William Vlach


Address to the South West Anthropological Association, May 2015

Discovering the Ethnographic Archeological Novel
The Golden Chalice of Hunahapú: A Novel of the Spanish Attack on the Maya

William Vlach

“After all, the boundaries between fiction and nonfiction, between literature and nonliterature and so forth are not laid up in heaven.”
M.M. Bakhtin

To understand the full sweep and complexity of cultures across all of human history, anthropology draws and builds upon knowledge from the social and biological sciences as well as the humanities and physical sciences.
The American Anthropological Association


Writing a novel about another time, another culture brings up questions of cultural appropriation with its attendant issues of power, trivialization, romanticization, and exploitation. This was a great concern of mine, as an Anglo writer, writing about events in the post classic Mayan civilization in the early 1500’s- the so-called “Conquest.” In this paper I argue that a way to limit the potential for cultural appropriation is the use of the anthropological perspective.
Examples of this anthropological paradigm in creative writing include: the work of Lydia Cabrera who studied the AfroCuban experience and wrote Afro-Cuban Tales and the Nobel Prize winning Guatemalan writer Miguel Angel Asturias who wrote Mulata from the emic view point of the Maya. More recently, the anthropologist Don Mitchell published A Red Woman was Crying: Stories from the Nagovisi. Mitchell states, “Although these stories are set in the time and place of my fieldwork and are informed by it, they are not fictionalized field notes. They are not intended as ethnography, although Nagovisi culture… forms a context for these stories.”

The goal of this talk then is to deconstruct my novel, The Golden Chalice of Hunahpú- A Novel of the Attack of the Spanish on the Maya, and examine how it is informed by:

Extant Literature, and
Engaging with the Mayan voice

The Novel:

The novel is told through three points of view: Belehé Qat, a Kachiquel Maya; Beatriz, the Spanish wife of a conquistador: and Domingo, a Dominican friar. The narrative begins immediately prior to the incursion of the Spanish into Highland Guatemala, diverts to Andalusia, returns to Guatemala for the invasion, the war, the resultant plague, and the clergies’ attempts at conversion of the Maya. The novel concludes with the destruction of the colonial capital by earthquake and flood.

The Four Sources of Hunahpú

1. Ethnographic Sources

1971 ethnography: In a graduate school research project, I did a follow up community study to the work of Melvin Tumin and John Gillin. They had studied a small town in eastern Guatemala, San Luis Jilotepeque. I was fascinated by the clarity of the caste structure and the different strategies of the Ladino to maintain it and the Indigenous people to circumvent it. The Black/White caste system in the United States clearly arose from the institutions of slavery. My novelistic question was: What are the origins of the Guatemalan caste system?

1981 research: By 1981, Norita was working on her research in Medical Anthropology, for The Quetzal in Flight: Guatemalan Refugee Families in the United States. The research included a series of interviews in Guatemala. The journey began with a visit to her refugee family living in Xalapa, Mexico. They had fled due to the genocidal war in their homeland. Her family told us stories both of the war and in depth discussions of the historical antecedents. It was there I heard the story of the doomed Beatriz de la Cueva, wife of the Conquistador, Pedro de Alvarado. In Guatemala, as Norita researched the ‘push’ aspects of the informants’ families, I observed the horrific martial law and the war conditions.

1997: Research in El Limonar
Norita continued her participant-observation research on Guatemalan refugees, now on their rebuilding of Guatemala. She met with young adults, refugees living in Oakland. Their village, El Limonar, in the Jacaltenango province of Guatemala had been destroyed in the early 1980’s. Her/our research included a visit to Zapatista controlled areas and a United Nations refugee camp in Chiapas, southern Mexico as well as extended research in El Limonar. There I developed an appreciation for the layers of subjugation and trauma and of their their history, traditions, and hopes for the future.

2011: Spain
In 2011, this work was supplemented by an interview with a researcher at the General Archive of the Indies in Seville.

Conclusion: Each of these formal and informal studies, interviews, and contacts inspired ideas for the themes in the book: Mayan/Spanish values, familial roles, identity, and the architecture of genocide.

2. Archeological Sources

The Kachiquel capital of Iximché and the K’iche capital of K’umarcaaj are the settings for the first book of the novel. These capitals lay in the highland Maya zone of the Postclassic period. (Iximiché most recently came to U.S. attention when local Mayan priests performed sacred rituals to purify the site after President George W. Bush’s visit in 2007).
Archeological research describes these settings as the hilltop defended towns typically set on a ridge surrounded by deep ravines and approached by a single causeway. The research describes pyramids, a Great Hall, and ball courts. In the novel, Belehé Qat and his cousin, Zorach, watch a conference at the “back of the Great Hall.” They imagine themselves to be “legendary ball players” on the ball court, playing with pine cones.
The boys are captured and brought to K’umarcaaj, the Mayan word for the capital of the K’iché Maya. (Later, the name was Mexinicized into Utatlán.) Robert Carmak’s splendid in depth archeological study, The Quiché Mayas of Utatlán: The Evolution of a Highland Guatemala Kingdom allowed this writer a glimpse of the physical, cultural, social, historic and meaning of that capital. This archeological exploration was fundamental to the creation The Golden Chalice of Hunahpú.
Carmak’s archeology details the plan of K’umarcaaj (Utatlán): The Tojil Temple, a place of sacrifice which is pyramidal upon which is a painted jaguar; The Awilix Temple which is symbolically feminine and dedicated to the moon; the ball court where the architectural detail now is “irretrievably lost;” and the Main Palace with its brilliantly colored murals.

The novel:

Painted jaguars glared at Zorach and me as we faced the temple. They were orange and yellow, and I felt their power to leap from the walls. These jaguars commanded us to look at all the aspects of the temple.

Carmack described the destruction of the lords of Utatlán by the Spanish:
“On the plains outside Utatlán the lords were given a hasty trial, interrupted with demands for gold. One of the lords ‘confessed’ to the alleged plot to burn the Spaniards as was set free. The rest were tied to posts and burned.”

Transformed into the novel:

“Gold, you bastard Indian,” Tunatiuh yelled. He drove the iron into the face of Nine T’zi, on the face of Xtah’s husband.
“Gold,” he cried again, as he held the iron to my face.

Archeology had informed and inspired the writing.

3. The Extant Literature: Spanish and Mayan

There are several sources of extant literature that have been ‘anthropologically’ mined in researching the novel. The major Spanish sources include work from St Teresa of Ávila, Lazarillo de Tormes, Cervantes, Bartolomé de las Casas, and Bernal Diáz.

Saint Theresa of Ávila’s The Interior Castle (1577) gave me a story for the childhood of Beatriz: She and her sister run away from home so they can be martyred by the Moors.

The novel:

“How will they kill us?”
“They hate Christians. They will chop off our heads.”

The anonymously written Lazarillo de Tormes, published in 1554, is the first picaresque novel. The pícaro is usually a cynical youth, brought up the hard way… He meets and pits his wits against a variety of people, and this way the builds up a portrait of contemporary society.” Lazarillo gave me Brother Domingo whose humor could bring the picaro’s self serving ambitions to the fore as well as the satiric humor of Cervantes’ Sancho Panza.
Where Sancho had the demented don as his concern, Brother Domingo has Bartolomé de las Casas: This heroic Dominican, author of Tears of the Indians, was the bishop of Chiapas and appointed Protector of the Indians by the Spanish Crown. He fought valiantly for the rights of the indigenous people of the Americas after having erred earlier in making a case for slaves be brought from Africa to the New World as a way to save the diminishing ranks of Tainos in Cuba. This historic figure became in the novel Brother Domingo’s nemesis. The relationship between the two was modeled on that of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

Bernal Diáz’ The Conquest of New Spain provided much of the plot, as well as the Conquistador’s point of view:

When the news of Alvarado’s death reached Guatimala, the grief of his family knew no bounds; and his wife, Doña Beatriz de la Cueva, with whom he had lived on the most affectionate terms, cried incessantly, and she and all the ladies of her household cut off their hair.

The primary extant Mayan extant literature includes The Annals of the Cakchiquels, The Popol Vuh, and The Rabinal Achí.

Annals of the Cakchiquels

The initial inspiration for the novel was the Annals of the Cakchiquels written originally by Francisco Hernández Arana. It covers first contact with the Spanish, the resultant war and diseases, resistance, then the collapse of the city. The author of The Annals served as an anchor for the entire narrative. In the novel, his Mayan name is Belehé Qat:

Then novel:

Here is the story, oh, my sons! the story of our people. Here is the history of our people, our family. This is what happened to the people who originally came from the place of reeds, from Tulan. The story of K’umarcaaj, now Utatlán; of Iximché, now Guatemala. This is our story. Here is your history.

This is the story of your father, Belehé Qat. The story of the rabbit and the loss of the rabbit. The story of Hunahpú, who still lives. Lives here. Lives now in Christidom. This is the story of your mother, Xtah, now Lucia, and your father, Belehé Qat, now Francisco.

In the novel he is fictionalized as a warrior, spy, and, ultimately, embodiment of the continuation of the Kakchiquel peoples.

The Popol Vuh

Other Mayan extant literature mined includes the magnificent Popol Vuh of the K’iche Maya. The figures of the Popol Vuh informed the mythological background of the novel. Much of the Popol Vuh is made up of the adventures of the hero twins, Hunahpú and his brother Xbalanque. Painfully, I excluded Xbalanque from the novel for two reasons. First, the image of Hunahpú would over complicate the narrative. Second, I figured Hunahpú could ride off the English speaking tongue in ways Xblanaque could never.
The use of the Popol Vuh in the novel was background, never foreground in that the intent in the novel was to recreate lived lives as opposed to the magic of myth. The closest the Popol Vuh comes into the foreground is in the section where Belehé Qat descends into the Mayan underworld, Xilbaba, for a ritual of identity transformation into manhood.

The Rabinal Achí

The Rabinal Achí was used to inform the final section of the novel. That section’s title “Under Heaven, Above Earth” is taken directly from The Rabinal Achí. The Rabinal Achí is still performed today in the village of Rabinal in Baja Verapaz, Guatemala. The language is poetic, with repeating phrases and evocative images which tells the story of events that took place during the wars between the K’iche and the Rabinal.
In 2005 UNESCO’s 3rd Proclamation of Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity cited The Rabinal Achí.

4. Engaging with the MayanVoice

The final use of the anthropological perspective in creating the novel was engagement with the Mayan voice.

The University of California, Davis anthropologist, Liza Grandia, in a damning review of Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto wrote: “To me, these actors didn’t look or sound Maya at all. Their Yucatec diction was terrible and lacked the real lyric cadence of Maya languages.” This “real lyric cadence of Maya languages” was the key inspiration for the diction of the novel.
Initially, in San Luis Jilotepeque, I was struck with the attitude of the Ladino population toward the indigenous Pokomam Mayan language. The one Pokoman Mayan speaking teacher in the school did not speak Pokomam to the children. I wrote in 1971, “Evidently she knows Pokomam but according to the alcade’s wife, it would be ‘Que vergüenza’ if she ever spoke it to the children.” Clearly the Mayan language was disdained.
Over the years, I heard the sounds and music of Mayan in San Luis Jilotepeque, then Antigua, then in Chiapas and El Limonar In each site, I was struck with the poetics of phrases, shifting points of views, an eloquence of diction. The Mayan voice sounds did not seem to be of the Western speaking world: various sounds with a pronounced a glottal stop, clicks that seemed to come from the throat, and popping sounds.
The language, even through multiple translations, revealed a poetry- repeating phrases, a rhythm that I could feel but not define. I took a brief class in Kachiquel Maya taught by a native speaker. Encouraged and stimulated by the clicking sounds, the poetic nature of Mayan, and the meaning of this ‘culture contact,’ I returned to the United States and rewrote the book.
Reading The Annals of the Kachiquel inspired the idea to emulate the Mayan lyricism through repetition, epimone lament, and rephrasing. There was music in The Annals that I heard Guatemala in 1970 and 1981. In 1997 in Chiapas, Mexico in a Zapatista camp I heard Tzotzil Mayan translated into Spanish, then English. By the end of the year, Norita was working in El Limonar, Guatemala, and I heard Jakaltek (Popti) translated. In each setting, the music of the language was striking. I took a brief class in Kakchiquel in Antigua. The clicks and glottal stops began to make sense, not in terms of translation, but in terms of music, of the lyrical.

Repeating and rephrasing

A Western example of the use of repetition in poetry is TS Elltiot’s Ash Wednesday:

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn

The repetition of a phrase to stress a point is called epimone: e.g. “Because I do not hope…” In the first section of the novel, the phrase “Oh, my sons!” is frequently repeated. This epimone is derived from the Annals: “We all witnessed the fire, oh, my sons.” and “… because of the wicked man, we abandoned our city on the day 7 Ahmak, oh, my sons”
This repeated use of this sort of phrase, I would call an epimone lament, an expression of the experience of the writer intended to transmit the emotions of loss and grief.
From the Rabinal Achí, the repeating phrase, “Under Heaven, above earth” is, again, the epimone lament. We see the phrase and rephrase: “Is it true I must die here, must end here?” The epimone takes the form of a repeated question leaving the reader in a state of anticipation.

The novel:

Now Francisco was dancing with twelve yellow Eagles and twelve yellow Jaguars. Francisco yelled out: “Look upon me, Heaven. Look upon me, Earth.” Antonia put her hands over her eyes.
I scrambled out of my seat. The Saint grabbed my cloak, but I yanked it away.
“Look upon me, Heaven, look upon me, Earth. Is it true I must die here, must end here, here under Heaven, above Earth?” Francisco chanted.

In the writing below I will state: “The writer of the first account, Belehé Qat, addresses his sons. They are his audience.” This is redundant. I’ve said what I’ve said, now I am rephrasing it. The Annals’ literary strategy uses that approach:

“During this year the Spaniards arrived. Forty-nine years ago the Spaniards came to Xepit and Xetulul.”

Points of View; Who is the audience?

The three sections of The Golden Chalice of Hunahpú are written in the first person. The intent here is to bring proximity. The first person point of view is inevitably limited, but when that point of view is mixed with other first person points of view about the same event, the effect can be a ‘Roshomon’-like mosaic.

The intended reader is different in each section: The writer of the first account, Belehé Qat, addresses his sons. They are his audience. That notion was taken directly from The Annals of the Cachiquel:

“In this manner the Castilians arrived…, oh, my sons!”

“Thus it was that, because of the wicked man, we abandoned our city on the day 7 Ahmak, oh, my sons!”

Beatriz writes the regretful story to her mother; Brother Domingo writes as a cautionary tale to the laity.

This shifting emphasis of intended audience and points of view during a narration I found evocative and I did the best I could to invoke.

The novel:
From behind me I heard the war cries of Kaqchikel warriors. The writing bunny, the scribe, and the healer had been lost. There was only the raging warrior. Belehé Qat was now a vicious man who thought only of protecting his family and elders. A man with blood streaming down from his eyes.
And he screamed, “Kill their horses! Kill their horses!”

Cultural Appropriation/Exploitation

The basis for cultural appropriation is the objectification of the ‘other.’ After that objectification, the cultural artifacts, customs, and such are available for the use of the objectifier. The list of cultural appropriation/objectification is endless: The Washington Redskins, ‘Stepin Fetchit,’ minstrel shows, pornography, etc.
The objectification that begins and allows this process, according to the philosopher Nancy Nussbaum, contains a series of components including the Denial of Subjectivity. This category of objectification can be seen in the historic subjugation of slave music and carnivals in the Americas. Could there be anything more subjective than music and dance? To deny a people their music allows the slave “owner” to perceive the slave person as not human.
The goal of this novel and type of novel (perhaps the “ethnonovel”?) with its grounding in the anthropological perspective attacks this denial of subjectivity.
The caveat is, of course, that the writer must be tuned into the realities and empathetic to the “other.” The challenges of the writer is to not fall into the trap of romanticization, and thereby trivialization of a culture. Likewise, a slip into cultural stereotypes leads to a work of simple projection that reinforces one’s own cultural hierarchies with an utter failure of appreciation and respect for the people in question.
Likewise, ridicule is a denial of the crucial ingredients of the humanity of the “other.” This can be seen in the character arc of Brother Domingo.
At the beginning of his narrative:

I watched them. First, they began with their crazy language. They chatted with each other, that’s the only way I can put it. Chatted. Maybe chattered, like someone threw cow dung against a wall, and the dribbling off that wall is the sound of their language. Click, cluck, dribble.

Later, Domingo develops the ability to recognize the humanity of his “slave,” Francisco, and realizes he must save him:

The Eagles and Jaguars lifted Francisco and placed him on a sacrificial stone. The priest’s black knife was in the air as I barreled into them. I was like an avalanche from Heaven. Feathers and gold flew everywhere. Priests and kings sprawled on the stage. Eagles and Jaguars fell onto the field.
Francisco lay stretched out on the rock, his chest, his skin smooth; his body intact. He looked at me, shook his head, and smiled.

This recognition of the humanity of the other is reciprocated by the Mayan, Francisco, formerly Belehé Qat, after he pulls the Dominican from the climatic flood:

In the gray morning light, I found myself on a muddy bank. A soaked Francisco sat next to me. He looked over and smiled. “The black rain is for the wooden men, not human beings.”

Conclusions: Dialogue with the past in the present

In writing about the many people from around the world who visit the Mayan areas, Schele and Mathews write: “The Maya people have joined these pilgrims, but their connection with these sacred places are more than curiosity–knowing their own past and understanding what their ancestors built has become a means of resistance against the fate of being strangers in their own land.”
And I would argue, these histories, archeologies, ethnographies, the “ethnonovel” allow us all to be at home in a homely world. They resist the temptations of amnesia, of trivialization, of commodification of culture.
I can only hope that this novel facilitates an understanding of that first American genocide and adds to an appreciation and respect for a people and a resistance that ripples into their and our current reality.

“My great fear is that we all suffering from amnesia.”
– Eduardo Galeano

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” – William Faulkner

We the indigenous peoples of Guatemala declare and denounce before the world more than four centuries of discrimination, denial, repression, exploitation, and massacres committed by the foreign invaders and continued by their descendants down to the present day. The suffering of our people has come down through the centuries, since 1524, when there arrived in these lands the assassin and criminal, Pedro de Alvarado.

-The Declaration of Iximché February, 1982

Review from the Historical Novel Society for Hunahpu by Charlotte Kirsch

The Golden Chalice of Hunahpu: A Novel of the Spanish Attack on the Maya

The Spanish conquest of the Mayan civilization in the 16th Century forms the dramatic climax of William Vlach’s sweeping novel The Golden Chalice of Hunahpu, but the narrative is much more generous than that of simple military fiction; through a fascinating cast of disparate characters, Vlach dramatizes what he refers to as a “sixteenth-century American holocaust.” We see the doomed valor of Mayan prince Belehe Qat as he struggles to fight the invading Spanish (the savagery of that invasion is exceptionally well portrayed in these pages – so much so that there are stretches that make for very disturbing reading). We see the violently-widening world view of the Spanish noblewoman Beatriz (by a good measure the book’s most interesting character) as she follows her conquistador husband to his new assignment and is quickly forced to re-assess both him and herself.

Most entertaining of all (albeit in a very darkly sardonic way), we see the battered idealism of a monk named Domingo, whose personal story intersects with key historical events in ways that keep the story unpredictable. A host of secondary characters are equally well fleshed-out, and the lost world of the Maya is painted in all its sometimes contradictory colors. The book is barely three-hundred pages long but feels as satisfying as an epic three times that length. Recommended.

Facing the Pacific

He stands in the sand
flings the pole forward.
Weight hook bait line
fly overhead into the surf.

He wonders what will come
from the ocean:
debris, a silver fish, ideas.
His boots are planted in the sand.

A white line of surf
moves up to his feet.
He does not move, for his
footing is solid.

It’s not.

Je Suis Hija

Some of the earliest nasty satire is from Medieval Islamic Arabia. Hija is an Arabic form of satire. It is restricted to poetry, but is not exactly satire in the Western sense in that it is more closely resembles straight out invective. Another word for hija is dhamm, or blame. According to the Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature it lacks some of the sparkle of western satire and is generally more of a polemic. It is insulting, abusive, and highly critical. Hija has been called the abuse poetry of the Umayyads, the Muslim dynasty that ruled Moorish Spain for 700 years. The poetry is extremely course and inflammatory. These hijas, abusive and course poems, were usually aimed at rival tribes. These poems were thought to be fatal, and at times the poet led his people into battle, hurling his verses as he would hurl a spear.

Here’s a fine title for a book: The Bad and the Ugly: Attitudes Toward Invective Poetry (Hija). The book finds that only rarely were poets punished for hija, though the poet Jarir was flogged by al-Walid’s (caliph of Damascus, 668-715 AD) minions. But the typical leader’s attitude was that of Al-Ma’mun’s: “It is not my habit to have someone killed, even if his sin is grave: so should I then do it in the case of a poet?” The reason these abusive invective poets were generally not punished is that the punishments were not seen as effective and would probably incite further invective.


I imagine the ancient hija was like the French soldier in Monty Python and the Holy Grail: “I don’t want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed animal food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”

A famous hija from Tayyib al-Mutanabbi (AD 915-965) who attacked the former slave and now ruler of Egypt wrote “…this black man with his pierced camel lips,” who is “pot bellied” and “a woman-like slave.” In a further poetic attack, this target, Kafour, is so unworthy that not even death will bother to take him away, “unless his hand has a trace of its stink. With loosened belt, the flabby belly breaks wind;/ neither counted among men nor yet among women.”

Satire, a long and good tradition in the West and in Islamic cultures.


I was fresh out of high school when Chaney, Schwerner, and Goodman were killed.

My elementary and middle school years were filled with white kids whose fathers worked at the factory or were ranch hands, Black kids who demanded a quarter to walk up to the gym or sat quietly in the back of class with pretty ironed hair, Latino kids who outran everybody on the field or invited me to their quinceanera. We moved to the white Sacramento suburbs after my father died. Ninth grade began with a school counselor who placed me in bonehead English.

Fuck you, Mrs. Cartensen.

The suburbs were a mix of doctor’s daughters and meat packer’s sons. The school was 100% white, except for the blind Vietnamese exchange student.

The summer I graduated three three civil rights workers, James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, were shot, their bodies were covered with a bull dozer. They had been registering voters in Mississippi. This was the segregationist Jim Crow American South. 17,000 black residents of Mississippi attempted to register to vote that summer, only 1,600 of the completed applications were accepted by local registrars. Nothing subtle about that voter suppression.

Crowds gathered in front of the State Capital in Sacramento. I worked three blocks from the building in my uncle’s insurance company– opening mail, filing, looking out the window.

It was a different era, easy access to our political leaders. At the end of the demonstration I walked over to the governor, Edmund G. Brown, and asked for his autograph. I liked him. He was a bit jowly and made me think of my uncles. I was pleased he signed the back of a paper which had the words to ‘We Shall Overcome’ on the other side.

I wanted to get there, to the South, to be a part of the struggle against segregation. No way. I had just got my driver’s license. Never been out of the state.

I saw the governor again, a year later. Back then the governor’s house was an old white Victorian building in downtown Sacramento. My friend Scott and I walked along ‘H’ Street, and there he was, watering the roses. We walked over to the black iron waist high fence and called out to him. A different era indeed.

It was almost exactly a year after the three civil rights workers were killed: August, 1965. Watts had exploded. 34 deaths. Over a thousand injured. Millions of dollars of property damage.

“Hello, Mr. Governor,” I probably said. Not sure. But I know I asked him about Watts. I know because I clearly remember him holding a green hose with his right hand and saying to us, “It’s like a prison riot. It has to be put down.” His free left arm pushed the air down to the lawn.

Watts had begun with an incident with the white California Highway Patrol officers and 21 year old African-American Marquette Frye.

The governor hadn’t made the connection between the two events.

Fifty years later it is obvious.

Wouldn’t you think…

And do you know what a man says when a klansman’s gun is stuck into his ribs?

“Sir, I know just how you feel.” That was Michael Schwerner seconds before he was shot to death.

Their deaths resonate fifty years later. His impossible empathy resonates fifty years later.

Is empathy the light that can get us through this mess this time?


Media, press, blogs and all that make me anxious.  I get nervous at the idea of participating.  Working with Tanya on setting this blog up, she asked me why.  I tried to explain.  She said, “Write it.”

The first time I was quoted in the paper, I was misquoted.  Could have been a big deal, but that time it was met with a quizzical smile.  The next time the response was violent.

Over 40 years ago:  both Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix had died from overdoses.  This was the time when a judge had his head blown off in Marin County as prisoners tried to escape.  This was the time when writer George Jackson was killed in San Quentin.

I was a psychology student at San Francisco State.  I guess I spent some time in class.  But truth be told, I preferred working in, what we called then, “The Community.”  A local community organizer, the nearby community mental health center, several local young adults, and I set up a drug abuse program upstairs in a run down old building.  It sat on the border between a largely African-American project and a largely working class white area.  The idea was simple.  Drugs were ravaging both sides.  This would be a way bring both sides together to attack the problem.  Little did I know.

Word somehow got out to the San Francisco Examiner.  A reporter interviewed us.  The paper quoted me as a white student who said he wanted to “help those less fortunate.”  Shit, I didn’t say that.  I wouldn’t have said that.  I didn’t see it that way. “Those less fortunate” was patronizing, condescending.

Raymond, the African-American co-director, looked at the quote, looked at me, shook his head, and smiled.  I don’t remember what I said.  40 plus years later, I think I said, “I was misquoted.”  Or, “Fucking newspapers.”  Probably not that last one.  Maybe I didn’t say anything.  If I tried too hard to defend myself, I’d look like I was hiding that I really did believe that.  Could easily be I broke a sweat and didn’t say a thing.

Song lyrics went though my mind.  Please Lord, don’t let me be misunderstood.

The drug abuse program was going pretty well.  The local community health center volunteered a nurse; community mental health offered a psychiatrist; black and white paraprofessionals co-led the groups.  I recruited several of my friends in the Psychology Department to help out.  They put together a grant proposal.  I think this was part of a class project.

Then the student newspaper printed the grant proposal.  Printed it to show the good work of students at State.  At first I was flattered.  My name was in there along with my friends who had written the proposal.  I grabbed a couple of copies of the paper, cut out the article, and sent it to my mom in Sacramento.  I was proud.  Quick trip to the Isle of Hubris.

One of the community leaders called a meeting at the drug abuse program.  I thought they were going to congratulate us, me, on the article.  I encouraged my psychology friends to attend.

We sat upstairs in the rickety chairs.  I noticed that Raymond wasn’t there.  His co-worker, Shorty was.  Shorty was a young muscular Black bus driver.   I had wondered if he was selling drugs out of our fledging drug abuse program.  No proof.  No evidence.  Just an occasional  rumor.  Unsubstantiated.  He made me nervous.  Sometimes he would stand up in the group, place his back to the wall and furtively look around as if something dangerous was going to happen.

The student newspaper writer was there for the meeting.  I think he also expected congratulations.  We all talked for a bit about how the program was going.  Shorty stood up and said, “So what does ‘culturally disadvantaged’ mean.  The student reporter nervously said, “I was just quoting the grant proposal.”  I remember him as on the thin side, sensitive, and now he was scared.  He wore a blue cap.

I had been blinded by my name in the paper  I looked at the article.  It said this Black community was culturally disadvantaged.  I didn’t see it that way.  They were economically disadvantaged.  In fact, I was taken with the Black culture there- camaraderie, humor, music, idealism coupled with bad housing, poverty, drugs and violence.

Shorty looked at my psychology friends.  “What does it mean?  Culturally disadvantaged?”

Bob, the goateed Vietnam vet, the one who had argued in class for philosophical pragmatism, stammered, “That was the language that could get us the grant.”  Five young men came out from an adjacent room.  Each carried a bat.  Shorty hit the reporter hard in the face.  He flew off his chair to the floor.  The young men with bats held them up to us, motioning us not to move.  Shorty kicked the reporter on the floor, then pulled him up and dragged him over to the stair as he was pleading for Shorty to stop.  Shorty pushed him down the stairs.  We heard the falling sounds.  I looked out the side window of the building to see the reporter running up the street.

One of the young men pulled me up out of my chair and told me to stand in the hall.  There he held his baseball bat up, threatening me.  “Don’t move,” he said.

Through the open door I saw my friends being beaten and kicked.

“You didn’t get it because you’ve been here a long time,” Shorty said as he left.  The others left also.

I did the best I could to pick up my friends.  One said he just wanted to go home. His face didn’t look good.  Bob had been hit pretty hard.  I tried to clean off the blood.  “Get me out of here,” he said.

“Can I take you to the hospital?” I asked.

“No,” he practically yelled at me.

I drove him to a nearby gas station bathroom.  I tried to clean him up with water and paper towels.  He began crying.  “Its like in Vietnam.”  I didn’t know the concept of PTSD and flashbacks then.

I never went back to that “community.”  After a couple of weeks, Shorty showed up at State when I was in class.  He opened the door to the seminar and motioned me out.  I was afraid I’d get clobbered right there.  As I walked to the hall I wondered if I would fight back or run.

“Bill,” he said.  “You should come back to the program.”

“No,” I said.

“It wasn’t about you.”

“I can’t,” I said.

I never went to the police.  I figured if I had there would be even more violence.  Or maybe I was just afraid.  Don’t know.

I wondered what would have happened had I stood in front of the bats and yelled “Stop.”  Was I a coward for not stepping up?  Smart for keeping quiet?

I don’t know.

Then the unresolved issues of the country about race, violence, drugs, and prisons were not oblique.

But what I do know now is that I don’t trust the press.  I respect the ability of ‘media’ to twist words, to create havoc without a clue, to create damage.

A necessary evil in a democracy, I figure.

I am nervous about blogging, twitting, face booking, newspapers, and all of that.

So here goes.


Kind words about The Golden Chalice of Hunahpu from poet David Watts

Imagine how ambitious a task it would be to write an historical novel set 500 years ago, written in three distinct first person voices, demanding a convincing demonstration of cultural authenticity in more than one culture and then to weave a compelling narrative through it all. Vlach has done it and managed in the process to provide us strong characters, conflict, love, self-doubt, psychological understanding and a rare quality of mysticism that melds itself seamlessly with the reality of life in the most difficult of times. A compelling read. Well done! David Watts, author of Bedside Manners and The Orange Wire Problem

Husband gets Kathi Kamen Goldmark’s novel out to the world

@TanyaVlach and I met with Sam a couple of months ago. He heads up Book Passage’s Path to Publishing program. He told us this story. Good guy: humor, compassion toward the writer in the rough and tumble world publishing.


The Golden Chalice of Hunahpu

The Golden Chalice of Hunahpu will be published this Fall by Full Court Press.
Here’s what one reviewer had to say:

5.0 out of 5 stars Historical Fiction Page-Turner
By Gonian Male
The Golden Chalice of the Hunahpu, by William Vlach, is a delightful and sophisticated work of art. The years of the Spanish conquest of the Maya (Southeast Mexico & Central America) are brought to life in the first-person narratives of three powerfully rendered characters: a high-caste Mayan boy who grows to manhood during the era; a female Spanish aristocrat who marries a conquistador and follows him to the New World, eventually becoming a despot in her own right; and a fairly decent Spanish monk who provides a window into the dark soul of the Spanish Inquisition… which, sadly, arrived in the New World like a ship-borne pack of stowaway rats.

Those of us who were skeptical of the so-called “history” portrayed in the Euro-propagandistic schoolbooks of the Fifties and Sixties have yearned for such a book as Vlach’s. His research, both historic and linguistic, sets a strikingly realistic stage for this poetic and insightful novel. If Vlach tends to favor one party over the other, I suppose his sympathies lie with the Maya… but mostly because their story needed to be told. Other than that, the book is quite even-handed. Vlach doesn’t blink at portraying the stubborn superstitions and cruelties of either culture, nor does he shy away from the profound courage, on both sides, that powered this cataclysmic series of events.

Five stars: both for adding several layers of truth to history, and for creating such a riveting tale.


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