VIRGIN IN THE FLAMES

I wonder what they'd think of it.

Who? Oh, the good and proper folks back East, arriving for Christmas services in their solid middle-class cars, God love 'em all, driving up to the big brick churches one more time. You'd think the birth of God in human form would be metaphor enough to send a body staggering through the darkest part of the year with a heartful of love, but we like our rituals, we do. Carols, cookies, and presents can only do so much.

No, the winter solstice demands greater tribute than that. The sun is returning, after all, and the god is reborn. Therefore, good Christian men rejoice: a shave, a suit, a sermon, and back to the football games. It could be worse. (The cable network could be down.)

I'm not throwing stones, either, because the good parts of this are the foundation of my Anglo-Saxon soul. It's just that after a few decades, things can get a little dull, if you know what I mean. It's a white man's thing, safe and stolid. Yes sir, no sir, do the right thing, don't sweat, and above all don't lose control. We know what's going to happen, and that feeling of relief and release when the final "amen" is spoken has little to do with religious awe.

But what about a different kind of ritual, something you couldn't control? What about smoke and flames, acolytes and priests, warriors and dancers? What about gunshots and rattles and flying embers? Would that shake you, move you, make you pay attention?

Welcome to the West! It's Christmas Eve in Taos, New Mexico and something is going on. An hour before sunset, long lines of cars are already snaking down the only two roads to the pueblo. What's about to happen is never advertised and doesn't need to be. If you live here, you know. It may be written about in the local paper in a general sort of way, but tourists would be in the dark. . .

We know something is different as soon as we drive onto pueblo land. For one thing, there are no billboards or real estate signs. (This is Taos?) We gaze north toward the Sangre de Christo mountains across calm pastures with no tractors or combines. A lone Indian walks through the tall grass to retrieve a pair of horses. We're directed to park, unregulated, in an adjacent field. We leave our car and walk with the others another half a mile or so past scattered individual homes to the pueblo itself.

The Taos Pueblo, continuously occupied for over a thousand years, is unlike any place I've ever been in America. Mention the Middle Ages and most people think of Europe. This ground is just as old but there's very little European about it, aside from the modest adobe church on the east side of the plaza. And this is no rectangular, ordered space. What you find here instead is a broad open area of bare dirt with natural contours, large enough for a thousand or more people to assemble. On the south side of the space runs a rocky ankle-deep stream (the Rio Pueblo) with steep banks, on either side of which at the northern and southern boundaries stand multi-story adoble dwellings of indeterminate age.

Kathy and I arrive half an hour before sunset. There are already several hundred people walking or standing about. The San Geronimo church, its doors shut, is apparently packed. It's freezing cold, but we're quite lucky. Some years there is packed ice and snow on the ground, and the thermometer can dip to twenty below zero! All around the plaza, in indeterminately scattered locations, are pyramid-shaped stacks of piñon logs ready to be lit. Some are quite small, only a few feet high, while others stand 8, 10, 15 feet or more. Roughly in the center is a huge narrow spire of logs maybe 20 feet high! By the time the sun sets, the crowd has swollen by several hundred more, and a deep chill settles in with the growing darkness.

It's impossible to know how many there are in this bizarre throng of Indians, locals, and out-of-town visitors. Almost everyone is dressed for the cold, fashion be damned. People are wearing down parkas, ski clothes, native blankets, and everything imaginable. And we spy one character from the ritual we're about to see: the abuela, a grotesquely cross-dressed figure with a ferocious mask, strutting through the crowd yelling insults and threats. No Santa Clauses here!

We know what's going to happen but are still unprepared for the drama that unfolds next. A little after sunset in the semi-darkness, a crowd surges around the doors to the church, the doors open, and a group begins to emerge. It's almost too dark to see exactly what's happening, but here and there some of the smaller bonfires have just been lit. As the flames begin to illuminate the plaza, we hear the concussive BANG! BOOM! BLAM! of rifles fired into air from the front of the church! The first plumes of thick black smoke begin to rise and spread over the crowd, and now we can see the faces of a dozen or more Pueblo warriors with guns reflected in the light from the flames.

They lead the procession out of the church courtyard and onto the plaza, where a mass of spectators surges forward to surround the image of the Holy Virgin. The statue is carried on a shoulder-borne platform by a number of men and sheltered by a white cloth held aloft at its corners by tall thin poles carried by four men on either side of the bearers. They are led by one or more robed priests and followed by a throng of parishioners. We hear soft, barely audible singing: is it the congregation or a children's choir, we wonder? But our attention is focused mainly in front of all these. The nominally Christian part of this parade is not in the lead, remember.

Because of the surging, flowing crowd of spectators, it's difficult to make out just what is happening in the first segment of the procession ahead of the Virgin. The crowd parts sensibly in advance of the rifle-firing warriors (BLAM! BANG! BOOM!) as they lead the march in a slowly snaking path around the plaza, and all of a sudden we see behind them the matachines dancers*! Wearing tall, conical hats (the only part of their costumes we can make out through the crowded gloom), they dance with short, silent, hopping steps, accompanied by musicians following directly behind. I see an old man playing a guitar, an accordianist, and imagine I hear rattles, drumming, and an occasional yelp. The enveloping semi-chaos makes accurate observation impossible, but we are both literally stunned by the strength and strangeness of the ritual. Pre-Columbian ghosts rattle my psyche and remind me that we are in fact the aliens here! I revel in the truth and excitement of this as we stumble and run along with the throng, craning for a better view.

More bonfires are lit in advance of the marchers. Flickering yellow light from the flames now reflects off the plaza, the crowd, and the surrounding adobe walls. Billowing black smoke blots out the remaining dusk and the air is filled with burning embers. We had been advised to wear clothing that could withstand a bit of damage, and now we understand! Occasional gusts of wind blow showers of very real sparks and heavy smoke over the crowd. In the center of the plaza, someone has climbed to the top of the 20-foot stack and ignited the pyre. Serious flames soon flare into the blackness, and everyone retreats from the heat, making room for the procession which now rounds the far end of the plaza and heads back toward the church. The warriors continue firing their rifles, the matachines dance, and the Virgin sways back and forth atop her platform, protected from the embers by the billowing, flapping "roof." The congregation marching behind follows the procession back into the church. We stand dazed and exhilarated in the plaza, which now vaguely resembles the aftermath of multiple simultaneous plane crashes, only reverent ones, with no ambulances or screaming. . .

The smoke overhead is very thick, completely blotting out the nighttime sky. The air smells of heavy, sweet piñon, fire, and dust. Knots of spectators move to warm themselves around the dying smaller bonfires as hundreds more remain to watch the largest one consume itself. As we join a stream of departing visitors, I look back over my shoulder and see a huge, overhanging black pall of smoke and the red-orange glare of the fires. The image of what would be a white man's disaster scene is complete, except for the overall sense of calmness, joy, and the excited babble of the crowd.

This was different. No crowd control efforts whatsoever, and none were needed. An integrated, multicultural "happening" with no suburban safety Nazis or lawyers waving liability suits. Dear sweet God in heaven. We feel uplifted, renewed, refreshed. Liberated, even. Now this is how to celebrate Christmas, I think to myself. Solstice bonfires. The Virgin escorted through the conflagration. Joy and danger intermingled. Silent Night, indeed!

Give me Indians and rifles any day, this one especially.

You want a computer angle? I'll give you one: THINK DIFFERENT! Use the power you have to make something new. You don't have to color inside the lines or stand behind them, either. You do need to know where you come from and how that can hold you back if you let it. Méfiez-vous les blancs, for example and so to speak, if that applies to you. Those gravy-soppin', Bible-thumpin' hardheads in my own background had their good points, but everything in its place, I always say.

Besides, there's more than one way to thump. . .

This column is dedicated to the memory of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., who would have gotten holes burned in his suit and then gone back to his church to lead one helluva fine Christmas service! I really miss you, man.

John H. Farr also edits the Apple Computer News for Applelinks.com and invites your comments. The Farr Site Archives have links to all past columns and occasional snippets of biographical info. And you really ought to visit the Zoo Zone.

[Bulletin: now you can read more cool stuff at the Horse Fly site! See the Commentary page my "El Emigrante" column. The online version of Horse Fly is a month behind, probably to encourage you to subscribe.-- JHF]

To be notified whenever the column is updated, just send a message titled "Subscribe FSN" to this address.

* Note: Los Matachines is a very old dance-drama from Spain that has been absorbed and adapted by the mixed Hispanic and Native American cultures of the Southwest. In northern New Mexico these things are rarely clear, i.e. ascribing something entirely to one ethnic group or another is usually folly. At the Taos Pueblo, the matachines dance is supposed to alternate with the deer dance (a particularly sacred Pueblo ritual) each Dec. 24th. Draw your own conclusions!

.

November 20, 2008