"I'm a citizen of the universe":
Gloria Anzaldúa's Spiritual
Activism as Catalyst for
Social Change
AnaLouise Keating
With awe and wonder you look around, recognizing the preciousness of the earth, the sanctity of every human being on the planet,
the ultimate unity and interdependence of all beings—somos todos
un país. Love swells in your chest and shoots out of your heart
chakra, linking you to everyone/everything. . . . You share a category of identity wider than any social position or racial label. This
conocimiento motivates you to work actively to see that no harm
comes to people, animals, ocean—to take up spiritual activism and
the work of healing.
—Gloria E. Anzaldúa,
"now let us shift... the path of conocimiento . . .
inner work, public acts"
drawn from one of her final essays, Cloria Evangelina
Anzaldúa describes a radically inclusionary politics, or what she calls "spiritual activism." At first glance, the phrase "spiritual activism" might seem
like a contradiction in terms, yoking together two opposing concepts:
Although the word "spiritual" implies an other-worldly, inward-looking
perspective that invites escape from and at times even denial of social
IN THIS PASSAGE,
Feminist Studies 34, nos. 1/2 (Spring/Summer 2008). © 2008 by AnaLouise Keating
53
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ArtaLouise Keating
injustices, the word "activism" implies outward-directed interaction with
the material world—the very world that spirituality seems to deny or
downplay. Yet for Anzaldúa, these very different worlds and worldviews
are inseparahle (although not identical). She emhraces the apparent
contradiction and insists that the spiritual/material, inner/outer, individual/collective dimensions of life are parts of a larger whole, joined in a
complex, interwoven pattern. Anzaldúa's spiritual activism offers a visionary yet experientially hased epistemology and ethics. Spiritual activism is
spirituality for social change, spirituahty that posits a relational worldview
and uses this holistic worldview to transform one's self and one's worlds.'
Throughout her career, from her earliest publications to her last writings,
Anzaldúa worked to develop, refine, and enact her own unique version of
spiritual activism.
All too often, however, scholars avoid Anzaldúa's politics of spirit.
Although they celebrate her groundbreaking contributions to feminist
theory and her innovative formulations of the Borderlands and the new
mestiza, they rarely examine the important roles Anzaldúa's spiritual
activism plays in developing these theories and many, others. In some
ways, this avoidance of Anzaldúa's politics of spirit probably seems like
common sense. After all, those of us working in academic settings are
trained to rely almost exclusively on rational thought, anti-spiritual forms
of logical reasoning, and empirical demonstrations. As Irene Lara notes,
"Within a western framework, writing about spirit and spirituality, as well
as writing from a spiritual epistemology that is embodied and ensouled in
a woman of color consciousness, is cause for silencing and marginalization."^ Laura E. Pérez makes a similar point:
Beliefs and practices consciously making reference to the s/Spirit as the
common life force within and between all beings are largely marginalized
from serious intellectual discourse as superstition, folk belief, or New Age
delusion, when they are not relegated to the socially controlled spaces of
the orientalist study of "primitive animism" or of "respectable" religion
within dominant culture. Even in invoking the spiritual as afieldarticulated through cultural differences, and in so doing attempting to displace
dominant Christian notions of the spiritual while addressing the fear of
politically regressive essentialisms, to speak about the s/Spirit and the spiritual in U.S. culture is risky business that raises anxieties of different sorts.'*
AnaLoutse Keating
55
In short, references to spirit, souls, the sacred, and other such spiritually
inflected topics are often condemned as essentialist, escapist, naive, or in
other ways apolitical and backward thinking. Similarly, M. Jacqui
Alexander observes that despite recent scholarship linking spirituality
with socio-political change, "there is a tacit understanding that no selfrespecting postmodernist would want to align herself (at least in puhlic)
with a category such as the spiritual, which appears so fixed, so unchanging, so redolent of tradition."''
This academic spirit-phohia has affected Anzaldúan scholarship in
several interrelated ways: We might admire Anzaldúa's hold spirit vision
yet fear that if we explore it in our work, we will harm our careers. Not
only will our colleagues scoff at us, but we will have difficulty publishing
such explorations. As Lara suggests, these fears can be intensified for
Chicanas and other women of colors who are often already viewed as
interlopers in the academy.' Or, we might appreciate Anzaldúa's spiritual
activism yet worry that if we try to discuss it in print, our colleagues will
re-evaluate her writings in negative ways and reject her theoretical contrihutions as "New Age,"* escapist ramhlings. Or, we might be suspicious of
Anzaldúa's references to spirits and souls, question her discussions of
precolonial traditions, and discredit her theoretical and philosophical
achievements. Thus, for example, one reader interprets Borderlands I La
Frontera: The New Mestiza as Anzaldúa's attempt "[t]o return to the 'traditional' spiritualities that were in place before the arrival of Cortés."
According to this scholar, "Anzaldúa's language, her grammar, her talk
are ultimately completely mortgaged to a nostalgia that I find unacceptable. The resurrection of the old gods (be they 'white' or 'indigenous') is a
futile and impossible task. To invoke old gods as a tool against oppression
and capitalism is to choose the wrong weapon."'
I want to address this objection at length because it reflects such a typical reaction to Anzaldúa's spiritualized politics. To be sure, in several
passages in Borderlands I La Frontera Anzaldúa does seem to romanticize indigeneity. However, a more thorough reading of this text, coupled with an
investigation of her later writings, offers a very different interpretation.
Although revisionist mythmaking does play a role in her spiritual activism,
Anzaldúa does not try to resurrect "old gods," reclaim an "authentic"
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AnaLouise Keating
precolonial spirituality or religion, or in other ways nostalgically reinvigorate pseudo-ancient traditions or beliefs. Instead, she investigates a variety
of indigenous and post-indigenous histories and traditions in order to learn
from them, and she applies what she learns to our contemporary situation.
As she explains in a 2002 e-mail interview, "the past cannot be captured,
but it must be remembered."* This use of memory serves at least two
forward-looking purposes for Anzaldúa and other spiritual activists. First,
by remembering the past, we respect and can learn from our ancestors'
wisdom. Second, this awareness makes it less likely that we will repeat
previous mistakes. Rather than going back to some unchanging precolonial
tradition, Anzaldúa re-members the past; she borrows from and alters a
variety of belief systems and worldviews, creating an activist-based spirituality that is deeply informed by contemporary events.
As I will explain in the following pages, Anzaldúa's theory of spiritual
activism is designed to meet twenty-first-century needs; it offers valuable
lessons for feminists and other social justice activists. Her politics of spirit
demonstrates that holistic, spirit-inflected perspectives—when applied to
racism, sexism, homophobia, and other contemporary issues—can sustain
and assist us as we work to transform social injustice. First, though, I
describe Anzaldúa's theory of spiritual activism in more detail.
I struggle to "talk" from the wound's gash, make sense of the deaths
and destruction, and pull the pieces of my life back together. I yearn
to pass on to the next generation the spiritual activism I've inherited
from my cultures.
-Gloria E. Anzaldúa,
"let us be the healing of the wounds"
Anzaldúa's spiritual activism enabled her to make meaning out of the apparently meaningless events of her life, especially those situations—"the
deaths and destruction"—that caused her the most pain. Significantly,
this meaning-making endeavor was a difficult, often torturous, struggle.
Although sometimes tempted to become immersed in despair or to give
up in defeat, Anzaldúa drew on her holistic worldview and insisted on
AnaLouise Keating
57
her personal agency, her ability to learn from even the most negative life
events.
Anzaldúa offers the most extensive discussion to date' of her theory
and praxis of spiritual activism in "now let us shift . . . the path of
conocimiento . . . inner work, puhlic acts." As the title implies, in this essay
Anzaldúa urges herself and her readers to enact transformation (or
"shift") by focusing simultaneously on self-change ("inner acts") and
outwardly directed social activism ("public acts"). In one of the essay's
final sections, appropriately titled "shifting realities . . . acting out the
vision or spiritual activism," she describes how spiritual activism enabled
her to address individual and collective needs simultaneously:
You reflect on experiences that caused you, at critical points of transformation, to adopt spiritual activism. When you started traveling and doing
speaking gigs, the harried, hectic, frenzied pace of the activist stressed you
out, subjecting you to a pervasive form of modern violence. . . . To deal
with personal concerns while also confronting larger issues in the public
arena, you began using spiritual tools to cope with racial and gender
oppression and other modern maldades—not so hiuch the seven deadly
sins, but the small acts of desconocimientos: ignorance, frustrations,
tendencies toward self-destructiveness, feelings of betrayal and powerlessness, and poverty of spirit and imagination.'"
As this passage indicates, Anzaldúa's spiritual activism intertwines "inner
works" with "pubHc acts," private concerns with social issues. Indeed, this
simultaneous attention to personal and collective issues/concerns is a vital
component in spiritual activism.
It is crucial, then, to distinguish Anzaldúa's spiritual activism both
from the mainstream "New Age" movement and from conventional
organized religions. Unlike the former, which focuses almost, if not
entirely, on the personal and thus leaves the existing oppressive social
structures in place, spiritual activism's holistic approach encompasses
both the personal and the systemic. Spiritual activism begins within the
individual but moves outward as these individuals (or what Anzaldúa calls
"spiritual activists") expose, challenge, and work to transform unjust
social structures. And unlike the latter, which often impose authority on
individuals through external teachings, texts, standards, and leaders, spiri-
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tuai activism locates authority within each individual. As Anzaldúa
explains in an early discussion ofthe ways U.S. women of colors have used
spirituality to develop new forms of resistance: "Our spirituality does not
come from outside ourselves. It emerges when we listen to the 'small still
voice' within us which can empower us to create actual change in the
world."" By reclaiming and nurturing this inner spiritual power, the
women Anzaldúa describes become agents of change. More specifically,
they acquire increased self-esteem and develop holistic epistemologies
enabling them to expose social injustice. In this way, spiritual activists can
work simultaneously for individual and collective change. Ana Castillo
illustrates one form that this increased self-esteem can take in Massacre of
the Dreamers. As she explains,
acknowledgment of the energy that exists throughout the universe
subatomically generating itself and interconnecting, fusing, and changing
. . . offer[s] a personal response to the divided state of tbe individual wbo
desires wholeness. An individual who does not sense herself as helpless to
circumstances is more apt to contribute positively to ber environment
than one wbo resigns witb apatby to it because of ber sense of individual
insignificance.'^
Although spiritual activism begins at the level of the personal, it is not
solipsistic; nor does it result in egocentrism, self-glorification, or other types
of possessive individualism. Rather, spiritual activism combines self-reflection and self-growth with outward-directed, compassionate acts designed
to bring about material cbange. Look for instance at the way Anzaldúa
describes the closely entwined dynamics of self-awareness, oppression,
resistance, and transformation in BorderlandsjLa Frontera:
Tbe struggle is inner: Cbicano, indio, American Indian, mojado, mexicano, immigrant Latino, Anglo in power, working class Anglo, Black,
Asian—our psycbes resemble tbe bordertowns and are populated by tbe
same people. Tbe struggle bas always been inner, and is played out in
outer terrains. Awareness of our situation must come before inner
cbanges, wbicb in turn come before cbanges in society. Notbing bappens
in tbe "real" world unless itfirstbappens in tbe images in our beads.''
AnaLouise Keating
59
In this passage, "inner" and "outer" are so intimately interrelated and
interwoven as to occur simultaneously; each depends on, influences, and
shapes the other.
For Anzaldúa and other spiritual activists, self-change and social
transformation are mutually interdependent. In one of her earliest puhlished writings, "La Prieta," Anzaldúa descrihes this intricate reciprocal
process linking self-change with social justice actions:
I believe that by changing ourselves we change the world, that traveling El
Mundo Zurdo path is the path of a two-way movement—a going deep into
the self and an expanding out into the world, a simultaneous recreation of
the self and a reconstruction of society. And yet, I am confused as to how
to accomplish this. I can't discount the fact that thousands go to bed
hungry every night. The thousands that do numbing shitwork eight
hours a day each day of their lives. The thousands that get beaten and
killed every day. The millions of women who have been burned at the
stake, the millions who have been raped. Where is the justice to this?'''
I have quoted this passage at length because it so effectively illustrates
three important dimensions of Anzaldúa's spiritual activism. First, Anzaldúa insists that self-change should not be an end in itself; instead, this
"recreation of the self must be part of a larger process requiring both intense self-reflection and back-and-forth action on individual and communal levels. Second, as Anzaldúa's frank question ("Where is the justice to
this?") indicates, spiritual activism's transformative process is a difficult,
complicated endeavor, filled with uncertainty and unanswered questions.
Third, and closely related to this second point, Anzaldúa does not deny
the violence, pain, and other forms of suffering that so often occur in this
world. She addresses the injustice without downplaying or in any other
way denying its significance. By so doing, she confronts the paradox of
personal agency and structural determinacy. Rather than ignore, diminish, or attempt to resolve this paradoxical situation, she chooses the more
difficult pathway and decided to inhabit the contradiction:
I can't reconcile the sight of a battered child with the belief that we choose
what happens to us, that we create our own world. / cannot resolve this in
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AnaLouise Keatirtß
myself. I don't know. I can only speculate, try to integrate the experiences
that I've had or have been witness to and try to make some sense of why
we do violence to each other. In short, I'm trying to create a religion not
out there somewhere, but in my gut. I am trying to make peace between
what has happened to me, what the world is, and what it should be.'^
Fully acknowledging the suffering, as well as the ambiguities, paradoxes, and unanswered questions, Anzaldúa confidently insists on the
political effectiveness of her relational worldview. As I have argued elsewhere, she bases this confidence on her metaphysics of interconnectedness. Drawing on indigenous philosophies. Eastern thought, psychic
literature, and her own experiences, she maintained her belief in a fluid,
cosmic spirit/energy/force that embodies itself throughout—and as—all
existence." Thus in a 1982 interview she explained that "Spirit exists in
everything; therefore God, tbe divine, is in everything . . . it's in the tree,
tbe swamp, tbe sea.... Some people call it 'God'; some call it tbe 'creative
force,' wbatever. It's in everytbing." Twenty years later Anzaldúa made a
similar claim: "Spirit infuses all tbat exists—organic and inorganic—transcending the categories and concepts tbat govern your perception of
material reality."" I point out tbe time span between tbese two assertions
in order to underscore tbe duration of Anzaldúa's belief. Despite tbe
relentless racism, sexism, and other forms of oppression and despite tbe
many communal and personal setbacks, private losses, and bealtb-related
difficulties sbe experienced tbrougbout tbe years, Anzaldúa retained her
relational worldview.
Tbis belief in the interrelatedness of all life forms is a crucial component in Anzaldúa's tbeory of spiritual activism and facilitates tbe development of new tactics for survival, resistance, and transformation on all
levels. In wbat follows, I build on tbis radical interConnectivity to explore
one of spiritual activism's most important—yet difficult—tbeoretical implications: tbe invitation to move beyond tbe binary-oppositional frameworks we generally use in identity formation and social cbange.
AnaLouise Keating
6i
But I'm sure that with the Chicana dykes I've met, I'm odd, an
outcast. Because a lot of them are nationalists and I don't believe in
nationalism; I'm a citizen of the universe. I think it's good to claim
your ethnic identity and your racial identity. But it's also the source
of all the wars and all the violence, all these borders and walls people
erect. I'm tired of borders and I'm tired of walls. . . . I don't believe
that we're better than people in India or that we're different from
people in Ethiopia. One billion people go to bed hungry every
night. . . . There are droughts in Ethiopia, Kenya, and Eastern Africa.
. . . People are dying every day. And then people talk about being
proud to be American, Mexican, or Indian. We have grown beyond
that. We are specks from this cosmic ocean, the soul, or whatever.
We're not better than people from Africa or people from Russia. If
something happens to the people in India or Africa—and they're
starving to death and dying—then that's happening to us, too.
—Gloria E. Anzaldúa, InterviewslEntrevistas
Anzaldúa's self-positioning in the above epigraph represents a startling
contrast to conventional models of identity. Usually, self-identification
functions through exclusion and binary opposition: we define who and
what we are by defining who and what we are not. These exclusionary
identities occur within a restrictive framework that marks, divides, and
segregates human beings based on narrow, dualistic models of difference.
As Patricia Hill Collins explains, "In either/or dichotomous thinking, difference is defined in oppositional terms. One part is not simply different
from its counterpart; it is inherently opposed to its 'other.' Whites and
Blacks, males and females, thought and feeling, are not complementary
counterparts—they are fundamentally different entities related only
through their definitions as opposites.'"* This oppositional logic reduces
our interactional possibilities to two mutually exclusive options: Either we
are entirely the same or we are entirely different. In this either/or system,
difference becomes rigidly divisive. When we view ourselves and others
through this binary lens, we assume that our differences are too different—
too other, as it were-to have anything of importance in common with those
whom we have defined as our others. Such stark either/or assumptions
leave no room for the messy complexities of compromise and exchange so
vital to coalition work and community-building.
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AnaLouise Keatinß
Anzaldúa's spiritual activism offers a different approach, one bypassing this exclusionary logic. As she explains in her introduction to this bridge
we call home: radical visions for trartsformation, "Many of us identify with groups
and social positions not limited to our ethnic, racial, religious, class,
gender, or national classifications. Though most people self-define by
what they exclude, we define who we are by what we include—what I call
the new tribalism."" Significantly, Anzaldúa does not discount the importance of gender, ethnicity/'race,' sexuality, ability, and other identityrelated components. However, she maintains that these conventional
categories are too restrictive and cannot adequately define us. Indeed, she
suggests that these identity-based categories have been and still are used to
disempower and oppress us: "the changeability of racial, gender, sexual,
and other categories render[s] the conventional labelings obsolete.
Though these markings are outworn and inaccurate, those in power continue using them to single out and negate those who are 'different' because of color, language, notions of reality, or other diversity."^" When we
base our assessments of others entirely—or even primarily—on their physical appearances and social locations, we make biased, inaccurate assumptions about their pohtics, worldviews, and so forth. When we act on these
assumptions (as we too often do), we unnecessarily close ourselves off
from potential allies. Or as Anzaldúa so eloquently asserts, "For the politically correct stance we let color, class, and gender separate us from those
who would be kindred spirits. So the walls grow higher, the gulfs between
us wider, the silences more profound."^'
Positing radical interconnectedness, Anzaldúa dismantles these walls
by building bridges. She adopts flexible, context-specific perspectives
enabling her simultaneously to see and see through exclusionary identity
classifications. She does not ignore the importance of color, class, gender,
and other identity markers; however, she puts these classifications into a
more holistic perspective. As in my epigraph to this section, she defines
each person as a part of a larger whole—a "cosmic ocean, the soul, or whatever." By so doing, Anzaldúa can insist on a commonality shared by all
human beings, a commonality we share despite the very real differences
among us. For Anzaldúa, this "common factor" goes beyond—but does not
Ignore—identities based on gender, 'race,' or other systems of difference; it is
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"wider than any social position or racial label." Indeed, Anzaldúa locates
this identity factor within nonhuman life as well. As she explains, "Your
identity has roots you share with all people and other beings—spirit, feeling, and body comprise a greater identity category. The body is rooted in
the earth, la tierra itself. You meet ensoulment in trees, in woods, in
streams."^^ It's important to note that for Anzaldúa this shared identity
factor does not make us identical. As I use tbe term, "commonality" and
"sameness" are not synonymous. Anzaldúa's commonalities are heterogeneous and multifaceted.
Anzaldúa's practice and theory of El Mundo Zurdo, or "The LeftHanded World," indicates one form her complex commonalities can take.
As the phrase "left-handed world" might suggest, for Anzaldúa El Mundo
Zurdo represents a highly creative, fluid, and open-minded perspective
and space. Thus she asserts that "The left hand is not a fist pero una mano
abierta [but an open hand] raised with others in struggle, celebration, and
song." Anzaldúa's concept of El Mundo Zurdo is quite possibly ber oldest
concept. She began using the term "El Mundo Surdo"" in the late 1970s,
when she organized a series of poetry readings with that title in San
Erancisco. She invited a variety of people, including feminists of all colors,
U.S. "Third World" writers, lesbians, and gay men, to read in El Mundo
Surdo Reading Series. Despite tbe many differences among tbem, participants shared several commonalities, including their so-called deviation
from the dominant culture, their personal experiences of alienation/
discrimination/oppression, their interest in issues of social justice, their
shared rejection of the status quo, and tbeir work as creative writers and
artists. Several years later, in ber introduction to tbe final section of This
Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color and in "La Prieta,"
Anzaldúa developed a theoretical description of El Mundo Zurdo. She
explains that El Mundo Zurdo represents alliances among people from a
variety of different social locations. Altbougb inhabitants of El Mundo
Zurdo are very different from eacb otber, tbey forge commonalities and
develop alliances enabling tbem to work togetber to bring about revolutionary cbange: "We are the queer groups, the people that don't belong
anywbere, not in the dominant world nor completely within our own
respective cultures. Combined we cover so many oppressions. But tbe
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AnaLouise Keating
overwhelming oppression is the collective fact that we do not fit, and
because we do not fit, we are a threat." Significantly, El Mundo Zurdo people
are not all alike; their specific oppressions, solutions, and heliefs are different. Anzaldúa accepts these differences and uses them to forge commonalities, asserting that "these different affinities are not opposed to each
other. In El Mundo Zurdo I with my own affinities and my people with
theirs can live together and transform the planet."^^
I want to emphasize the innovative possibilities opened up by
Anzaldúa's inclusionary models of identity formation. Typically, feminists
and other social justice activists develop politics and actions around identity-related issues. As Leela Fernandes explains, "identity continues to
serve as the ground from which to work for change and to which to
retreat for a sense of safety and belonging." Although this approach can be
useful, it limits us in at least two ways. First, because identity-based politics
rely on already-existing categories that originated in oppressive histories,
they inadvertently support the unjust socio-political framework under
which we currently live. These tainted categories restrict our imaginations
and thus limit our visions of social change. Fernandes makes a similar
point, noting that,
while identity-based movements are effective in mobilizing short term
political action, in the long r u n they cannot produce an alternative future that is free
from the very identity-based divisions and inequalities that they oppose. While opposi-
tional movements based on identity have been necessary to address the
blindness to various forms of injustice, such movements cannot in the
long run provide a viable alternative because they inevitably must rest on a
form of identification that explicitly or implicitly is based on an oppositional distinction from another group."
Second, identity-based politics' exclusionary categories can limit our
ability to make useful alliances. Like the oppositional identities from which
they emerge, identity-based politics rely on and reinforce an us-againstthem worldview. When we ground identities and alliances in dualistically
defined categories, we establish and pohce boundaries—boundaries that
shut us in with those whom we have defined as "Uke" "us" and boundaries
that close us off from those whom we define as different. These boundaries
prevent us from recognizing our complex commonalities and developing
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65
broad-based projects for social change. In such instances, identities become
ends in themselves, rather than useful tools as we move toward larger
goals like transformation, liberation, and social justice.
My point here is not that we should dismiss all identity categories and
declare ourselves from this day forward "color-blind," gender-blind, and
so forth. Instead, I am concerned by the lack of self-reflection that so often
accompanies identity-based politics. When we automatically label people by
color, gender, sexuality, religion, or any other politically charged characteristics, we assume both a false homogeneity within and radical differences between each categorized group. In such instances, the boundaries
between various groups of p e o p l e - a n d , by extension, the theoretical
perspectives designed to represent them—become rigid, inflexible, and
restrictive. These monolithic categories distort our perceptions, creating
arbitrary divisions among us and a combative mentality that inhibits social
change. When we use identity-based categories in such automatic, unthinking ways, the labels function as impenetrable, u n s u r m o u n t a b l e
obstacles. We trap ourselves within narrow worldviews and cannot perceive our interconnectedness with others.
This binary-oppositional framework leads to frozen, dogmatic positions; intragroup battles; and judgmental, dismissive attitudes—or what
Alexander appropriately describes as "mono-thinking."^^ When we structure our teaching, our politics, or, more generally, our lives according to
this dualistic sameness/difference framework, we assume that there is only
one right way to think, act, theorize, or self-define. These oppositional
energies become poisonous when we direct them toward each other, as
we too often do. In such instances, we engage in what Timothy Powell
describes as "corrosive exchanges" and embark on "[a] downward spiral of
ever more hostile counteraccusations."" Although Powell focuses specifically on debates within academic multiculturalism, I have seen (both in
person and in print) this dynamic happen in a variety of situations, when
people or groups oppressed in similar (not identical) ways attempt to
develop alliances that fragment from within and often over fairly minor
issues. The us-against-them stance we have employed in oppositional
forms of consciousness seeps into all areas of our lives, infecting the way
we perceive ourselves and each other. When we turn this lens against each
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AnaLouise Keating
other—as we so often do—we implode. Rather than work together to enact
progressive social change, we battle each other, thus reproducing the
status quo.^*
Anzaldúa's spiritual activism compels me to question whether the
binary-oppositional energies so crucial to many social justice theories are
as useful today as they were in the past. Like Alexander, I believe that
"[o]ur oppositional politic has been necessary, but it will never sustain us;
while it may give us some temporary gains . . . it can never ultimately feed
that deep place within us: that space of the erotic, that space of the soul,
that space of the Divine."^'
In her writings, Anzaldúa speaks from and to this "deep place within
us." By so doing, she enacts a transformative politics of spirit seen in
many of her theories, including (but not limited to) her theories of El
Mundo Zurdo, conocimiento, mestiza consciousness, the Borderlands,
nepantleras, nos/otras, new tribalism, and spiritual activism.'*" Positing
our radical interconnectedness—or what she describes in "now let us
shift" as "the deep common ground and interwoven kinship among all
things and people"'"-Anzaldúa challenges us to move beyond monothinking, binary-oppositional politics, and other forms of self-destructive
thought and action. Her theories, and her willingness to risk ostracism by
insisting on spiritual activism, offer innovative tools we can build on as
we create new theoretical perspectives, pedagogies, and social justice
actions like "nepantlera activism," "healing sueños," and "listening with
raw openness."'^
N O T E S
I have been thinking, talking, and trying to write about spiritual activism since I first
encountered the term when I was editing Anzaldúa's interviews in tbe 1990s. Tbis essay is
only my most recent attempt to explore (and enact!) tbis complex tbeory. Tbanks to tbe
many people wbo bave explored tbese ideas witb me: Suzanne Bost, Renae Bredin, Irene
Lara, Eddy Lynton, Carrie McMaster, Harry McMaster, Nery Morales, tbe students in my
2003 and 2004 Gloria Anzaldúa graduate seminar, and tbe audience at tbe 2002 NWSA
panel on Anzaldúa. Special tbanks to Gloria Anzaldúa for giving me the term "spiritual
activism," for our many discussions on tbis topic, and for always taking tbose extreme
risks. I dedicate tbis essay to ber spirit.
AnaLouise Keating
1.
67
Anzaldúa was using the term "spiritual activism" back in the early 1980s in her early
interviews (Gloria Anzaldúa, Interviews!Entrevistas, ed. AnaLouise Keating [New York:
Routledge, 2000], 38, 178). However, many other activists and scholars also use this
term. In fact, my October 2006 Google search turned up 75,500 hits. For a more
e.xtensive discussion of Anzaldúa's theory of spiritual activism, see my "Shifting
Perspectives: Spiritual Activism, Social Transformation, and the Politics of Spirit," in
EntreMundosIAmong Worlds: New Perspectives on Cloria Anzaldúa, ed. AnaLouise Keating (New
York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 241-54.
2.
Irene Lara, "Bruja Positionalities: Towards a Chicana/Latina Spiritual Activism,"
3.
Laura E. Pérez, "Spirit Glyphs: Reimagining Art and Artist in the Work of Ghicana
4.
M. ]acqui Alexander, Pedagogies of Crossing: Meditations on Feminism, Sexual Politics, Memory,
5.
and the Sacred (Durham, N.G.: Duke University Press, 2005), 9.
Lara, "Bruja Positionalities," 10-45.1 horrow the term "women of colors" from Indigo
Violet, "Linkages: A Personal-Political Journey with Feminist of Golor Politics," in this
Mujeres Activistas en Letras y Cambio Social 4 (Spring 2005): 30.
Tlamatinime," Modern Fiction Studies 44, n o . 1 (1998): 37-38.
bridge we call home: radical visions for transformation, ed. Gloria E. Anzaldúa and AnaLouise
6.
7.
Keating (New York: Routledge, 2002), 651-63. Like Violet, I use this term, rather than
the more common "women of color," to underscore the diversity among women.
I put "New Age" in quotation marks to emphasize my helief that this so-called New
Age is not really new but simply represents the most recent manifestation of longstanding movements and traditions.
Benjamin Alire Saenz, "In the Borderlands of Ghicano Identity, There Are Only
Fragments," in Border Theory: The Limits of Cultural Politics, ed. Scott Michaelsen and David
8.
E. Johnson (Minneapolis: LJniversity of Minnesota Press, 1997), 86-87.
Gloria E. Anzaldúa, "Speaking Across the Divide: An Email Interview," SAIL: Studies in
American Indian Literatures 15 (Fall 2003-Winter 2004): 20. For an extensive discussion of
Anzaldúa's non-romanticized, politicized use of cultural traditions, see my Women
Reading Women Writing: Self-Invention in Paula Cunn Allen, Cloria Anzaldúa. and Audre Lorde
(Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996).
9. I say that Anzaldúa offers the most extensive discussion to date because she has several
unpublished manuscripts that explore spiritual activism and related issues. See, for
example. The Cloria Anzaldúa Reader, ed. AnaLouise Keating (forthcoming. Duke
University Press, 2009).
10. Anzaldúa, "now let us shift . . . . the path of conocimiento . . . inner work, public
acts," in this bridge we call home, 572. Although Anzaldúa uses second person rather than
first person throughout "now let us shift," she is describing her own experiences. She
does so to engage her readers and draw them more deeply into her words. Also,
throughout her career, Anzaldúa code-switched— moving between English and various other languages, including Spanish, Náhuatl, and Spanglish. In this passage,
"maldades" can be defined as institutional and structural evils. "Desconocimientos"
is a word Anzaldúa coined to describe both the intentional and the unintentional
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11.
12.
13.
H.
15,
16,
17,
18,
19,
20,
21,
22,
23,
24,
25,
26,
27,
28,
29,
30,
,
AnaLouise Keating
forms of resistance to knowing people employ to prevent themselves from
confronting painful truths and situations.
Gloria Anzaldúa, "El Mundo Zurdo," in This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical
Women of Color, 2d ed., ed. Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa (New York: Kitchen
Tahle/ Women of Golor Press, 1983), 195. Anzaldúa cites Luisah Teish, "OK Momma,
Who the Hell Am I? An Interview with Luisah Teish," also in This Bridge Called My Back.
Ana Castillo, Massacre of ihe Dreamers: Essays on Xicanisma (Alhuquerque: University of
New Mexico Press, 1994), 159.
Cloria Anzaldúa, BorderlandsjLa Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco: Aunt Lute,
1999), 87.
Cloria Anzaldúa, "La Prieta," in This Bridge Called My Back, 208.
Ibid., her italics.
1 discuss this metaphysics of interconnectedness in more detail in "Risking the
Personal: An Introduction," in Anzaldúa's InterviewsjEntrevistas, 11-12. Anzaldúa was
especially influenced hy Aztec and Toltec indigenous philosophies and hy the writings of Sri Aurohindo, The Mother, and )ane Roberts.
Anzaldúa, ¡iiterviewslEntrevistas, 100; twenty years later: Anzaldúa, "now let us shift," in
this bridge we call home, 558. Alma Levine provides a detailed analysis of Anzaldúa's spiritualized epistemology in "Champion ofthe Spirit: Anzaldúa's Critique of Rationalist
Epistemology," in EntreMundosIAmongWorlds, 171-84.
Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge. Consciousness, and the Politics of
Empowerment (New York: Routledge, 2000), 70.
Anzaldúa, "(Un)natural bridges, (ün)safe spaces," in this bridge we call home, 3.
Anzaldúa, "now let us shift," in this bridge we call home, 541.
Anzaldúa, "La Prieta," in This Bridge Called My Back, 206.
Anzaldúa, "now let us shift," in this bridge we call home, 558.
Note the change in spelling from "El Mundo Surdo" to "El Mundo Zurdo," The shift
from "s" to "z" in the word "Zurdo" occurred during the copyediting of This Bridge
Called My Back. Although Anzaldúa was not pleased with this alteration, eventually
she accepted and adopted it, Eor more on this issue see her archives, located at the
Nettie Lee Benson Latin American Collection at the University of Texas, Austin,
Anzaldúa, "La Prieta," in This Bridge Called My Back, 209, her italics,
Leela Eernandes, Transforming Feminist Practice: Non-Violence. Social Justice, and the Possibilities
of a Spiritualized Feminism (San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 2003), 28, 26-27, my emphasis,
M, Jacqui Alexander, "Remembering This Bridge, Remembering Ourselves: Yearning,
Memory, and Desire," in this bridge we call home, 98,
Timotby B, Powell, "All Colors Elow into Rainbows and Nooses: The Struggle to
Define Academic Multiculturalism," Cultural Critique 55 (Eall 2003): 168, 175,
Alexander explores this dynamic in the final chapter of her Pedagogies of Crossing.
Alexander, "Remembering This Bridge," in this bridge we call home, 99,
Anzaldúa mentions many of these theories in the interviews collected in her
\nterviewsjEntrevistas, and 1 explore them in more detail in my "Shifting Worlds, una
entrada," in EntreMundosjAmong Worlds, 1-12,
AttaLoutse Keatirtg
69
31. Anzaldúa, "now let us shift," in this bridge we call home, 566.
32. The term "nepantlera activism," is Kavitha Koshy's; she coins this term in her
"Nepantlera-Activism in the Transnational Moment: In Dialogue with Gloria Anzaldúa's Theorizing of Nepantla," Human Architecture: Journal ofthe Sociotoßy of Self-knowledge 4
(summer 2006): H7-62. The term "healing sueños" is Irene Lara's; she coins it in her
"Healing Sueños for Academia," in this bridge we call home, 433-38. The term "listening
with raw openness" is mine; I use it in m y Teaching Transformation: Transcultural Classroom
Dialogues (New York: Falgrave MacMillan, 2007).