April 2025
Craftsmen in an obsidian workshop
vital to the Birthplace of the Gods
though located down
in its humble outskirts
discuss the angry mob
armed with torches, chisels, and daggers
forming
in their neighborhood’s labyrinth streets.
Amecatzin
whose ancestors
were said to have been
among Teotihuacan's
first inhabitants
speaks first:
“I fear that this crowd
is right to despair.
The red glory
our empire boasted
the green prosperity
our people enjoyed
the yellow abundance
which kept us fed —
I fear that those riches
will not return.
Must I stand aside in silence
while my birthplace decays?”
“The warriors of the past
vicious serpents
ferocious jaguars
brutal coyotes
sharp-taloned eagles
earned the favor
of the wrathful Feathered Serpent
securing us
precious jade
from the distant southern mountains
beautiful shells
from the shores of the west and the east
vibrant pigments
from the northern hills
to ornament our spacious stone homes
and our tall, robust bodies.
But the warriors of the present
are helpless to prevent
the rise of rival cities
their armies’ advances
their merchants’ monopolies
the proliferation of their products.
Our luxuries no longer inspire jealousy
our skill is no longer unique
our position is no longer central.
Has our time already passed
while we were busy working?”
“The rulers of the past
pious shamans
brilliant strategists
honorable leaders
prolific builders
held the favor
of our pitiless divinities
the Wrinkled Fire-Father
who burns offerings and villages
the Spider-Fanged Stone-Mother
who gives birth or does not
the Goggle-Eyed Storm God
who irrigates and electrocutes
the Gruesome Flayed God
who brings new life through death
providing for us
limitless nourishment
corn and beans
nopales and grains
avocados and peppers
yucas and jícamas
squash and pumpkins
tomatillos and guavas
deer and rabbits
turkeys and ducks
crabs and fish.
Our families grew large
and vigorous and content.
But these days ceremonies fail
sacrifices bring no bounties
rituals produce no results.
Harvests have been meager
markets have been bare
and my children wail,
their bellies empty.
The young do not ripen
the weak do not strengthen
elders do not grow old.
Is it too late to return
to the days of my forefathers?”
Murmurs and clangs in the alleys
shift into scattered shouts on the avenue.
Gubixha,
a sturdy Zapotec migrant
from the dry southern highlands
replies:
“I was born in Daani Beédxe
The Mountain of the Jaguar
the white-flower city in the clouds
which your goggle-wearing warriors
at the peak of their beastly strength
and your fanged-bird rulers
at the height of their divine power
could not conquer.
I came to your Chain of Stones
not for its sanctity
but for its wealth
not for its power
but for its stability
not for its beauty
but for its food supply.
I found astonishing ceremonies
lacking significance
I found terrifying fighters
sunk deep in corruption
I found ample work
with scarce compensation
I found extravagant feasts
and little to eat.
Your esteemed city-state
is a fading mirage.”
“You wish to return
to the time of your ancestors
but they did this to you.
Those who preceded you had more
than their neighbors and enemies
and still wanted more
wanted it all
they wanted what was not theirs
what was ours
they reached too far
shed too much blood
and treasure
stopped building
grew like a fire
instead of a city.
They dishonored their gods
through faithless worship
passed onto you rituals
with no meaning
statues
with no auras.
If this wicked empire collapses
under its own swollen weight
I will just go home.
If these madmen and bandits outside
destroy your crazed bandit city
I will watch it fall
I will walk away smiling.”
The clamor around the workshop
swells to a terrible bellow.
Stakunísin,
a spirited Totonac villager
from the fertile eastern coast
cries out:
“I refuse to stand still and watch
as our neighbors carry out judgment
on these charlatan priests and cruel soldiers!
I have spent years here
deforming gorgeous volcanic glass
into hideous weapons of war
supplying arrogant knights
with tools for torture
obeying complacent rulers
spurned by their bitter deities.
I want to deface
their smug murals and carvings
I need to topple
their illegitimate monuments
I must raze
their luxurious houses!”
“Amecatzin — this city is not yours.
You are of it
but it does not belong to you.
It is theirs
the aristocrats who laugh at you
gorging themselves while your family starves
the soldiers who levy our blades
and buy land with blood.
This place cannot be saved.
Rise beyond its degradations
honor your ancestors
by slaughtering it.
Drive a dagger into its heart
in a real ritual
a righteous sacrifice
a gory redemption ceremony.”
“Gubixha, before you leave,
seize something back
after all they have seized from you.
Return to your land
with victory in your memory
and their stolen treasures in your hands.
Tell your kin and descendants
that it was you who slew the monsters
who ruined their glory
who avenged your fallen ancestors.
These ‘madmen and bandits’
stand on the brink of eternity —
I want to share in their triumph.
Let us hold our own parade.
Let the lords taste the ash this time.
Let their blood nourish the soil.”
And so the coworkers
take up their deadly tools,
join the procession
of tired, fiery commoners,
march north for thirty minutes
on their historic central avenue,
torch
the royals’ ancestor-shrines,
vandalize and loot
the lavish homes of the elites,
storm
the imperial Citadel,
shatter their warriors’
sacred figurines,
smash the Storm God’s
hallowed effigies,
climb the summits
of their man-made mountains,
desecrate the Pyramid
of the bellicose Feathered Serpent,
burn down the Temples
of the Sun and the Moon,
and kill the noble dwellers
of the grand palaces,
bringing a catastrophic end
to Classical Mesoamerica’s
greatest and holiest metropolis.