In
Chapter 15 of The Zozobra Incident, BJ
Vinson describes the history and background of the Burning of Zozobra to
Darrel, a black architect who has only recently arrived in New Mexico. At the
end of the noisy, spectacular extravaganza, Darrel says, “Never seen anything
like it. Of course, coming from Mississippi, I don’t cotton to hoods and
bonfires too much.”
To
which, BJ replies, “Different time, different place, different message.”
 |
| Zozobra at Dusk |
How
true. Zozobra’s auto-de-fe began as a
light-hearted play on the Mexican folklore tradition of consigning one’s
problems to Old Man Gloom to be burned up in the fire rendering the ogre into a
pile of ashes. Santa Fe artist Will Shuster conducted the first Burning of
Zozobra (Spanish for Anxiety) for the amusement of a group of friends in 1924.
It became an annual event that outgrew the Shuster backyard and was moved to Santa
Fe’s plaza. Eventually, it became such a huge event it had to be shifted to its
present location, Fort Marcy Park. Somewhere along the way, it became the
opening event of the Santa Fe Fiesta on the Thursday following Labor Day of
each year. Great…but what is the significance of the Santa Fe Fiesta?
Last
week, we looked at the Province of Santa
Fé de Nuevo México, the Pueblo Revolt against Spanish rule led by the Tewa
spiritual and political leader, Po’Pay, and the significance of that
revolution. Po’Pay seems to have gotten the tip of the historical hat when he
ended up as one of two significant figures honored by New Mexico in the US
Statuary Hall in Washington.
But the
doughy Don, Diego de Vargas, who retook the province with an army of around 160
soldiers and pro-Spanish warriors in 1692, wasn’t to be forgotten. In 1712 the Marquis
de Peñuelo, the governor of New Spain, staged the Santa Fe Fiesta as a
celebration to mark the re-conquest of the city and province. The grand affair
has been going on ever since. As BJ says to Darrel, “They say that makes it the
oldest civic celebration in North America.”
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| Zozobra Burning |
I first
attended the burning with my two sons around 1970. At that time, it had the air
of a big community picnic with some 2,000 or so spectators sitting on the grass
and talking to neighbors and newly-discovered friends. There was no security, no
angst about getting through a checkpoint with whining wands designed to discover
if you had weapons hidden on your person. We wandered down to the huge puppet
and stuffed pieces of paper spelling out what we considered our problems of the
moment. My boys didn’t confide what woes they consigned to Zozobra’s skirts.
As a
sign of the times, last year, gaining entry to Ft. Marcy Park was something
akin to boarding a crowded aircraft rumored to be the target of a terrorist
bomb plot. Zozobra, all fifty feet of him, was mounted on some steps it was
impractical to climb, so your cares and woes were scribbled on pieces of paper
and taken to the Old Man by staff of the Santa Fe New Mexican. For me, these
changes leach some of the fun out of the event, but apparently 30 or 40
thousand people disagree with me each year. They continue to come: the
Hispanics to celebrate victory, the Anglos to have a party, and the Native
Americans to show they’re big enough to accept the verdict of history.
Next:
Let’s take a look at Albuquerque.
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