Summer Short #2: Jump Back, Move Forward

Last night was the celebration of San Juan, and in Puerto Rico people head to the beach and jump backwards into the ocean at midnight (or any body of water) for good luck and to wash off any negativity. As a kid, I liked the idea because it meant staying up late when it usually wasn’t allowed. Now, I like the idea of being able to wash away the bad parts of the year and bring in the good. Sort of like a New Year’s do-over. It started out pagan then became Christian, but I think of it as cultural. I’d overlooked it for some years, but this year seemed like a great time to bring it back. I can’t trek to the ocean at midnight where I am, but I can get rid of the old and welcome some new. And another way to mark the middle of the year.

Any middle year plans?

Photo by Nothing Ahead on Pexels.com

Birth of the Coqui - HH story

We’re still in Hispanic Heritage Month and it felt appropriate that I continue my retelling of Latino fairy tales from my particular corner of Latin America, Puerto Rico.

Another story related to the coquí dates back to the time of the Tainos, the indigenous people of the Caribbean. Admittedly, I took a few liberties with the details, but the conclusion is the same.

There was a water goddess who fell in love with the son of a chief. To show her favor for him, she made sure that he always returned with ample catch when he went fishing. He, in turn, would thank and praise her each time. The goddess, not content to simply love him from afar, came to the chief’s son as a Taino woman. Despite taking human form, the man knew who the woman was, and they fell even deeper in love. But she couldn’t remain indefinitely. She promised to return the next evening with the rising of the moon.

Guabancex, the benign face of the goddess of water and winds

When the man returned, instead of finding the woman and goddess he loved, he was confronted by Juracán, the mercurial side of Guabancex, goddess of the weather. Perhaps Juracán, envious of the other goddess’s happiness or overcome with desire for the man, caused the skies to darken and blew down great winds to snatch the chief’s son. The water goddess tried to save her lover, but in vain. She called his name over and over again until her voice grew hoarse, but she never saw him again. In her grief she created a tiny frog that echoed her cries, calling to the man named Coquí.

Taino representation of the Coqui

Happy Hispanic Heritage Halves

In the US, September 15^th marks the beginning of Hispanic Heritage Month, which runs until October 15^th. Having half of one month and then another month makes for odd celebrations—it sneaks up on you and then leaves almost silently. Sometimes I don’t remember it’s Hispanic Heritage Month until I see a commercial wishing me a happy one.

I wondered at the choice. So, I did some research. It turns out it was originally a week for decades and then grew by 1989, which explains why as a kid I didn’t know about it and then suddenly I was eight and we were told we had a month to celebrate. I also learned it’s based on quite a few Latin American independence days, which is why it starts in the middle of September.

I’m hard pressed to relate this to fairy tales because of the lack of correlation. It’s always been difficult to find any original stories that haven’t been influenced by European ones. But there is one I found that I’ve always liked. It’s the legend of the Coquí, the frog of Puerto Rico.

Ignacio, the King of the Forest and a parrot, was disgusted by how lazy and complacent his subjects had become. To encourage them he challenged them to a race and that one of each species could represent them in the race. There would be no consequences for losing, but the winner would be given a surprise gift. The animals chose their strongest and fastest but didn’t take it too seriously. However, the tiny coquí, who had no voice, did. They trained a champion in the hopes it would outstrip the bigger, stronger animals.

The day of the race, the biggest and strongest animals lined up next to the tiny coquí and sprinted forward leaving the frog behind. And yet, the coquí used his powerful legs to jump past the leaders and won. King Ignacio, true to his word, spread his wings and chanted over the tiny frogs and gave them a voice. They, in turn were able to respond with a special song, “COQUÍ, COQUÍ.” And it was a reminder those who are overlooked can make their voices heard.

A comforting thought when your month is really half of two cobbled together.

The Stories We Learn

In past posts I’ve mentioned my love of mythology. I knew more about Greek, Norse, Egyptian and Roman mythology than a child of eight should know. I loved the idea of goddesses and gods who were like us, but writ large. I didn’t know it then, but they were the original superheroes and arch villains. And I’m a sucker for a good origin story.  

          Which is why I found myself becoming dismayed while researching my next project. I want to daughter and any future generations to know our mythology—Taino mythology and yet finding information about it proved difficult. I was equal to the challenge of reading academic research in Spanish (being both a historian and a Spanish speaker) and sifting through websites for what was honest conjecture and what was wishful thinking (my superpower is research). And yet the more stories I learned and loved, the angrier I became. Why hadn’t I learned more about this in school? I grew up in New York City, which is fairly progressive and well-represented by Puerto Ricans. Shouldn’t the indigenous cultures of the Caribbean have been covered? My love of Greek myths had started in school, why hadn’t my love been expanded to include my mythology? Why wasn’t my culture considered as interesting and vital? Eight-year-old me wouldn’t have known the answer, but current me knows the answer is obvious.

          The stories we learn are important. It’s a recent idea that representation matters, but that’s an abstract idea. I’m reminded in little ways all the time that it’s more than an idea. It’s an ideal. And making sure the stories we learn include everyone is just as important as marches and rallies. Writers often say you should write the stories you want to see. I’ve always known I wanted to put Latinas at the forefront of my stories and I hope that one day a child of any background walks around with a big book of Taino myths and meets her new superheroes.

Three point cemi of the Tainos

Minding my Mythology, part I

I’ve mentioned once or twice that my superpower is research. It’s also my comfort zone and in these unsettling times, research is where I go to relax. Lately it’s been mythology. As a child, I devoured books about Greek and Egyptian mythology. And yet I never thought to search for my own. In a previous post, I mentioned the need to invite other pantheons to the table and I’m gratified to see Yoruba, Hindu, Korean, Mayan and many other mythologies are getting their day in the sun thanks to Rick Riordan.But I want to do my part, too. My research has led me to finally fulfill my 2014 promise in the post At the Crossroads of Fairy Tales and Folklore and learn more about my own mythology.The indigenous people of Puerto Rico (Borinquen) were the Tainos. They had a rich culture and an intricate mythos. Here’s one story:Yaya was the Original Spirit, imbued with both feminine and masculine energy. Being of both natures Yaya was able to conceive a son, Yayael. At first, Yayael was an obedient son, doing as Yaya told him. Yet as he grew, a rebellious streak grew with him. He was envious of his creator’s power and position and began to plan Yaya’s murder.But Yaya was observant and sent Yayael away, hoping that it would change Yayael’s feelings. When Yayael returned, his feelings hadn’t changed, and Yaya had no choice but to kill Yayael. Suffering the loss of a son, Yaya collected Yayael’s bones and put them in a calabaza, a gourd, and hung them from the roof the house. Days passed and Yaya missed Yayael and they brought down the calabaza to look at their son's remains. To their astonishment, the calabaza was filled with water and the bones had become fish of all kinds. Yaya ate the fish, but there were always more. After eating their fill, Yaya put the calabaza back on top of the house……To be continued! 

Guest Post on Outland Entertainment!

Hey FF readers!In an attempt to generate some buzz about my upcoming novel, A Smuggler's Path, I wrote a guest post for Outland Entertainment about the search for universality entitled, Fairies with Dark Faces. Drop by the website and then feel free to learn more about my book on my other website, booksbyilcruz.com 

Losing it

I’ve been thinking about loss and fairy tales lately. It’s the prologue to most stories, shaping the hero’s or heroine’s current misfortune. Be they motherless, fatherless, or orphans loss is the beginning of a story in fairy tales. Disney has made this fact into a cliché. It’s been joked that Frozen didn’t become a true Disney movie until (spoiler alert) the parents are lost at sea. I almost think it’s pointless to warn you of the spoiler because as I mentioned before, it’s Disney’s hallmark.So what can fairy tales tell us about loss? Is it the impetus that makes ordinary people into heroes? Do princesses (or would be princesses) jump at the chance to marry royal strangers because of “daddy issues”? Are feelings of abandonment just the push a boy needs to take on giants and consider thievery as a way of life? Maybe yes, but maybe nothing so blatant.As a historian, I’m aware that these stories were written in a time when disease, war or poverty would likely tear apart families. But fairy tales don’t care about the mundane. They focus on the fantastical, spinning tales that take us out of the everyday. Wouldn’t you want to escape a reality in which becoming orphaned probably only meant a life of impoverishment and servitude? In the real world, Cinderella would have grown old and haggard at the beck and call of those three spiteful cats. Or she would have run away to the city and been forced into prostitution to survive.But I’m not just a historian. I’m a person with whimsy who sees imprisoned souls in strangely shaped trees. All it takes is a too bright moon and I immediately start to spin a tale about a community of nightwalkers affected by its phases, collecting magical Moonshine. Not all the ideas become a full-fledged story, but more than a fair share get filed in my ideas folder. And one of the most basic things everyone wonders about is death and loss, so why isn’t it a prominent feature in fairy tales? Sleeping Beauty side-steps it with a sleeping spell meant to keep her in suspended animation for a century waiting for her “true love.” Snow White is barely cold in her glass coffin before Prince Charming comes along and dislodges the chunk of apple the dwarves were clearly too short to Heimlich. Red Riding Hood and her grandmother are swallowed whole by the Wolf only to be cut out of his belly by the Woodsman. Even the newest old story, Frozen, gives us a heroine who sacrifices her life and is rewarded by it being returned to her.In my search for loss in fairy tales, I came across a story from my childhood. It falls under folklore and legend more than fairy tale, and is a popular story in Puerto Rico. It’s called La Leyenda de la Piedra del Perro, or The Legend of Dog Rock. Not far from El Morro in Old San Juan there’s a small beach with a long natural rock wall. At its tip is a rock formation that when looked at from the right angle resembles a sitting dog.The story goes that a soldier, Enrique, from back when Puerto Rico was part of Spain, was stationed there, far from home and lonely for companionship. One day he finds an injured and emaciated puppy whom he nurses back to health with food and love. In return the dog never leaves his side and becomes his best friend. As is inevitable with all soldiers, Enrique is called to a battle which requires him to leave the dog behind. They part tearfully and as the boat carrying his human companion sails away, the dog (called Amigo) swims to the rock wall and sits there from sun up to sundown awaiting his return. There’s a brutal battle in which all hands, including Enrique, are lost. The dog overhears the news and rushes out to the wall waiting without respite. He stays so long and so still he turns to stone and remains there to this day.I’m not sure what that story teaches us. On the one hand loss is something that can’t be gotten over and you can remain stuck in a moment of despair without moving on. Or it could mean that loss forces out the very nature of a being. For the dog, it was loyalty. It could be said that for the characters of popular fairy tales, it was a desire to be more or escape their current situation. In both cases, it led to profound change. Fairy tales teach us that no matter how mundane today might seem and yesterday was, tomorrow could be extraordinary--either good or ill. They teach us that loss is not the end of the story.