Emiliano Zapata: Part I (written July 28)

His face, with its furled mustache and its stolid stare, greets me every morning as I leave the bathroom before heading off to school. Again, its there as I hang a right down the hall toward my classroom. I can’t seem to escape him as later that day his 8 meter tall statue is there to bid me adios as I make my way to a birthday party on the outskirts of town. And it begins to get creepy when that night a miniature him is there, staring back at me, almost tauntingly, as my host mom places another piece of mango cake on the table in front of me.

For us Americans the face of Emiliano Zapata brings to mind those heroes venerated for their revolutionary role in our struggle for independence more than 225 years ago. Maybe it’s his only mediocre military prowess, or perhaps, it’s his underwhelming tenure as president. But, whatever the reason, George Washington’s face remains absent from the walls of American homes and workplaces. It’s difficult to admit, but it’s true. America has no Emiliano Zapata.

In the US his name pops up time to time on the evening news in its mentioning of those uppity Zapatista folks who can’t seem to just accept NAFTA’s hostile encroachment on their pre-Hispanic methods of overseeing their land and property. Here, not only does Zapata’s legacy not represent a basis for radical modern political philosophy, it’s endorsed by Zapata’s home state of Morelos. Displayed above the entrance to its state Legislative Building, Morelos has adopted as its slogan Zapata’s famous quote: “La tierra volvera a quien la trabaja con los manos” (“The land will return to whom works it with his hands”).

Home to more than 40 haciendas, enterprises not unlike plantations of the American South prior to the Civil War, and a charismatic 30 year old frustrated with the government’s apparent disregard for its working class, Morelos was quickly transformed into a hub for revolutionary activity by the end of the first decade of the 20th century. Within the decade, few areas of the country hadn’t excitingly picked up arms in defense of Zapata’s struggle for a new, and more just Mexico.

Before arriving at the famed ‘Estacas’ natural water park and resort, the BCA group and I felt obligated to at least check out Morelos’ state museum dedicated to its truly, Emiliano Zapata. We somewhat aimlessly began to mull through the treasure trove of dust collecting artifacts supposedly once used by Zapata himself, including the blood-stained pants he wore the night he was shot dead by loyalist soldiers. Fortunately, a female employee of the museum, probably of predominately indigenous blood, with a face weathered from life experience and wavy graying hair peppered with a few stubborn black strands, interrupted our bewildered meandering.

She spoke of Zapata much like how a Greek Orthodox monk in a monastery in southern Bethlehem once spoke to my brother and I of the patron Saint Sabas as we reluctantly accepted his invitation to take a closer look through the glass of a fragile case that housed the uncorrupted remains of the saint. Of course she was, as was the monk, extremely proud. In disseminating the honorable memory of her nation’s hero she was doing what any loyal disciple would.

In her 15 minute presentation, she didn’t go for more than 2 minutes without providing us with proof of the Mexican hero’s dedication and loyalty to ‘el pueblo,’ or the people (and of his stunning good looks that made him quite the playboy of his time). Unlike many of the American heroes that occupy our history books, this guy was never a member of the elite. He lived with, ate with and dressed like ‘el pueblo’, but most of all it was his having suffered under the corrupt political system of exploitation orchestrated by authoritarian leader Porfirio Diaz, that earned him the widespread support of ‘el pueblo.’

It didn’t take long before last night’s dinner conversation turned into my mom recollecting her favorite artistic interpretations of Zapata. Apparently, there’s a giant Zapata mural that welcomes you as you enter some small town not far from here. She loves that one. O, and the mosaic-styled painting hanging in her brother’s house, that’s probably her favorite. But this isn’t to say she doesn’t have standards. For instance, she told me of a black and white picture taken of Zapata leaning against his gun with his hips twisted suggestively. Slowly getting out of her chair to imitate this famous pose of the even more famous hero she shook her head, saying “No, I don’t like this one at all. I mean, it makes him look feminine.”

That’s it! With their perfectly manicured ponytails, spandex tights and ‘gurly men’ slippers, our American revolutionaries just don’t have what it takes to make their way into our homes and workplaces. Regardless, in Emiliano Zapata the Mexican people have a true embodiment of the working-class values, masculinity and integrity they view themselves as possessing. While this self-description might certainly be true on an individual level the government has strayed drastically from the ideals of the Mexican revolutionary. Maybe, in the not too far future, Mexican walls will be graced with the presence of the man/woman accredited with getting the politicians back on track. Until then, however, reverence for Zapata’s legacy will represent little more than the acceptance of the futility of those dreams he died fighting for.