal orientations. For example, the St. Vincent diasporic horizon, often invoked in religious ritual, links to the earliest ancestral roots of the Garifuna people, while the Black diaspora is more future-oriented in relation to desired migratory paths to the US and alliances with African Americans in the US. The Garifuna of Honduras also are part of Latin America, and scholars often use regional concepts in order to discuss gender relations in Latin America. These concepts are explored below.

Masculinity and Femininity in the Latin American State

In the discussion of masculinity and femininity, some scholars have found it useful to refer to the concepts of machismo and marianismo. Brusco (1995) described machismo as aggressive masculinity characteristic of the male role (6). She noted how some feminist scholars locate machismo at the root of gender inequality: “Many Latin American feminist writers identify machismo as the root cause of sexual inequality. They say that machista society is characterized by an excess of male power and privilege and the corresponding low status, inferiority, and powerlessness of women” (Brusco 1995, 79). In her study on evangelism and gender in Colombia, she used the concept to describe “an aspect of sex-gender systems characterized by the alienation of men from the household (including the attenuation of their roles as husbands and fathers) and their identification with the world outside rather than with their household group” (Brusco 1995, 79 – 80). She acknowledged, however, that her analysis ultimately

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focused on the mestizo family, which brings into question the applicability of these concepts for analysis of indigenous communities, and specifically in the Afro-indigenous Garifuna community.

Lancaster (1992) described machismo as an ideological and material system of power relations that define family institutions and productive relations. While it is common, especially among feminist scholars, to think of machismo as a way of understanding women’s subordination, Lancaster (1992) highlighted that “machismo (no less than Anglo-American concepts of masculinity and appropriate sexuality) is not exclusively or even primarily a means of structuring power relations between men and women. It is a means of structuring power between and among men” (236). Rather than being about relations between men and women, women are conceived as mediums or signifiers in communication among and between men: “As a gestural system, machismo has a steep temporal dimension, and yesterday’s victories count for little tomorrow. Every act is, effectively, part of an ongoing exchange system between men in which women figure as intermediaries” (Lancaster 1992, 237). When machismo is understood in this way as a system of communication between men, women are peripheral to discussions of machismo. In contrast to this analysis of women’s utility in communication among men, a

Black feminist analysis intends to center Black women in an examination of the location of women in society and the feminine and masculine social constructions that shape gendered relations.

Brusco (1995) “marveled at the efficiency with which the application of the term machismo to

Latin American kinship and family has rendered women invisible” (80). The very concept of machismo marginalizes women, as mere “intermediaries” in a gestural system among men. She acknowledged that machismo does not ultimately focus on domestic relations: “Although machismo has ramifications for the domestic realm, it does not stipulate the content of any key relationship within the family, except by default. Its striking characteristic is that it is a nondomestic (one might say almost antidomestic) male role.

The centrality of the concept in studies of Latin American kinship, family, and household is therefore surprising” (Brusco 1995, 80). Not only does the concept not stipulate any key familial relationships; it marginalizes women as actual subjects. As argued earlier, increasingly invasive neoliberal policies, supported by the state, blur any distinction between a domestic and public sphere. As this dissertation illustrates, the family is increasingly a site for profound insight into international and transnational phenomena in IR and ID.

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In addition to marginalizing female subjects, the machismo concept also homogenizes and simplifies the Latin American man, as Ramírez (1999) so aptly articulated:

The uncritical reproduction of the terminology of machismo and the use of “machismo” as an analytical category perpetuate an erroneous conceptualization of Latin American men. Although the ethnocentric and class approaches of early studies have been somewhat modified, the reductionist element remains unchanged. Basically, reductionism consists of presenting men as very homogenous beings and not adequately taking into account the complexity of masculinity and the great variations in its manifestations. Much of the literature on machismo and the writings of some feminists erase the existence of some differences between men and women that, although culturally constructed, serve as a basis for social order and do not necessarily imply inequality. When pre-state communities, organized by kinship systems, established the spheres of gender and human reproduction, they did not necessarily have the intention of establishing a system of inequality. (23)

Ramírez (1999) highlighted how intersectional analysis is not just important to understanding women, but is also critical to an analysis of Latin American men who are homogenized by the use of machismo as an analytic tool. His emphasis on the intentions of pre-state communities is particularly relevant in an examination of Garifuna men and women, who continue to be organized by many of the pre-state structures, especially matrifocality, that have long shaped their gender relations. Examining such communities in Latin American contexts gives one the opportunity to explore the interactions between diverse constructions of masculinity and femininity.

Some might attempt to resolve the limitations of machismo by pairing it with the concept of marianismo. Evelyn P. Stevens is responsible for developing the concept of marianismo as a counterpoint to machismo. On the one hand, she described machismo as being characterized by “exaggerated aggressiveness and intransigence in male-to-male interpersonal relationships and arrogance and sexual aggression in male-to-female relationships” (Stevens 1994, 4), while marianismo was described as “the cult of feminine spiritual superiority, which teaches that women are semidivine, morally superior to and spiritually stronger than men” (Stevens 1994, 4). These binary concepts are crude and lack potential for describing the nuances of gendered relationships; they also ignore and erase the important role of relationships among women.

These concepts also were developed primarily with white, elite and creole women in mind (Sinha

2004, 258); Stevens (1994) did not attempt to explain relationships in indigenous communities:

“Indigenous communities, while patriarchal in structure and value orientations, do not seem to share the machismo-marianismo attitudes as long as they retain their ‘purity’” (5). It is hard to know how Stevens

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might assess the “purity” of the Garifuna community; one can only assume that, working with antiquated notions of indigeneity that require them to be static, she would question the “purity” of such a mobile and transnational community. Lavrin (2004) has argued that these concepts are even more limited: “Among the educated middle class there are fewer assumptions of the existence of a machismo-marianismo dyad than among the provincial or strongly religious and poorly educated members of society” (204). The oversimplification of Latin American communities extends to mestizo men and women, whom Stevens

(1994) insists “exhibit a well-defined pattern of beliefs and behavior centered on popular acceptance of a stereotype of the ideal woman” (9).

Further, as some critics have pointed out, the concept of marianismo is quite problematic in its reification of a domestic, female sphere limited to the home (Lavrin 2004, 203). The machismo/marianismo concepts only reify a false dichotomy of men in public spaces and women in private spaces. A discussion of masculinities and femininities (or men and women) in the state is better analyzed through other concepts (Lavrin 2004, 205 – 210). Hurtig, Montoya and Frazier (2002) have found that these simplistic binary analytical concepts are often used in discussions of women’s subordination in Latin America: “We found that explanations of women’s oppression in Latin America often resorted to, and thus assumed the universality of, Euro-U.S. cultural and social binarisms: They situated gender in terms of organizational oppositions (such as ‘public/domestic’) or cultural constructs

(such as ‘machismo/marianismo’) whose significance was assumed to be constant across history and geography” (Hurtig, Montoya and Frazier 2002, 8). Navarro (2002) is quite direct in her assessment of marianismo: “Marianismo is an ahistorical, essentialist, anachronistic, sexist, and orientalist fabrication”

(270). As the history presented in chapter 3 illustrated, any discussion of Garifuna nationalism must engage nuances of race and gender. The following section seeks to engage more useful concepts that emerge from critiques of nationalism by feminist and race scholars.

Imagining Race and Gender

Although mainstream nationalism scholars have provided useful starting points for a discussion of nationalism, the neglect in the mainstream discourse of issues of race and gender have been tackled by critical and feminist scholars. Peterson (1995) has highlighted the transformative power of gender analysis within an international relations framework: “When we use a gender-sensitive lens not only the

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‘what’ of international relations but ‘how’ we think about it is different” (170). Below, I examine how some of these critiques that aim to include gender and race might be useful in the analysis of the role of

Garifuna mothers who bake ereba in the preservation and promotion of the Garifuna nation.

Feminist Critiques of Nationalism

McClintock (1996) boldly put forth a four-pronged strategy for the development of a feminist theory of nationalism:

A feminist theory of nationalism might thus be strategically fourfold: (1) investigating the gendered formation of sanctioned male theories; (2) bringing into historical visibility women’s active cultural and political participation in national formations; (3) bringing nationalist institutions into critical relation with other social structures and institutions; and (4) at the same time paying scrupulous attention to the structures of racial, ethnic and class power that continue to bedevil privileged forms of feminism. (261)

This dissertation addresses all four of McClintock’s points. The beginning part of this chapter addressed the first objective by examining the theories of Gellner and Anderson, and evaluating how they might be improved upon with a gendered analysis. Below, the work of feminist scholars who discuss the gendered nature of nationalist agendas is engaged. This lays the foundation for a discussion of gendered components of Garifuna identity in chapter 7. By analyzing the role of the family in relation to nationalist projects, this chapter and the next identify the relationship between nationalism and other social structures and institutions. Further, the intersectional analysis of this dissertation “bedevils privileged forms of feminism.”

Of specific importance in feminist critiques of nationalism is attention to the gendered nature of nationalist agendas: “Not only must we begin with the women’s standpoint on nationalism and feminism, we must move to an understanding of the construction of nationalism as an inherently ‘gendered’ phenomenon” (West 1997, xiv). This body of literature, as Sinha (2004) usefully explained, is not simply about the inclusion of women in the story of nationalism; it is about an analysis of gendered difference in homes, in nations, and in states:

The challenge posed by feminist scholarship has to do not just with the visibility of ‘women’ but, more important, with the constitution of the nation itself in the ‘sanctioned institutionalization of gender difference.’ The discourse of the nation is implicated in particular elaborations of masculinity as much as of femininity. As such, it contributes to their normative constructions. It becomes a privileged vehicle in the consolidation of dichotomized notions of ‘men’ and ‘women’ and of ‘masculinity’ and ‘femininity.’ We thus have ‘fathers’ and ‘mothers,’ and ‘sons’ and ‘daughters,’ of the nation, each with their own gendered rights and obligations. (Sinha 2004, 243)

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When one considers abortion rights, family planning policies, and other ways in which states legislate women’s bodies, it is easy to view this gendered difference. As McClintock (1993) noted, “No nation in the world gives women and men the same access to the rights and resources of the nation-state” (61).

Unfortunately, what she does not note is the difference between rights given to different races or ethnicities of women and men. Peterson (1995) similarly highlighted the role of nations/nationalisms in constructing particular norms of masculinity and femininity: “nationalism is gendered in terms of how the construction of group identity (allegiance to ‘us’ versus ‘them’) depends upon divisions of masculinity and femininity” (184). What many feminist critics often ignore is the diversity of “us” and the diversity of “them”; intersectional analysis seeks to explore this diversity.

In addition to focusing on the use of masculinity and femininity to mark the boundaries of nations,

Peterson (1995) also highlighted how rigidly constructed masculinity and femininity naturalize domination and hierarchy: “Nationalism is also gendered in terms of how the naturalization of domination (‘us’ at the expense of ‘them’) depends upon the prior naturalization of men/masculinity over women/femininity. In this sense, taking domination as natural obscures its historical context and disables our knowledge of and attempts to transform hierarchical relations” (184).

In addition to the literature on the gendered nature of nationalisms, there is a body of literature that specifically examines feminist nationalist movements (West 1997). The ereba makers are not, by and large, feminists, in the sense that there is not a specific, shared political agenda. While there were certainly galpones with feminist visions (namely, “Women’s Traditions”), for the most part the women did not have what would be defined more broadly as a “feminist consciousness” aimed at structural societal change. Instead, the women were focused on economic integration into mainstream Honduran markets.

Part of the value in talking about family as a unit of analysis is that it provides the opportunity to study how everyday mothers are engaging development issues, even when not politicized. However, the line between feminist issues and women’s issues can be blurry, and there have been occasions when women’s movements in Latin America have caught the attention (and sometimes contempt) of feminist movements.

The Argentine Madres de la Plaza de Mayo is probably the group best-known for mobilizing as mothers for political action. Maier (2010) characterized the group’s entry onto the political scene as “a

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new political actor that, in the name of traditional motherhood, emerged from the horrors of repression to publicly demand the devolution of their sons and daughters. Their children were victims of the emblematic tactic of state terrorism, the forced disappearance of persons, which characterized all the undeclared, dirty wars of Latin America” (31). Safa (1992) noted the important accomplishment of these self-declared non-feminist women: “Composed mostly of older women with no political experience, the group members were able to use their traditional role as mothers as a defense and turn against the state to protest the disappearance of their children and other loved ones during the military dictatorship. In order to maintain their legitimacy, they refused any identification with political parties of feminism” (81). These mothers made an intentional choice to avoid political affiliation, which generated some antagonism with feminists that wanted the mothers to adopt a more politically charged agenda. Central to the strategy of the mothers, however, was their positioning as non-threatening and apolitical women, who simply wanted the return of their children. To adopt a more rigorous critique of the state would have run counter to this strategy.

As Lavrin (1999) wrote, “They gave motherhood and family the political strength that was the dream of early twentieth-century Latin American feminists” (181). In spite of the tremendous gains of these women, they received sharp criticism from some feminists of the period.

Ironically, in Latin America the model created by the Madres has received much criticism in the 1990s, especially from feminists for whom the Madres perpetuated the polarity between women- femininity-mother and men-masculinity-state. The specificity of their demands – always presented within the framework of the individual experience and the temporality of a precise situation – has been deemed insufficient to alter the power relationship between men and women. Others disagree, seeing in the Madres a potential venue for the discussion of large national problems at a pragmatic level, meaningful for those who participate in it and enhancing the power of the alliance of motherhood and human dignity in an effective way, an example worth studying by feminists elsewhere. After all, the Madres obtained global visibility and respect, and helped to weaken the military’s arrogant disregard for human rights. (Lavrin 1999, 181)

Is this debate between feminists who are focused on the advancement of particular strategic goals, and mothers who are concerned with the more immediate concern of locating their “disappeared” family members a false dichotomy? Feminists can also be mothers, and all among us—no matter how philosophical and strategic we imagine ourselves—have immediate needs and interests.

The desire of some feminists to incorporate all women’s struggles into a politicized, feminist agenda is troubling in that it denies the diversity of women. Maier (2010) described the conflicted nature of feminist reactions: “Although feminists viewed the Mothers with admiration and solidarity for being the

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first women’s organizations to take a political role and the first public expressions of opposition to state authoritarianism in Latin America, the Mothers’ committees nonetheless represented a challenge for feminism, with their emphasis on the centrality of maternity in the cultural construction of femininity” (32).

As a Black feminist, who acknowledges and celebrates the diversity among women, it concerns me that this difference would be cause for some feminists to feel challenged. The key to feminist solidarity lies in the acknowledgment of and respect for diversity of opinion and roles within a larger feminist agenda; we do not need to all be the same, or do the same things. In this regard, I agree with Maier (2010) that “many forms of activism can have an effect on the reformulation of the symbolic representations of women in the collective imaginary of their cultures, emphasizing the multiple paths to achieving a gender consciousness that empowers women to believe in their right to have rights” (39). In the concluding chapter of this dissertation, I explore in more detail a potential path for advancing feminist solidarity.

In the seminal Woman – Nation – State by Nira Yuval-Davis and Floya Anthias (1989), the authors explore how multiple roles of women, including their roles as mothers, are embedded in state relations. Two central claims are made: (1) “central dimensions of the roles of women are constituted around the relationships of collectivities to the state” and (2) “central dimensions of the relationships between collectivities and the state are constituted around the roles of women” (Yuval-Davis and Anthias

1989, 1). In the case of Garifuna women and families, this draws attention to the importance of both how

(1) the role of Garifuna women is shaped by the relationship of Garifuna (or indigenous) people more broadly to the Honduran state, and (2) Garifuna women are specifically engaged, as mothers, as political activists and as community leaders, in shaping the relationship of the state to Garifuna (or indigenous) communities within the state. Both of these claims highlight the importance of attention to both race, as well as gender, in understanding the relationship of the Garifuna woman to the Honduran state.

Yuval-Davis and Anthias (1989) defined five ways that women tend to participate in ethnic and national processes:

These are (a) as biological reproducers of members of ethnic collectivities; (b) as reproducers of the boundaries of ethnic/national groups; (c) as participating centrally in the ideological reproduction of the collectivity and as transmitters of its culture; (d) as signifiers of ethnic/national differences – as a focus and symbol in ideological discourses used in the construction, reproduction and transformation of ethnic/national categories; (e) as participants in national, economic, political and military struggles. (7)

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The idea of women as reproducers is highlighted in my discussion of the ereba makers as mothers, which is inextricably linked with their joint commitments and shared goals, the most popular of which is the education of children. Second, in the matrifocal Garifuna society, in which land is passed down through matrilineal lines, women are also instrumental in marking the physical boundaries of the group. Third,

Garifuna women have historically been the primary educators for Garifuna children, responsible for the transmission of cultural tradition. Fourth, through styles of dress and cultural production, including ereba- making, the Garifuna women signify ethnic distinctiveness. Finally, in relation to political struggles, the current environment of Garifuna political organizations has a strong gender divide, with the two major

Honduran Garifuna organizations being split along lines of gender, ideology, and identity. Although the tension between ODECO and OFRANEH was introduced in the third chapter, I further explore the gendered nature of that tension in the next chapter.

Peterson (1995) built upon the work of Yuval-Davis and Anthias to develop her own list of gendered ways in which women are implicated in nationalist processes and asserted that women participate “as societal members generally” (Peterson 1995, 177). Understanding Garifuna women as societal members is very much intertwined with understanding the marginalization of the Garifuna as a racial and ethnic minority. Native feminist Ramirez (2007) discussed her frustration with pressure to choose between nationalist struggles and gender struggles:

Too often the assumption in Native communities is that we as indigenous women should defend a tribal nationalism that ignores sexism as part of our very survival as women as well as our liberation from colonization. … Indeed, both indigenous women and men should develop a Native feminist consciousness based on the assumption that struggles for social autonomy will not deny Native women’s gendered concerns and rights. (22 – 23)

Ramirez radically called for the inclusion of both men and women in feminist practice. Below, I discuss how race and gender are simultaneously and interdependently implicated in constructions of nationalism.

Race, Ethnicity and Nationalism

Understanding racial and ethnic difference is critical to our understanding of nationalism. The

Garifuna people are not only marginalized in the history of Latin America states, as described in chapter

3; they are also marginalized in the analytical concepts developed to discuss Latin American gender relations. As such they exist outside of the imagined mestizo Latin American nation and outside of the intellectual discourse about populations in the region. That marginalization is rarely explicit. When Latin

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American scholars write that marianismo characterizes the woman’s role as mother, what they should say is that marianismo characterizes the mestizo woman’s role as mother. Such omissions only obfuscate analysis of gender relations in Latin America.

A number of feminist scholars draw attention to the importance of racial and ethnic difference. As an example, Yuval-Davis (1998) pointed out that “often the citizenship rights and duties of women from different ethnic and racial groupings vary” (24). This speaks to the different positionings of ethnic and racial minorities within the history of a state. Yuval-Davis and Anthias (1989) have also noted that even when feminist scholars engage in intersectional analysis that speaks to some of these differences, they tend to steer clear of issues of ethnicity and nationality: “There has been a tendency to treat women as a homogenous category or where differences are recognised they are those of class, sexuality, family situation or place in the life-cycle (although not enough work has been done on this either). Issues of ethnicity and nationality have tended to be ignored” (1). In this chapter, I directly address issues of race and ethnicity, as they relate to nationalism.

Balibar (1991) highlighted the absence of an ethnic basis for contemporary states, writing that

“nationalism cannot be defined as an ethnocentrism except precisely in the sense of the product of a fictive ethnicity” (49). This is precisely the project of the Honduran state. The Honduran national identity was constructed around the basis of a fictive mestizo identity that does not represent the multiple indigenous populations in the state, or the diversity of mixed-race groups. As Euraque (1998) described this was the result of an intentional process of exclusion of Blackness and a promotion of a whitening, or blanqueamiento, within the Honduran state.

These racist ideals were critical to the construction of the state. As Balibar (1991) noted, racism is an integral part of the construction of a fictive ethnicity: “It is this broad structure of racism, which is heterogeneous and yet tightly knit (first in a network of phantasies and, second, through discourses and behaviours), which maintains a necessary relation with nationalism and contributes to constituting it by producing the fictive ethnicity around which it is organized” (49). The state thus constructed this identity in line with its political objective of creating a unitary and homogenous Honduran population. The Latin

American concept of blanqueamiento, however, has been manipulated as an integral part of numerous

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national projects. Wade (1993) described how the ideology works to both promote national solidarity and exclusion from national identity:

This is the ideology of blanqueamiento, or whitening, seen in a nationalist context. Here, then, we see one aspect of the coexistence of two variants on the nationalist theme: on the one hand, the democratic, inclusive ideology of todos somos mestizos—everyone is mestizo, and herein lies the particularity of Latin American identity; on the other hand, the discriminatory ideology that points out that some are lighter mestizos than others, prefers the whiter to the darker, and sees the consolidation of nationality in a process of whitening. In both variants, actual blacks and Indians are disadvantaged, but less so in the more democratic variant that tries to be inclusive. The problem lies in the coexistence of the two variants and the possibility of slipping from one into the other.” (11)

Wade (1993) usefully demonstrated here how the blanqueamiento concept is simultaneously applied as part of the nationalist project and part of the exclusion of racial and ethnic minorities. The effect is ultimately the erasure of Black and indigenous peoples from the national imagination: “blanqueamiento, by envisaging a future in which blackness and indianness are not only absorbed but also erased from the national panorama, giving rise to a whitened mestizo nation, smuggles in discrimination and turns the vision into an impossible utopia” (19).

Balibar (1991) further reminded us of how this type of race-based discrimination is inextricably linked to sex-based discrimination:

The phenomenon of ‘depreciation’ and ‘racialization’ which is directed simultaneously against different social groups which are quite different in ‘nature’ (particularly ‘foreign’ communities, ‘inferior races’, women and ‘deviants’) does not represent a juxtaposition of merely analogous behaviours and discourses applied to a potentially indefinite series of objects independent of each other, but a historical system of complementary exclusions and dominations which are mutually interconnected. In other words, it is not in practice simply the case that an ‘ethnic racism’ or a ‘sexual racism’ exist in parallel; racism and sexism function together and in particular, racism always presupposes sexism. (49)

The above statement reminds us why the sustained attention to race and gender is critical in an analysis of nationalism. This simultaneous functioning of various forms of oppression is what Black feminist

Patricia Hill Collins (2009) refers to as the matrix of domination: “The matrix of domination refers to how these intersecting oppressions are actually organized. Regardless of the particular intersections involved, structural, disciplinary, hegemonic, and interpersonal domains of power reappear across quite different forms of oppression” (21). In the next section, I explore how the interpersonal domain of the family, and the power dynamics within it, might also contribute to our discussion of nationalism.

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Family Analysis in Global/International Studies

Calhoun (1997) argued that nationalism encourages individuals not to understand themselves in the context of families, but rather through more abstract and impersonal categories: “It promotes categorical identities over relational ones, partly because nationalist discourse addresses large-scale collectivities in which most people could not conceivably enter into face-to-face relationships with most others” (46). This is absolutely not the case in the Garifuna community. As explored in the previous chapters, Garifuna communities imagine themselves as communities of families. Common Garifuna last names are, in fact, associated with particular ancestral villages. Therefore, even as the population expands, a connection to a particular place and set of families is embedded in the last names of individuals.

Some feminist critiques call for the inclusion of family in discussions of nationalism and the state.

Haney and Pollard (2003) called for an analysis of the relationship between states and families. This is important because of the ways in which states have evoked the image of families and called for the action of families to various political ends: “Sometimes the family has been deployed as a metaphor for imagining the state; at other times, the family has been used in more concrete terms as a model for state- building. At still other times, the family has been used to move state policies in new directions or as a vehicle for state goals” (Haney and Pollard 2003, 1). This manipulation of the family trope by the state is both gendered and racialized as in the mestizo, heteronormative family ideal within the Honduran state.

Waltner and Maynes (2004) similarly identified the household as a “key site where world-historical processes unfold” (48). Similar to Haney and Pollard (2003), Waltner and Maynes (2004) recognized that families are critical to the political projects of states and that “family relations have the capacity to uphold or undermine social and political order” (56). The authors linked global development to family activities:

World historical change involves the activities of families—that is, small groups linked by ties of marriage, descent, or adoption, normally constituting fluid coresidential households. Global encounters and major processes of global development are structured by systems of kinship— that is, socially recognized relationships between people in a particular culture who are (or are held to be) biologically related or who are given the status of relatives by marriage, adoption, or other ritual. (Waltner and Maynes 2004, 48)

What this statement highlights is that family is not below or beyond the boundaries of state policies and politics; family relations are integral to them. This was certainly obvious in the recent presidential politics of Honduras, when the wife of ousted president Manuel Zelaya, Xiomara Castro, ran for president in the

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November 2013 elections (BBC News 2013). This is an important example, among multiple examples within Latin American states, in which the familial relations between men and women have important implications for power and status within the state.

Yuval-Davis (1997) noted this important interdependence: “In different societies and states, family affiliations and structures, especially within the elite, can determine more or less the structure and power relations in the state and civil society. When they do, then even those who are relatively powerless within the family, like women, can gain power positioning over the state as a whole and become queens or prime ministers” (92). This pattern can be seen throughout Latin America, dating back to the first woman president in Latin America, Isabel Peron, who took over as president of Argentina (1974 – 1976) when her husband, three-time president Juan Domino Peron, died; the pattern continued with Mireya Moscoso, who was the widow of three-time president Arnulfo Arias before becoming president of Panama (1999 –

2004); and the current president of Argentina (2007 – present) took over presidency after her husband,

Nestor Kirchner, left office (BBC News 2010). In their discussion of gender and nationalism in Latin

America, Radcliffe and Rivers-Moore (2009) articulated how this trend is as much about gender as it is about race: “The association of femininity with national leadership in a small number of countries reflects the ongoing power of whiteness and urban identity that transcends gender, especially in more ethnically homogenous countries” (143). In this way it is possible to see how the family unit can help us to understand the racialized and gendered politics of the state.

Also examining the relationship between family and state, Sinha (2004) similarly called for an examination of how the family is appropriated by the state, in ways that both naturalize the family and invent the nation.

The family—constructed as a ‘natural’ heterosexual and patriarchal unit—performs a variety of critical ideological services in the constitution of the nation. The first, perhaps most obvious, function is in representing the nation as an innate or organic community whose members, like those of the family, are constituted by ‘natural’ ties rather than by mere accident or choice. The familial imagery thus offers the ‘invented’ nation as a powerful legitimizing language of naturalization. In order to do so, however, the institution of the family itself is first removed from history and made into a timeless and natural unit of social organization. The family is thus depoliticized in the discourse of the nation; it is constructed as prior to history and thus immune to political challenge or to change.” (247)

While Sinha described a family constructed as a patriarchal unit, the Garifuna case demonstrates that there are alternative constructions of the family. What does it mean to be a matrifocal society in a

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patriarchal state? In the next chapter, I explore the interactions that highlight the tensions between diverse (and potentially incompatible) constructions of the family that are simultaneously at work. Sinha

(2004) in fact refers to the multiple roles, including the role of mothers, through which women emerge as national actors.

Collins (1998a) convincingly argued that intersectional analysis can be used to understand the relationship between family and nation: “Intersectional approaches view institutionalized racism, social class relations, gender inequalities, and nationalism expressed on both sides of state power as analytical constructs that explain family organization in general, and Black family organization in particular” (27). In the next chapter, I examine shifts in nationalist gender roles “on both sides of state power” as Collins terms it, by looking at the interaction between gender norms within the matrifocal Garifuna society as they interact with the patriarchal Honduran state. More specifically, I analyze a shift in the gendered production of ereba—one of the major symbolic representations of Garifuna culture—as the product moves from within Garifuna communities to commercialization in the broader Honduran economy.

Fouron and Schiller (2001) identified the specific importance of “women’s work” in the imagination of the nation:

Household and family life are surveyed, disciplined, and inhabited by the political regime. Therefore, as people create family and household they produce gendered individuals whose activities, beliefs, and identities as women and men are part and parcel of the ways in which the nation is reproduced and its links to the state are re-envisioned. To the extent to which the family and home simultaneously are defined as women’s domains and the site of national honor and virtue, when women do women’s work, they become committed to the ideas and imagery that build the nation. (542)

As described in an earlier chapter, ereba-making is undoubtedly “women’s work.” However, it is also one of the most powerful symbols of Garifuna culture. An examination of the gendered shift in this work not only highlights the gendered relationships within the Garifuna community, but also brings attention to the gendered and racialized changes in the relationship between the Garifuna community and the larger

Honduran state.

Conclusion

This chapter has engaged the literature on nationalism, while paying particular attention to how race, ethnicity and gender are an integral part of nationalist projects. This chapter makes evident the value of a Black feminist approach that engages intersectional analysis. In addition to discussing and

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dismissing the machismo and marianismo concepts that have been used specifically to characterize mestizo masculinity and femininity, I discuss the importance of mothers and family in Latin American nationalisms. While this chapter has illustrated in general terms the importance of race, gender, and family in understanding nationalism, the next chapter specifically examines the case of the ereba makers.

Both this chapter and the next demonstrate the value within the TBF framework of an analysis of nations within states. Through an examination of changing gender roles in the ereba-making process, the next chapter explores insights about the changing nature of the relationship of the Garifuna community to the

Honduran state. Through an intersectional analysis of nations within states, it is possible to highlight competing interests and values that are homogenized in a statist model. Chapter 7 uses the case of the

Garifuna ereba makers to highlight broader issues of conflicting gendered (matrifocal society in a patriarchal state) and racial (Black indigenous nation in a mestizo state) ideologies.

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CHAPTER 7

MASCULINIZATION OF EREBA PRODUCTION: CONVERTING WOMEN’S WORK INTO MEN’S CAPABILITIES

Men Repairing Cassava-Grinding Machine (December 9, 2011)

As I have discussed in previous chapters, ereba-making is women’s work. The above picture is a snapshot of modern-day ereba-making. However, it does not look very much like women’s work. The only woman in the picture is at the periphery. With the introduction of machinery into the ereba production process, both men and machinery are increasingly part of the process. This chapter has three goals: first, building upon the more general discussion in the previous chapter about race, gender and nationalism, this chapter explores the specific nuances of the Garifuna family and Garifuna nationalism; second, this chapter explores how the entry of men and machinery into Garifuna women’s work of ereba-making is impacting the matrifocality of Garifuna society and the capabilities of all involved; third, the Garifuna

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family is analyzed as an important site for understanding intersectional differences both within ereba- making processes and within the Garifuna nation

In the first section of this chapter, I describe the Garifuna traditional family ideal as a starting point for understanding Garifuna matrifocality. Given the matrifocal nature of Garifuna society, I then discuss how Garifuna women are engaging in Garifuna nationalism. As an extension of this discussion of women and nationalism, I explore possible cleavages, or important intersectional distinctions, in the concept of the Garifuna nation. Ultimately, I build upon these insights on the Garifuna family and nation, to engage in a discussion about the changing nature of the ereba production process. Discussed in this section are the two processing steps—cassava grinding and cassava straining—which are most impacted by this increase in men and machinery. I also discuss a gendered shift in leadership at one of the galpones. In the final section of this chapter, I use six dimensions of the ideal family, proposed by Black feminist scholar Patricia Hill Collins (1998b), to engage an intersectional analysis of the relationship between the

Garifuna family, ereba-making and the Honduran state. Below, I begin with a discussion of the Garifuna family.

Garifuna Traditional Family Ideal

Collins (1998b) has suggested that the traditional family ideal can be used to understand the relationship between family, nation, and state. In order to use the concept of the traditional family ideal, I will first describe what elements are central to Garifuna culture and family. Thorne (2004) noted that

Garifuna culture is distinguished by “a particular set of subsistence activities and a related gendered division of labor” (23). She described that division of labor as follows:

Garífuna men engage in non-commercial, low-intensity fishing in both the ocean and rivers. They also hunt, mainly deer and iguana. In agricultural production, men are usually responsible for soil preparation as well as slashing and burning, while both men and women are involved in the sowing, harvesting and storage of the crop. Women cultivate and grate yucca, dry it, and then bake it over hot coals into the finished product, cassava bread, some of which is reserved for local market consumption. Women are also responsible for the sale of surplus fish and agricultural products. (Thorne 2004, 23)

This description is consistent with both what I observed and what Garifuna villagers said was important to the culture.

During fieldwork, I asked Garifuna women and men about the most important aspects of the culture—the elements that give the culture its Garifuna-ness. Not surprisingly, food (e.g., ereba) was at

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the top of the list. Since I was interviewing people who regularly and actively participate in the production of ereba, this response came as no surprise. For the single mothers especially, ereba sales are also an important source of income. In addition to ereba, people discussed other traditional foods and drinks.

Villagers both listed the significance of particular traditional foods and talked about the broader importance of agricultural work. The importance of agricultural work, distinct from the appreciation of the foods produced, highlights the functioning of joint agency. It is not simply the end product that is important; it is also the way in which families are working together.

In addition to ereba, villagers talked about the importance of language and dance. UNESCO designated the Garifuna culture as a “masterpiece of oral and intangible heritage” because of the language, dance and music traditions, and all of these items were listed by villagers as important to

Garifuna culture. Villagers also mentioned the importance of traditional clothing.

Language is often identified as one of the markers of a nation. Garifuna people throughout the

Americas are working to preserve the Garifuna language. While Garifuna is still the primary language within the villages, in cities Garifuna youth are increasingly abandoning the language for Spanish. There have been Garifuna language preservation projects launched in New York City (Roberts 2010), and bilingual education programs piloted in Honduras. Although I communicated with Garifuna villagers in

Spanish—a second language for me and them—I did learn some of the Garifuna language while I was in the villages. I carried around a notebook with numbers, names of villages (all of which had a Garifuna name in addition to the Spanish names used by outsiders), and common phrases. In particular, I tried to learn the Garifuna names for the hand-made tools used in ereba production. Although I did not get to the point where I could have full conversations, I could understand basic greetings and ask for something to eat or drink.

Near the end of my stay, I did a final interview with Mariana, who first educated me about understanding the Garifuna community as a community of families. She, like others, talked about the importance of the language. When I asked what are the important elements of Garifuna culture, she said the following to me: “The first thing is the language. Because what use have you been in this year in

Honduras mostly in the Garifuna communities learning something about us as Garifuna and you haven’t learned the language? It’s saying that you’re not doing anything. The first thing is the language.” Initially, I

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thought this was an indictment of my utter uselessness, until she praised me for the few phrases I had learned. What she captures in this statement, and what I mentioned in the previous chapter, is that learning the Garifuna language is actually critical to learning Garifuna culture. Learning gendered language and gender roles are integrated processes.

Although it is easy to imagine how dance and music are jointly important, what is less obvious is the importance of traditional dress within the spaces where the middle-aged Garifuna women are dancing and drumming. Each of the villages has traditional dance groups, or clubes de danza, that perform for ritual ceremonies and special events. During the Christmas holiday, there is constant celebration in the villages, with events nearly every night. During Easter, and local festivals (ferias), the groups also perform. The women buy and/or make identical dresses to be worn during these periods. While men do not wear any traditional garb for these events, women spend months raising money (oftentimes through selling ereba) to make sure everyone in the group is well-coordinated. Thus the top five cultural elements listed by villagers as being important to Garifuna culture were agricultural traditions, traditional foods, the

Garifuna language, Garifuna dances and Garifuna traditional dress. In understanding the family, it is important to analyze how gendered roles and gender complementarity are implicated in the maintenance of these important cultural elements.

Gender Complementarity

Gender complementarity has been constructed in multiple ways including, (1) two halves of a whole, (2) males and females complementing each other to achieve social status, and (3) men and women complementing each other to produce effects that they would be unable to produce separately

(Kellogg 2005, 7). In the Garifuna context, it is difficult to apply the first meaning because of the extent to which women operate in the absence of men. Women are not considered less than whole when men are absent; further women occupy male roles in their absence. As an example, Kellogg (2005) noted the increase in Garifuna female shamans over the second half of the twentieth century, which she attributed in part to male absence (162). Even in ereba production, when men are unavailable to operate machines, women stand in their place. It is also the case that with the large number of single mothers in the Garifuna villages, being without a male partner does not have the same social stigma that it might in a context where the social norms are different. Rather, gender complementarity in Garifuna society is best

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understood in the third sense as allowing men and women to produce outcomes that would not be possible otherwise. When men are present, their physical strength allows a different sort of productivity in relation to agricultural work and cassava production; when they are absent, women scale down those activities.

Kellogg (2005) expressed concern that discussions of gender complementarity in indigenous communities might displace more useful discussions of hierarchy and inequality: “The downplaying of gendered relations of inequality can occur both within indigenous groups themselves, because a discourse of complementarity may disguise the existence of inequality in everyday life, and within scholarly analysis, through a theoretical discourse that deemphasizes gender hierarchy and male dominance” (7). However, it is possible to both recognize the complementarity of gender roles within indigenous communities, while simultaneously addressing hierarchy and inequality; roles can be complementary and unequal.

In exploring gendered roles and gender complementarity in the Garifuna villages, I asked the following questions: “What is the most important contribution of the woman to Garifuna culture? What is the most important contribution of the man?” The top three contributions of the woman were dancing, maintaining the cultural traditions, and doing agricultural work. The top three contributions of men were participating in agricultural work, fishing and drumming. A number of people also mentioned the importance of men helping women to do whatever they need to do. One can easily see how these lists complement one another. Since it is important that the woman dances, it is important that the man drums.

As mentioned earlier, women rely on men to do particular tasks within agricultural work, such as clearing forested areas. Thus his work complements hers. Also, since the woman is primarily responsible for the harvesting of the cassava and other crops, the man brings fish to complement the other food. Finally, since the woman has the difficult task of cultural reproduction, the man acts as an assistant to her in that regard, providing whatever help she needs.

Thus the traditional Garifuna family ideal is headed by a woman who provides food, dance, and cultural education, while the man (when present) brings fish, drums, and assistance (in the fields and at home). The family ideal is heteronormative without being patriarchal. The man is important without being essential. Although for the larger ritual ceremonies, male drummers were always present, on several

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occasions at smaller events, I witnessed women dancing without any drumming, swaying side-to-side while singing together. Although fish (and other meat) is highly valued in the villages, families survive on ereba. When they have nothing else, it can sustain them. And when women need assistance in the fields, there are multiple male relatives to whom they can go for assistance. If a husband is not available, an uncle, brother, or son is easily substituted. Similarly, in the preservation of the culture—language, ritual, education, etc.—women have a number of men that can assist in the education of the next generation in these cultural matters.

As discussed in chapter 3, this ideal operates in a broader international and transnational context, as England (2006) highlighted in her discussion of matrifocality as “one of the main organizing principles of the transnational community” (28). In the next section, I discuss some of the challenges to the traditional gender roles of the community, as well as potential cleavages in the conceptualization of a unified Garifuna nation. The section starts with women as the heads of households and then expands to discuss the relationship of other groups to concepts of Garifuna nationalism.

Garifuna Women & Nation

As mentioned earlier, the coastal Garifuna villages have been targeted by the Honduran state as a site for tourist development. These development opportunities have been interpreted with mixed reviews by the community, with some welcoming any opportunity for better economic circumstances, and others wanting more control over the growth and transformation of the communities. As the gender responsible for the preservation and transmission of Garifuna culture, Garifuna women have unique concerns in relation to these events. In examining the position of the Garifuna woman, Sutton (1997) wrote the following: “They articulate a conscious aim of preserving and transmitting Garifuna culture as it comes under threat from the commercial values of tourism and the sale of coastal land. … They draw on their long history of working together to form cooperatives that have proven to be economically successful” (xiii-xiv). Since land in the Garifuna community passes through the mother’s line, women are responsible for preserving and protecting the land of their families.

Gargolla (2005) similarly discussed how Garifuna women are under threat from global forces, imposing increasingly hierarchical gender structures:

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Today, colonialism is present under the disguise of the tourism industry, the globalization of the economy, and the influence of trends that almost invariably impose a hierarchical structure. Garifuna women are presently in danger of having their role devalued in their community as a result of the loss of coastal land and the shift from a rural economy, that valued their role, to a market-based economy. (137)

Above I discussed the role of the Garifuna woman in relation to culture. Of course, ereba is an important part of her agricultural work, and ultimately her ability to feed her family. And while in the traditional family ideal, she is complemented by Garifuna men, she is also relatively independent.

Blackwood (2006) cautioned scholars against allowing discussions of matrifocality to become heteronormative discussions focused on the “missing man,” urging scholars instead to analyze these households in their own right. The Garifuna family ideal does not actually depend on male presence.

Even though the family ideal is heteronormative and assumes heterosexual partners, there is also an assumption of extended male absence and great female independence, especially among middle-aged women. In this way, we do not run into the same challenges faced by a more restrictive ideal. The system is adaptable inasmuch as when men are present they assist women in their duties and when particular men are absent, women make adjustments to either modify their work or call on men who are present.

Brusco (1995) identified the tendency to see female-headed households as domains missing men in Latin America as a double-standard in our discussions about male and female spaces.

Descriptions of masculine domains in such countries, such as bars, public politics, or certain occupations, do not start out with an extensive consideration of the absence of women in these arenas. Yet the writing on Latin American household and family has historically been hampered by this curious tendency to begin descriptions and analysis of Latin American domestic groups with a consideration of the male component. (80)

In fact, in this context, the absence of men is normalized. Absence is seen as temporary and frequent, and there are customary ways to accommodate male absence with the assistance of other males. This dissertation, understanding the matrifocal household as the norm in Garifuna society, analyzes the agency of the women who are present and active rather than focusing on the absence of men. Further, understanding women as the traditional heads of households of the Garifuna family, I explore the joint agency of the family.

In contrast to the mestizo family, which is represented in the Honduran national identity, the

Garifuna family has to work to be acknowledged as relevant to the state. Vickers (2006) highlighted how being a racial or ethnic minority can alter a woman’s relationship to the state: “Women of the dominant

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nation can rely on state institutions to reproduce their national identity; women of minority nations or peoples experience a greater sense of responsibility for reproducing their national identity. This may predispose some minority women to struggle to liberate ‘their’ nations and make affiliation with such national projects more likely” (92). In this way, Garifuna women are not assisted by the state in their self- determination, but rather often come into conflict with the state in seeking acknowledgement.

As women in poverty, the Garifuna ereba makers also have much more communally interdependent lives, as has been articulated in previous chapters. Yuval-Davis (1998) noted, “People construct themselves as members of national collectivities not just because they, and their forefathers

(and mothers) have shared a past, but also because they believe their futures are interdependent” (22).

As some collective capability scholars have noted, this is often the case in poor and marginalized communities in which coordination is critical to survival. In contrasting bourgeois and peasant classes,

Chatterjee (1999) argued that individuals of the peasant class come together because of communal bonds: “Individuals are enjoined to act within a collectivity because, it is believed, bonds of solidarity that tie them together already exist. Collective action does not flow from a contract among individuals; rather, individual identities themselves are derived from membership in a community” (163). Chatterjee’s statement highlights the importance of group membership in agency and action. In my earlier discussion of joint agency and joint capabilities, I similarly link family membership to the joint efforts of the family to produce development opportunities. Chatterjee (1999) and England (1999) go beyond the interpersonal bonds of family to consider the elements that bind more impersonal collectivities. In particular, England

(1999) discussed Garifuna solidarity and nationalism in an impersonal and transnational context.

England (1999) attended the Bicentennial celebration of the Garifuna arrival in Honduras in 1997, and noted the discussion of nation, not as rooted in any territory, but as a diasporic concept: “The most consistent claim made by Garifuna organizers of the event was that the Garinagu constitute a single ethnic ‘nation’—unified by a common language, culture, and origins in St. Vincent—despite their current geographical dispersion and fragmented citizenships” (8).16 This brand of nationalism is not captured by more conventional theories of violent and territorial nationalist claims. Similar to Anderson’s (2006) imagined communities the Garifuna nation is created through a joint or collective consciousness, “through

16 Garinagu is the plural form of Garifuna.

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consciousness of constituting one people and reconnection to an authentic cultural origin” (England 1999,

8). This idea of a collective consciousness can be likened to the interpersonal we-frame discussed earlier; however, in the context of nationalism, it is applied to a larger, impersonal group.

Rather than applying to a relatively small community of villages connected through interpersonal relationships, the we-frame invoked in the construction of a Garifuna nation relates to a more impersonal collective body. In chapter 5, I discussed the we-frame as invoked in the interpersonal sense of the concept. In that context, “we” referred to one’s family and was deeply rooted in relationships with other individuals and the commitments that bind them. When moving from the concept of family (shaped by interpersonal relationships) to the concept of nation (as an imagined community), a broader impersonal version of the we-frame is invoked. Although everyone in the Garifuna nation does not know one another, they imagine each other as sharing certain cultural traits (e.g., language, music, dance, religious ritual, etc.). Although this impersonal “we” exists in the concept of nation, the relationship of the individual to the nation is often mediated through the interpersonal “we” of the family. In other words, more often than not families, rather than individuals enter into the nation. Recall that in the previous chapter I noted how last names are often used to identify Garifuna individuals as being from a particular family and thus a particular village. In this way, entire families (demarcated by their surnames) are imagined as constituting the Garifuna nation. Based on the importance of family in the ancestral villages, I argue that it is most often in this way that the ereba makers, and other villagers, imagine themselves as part of the Garifuna nation. However, this particular imagining does not preclude the existence of an alternative more individualist and abstract Garifuna nation in diaspora, imagined by urban transmigrants.

When England (1999) discussed the of Garifuna nation in diaspora she referred to the worldviews of Garifuna transmigrants who are living in the US, but have home villages in Honduras. This is an important intersectional distinction. These transmigrants typically have more financial resources than the ereba makers of Honduras, allowing them to be more mobile. This mobility, in turn, facilitates the de- territorialization of their conceptualization of the Garifuna nation. In the rural Garifuna villages of

Honduras, land is everything. With land, you can plant crops and feed a family. A group of Garifuna ereba makers that lists agricultural work as one of the most important signifiers of their Garifuna-ness is unlikely to adopt such abstract notions of the Garifuna nation in diaspora.

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Another important factor is how Honduran mestizo nationalism impacts the agency of the transnational Garifuna community. England (1999) argued that by laying claim to land rights on the basis of their indigenous, or autochthonous, identity, the Garifuna people make claims on the state that are based on rules and rights defined by international institutions outside the state (e.g., United Nations). This accentuates the distinction between the national mestizo citizen and the “state-less” Garifuna national.

The difference of these recent mobilizations from previous peasant and urban movements is that rather than legitimate their claims to these rights only as citizens of the state, they legitimate their claims also through their difference from the nation-state. In other words, indigenous and ethnic peoples claim their rights to land through their ‘primordial’ ties to that territory prior to the existence of the state; they claim rights to cultural sovereignty and bilingual education precisely because of their cultural difference from the national subject; and they claim their rights to economic sufficiency, health care, and other social benefits as universal human rights, rather than only as the rights of citizens of a particular nation-state. (England 1999, 17)

As a response to their marginalization within the state, the Garifuna transnational community has at times taken a circuitous route to rights advocacy, relying on international norms and institutions. While for

Garifuna transmigrants that are less connected to the ancestral villages this may represent a trend towards a de-territorialized nation, for Garifuna people and organizations more firmly rooted in the

Honduran state this represents one strategy of many designed to force inclusion and state recognition.

Rather than an alternative to more direct demands on the state, international pressure is one strategy to open a space for state demands. Garifuna alliances with Honduran groups that do not have a transnational reach are indicators of this ultimate goal of state recognition.

Consider the alliances of Garifuna organizations like OFRANEH with other indigenous groups within Honduras. These groups unite, in part, on the basis of shared Honduran indigeneity. Although they lay claim to rights defined by international institutions, the coordination of these groups within the state is linked to shared citizenship. ODECO, which tends to emphasize the Black identity of the Garifuna people and seek alliances with Afro-descendants in other states, is less restricted by the concept of Garifuna nation in diaspora. Thus, the association of ODECO with a Black racial identity and the association of

OFRANEH with an indigenous ethnic identity impact how each organization is likely to engage the concept of Garifuna nationalism. In addition to having different ethnoracial orientations, these two organizations also have different gendered identities, with ODECO being more male-dominated and

OFRANEH more female-dominated. In a sense OFRANEH is more representative of the traditional

Garifuna Honduran identity, while ODECO is a better representation of the modern Garifuna transmigrant.

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My research interest in the traditional family ideal and Garifuna matrifocality is thus better aligned with the organizational identity of OFRANEH. OFRANEH is committed to a feminist agenda that preserves the status of women in the community, even as the community engages patriarchal institutions and states. My official Fulbright affiliation during fieldwork, however, was with ODECO for the following reasons. When I reached out to both organizations to coordinate interaction, I found it more difficult to maintain contact with OFRANEH from the US. After emailing both organizations, ODECO responded immediately, while it took weeks to receive a response from OFRANEH. The staffing and facility resources of OFRANEH pale in comparison to those of ODECO. Ultimately, there was no need to limit myself to email interactions with ODECO; they, in fact, had representation in Washington, DC. This international reach is one of the characteristics that distinguishes the two organizations: “ODECO, the more powerful of the two nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) in terms of international reach and funding, serves as an intermediary between international aid agencies and Garífuna communities”

(Thorne 2004, 25). ODECO invited me to participate in local (to Washington, DC) planning meetings for a

Summit of Afro-descendants to be held in Honduras.

Thus, for months leading up to my departure for fieldwork, I participated in planning meetings. It was only after arriving in Honduras that I found out about OFRANEH “counter-summit” in response to the political agenda of ODECO. The summit (and counter-summit) took place in August 2011, with the recently “elected” President Lobo in office since January 2010. ODECO publicly shook hands with Lobo, amidst great criticism from both members of OFRANEH and many Afro-descendant communities around the world, who refused to attend the conference because of its close ties with the new government. As a part of the resistance movement, OFRANEH saw Lobo’s administration as a mere continuation of the coup government of Micheletti. Ultimately, I carried out my fieldwork without any strong organizational association; instead, I joined a Garifuna family by making contacts in Honduras.

Another matter of intersectional difference in understanding multiple conceptions of the Garifuna nation relates to technology access. The Garifuna nation in diaspora is described by some US transmigrants as being powered by Internet technologies: “They envision cyberspace as being a tool that will unite the Garinagu across geographical borders, preserve Garifuna culture through technology, and promote the creation of what they call a ‘Global Garifuna Village’ or a ‘Global Garifuna Nation’” (England

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1999, 36). In the rural Garifuna villages of Honduras there is no electric grid and no regular Internet access. This vision thus excludes many rural Garifuna communities that are similarly situated. It is clear that this vision is one for a privileged (in terms of social class, mobility and access to technological resources) Garifuna elite; it is not all-inclusive. In fact, it excludes the villages that are imagined as “home” for most Garifuna—both living in Central America and those in the US.

The use of technology for access to nation and community also highlights a generational distinction. In rural areas, technology, primarily accessed through cell phones, is disproportionately used by young Garifuna men. Recall the earlier discussion about external capabilities and values. Many older

Garifuna villagers will have their children make phone calls for them when they want to communicate with people outside the village. As the primary users of cell phone technology within the family young people are most actively engaging new Internet and cell phone technologies. Thus, we might further describe the

Garifuna nation in diaspora as consisting of young, mobile, and relatively privileged Garifuna individuals.

Finally, England (1999) suggested that the Garifuna in diaspora stands as an alternative to a territorial nationalism. While in some ways this may be true, it cannot be ignored that ultimately everyone has to live in some country. England’s (1999) suggestion that a circuitous path to rights that takes advantage of international institutions can stand as an alternative to state rights, thus seems flawed:

Concerning Garifuna nation in diaspora, England (1999) wrote, “It avoids the trap of having to negotiate for rights as small minorities within historically racist nation-states, and challenges the attempts of these nation-states to reinscribe Garinagu into their nationalist projects. It also creates a narrative of nation where shared culture and identity is more relevant than shared territory” (38).

For those less privileged and less mobile Garifuna individuals advocacy through international or transnational organizations is a path to state recognition, not an alternative. It is a mechanism by which states can be pressured to recognize marginalized populations. However, one should not assume that because Garifuna communities are taking advantage of these opportunities, that they are any less interested in being considered full citizens of Honduras (or any other state). In particular, for the women of the Garifuna ancestral villages this is a path to the protection of the ancestral lands—lands that are necessary for the subsistence farming and ereba-making that dominate rural livelihoods.

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Thus far in this chapter I have talked about the Garifuna traditional family ideal and Garifuna women and nation. In the remainder of this chapter, I focus on how these concepts are taking form within the ereba production process. In the next section, I describe the shift in ereba production from a process that was completely dominated by women to a process that now includes more men and machinery.

Given that women are the heads of the Garifuna households and that ereba-making is an important cultural symbol of Garifuna culture, this analysis is central to the discussion of Garifuna family and nation in the Honduran state.

Shifting Women’s Joint Capabilities to Individual Men

In chapter 5, I established that ereba production is considered women’s work. In spite of the inclusion of both men and women in the ereba production process, ereba continues to be thought of as a product of the women of the community. Two of the galpones casaberos with which I worked—“Women’s

Traditions” and “Women Warriors”—were women-only organizations; all of the galpones were predominately female. Although women initially led all four of the organizations, one of the mixed-sex galpones, “Community Cassava,” changed leadership from a woman to a man during my time in the village. In my interviews with the man who took over as president, Nicolas clearly saw his role as one of assisting in what traditionally is considered “women’s work.” He described his work with the group as follows: “We are going to have to work a little on behalf of the women that are [in the group] because the galpón is specifically for women. … The work that I do in the galpón is volunteer work and is a help to the women of the community.” Diego, another man in the same galpón, echoed this characterization of ereba production as women’s work:

I do not mean to say that the work is exclusively done by women. … Culturally, true enough, the one who does more is the woman. But the role of the man from the preparation of the land, meaning the clearing of land and chopping of trees, this is the most direct work of the man. … Everything is distributed [among men and women] with the woman being more dedicated to the processing of the cassava that would be the preparation of the ereba. But the role of the man is also integral. It is all distributed. The man is involved in the preparation of the land all the way through the planting of the cassava. Afterwards, the rest of the work is more cultural and is the function of the woman.

As evidenced in the statement above, ereba belongs culturally to the women in spite of the participation of men in cassava cultivation. In this way, there is both gender complementarity and ownership of ereba production by women. Women have long taken cultural ownership of ereba-making in

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Garifuna communities, as one of the early pioneers in the study of Garifuna culture, Nancie Gonzalez

(1969), described:

It was traditional in Black Carib culture for the women to be the primary agricultural producers. Men contributed in this sphere by clearing and burning the land in preparation for planting, but after that the women took over and completed the cycle of cultivation and harvesting. A woman’s responsibility did not end with the harvest – she also processed the foods and produced and converted them into edible form. For bitter manioc, this involved the laborious task of expressing the poisonous acid, and the manufacture of areba, or cassava bread, the main staple. (46)

Women, through the baking of cassava flour to produce ereba, are at the center of ereba production. As such, they represent the apex of this multi-layered process involving multiple community members. They are central to a discussion about ereba-related capabilities, and the changing gender relations within ereba production.

The ereba production process is being modernized through the mechanization of ereba grinding and straining. Increased mechanization has meant the increased inclusion of men in the process. The classification of ereba production as women’s work is being challenged by its increased commercialization, characterized by increased inclusion of men and machinery in the production process.

As it becomes a business venture capable of providing increased economic benefits, men are becoming involved in both the mechanization and commercialization of ereba. In a context where there are very few opportunities to earn income, mechanized ereba production provides a rare opportunity to earn income by operating and/or repairing grinding machines and straining equipment. In chapter 5, I gave an overview of the entire ereba production process. Here I describe and discuss the cassava grinding and straining processes that are being altered through mechanization.

As a reminder, grinding happens after cassava has been harvested, peeled and washed. The modern process is done in the molinos, or cassava grinding houses, managed by the galpones casaberos. A small fee is paid for the grinding services. These fees are used to buy diesel for the machine and pay the male workers. The cooperative organizations distribute any profits among the members. Profits, however, are quite rare. During my stay in the villages, three of the four molinos had periods of time when they were not operational because of mechanical problems. It is costly to have the machines repaired. During these times, the women would take their cassava to a different molino—either one in the same village (if available) or one in a neighboring village. Since travelling to a neighboring village required paying motortaxi fees, most women would try to wait until the closest molino was working

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rather than pay to travel. The one galpón that was operational throughout my entire stay was that of

“Women Warriors.” This group had a duplicate grinding machine, so that when one was out of order, they could switch to the backup machine. This was also the only group that reported profits during my stay.

Oftentimes, when patrons come to the molino to grind cassava, they are coming directly from their cassava fields. In these instances, they peel and wash the cassava at the molinos. Other times, people will bring cassava that has already been peeled at their home (or the home of a friend or relative).

Often this decision is made on the basis of the location of the field, home, and molino; the most efficient route is selected. The grinding machines housed at the molinos use large motors and gasoline to power sharp metal blades into which the cassava is fed. Each of the galpones casaberos had men who were responsible for maintaining these grinding machines.

Cut into manageable pieces, women (and sometimes men) work in a group to feed the cassava into the grinding machines. Some grinders are oriented horizontally with the cassava fed into the grinder by someone pushing the cassava with a wooden handle into the swiftly moving blades. Other grinders are oriented vertically with someone standing above an open chute pushing the cassava down into the moving blades. A large plastic bowl is placed at the other end of the grinder where the wet cassava dough is spit out of the machine. One person feeds the cassava into the grinder, while another searches for lumps in the wet dough. Any lumps go through another round of grinding. As one bowl fills up with wet dough, there are people standing by to ensure the smooth transition to the next bowl without a pause in the grinding. Gasoline is expensive, and there is no time or money for lengthy pauses. The line moves efficiently from one woman’s cassava to the next.

The women are grateful for the grinders that save them hours, if not days, of work. Because of their advanced age and deteriorating health, some of them would not be able to continue making ereba were it not for the grinders. Camila, for example, said that when the grinder is broken, she worries because her health does not allow her to grind cassava using traditional methods: “When there is no molino, I don’t pick cassava.” She simply cannot endure the physical labor of manual cassava grinding.

Although groups of women rarely do manual grinding of cassava anymore, I was able to see the manual grinding process used when small amounts of cassava were being ground for traditional food dishes.

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Historically, women stand in a large circle to grind cassava on wooden boards with small pebbles embedded in them. They would sing as they ground the cassava in rhythm to the songs.

The technological advances of the ereba production process, from which many women benefit, also have cultural consequences, such as the disappearance of the grinding songs. Valeria remembered a time when these songs were sung: “I remember when I was a girl, we had special songs for grinding cassava. And now, I believe that with the new youth these songs have been forgotten. Yes. They are being lost, not only the grinding tradition but also the songs are being lost.” Along with the communal grinding, women are also losing a space to gather and sing and share stories. Samantha lamented the loss of this special time with other women: “We are not united enough to grind cassava like before.” When

I asked Samantha if she would prefer to grind cassava manually as it was done in the past, she said,

“Yes. I would grind manually if my colleagues would help like before. When there are enough people and we have each other, we can grind the cassava like before but I don’t have the help to do it. Alone I cannot grind so much cassava.” This statement highlights a desire to participate in communal grinding, as much for the camaraderie as for the actual necessity of grinding cassava.

Because the process is a joint capability, one person alone cannot grind enough cassava to make ereba. There has to be a group committed to each other and to the shared goal. Thus, in this context the joint capability of cassava grinding disappears. What stands in its place are a set of nonequivalent individual capabilities. For example, women can take their cassava to be ground at the molinos, if they have the money for the fees. Men are hired to operate and maintain those machines.

It is important to emphasize that when men enter the ereba production process, they often enter as paid labor. While the women (and men in the case of the mixed-gender galpones) share and re-invest profits from the molinos, women are not paid any set fees for their work. However, the men who maintain the machines are often paid, as a condition of their labor. It is calculated as an upfront cost, along with gasoline, rent, and other monthly expenses. Even though women have demonstrated the capacity to operate the machinery (particularly in the absence of men), there were no women who were regularly paid mechanics or operators during my time in the villages. It is not consistent with how women’s roles have been defined in the mechanization process.

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One must also consider the impact of the mechanization on women’s livelihoods. Lost are the traditional cassava-grinding songs and a communal space for women. Their labor is devalued as economic value is placed on men’s labor; still women are expected to maintain a spirit of communal volunteerism. With the traditional grinding methods, there was no money exchange; instead women alternated helping each other to grind one another’s cassava. In the new modern system, men grind cassava for money, and women continue to help grind cassava for each other without pay. The women only receive money if there is profit after other operational costs, including men’s labor, have been paid.

Most galpones are fortunate to just break even. The mechanization of cassava grinding demonstrates a clear shift from joint capabilities of women to individual capabilities of men. The mechanization of cassava straining demonstrates a similar shift.

After the cassava is ground into wet dough, it is strained. The strainers consist of a series of two or three metal, rectangular baskets that fit into one another. The baskets are stacked one atop the other between two metal planks that are part of a metal stand. Large, recycled food sacks are ripped open to line the baskets. The women dump bowls of wet cassava dough into the first lined basket until the man

(or on rare occasions, the woman) operating the straining device says to stop. When the first basket is filled, the sack is folded to enclose the dough. Then the next basket (or baskets) is (are) filled in the same manner. A wooden plank is used to cover the dough in the top basket. Finally a hydraulic jack is placed between the wooden plank and the top of the metal stand. The jack is used to squeeze the liquid from the dough. The liquid drains into a large bucket beneath the metal stand.

As liquid is drained from the dough, additional wooden planks are sometimes added to extract more liquid. When the dough has been drained to the desired moisture level, the now rectangular sacks are lifted out of the metal baskets and dumped into plastic containers used to carry the flour home. The women say that the cassava flour should crumble in one’s hands like dry cheese. The women leave the molino carrying large bowls of flour on their heads, or in wheel barrels. Children of all sizes carry appropriate sized containers, girls balancing them on their heads, boys holding them on bent backs.

Baking is done on the day immediately following the cassava processing.

Before the mechanization of the straining process, women dried the cassava dough by using a ruguma, or a long, winding, straw cylinder. With the ruguma hanging from a tree, the women would add

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increasingly heavy weights to drain the liquid from the cassava dough. When the jack was not working, which happened on several occasions at the molinos, or when women wanted to save money, they would use the traditional straining methods. Since cassava grinding is much more labor intensive, given the choice between grinding cassava manually or straining it manually, any woman would choose straining.

In fact, many women regularly left the molinos with their wet dough to avoid the additional fees.

On the day I went to Renata’s house to observe and participate in the traditional cassava straining, there were two other women and one young boy there to help. One woman held the ruguma, while another scooped the dough into the open end. Then, the woman holding the ruguma shook the wet dough all the way to the bottom. She alternated accepting dough into the mouth of the ruguma and shaking it to the bottom until it was almost filled to the top. Finally, a clean sock was stuffed into the end of the ruguma to stop the dough from spilling out of the open end. Then, the ruguma was hung.

Oftentimes a ruguma is hung on a strong tree branch. However, Renata had a log that ran across the top of her cooking house. The young boy, who was helping, climbed up to the rafters, using the window as a stepping ladder, and hung the open end of the ruguma on the log. Hanging below, the closed end of the ruguma, which has a small loop on the end, was threaded with a stick that sat beneath a wooden plank. The first woman sat on the plank, and water began to drain from the ruguma. Then, the second woman joined her. The boy in the rafters removed some of the dough that was seeping out of the open end of the ruguma; then he closed the opening with the clean sock. We continued adding weight until I was standing on the plank and the other women were all sitting and until all the liquid had drained from the dough. When the liquid stopped dripping, the young boy pushed the ruguma off the log while the woman below held it. Then the dried cassava flour was shaken out of the ruguma in small, can-sized cylinders. Renata felt the texture of one of the cylinders to ensure that it was the right texture—that of dry cheese.

One of the things that stood out during the traditional straining was the camaraderie of sisterhood.

Different neighbors stopped by and lent their weight to the straining. It was a time for the women to talk and socialize. In the molinos, there is not much talking, in large part because of the deafening noise of the grinding machine. In this transition to machinery, there is a shift from women to men. Men, with their typically superior upper body strength, are responsible for using the jack to strain the cassava. They are

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typically paid for their services. In the traditional process, women simply rotate assisting one another to strain the cassava: no money is exchanged. Thus, there is a transition from ereba production activities that centered on women’s social circles and communal notions of sharing to processes that are now mechanized and masculinized with a paid male labor force.

Shifts in the grinding and straining processes demonstrate that the galpones are funneling traditional opportunities of groups of women to individual men. If the path to a more modern ereba production process increasingly includes more machinery, then the decision to give paid work to men, and not women, must be examined critically. Were a woman to demand payment for her work, she would be accused of not maintaining the communal ethic of the Garifuna culture. As the major source of economic empowerment for women in the villages, the diversion of mechanical labor to men limits profits to women—the traditional heads of the Garifuna household. It does so by maintaining the traditional roles of women as bakers and sellers, while assigning any modern profit-making opportunities associated with mechanization (e.g., grinder mechanic or cassava strainer) to men.

Although the women working to create a better community are challenging some traditional beliefs about women’s roles, especially in relation to the pursuit of a girls’ education in the city, they are not challenging the gender ideologies that posit men as better equipped to handle modern machinery.

Below, I focus on changes within the structure and organization of the galpones that exist to facilitate ereba-making capabilities. I consider whether or not these changes in the traditional women’s work of ereba-making are creating a larger shift in the matrifocality of the Garifuna society.

From Matrifocality to New Gender Hierarchies

The galpones casaberos are predominately women’s groups. While men are members, they are in the minority, and typically characterize their participation as assisting community women. When I arrived in the villages, each of the four organizations with which I worked—“Women Warriors” in Zafra,

“Fish to Cassava” in Carmona, and “Women’s Traditions” and “Community Cassava” in Cuenca—were led by female presidents. In my home village of Cuenca, I observed a shift in the leadership (from a woman to a man) that might portend coming shifts in the gendered organization of Garifuna society.

The mechanization of cassava processing brings about the ability to mass produce ereba, and sell the product commercially. Flavored cassava chips, which are produced from ereba, are commonly

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sold at gas stations and grocery stores throughout Honduras. The galpones represent one of the few opportunities to earn income locally, through management of the molinos where fees are collected for grinding and straining cassava. Since almost everyone in the community has cassava and prefers to save hours of time by using the grinders, the molinos provide small but steady income for the galpones. More importantly, the galpones represent the potential commercialization of the ereba product for a larger national or international market. Although not entirely viable at this point, there are some sales of ereba in

New York, especially in the Bronx, where there is a critical mass of Garifuna migrants.

In this way, ereba represents the possibility of exporting the ancestral villages’ most abundant traditional food product to other markets. Although Garifuna women have a long history of participation in informal markets, this would be an opportunity to showcase their product in the formal market. During my time in the country, a woman who purchased ereba from the villages to make flavored cassava chips was awarded a contract by Pizza Hut, to include the unflavored, bite-sized cassava chips in salad bars throughout Honduras. The ereba makers are filled with aspirations of this kind of exposure. Some of the men, with their longtime work experiences in Honduras’ formal market and in international markets, consider themselves better equipped than the women to manage such a transition. One such man was

Nicolas, who took over the presidency of “Community Cassava” in my home village of Cuenca.

During an interview, Nicolas talked about the role of women in the management of ereba production.

In the group, there have always existed men. They have always existed. The only thing is that we have tried to give a little more power to the women because they, as women, the majority of women in the communities are 100 percent dedicated to the production of ereba. So, women are the producers. They should assume, or they should be in the front, in that sense. In that sense they should manage it. … The importance of the men’s work as well as women’s, as I see it, is the same. The only thing that I would say is that women dedicate themselves more to ereba. So, it is for that reason that they should be ahead and the men should follow, giving assistance. Right? That makes sense. … With respect to the sale of ereba, it constitutes an economic activity for the sustenance of the family. And there are a certain percentage of mothers that are single mothers. So, for them, they sustain their family with the sale of this product.

Although Nicolas thought that women should be at the forefront of the galpones, he decided (quite condescendingly) that he needed to take over management of the local galpón. Men’s role in ereba- making, according to Nicolas, is one of assistance. Why, then, would he feel compelled to take over as president of “Community Cassava?” When I asked this question, Nicolas produced financial reports that he claimed demonstrated financial mismanagement on the part of the previous president, Emilia. He had

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been president before Emilia, and showed me the records from his time as president. He said that he had created a profitable organization that he handed over to Emilia, and that the organization was now without any money because of her negligence and/or incompetence.

When I interviewed Emilia during her presidency, she expressed great pride in being selected by a community that had confidence in her abilities. Her confidence was not particularly high, since she had been having trouble finding employment. In a way, this position helped her to believe in her own abilities.

This stands in sharp contrast to Nicolas’ thinking about his presidency as a favor to the women who need his help. In the organizational meeting during which the change of leadership was announced, Emilia was reserved and quiet. She appeared to be ashamed in light of Nicolas’ reports about the mismanagement of funds. When I later talked to a neighbor about the rearrangement of leadership, she said that Nicolas had organized his support to ensure a swift and quiet return to the presidency he had previously held.

If Emilia had stolen the money, should she not be held accountable? If she was incapable of managing the accounts, why did Nicolas not offer to help her? It would not be unconceivable that she simply was inexperienced in managing bank accounts. There is no bank branch in the area where I conducted research; there is only an automatic teller machine (ATM) at a pulpería, or small shop, several towns over. Banking transactions are a phenomenon restricted to the city. Nicolas, in contrast to Emilia, has a second home in the nearest city, where his children attend school. Although he is the director of the school in Cuenca, his own children attend the schools in the city.

Embedded in this story is the gendered disparity in educational opportunities, employment access, and positional status. Nicolas has a degree in education and works as the director of the local school, in no small part due to the sacrifices of his older sisters, at least one of whom wanted to pursue her own education but was required (by her parents) to stay home and help support her younger brother’s studies instead. Emilia earned her degree in bilingual (Spanish/Garifuna) education later in life after marrying, but has been unable to find work. Emilia took great pride in her position as president of

“Community Cassava”—a position that undoubtedly contributed to her community status. For Nicolas, the presidency was a favor to the women, who he believed were incapable of running a business; his social status in the community came from running the local school.

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I mention these disparities to emphasize that as the ereba production process is led increasingly by men, the spaces diminish where women can function and thrive in leadership positions. Historically, the “ereba space” represented a protected social space for women—one that had community status and power. Unfortunately, this space appears to be contracting within the Garifuna community. In the context of a Honduran national culture that does not provide great opportunities to women and/or ethnoracial minorities, Garifuna women are losing important ground.

The future of ereba depends in part on whether and how these gendered tensions are resolved, locally and transnationally. If ereba production ceases to be “women’s work,” will men take up the charge of transferring ereba knowledge and traditions to future generations? The songs are already disappearing. Will ereba soon disappear as well? Only time will tell. However, it is important that we “see” this women’s work so that if it does disappear, that disappearance is recognized as a loss and not ignored because of the joint aspect of the agency involved. Joint agency is gendered and led by women who are the heads of households. Thus the mechanization of the ereba production process is not simply a shift from joint capabilities to individual capabilities; it is simultaneously a shift from women’s capabilities to men’s capabilities. In the context of the matrifocal Garifuna society, this translates into a shift from joint capabilities of the family to individual capabilities of men.

In this section, I have discussed the shift in the ereba production process away from groups of women to individual men. Building upon a discussion of a traditional matrifocal Garifuna family ideal, I have linked the mechanization of ereba production to a shift away from joint capabilities of the family. As discussed above, the Garifuna nation is often imagined as consisting of Garifuna families, especially among Garifuna people in the ancestral villages. Building upon this important link between family and nationalism, the next section examines how the family, and specifically dimensions of a Garifuna family ideal, can be used to analyze the relationship of the Garifuna nation to the Honduran state.

Six Dimensions of the Family Ideal

In her study of Black families in the US, Collins (1998b) identified “how six dimensions of the traditional family ideal construct intersections of gender, race, and nation. … Collectively, these six dimensions illuminate specific ways that ideological constructions of family, as well as the significance of family in shaping social practices, constitute an especially rich site for intersectional analysis” (63). Below,

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I use the same six dimensions to engage in an intersectional analysis of families engaged in making ereba. The six dimensions are (1) the contradictory relationship between equality and hierarchy, (2) the multiple meanings attached to the concept of home, (3) presumption of blood ties, (4) the relationship between rights and responsibilities, (5) family wealth (rather than individual income), and (6) family planning. Family, as a site for performing intersectional analysis has both analytical and political value:

“Just as the traditional family ideal provides a rich site for understanding intersectional inequalities, reclaiming notions of family that reject hierarchical thinking may provide an intriguing and important site of resistance” (Collins 1998b, 77). By discussing each of the six dimensions, family is analyzed in order to highlight useful insights about both ereba-making and the position of the Garifuna family within the larger

Honduran state.

Equality and Hierarchy

Garifuna society is organized around a women-centered, or matrifocal, household. Within this structure, older women are at the top of the hierarchy. Even with increasing migration, the transnational community continues to conform to the matrifocal ordering, routing remittances and others goods through the mothers of the community. This pre-state matrifocal structure has allowed for a more equitable relationship between men and women, with the relationship constructed in terms of gender complementarity rather than gendered domination. At the same time, middle-aged women exert power over the behavior of younger Garifuna women. Young women are thus disadvantaged even within a matrifocal society; it is only after childbearing years that women in their roles as mothers gain significant privilege, and approach more equitable relations with their male peers.

However, increasingly, in ereba production, there is a shift from the equitable, communal sharing to a new, gendered hierarchy of male paid labor in the service of women’s work. It is in some ways surprising that men did not enter into these ereba spaces on the same, non-hierarchical system as women. This is especially true when we consider that the typical woman involved in ereba-making is the powerful, middle-aged woman, not a younger Garifuna woman. Even given this power, the women have valued the work of the men through paid labor. An answer to the question of why these women have decided to pay the men to work in the molinos can be uncovered by exploring the relationship of the

Garifuna community to the Honduran state.

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There is extreme poverty in Honduras. Within the Honduran state, men are constructed as the primary wage earners for the male-headed household. This is the context in which Garifuna men leave their communities for wage work in the formal Honduran economy. When problems of unemployment are discussed in such a context, the primary focus is on employment of men. Women’s wages are secondary in this context. An important part of being a Honduran man is wage work. In this context, Garifuna men are emasculated by a lack of employment. Young Garifuna men in the villages lack the respect of other villagers because it is thought that if they were able to earn a wage in the city, they would be there and not in the villages. Older men are expected to have a presence in the village, but for younger men living in the village often represents a failure to thrive in the city. Women as the redistributors of wealth within

Garifuna villages are thus creating “dignified” male work in the villages by paying male employees. These men are not simply helping family; they are employed in legitimate work.

Sarah England (1998) identified a similar (de)valuation of labor in her analysis of the transnational community that links the United States (specifically New York) to Honduras:

Ironically, then, men who stay in the village reproducing the very ‘traditional’ culture that migrants praise and are so often nostalgic about (fishing, constructing canoes and the implements for making cassava bread, serving as musicians at wakes and other rituals) do not experience as much prestige as those who migrate abroad and return only periodically but with powerful dollars. … Unlike non-migrant men, women who remain in the village are not criticized for doing so. The fact that many continue to engage in the ‘traditional’ activities of making cassava bread and organizing ancestor rituals is presented by villagers as proof of the resilience of Garifuna culture and the strength of women. (148)

In this way, there is a hierarchy not just between Garifuna living in rural and urban areas, but also among particular generations and genders of Garifuna living in both spaces. The middle-aged woman is privileged in the village, in particular. Given this privileged position, these women have the power to provide men with dignified (i.e., paid) forms of work. As evidenced in the discussion above, that decision does not come without costs to women in terms of their own ability to profit from the women’s work of ereba-making.

Meaning of Home

Home is always in the ancestral Garifuna villages. No matter how far the Garifuna travel, each person knows which village is his/her home village. Men work in the US with the expectation that they will retire to their home villages. I met retired men who were now living in the villages, and men who were

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visiting the villages to prepare their homes for retirement. Even when couples choose a marital home outside their villages, the original ancestral villages of the individuals are always considered their primary home(s). There is, however, a gendered nuance here.

I met a man who was visiting from New York to prepare his home in the village, which was occupied by a relative while he was out of the country. He talked to me about his wife, with whom he has children. He said that although he was preparing to come home when he retires, his wife wants to stay in the US. She enjoys the freedom of life in the US, and does not want to return to the traditional expectations of being a Garifuna village woman. She also has access to a broader range of opportunities, in terms of access to basic amenities like electricity and to employment. The man said that he planned to return regardless of his wife’s decision, even if it meant getting a divorce. Although the woman likely considers her village home, there are always conditions under which one might not return home; limited life opportunities for professional women are included among deterrents for women’s return to home villages.

Ereba-making and the traditional culture of the Garifuna are what mark the villages as the ancestral homes of all Garifuna. Even when Garifuna people have been reared in the cities, everybody can trace their lineage to a village. Further, the Garifuna return to the villages during holidays and vacations to celebrate the ancestral villages. During these visits, they get their year’s supply of ereba, they dance the traditional dances, and they indulge in the nostalgia of a traditional Garifuna life. The symbolic value of ereba is thus maintained because of this deep appreciation of the Garifuna history and culture.

In the greater Honduran context, the marginalization of Garifuna people only deepens the value of the ancestral villages. Although Garifuna live in all major cities of Honduras, they do not live as they would if they were “at home” in the villages. The larger Honduran society has not embraced the Garifuna as part of Honduran culture, except in the narrow sense of being a tourist attraction. The tour companies that carry Garifuna names and images rarely employ Garifuna people; instead, they employ mestizo

Hondurans who take tourists to see the Garifuna in their “natural habitat,” as one would view any of the other brochure items, like the Copán ruins. In this sense, the alienation that Garifuna people are likely to experience in Honduran cities only deepens the appreciation of a Garifuna home that awaits their return.

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Blood Ties

As discussed in chapter 5, the presumption of blood ties among family members, especially family members in traditional indigenous communities, is misplaced. Families are constructed, in part, through blood ties. However, a much more significant part of the construction of family relates to one’s joint commitments and shared goals, required to create what Gilbert (1996) refers to as the plural subject agent. The family unit is ideal for understanding the depth of commitments within the Garifuna community, which longtime community activist Mariana refers to as a community of families. It is because of this flexibility of the family concept that I was able to enter a community, not through an organizational affiliation, but rather through commitment to a particular family.

The family is the base for the community. The family is also the logical unit for understanding ereba-making. The women are a collection of mothers, or heads of households, jointly committed to the shared goal of educating family, and community children. Their primary means to achieving this goal is the production of ereba, which can be consumed or sold by family members. Families are central to the ereba-making process, and engage in the various steps—cultivating, harvesting, carrying/transporting, peeling, washing, grinding, straining, and baking—as a unit.

Between the Garifuna native and the mestizo Honduran, there is no presumption of blood ties.

The racialization of the Garifuna as outside the Honduran national identity makes him/her an “other”— beyond the reach of being native son or native daughter. There also is no presumption of blood ties among mestizo Hondurans. Thus, while mestizo identity is constructed under the guise of uniting the

Honduran population, Honduras is constructed as one nation, but not one family. In other words the mestizo nation is a nation of individuals, while the Garifuna nation is primarily one of families. While the mestizo nation is constructed based on an exclusionary logic of not including Blacks, the Garifuna nation is inclusive of non-Garifuna people who join Garifuna families. For example, children with a Garifuna parent who learn the Garifuna language and demonstrate an appreciation for Garifuna culture are part of the Garifuna nation, regardless of whether they also have a mestizo parent and are very fair-skinned.

Rights and Responsibilities

In line with the gender complementarity of traditional Garifuna roles, each person has his/her rights and responsibilities. The middle-aged woman, at the head of the household, manages family

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relations, redistributes resources, and preserves cultural traditions. The younger woman learns from the older woman but comports herself in a more restricted context. She should be monogamous, avoid pregnancy and focus on her educational and professional ambitions. The middle-aged man should be helping the woman to maintain the household and cultivate crops, while the young man should be away from the village pursuing wage labor that will be remitted to the mother.

In this structure the middle-aged woman has significant power. She has the power and position to direct individuals. If they do not comply with her desires, she has the right to withhold resources. The younger Garifuna woman is disempowered in this context; she can only operate within the limits defined by the mother, while she waits to achieve similar status with age. The middle-aged man has the right to share in the bounty of the family, including food and shelter, so long as he is fully committed to the shared goals of the family. The younger man similarly has the right to share in the benefits associated with being part of the family, as long as he shows respect for the power of the mother.

Within the ereba production process, all family members are responsible for participating in gender-appropriate ways. For example, men must clear forested land and women must bake ereba.

Because this is traditionally women’s work, the burden of responsibility is on the women, who must solicit assistance from male family members when needed. Everyone who cooperates in the shared goal of ereba production, and assists with the sale of ereba, as directed by the female head of household, is able to share in the benefits, in terms of sustenance and other resources.

In the larger Honduran society, Garifuna people have been active participants in the Honduran economy and the promotion of national interests. This is evident in their contributions as laborers during the banana years. They continue to contribute to the Honduran economy as the focal point of various tourist development plans. Unfortunately, these responsibilities have not been coupled with appropriate access to state rights. The Garifuna have struggled for decent working conditions and decent wages as laborers. As tourist attractions, they have fought for a more equitable share in profits and for control over the process by which their culture is commodified. The Garifuna also continue to fight for land rights that represent their historical use of coastal lands for traditional livelihoods that include cassava cultivation and fishing.

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Family Wealth

Wealth in the Garifuna villages is in large part a function of land. Land is passed down through the mother’s bloodline. In the ancestral villages, land is one of the best indicators of wealth. With jobs concentrated in urban areas, income from wage labor is not an effective measurement of family wealth. In earlier times, it was possible for Garifuna families to survive by “living off of the land.” Today there is a growing dependence on products purchased in the cities. However, considering that families are spread across the rural-urban divide, this can be interpreted as family interdependence. Together families organize support mechanisms to improve life opportunities, with money (or income) only being a small part of the calculation.

Ereba sales provide income. Ereba thus provides a default vocation for villagers that can be used to earn income and contribute to family wealth, since income is redistributed through the head of household. Ereba also requires land cultivation, and thus uses villagers’ most valued asset. Ereba- making is a way to translate the potential of the land into wealth for the family. Ereba also taps into a form of wealth that is not economic—the cultural wealth, or richness, of the community. By maintaining particular prized traditions, village families entertain the nostalgia of Garifuna ancestry and attract both

Garifuna natives returning “home” and tourists seeking to engage “authentic” indigenous culture. Imagine, for example, workshops for tourists who want to see the traditional process of ereba-making. In this way, the ereba-making process represents a certain potential for family and community wealth.

In the larger Honduran society, the Garifuna have been greatly disadvantaged in terms of their ability to generate family wealth. The most obvious example of this is the constant infringement on

Garifuna lands. Especially with Honduras’ political instability, the Garifuna community is constantly working to secure stable rights to both communal land and family property. Of course, the discrimination against Black male and female workers makes wage work less productive even when available. In this sense the state has created a number of challenges for the accumulation of wealth among Garifuna families.

Family Planning

In the traditional Garifuna family there is no family planning. The families are large and that is considered a component of family wealth. The bigger the family, the better the chances of advancing the

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family. While younger women are making some different decisions, there continues to be an inclination towards thinking of children not in terms of cost (as they are so often assessed in economic analyses) but in terms of the expanding family potential. Although older women punish younger women for having children before finishing school and securing a career, these same women often care for the children of sons who they continue to support in their studies. Younger women who have migrated to the city are much more likely to limit the number of children they have, especially if they enjoy city life, since for many young women becoming pregnant means an end to family support of educational pursuits, and likely a return to the village.

In the context of ereba production, large families are a benefit for difficult agricultural work.

Women enjoy having adult daughters present to help them juggle household tasks. If multiple women are present in the household, one can prepare lunch for the other who is cultivating crops that morning; one woman can stay home and care for the children while the other does the agricultural work. Fathers and sons can clear forested land for the planting of new crops. Thus each member of the family contributes, and because the roles are assigned based on age and gender, it is useful to have multiple people available for each of the roles. Because the agricultural work ultimately creates the most important resource needed to sustain the family—food—if everyone is contributing, everyone should at the very least be able to survive, if not thrive through this joint effort.

The Honduran state, of course, promotes family planning. In this context, the desired ideal family is a nuclear family, all living in the same home. The Honduran ideal does not take into account the needs of an agrarian culture with alternative structures of living. Nor does it consider the subsistence farming context in which given enough land everyone is fed—not through economic purchasing power, but through the joint agency of the family. The state, and the international institutions that shape it, consider large families a burden. They judge the women who have large families as ignorant and lacking proper education; they react by implementing policies for family education. Through such education programs the state also encourages the younger Garifuna students to judge the actions of their mothers, who manage the household and support their educational efforts. The potential for intergenerational tension here is obvious. State policies encourage an intergenerational rift in the Garifuna family by characterizing

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long-held practices that have maintained the community as both based in ignorance and as a threat to the economic progress of the nation and the state.

Conclusion

This chapter has explored the family as a tool for understanding the Garifuna nation in the context of the Honduran state. In order to do this, I first described the traditional Garifuna family ideal, identifying specific gendered roles. Next, I discussed Garifuna women—the heads of the Garifuna household—in relation to the concept of the Garifuna Nation in diaspora (England 1999). Understanding the traditional

Garifuna family ideal in relation to various conceptualizations of the Garifuna nation, I then discussed the gendered shift in the ereba production process. This included mechanization of cassava grinding and cassava straining, as well as a recent shift in the leadership of “Community Cassava.” In the final section of this chapter, I explored Collins’ (1998b) six dimensions of the traditional family ideal to engage in a discussion of the relationship between the Garifuna family, the tradition of ereba-making, and the

Honduran state. This discussion highlights the intersectional nuances of power and inequality within the family. In particular, generational difference stands out as important to an analysis of opportunities, or capabilities, available to various family members.

The next chapter makes a unique contribution to the human development approach by introducing a multi-level capabilities approach. Building upon the transnational Black feminist (TBF) framework, I develop a multi-level capabilities approach that is better suited to an analysis of development in the Garifuna communities that consist of families, and better suited to intersectional analyses of development more broadly. Having drawn on ethnographic experiences in the Garifuna ancestral villages to engage in a discussion of capabilities of individuals, families, and nations within the state, the next chapter completes the discussion of the TBF framework’s application to development capabilities by discussing capabilities of states and transnational collectivities.

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CHAPTER 8

INTRODUCING THE MULTI-LEVEL CAPABILITIES APPROACH

Women, Young Man, and Child in Molino (February 15, 2012)

Pictured above are several women, a young man and a child gathered around to grind cassava at the molino. The women pictured represent the joint agency and joint capabilities of the family, explored in detail in chapters 4 and 5. The young man, paid for his labor, is representative of the mechanization and masculinization of the ereba production process. The child represents the motivation behind the joint agency of families, led by mothers, raising money to send village children to the city to be educated. In

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this way, the young boy is symbolic of the projective (future) aspect of joint agency. He is part of the future for which the women are working. The women, as the primary culture bearers, are representative of the iterational (past) aspect of the joint agency of families, preserving the traditional culinary art of ereba- making, albeit through modern method. The young man, as a part of a family and part of the community, helps in this shared goal of making ereba. However, his paid work emphasizes the practical-evaluative

(present) aspect of agency because it provides him, and ultimately his mother and family, with financial resources.

This image represents a much more nuanced picture of capabilities than is typically represented by capabilities scholars. In this chapter, I lay out the components of a multi-level capabilities approach that is derived from the transnational Black feminist framework (TBF) introduced in the second chapter.

While individual capabilities only capture a small component of the opportunities sought by Black women, and other marginalized groups, a multi-level approach to capabilities offers a richer and more comprehensive analysis: “Black feminist thought’s identity as ‘critical’ social theory lies in its commitment to justice, both for Black women as a collectivity and for that of other similarly oppressed groups” (Collins

2000a, 9). This framework is thus intended to contribute to theory and to the activism of scholars concerned with the oppression of various groups.

Understanding Garifuna women’s position as the heads of Garifuna households is critical to understanding their efforts to expand community development opportunities. Collins (2000a) has written that it is often necessary for marginalized groups to advance an alternative framing to keep intact cultural meaning: “Oppressed groups are frequently placed in the situation of being listened to only if we frame our ideas in the language that is familiar to and comfortable for a dominant group. This requirement often changes the meaning of our ideas and works to elevate the ideas of dominant groups” (vii). Postcolonial feminists similarly suggest that what is needed is an alternative analysis of agency. Mills (1998) has articulated such efforts as follows: “Post-colonial feminism, because of this concern to move away from a simplistic Western individualistic analysis of agency, which does not ‘fit’ models of indigenous female behaviour, has tried to develop new ways of describing and theorizing agency” (104). A multi-level capabilities approach is better equipped than an individualist capabilities approach for the examination of

Black, indigenous, Garifuna women’s agency and opportunities.

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To this end, the first section of this chapter outlines the multi-level capabilities approach and draws a clear link to the TBF framework introduced earlier. Then, I diagram and explain how ereba- making and education are valued within the Garifuna community, as joint capabilities. These interlocking joint capabilities can be understood through an intersectional analysis of generational difference, linking the primary joint capabilities of a generation of mothers (ereba-making) and their children (education), who are working to expand opportunities that are aligned with deeply rooted cultural values. I call these interlocking capabilities the ereba-education capabilities cycle (EECC). In the section about the EECC, I examine how ereba-making and education are important to the Garifuna family. The cycle connects the older and younger generation in a joint (familial) commitment to the success of the family as a unit.

Building upon the various time-oriented aspects of agency identified by Emirbayer and Mische

(1998), the next section focuses on characteristics of joint agency within the ereba-education cycle. First, communal values are understood as representing the we-frame of families, emphasizing the iterational aspect of agency. Second, the joint agency of families is analyzed for its present-day (practical- evaluative) value. Finally, the importance of a future-oriented projection of distributed benefits is discussed. In the conclusion, I define global capabilities, whose exclusion from the multi-level capabilities approach will be discussed in the final chapter.

Multi-Level Capabilities Framework

A TBF framework identifies four important levels of analysis: (1) intersectional analysis between and among individuals, (2) analysis of the family understood as a plural subject agent, (3) analysis of various “nations” within a state, (4) analysis of interaction between gendered and racialized states and (5) transnational analysis of agents’ operating across state lines. The multi-level capabilities approach encompasses capabilities that function on all these levels and includes four types of agents: individual, plural subject (or family), the state, and (imagined) community (operating nationally or transnationally).

The types of capabilities accessed by these agents are classified as individual capabilities, joint capabilities, collective capabilities (within and across states), and state capabilities.

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Transnational Black Multi-Level Capabilities Feminist Framework Approach

Intersectional (Individual) Individual Capabilities Analysis

Family Analysis Joint Capabilities

Analysis of Nations (Ethnic Collective Capabilities Groups) within States (within states)

State Analysis State Capabilities

Collective Capabilities Transnational Analysis (extending beyond states)

Multi-Level Capabilities Approach (derived from Transnational Black Feminist Framework)

Individual capabilities have been the dominant focus of capabilities and rational choice scholars.

While these are important capabilities to study, I do not emphasize their value here, since that is well documented elsewhere. Instead, I focus on joint capabilities, created through the joint agency of families.

These types of opportunities for families to be and do what they value have been excluded from the capabilities literature. State capabilities, which are of particular significance for international relations scholars, are based on values espoused by the state. In other words, is the state able to do what it values and be the type of state it wants to be? The way in which the state is gendered and racialized, as well as the circumstances of the sub-state and international context all impact the opportunities, or capabilities, available to the state.

Both joint capabilities and collective capabilities are characterized by distributed benefits.

Collective capabilities differ from joint capabilities in that they are created not on the basis of interpersonal relationships, but rather through more abstract and impersonal commitments to an imagined community.

The collective capability scholars thus build upon the work of social movement theorists, who focus on the use of collective identities to mobilize groups for political and social change. The collective identities of social movements do not require interpersonal relationships (Brewer and Gardner 1996, 83). In contrast 218

to this more impersonal and abstract level of capabilities, the plural subject family agent has relationships with other members of the family with whom she/he is jointly committed to achieving particular shared goals.

While these analytical distinctions between types of capabilities are made for clarity, it should be underscored that one event can represent an opportunity at multiple levels. Consider, for example, the young man pictured at the beginning of this chapter. He is certainly pursuing an individual opportunity to earn money through paid work in the molino. However, he also is enhancing the joint capabilities of his family with that money if and when (all or part of) the money is allocated based on family need determined by his mother. In fact, the opportunity for him to work at the molino comes from the fact that he is related to some of the women in that galpón. Further, the opportunity for both mother and son to participate in ereba-making is linked to land rights, or collective capabilities, obtained by Garifuna national organizations. The various levels of capabilities—individual, joint and collective—thus engage one another. In the following discussion when I point to an event as a joint capability, it does not necessarily mean that it could not be interpreted simultaneously as a different type of capability. My goal is to characterize the capabilities as best understood within the context of Garifuna culture. I thus engage in an analysis of joint capabilities through an exploration of the ereba-education cycle, which highlights two joint capabilities that stand out as being prized among rural Garifuna families.

The Ereba-Education Capabilities Cycle

Sofia is a typical ereba maker. She plants and harvests cassava so that she can bake ereba. Her family eats ereba, and what they do not eat she sells. She has sent two children—one son and one daughter—to the city for school with the earnings from her ereba sales. Now, she is paying for the education of a nephew, whom she has adopted and often refers to as her son. She sends him money from ereba sales and whatever ereba she cannot sell she sends him to eat and to sell in the city. Sofia is using the ancestral tradition of ereba-making as a way to carve out a future for the community’s children.

Like other ereba makers, she intends to give the children of today access to the education her parents’ generation was not able to provide. This is what I call the ereba-education capabilities cycle. The entire community is involved, from the ancestors invoked in prayer to the children being born amidst parents’

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dreams of a better-educated village. Thus, the community uses their most abundant cultural resource— ereba—to access what is rare and sought after—an education in the city.

The ereba-education capabilities cycle (EECC) includes the joint capabilities of families to make ereba and educate children. The steps in the ereba-education capabilities cycle are illustrated in the figure below. The EECC, engaging multiple temporal horizons, is a critical link between the older and younger generations, encouraging the younger generation to reflect on history and tradition (iterational) and the older generation to envision the future of the family (projective). Of course this is all engaged with the immediacy of a poor community that is simultaneously trying to meet basic sustenance needs

(practical-evaluative aspect).

Students support Families plant and parents and harvest cassava community

Students graduate Women process and enhance cassava and earning potential bake ereba

Students return Families eat home during ereba and send vacation to help ereba to students with crops in city Students eat ereba and sell ereba to pay for school fees and city life

Ereba-Education Capabilities Cycle (EECC)

Education and ereba-making should be understood in relation to their community-level significance; they are two sides of a community protection and preservation strategy. Ereba-making, as a means to daily sustenance, is critical to the immediate survival of the community, representing the practical-evaluative aspect of agency. Education is part of a community survival strategy that ensures the younger generation (in their twenties and thirties) will protect and care for the ancestral villages in the future, representing the projective aspect of joint agency. The EECC links two critically important joint

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capabilities—ereba-making and education access—one of which is focused on the middle-aged (forties and fifties) Garifuna woman and the other of which targets younger (twenties and thirties) Garifuna women and men.

In addition to bridging a generational gap, the EECC also bridges the rural-urban divide. Ereba is made in the villages, and education takes place in the cities. As such, this cycle represents the interdependence of Garifuna families that live in both rural and urban spaces. Other scholars have discussed this relationship from the perspective of the city. Khan (1987) discussed the importance of the

Garifuna vendedoras, or street vendors, in this cycle: “The work that they engage in has a significant place in the complex support system whereby remittances of cash, food, and manufactured goods are circulated among Garifuna migrants and village and urban kin” (183). This chapter examines the same system from the village perspective. I thus focus on contributions, benefits and reciprocity from the perspective of rural Garifuna communities. Khan (1987) contrastingly focused on contributions of the vendedoras, who often host rural relatives studying in the city.

Each household is a potential residence for arriving kin, and these urban enclaves function in the interest of a woman’s immediate or extended kin as well as in her own. By providing and maintaining the setting in which migrating kin are able to live while preparing for the formal sector job market (through further education), while seeking work locally, or while waiting in the city to hear of work opportunities in other locales, the vendedora helps make possible the search for wage work, which is necessary for Garifuna urban and village survival. (189)

As will be described below, Garifuna villagers, like their urban relatives, recognize this interdependence.

Ereba-making as a Family Value

The women who bake ereba were taught to do so by other women in their family, and they identify value in this “non-professional” education. However, even as Garifuna women work to create a better life for their daughters with greater access to education, they think of themselves as educated in the ancestral agrarian traditions. After students have gone to the city to earn postsecondary degrees, they return to the villages as “professionals.” In contrast to that model of the professional, ereba makers think of themselves as an alternative to the type of professional that urban students hope to become. When I asked Camila about her ereba-making, she said the following: “I’m not a professional, but I’m a professional when it comes to using a machete.” Similarly, Sofia described an alternative understanding of what it means to be a professional: “I don’t have a profession. I’m not a professional, but I’m a

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professional at working the land.” These comments stand in contrast to the ambitions of these women’s children, who go off to the city to further their education, and return as real professionals.

Ereba-making is, in fact, an important part of village education. The ereba makers have learned to make ereba from their parents and grandparents and they intend to pass on these traditions to their children. Ereba-making is an important part of Garifuna cultural identity, and is preserved through community-wide efforts to maintain this tradition that has allowed the Garifuna people to survive over time. Valentina discussed this communal value as follows: “[Ereba] is important because it is the life of us

Garifunas, from the ancestors. And we Garifuna want ereba to continue in the future because we have seen among us that ereba has given life to us. Well, it has given us everything. It has given us everything.

The land, yes. For that reason, one has to work [the land] because he/she who works has the right to eat.” Valentina is not alone in her emphasis on the importance of continuing ereba traditions in the future.

Alejandro similarly expressed the importance of the next generation continuing this work:

For me, it is important that the young people learn to make ereba because the way we can move forward is making more cassava fields and the youth can produce ereba to sell to those who do not have their own land for cassava planting. So, for me, it is the youth who play a special role in learning everything that the elders have learned so that they can continue searching for development within the community. … This legacy has been left to us by our ancestors. And we continue maintaining and caring for this inheritance. So, we cannot stop working the land.

Ereba-making is part of the agricultural education that Garifuna mothers provide for their children. It is inextricably linked with Garifuna culture and values, as an extension of family’s past (ancestors) into the present (current-day ereba makers) and future (next generation). Further, ereba-making acts as a capability multiplier, enhancing a range of other joint capabilities of the family, from the capability to eat to the capability to be economically empowered to the capability to educate children. The ereba-making traditions are also about collective community survival, which cannot be reduced to individual benefits.

Ereba-making has historically been considered “women’s work.” In spite of the mechanization and masculinization of the process in recent times, it continues to be an extension of Garifuna women’s identity. In that sense, it is culturally symbolic of the work that Garifuna women do. That is not to suggest that it is a part of every Garifuna woman’s life. However, as heads of households, women do represent the Garifuna family. Their ereba work symbolizes the connection of the Garifuna family to the lager body of Garifuna ancestral traditions. Below, I discuss how education can similarly be understood in terms of values of the family.

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Education as a Family Value

In the villages where I conducted research, schooling only continues through the ninth grade.

Thus, any student who wants to pursue their education beyond that point has to go to the city. When I talked to the women who sell ereba, primary among the uses of profit was the education of the children.

For many of the ereba makers, providing an education for their children is a way to give their children what their own parents could not provide for them. One villager, Samantha, talked about remaining without an education because of her parents’ poverty: “When I was young, I was thinking of studying, but my parents were poor. They didn’t help me. Because of that, I stayed as I am. That is why I stayed this way.” Unfortunately, Samantha’s story is quite common. With a long history of poverty, many of the villagers had educational aspirations that were not able to be fulfilled for lack of resources.

A number of villagers talked about dreams of pursuing various professions when they were younger. Maria Fernanda wanted to become a seamstress: “My idea, if my mother and my father had some economic resources, I wanted to move ahead and I like, well, I was going to become a seamstress.” Alejandro wanted to be an auto mechanic: “I had a dream of being an auto mechanic, to study auto mechanics. It was my dream, but I couldn’t achieve it because of a lack of resources. My parents didn’t have the money to send me to school.” Alejandro’s interest in becoming an automechanic is curious, considering that there are hardly any cars in the villages. It would be difficult to maintain such a career without moving to the city. However, that would be a challenge that many students face; once they receive their education, all the jobs where they can use what they learned require them to stay in the city.

Women’s opportunities to study were often restricted by both financial resources and social convention. Maria José talked about not being able to leave the village without being married: “Before, when I was young, I was thinking of going to school, but in those times our parents didn’t let us leave without being engaged. One had to get married.” Whether because of poverty or social conventions that dictated that women should not go to live in the cities before marrying, many of the ereba makers were unable to fulfill their own educational goals.

Thus, for many of the ereba makers, sending their children—male and female—away for schooling means providing an education for their children that their own parents could not provide for them. In contrast to a history with few educational opportunities, today the ereba makers see tremendous

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advances in community literacy and greater opportunities for further education. Isabella spoke of the limited opportunities of the past: “Our ancestors, our parents, our grandparents didn’t know how to read and write.” Manuela spoke about the different reality today: “Here in this community, there is development because there are hardly any illiterate people.” Education is seen as a way to improve the conditions of the community, and of the family.

Education is, and has been historically, critically important to the survival and protection of the community. Isabella talked about outsiders (non-Garifuna Hondurans) taking advantage of her Garifuna ancestors and stealing their land: “They would do whatever they wanted in this community.” She also talked about the difference an education makes: “That is why for us, our families and our parents gave us an education in reading and writing, so that we can know these things for the future. One has to be able to communicate and defend oneself in any way necessary. Right? That’s how it is.” So, it is with great hope and aspirations that the ereba makers send their children to the cities to study at senior high schools and universities, with the expectation that they will use this knowledge to protect the community.

When villagers talked about the value of education, it was not simply in terms of job preparation.

Villagers see education as broadly important for the survival of the community and for the preparation of an individual for their own future. Santiago described the value of education as follows: “One has to try to do his/her part to be able to move forward because one has to educate him/herself for life, not only to give service as a slave for others….One can do for him/herself.” Camila similarly talked about the hope one has for the future with an education: “Even though one doesn’t have a job yet, one has hope [with an education].” Both of these quotes are illustrative of the broad benefits sought after as a result of an education. Here individual agency is highlighted, although implicit in this context is that individuals have a vested interest in protecting the community.

Although at times the sentiments are bittersweet, the women define their future by the potential of their children. Even though there may be conflicting emotions about the mass exodus of youth to the cities, the women still view the education of their children as a step in the right direction. During an interview with Sofia, she said the following “Right now we are advancing. The village is developing. And the majority of young people are doing their part as well because the majority of youth already want to study. Already they don’t want to go to the fields. They only want to study. They only want to be

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professionals. And we are always going to be enslaved to working the land, but our children forge ahead.” Sofia’s comments below demonstrate these contradictory emotions about the city-bound youth and the people they leave behind in the villages.

In chapter five, I discussed this contradiction between an appreciation of the ereba-making tradition and the desire to abandon such backbreaking labor as emerging from a lack of choice. Many of these women would have chosen to do other things, had they had a different set of opportunities earlier in their lives. However, for many of them, now older and responsible for children (and sometimes grandchildren), they are no longer interested in pursuing other options. Although they worked diligently to create alternative opportunities for the next generation, watching their children leave the village is often a painful reminder of their own foreclosed dreams. In spite of these complicated emotions, most of the women have come to enjoy the work they do and the status it affords them as the bearers of traditional

Garifuna culture. Also, the women continue to put tremendous effort into supporting the education of their children in the cities, in spite of these complicated emotions.

The women who make ereba, typically in their forties and older, define their futures in terms of the potential of their children. They look ahead to their children’s educational and professional opportunities as the very definition of development. In that sense, development is defined at the level of the family, at a minimum, or at the community level. Gabriela described development in terms of the progress her children make: “For me, this is development, that I can advance through the progress of my children.”

Sofia similarly described development in terms of the progress of the village children: “We have many children studying right now and we want to move these children forward. We want development, more for them than for ourselves.” These women who have worked their entire lives, were born too late to access the wide range of educational opportunities available today, but see the investment in their children’s educations as an opportunity to improve themselves. Mothers and children are part of the same family.

They have to work together as a family to make educational opportunities available, and the entire family benefits.

The above statements about the education of children reveal the extent to which education is a communal value. The statements also clearly demonstrate that education is about much more than job preparation. In fact, the capability to educate one’s child can be linked to the joint capability of the

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community to protect itself (and its land). Even while pursuing an education in the city, students return during vacation to help their families cultivate crops. After completing an education, children seek jobs in the city where they are available. Students remain connected to the village in a number of ways. They send or bring items that can only be purchased in the city and they send money.

Similar to Garifuna migrants to the US, migrants to Honduran cities typically intend to return to their villages, although the lack of employment makes this difficult. Returning professionals often start their own businesses. Return to ancestral villages is less likely with young women, who experience a sense of freedom away from the villages and are often more inclined to stay in the city permanently.

Ironically, if they were to return to the villages after retirement, they would enjoy a heightened social status relative to their earlier status as young Garifuna women. In any case, return to the village is expected, as part of the “natural” cycle of things.

Intergenerational Interlocutors: Ereba and Education

Ereba is one of the Garifuna community’s most abundant resources. It thus makes sense that villagers would use ereba to advance development, or expand capabilities, of their families and the community. In particular, the women who bake ereba join together to use ereba sales to support students in the city. As mentioned in the previous chapter, the sale of ereba is particularly important for the capabilities of single mothers, who rely on the economic benefits from ereba sales to support their families. The women use the money from ereba sales to buy household supplies to purchase their homes. Ereba is thus an important part of the expansion of capabilities of community members.

In spite of the persistent poverty within the villages, selling ereba (for approximately $1/tort in the village or $2/tort in the city) can sustain the industrious student. At a public university, fees are only about

$8, and books for the semester range from $8 to $15, depending on the field of study. The largest costs are those required for living expenses in the city. A student might pay $50/month in rent. Or said another way, the student might have to sell 50 torts of ereba every month. However, these high living costs

(relative to village life) only draw attention to the importance of family members in the city and the interdependence of family members living in urban and rural locations.

Even as the ereba makers support students in the city, both villagers and urban students understand the interdependent nature of their relationship. The ereba-making capability and the

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educational access capability are interdependent. One villager, Manuela, discussed the urban-rural exchange as follows: “They, over there [in the cities], help us with money, and we, from here, also help them by sending ereba, sending plantains, sending yams, sending everything to the city.” Another villager, Emily, emphasized the shifting balance when those in the city are unable to work: “When there is good work, they send a little [money]. When there is no work, we send ereba and food there [to the city].”

In either case—whether or not work is available in the city—families work together to ensure that everyone’s needs are met.

Khan (1987) similarly identified this interdependence in her discussion of Garifuna vendedoras in the Honduran city of La Ceiba:

There is an inherent assumption of mutual obligation in the village-to-city networks, which function to keep channels of reciprocity open between urban families and village kin, as well as between the intra-community networks among households and kin in the city itself. Thus, many of the vendedoras are not only helping to maintain themselves and their children in La Ceiba but are also, perhaps irregularly but consistently, sending city-bought provisions of food and manufactured goods back home as well. (190)

Garifuna families thus bridge the rural-urban divide through a regular flow of people and goods. This demonstrates the importance of examining the family as a unit of analysis, in order to capture the significance of these transactions, which lose meaning when taken out of the family context.

While some village students go to the cities, others stay in the village. Oftentimes, who goes to study in the city and who stays in the village is decided at the family level. This can be a difficult, and sometimes unfair, decision to make. The popularity of urban education paired with the scarcity of resources makes it impossible for everyone to achieve their desired level of education. Martina, who is without much money, described the challenge for her family: “None of my children wants to be without an education.” She went on to talk about how her children make major personal sacrifices, including skipping meals, to continue their studies in the city. These are difficult decisions for families. Entire families participate in the decision about whether or not a child will attend school in the city and it is the joint responsibility of the family to ensure that such opportunities exist.

When I asked the ereba makers how they determine which of their children will have the opportunity to study, many pointed to the importance of students working, at least part-time, to pay for their school and living expenses. Valentina described the role of the student as follows: “When one has an interest in something, he or she will find a way.” Others suggested that a parent knows which of their

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children is most committed to his/her studies, and can decide who to send based on grades. This was the view of Maria Fernanda: “I am going to choose. The most intelligent one is who I will send. The best, the one who does his/her part is the one I’ll send. The one who doesn’t do his/her part has to stay here working the land.” In this statement, we see conflicting messages about ereba-making.

On the one hand, ereba-making is prized as a gift from the ancestors. To be able to continue these traditions is a way to honor those ancestors. At the same time, ereba-making is framed as punishment for those individuals who are not smart enough to succeed in the city. In chapter 5, I discussed how young women who return from the cities pregnant before graduating are shamed for their conduct, and left to work the fields to support themselves and their children. It is as if there are two paths—a modern path that leads to an education in the city and a traditional path that leads to ereba- making in the village. There is thus the creation of a hierarchy among these options.

Every young person wants to be educated in the city, even if they plan to return to the village after their studies. If they succeed, they return to the village as a ‘professional,’ with significant community status. If they fail, they are destined to the traditional, ereba-making path. Young men get more opportunities to succeed in the city than young women, who only need to get pregnant before their families think them a poor investment. The older generation did not have the opportunities available to the younger adults, and are quick to judge their failures at urban education. In particular, the mothers who hold so much power (especially in terms of the redistribution of resources) have high expectations for the young women they help to educate.

In spite of the intergenerational tension that can and does exist, families find a number of ways to send as many children to the city for schooling as possible. Alejandro talked about children leaving home for school in sequence, with older children helping younger children: “There is a balance as not all [the children] leave at the same time, so some stay behind.” According to Mariana, students also receive considerable support from their own siblings: “Each one that goes to the city graduates and then helps the others. … Each one helps the other in turn.” Older students help after their own graduation, working full-time to support younger siblings. Later, it is expected that the educated sibling will help the family.

Students in the city also help their families by participating in crop cultivation during school vacations. By helping with crops during vacation they contribute directly to ereba production. Julieta

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described how land is cared for with the assistance of the entire family, strong and weak, young and old, rural and urban:

It is that we live in this way. For example, right now, my father has died. My mother is already old. She can’t do much. But from the time I’ve been a girl, they taught me to do this work. So, I am taking care of the land for all of us. I am taking care of it all. … I have a son, who is 16 years old. He is with his sister studying [in the city]. He has been in [the city] almost three years, but each year he comes [to the village]. For example, this year, I sent for him. I called and I said, “Why don’t you come this Easter because I need you to clear some land for cassava?” You understand? That is how it is. That is how we do it.

Julieta’s description, which represents a typical expectation of students in the city, demonstrates the interdependence of the ereba makers in the village and the students in the city.

Parents also have long-term expectations regarding the benefits of educated children. In Garifuna culture, children are expected to care for their parents, especially their mothers, later in life. In this way, the education of the child can be linked to the joint capability of maintaining the health of the family. Since the maintenance of the family unit depends on the collective resources of the family, providing a child with an education only enhances the collective potential of the family. Sofia, who is supporting her nephew’s education in the city, described her expectations of him, and of the community children being educated in the city:

We are fighting to move them forward. It is to push, as I will say again, to push our children ahead, that tomorrow they might help us. Because already in some ten, five years we will be old, while they will continue to grow. They are going to grow and they are going to help us, because already we have helped them and they will help us too. That is what we hope, to help each other, one helping the other, like that.

Sofia makes clear that the joint capabilities of the family cannot easily be disaggregated into individual capabilities, even though they engage related individual capabilities. Everyone involved is expected to improve the joint capabilities of the entire group.

Isabella also talked about the expectation that children should care for the mothers who have cared for them: “The mothers, our parents, the parents love these children. And from that, if these children get a job, well, they should help [their] parents. Our children should give to us for the efforts that we have made for them.” Isabella also spoke more generally about the obligation of children to the entire community: “These children are fighting to learn, to forge ahead for tomorrow, so that they can watch over the community.” Isabella thus made clear that she understands the alternating care of child and parent as

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a part of a larger community project. Maintaining healthy families is necessary to sustain healthy communities.

Further, the children I interviewed reinforced what the mothers said about reciprocating care later in life. This is to be expected in matrifocal societies in which “men marry into these female-centered households, and women’s ties to their children are deep and long-lasting, more than to their husbands or partners, from whom separation or divorce is relatively easy” (Kellogg 2005, 160). Samuel described his obligation as follows: “I have to care for [my mother] because she raised me. … It is my obligation.” Emily linked her responsibility to ancestral tradition and her own fate regarding her children caring for her: “The ancestors said you reap what you sow. If I don’t care for my mother, my children aren’t going to care for me.” Families are clearly bound through joint commitments to one another. Such joint commitments are impossible to capture within an exclusive focus on individual capabilities.

What these statements demonstrate is that even when students go to the cities, they continue to be a part of a cycle of care that is based in Garifuna family and community values. The ereba makers send ereba to the students in the cities and the students contribute both to the ereba production process and to the maintenance of healthy families. In this context, the joint benefits of the EECC are clear. In this section I have discussed the interlocking and intergenerational joint capabilities of ereba-making and educational access in relation to Garifuna family values. In the next section, I focus on the iterational, practical-evaluative and projective aspects of the agency employed in the attainment of such capabilities.

Identifying Joint Capabilities

Conventional approaches to capabilities are inadequate for understanding the joint capabilities of the Garifuna community because they insist on examining capabilities exclusively at the level of the individual. Instead, what is needed is an approach that examines capabilities at multiple levels. While collective capability scholars have identified the importance of the sort of capabilities that are engaged at the national and transnational levels, I focus here on a discussion on the defining characteristics on a different type of capability. Joint capabilities are the opportunities available to plural subject agents

(Gilbert 1996) to be and do what they value. In this dissertation, I have focused on the joint capability of the family, even though the joint capability concept can (and should) be applied to other groups jointly committed to a set of shared goals.

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In classifying joint capabilities, I identify three defining characteristics: (1) values pursued are held by the family, community, or group in the we-frame sense (2) the joint agency of the family, community, or group is being employed in pursuit of a shared goal and (3) the benefits that potentially come from such opportunities are distributed throughout the family, community, or group. These three interrelated characteristics can be seen as emphasizing different aspects of agency. Communal values are typically associated with tradition and custom, and thus can be analyzed in relation to the iterational aspect of agency. The joint agency employed can be seen as an active response to immediate circumstances, representing the practical-evaluative aspect. Finally, the (potential) distribution of benefits can be seen as projective, since at the moment in which the agent is pursuing opportunities they do not ultimately know how things will work out until after they have already committed themselves to working toward the shared goal.

Identifying Joint Capabilities • Communal Values (Iterational Aspect) • Is the valued doing or being defined in a we-frame that incorporates a group jointly committed to shared goals? • Joint Agency (Practical-Evaluative Aspect) • Is the group jointly and interdependently pursuing the capability? • Distributed Benefits (Projective Aspect) • Will benefits be distributed among group members if the goal is achieved?

Identifying Joint Capabilities

Distinct from other capabilities approaches, the multi-level capabilities approach recognizes communally held values regarding desired group identity and action, in order to appropriately situate the discussion of capabilities in a cultural context. The fact is that communal values often drive joint agency and shape the projective vision of what agents believe is possible. The values of the community are embedded in a socio-historical agency that shapes what options agents believe are available to them.

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Whether values are communal, whether joint agency is employed, and whether benefits are distributed are all important considerations in analyzing the cultural meaning of group agency and properly interpreting which joint capabilities are being sought. The above figure illustrates the questions raised by the introduction of joint capabilities into a capabilities approach. In the remainder of this section, I discuss values, agency, and benefits in order to highlight the added value of joint capabilities.

A We-Frame of Mind (Iterational Aspect)

The value of ereba-making is culturally embedded and communally defined. It would be difficult to argue that ereba has some universal value. Instead, the intrinsic and instrumental value of ereba-making is embedded in the history of the Garifuna ancestral villages. Villagers talk about how the ancestors have left this tradition for them to continue. It is what the ancestors did for their own survival and it still can be used for the survival and development of the community today. Ereba’s value comes from its history within the Garifuna community, as a means of sustenance and as a symbol of the Garifuna woman’s ability to nourish and sustain her family. Its value is thus constructed in the context of the Garifuna community.

In contrast to the culturally specific ereba traditions, many would argue that education is an almost universal value that is important to many diverse communities. There exists a range of reasons one might find education useful. Part of the reason is obviously job preparation. However, in the Garifuna community, there is also a greater understanding of education as being broadly useful for the continuity of the group. In the context of Garifuna socio-history agency, education is important with regard to the protection of communal lands—the same lands on which cassava is grown. Further, there is the expectation that students will share any knowledge and wealth that develops as a result of their education. Therefore, if we look at the value of education for Garifuna students, it is much more expansive than job opportunities. The cultural meaning of education is embedded in a broader community ethic related to the strengthening of community capacity and the protection of community land. Especially in these small, largely segregated, Garifuna villages, with no electricity and relatively little information exchange, the educational values held are largely shaped by the communal culture.

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Joint Agency (Practical-Evaluative Aspect)

Ereba-making is not an individual pursuit. Sometimes it may simply involve immediate family members, and others times ereba-making can include a group of neighbors, but no one can do it alone.

Throughout the process, there are prescribed roles for men and women, with men clearing the fields for the planting of cassava and women baking the cassava flour to make the final ereba product. Planting, harvesting, grinding, and straining cassava in order to make ereba is a joint effort that includes men, women, and children. Families thus engage in a joint effort to produce this traditional agricultural product, which is of value to the entire community.

Further, cassava is grown on ancestral land that is often jointly owned by multiple family members. These family members work the land to survive, using the same traditions that their ancestors used to survive and invoke such memories throughout the process, from planting to baking. The link to ancestral tradition is so strong that it is possible to consider the Garifuna ancestors as a part of the joint agency involved in ereba-making. In this way, the joint agency involved in the ereba production process extends from Garifuna ancestors to the youngest children.

The ereba makers are also engaged in a joint effort to educate their children. This is best illustrated by the EECC, which demonstrates how the rural Garifuna community and the urban students work together to support one another. When the decision is made to send a child to school, various factors come into play. One consideration is whether the family believes that the child has the aptitude to excel in school. Another is whether finances are available to send the child to school. Ereba is helpful in the pursuit of an education because it can both be eaten by students and be sold to earn money for school and living costs. Further, family networks often determine where an individual pursues his or her studies. If the prospective student has an older brother or sister who has already left the village, his/her home is a likely study destination for the younger student. All of this involvement by family members speaks to the joint agency involved in such decisions. As I will describe below, in the discussion of distributed benefits, many of these individuals have good reason to participate in such efforts, as they also benefit from the education of community children.

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(Projective) Distribution of Benefits

The benefits of ereba-making are distributed throughout families and communities. Often, the women baking ereba are not the direct recipients of immediate benefits. Rather her investment in this arduous process represents an investment in family, community and tradition. Most of the women sell their ereba in order to support the academic pursuits of their children. In this way, the joint capability of ereba-making is most often channeled into educational capabilities of the children of the ereba makers.

When examining the EECC, we see that sometimes the ereba is sold by the women, and sometimes it is sold by the students. However, from beginning to end, the intention is always an expansion of opportunities for the children.

The benefits of education for the children are also distributed. The children benefit directly from the learning experience, better job opportunities, and increased earning potential. Younger siblings benefit from the opportunity to reside with elder siblings who are studying and working. Parents benefit from increased earning potential and wealth sharing of children. They also benefit from the promise of care in their later years. Families benefit from students spending school vacations in the villages, helping with crops. Finally, the community benefits from educated individuals, who are better equipped to defend the land rights of the community.

Value of Joint Capabilities

For the reasons described above, analysis of ereba-making and educational pursuits in terms of individual capabilities only distorts cultural meaning and obscures the communal (or family) values, joint agency and distributed benefits that factor into the creation of such capabilities. If individual capabilities are opportunities to access beings and doings that the individual has reason to value, we have to take note when individuals are being given access to opportunities not because of their own individual values but rather because of communal (or family) values. This is an important distinction between individual and joint capabilities.

By introducing a discussion of joint capabilities, the multi-level capabilities approach maintains the cultural meaning of development capabilities held among the Garifuna ereba makers. Conventional approaches to capabilities focus narrowly on the individual benefits of capabilities, while the multi-level capabilities approach factors in the complex array of distributed benefits. By identifying the multiple

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beneficiaries of the capabilities of ereba-making and educational access, I highlight the joint agency of families in pursuit these capabilities. Joint capabilities are communally valued and jointly sought after for the benefit to both family and community. This distinguishes joint capabilities from individual capabilities.

Ultimately, a multi-level capabilities approach provides a more nuanced understanding of how individuals and communities are engaging capabilities, calling for an examination of how joint agency is being utilized in the expansion of capabilities. This is particularly important in cases like the one described above in which the community not only holds the values that are motivating the pursuit of various capabilities, but it is also actively engaged in the pursuit of those opportunities and is reaping the benefits.

To subsume a discussion of such joint agency under a framework of individual capabilities loses the cultural meaning behind such processes of engagement. It distorts and dismisses the socio-historical agency of the community, which is designed to enhance family and community capabilities, protect community land and preserve culture. I thus call for a reconsideration of the capabilities approach to include a multi-level analysis herein described that honors the intention and efforts of individuals, families and other collectivities working to expand opportunities.

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have outlined the multi-level capabilities approach developed with constructivist grounded theory methodology during ethnographic work in the rural, Garifuna villages of Honduras. The multi-level capabilities approach complements the TBF framework. Within this chapter, I described the ereba-education capabilities cycle, which represents the interdependent, interlocking and intergenerational capabilities of ereba-making and educational access. This chapter also identified the importance of an analysis of joint capabilities. Focusing on joint capabilities in a multi-level capabilities approach and highlighting cultural context, I examined the importance of communal values, joint agency, and distributed benefits. This examination incorporated the iterational, practical-evaluative, and projective temporal orientations of the joint agency engaged by families in pursuit of the joint capabilities of ereba- making and education.

Excluded from the multi-level capabilities approach is the concept of global or universal capabilities. Rather than being embedded in a cultural context of values, a universal approach to

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capabilities promotes the top-down imposition of a particular culture’s valued beings and doings. This is the approach advocated by Nussbaum (2000), who has argued for a universalist feminist framework:

I shall argue that it is possible to describe a framework for such a feminist practice of philosophy that is strongly universalist, committed to cross-cultural norms of justice, equality, and rights, and at the same time sensitive to local particularity, and to the many ways in which circumstances shape not only options but also beliefs and preferences. I shall argue that a universalist feminism need not be insensitive to difference or imperialistic, and that a particular type of universalism, framed in terms of general human powers and their development, offers us the best framework within which to locate our thoughts about difference. (7)

In spite of promises of “sensitivity,” Nussbaum’s approach, which excludes collective capabilities, is not sensitive to the Garifuna families and others, who work jointly to accomplish shared goals. Basu (2010) also expressed skepticism about Nussbaum’s approach: “Although certain forms of universalism are integral to most feminisms, Western feminist universalism has been presumptuous in condemning non-

Western practices with scant understanding of the cultural and historical contexts which give them meaning” (201). Ereba-making is one of those “practices” that gives Garifuna culture meaning and demands further consideration and attention from Western development scholars.

In the final chapter of this dissertation, I discuss the dangers of a universal approach like

Nussbaum’s capabilities approach, which puts forth a central capabilities list. Although both Nussbaum and I claim to be pursuing feminist agendas in relation to the capabilities discourse, we advocate for very different development solutions and we discuss feminist solidarity in very different ways. Ultimately, I argue that her central list is not sufficiently culturally sensitive, and that an inclusive, transnational, feminist process must go beyond lists and focus on process. I articulate some of the important characteristics of a transnational feminist process for solidarity in the concluding chapter. This has implications for development policymakers and practitioners alike.

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CHAPTER 9

BEYOND LISTS: SUGGESTIONS FOR TRANSNATIONAL FEMINIST SOLIDARITY

Women Weighing Cassava Root (March 29, 2012)

The women pictured above are weighing cassava root. Usually, when a man is available, he helps to lift the heavy load. Today, however, the women are doing the heavy lifting without the assistance of a man. Struggling together, they lift the bag. This chapter is similarly about struggle—the struggle for feminist solidarity. From the perspective of this transnational Black feminist, the process of struggling in

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solidarity should be a major focus for feminist scholars. In this regard, I suggest that a focus on lists (of capabilities or rights) is much less useful in the fight against oppression that a discussion of solidarity- building processes; at times, a focus on lists is even counter-productive in that it distracts from the important work of solidarity-building.

This dissertation began by situating this study of the Garifuna ereba makers in terms of significance for both ID and IR. In the second chapter, I argued the need to intervene in the historically racist and sexist treatments of Black women in both disciplines. In particular, I offered a multi-level intersectional framework, the transnational Black feminist (TBF) framework, which guided the chapters of this dissertation. The case was made that a study of the Afro-indigenous Garifuna ereba makers of

Honduras would be particularly useful in highlighting important intersections of race, class, and gender that are often omitted or oversimplified. By examining these factors, one can analyze how different racial, gender, and class groups, and how diverse nations, within states are marginalized and/or privileged.

Once states are understood as being comprised of diverse nations, state action, international interaction and transnational responses can be interpreted in relation to competing interests within the state, producing a much more nuanced analysis than IR models that do not examine sub-state or transnational actors and action. Within the field of ID, this analysis complicates the conventional discussion of state- level development measures by probing more deeply into the diverse and contradictory impact of development policies and practices on different groups within the state.

After an introduction to the TBF framework in the context of IR and ID, the third chapter provided the broader historical context for this study, which made clear the value of a discussion of race and gender in Honduras, especially in relation to the marginalized Garifuna community. Chapters 4 and 5 gave theoretical and empirical support to the importance of a family level of analysis, in addition to the study of the individual. Chapters 6 and 7 were similarly paired to present theoretical and empirical arguments for an intersectional analysis of family in the context of nations within states. Each of these chapters contributed to the development of the multi-level capabilities approach introduced in chapter 8.

In this concluding chapter, I turn my attention again to the TBF framework to discuss what it excludes—namely a global level of analysis, advocated by international feminists. This discussion engages Nussbaum’s list of central capabilities, often considered one of the most practical policy-oriented

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contributions of capabilities approaches. The discussion begins with an examination of Nussbaum’s approach to capabilities. Nussbaum’s list is criticized on three accounts: the lack of cross-cultural dialogue, insufficient public deliberation and unaddressed power asymmetries. Then, I engage some of the literature on transnationalism and feminist transnational approaches that stands in opposition to

Nussbaum’s universal feminist approach. I also discuss the challenges of building feminist solidarity. In the third section of this chapter, I return to a more specific discussion of the TBF framework in order to highlight development policy and practice lessons from my fieldwork. I conclude with a statement about the significant contribution of this dissertation and a personal note on struggling in solidarity with the

Garifuna community.

Examining Nussbaum’s Approach

Part of the difficulty in identifying an appropriate capabilities list, if there is one, is that the capabilities approach is used by scholars in many different fields for diverse reasons. As an IR scholar studying development, I use the concept of capabilities to articulate opportunities being created by

Garifuna women at the grassroots level. The economist Amartya Sen and the philosopher Martha

Nussbaum, however, have simultaneously developed different approaches to the study of capabilities,17 using diverse means to achieve different goals. Multiple other scholars are contributing in ways that similarly represent the biases and perspectives of their respective fields. Robeyns (2005a) has described the interdisciplinarity of the capabilities approach as follows:

The selection of capabilities as social indicators of the quality of life is a very different undertaking from the selection of capabilities for a utopian theory of justice: the quality requirements of the research are different, the epistemological constraints on the research are different, the best available practices in the field are different. Moral philosophers, quantitative social scientists, and qualitative social scientists have each signed up to a different set of epistemological assumptions and find different academic practices acceptable and non-acceptable. For example, ethnographers tend to reject normative theorising and also often object to what they consider the reductionist nature of quantitative empirical analysis, while economists tend to discard the thick descriptions by ethnographers, claiming they are merely anecdotal and hence not scientific. (194)

17 As mentioned in chapter 4, Sen and Nussbaum have independently developed the capability approach (CA) and capabilities approach repsectively. While there are a number of distinctions between the two approaches, chapter 4 focused on the shared liberal and individualist bias of the two approaches. In this chapter, I specifically focus on the divergent views of the scholars in relation to a central list of capabilities. In referring to both scholars’ approaches to capabilities, I continue to use the terms “approaches to capabilities” or “capabilities approaches,” as was done earlier in chapter 4.

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In this study, I engaged capabilities from the perspective of a qualitative social scientist using ethnographic research methods, conceptualizing capabilities as indicators of quality of life. The diversity of engagement of capabilities is rooted in the distinctions that one can make between the approaches of

Sen and Nussbaum.

Sen and Nussbaum agree on some aspects of capabilities, including the exclusion of collective

(and joint) capabilities. My earlier critique of their approaches focused on the shared liberal and individualist bias of these pioneering capabilities scholars. This critique laid the foundation for a discussion of the importance of joint capabilities of the family. However, in this concluding chapter, I address an issue about which these two scholars disagree—Nussbaum’s central list of capabilities. This discussion about Nussbaum’s list has been postponed until the concluding chapter because whether one adopts such a list has less to do with how one defines capabilities and more to do with how one believes that capabilities should be used to promote justice. Thus, in this chapter, I engage Nussbaum’s attempt to use her capabilities list to shape state constitutions around the world.

Disagreement between Sen and Nussbaum about the central list of capabilities is rooted in their divergent goals with respect to the use of capabilities. Robeyns (2005a) has described Nussbaum’s objectives as follows: “Nussbaum’s list has a highly prescriptive character and she makes strong universalistic claims regarding the scope of her theory. This is not entirely uncommon for the literature in which her work is situated. Nussbaum has used the capability approach to develop a universal theory of the good: it applies to all social justice issues and to the global world” (197). Nussbaum’s approach stands in sharp contrast to that of Sen: “Given the intrinsic underspecification of Sen’s capability approach, there cannot be one catch-all definite list. Instead, each application of the capability approach will require its own list. For Sen, a list of capabilities must be context dependent, where the context is both the geographical area to which it applies, as well as the sort of evaluation that is done” (Robeyns 2005a,

197). What should be clear from these distinctions is that Sen’s approach to capabilities is much more appropriate to the contextualization of Garifuna development in time and space.

Nussbaum’s approach does not lend itself so easily to such agendas. Robeyns (2005a) sums up the contrast between Sen and Nussbaum as follows:

Sen’s capability approach is a general framework that can guide us in our evaluative exercises but that remains underspecified, while Nussbaum’s capabilities approach is a philosophical theory

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of justice, rather than a framework of evaluation. While it may perhaps be appropriate for an abstract and ideal-theoretical philosophical theory of justice to be so specific about which capabilities matter, this is not the case for a multi-purpose evaluative framework. (197 – 198)

From Sen’s capability approach, I was able to develop the multi-level capabilities approach, as described in the previous chapter. Unfortunately, I have not found Nussbaum’s approach as useful in relation to the work that I am doing in relation to Garifuna women’s grassroots development. Her universalist approach renders cultural context peripheral to the discussion of capabilities; as demonstrated throughout this dissertation, such context is critical for understanding the valued doings and beings of marginalized individuals and families. A top-down approach to capabilities only stifles bottom-up, or grassroots, development struggles. Below, I describe and critique the top-down nature of Nussbaum’s approach.

Nussbaum’s Central List of Human Capabilities

In Women and Human Development, Nussbaum (2000) presents a central list of human capabilities that she expects will “provide the philosophical underpinning for an account of basic constitutional principles that should be respected and implemented by the governments of all nations, as a bare minimum of what respect for human dignity requires” (5). Nussbaum (2000) has articulated the creation of the list as part of an explicitly feminist project that aims to be both universalist and culturally- sensitive:

Nussbaum’s list of capabilities includes the following: (1) life, (2) bodily health, (3) bodily integrity, (4) senses, imagination and thought, (5) emotions, (6) practical reason, (7) affiliation, (8) relation to other species, (9) play, and (10) control over one’s environment (Nussbaum 2000, 78-80). Nussbaum (2000) has identified two specific goals related to her capabilities list: “My central project is to work out the grounding for basic political principles to which all nations should be held by their citizens; but an ancillary and related project is to map out the space within which comparisons of quality of life across nations can most revealingly be made” (116).

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Nussbaum’s (1995) approach is both universalist and essentialist as she has described: “My proposal is frankly universalist and ‘essentialist’. That is, it asks us to focus on what is common to all, rather than on differences (although, as we shall see, it does not neglect these), and to see some capabilities and functions as more central, more at the core of human life, than others” (63). She does not simply assert that she is marking one path to a better world, but instead argues that any “international feminism” must be similarly aimed: “An international feminism that is going to have any bite quickly gets involved in making normative recommendations that cross boundaries of culture, nation, religion, race, and class” (Nussbaum 1995, 34). Nussbaum has offered a list of central capabilities that she hopes are defined in broad enough terms to be adopted by diverse communities. Ultimately, she hopes that communities will take up the cause of having these capabilities legislated as rights within their respective governments. However, in the following sections, I argue that her methods, and ultimately her goal of creating a central list, are counter-productive to a transnational feminist agenda, although they may serve the interests of a more top-down international feminist approach.

Cross-cultural Dialogue and Overlapping Consensus

In describing the supposed cross-cultural appeal of her capabilities list, Nussbaum (2000) has described the goal of an overlapping consensus: “The approach is intended as the moral core of a specifically political conception, and the object of a political overlapping consensus among people who have otherwise very different comprehensive views of the good” (105). However, Nussbaum stands alone as the protector of her list. There are no co-authors to whom she gives joint credit for the creation or moderation of the list. This raises concerns for a number of scholars, including Jaggar (2006) who has written the following: “Further doubts about Nussbaum’s claim that the capabilities are widely accepted are raised by her ultimate control over the list” (313). Nussbaum’s control over this list makes it difficult to identify any real consensus. As Jaggar (2006) wrote, “Nussbaum fails to provide convincing evidence that people across the world who are reasonably well-informed and uncoerced agree on something like her list of capabilities” (312).

Related to the apparent lack of consensus, we should also be troubled by the lack of substantial change to the list over the years. It seems that these unnamed women with whom she has an overlapping consensus have had very little impact on the list. Not only do the poor, nameless, women in India whom

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she references have little impact, she also is little swayed by the multiple list additions and suggestions that have come from her own academic colleagues. Clark (2013) has pointed to the relatively static nature of Nussbaum’s list as evidence that there is not much cross-cultural collaboration happening: “This is clearly not the case and any reader in doubt should compare the evolution of Nussbaum’s respective lists for their self. There are certainly few references to the ways in which these ‘other voices’ have shaped the list” (176).

Robeyns (2005a) suggested that Nussbaum may be overstating the significance of her cross- cultural dialogues. In spite of any cross-cultural conversations, Nussbaum has a lifetime of experiences that shape her worldview and biases that must be considered in the creation and development of her list.

Robeyns (2005a) has articulated this argument as follows: “Most scholars, especially ethnographers, do not believe that it is possible for one person to truly understand the lives of all people around the world.

Feminist epistemology in particular has stressed the limits of what one can know. One person will almost always have a partial perspective and thus partial epistemological access, given the impact of one’s situatedness” (198). Nussbaum does not acknowledge her partial view, nor does she seriously engage the idea of complementary perspectives.

Unfortunately, Nussbaum’s total control over the list undermines her cross-cultural rhetoric. In constructing her list, Nussbaum gets to decide what is good and what is worthy of being on a universal, central list of human capabilities. Jaggar (2006) has written the following in response to Nussbaum’s control over the list.

I have found no place in her extensive writings on capabilities where she questions her own authority to decide what should be included on the list and what excluded from it. She expresses no misgivings about the fact that, in taking control of the list, she assumes the prerogative not only of determining the philosophical import of others’ contributions but also of assessing their moral worth, thus deciding whose opinions should be respected and whose should be rejected as mistaken or corrupt. (314)

In addition to questions about any actual overlapping consensus and the extent to which Nussbaum’s cross-cultural dialogue qualifies her to create, moderate and control a central list, there are also significant questions raised about the role of ongoing public deliberation of such a list.

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Sen’s Public Deliberation and Participatory Processes

Sen is not a proponent of one central list of capabilities, in part because he recognizes that different goals might lead to very different lists. However, one of his biggest grievances with Nussbaum’s list is the lack of public deliberation regarding the list. Sen (2005) has criticized Nussbaum’s approach as follows: “The problem is not with listing important capabilities, but with insisting on one predetermined canonical list of capabilities, chosen by theorists without any general social discussion or public reasoning. To have such a fixed list, emanating entirely from pure theory, is to deny the possibility of fruitful public participation on what should be included and why” (335). Certainly, in a world as diverse as ours, a series of public discussions would be warranted about a list so important as to be included as part of the constitutions of all countries.

Basu (2010) also has articulated an argument in favor of public deliberation: “Missing from

Nussbaum’s account is an appreciation of the place of communities in engaging in deliberation. Her emphasis on individuals and institutions ignores the potentially vital role of groups within civil society”

(217). Uyan-Semerci (2007) similarly has argued the following:

I argue that users of the capability approach have to engage in a more dialogical process, sensitive to the claims of different peoples in order to enrich the perspective of this framework. This type of qualitative research has a lot to offer because the capability approach yields a form of universalism that retains sensitivity to pluralism. The articulation of the capabilities and the desires by those who are subaltern creates the kind of new knowledge and values that are crucial for a more democratic understanding of universalism. (204)

Uyan-Semerci (2007) highlighted the benefits of the type of new knowledge that can be created through cross-cultural dialogue—the same type of dialogue that I hopefully have represented in this dissertation.

Although his study was based in Turkey and mine in Honduras, Uyan-Semerci (2007) similarly discovered families that function as a unit: “Particularly for women who live in poverty, one discovers that they do not see themselves as separate individuals form their families. They try to develop their own capabilities and their families’ capabilities to get adequate nutrition, safe and clean water, better medical services, and education” (217). In addition to discussing class and gender, my study has included a discussion of ethnoracial identity in an intersectional analysis of capabilities. Were Nussbaum to incorporate any of these intersectional considerations that shape access to capabilities, she would likely be challenged to include joint capabilities of families in her approach. Instead she adopts a morally superior stance that

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does not embrace public engagement of list formation. In addition to calls for a more public deliberation process, a number of scholars also point to the power asymmetries embedded in Nussbaum’s approach.

Power Asymmetries and “International Feminism”

As a class-privileged, Black US American woman,18 I entered the Garifuna community of

Honduras with relative privilege. I had the opportunity to stay in a house that was equipped with an expensive solar panel. Also, I entered the community sympathetic to the conditions of poverty and very open to discussions about both shared and divergent experiences of race, gender and class. However, none of these intentions to create an open, productive, cross-cultural dialogue erased my status (as US

American) or privilege (in terms of class and mobility). In fact, to attempt to erase my own identity would only limit the richness of discussions about the diversity of experiences for Black women in the Americas.

Transparency about one’s own positionality has the potential to enrich transnational dialogue.

In contrast to this approach, it seems that Nussbaum has understood her cross-cultural dialogues as somehow replacing her position of status and power. Clark (2013) described Nussbaum’s lack of attention to these power asymmetries as follows:

Nussbaum provides no concrete guidance regarding the selection of participants or admissible viewpoints. She neglects inequalities in power and voice that shape real-world discussions. And she does not acknowledge or consider a range of empirical techniques (including some specifically designed for the capability approach) that help distinguish corrupt preferences or improve the accuracy and representativeness of public discussions. (177)

Jaggar (2006) echoed Clark’s concern about Nussbaum’s lack of attention to power inequalities:

“Nussbaum is well aware that no consensus is trustworthy if it results from a discursive process characterized by power inequalities but she does not consider how social inequalities might have affected the reliability of her own conversations” (313). While Nussbaum is certainly advocating for political change, it is not clear that she is interested in any complementary social change. Matte (2010) wrote,

“Social change is not a top-down process, nor can it be directed by experts” (viii). While it is hoped that

18 I use the phrase “US American” to identify Americans who are from the United States. In Spanish the word estadounidense exists as the adjective form of the US. There is no way to translate this word into English without pointing to a larger geographic region—either North America or the Americas. Within the US, the term “American” is often uncritically used and assumed to mean from the US, in spite of the larger geographic denotation of the word. As a critical transnational Black feminist scholar, whose work is based in parts of the Americas outside of the US, I have adopted the alternative phrasing of “US American” to specify Americans from the US.

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Nussbaum would desire deeply rooted social change and moral shifts to accompany her constitutional capabilities, her inattention to power suggests a singular focus on the global impact of her universal political initiative.

Not taking these issues to heart, Nussbaum does not truly leave herself open (and vulnerable) in the way that would be required to have a dialogue about values in a space with such power inequalities.

Instead of relying on guaranteed authority, if feminists want to address the problem of cross- cultural moral dialogue, we need to self-consciously acknowledge and be open to the vulnerability of any moral claim in theory and in practice and recognize that there are costs that have to be counted in any kind of committed intervention in the world. The more powerful an individual feminist is as an actor, the more necessary it is to recognize and open to further challenge the effects of power entailed by particular moral judgments and their practical implications. To strive for epistemological security, as if that somehow takes priority over all the other kinds of securities that so many women in the world lack, is to misunderstand the nature of moral engagement in an imperfect world. (Hutchings 1999, 35)

Nussbaum, being the more powerful in the dialogue with the women she purports to help with her list is the one who has to work particularly hard to open herself up to be challenged. If her peers—other well- known capabilities scholars—do not feel they are being heard, there is no reason to believe that she is effectively engaging in cross-cultural dialogue with less powerful women from a non-academic culture.

Ignoring these power asymmetries can be interpreted as a natural outgrowth of Nussbaum’s liberal (or international) feminist bias. Alexander and Mohanty (1997) have challenged the potential of such feminist approaches to be inclusive: “‘International’ feminism embraces an approach of the articulation of many voices to specify an inclusive feminism—calls for ‘global sisterhood’ are often premised on a center/periphery model where women of color or Third World women constitute the periphery” (xviii). Such an approach is inadequate for the Garifuna women, who seem to be at the periphery of Nussbaum’s vision, if a part of it at all.

A more complex understanding of the intersectionality of gendered lives is critical to an examination of agency in the Garifuna community: “Historicizing and locating political agency is a necessary alternative to formulations of the ‘universality’ of gendered oppression and struggles” (Mohanty

1998, 255). Nussbaum cannot assume based on her limited experience in India what would be best for the Garifuna women of Honduras, or other indigenous and minority women around the world. Highlighting how international feminism undermines intersectional perspectives, Mohanty (1992) wrote, “This universality of gender oppression is problematic, based as it is on the assumption that the categories of

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race and class have to be invisible for gender to be visible” (75). The racialization of the Garifuna in the

“original banana republic” of Honduras and the historical exclusion of the Garifuna from Honduran national identity shapes the development activities and opportunities of Garifuna women and communities. Nussbaum’s universalist approach flattens these nuances.

Moving Beyond Lists

The creation of a central capabilities list is not benign in its impact, but can actually do damage in terms of understanding the range of capabilities required for diverse populations to thrive. Sen (2005) has discussed the consequences of not including certain capabilities: “To decide that some capability will not figure in the list of relevant capabilities at all amounts to putting a zero weight on that capability for every exercise, no matter what the exercise is concerned with, and no matter what the social conditions are.

This could be very dogmatic” (337). In spite of his rejection of collective, or joint, capabilities, he encourages a broad range of possible individual capabilities.19

I would further argue that Nussbaum’s capabilities list seems doomed to exclude capabilities critical to marginalized or minority populations. In the case of the Garifuna ereba makers, I have identified ereba-making as a cultural activity that is at the heart of community life and development. The opportunity to produce ereba is critical to cultural life and ancestral traditions, land use and crop cultivation, socialization of youth, cultural education and economic empowerment. However, it is such a culturally specific capability that it would never be included in any global list of capabilities. To suggest that some generalized expression of ereba-making might be included on such a list assumes that all (or most) communities have something similar—some cultural emblem around which the community coalesces.

Perhaps it is because many communities do not have such an element that Nussbaum and others are able to develop capabilities lists with no consideration of such collective, or joint, capabilities. However, for the communities who take advantage of several cultural elements—ereba-making, fishing traditions, and communal land rights, for example—for the purposes of community development, these cultural

19 Earlier I addressed the contradictory nature of acceptance of individual capabilities alongside the rejection of joint and/or collective capabilities, especially for those of us who understand individual capabilities to be dependent upon joint and/or collective capabilities. I will not revisit that discussion here.

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elements are not trivial at all. Instead, these cultural elements are the glue that holds together a community of families, as Mariana would describe it.

There are numerous critiques of Nussbaum’s list, most of which focus on the lack of transparency in her cross-cultural process. Surprisingly, many of these critiques still come to the same conclusion that what is needed is a different list. They engage the creation of the list only to the extent that they argue that different processes would create better lists. Among those who have suggested alternative lists and/or processes for arriving at lists are Ingrid Robeyns (2003), Sabina Alkire and Rufus Black (1997), and Brooke Ackerly (2000). I argue that we should move beyond these lists altogether.

In spite of suggesting that these lists are not very useful, I do appreciate the suggestions for a different type of process, and ultimately a more inclusive feminist solidarity. I especially appreciate

Robeyns’ (2005a) attention to partial epistemological access and the situatedness of the researcher.

Also, Alkire (2002) stressed the importance of participatory processes. These suggestions of alternative processes hint at the importance of dialogue in understanding what shapes development opportunities, or capabilities. On the one hand, Robeyns (2005a) focused on the engagement of the researcher, while

Alkire (2002) focused attention on the inclusion of individuals in their own development process.

Both of these suggestions represent a process that moves closer to Sen’s approach with regard to agency and participation in contrast to Nussbaum’s approach of constitutional principles and abstract theorizing. Crocker (2008) has distinguished the alternative emphases of Sen and Nussbaum as follows:

“Nussbaum emphasizes philosophical theorizing in determining valuable capabilities while Sen stresses agency-manifesting processes of public discussion and democratic choice” (185).

Earlier, I indicated that the TBF framework excludes a global level of analysis, but includes a transnational level of analysis. In the next section, I provide a more detailed discussion of the contributions of scholars who work within transnational relations, focusing particularly on those who study feminist and women’s transnational movements and networks. As part of this discussion, I examine various conceptualizations of feminist solidarity.

Transnational Considerations

Many scholars have drawn attention to the importance of transnational phenomena in the

“international society.” This scholarship includes the work of Risse-Kappen (1995), who declared that

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transnational relations “permeate world politics in almost every issue-area” (3); Risse-Kappen (1995) further declared, “the transnational coalitions and actors are purposeful in the sense that they attempt to achieve specific political goals in the ‘target’ state of their activities” (8). More recently, Tarrow (2005), wrote about how transnational activism engages states in international politics, and how transnational activists develop new ways to frame domestic issues (2 – 3); he argued that domestic politics cannot be separated from international politics (2). Keck and Sikkink (1998) similarly declared their intention to

“bridge the increasingly artificial divide between international and national realms” (4). They did so by writing about transnational advocacy networks: “Transnational advocacy networks are proliferating, and their goal is to change behavior of states and international organizations. Simultaneously principled and strategic actors, they ‘frame’ issues to make them comprehensible to target audiences, to attract attention and encourage action, and to ‘fit’ with favorable institutional venues” (Keck and Sikkink 1998, 2 – 3).

These transnational approaches are useful in decentering statist IR models that fail to consider how sub-state and transnational actors impact the interaction between states. The TBF model sandwiches the state level of analysis between an analysis of nations within states and transnational actors in order to enrich discussion of state action and interaction by incorporating actors that heavily influence the state. In particular, the literature about transnational feminist networks and organizations builds upon this idea of groups organized to influence state action by using international pressure, in what

Keck and Sikkink (1998) label the boomerang pattern (12).

The term “transnational feminism” came into use in the context of conferences sponsored by the

United Nations during the 1980s (Conway 2010, 151 – 152). Transnational feminist organizations are characterized by their linking of women and/or feminists of the global South and global North. In spite of these links, recent critiques have suggested that the organizations may be contributing to inequality between these two groups: “Transnational feminism’s literal interpretation of cross-border work as links with organizations in the South ends up participating in a politics of funding that often exacerbates the inequalities between the North and the South” (Carty and Das Gupta 2009, 97). Carty and Das Gupta

(2009) described the dependent relationship as follows:

Pockets in the global South become the recipient of undoubtedly much-needed material resources and expertise from the North but, so far, not in a manner that in any meaningful way redistributes the resources. Thus we see U.S.-based transnational feminism running the danger of mirroring the dependency of marginalized groups on nongovernmental organizations (NGOs)

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that have proliferated in the South and the North to replace state-sponsored social-democratic programs that neoliberal policies have cut back. (102)

This dependent relationship reifies the developed/underdeveloped dichotomy discussed in the third chapter of this dissertation. It is the North that helps the South, or the Third World.

Yuval-Davis (2006) also discussed the growing professionalization of much transnational feminist work, especially in relation to the legal profession:

Given the growing body of legislation that emerged to secure the rights of women and other disadvantaged social groupings over the years, such advocacy has gradually come to require more and more legal expertise: in international law, in human rights legislation, in employment law, in domestic violence law, and so forth. This has meant the growing professionalization of feminist advocacy. Even those who are not actually in the legal profession have had to acquire sociolegal expertise. This has gone hand in hand with the NGOization of feminist advocacy, since such work often requires full-time engagement with it. To a large extent feminism has stopped being a mass social movement and has become the full-time business of trained experts. (288)

In this way, transnational feminists have to be careful not to reproduce the very systems of domination they critique. Such “NGOization” of activism creates a hierarchy with trained legal professionals at the top, and less educated, poor women, once again marginalized. Basu (2000) linked this professionalization to women’s movements’ focus on the state: “The focus of the women’s movement on transforming the state has been responsible for its increasing reliance on institutional and legislative means rather than on grassroots mobilization” (80). Thus Conway (2008) rightfully asked, “To what extent is ‘transnational feminism’ a feminism of cosmopolitan feminist elites, urbanized and educated in terms of Western academia, whether geographically located and or politically identified with the global South or North?”

(211). This critique parallels non-feminist critiques of the professionalization of development more broadly.

Escobar (1991) discussed the unavoidable bias of anthropologists that embed themselves in development organizations: “Development anthropology almost inevitably upholds the main tenets of development. Professionals discover an ‘order’ or ‘system’ that is no more than the order they have been trained to perceive or discover. Procedures for producing knowledge about the Third World are thus embedded in the processes of ruling, including, of course, a whole political economy and regime of cultural production” (674). In both cases—feminists becoming part of NGOs and anthropologists working for development organizations—these professionals reinforce the idea that peoples from the “Third

World” need the assistance of professionals from the West, or global South.

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This top-down approach, through which resources (and benefits) flow from the global North to the global South, is reminiscent of Nussbaum’s top-down approach to capabilities (discussed above). Top- down approaches can be identified in more popular feminist approaches, like that of human rights scholars. As Yuval-Davis (2006) wrote, “Its top-down nature is anchored in its deductive nature as advocacy for pre-determined rights” (289). Nussbaum also begins with a predetermined set of capabilities. Consider how both approaches circumvent critically important engagement of the ideas and values that undergird their lists. As Chowdhury (2009) wrote, “Global feminism using a universal human rights paradigm constructs for itself the role of the heroic savior of women in non-western societies” (53).

The Northern feminist thus bestows the gift of rights on the women of the global South. Like Escobar

(1997a), Chowdhury (2009) found the entanglement of some feminist politics with imperialist projects and institutions problematic:

The contemporary global feminist discourse is erasing crucial bodies of work, namely the intersections and divergences of US anti-racist and third world/transnational feminisms, is unable to distance itself from the current imperialist project of the US administration in which academic women’s studies is also implicated. In the mobilization of global feminism in these sites (the US academy and global feminist politics), the very same hegemonies are (re)constructed, albeit with the integration of new actors and peoples. This hegemonic form of feminism erases internal fractures and critiques of multiply located feminisms. (72)

In this way, women in the North, in spite of good intentions, often become oppressive forces in the lives of women of the South.

It has been suggested that better communication is in order. Tripp (2006) highlighted that sometimes transnational organizations fail to communicate with “local” actors: “They are so focused on mobilizing and getting their constituents and the broader public to feel good about their involvement that they fail to notice the potential damage that their activism can cause, especially in cases of insufficient collaboration with those on the ground who are most knowledgeable about their own circumstances”

(297). Although Tripp (2006) usefully identified the importance of collaboration with local actors, she does not account for the complexity of local actors, who are often in conflict with one another. Consider the tension between ODECO and OFRANEH about the appropriate direction of Garifuna development, in relation to the tourism industry. Coordination with either of these distinct local actors would have very different outcomes. So-called “local” politics is as contested and contentious as politics at the national, international or transnational levels.

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Although Tripp (2006) referred to the importance of “an understanding of the different positions taken by various local actors” (306), that does not capture the fact that when NGOs enter a local debate/struggle, they take a side, and they give power and resources to one side of the struggle in an attempt to defeat the other. These are political actions, and should not be interpreted as some sort of de- politicized humanitarian campaign. Thus, when Tripp (2006) suggested that “international actors’ selection of issues to highlight should reflect local priorities” (308), the question is not whether local priorities are considered but rather which local priorities are considered, and thus privileged.

Much feminist scholarship has constructed “transnational” activity in such a way that Western women are privileged. However, Matte (2010) reminded us that “transnationalization is always located somewhere – including inside national territories – and not ‘up there’” (3). This statement highlights the importance of situating all individuals engaged in transnational relations. Conway (2008) warned, “The transnational is never without geography nor geographically innocent” (224). Rendering women of the

North invisible, without position, place, or roots, converts transnational feminist engagement into a charity project focused on helping the poor women of the South. There is no solidarity in such an approach, just charity. Without a voice, Garifuna ereba makers, and all grassroots development actors of the South, are excluded from the agenda of Northern feminists that claim to be acting in the name of assisting development in the South.

Such blind spots inevitably impact the ability to analyze issues engaged in these contexts:

“Beyond raising questions about the varying geographic content of claims to the transnational, this points to the importance of identifying place-based transnationalisms as particularly relevant to movement- building transnational feminisms, and the particular political challenges of negotiating place-based difference in constructing transnational feminist and emancipatory geopolitics” (Conway 2008, 225). This statement makes apparent the ongoing importance of state context, even in a discussion of transnational relations that push beyond state boundaries.

Alvarez’s (2000) observations about transnational feminist movements in Latin America highlighted the importance of contextualizing transnational relations. In spite of the top-down approach that characterizes some transnational feminist activity, Alvarez (2000) observed that “in the case of Latin

America, the particularities of the regional and national political contexts in which feminisms unfolded also

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impelled local movement actors to build transborder connections from the bottom up” (30). An example is the regional encuentros, or meetings, that happened throughout Latin America, encouraging significant grassroots, transnational, feminist activity.

Alvarez (2000) thus identified multiple and simultaneous logics in transnational feminist activity of the 1980s and 1990s: “Among Latin American feminists, I will argue, an internationalist identity-solidarity logic prevailed in the ‘encuentro-like’ intra-regional feminist activities of the 1980s and 1990s, whereas a transnational IGO-advocacy logic came to predominate in region-wide feminist organizing around the Rio,

Vienna, Cairo and Beijing Summits of the 1990s” (31). When all actors are not situated in context, regional trends among Latin American feminists, for example, are easily overlooked:

Whereas the existing literature typically lumps all cross-border organizing efforts under a single analytical rubric (for instance, ‘global civil society’ or transnational social movements), I want to suggest that different modalities of transborder activism not only can have differential impacts on promoting desired policy changes, but also can have distinct political consequences for activist discourses and practices and for intramovement power relations on the home front. (Alvarez 2000, 32)

In her discussion about Latin American feminists, Alvarez (2000) brought attention to the boundaries of various groups. The intra-regional behavior at encuentros differs from interactions at the inter-regional UN conferences. So then, where and how are the boundaries of groups defined? Who are we? And who are they? What does it mean to be allied with them, rather than to have them become part of our group?

These are key questions faced by feminists working within diverse contexts to build solidarity. Rather than a focus on lists, it is suggested that feminists instead focus on the difficult but more relevant task of sustaining processes of solidarity.

Building Solidarity

In focusing on process, rather than ends or lists, my goal is to emphasize feminist solidarity as a process. In spite of Ackerly’s (2000) endorsement of a list, she offers a useful description of a feminist solidarity that focuses on collective interests. “Solidarity means forming alliances with communities, with other activists, with other oppressed groups, among feminist intellectuals, and between feminist intellectuals and activists and artists. Solidarity means thinking of women’s interests as collective (as in a collection of) interests rather than as interests in common” (58). Note the attention to particular types of action in Ackerly’s (2000) definition; Solidarity means forming alliances and thinking collectively. The

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emphasis should be on these types of processes that must be engaged in order to sustain feminist solidarity.

Thinking of a collection of interests allows feminists of diverse values to support one another in our struggles in spite of differences among us. This type solidarity is much more powerful than the supposed solidarity that is built on agreement about specific end goals. Instead, it respects cultural difference and suggests a commitment to feminist causes that are divergent from one’s own. It is easy to support someone who wants the same things you want. It is much more challenging to support the feminist struggle of someone very different than you in pursuit of goals that you would not advocate for in your own society. To do so is to respect diverse feminist movements for social justice.

Although I share Ackerly’s interest in building feminist solidarity, I do not embrace her pursuit, along with Nussbaum, of universal principles: “Social criticism requires, among other things, universal standards by which to assess local practices. Nussbaum offers a draft of such criteria” (Ackerly 2000, 13).

Even Nussbaum (2000) admitted the limitations of such lists, which would have to be interpreted within the local context: “Each of the capabilities may be concretely realized in a variety of different ways, in accordance with local tastes, local circumstances, and traditions” (105). In addition to recognition of the cultural variation within the state, Nussbaum (2000) acknowledged variation in state implementation:

“The implementation of such principles must be left, for the most part, to the internal politics of the nation in question, although international agencies and other governments are justified in using persuasion – and in especially grave cases economic or political sanctions – to promote such developments” (105).

Thus, it appears that lists are abstracted only to be later contextualized for practical use. Is this not just an intellectual exercise in abstraction?

My suggestion is that instead, we embrace the contextualized, locally relevant lists of communities as examples of desired capabilities. There is no need to aggregate or abstract these lists.

They do not need to have the same items, or even the same categories of items. Instead, transnational feminist solidarity should be based upon a commitment to diverse women working toward social justice.

Knowing that justice-seeking processes in diverse contexts will lead to a range of demands, in relation to the state and with the support of transnational allies, we should focus on how we engage in processes of

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solidarity building. These processes should promote cross-cultural understanding and dialogue, giving legitimacy to the transnational (rather than imperialist) nature of collective action.

Nussbaum, however, has a top-down approach to solidarity. She publishes her list, and others accept it, or offer minor adjustments. Mohanty (1998), in contrast to Nussbaum and similar to Sen, understood that solidarity requires commitment to a process: “The real challenge arises in being able to craft a notion of political unity without relying on the logic of appropriation and incorporation and, just as significantly, a denial of agency. For me the unity of women is best understood not as given, on the basis of a natural/psychological commonality; it is something that has to be worked for, struggled towards—in history” (Mohanty 1998, 264). What Mohanty (1998) emphasized was the importance of the process for building solidarity. The focus on lists—whether they are capabilities lists or lists of human rights—diverts attention away from the process of building solidarity.

hooks (1984) distinguished between solidarity and support as follows: “Solidarity is not the same as support. To experience solidarity, we must have a community of interests, shared beliefs and goals around which to unite, to build Sisterhood. Support can be occasional. It can be given and just as easily withdrawn. Solidarity requires sustained, ongoing commitment” (64). In this way, solidarity implies a commitment to each other and to a set of goals. It is not predicated on agreement about lists. hooks’

(1984) description of solidarity is reminiscent of Gilbert’s discussion of joint commitments. Of course, in this case, the reference is to an impersonal “we,” but the commitments are just as entrenched. Solidarity is not a relationship entered into (or exited) without great consideration, and commitment.

Notice that neither Mohanty (1998) nor hooks (1984) say anything to suggest the importance of similarity, or sameness. Instead, hooks (1984) talked about the importance of an appreciation for diversity: “Women do not need to eradicate difference to feel solidarity. We do not need to share common oppression to fight equally to end oppression. … We can be sisters united by shared interests and beliefs, united in our appreciation for diversity, united in our struggle to end sexist oppression, united in political solidarity” (65). The struggle to which hooks (1984) referred in this statement is not an end. No one wants struggle to be the end result. These references to struggle refer, instead, to a process. The challenging process of building solidarity requires specific types of engagement among diverse peoples.

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Mohanty (2003) usefully articulated some of the conditions that should shape the struggle for solidarity.

I define solidarity in terms of mutuality, accountability, and the recognition of common interests as the basis for relationships among diverse communities. Rather than assuming an enforced commonality of oppression, the practice of solidarity foregrounds communities of people who have chosen to work and fight together. Diversity and difference are central values here—to be acknowledged and respected, not erased in the building of alliances. (7)

Solidarity-building processes should be mutually engaged. This implies a sense of equality that is incongruent with top-down directives. Accountability to one another is also important. This requires entering struggle with a goal of equality; feminists of the South must be able to hold feminists of the North accountable to social justice goals. As an example, Tripp (2006) wrote, “Women in the North can and should seek greater influence over their government’s policies around foreign affairs, military intervention abroad, foreign aid, immigration, support for the United Nations, and other arenas that affect women globally” (310). If we are to acknowledge, as Conway (2008) suggested, that transnational struggles are geographically rooted (224), then geographically dispersed feminists must be held accountable to advocating for social justice in multiple locations. With a common interest in fighting multiple forms of oppression—which is the only way that a feminist struggle can be made useful to diverse feminists—the emphasis must be in building and maintaining alliances that are rooted in a process that will change goals in response to various contexts.

Contrast this perspective to Nussbaum’s “charitable” contribution of a list of capabilities “on behalf of” poor women around the world. She is not on equal footing with these women; she is being philanthropic. This is inconsistent with how we should think about solidarity: “Solidarity comes with an understanding of oppression and a commitment to act upon it with others and, when required, for others.

It implies equality, not charity or uniformity” (Matte 2010, ix). Rather than aiming for equality, Nussbaum offers charity in the provision of her list, which in no way addresses existing inequalities. The reality is that given a history of discrimination, individuals often need more or different opportunities to obtain similar goals.

Further, Matte (2010) suggested that solidarity requires sharing: “The deepening of solidarities involves mutual recognition and the constitution of stronger ties among activists. It also opens up the possibility for the establishment and cultivation of shared understandings of situations, problems, and,

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sometimes, solutions” (4). Rather than sharing her process and being transparent, Nussbaum simply dictated a seemingly immutable list of capabilities; it is not clear whether the list emerged from anything that approximated what most scholars would qualify as cross-cultural exchange and sharing.

In considering the future of transnational feminism, Conway (2010) asks “how open, plural, dialogical, and coalitional feminist movements will be, not just vis-à-vis each other but also in relation to movements that are recognized as broadly emancipatory in terms other than feminist. This includes grassroots movement that eschew the label of feminist and the array of social movements worldwide converging against neoliberal globalization” (167). Consider the rejection by many feminists of the

Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. Are feminists willing to struggle in solidarity with non-feminists? With the exception of the president of “Women’s Traditions,” the ereba makers are not mostly feminists. They are mothers, like the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, who are fighting for a better life for their children and for their families. Although I identify as a feminist, I do not require that they do so, for me to be part of their struggle for the opportunity to use the culinary tradition of ereba-making as a path to a better life for the community, channeled through the education of community children. I am prepared to struggle with them in pursuit of shared goals, in spite of our differences. Below, I explore how a transnational Black feminist approach encourages a deepened and more nuanced analysis of transnational relations and how the specific study of the Garifuna ereba makers highlights omissions and opportunities for improvement of transnational studies.

Transnational Black Feminist Approach

In addition to identifying as a Black feminist scholar, which I discussed at length in chapter 2, I also identify as a transnational feminist. Ackerly and D’Costa (2005) have identified transnational feminists as “women and men who are feminists and activists for women, and whose work concerns issues that they and others would recognise as feminist or women’s issues, although they often have a broad impact on society” (2 – 3). In this way, I am a transnational feminist because my research-activism involves solidarity with the Garifuna ereba makers in their efforts to preserve the joint capability of ereba- making as a means to community development. Not only is my relationship to the Garifuna community one that crosses national boundaries as I continue to engage in dialogue from the US with Honduran

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villagers; within the Garifuna community, I am also studying transnational relationships among members of the Garifuna nation.

Mohanty (2003) talked about a “feminism without borders” that “acknowledges the fault lines, conflicts, differences, fears, and containment that borders represent. It acknowledges that there is no one sense of a border, that the lines between and through nations, races, classes, sexualities, religions, and disabilities, are real – and that a feminism without borders must envision change and social justice work across these lines of demarcation and division” (2). My engagement with the Garifuna community is emblematic of this type of commitment to social justice. My intent is to bring attention to the community so that others can reflect on the structural violence of racist and patriarchal frameworks; it is also to contribute in some positive way to the development efforts of the Garifuna community of Honduras.

Grewal and Kaplan (1994) wrote, “Transnational linkages influence every level of social existence” (13). The TBF framework is designed to explore such linkages. Communities operate transnationally. In particular, there are Garifuna communities along the Caribbean coast of Central

America, and in US cities. A TBF framework is well suited for understanding the complex relations within this transnational community. Grewal and Kaplan (1994) found that a study of transnational formations of diasporas can be informative:

What theorists of the diaspora often tend to forget is that location is still an important category that influences the specific manifestations of transnational formations. All diasporas are not alike; we must learn how to demarcate them, how to understand their specific agendas and politics, Furthermore, in order to problematize the separation of a pure ‘home’ from a ‘contaminated’ diasporic location, we have to pay attention to how people distinguish their diasporic location from their ‘home’ location. (Grewal and Kaplan 1994, 16)

Consider the discussion in chapter 7 about the ancestral villages continuing to be the authentic home for many Garifuna people, even after years of work abroad. An individual in New York, for example, might be thinking of Cuenca, Honduras as home, and living in ways that are deeply steeped in traditions from the

US and from Honduras. This individual is communicating with friends and family in Honduras and is still considered a part of the Cuenca community, where she has a home in which a relative might live. This points to the ways in which the family operates in a transnational space. This discussion extends to the

Garifuna transnational community of families.

One of the major omissions in the literature about transnational relations is a discussion of indigenous communities that existed before the creation of modern-day states and have long been

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operating across geopolitical borders. It thus comes as a surprise that there is not more research and discussion of these communities within the literature. Academia and the institutions it supports seem troublingly committed to the oft-rehearsed script of a backward, incapable native population that can only be helped. It is difficult to cite canonical ID texts if one is interested in writing about indigenous peoples’ agency. It is disturbing the extent to which research perpetuates the centrality of the Western professional in every and any form of development. The popular saying goes, “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” One similarly might ask, “If a community is progressing and a white Westerner isn’t there to notice, is it still called development?”

It has been a primary aim of this dissertation to reclaim development for those who are most engaged, on a daily basis, in improving their own lives and that of their families and communities.

Although Escobar (1997a) argued that “development” is too mired in colonial and racist notions to be helpful, this seems a weak argument for a scholar of his stature. What is academic engagement if not a struggle over ideas and ideals? Consider Chatterjee’s (1999) scathing critique of Anderson’s (2006) narrow understanding of nationalism, born exclusively out of the experiences of Europeans and

Americans:

I have one central objection to Anderson’s argument. If nationalisms in the rest of the world have to choose their imagined community from certain ‘modular’ forms already made available to them by Europe and the Americas, what do they have left to imagine? History, it would seem, has decreed that we in the postcolonial world shall only be perpetual consumers of modernity. Europe and the Americas, the only true subjects of history, have thought out on our behalf not only the script of colonial enlightenment and exploitation, but also that of our anticolonial resistance and postcolonial misery. Even our imagination must remain forever colonized. (Chatterjee 1999, 5)

Rather than abandon the concept of nationalism to Anderson and other white America and European scholars, Chatterjee objects to such a narrow construction. Similarly, development must be reclaimed for and by those grassroots development activists that are doing the bulk of the work required to improve poor communities. By not reclaiming development Escobar (1997a) and others risk succumbing to the colonized mind, unable to imagine an alternative conceptualization of development.

Scholars struggling in solidarity with poor and marginalized communities do not simply abandon such ideas; we do not cease to imagine a different type of development. Earlier, I referred to Tripp’s

(2006) insistence that women in the North should take advantage of their positioning to struggle for change in their home counties. Scholars based in Europe and America similarly have a responsibility to

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struggle in solidarity with those grassroots development activists that are changing their communities. We do that not by becoming NGOs experts and replacing those activists; we do that by showing solidarity in the spaces where we have the advantage of privilege. That space is here—in our papers, articles, and books. We have the power to demonstrate solidarity in our writing. This is not the space to admit defeat.

What power do we have if not the power to imagine, in solidarity with diverse communities, development in which community leaders are the primary actors in community development? I am not prepared to abandon this struggle. Rather, this dissertation stands as a first step in calling for such reclamation, consistent with the interventionist legacy of Black feminists who aim to set the record straight.

My study within the Garifuna community reveals another significant omission in the work of transnational feminists. There has been significant focus on the technologies powering transnationalism:

“New technologies of communication, achieving both apparent global reach and enormous speed, have produced massively circulating gender and sexual ideologies, conceptualized as ‘global feminism,’ capable of transforming noncontiguous societies alike” (Lim 2004, 7 – 8). There has been much less discussion about the implications for families, communities and nations without ready access to these technologies. Consider the evolution of a Garifuna nation in diaspora, as articulated by the more mobile,

Internet-connected US-based young adults of the Garifuna community. How does this Internet-powered construction of a Garifuna nation in diaspora create a fracture, or disconnect, between younger and older generations within Garifuna families? Rural, and other marginalized, communities without Internet access cannot engage in such a community. This is an issue that a TBF framework places front and center on a development research agenda that to date has overlooked such issues. Using a TBF framework to analyze development has also elicited important questions about policy and practitioner work. Below, I briefly give examples of both.

Policy Lessons from the Field

As described in chapter 3, Honduran government policies related to land titling and usage have greatly impacted the rural Garifuna communities. Agarwal (2009) has suggested that land access is a major factor in women’s empowerment, especially in rural areas:

Property ownership can therefore reduce her risk of suffering violence by increasing her economic security, reducing her tolerance of violence, and providing a potential escape route should violence occur. … Hence, a spousal gap in property ownership that favors the woman is

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less likely to lead to a perverse effect. What is important here is not whether a woman actually uses the exit option that immovable property provides, but that its very existence can deter the husband from abusing her. (171)

Given this very powerful statement about the potential of women’s land ownership to increase women’s empowerment, reducing both her vulnerability to domestic violence and economic instability, one might be inclined to advance some sort of capability for land ownership for women. However, as mentioned previously, an increase in private land ownership (and a general focus on the privatization of land) has benefitted mestizo women in Honduras, while creating land loss for Garifuna women.

As Anderson (2009) wrote, “The transfer of land into private property involves a significant resource loss for Garifuna women to mestiza men and, to a lesser extent, Garifuna men” (56). Such transfers, or “land grabs” as Brondo (2013) called them, should not simply be understood in terms of capitalist expansion, but should be historicized in the racialized history of land (re)distribution: “The massive impoverishment of the majority of African peoples today, as well as millions in Asia and Latin

America – normalized as a question of development – is not simply a humanitarian tragedy, but, in part, the product of a racialised international order, a form of global structural racism” (Jones 2008, 924 – 925).

Thus, the land transfer represents an action that is both gendered and racialized, when put in its proper historical context.

By examining the issue of land rights with an intersectional lens, we are able to see how the empowerment of one group of women (i.e., mestizo women) is directly linked to the disempowerment of another group of women (i.e., Garifuna women). These nuances are not captured in the universalist list of

Nussbaum, in spite of the very real policy implications. These issues are instead left to be resolved at the local level. However, as Brondo (2013) has articulated, these policies are integral to the neoliberal land policies that are very much a function of transnational institutions: “The decades-long processes of privatization have moved land from a largely Garifuna women’s resource to that of mestiza and foreign men. The ‘gender-blind’ neoliberal land policies of the 1990s served to expand land displacement and gender inequality, especially in the tourism boom on Honduras’s coastline” (81).

A Black feminist perspective brings to the discussion an intersectional analysis that goes beyond

Nussbaum’s capabilities based on a universal woman to understand the very real differences in the

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experiences of women diverse in terms of race, class, and education. The relevance of each of these factors is highlighted in Brondo’s (2013) discussion of land rights in Honduras.

While Honduran women in general are making some headway in terms of receiving private land titles in their names, Garifuna women’s land loss has accelerated under neoliberal land titling programs. Honduran legislation recognizes women as producers, but the laws are aimed at modernization, globalization, and the privatization of the economy. Legislation thus focuses on the issuance of private land titles as opposed to communal land titles with matrilineally based use rights. Garifuna women lack the conditions necessary to benefit from these laws—specifically, education, experience in a market system, access to credit, and investment capital. (81-82)

While Nussbaum focuses on women “in general” in her capabilities list, feminists using intersectional approaches must consider the experiences of those who have been marginalized historically. If that consideration is not given, then one may unintentionally contribute to or inadvertently support existing inequalities and oppressions.

As an example of how broadly unspecified capabilities can be operationalized in very different ways, I will briefly consider the value of an education—a value that the ereba makers, Nussbaum and I all share. The education capability is categorized under Nussbaum’s fourth capability on the central list, which is access to senses, imagination, and thought (Nussbaum 2011b, 33). Related to education,

Nussbaum (2011b) elaborated on this capability, indicating that it entails “being able to use the senses, to imagine, think, and reason—and to do these things in a ‘truly human’ way, a way informed and cultivated by an adequate education, including, but by no means limited to, literacy and basic mathematical and scientific training” (33). Again, the issue at hand here is not the value but how one would create the desired capability.

Nussbaum (2003) has advocated for the involvement of multinational corporations in the building of education infrastructure in developing countries. She started her argument by acknowledging that multinational corporations “increasingly determine the course of policy in the developing countries where they do business” (Nussbaum 2003, 351). Without problematizing the power that corporations have in state affairs, she went on to suggest talking points for convincing corporations that educating the citizenry would help their bottom line: “We make an efficiency argument. Money invested in education, we say, is money well spent. An educated workforce is a more productive and stable workforce” (Nussbaum 2003,

350). Nussbaum thinks of the children or adult learners of a country in terms of workers-in-training; in this sense education is conflated with skills training for multinational corporations.

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Nussbaum (2003) made a second argument that “we” also should appeal to the moral sensibilities of the corporations: “We may also, let us hope, link to this efficiency argument a moral argument. Using part of one’s profits to educate the next generation is the decent thing to do” (351).

Somehow Nussbaum did not see the irony in appealing to the moral sensibilities of the same multinational corporations that she acknowledged are controlling the policies of democratic states.

Needless to say, even in relation to this seemingly ubiquitous value of education, Nussbaum’s top-down approach creates challenges for a transnational Black feminist approach.

We might also consider how Nussbaum’s approach might actually be counter-productive in the

Garifuna communities. For some Garifuna activists (e.g., OFRANEH), there is a push against the intrusion of tourism companies on Garifuna land. Nussbaum’s vision would have these same companies, against which the Garifuna struggle, opening up schools in their neighborhoods. When one considers the complex, multi-layered way in which the Garifuna people understand education as a means to individual, family and community survival, such action not only undermines the political struggles of the community, but threatens the very survival of the group. As discussed in chapter 8, education in the Garifuna community is more than just job training; it is about being better equipped to protect the ancestral villages.

In this context the community value of an education is devastated by its control by multinational corporations that aim to replace communal lands with tourist resorts. What is made clear by this example is that the devil is in the details. From a transnational Black feminist perspective, the appropriate response is an ongoing struggle in solidarity with community. Nussbaum’s approach is one of top-down imposition of capabilities legislated by the same state that has oppressed and marginalized the Garifuna community. In addition to top-down policy prescriptions, development practices that are not sufficiently rooted in local culture and context also can have unexpected outcomes.

Practitioner Lessons from the Field

Vonderlack-Navarro (2010) has described how a number of microcredit programs target women because of indicators suggesting that women are both better at repaying loans and more likely to invest money in family nutrition and other necessities (124). This information about women being “better investments” informed the decision of an international non-governmental organization that I encountered in the Garifuna villages. The organization, which I will call HumaniCare, had permanent staff that was

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based in the village. However, much of the work was done by interns who resided in the village for one- year terms. Two new interns arrived while I was in the village. They were relatively young (in their twenties), white women. I spent some time with them, as we were all working to immerse ourselves in community life. In fact, one of my first interactions with them was during an all-day church trip, which involved a five-hour boat ride in each direction.

From the villagers, I had heard about the programs of HumaniCare, which included baking programs that instructed women in how to operate a small baking business and communicated micro- loan opportunities for women. These programs were not available to the men of the village. When I asked the interns about the gendered nature of the programs, they talked about the greater reliability of women in the repayment of loans and the increased likelihood that women will invest earnings in ways that help the entire family.

When I asked villagers why the programs were not available to men, they said they did not know.

In spite of not knowing why the programs were limited to women, many of them speculated that the young, white women were not comfortable with Black men. Others suggested that they thought men were not good investments. Because the decision was made absent of the public deliberation and outside the cultural context of the villages, the decision was not necessarily the best for the villages, and in fact may have created a less supportive atmosphere for the organization that appeared to be favoring women without any particular justification. Vonderlack-Navarro (2010) has discussed other ways in which programs that target women can have unanticipated consequences.

The unanticipated consequences of participation in microcredit can often increase women’s dependence on other family members to manage the debt. Although the men’s behaviors generally encouraged the women to assume chief responsibility for their families’ economic welfare, the structure of the microcredit program—merely targeting women and not addressing broader family dynamics—often further heightened the women’s financial burdens and placed the responsibility for the families’ economic welfare on the women, thus shifting responsibility away from the men. (132)

It is important that international organizations consider the ways in which they are impacting and potentially reinforcing gender hierarchies.

We might also consider the unanticipated consequences of HumaniCare’s baking program, which was exclusively for women. An important part of the role of Garifuna men in the village is to help Garifuna women with their various tasks. In particular, husbands and younger men often assist the middle-aged

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women in the community with work tasks. The Garifuna men assist women, even in doing so-called

“women’s work” such as ereba-making. Their ability to assist, however, requires that they receive the same training as the women. By excluding males, and especially young boys, HumaniCare is likely decreasing the chances that the program will be sustainable. Their model has removed the support mechanism that typically allows women to complete their multiple tasks. By exclusively training women, they only increase the burden on women to do work outside of the support mechanisms of family. The women, glad to have any form of assistance, participated in the programs. As far as I know, they never challenged the “development experts” on this gendered exclusion.

I encountered a second organization during my time in the villages that I will call AgriTech.

AgriTech provided technical assistance in relation to the planting and harvesting of cassava. Like

HumaniCare, AgriTech’s initiatives were top-down, and developed without community engagement. The regional manager, who visited while I was in the village, talked to me about the laziness of Garifuna men.

This rhetoric was one that I had heard from the other AgriTech employees, in spite of the fact that one of the organizational leaders with whom they were working was a Garifuna man, Alejandro, who led many of the activities of “Fish to Cassava.” I once waited in the highway for over an hour with Alejandro for the

AgriTech staff in order to lead them to the cassava fields. They did not call to let him know they would be late, so we just stood waiting in the dark highway until they arrived. I mention this because this is one example of how the organization demonstrated through their actions the belief that the time and efforts of

Alejandro were less valuable than their own time. It is hard to separate this treatment from their belief that

Garifuna men are lazy compared to Garifuna women.

When organizations determine policy and practice outside of local context, it can often result in unanticipated consequences. This can and does hurt the very population that those policies aim to help, as in the case of land privatization and the increased appropriation of the land of Garifuna women. It can also include development practices that reinforce gender hierarchies, as in the cases of HumaniCare and

AgriTech—organizations that have decided to focus their attention on Garifuna women, in part because of stereotypes about the unreliability and laziness of Garifuna men. A much more effective approach to both development policy and practice would involve community engagement well before the implementation phase, at the point when policies and practices are being designed and developed. I have given the

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above examples as evidence of the unintended consequences of policy and practice when top-down approaches are used. Assuming patriarchal and neoliberal norms, these examples demonstrate how culturally insensitive intervention by outside organization can actually hurt the women that are being targeted for assistance. To avoid such pitfalls, emphasis on feminist solidarity as a process of struggle in commitment to shared goals is suggested. From a TBF perspective, this entails a multi-sited and multi- level struggle against multiple forms of oppression; this solidarity is rooted in mutuality, accountability and a recognition of common interests (Mohanty 2003) and challenges all parties involved to leverage their privilege at particular sites of struggle in order to advance a social justice agenda.

Conclusion

The significance of the research presented in this dissertation is three-fold. First, I contribute a transnational Black feminist framework to the field of IR, and derivatively ID. This framework acts as a

”bridge” between the feminist IR scholars who have often neglected race and the IR scholars, primarily postcolonial scholars, who have discussed race with little attention to gender analyses. The point is not simply to examine the most common intersectional categories of race, class, and gender. Rather, the goal is to engage in an analysis that is always seeking to discover the most salient intersections informing the case. In this study, generation, or age, stood out as an important category of analysis. For other studies, other categories (e.g., sexuality, disability, etc.) will be important.

In addition to a broad focus on intersectional analysis, the TBF framework challenges IR and ID scholars, with their statist biases, to look within the state to examine what we can learn from a study of families and nations within states. It displaces the statist models of international relations by suggesting an alternative transnational analysis. This analysis examines the state in the context of analyses from below and above that pass through and interact with state-level analysis.

The second major contribution of this dissertation is the introduction of a multi-level capabilities framework, with levels of capabilities that parallel the levels of analysis of the TBF framework. Developed using constructivist grounded theory, the multi-level capabilities approach extends the concept of capabilities to families, states, and other collectivities. The unique contribution of the multi-level capabilities approach is the introduction of joint capabilities, which are the capabilities of families, or other

266

plural subject agents. As discussed throughout the dissertation, these joint capabilities have been critically important in the lives and history of the Garifuna people.

The final contribution comes in the form of a Black feminist intervention that challenges IR and ID scholars to reflect on the ways in which they are complicit in reproducing the racist and sexist foundations that are at the foundations of our disciplines. Through feminist solidarity, with feminists and non-feminists alike, we can commit ourselves to a struggle for less oppressive disciplinary ethic that allows for individuals who are not class-, race-, and gender-privileged to excel both as active agents in research studies and as knowledge producers in universities.

A Final Note

It should be clear by now that this is not the detached “objective” social science of scholars past.

Collins (2009) suggested that “the significance of a Black feminist epistemology may lie in its ability to enrich our understanding of how subordinate groups create knowledge that fosters both their empowerment and social justice” (289). My struggle in solidarity with the Garifuna ereba makers thus continues as an extension of this dissertation. “We” have the joint intention to turn this dissertation into a book that can be sold, with any profits being reinvested in the communities that have shared their lives and stories with me. I am committed—as family members are—to improved living conditions for the villages of the ereba makers. Before I left Honduras, one of the older women leaned in toward me with her finger pointed, and said that she expected me to return; it would not be right to abandon them after all they had given me, she said. To that end, I plan to return and present my research in its current state. By then, I hope to have raised enough money to buy a car to transport ereba from the villages to the city. My efforts to keep my promise of solidarity to the community are documented publicly, in English and

Spanish, on the website I created with the ereba makers in Honduras and continue to update from the

US, representing our ongoing transnational engagement: http://www.erebairiona.org.

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