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Our Mother of Marícones and Marimachas: Examining the Surrounding Context of Gloria Anzaldúa’s Guadalupe/Coatlicue as the Mediatrix of the Queer Borderland Culture and Community

Gloria Anzaldúa has a complex relationship with Our Lady of Guadalupe. This relationship brings into question where exactly Anzaldúa and her theories fit in the Queer

Borderland culture and community. As a lesbian, as a Chicana, and as a scholar, Anzaldúa understand the nuanced role Guadalupe plays in the lives of those in the Borderlands. As a result of this potentially complex ideological entanglement, Anzaldúa practices a non-traditional brand of Catholicism which equates Our Lady of Guadalupe with the Aztec goddess Coatlicue in order to understand her role as an individual in the Borderlands, and as an embodiment of the

Borderlands itself.

Anzaldúa’s non-traditional and complex relationship with Guadalupe/Coatlicue is examined through her theories of the mestiza consciousness, and la facultad in order to examine the way the individual fits into the larger, Queer Chican@, communal context. When Anzaldúa writes about the role in which the individual, the body, the spirit, and the consciousness play in the Borderlands, she speaks of the Queer experience thereof. As such, the question of what role

Guadalupe/Coatlicue plays in the lives of other Queer Chinan@s arises. The mestiza consciousness, along with la facultad, play a significant part in Anzaldúa’s theory of the

Borderlands, and as such, plays a significant part of the larger, Queer Chinca@ experience as well. La facultad, along with the mestiza consciousness are, essentially, the combination of the body and spirit, represented by Coatlicue and Guadalupe respectively. This essay functions to provide a larger context for Anzaldúa’s theory, and to examine how community is possibly created through the Queer embracing of Our Lady. Champagne 2

This essay takes a three-pronged approach by examining three culturally-relevant contexts in which to view Anzaldúa’s work: First, this essay explores Anzaldúa’s understanding of Guadalupe/Coatlicue in order to comprehend the role in which the divine duo plays in

Anzaldúa’s life. Second, the relationship between Our Lady of Guadalupe and the Mexican and

Chican@ communities at large is established. Third, the role of Guadalupe/Coatlicue in the lives of queer individuals, specifically Guadalupe/Coatlicue as a Queer icon, as the Mediatrix of the

Queer Chican@ community, is explored.

Anzaldúa’s relationship with Guadalupe is intricate, often times contradictory, and built on ambiguity; that is to say Guadalupe is a channel for something that Anzaldúa considers greater than herself. This complex relationship with Guadalupe stems from the history of

Guadalupe, and the history of her interpretation by the Church. “The Catholic and Protestant religions,” Anzaldúa states, “encourages fear and distrust of life and the body; they encourage a split between the body and the soul; they encourage us to kill off parts of ourselves” (59).

However, the body and the phenomenological experiences of the body are important to

Anzaldúa. In Anzaldúa’s body politic, the sensual and extra-sensual experiences are paramount in examining the human condition. However, the Church promotes a split between the mind, body, and soul. This split is intended to make room for Christ, but for Anzaldùa, this split is unnecessary because she, herself, is her own sort of Christ:

“I’ve always been aware that there is a greater power than the conscious I. That power is my inner self, the entity that is the sum total of all my reincarnation, the godwoman in me I call Antigua, mi Diosa, the divine within, Coatlicue…”. (72)

Anzaldúa connects her ‘inner-god’ to the Aztec deity, Coatlicue. For Anzaldúa, the inner part of herself, functions as a spiritual reservoir. For Anzaldúa, her goddess exists within. While

Anzaldúa connects herself to Coatlicue, it is the connection that Coatlicue shares with Our Lady Champagne 3 of Guadalupe which complicates Anzaldúa’s relationship with Guadalupe, and in extension, the role that Guadalupe plays in the mestiza consciousness and its applicability. “La Virgen de

Guadalupe’s Indian name is Coatlalopeuh,” Anzaldúa states, and that “Coatlalopeuh is descended from, or is an aspect of, earlier Mesoamerican fertility and Earth goddesses. The earliest is Coatlicue…” (49). In connecting Guadalupe with Coatlicue, Anzaldúa complicates her relationship with organized religion by turning the dichotomy, the pagan earth goddess and the Christian loving mother, into the same being.

This connection, while embraced by Anzaldúa, is not originally her idea. The original conflation of Guadalupe with Coatlicue took place during the Spanish colonization of the New

World. Jeanette Peterson states “Aggressive methods of indoctrination were intensified, including the substitution of new Christian saints for old gods and the incorporation of parallel beliefs and ritual” (40). According to Peterson, the Spanish conquistadors combined the image of the Virgin Mary with Coatlicue in an attempt to indoctrinate the First Peoples of Mexico. “The

Mexican Virgin of Guadalupe was one such fusion of an imported European Mother God with native mother goddesses” (40). The Church baptized the First Peoples, washing off their faces the red streaks of their mother goddess, washed the bodily doctrine from their hair and gave them the names of saints. It is this history of Guadalupe which Anzaldúa embraces and internalizes.

This conflation of Guadalupe and Coatlicue is where Anzaldúa draws out meaning.

According to Anzaldúa, the conflation between Guadalupe and Coatlicue is due to a phonetic opportunity. “Because Coatlalopeuh was homophonous with the Spanish Guadalupe, the

Spanish identified her with the dark Virgin, Guadalupe, patroness of West Central Spain” (51).

For Anzaldúa, this conflation, originally caused by phonetic incorporation of Coatalupeh the

Nahutal word for Coatlicue, in to the Spanish Guadalupe, goes beyond phonetic equalization. Champagne 4

“Being lesbian and raised Catholic,” Anzaldúa explains “indoctrinated as straight, I made the choice to be queer” (41). In this quote Anzaldúa speaks of denying the body, of denying

Coatlicue, and the damage of only embracing Guadalupe. This necessity of denying the ‘inner self’ is experienced by many Queer Chican@s, with the potential to be incredibly harmful.

However, Anzaldúa’s theory provides a space where Coatlicue and Guadalupe are conflated, where the body and the spirit are entertained, a space sage for the Queer Chican@. However, this existence is based in the well-known sins of idolatry and homosexuality.

In living an existence that is condemned by a powerful and prominent institution such as the Church, Anzaldúa feels a sense of unhoming. I use ‘unhoming’ because, like the term drawn from post-colonial theory, there is a sense that her body—that the Queer Chican@ body—is not wanted nor welcomed due to her ‘choice’ in being queer. Anzaldúa’s quote explaining her feelings of unhoming comes from a section of her book entitled “Fear of Going Home:

Homophobia.” This sense of unhoming is reflected in a quote from one of Anzaldúa’s students.

“One of the students said, ‘I thought homophobia meant fear of going home after a residency’”

(42). It because of the pressures of the homophobic Church, and the shaming of all things sensual, that caused Anzaldúa to feel this sense of unhoming. It is only through entering “The

Coatlicue State,” (68) a psychic experience that fully embraces Coatlicue, and in extension

Guadalupe, that Anzaldúa becomes one with herself, one with Coatlicue, and one with

Guadalupe . It is only through the Coatlicue state in which Anzaldúa can embrace both her body and her body’s desires through her spirituality. In this state that Anzaldúa realizes that the historical context does not matter, and finds a meaning in no-meaning: Guadalupe or Coatlicue, whichever name her spirit guide is deemed, or both or neither. It is through the experience of uniting the divine, and the earthly, the soul and the sensual (including sexual), and Coatlicue Champagne 5 with Guadalupe, in which Anzaldúa understands the history and context of the desexed female divine, and her own institutional desexing, and the desired desexing of the Queer community by the Church.

In viewing Guadalupe not as the de-sexed, complacent Marian figure that tradition asserts, but instead as the serpentine, powerful, chthonic goddess, Anzaldúa reclaims a bit of herself that the Church forced her to “kill off” by reclaiming a bit of Guadalupe that was also forced to be terminated (59). “After the Conquest,” Anzaldúa states, “the Spaniards and their

Church continued to split Tonantsi/Guadalupe [Tonantsi being an early Aztec mother goddess that Anzaldúa theorizes was the actual apparition of Guadalupe]. The desexed Guadalupe, taking

Coatlalopeuh, the serpent sexuality out of her” (49). It is this historical disassociation of the body and the spirit that Anzaldúa recognizes as important, and it is through the re-association of

Guadalupe with Coatlicue that the spirit and the body can become one again. This transubstantiation of Guadalupe through the spiritual realm and into the physical—as a part of experience and the body itself—frees Anzaldúa from the homophobic oppression she feels.

In exploring the role Guadalupe/Coatlicue plays in the lives of other Queer Chican@s

Anzaldúa’s theory of la facultad and her relationship with Guadalupe/Coatlicue must first be understood. “La facultad,” Anzaldúa explains, “is the capacity to see in the surface phenomenon the meaning of deeper realities, to see the deep structure below the surface.” La facultad, is a structural ‘sixth sense’ which allows “…the females, the homosexuals of all races…” to survive in a world hostile to them. To embrace la facultad, one must listen to their body, to the earth which has born it unto them, and to the earth to which they will return. To Anzaldúa, the body is the extension of the earth, and by ‘tuning-in’ to the sensual experiences thereof, one connects to the deeper parts, the underworld, of themselves. Along with ‘tuning-in’ to the deep parts of Champagne 6 themselves, those that use la facultad also ‘tin-in’ to the outer world as well. La facultad is a product of survival, of an evolutionary fear which allows one to observe the extra-sensory components of the world. It allows one to see beyond the long-held axioms of the world itself.

Anzaldúa states:

Fear develops the proximity sense aspect of la facultad. But there is a deeper sensing that is another aspect of this faculty. It is anything that breaks into one’s everyday more of perception, that causes a break in one’s defenses and resistance, anything that takes on from one’s habitual grounding, causes the depths to open up causes a shift in perception. This shift in perception deepens the way we see concrete objects and people; the senses become so acute and piercing that we can see through things, view events in depth, a piercing that reaches the underworld (the realm of the soul). (61)

It is the ability to see beyond the traditional oppositional binaries of good and evil, of Christian and pagan, the ability to embrace everything and anything as sensory information that holds secrets and deciphers them in the soul, in which Anzaldúa understands the conflation of

Guadalupe/Coatlicue. It is in this conflation, in this acceptance of both body and spirit, which

Anzaldúa paves the way for the Queer Chican@ community to potentially follow.

For Anzaldúa, these elder mothers are not opposites, they are not waring spiritualties, but are, instead, two sides of the same divine coin; they are two separate phenomenological experiences which embrace equally important human expereinces. Guadalupe is of the spirit; while Coatlicue is of the body. La facultad teaches Anzaldúa things the modern body has been conditioned to ignore. Where Guadalupe and the teachings of her Church concentrate on the power of ‘letting go,’ of giving oneself to a Higher Being, Coatlicue and her earthen spiritualty teaches the individual that they are themselves, fragments of a Higher Being, and the body is its conduit. In drawing on the deeper parts of themselves, Anzaldúa, and other users of la facultad are able to connect the Old World with the New through the connection of the spirit and the body. Champagne 7

La facultad, embraced by Anzaldúa, functions as a heuristic tool to view the connection between the body and the spirit, as well as the connection between Guadalupe/Coatlicue, and their relationship with Queer Chican@s today, and in extension, the Queer Chican@ community as a whole. La facultad allows societal outcasts to orient themselves in a world which has the potential to harm them. By embracing the bodily compass, by shunning the traditional aspects of an oppressive religion which preaches the evils of the body, Queer Chican@s can navigate their way through a world of danger. By embracing the body, in using la facultad, the Queer Chican@ essentially pushes Guadalupe away, while simultaneously embracing the Coatlicue aspect of the duo. But, because of Anzaldúa establishing them as a duality, one never really pushes the other away or pulls the other closer. This push-and-pull relationship of reframing and reclamation of

Guadalupe/Coatlicue by Anzaldúa is synonymous to the framing and claiming of Guadalupe as a symbol of liberation not only for the Queer Chican@ community, but by the Mexican culture as a whole.

Again, I return to the role of Guadalupe in the conquest of the First Peoples of Mexico.

The Spaniards conquered and broke the First Peoples, subjecting them to cultural and religious oppression. However, this is not the extent of Spanish influence on the New World. The

Spaniards also changed the concept of how New World culture is constructed. In her article

“Gloria Anzaldùa: Borders of Knowledge and (re) Signification,” Miriam Bornstein-Gómez provides a larger context of the Conquest and provides an explanation of the influence the

Spanish had on culture

In a global sense…European construction of modernity results in the creation of a social order with differential and hierarchical classifications based on race, gender, class, and sexual orientation, among other criteria. Institutions, social groups, and a political, economic, and cultural infrastructure compromise a dominant geopolitical center and knowledge of such power. (47)

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In discussing the role modernity, or the socio-cultural-political climate of a given time,

Bornstein-Gómez states the Spanish influence creates a specific social order, that disrupts the socio-cultural-political climate of the time. This disruption caused a change to the way the First

Peoples of pre-colonialism Mexico understood cultural construction. “This model presents a normalized ‘order’ from its own understanding,” Bornstein-Gómez continues, “and constructed knowledge of the other through Western, masculinist, heterosexual, racial and economic assumptions in the creation, maintenance and exercise of power” (47). According to Bornstein-

Gómez, the Spanish conquest instituted a “normalized ‘order’”, different from the indigenous one. This “normalized ‘order’” brought with it the tenants and traditions of Spanish Europe, and specifically instituted a European-style patriarchy in the New World. This instillation of Spanish ideals, though centuries-old, can still be seen in modern time.

This institution of Spanish ideals—specifically religious doctrine—into the lives of the

First Peoples of Mexico, is not without lasting effect. Due to the aforementioned Christianization of the First Peoples, Our Lady of Guadalupe found her home, and influence, in the Latin@ and

Chican@ cultures. Peterson lists many examples of Guadalupe’s ascension to importance for the

Lantin@ people. In 1773, a plague raging in Mexico City dissipated mysteriously and was attributed to Guadalupe causing “The civil and ecclesiastical hierarchy [to work] to elevate

Guadalupe to a new institutional level” (43). What Peterson means is during this time, those who survived the plague attributed their survival to the intercession of the Virgin Mary on their behalves. In showing appreciation, the survivors ‘promoted’ the Virgin Mary in religious importance and expanded her adoration. During the War of 1810, “Guadalupe’s collective role as patroness of Mexico was appealed to, and as is well known, her image was used to symbolize the insurgent movement” (45). Guadalupe as a symbol holds importance in the modern era, as it did Champagne 9 in the past. Peterson states “…many Mexican-Americans in the United States have chosen to maintain the Virgin of Guadalupe as a powerful symbol to create solidarity” (46). “Today,”

Peterson continues, “the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe remains deeply embedded in the ethnic identification of peoples of Mexican decent…” (46). In tracking her importance through

Latin@, and in extension Chican@, history, it is apparent Guadalupe functions as both a spiritual pinnacle and facilitator of connection within Latin@ and Chican@ communities.

While Guadalupe works as a connector and facilitator in the Latin@ and Chican@ communities, Guadalupe’s Church often plays a complex role in the Queer community. For

Queer Catholics, there is no place for la facultad, there is no embracing of the body. As previously outlined by Anzaldúa, the Church teaches a repression of the body in exchange for spiritual virtue. Regardless of any attempt to connect la facultad, the embracing of the body, to

Catholicism, the theories are fundamentally different. However, this does not stop scholars from attempting to bridge the gap. At the intersection of Queer theory and Christianity lies Queer theology. “For Queer theology,” Angel F. Méndez-Montoya explains in the article “Eucharist

Imagination: A Queer Body-Politics,” “the body and identity are not fixed notions, but rather are dynamic and complex concepts” (327). Queer theology attempts to bridge the rift between the traditional homophobic stance of Christianity and the Queer community. Because the body and identity are not fixed notions, a liminal space exists between the two. Queer theology, while examining the relationship between the body and identity, take an oppositional stance to

Anzaldúa. Where Queer theology similarly views the body and identify as complex concepts,

Queer theology maintains a separation between the two. Contrarily, Anzaldúa unifies the body with the spirit. Queer theology, recognizing the dichotomy of the body and the spirit, while attempting to rationalize the relationship of queerness and Christianity, essentially separates the Champagne 10 two. Queer theology frames queerness in the context of Christianity, and regardless of the interpretive lens Queer theology takes, the bottom line is that homosexual acts are sinful, that listening to the homosexual body in the way Anzaldúa argues, the wage of such is death.

Méndez-Montoya, while theorizing the opportunity which exists in the Christian community to accept queerness, realizes that this premise is potentially flawed. He contends “…we find the testimony of many Christians who have been and are willing to embrace and welcome the Other

[that is, the Queer, las chincagas], particularly the outcast, even at the risk of being ostracized and persecuted…” (330). While this seems promising for the Queer Christian community, it is not. This ‘willingness’ functions as nothing more than a sort of savior complex that, in reality, separates the Queer Christians from the community, who systemically unhomed Queer

Christians.

This separation, in this form, is not uncommon for Queer Catholics, and is where

Anzaldúa separates her own beliefs from organized religion. While Queer theology attempts to unite the two oppositional lifestyles, it fails in taking into account the personal and emotional aspect of Queer Catholics. In an article titled “The Case of Abel: Religion as Boon and Bane for a Catholic Gay Male”, Armand Cerbone and Graham Danzer explore the role religion plays in

Christian life. “For gay men growing up in conservative religious environments that condemn same-sex attraction.” The two explain, “the process of identity formation may involve particularly traumatic process of integrating sexual identity with religious identity” (985). The authors continue, “…religion possesses two countenances. The first is a benevolent offering of compassion and community to its adherents; the second engenders sever abjuring of those who do not confirm to its perceptions for worthiness” (986). The authors explain that gay identity in Champagne 11 the Church is complex both internally for the queer individual, as well as externally in how said individual fits into the Catholic community as a whole.

Anzaldúa offers her own interpretation of Queerness and Catholicism using la facultad.

According to Anzaldúa, the trauma and isolation experienced by gay Catholics who were

“indoctrinated as straight” are experiences which should be embraced. “Those who are pushed out of the tribe for being different,” Anzaldúa explains, “are likely to become more sensitized…When we’re up against the wall…we are forced to develop this faculty so that we’ll know when the next person is going to slap us or lock us away” (60-61). For one living in a

‘state of sin’ beyond their control and beyond choice, la facultad, though beneficial for their survival, is a constant reminder that gay Catholics are, essentially, an Other in the eye of their

Church. La facultad, for Queer Catholics, though incredibly beneficial for navigating their unhomed lifestyle, is both part and parcel, the cause of that unhoming. La facultad is a mark of isolation.

However, these othering doctrines and benefits are not necessarily universal. In their article “A Conversation About the Intersection of Faith, Sexual Orientation, and Gender: Jewish,

Christian, and Muslim perspectives,” Balkin et. al reflect Méndez-Montoya’s view of Queer theology and theorize:

In general, the diversity of opinion regarding sexual orientation and behavior appears to fall along a continuum; that is, individuals who espouse less conservative theological perspectives on sexual orientation and behavior are often more inclined to affirm LGBTQ orientations and relationships, whereas individuals who embrace more conservative perspectives typically view LGBTQ sexual behavior as divergent from scriptural teachings regarding human sexuality. (189) Viewing the interpretation of scripture as a continuum and not as a set-in-stone theological belief allows for theoretical ‘wiggle-room.’ This wiggle-room could allow for different interpretations of Christian text. Where some conservative Christians view homosexual acts as a sin and blame Champagne 12 the individual, others view the homosexual act as sinful, and not the individual. The old adage

‘hate the sin, not the sinner,’ supports the more liberal-minded Christian’s interpretation of the

‘sin’ not the ‘sinner,’ as the defiance of God’s rules. Through very briefly examining the heuristic components Christianity’s view of homosexuality and homosexual acts, the necessity of nuance for each interpretation is revealed. Due to this nuance, it becomes increasingly difficult to pin down a precise statement about the Christian interpretation of homosexuality. However, while this topic may be incredibly nuanced, the effect of the conservative, homophobic interpretation of Christian belief remains constant. Returning to Cerborne and Danzer, the two authors state: “As with other interpersonal trauma, ensuing skirmished between religion and sexual identities may result in profound states of depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, guilt, shame, internalized homophobia, alienation, and weakened faith” (Rodriguez and Shilo et. al ref in Cerborne and Danzer (985)). While the Catholic church often invokes fear and shame from

Queer individual, there are some who embrace the religion, or at least the Virgin Mary, in her many forms. Sometimes these forms reflect the physical Coatlicue, and others, the spiritual

Guadalupe.

The Virign Mary, while a pinnacle figure in the Church, is also viewed as a Queer icon as well. Alexander Doty, in his “Introduction: There’s Something About Mary,” begins with “I was trained by the Catholic Church to be a diva worshiper.” Doty continues:

Of course, the BVM [Blessed Virgin Mary] has certain nondiva qualities—her demure demeanor, the fact that her notoriety came from maintaining her virginity while being someone’s mother—but the pervasiveness of her iconic (some would say idolatrous) representations, coupled with her most famous ‘comeback’ appearance as Guadalupe, Lordes, and Fatima, cemented her place as every Catholic’s prima donna… (1). Humorous as it seems, Doty brings the veneration of the Virgin Mary into the Queer community.

While this vernation may not specifically be a religious sort of appreciation, the admiration of Champagne 13 the Virgin Mary by the Queer community due to her ‘diva-ness’ allows her to exist in the lives of queer individuals. Doty explains the importance divas play in the Queer community:

…divas offer the world a compelling brass standard that has plenty to say to women, queer men, blacks, Latinos, and other marginalized groups about the costs and rewards that can come when you decide both to live a conspicuous public life within the white patriarchy and try to live a life on your own terms. (2) In creating this connection, Doty claims the Virgin Mary, and her apparition as Guadalupe, can be seen in way that is non-oppressive and which embraces the bodily experience. To Doty, the

Virgin Mary allows marginalized communities a chance to relate to something that is bigger than themselves, and to see an example of strength and independence they might not otherwise be exposed to. In claiming the Virgin Mary is a diva, Doty does not blaspheme nor partake in

Heresy. Instead, Doty allows the Queer community to embrace the Virgin Mary, in her ‘queenly’ glory, as their own non-oppressive, understanding patroness.

Viewing the Virgin Mary as a Queer icon is a phenomenon which is not Doty-specific. In her article “Art Comes for the Archbishop: The Semiotics of Contemporary Chicana Feminism and the Work of Alma Lopez,” Luz Calvo examines the semantic relationship Guadalupe- inspired art play in the meaning-making and interpretation of Guadalupe as a Queer artistic subject. Calvo states “The Virgin of Guadalupe is polyvalent sign, ale to convey multiple and divergent meanings and deployed by different groups for contradictory political ends.” Calvo continues with “Chicano/a cultural workers—from graffiti artists to novelists—use the Virgin of

Guadalupe as a sign of racial solidarity, for she is imagined to have brown skin, or as a sign of transnational solidarity, for she is the Patron saint of Mexico” (201). By examining Guadalupe’s

‘traditional’ multi-faceted flexibility, she is seen as a symbolic figure that many can relate to.

While Guadalupe is seen as a symbol of Chiacn@ culture, she is seen by Alma Lopez, described as a “Chicana lesbian artist”, as a Queer symbol of sexual liberation. Champagne 14

Like Anzaldúa, Lopez understands Guadalupe has a body, and that the body has inherent sexuality. Like Anzaldúa, Lopez’s work reaches into the depths of the desexed Guadalupe, and pulls out Coatlicue, writhing and hungry. Lopez’s work often depicts Guadalupe in situation and dress which would be considered, at best, scandalous, and at worst, blasphemous and Coatlicue- esque. Lopez breaks away from the traditional iconography of Guadalupe and depicts her in the guides of modern-day Latinas. In one of her most famous paintings, Our Lady, Lopez depicts

Guadalupe in a rose bikini, standing proud with her head held high, her shoulders back and eyes defiant (Fig. 1). Lopez sexualizes Guadalupe, but not in the way the word ‘sexualized’ is often used. For Lopez, no male gaze exists; for Lopez, Guadalupe is not the recipient of, nor the

‘second fiddle’ to a sexual act. Instead, any sexuality attached to this image of Guadalupe is by her own desire. There is no more shawl covering her, no shawls covering her body, no traditional purity, but instead she is bare, skin almost scale-like. Any ‘purity’ in this interpretation of

Guadalupe is the purity of embracing the sexuality of oneself: a purity of fire and of a snakebite.

By embracing the sexualization of Guadalupe, Lopez reminds her audience that even Guadalupe, the pinnacle of human purity, also had a sexual side. In showing her audience this side of

Guadalupe, Lopez embraces Guadalupe’s serpentine, and Anzaldúian past, drawing it into the present, and presents in in a modern and Queer interpretation of Latina sexuality.

The sexuality of Guadalupe is about power and embracing bodily experiences; it is about assimilating the “shadow-beast” of the self (Anzaldúa 42). Of this desire to embrace the body,

Calvo explains “This desire is at once sexual and [my emphasis] political. Her image seduces the spectator into desiring positions by exposing Chicano/a libidinal investments—conscious and unconscious—in the Virgin of Guadalupe” (204). Lopez, through her representation of

Guadalupe, embraces the Coatlicue aspect, that Guadalupe/Coatlicue is still the Queer mother, Champagne 15 despite what the Church teaches. “because of her ubiquity and polyvalence,” Calvo explains,

“the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe is a sign that is especially available for semiotic resignification” (204). By imbuing her image of Guadalupe with a serpentine sexuality, Lopez denies the shame of the body and the shame of homosexuality that the Church teaches. Instead, in taking the symbol, in re-inventing the signified, Lopez changes the signifier and the sign as well. In deconstructing the traditional image of Guadalupe, and reconstructing her in a sex- positive way, Lopez changed the meaning of Guadalupe, and in extension, her accessibility to

Queer Chican@s. Instead of a pious, perma-virginal theotokos, Lopez’s Guadalupe embraces her body, and understand the tradition of the Church to be not only limiting, but wrong. This

Guadalupe does not tolerate slut-shaming. This Guadalupe is sexually, sensually, and bodily powerful. This Guadalupe is Coatlicue, and Coatlicue is of the body. Guadalupe/Coatlicue embraces the body and la facultad that comes with it. This Guadalupe/Coatlicue is a symbol of power for the Queer Chican@s and Latin@s who feel ostracized by the Church.

The Guadalupe/Coatlicue complex, la facultad, the unhoming are all symptoms of a larger disease: homophobia in the Church. While Anzaldúa makes her peace with organized religion through re-vitalizing Guadalupe’s past, Coatlicue, this re-birthing may be a bit extreme for the lay-person. Anzaldúa’s experience as a Chicana, as a scholar, as a lesbian, and as a practitioner of a non-traditional Catholicism all come together to form the mestiza consciousness,

Anzaldúa’s interpretive tool and theory which teaches personal flexibility and inclusion within a larger community. The scholar in Anzaldúa understands her theory will never be accepted by the church. The maverick believer in Anzaldúa knows the acceptance, or lack thereof, of her theory does not matter. The Chicana in Anzaldúa feels unhomed in a culture that is already unhomed.

And it is this sense of being unhomed is the focus of this essay. In taking a leaf from Anzaldúa’s Champagne 16 work, the modern, Queer interpretation of the Virgin Mary, and specifically Guadalupe, embraces the Other of the church, the homosexual. However, these interpretations are not main- stream. Anzaldúa, in part, pragmatically copes with her exclusion from the Church. She interprets the doctrine and symbology in a way that makes sense to her, and hopefully for the larger Queer Chican@s as well. However, the interpretation of doctrine in such a way may be too extreme for other Queer Catholics and Queer Chican@s. While Anzaldúa’s work outlines the queer Chican@ experience in the Borderlands, she taps into an issue the extends beyond the

Borderlands, into the history of the world itself. By viewing Our Lady of Guadalupe as both

Guadalupe and Coatlicue, Anzaldúa unites the spirit and the body through la facultad and theorizes a lack of separation between the two. In a religion which demonizes the sensual experience of the body in exchange for spiritual purity, those who fundamentally cannot deny their bodily experiences are left unhomed and seemingly unwanted. The larger context provided by this essay complicates this experience, as well as Anzaldúa’s theory. This larger context allows one to embrace Anzaldúa’s theory of inclusion, as well as glimpse the larger context of

Queer individuals in Catholicism. In a religion which teaches acceptance of the individual, the body is shamed into submission. Guadalupe/Coatlicue bridges the gap between the body and religion. According to Anzaldúa, Guadalupe/Coatlicue is too valuable to the Queer Chican@ and

Queer Catholic communities to not be embraced. For the Queer Catholic and Queer Chicano@ communities, Guadalupe/Coatlicue offers acceptance and liberation.

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Work Cited

Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera. 4th ed., Aunt Lute books, 2007.

Balkin, Richard S., Watts, Richard E., Ali, Saba R. “A Conversation About the Intersection of

Faith, Sexual Orientation, and Gender: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Perspectives”.

Journal of Counseling and Development, vol. 92, no. 2, April 2014. DOI:

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Appendix

Figure 1. Alma Lopez’s Our Lady, 1999.

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