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| Bronze casting (1888-1889) of Nezahualcóyotl, by Jesús F. Contreras in the Garden of the Triple Alliance, Filomeno Mata street, Mexico City |
Nezahualcóyotl (1402-1472) was the ruler (tlatoani) of the city-state of Texcoco in ancient Mexico; he excelled as a poet, scholar and architect.
Revealing Chicanan Thought in Mexico
I am never more Mexican than when I am in the United States,
nor more Gringa than when I am in México.
−Kim Diaz
Interview by Fanny del Río, Mexican journalist,
of Kim Diaz, Tejana Chicana philosopher
(Spanish version follows.)
Milenio Diario (Milenio.com)
September 9, 2017
Which one describes you better: Gringa, Mexican or Tex-Mex?
My parents are both Mexican. My father was an engineer and my mother studied medicine. One generation before, my grandfather was a bracero in Torreon who traveled every pisca (harvest season) to the US, so my grandma moved to the border. My parents met while working in the maquiladorasin Ciudad Juarez, but a little before my birth my mother crossed the border and I was born in El Paso, Texas.
Shortly later we went back to Juarez, but when my siblings were born, my parents decided to return to El Paso. That was during Reagan's amnesty. My parents abandoned their careers to work in the maquilasin El Paso. I started going to school in the U.S. I was twelve years old when I learned English.
How did an American philosopher like you end up studying Latin American philosophy?
When I was a little girl, maybe six or seven years old, my father would take me to an art supply store, which was also a bookstore, where he bought his rulers and paper. A book caught my eye, and I said to my dad, “Would you buy it for me?” The book was the Popol Vuh. Even as a child I was interested in philosophy. During high school in El Paso, a teacher gave me a book by Ayn Rand and said, “Read the book and then write an essay to enter a writing competition.”
I did not write the essay, but Rand quoted Nietzsche, so I started thinking more about philosophy. Later, I took a class with Jules Simon and we read Octavio Paz’s The Labyrinth of Solitude. That opened my mind because, in the U.S., philosophy is always about Western philosophy – the Greek and the European traditions – but reading Paz I realized that we Mexicans, my people, also have an intellectual tradition, that we too have an intellectual history.
That class opened my eyes, like when a ray of light suddenly flows into a room that previously had firmly closed window shades. After that I started reading José Vasconcelos, Samuel Ramos…
At the University of Texas at El Paso I took classes with Bob Ferrell. Because he was the one who talked me into studying philosophy, I joke about this with him now. I tell him, “This is all your fault. If it weren’t for you, I could've been someone.”
The truth is I am very grateful to Bob, but Jules Simon and David Hall, who was my mentor when I wrote my undergraduate thesis, were just as important as Bob. David was a pragmatist but he was also a Buddhist, a Taoist. He was such an optimist, and he had a tremendous inner peace. I used to ask myself, ‘How can this man always be so happy? What does he study? What does he think about?’ So I followed him very closely.
To me Pragmatism, Asian Philosophy, and Marxism were all very appealing. In New Mexico I got my Master’s degree with Ted Sturm, who had been a teacher in China and Brazil. He was an American but he loved everything that was not American. He gave me the opportunity to study John Dewey and Ramos, to focus on identity because…
Where are my origins? Whenever I was in Mexico I was not considered Mexican because I was a ‘pocha’ from the border, and in the US I was not seen as an American because my skin is brown and my last name is Díaz.
So I asked myself: What does it mean to be Mexican? What does it mean to be American? Who am I?
In Texas A&M I started to focus on José Carlos Mariátegui, Paulo Freire and Luis Villoro: Peru, Brazil, and México. But I was critical of Mariátegui because, despite his good intentions, he was an elitist, and paternalistic in a western kind of way, whereas Freire understood that it’s the people that know better than anyone else what their problems are, so the solutions must come from the people themselves.
Instead of saying, “How did Europe do this?” and then bring in all the foreign theories and try to implement them and hope they work, Freire shows respect for the people’s ways. The same applies to Villoro. That was the axis of Latin American Marxism that appealed to me.
Were you at the same time addressing your search for your roots?
I am not going to give a very intellectual answer. My great grandmother sent me to school with my hair in braids and adorned with colorful ribbons, she sang to me, she told me stories of her times, so when I grew up, I wanted to study the Mexican Revolution. On the other hand, my grandmother was a healer, so she picked one herb for this, one stone for that, and I think that is the reason I became interested in indigenismo, the study of indigenous culture.
My great-grandfather, who eloped with my great-grandmother, was a black man from Zacatecas – I have no idea how they ended so far north in México – which is why my father looks more Dominican or Cuban than anything else. So, I am also interested in African traditions.
I love the skin, the hands, and the rich voice of the indigenous people. It reminds me of my grandmother. It’s like chocolate, no? Chocolate and clay. I am drawn to the people, to their ways, to their thought. This is a generalization, but their tone of voice is closer to earth, it’s more organic, and their spiritual traditions speak more to me than the mind of the west, with its drier, and more linear, logic.
I am never more Mexican than when I am in the United States, nor more Gringa than when I am in México.
And this is a simplification, but there are two types of people: those who do not realize they’re Mexican, and those who do. In the US, we call the latter Chicano. Being Chicano is being politically aware of your history. If you are not, then everything pushes you to the mainstream of American culture, to the loss of your accent, to forgetting your history.
To a certain extent, by hanging on to my identity I ask for trouble, because it makes me different. But to me, the real problem is adjusting, forgetting who I am, becoming one more in the “melting pot.” Because if I end there, then what will I contribute? It’s important that we don’t forget who we are, where we come from.
Is that what inspired you to help create a group that studies and promotes Mexican-American philosophy?
You mean the Society for Mexican American Philosophy (SMAP). We have been doing this for a number of years: Carlos Sanchez, Jose Jorge Mendoza, Grant Silva, Jose Antonio Orosco, Robert Sanchez, Manuel Vargas, Andrew Soto, and me. We all had separate paths, but one day we decided to join forces, and that is how it was born.
We kept running into each other in the same conferences and we were always speaking in the same panels about the same issues, working with similar philosophers. So finally we said, “Why don’t we organize ourselves in a formal way and create an association to study Mexican philosophy?”
Since we first formed SMAP, more and more people have joined us. This past spring Rocio Alvarez and Andrew Soto organized our first SMAP roundtable and we had a great turn-out with many more philosophers. We all have independent projects, but we are always helping each other: there is a very strong sense of solidarity among us.
Why was the Society for Mexican American Philosophy necessary?
In the U.S., people always told us that what we studied wasn’t philosophy: “It’s not real philosophy.” It’s always been like that. I find it interesting that now it’s kind of turning into a trend, but it certainly wasn’t when I was a student. It was more like, “Be sensible. Octavio Paz is okay as a writer, but what he does is literature, not philosophy.” Thank God I found Ted Sturm first and Gregory Pappas later, because they both encouraged me to study Latin American philosophy as well. It meant going against the flow.
I always found myself trying to justify why I was studying this stuff. Now, a part of me thinks maybe analytic philosophers are running out of things to do, or bored of dealing with language, but another part of me is just happy to see there is a growing interest for Mexican and Latin American philosophy. I trust this interest will continue to grow.
Clearly, for you there is such a thing as Mexican philosophy.
If not, then what have I been doing for the past twenty years? Of course, there is. Mexican philosophy is incredibly rich, and the world has much to learn from it. It’s a combination of African, Spanish, and the indigenous, and, if you are in the US, it is also in part Chicano. We come from a very rich mixture, made with tiny bits of everything. Just like mole.
Was it difficult to be a female Latino philosopher in the U.S.?
I ask my students to close their eyes and describe a philosopher. They answer things like, “He has a beard, he wears glasses, he’s bald.” They always describe a man, never a woman. Yes, it has been hard – being a woman, having an accent, being Mexican. But then I remember that my grandfather was bracero, my grandmother was illiterate, and my parents worked in maquiladoras, whereas I had the opportunity to finish a PhD in Philosophy. So I am very grateful. That past, my history – I value it. I may have had problems, but I did not have to work in the fields, like my grandpa.
What authors have influenced you the most?
They were men – and women – whom I fell in love with. Nietzsche was my first philosophical love, and I will always love him. I feel the same way about Dewey, who is similar to Nietzsche, but instead of complaining he rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. Then there is Samuel Ramos, the philosopher of identity. I also fell hard for Marx, but he was too grumpy, always so serious. So I love him, but I cannot go on with him.
I really liked the Stoics, Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus, and the Buddhists, the philosophers of the east: Lao-Tze, Zhuangzi, Confucius, and the Buddha. It’s not a passionate love, like the one I felt for Marx and Nietzsche, but they help me and they give me perspective. And I have already mentioned Villoro, Mariátegui, and Freire, who is a great inspiration in my life because of his faith in people.
Do you consider yourself a philosopher of feminism?
This will probably sound vain, but I like my own way of doing philosophy. I also fell in love with Simone de Beauvoir, because she helped me understand a lot with her books, but I do not believe everything can be reduced to patriarchy, as not everything can be reduced to race, or class. I am not denying patriarchy, social classes, and racial bias: these are things I have spoken about from my own experience. But they do not affect women alone: they affect men too.
Part of the work I am doing in prison is linked precisely to the idea my students have of what it means to be a man. I do not like the feminists who try to defeat men because we have to work with an energy that does not arise from anger or resentment. We have to help each other, women and men alike. That is what Freire teaches us: when you seek revenge against someone, you become that person, you become the oppressor.
Tell me more about your work in prison.
In the border, we are branded as criminals simply for being Mexican, but it’s not clear to me what constitutes a criminal behavior. For example, Thoreau was put in prison because he refused to pay taxes: he was against a government that claimed to be a leader of freedom while at the same time it protected the institution of slavery and had stolen half of Mexico’s territory. The border was established to prevent slaves from running away to Mexico, where slavery had been abolished years earlier, in 1829.
Every person that remained in that area ended up being a second-class citizen, and this continues today. But those who try to cross the border today are only doing what my mother did: looking for better opportunities. I do not find that to be criminal; I am just not convinced that qualifies as criminal behavior.
And yet, we can find peace and freedom even if we are confined in a prison cell, and one can also be confined in a different type of prison called jealousy, envy, fear, or anger. I studied with a Lama from Nepal and took a Bodhisattva vow, so I said, ‘I will try to help others.’
Through meditation and martial arts I realized that being free is not just a matter of physical freedom, being able to go out to the street or wherever you feel like going: peace is a spiritual freedom that not many people have. I work with Juan Ferret, a Spanish pragmatist who created the Philosophic Systems Institute, and who brings philosophy to the streets, to children in schools, and now also to the USDOJ, where we teach philosophy and meditation. The program teaches people to focus, become centered so that they can reflect and express how they feel and what they think.
You can see the changes in our students, who are people that have been through a lot, and at first are reluctant to confide in us, but little by little they trust us. I would like the justice system to change, one person at a time, helping them discover the peace they have inside themselves. I would love to have a system that helps people instead of a system that is punitive.
Did you have your parent’s support when growing up?
My parents are die-hard Mexicans and I was brought up in the traditional Catholic values, the “Hail Mother Mary” and all that. I wanted the liberties I saw in the women in the U.S., their rights, but in a Mexican, Hispanic family, if you are the older daughter, you have responsibilities, so I had to take care of my siblings. Life is what it is, but for me it was like the novel, The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros: books took me out of the barrio.
My sister left my mother’s house when she was thirteen. She lived in the streets, and ended up imprisoned. She is another reason why I wanted to help: she is my own flesh, my carnala– and I know what she went through: the law protects us, but it also tags us, looking for the criminal element in brown people, the Mexican people.
Later, she was involved in a really terrible car accident. There is no one in this world that I love more than I love my sister, so when I heard doctors saying, “She’s not going to make it,” you have no idea how I felt. After an eight-hour surgery, she made it through the night, but then fell into a coma for a month. They said, “She will not come through, and if she does, she will be a vegetable for life.” But this I learned from being a teacher: students sometimes think they can’t do something, but if you believe they can, then they will believe it too. They are the first to be surprised by what they can accomplish.
I refused to see my sister as a person in a coma: I visualized her as a happy, healthy girl on the beach. Every time I thought about her, I visualized her like that. And she came back like herself, not like a vegetable. She had a baby boy in December 2015, and she is doing fine. To me, that’s a miracle.
If you could start all over, is there anything you would change about your life?
I would not change a thing. Everything had to be like it was so that I could become who I am and be here today. I have no regrets. Although… if I think about a philosopher – other than Simone de Beauvoir – that has helped me, that would be Gloria Anzaldúa… I would have liked to start studying her earlier in my life. She was capable of transcending anger. I like the analysis she makes: as Chicanos, there are parts of us that hate other parts of us: the Spanish rejects the indigenous, the indigenous rejects the Spanish, the white rejects the African.
But we are a mixture, and we have to learn to accept it all, to accept it without fighting with ourselves. I want to write more about Chicano, indigenous, and African spirituality, and I want to write about that kind of feminism I was discussing before. I also want to write more about Freire – though here I’m appropriating an idea from Jose Orosco’s book on César Chávez, where Orosco argued that Chávez was a philosopher proper, although many think of Chávez only as an activist.
In a sense that happens, too, with Freire: he is accepted as an educator, but ignored as a political philosopher. And with Villoro I want to refer specifically to the “indigenous” concept of governing through serving, because in a liberal capitalism, power is usually understood as ruling over people, but governing through serving means that whoever has more power is because of their ability to be of service to others.
Kim Diaz works for The Philosophical Systems Institute for the last few years where she teaches philosophy and mindfulness for the Sendero Reentry Program and the Adelante Diversion Program, Western District of Texas, El Paso Division. Her work has been published in journals such as Philosophy in the Contemporary World, Societies without Borders, and The American Philosophical Association Newsletter on Hispanic/Latino Issues in Philosophy. She is a founding member of the Society for Mexican American Philosophy, and co-editor of The Philosophy of the Americas Reader (Bloomsbury, forthcoming). A certified yoga teacher, she received her yoga training in Rishikesh, India.
Fanny del Rio writes for Milenio.com, a supplement of Milenio Diario, one of the largest national newspapers in Mexico.
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Hacia una filosofía indígena
Somos en escrito The Latino Literary Online Magazine
 |
| Estatua en bronce (1888-1889) de Nezahualcóyotl, Jesús F. Contreras en el Jardín de la Alianza Triple, Calle Filomena Mata, Ciudad de México |
Nezahualcóyotl(1402-1472) fue el monarca (tlatoani) de la ciudad-estado de Texcoco en el México antiguo. Se desempeñó notablemente como poeta, erudito y arquitecto.
Descubriendo El Pensamiento Chicanense en México
Nunca me siento más mexicana
que cuando estoy enEstadosUnidos,
nimásgringaquecuandovengoaMéxico.
−Kim Diaz
Entrevista por Fanny del Río, periodista mexicana de Ciudad de México,
de Kim Diaz, filósofa Tejana Chicana
Milenio Diario (Milenio.com)
9 de septiembre, 2017
Kim Díaz nació en Estados Unidos pero es hija de padres mexicanos. Estudió en la University of Texas - El Paso. Es autora de decenas de artículos publicados en revistas y enciclopedias y ha participado en más de veinte congresos como ponente. Su investigación académica se centra en estudios de Filosofía Política, Filosofía Latinoamericana, Pragmatismo e Indigenismo en Estados Unidos, pero también se inclina por estudios en Filosofía Asiática, Historia de la Filosofía, Ética y Lógica.
Algunos de los temas recurrentes de sus ponencias son la inmigración y la identidad, pero también ha trabajado en torno de algunas de las figuras emblemáticas del pensamiento latinoamericano, desde Mariátegui, Freire y los hermanos Flores Magón hasta César Chávez, Luis Villoro y Gloria Andalzúa. Ha recibido reconocimientos como la Beca de la Fundación Ford, del Centro Melbern G. Glasscock y de Texas A&M.
Es miembro del Comité Editorial del Inter-American Journal of Philosophy, miembro de 20th Century Mexican Philosophy, de la American Philosophical Association, la Society for the Advancement of American Philosophy y Radical Philosophy Association. En tiempos recientes ha incursionado en proyectos comunitarios de reinserción para comunidades carcelarias con clases de meditación y filosofía en el Prison MindfulnessInstitute,PathofFreedomTrainingyPrisonYogaProject.
¿Cuál expresión te describe mejor: Gringa, mexicana o Tex-Mex?
Mis padres son mexicanos. Mi papá estudió Ingeniería y mi mamá Medicina. Una generación antes, mi abuelo fue bracero en Torreón: iba a la pisca cada temporada por lo que mi abuela se mudó a la frontera. Mis padres se conocieron en las maquiladoras, en Ciudad Juárez, pero cuando yo iba a nacer mi mamá cruzó el río y nací del otro lado, en El Paso. Luego volvimos, pero al nacer mis hermanos, mis padres decidieron irse otra vez aprovechándose de la ley de amnistía de Reagan. Dejaron su carrera y empezaron a trabajar en las maquiladoras de El Paso. Estudié en Estados Unidos. Tenía doce años cuando aprendí inglés.
¿Cómo es que una filósofa estadunidense decide dedicarse a la filosofía latinoamericana?
Cuando era niña, mi papá me llevaba a una tienda, que también era librería, donde compraba reglas y papel. Ahí vi un libro que me gustó: el Popol Vuh. Desde niña la filosofía me llamó la atención. Después, cuando estaba en high school, un maestro me dio un libro de Ayn Rand y me dijo: “Quiero que lo leas y que escribas un ensayo para un concurso”. No escribí el ensayo, pero Rand me hizo conocer a Nietzsche.
Tiempo después tomé una clase con Jules Simon en la que leímos El laberinto de la soledad y esto me abrió la mente porque la filosofía en los Estados Unidos se enfoca en la filosofía occidental —los griegos y los europeos— pero al leer a (Octavio) Paz me di cuenta dequemigente,losmexicanos,tambiénpiensa,quetienesupropiahistoriaintelectual.
Entonces empecé a leer a José Vasconcelos, a Samuel Ramos. En la Universidad de Texas me dio clases Bob Ferrell. Gracias a él decidí estudiar filosofía. Pero también fueron muy importantes Jules Simon y David Hall, con el que escribí mi tesis de licenciatura. David era pragmatista pero también budista, taoísta; una persona siempre optimista,conunapaztremenda.Yopensaba:“¿Cómolehaceestehombreparaestarsiempretancontento? ¿Qué estudia? ¿Cómo piensa?”, y lo seguí de cerca. Me llamó mucho el pragmatismo, la filosofía asiática y el marxismo.
En Nuevo México estudié la maestría con Ted Stern, que dio clases en China y Brasil. Era norteamericano pero le encantaba todo lo que no fuera norteamericano. Me dio la oportunidad de estudiar a John Dewey y a Ramos, de enfocarme en la identidad. Cuando estaba en México no era mexicana porque era pocha de la frontera y en Estados Unidos no era norteamericana porque soy morena y me apellido Díaz. Entonces me preguntaba:“¿Cómoseidentificanlosmexicanos?¿Cómoseidentificanlosamericanos?¿Quiénsoy?”
En la University of Texas A&M me enfoqué en José Carlos Mariátegui, Paolo Freire y Luis Villoro. Fui crítica de Mariátegui porque —aunque con muy buenas intenciones— no deja de ser elitista y de tener un paternalismo occidental. En cambio, Freire respeta, sabe que nadie más que los indígenas o el pueblo conoce sus propios problemas y que la solución tiene que salir de adentro, no de las teorías de Europa. Villoro pensaba del mismo modo. Ese fue el eje del marxismo en Latinoamérica que me atrajo.
¿Ese interés tenía también que ver con la búsqueda de sus raíces?
No voy a ser muy intelectual en mi respuesta. Mi bisabuela me enviaba a la escuela con trenzas entrelazadas listones de colores, me cantaba, me platicaba de sus tiempos, así que cuando crecí quise estudiar la Revolución.
Por su parte, mi abuela era curandera, y creo que fue por eso que me llamó la atención el indigenismo. Mi bisabuelo, que se escapó con mi bisabuela, era un negro de Zacatecas –no sé cómo terminaron en el norte—, por eso mi papá parece dominicano. Además de las tradiciones indígenas, me ha interesado conocer las tradiciones africanas. Me gustan la piel, las manos y la voz de los indígenas. Me recuerdan a mi abuela. Es chocolate, ¿no?, chocolate y barro, y me acerco a ellos por su manera de ser, de pensar.
Generalizo, pero su voz está más cerca de la tierra, es más orgánica, y sus tradiciones espirituales me hablan más que la manera de pensar de los occidentales, que tiene una lógica seca, lineal. Nunca me siento más mexicana que cuando estoy enEstadosUnidos,nimásgringaquecuandovengoaMéxico.
Voy a simplificar las cosas. Hay dos tipos de personas: las que no están conscientes de que son mexicanas y las que sí lo están; a éstas las llamamos chicanas. Ser chicano es estar políticamente consciente de tu historia. Si no lo estás, entonces todo te lleva a asimilarte a la corriente anglosajona, a que pierdas tu acento, que olvides tu historia. Al aferrarme a mi identidad, me creo dificultades, porque soy diferente. El problema es mezclarme y no saber quién soy, ser una más en el melting pot. Es importante que no se nos olvide quiénes somos, de dónde venimos.
¿Es difícil ser una filósofa latina en Estados Unidos?
Yo les pregunto a mis estudiantes: “Cierren los ojos y descríbanme a un filósofo”. Siempre me dicen: “Tiene barba, usa lentes, es calvo”. Describen a un hombre, siempre es un hombre. Nunca imaginan a una mujer. Sí, ha sido difícil ser mujer, tener acento, ser mexicana, pero también tomo en consideración que mi abuelo era bracero, mi bisabuela era analfabeta, que mis padres trabajaron en maquiladoras y yo he tenido la oportunidad de terminar un doctorado en Filosofía. Así es que me siento muy agradecida. Tengo problemas, pero no trabajé en el campo como miabuelo.
¿Qué autores han influido más en usted?
Mis influencias han sido hombres y mujeres de los cuales me he enamorado. Nietzsche fue mi primer amor en filosofía y siempre lo voy a querer. Dewey tiene similitudes con Nietzsche, pero en vez de llorar se pone a trabajar. Luego está Samuel Ramos, un filósofo muy metido en la identidad. Me enamoré de Marx, pero era muy enojón, siempre tan serio. Así que lo quiero, pero no puedo seguir con él. Me gustaron los estoicos, Marco Aurelio y Epicteto, y los budistas, los filósofos del Oriente: Lao Tse, Zhuangzi, Confucio, el Buda… No es un amor apasionado como el de Marx y el de Nietzsche, pero me ayudan y me dan perspectiva. Y ya mencioné a Luis Villoro, a Mariátegui y a Freire, una gran inspiración porque tiene fe en la gente.
¿Se considera una filósofa del feminismo?
Tal vez sea vanidoso decirlo, pero me gusta cómo hago filosofía. También me enamoré de Simone de Beauvoir pero no se puede reducir todo al feminismo, como no se puede reducir todo al racismo o a la clase. No niego el patriarcado, la diferencia de clases, el trato hacia las razas. He hablado de eso a partir de mi propia experiencia, pero igual hay un estado de cosas que también afecta a los hombres. Parte del trabajo que hago con las personas que salen de la cárcel ha sido precisamente sobre lo que significa ser un hombre.
No me gustan las feministas que se vuelven masculinas y tratan de derrotar a los otros. Tenemos que trabajar con una energía que no sea del resentimiento. Debemos ayudarnos, tanto hombres como mujeres. Es lo que dice Freire: si nos vengamos,d somos iguales; oprimimos a otras personas.
¿En qué consiste su trabajo en la prisión?
En la frontera nos dicen criminales simplemente por ser mexicanos, pero no hay claridad respecto a lo que es comportamiento criminal. A Thoreau lo metieron a la cárcel porque dejó de pagar impuestos: estaba en contra un gobierno que se decía líder de la libertad mientras tenía la institución de la esclavitud y había tomado la mitad de México.
Estableció la frontera para que los esclavos no huyeran a México, que puso en práctica la abolición de la esclavitud en 1829. Los que quedaron en esa área terminaron siendo ciudadanos de segunda clase y aún nos tratan así. Quienes intentan cruzar están haciendo lo que mi mamá: buscar mejores oportunidades. Eso no me parece criminal. No me convence.
La paz es una libertad espiritual que muchos no tenemos. Trabajo con Juan Ferrete, un español pragmatista quien creó el Philosophical Systems Institute y trae la filosofía a la calle, a las escuelas, a los niños, y ahora también sistema de justicia, donde damos clases de filosofía y meditación, con un elemento estético de expresión.
El programa enseña a reflexionar, a meditar para estar centrados y poder expresar mejor lo que sentimos y pensamos. Se nota la transformación de los participantes, personas que han pasado por mucho y les cuesta tenernos confianza. Ese es mi papel: ayudar a la gente. Me gustaría cambiar el sistema, pero hacerlo persona por persona, ofreciéndoles esa paz que tienen dentro. Me encantaría tener un sistema que nos ayude en lugar de sistema que noscastigue.
¿Sus padres apoyaban sus decisiones?
Mis padres son mexicanos a la antigüita y yo crecí con los valores tradicionales católicos. Quería las libertades que veía en Estados Unidos, los derechos que tienen las mujeres, pero en una familia mexicana, si eres la mamá eres la responsable; entonces me hice cargo de mis hermanos. En la vida nos va como nos va, pero pasa como en la novela La casa en Mango Street, de Sandra Cisneros: del barrio salí con la ayuda de los libros.
Mi hermana se fue de la casa a los trece años, vivió en las calles y fue a la cárcel. Era mi propia carne, mi carnala, y sé por lo que pasó. Las leyes nos protegen pero también nos fichan, buscan lo criminal en la gente morena. Luego ella tuvo un accidente muy serio. Mi hermana es la persona a la que más quiero. Cuando oía que decían “No la va a hacer, no te imaginas lo que sentía. Luego de una operación de ocho horas pasó la noche, pero cayó en coma por un mes. Me dijeron: “De ésta no va a salir y, si vive, será como un vegetal”.
Pero he aprendido esto siendo maestra, aunque los estudiantes no piensen que pueden, si tú crees en ellos, confían y lo logran. Yo no quería ver a mi hermana como una persona en coma: me enfoqué en visualizarla contenta, sana, en la playa. Cada vez que pensaba en ella la visualizaba así. Y volvió como ella, no como un vegetal. Tuvo un niño en diciembre de 2016 y está bien. Es unmilagro.
Si pudiera empezar de nuevo, ¿qué cambiaría?
No cambiaría nada, porque todo tuvo que pasar exactamente como pasó para ser quien soy y estar aquí hoy. No me arrepiento de nada. Aunque… pensando en una filósofa —aparte de Simone de Beauvoir—, pienso en Gloria Anzaldúa: me hubiera gustado estudiarla antes. Pudo trascender el estar enojada con todo. Me gusta mucho su análisis. Como chicanos, hay partes de nosotros que odian a otras partes: la parte española rechaza la parte indígena, la indígena a la española, la anglosajona a la africana, pero somos una mezcla y tenemos que tomar todo, tenemos que asumirlo sin pelearnos con nosotros mismos.
Quiero escribir más sobre la espiritualidad chicana, indígena, africana y sobre ese tipo de feminismo. También quiero escribir sobre Freire, aunque le estoy copiando la idea a José Orosco, quien publicó un libro sobre las ideas políticas de César Chávez, de quien siempre dicen —tal vez por ser chicano— que no es filósofo, sino activista.
Algo similar pasa con Freire: en la pedagogíaloaceptanperoseolvidasufilosofíapolítica.ConLuisVilloroquierohacerexplícitoel concepto indígena de mandar sirviendo, porque en el sistema capitalista y liberal se entiende el poder como el mando sobre otras personas. En cambio, el sentido de mandar sirviendo es que quien tiene más poder es quien más sirve.
Kim Díaztrabaja para el Philosophical Systems Institute donde enseña filosofía y atención plena para el Programa de Re-entrada Sendero y el Programa de Desvío Adelante, Distrito Oeste de Texas, División El Paso. Sus escritos han sido publicados en revistas como Philosophy in the Contemporary World, Societies without Borders, y The American Philosophical Association Newsletter on Hispanic/Latino Issues in Philosophy. Es una de los fundadores de la Society for Mexican American Philosophy y co-editora del libro, The Philosophy of the Americas Reader(Bloomsbury). Es también maestra de yoga certificada; recibió su formación de yoga en Rishikesh, India.
Fanny del Rio escribe por el Milenio.com, un suplemento del Milenio Diario, uno de los mayores periódicos nacionales en México.