See also new Mexico Bustamantes, Youngest Daughter, Turn the Hearts of the Children I and II.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Clara Jo and Jerome add to family History
Clara Jo is the youngest of Auntie Lola (Delores Baca Candelaria) four children. Her children started two years after I was born, so her oldest Helena and I were pretty good friends. They came and stayed a couple of weeks with us about every two summers, but Helena and I were pen pals even into out adult years. When Brent and Lynae and I went on adventures two summers Helena, Working at the San Diego Zoo, gave us tickets for the Zoo and Wild Animal Park and we stayed at her house. Those are favorite memories for Brent and Lynae. I hadn't seen "Jo" for maybe 30 years, when I got to see her in April, and started this written conversation again. Thank you Jo. Click on page to enlarge.
See also new Mexico Bustamantes, Youngest Daughter, Turn the Hearts of the Children I and II.
See also new Mexico Bustamantes, Youngest Daughter, Turn the Hearts of the Children I and II.
The Mayan princess 1
The Mayan princess
Why did you smash that pot, you worked all day, making coils and forming them. I thought we could go fish when you were finished.”
“I know, but it wasn’t perfect. I have to make a perfect pot to give to the god of nature. The fire ceremony will be tomorrow and I have to have a perfect pot, painted perfectly to present there. And even then, I won’t be sure it is perfect until after the fire ceremony; I wish I could present more than one at a time so I would know at least one would be acceptable after the firing.”
What do you want? Your pots are very beautiful and your paintings are perfect, the colors are from every source we can find.
“I want the colors to be perfect like nature is perfect. When I finish a pot I don’t have the same colors I started with, some of the pot are blackened by the fire, some colors change to the color of mud. I want to make a perfect pot to present to the god of nature the way he has made colors.
Leave it and come with me to the village. I want to show you something.
I don’t like to go into the village now that the Spaniards have taken over. They have changed everything. I want things to stay the same.
Well you don’t have that choice now, the Spaniards took over the Aztec and Mayan cities before you were born and now they are here and we have to live with the changing world, that’s what my parents have told me.
OK, I need a break anyway, and on the way back I want to try that new spot for clay slip, perhaps if I can get the right type to make my pots, the colors will come out more true.
The two Mayan youngsters walked through the jungle paths toward the Mayan village, now changed by through the years of their life to be more Spanish than Mayan, but the children were taught well by their mothers the histories of their people and the stories of the various gods representing nature.
I want to see the pottery they put in to that building at the edge of the market a few days ago. Remember they said this was the day they would be cool enough to remove and sell.
In the village the young people went through the market place, buying food for their lunch. Most of the merchants were closing down for the afternoon siesta. The sun was hot on the path and their sandaled feet had toughened from walking. A crowd was forming at the edge of the market and they migrated towards it out of curiosity. There were murmured acknowledgments of delighted surprise as the doors of a small building were opened. From it, after many days, were drawn on wooden paddles, the most beautiful painted pots that either had ever seen. The colors were true to nature, and from one pot to the other were matched by color. The pots themselves were perfectly straight as they were when they were put in. She gasped as she drew close to the shelves of pottery displayed for all to see for the first time. That was the pottery she had dreamed of many times in her sleep and had made so many efforts to duplicate. The building had been called a kiln and the Spaniards had built it with bricks they had fired in a different village and brought here for the purpose of providing a kiln. This was the first time any of them had seen the results.
You know I would be a princess and you a prince in our tribe if the Aztec king had not given away his empire and ours to the Spanish Conquistadores” ______-stated sourly as she scooped up the clay mud from the river bank, more determined than ever to get those perfect colors.
Yes, Of course I know, but I think it is more fun being free to play in the river and make our own pottery with the clay slip than to have to prepare to be chief of our tribe.
Aren’t you afraid that you will be taken away by the Spaniards? Some of the chief’s sons from tribes around ......... have been taken. I don’t think they are used as slaves, but they say they are being taught to be more like Catholics.
Yes, and many of the young girls we used to do ceremonial dancing with have also been taken. They say they are to marry Spanish Soldiers and raise their children as Spanish Catholics, what ever that meant.
Why did you smash that pot, you worked all day, making coils and forming them. I thought we could go fish when you were finished.”
“I know, but it wasn’t perfect. I have to make a perfect pot to give to the god of nature. The fire ceremony will be tomorrow and I have to have a perfect pot, painted perfectly to present there. And even then, I won’t be sure it is perfect until after the fire ceremony; I wish I could present more than one at a time so I would know at least one would be acceptable after the firing.”
What do you want? Your pots are very beautiful and your paintings are perfect, the colors are from every source we can find.
“I want the colors to be perfect like nature is perfect. When I finish a pot I don’t have the same colors I started with, some of the pot are blackened by the fire, some colors change to the color of mud. I want to make a perfect pot to present to the god of nature the way he has made colors.
Leave it and come with me to the village. I want to show you something.
I don’t like to go into the village now that the Spaniards have taken over. They have changed everything. I want things to stay the same.
Well you don’t have that choice now, the Spaniards took over the Aztec and Mayan cities before you were born and now they are here and we have to live with the changing world, that’s what my parents have told me.
OK, I need a break anyway, and on the way back I want to try that new spot for clay slip, perhaps if I can get the right type to make my pots, the colors will come out more true.
The two Mayan youngsters walked through the jungle paths toward the Mayan village, now changed by through the years of their life to be more Spanish than Mayan, but the children were taught well by their mothers the histories of their people and the stories of the various gods representing nature.
I want to see the pottery they put in to that building at the edge of the market a few days ago. Remember they said this was the day they would be cool enough to remove and sell.
In the village the young people went through the market place, buying food for their lunch. Most of the merchants were closing down for the afternoon siesta. The sun was hot on the path and their sandaled feet had toughened from walking. A crowd was forming at the edge of the market and they migrated towards it out of curiosity. There were murmured acknowledgments of delighted surprise as the doors of a small building were opened. From it, after many days, were drawn on wooden paddles, the most beautiful painted pots that either had ever seen. The colors were true to nature, and from one pot to the other were matched by color. The pots themselves were perfectly straight as they were when they were put in. She gasped as she drew close to the shelves of pottery displayed for all to see for the first time. That was the pottery she had dreamed of many times in her sleep and had made so many efforts to duplicate. The building had been called a kiln and the Spaniards had built it with bricks they had fired in a different village and brought here for the purpose of providing a kiln. This was the first time any of them had seen the results.
You know I would be a princess and you a prince in our tribe if the Aztec king had not given away his empire and ours to the Spanish Conquistadores” ______-stated sourly as she scooped up the clay mud from the river bank, more determined than ever to get those perfect colors.
Yes, Of course I know, but I think it is more fun being free to play in the river and make our own pottery with the clay slip than to have to prepare to be chief of our tribe.
Aren’t you afraid that you will be taken away by the Spaniards? Some of the chief’s sons from tribes around ......... have been taken. I don’t think they are used as slaves, but they say they are being taught to be more like Catholics.
Yes, and many of the young girls we used to do ceremonial dancing with have also been taken. They say they are to marry Spanish Soldiers and raise their children as Spanish Catholics, what ever that meant.
Journal of a Mayan Princess
I sat on the leafy pallet running my fingers through the wet clay, dreaming of the day I could create a vessel so beautiful it would be accepted by the high priests at the temple to burn incense.
As a small child I loved the feel of the cool wet clay and pressing it into the molds to make simple bowls and serving platters for our own family dinners.
I painted simple images on them and presented them to be fired.
I always felt so proud when my dishes were used to serve the family
and especially when they were brought to serve the priest
or other visitors that came to our home.
The making of vessels was expected as part of all young
girl's home making skills, but mine were especially admired.
Perhaps it was vein of me to be so proud, but even as a small child,
I knew my pressed vessels and the design I painted on them were special creations.
I was barley old enough to reach the top of the largest vessels when I began to reach down to gather handsful of the slippery whitish, clay and roll it into long slender snakes.
Protecting the ropes of clay with damp leaves, I formed the bottom of my first coiled vessel, carefully winding the coil in tight spirals with no spaces in between.
I guided the clay up layer by layer, each representing Mayan people
throughout all generations of time.
The coils shape and define the new pot, before my eyes. I wanted to make my very first coiled vessel perfect.
I was disappointed when the shape was uneven and it did not match the image I had in my mind.
I continued to try, day after day attempting to match reality with my vision of perfection.
Before I was a year older I presented my first perfectly shaped vessel to the fire god.
It was shaped perfectly from any view.
I had pressed each coil firmly in place with wet hands,
smoothing on the inside and on the outside as I build up layer after layer.
After it dried for a day in the sun, I scrapped the roughness from it with a stone knife and completed the perfection of its shape by rubbing and buffing every space on it, leaving no sign of the coils used to build it, no air trapped in bubbles to burst and crack the pot during the firing.
I watched the Quetzal bird, his red chest puffed out and yellow and green back feathers hanging gracefully from his body.
How I wished I could find a way to imitate the bright colors of nature even after the pot came from the fire.
I painted the designs on my vessel using different thickness of slip to bring contrast and brightness to the color, and I used lime pigment to create contrast and brightness.
I knew it was up to the fire god to bless my paintings so there would not be strange variarions in the color, or worse yet, black smudges from the changes in heat and smoke.
I used the iron based slip, painting extra layers, and more layers in spots to add contrast and brightness.
It would turn the brightest reds and yellows brown as it baked.
I longed for a way to control the process, but I knew that in all the millennium that our people had coiled painted and baked these very vessels there had been nothing created to protect the integrity of the color.
Sticks and branches piled above my precious offering were set ablaze and fuel was added to insure continuios hot fire.
I turned to watch my brother carving, intricate and true to the traditions of the ceremonial masks. Each individual mask was unique, yet followed the traditions of uncounted generations.
He was asked by many to make the masks for their dances and celebrations.
“Do you believe that storoy of the Quetzal bird?” I asked idly, just to begin a conversaton with him.
"Grandfather says before the Spaniards came, the birds had only yellow and green feathers.”
Grandfather lived long before the Quetzal bird turned red. He lived long before the Spaniards came to our land with their metal suits and swords.
“Have you ever seen a Spaniard?”
As children we knew the dangers the Spaniards brought to our villages; whole families and villages had been killed by deadly diseases they brought.
Others were killed by their swords in unexpected attacks that were not understood by our people.
When the first Spaniards came by sea through the foggy bay their ship appeared to have come from the sky. All Mayan people know the tradition of Quetziquatal, the great white god, returning to our people.
He would come from the sky, they said.
Those seeing the ships beleived it was him returning as promised, and welcomed and worshipped him.
We later learned his name was Captain Hernando Cortez,
and he was just a man, a very cruel and savage man,
whose main interest was in the slaves and gold he could ship back to Spain.
During one of the Spanish attacks against a village in 1524, a Spaniard struck down a Mayan warrior,Tecum Uman, defending his village.
The Quetzal bird then flew down and laded on the Mayan Warrior; as he flew away his chest feathers had turned to the color of blood.
Since then relics of Spanish soldiers were collected to ward off the ravages of the gods of war and disease.
Many of the shields were colorfully painted.
Colors not seen here, except in nature.
I wondered how they could paint the metal with such colors.
I traced the zig-zag pattern in the lightning symbol as Tx Chel,
goddess of rain hurled a lightening bolt with such power it brought the rain.
“If we could find out where they get the colors, or how they make them, I might be able to paint my pottery with the colors as bright as weavers use in weaving hulitas.
My brother and I set out on a journey to discover the origin of the brightly colored paints used by the Spaniards.
We were found and taken prisoners by Spanish Soldiers. I never saw my brother again. I do not know what became of him.
I beame the slave of Captain Cabesa de Vaca and bore three of his children. I
learned the secrets of color, and now Iam able to make beautiful pottery for our family.
The Captain return to Spain or died at sea,
but I have not seen him for many seasons.
My children do not know him, only of him.
I teach them the art of coiled pottery and carving masks,
and we use the magic of color the Spaniards brought;
the most beautiful in all the world.
Besides my children and my freedom, Captain De Vaca brought me a kiln.
My colors are no longer at the mercy of the gods of fire,
but depend only on my god given talent for painting a story
and selecting true colors and images to adorn the vessel.
As a small child I loved the feel of the cool wet clay and pressing it into the molds to make simple bowls and serving platters for our own family dinners.
I painted simple images on them and presented them to be fired.
I always felt so proud when my dishes were used to serve the family
and especially when they were brought to serve the priest
or other visitors that came to our home.
The making of vessels was expected as part of all young
girl's home making skills, but mine were especially admired.
Perhaps it was vein of me to be so proud, but even as a small child,
I knew my pressed vessels and the design I painted on them were special creations.
I was barley old enough to reach the top of the largest vessels when I began to reach down to gather handsful of the slippery whitish, clay and roll it into long slender snakes.
Protecting the ropes of clay with damp leaves, I formed the bottom of my first coiled vessel, carefully winding the coil in tight spirals with no spaces in between.
I guided the clay up layer by layer, each representing Mayan people
throughout all generations of time.
The coils shape and define the new pot, before my eyes. I wanted to make my very first coiled vessel perfect.
I was disappointed when the shape was uneven and it did not match the image I had in my mind.
I continued to try, day after day attempting to match reality with my vision of perfection.
Before I was a year older I presented my first perfectly shaped vessel to the fire god.
It was shaped perfectly from any view.
I had pressed each coil firmly in place with wet hands,
smoothing on the inside and on the outside as I build up layer after layer.
After it dried for a day in the sun, I scrapped the roughness from it with a stone knife and completed the perfection of its shape by rubbing and buffing every space on it, leaving no sign of the coils used to build it, no air trapped in bubbles to burst and crack the pot during the firing.
I watched the Quetzal bird, his red chest puffed out and yellow and green back feathers hanging gracefully from his body.
How I wished I could find a way to imitate the bright colors of nature even after the pot came from the fire.
I painted the designs on my vessel using different thickness of slip to bring contrast and brightness to the color, and I used lime pigment to create contrast and brightness.
I knew it was up to the fire god to bless my paintings so there would not be strange variarions in the color, or worse yet, black smudges from the changes in heat and smoke.
I used the iron based slip, painting extra layers, and more layers in spots to add contrast and brightness.
It would turn the brightest reds and yellows brown as it baked.
I longed for a way to control the process, but I knew that in all the millennium that our people had coiled painted and baked these very vessels there had been nothing created to protect the integrity of the color.
Sticks and branches piled above my precious offering were set ablaze and fuel was added to insure continuios hot fire.
I turned to watch my brother carving, intricate and true to the traditions of the ceremonial masks. Each individual mask was unique, yet followed the traditions of uncounted generations.
He was asked by many to make the masks for their dances and celebrations.
“Do you believe that storoy of the Quetzal bird?” I asked idly, just to begin a conversaton with him.
"Grandfather says before the Spaniards came, the birds had only yellow and green feathers.”
Grandfather lived long before the Quetzal bird turned red. He lived long before the Spaniards came to our land with their metal suits and swords.
“Have you ever seen a Spaniard?”
As children we knew the dangers the Spaniards brought to our villages; whole families and villages had been killed by deadly diseases they brought.
Others were killed by their swords in unexpected attacks that were not understood by our people.
When the first Spaniards came by sea through the foggy bay their ship appeared to have come from the sky. All Mayan people know the tradition of Quetziquatal, the great white god, returning to our people.
He would come from the sky, they said.
Those seeing the ships beleived it was him returning as promised, and welcomed and worshipped him.
We later learned his name was Captain Hernando Cortez,
and he was just a man, a very cruel and savage man,
whose main interest was in the slaves and gold he could ship back to Spain.
During one of the Spanish attacks against a village in 1524, a Spaniard struck down a Mayan warrior,Tecum Uman, defending his village.
The Quetzal bird then flew down and laded on the Mayan Warrior; as he flew away his chest feathers had turned to the color of blood.
Since then relics of Spanish soldiers were collected to ward off the ravages of the gods of war and disease.
Many of the shields were colorfully painted.
Colors not seen here, except in nature.
I wondered how they could paint the metal with such colors.
I traced the zig-zag pattern in the lightning symbol as Tx Chel,
goddess of rain hurled a lightening bolt with such power it brought the rain.
“If we could find out where they get the colors, or how they make them, I might be able to paint my pottery with the colors as bright as weavers use in weaving hulitas.
My brother and I set out on a journey to discover the origin of the brightly colored paints used by the Spaniards.
We were found and taken prisoners by Spanish Soldiers. I never saw my brother again. I do not know what became of him.
I beame the slave of Captain Cabesa de Vaca and bore three of his children. I
learned the secrets of color, and now Iam able to make beautiful pottery for our family.
The Captain return to Spain or died at sea,
but I have not seen him for many seasons.
My children do not know him, only of him.
I teach them the art of coiled pottery and carving masks,
and we use the magic of color the Spaniards brought;
the most beautiful in all the world.
Besides my children and my freedom, Captain De Vaca brought me a kiln.
My colors are no longer at the mercy of the gods of fire,
but depend only on my god given talent for painting a story
and selecting true colors and images to adorn the vessel.
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