By Cherríe L. Moraga
Thirty years after the ebook of Anzaldúa and Moraga’s assortment This Bridge known as My Back, a landmark of women-of-color feminism, Moraga’s literary and political praxis is still encouraged by means of and intertwined with indigenous spirituality and her identification as Chicana lesbian. but elements of her pondering have replaced through the years. A Xicana Codex of fixing Consciousness unearths key changes in Moraga’s notion; the breadth, rigor, and philosophical intensity of her paintings; her perspectives on modern debates approximately citizenship, immigration, and homosexual marriage; and her deepening involvement in transnational feminist and indigenous activism. it's a significant assertion from certainly one of our most vital public intellectuals.
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Extra info for A Xicana Codex of Changing Consciousness: Writings, 2000–2010
S. soil, she told us. Nearly forty years later and Puerto Rico is still not a free and sovereign nation. Millicent’s got ancestors calling to her in her dreams. They urge her to come on home with them; this slavery has been a long enough, deadly enterprise. Oh yes, I am a traitor, a traitor to the geopolitical borders that divide nations of people, which separate me from identifying with the loss and death of human relatives across the globe. Who are truly my allies? S. leaders who exercise genocide in my name.
In recent years, Indigenous women throughout the world have begun to find their voice through the United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues as well as through hemispheric gatherings f r o M i nsiDe the first WorLD such as those of Enlace Continental de Mujeres Indígenas de las Américas (the Continental Network of Indigenous Women of the Americas). Xicanas, although often displaced from our native Mexican herencia by many generations, have been brought to the table of these encuentros.
We are not yet witnessing the same mass graves as El Salvador in the 1980s, but this is our twenty-firstcentury civil war, in which our compatriots are being buried under corporate skyscrapers. This morning I dreamed the bodies of the fallers, those who jumped off the top floors of the blazing World Trade Center—not to save their lives, but their skins, to escape that deadly burning of flesh. They drop head over heels, their arms stretched out against the sky in their wish for wings. Upon awakening, I remember my poem from twenty years ago: “I’m falling .