Latinos in our midst: a Quichua indigena from Ecuador

By Jacob Wheeler
Sun editor
Miriam comes from south of the border. Her skin is darker than the white hue covering most of us. And when she speaks English (which is totally fluent), the r’s roll of her tongue like waves on the ocean.
What separates Miriam from other Latinos in northern Michigan is that she is a full-blooded Quichua Native (South) American whose roots and culture mean so much to her that she always returns to her home village of Otavalo, in northern Ecuador, after spending several months here selling artisan textiles woven by her Quichua people at craft shows and art fairs all over the state, including one in nearby Frankfort in late July.

“As indigenas we are proud to be able to travel to other countries and show off our culture,” Miriam explains. “Many of our people travel to Japan, North American and all over Europe to demonstrate our traditions. We need to protect our identity in order not to lose our roots.”
My mother and I visited Miriam in Ecuador in February on a trip whose primary purpose was to learn about the cacao my mother uses in her Grocer’s Daughter chocolate. We watched workers near the Pacific coast harvest the Arriba cacao beans. We listened to the politics of exports and how so few Ecuadorians actually taste the fine chocolate that they produce while wealthy North Americans and Europeans shovel it into their mouths. But what struck us most was the unstoppable pride of the people in the northern highlands. We even got to witness the Pawkar-Raimi — the annual celebration for the corn harvest where a Miss Native Ecuador is crowned.
In Otavalo the indigena have done well for themselves. Unlike the often impoverished, drunken state of “Indians” in North and Central America, many Quichua families in Miriam’s home village own a good car with a sticker of a national flag on the back, signifying which wealthy country that person visits for several months a year to tell the world about their traditions, and to make money, of course. Most importantly, they always return home.
“We indigenas always return because otherwise we would miss our roots. The union of the family mostly, and our language, is so important. When I’m here I miss walking on the small paths, among my people.
“As Quichua we help each other out. There are some artists who are unable to leave the country. So we buy from them and sell the products abroad. If we didn’t do this our culture, our work, would die. It’s the same thing with my musician husband Luis. If he didn’t play his songs from the Andes Mountains, no one would remember them.”
Miriam’s products are always hand-embroidered, unlike most of the clothing in this country, which is machine-made in sweatshop conditions in China or Indonesia. “Where I live everyone makes everything in our village by hand. We are taught by our ancestors to cook, to weave clothing and play music like that. People ask our musicians how they can play music without reading it — but that’s how we have learned.”
Her favorite products she sells are hand-embroidered sweaters with images of the Andes Mountains (las Andinas) on them such as trees and mountains, yet blended together with familiar North American images like a Christmas tree. Miriam also sells beautiful white blouses with hand-sewn flowers on them. The white represents the indigenas from Otavalo.
Of course, the romanticism aside, it all comes down to money in the end. The Ecuadorian economy has plummeted in recent years, and free trade policies instigated by Washington and the World Bank have all but wrecked the job markets of countries in South America, Central America and Mexico, contributing more than any other reason to the surge in Latinos (and indigenas) coming north to find work.
Miriam’s journey to El Norte is an easy one. Unlike, many migrant workers who are forced to cross the Rio Grande illegally, she is in good standing with the U.S. Embassy in Quito, the Ecuadorian capital, and she can usually secure a visa once or twice a year to come and sell her wares. “We come hear to earn money, but we also pay taxes while we are here.” In fact, Miriam, Luis, and their eldest son Daki actually lived in Chicago for six years. Daki was born in the United States and has citizenship. When they returned to Otavao he was sad at first, but has since embraced the traditions of his people. Daki, now a teenager, wears his dark hair in a ponytail that hangs down to his shoulders like the other men in his village.
I asked Miriam if she’s experienced xenophobia or stereotyping during her visits to northern Michigan, but she says she has been spared the grief that many Hispanic Central Americans face when they arrive here. “I wear my traditional indigenous clothing at festivals and people appreciate that. It’s a privilege to be an indigena. When I went to apply for more ID from the state, for instance, they treated me fine.”
On the other hand, the Mexican family in Traverse City with whom Miriam stays complains about getting hassled when it comes to legal paperwork. “They always tell (the Mexicans) to come back and bring more documents,” Myriam attests. As she tells it, the man of the house works constantly, leaving at 5:30 in the morning and not returning until 8 p.m., too exhausted to play with the two young children. “They are clean, and hard-working, and they don’t live off the government like many naturalized Americans do. The Mexican says that when he goes to the mall he experiences racism. People look at him funny, and assume he’s up to no good.
“Even though they may not want us, people should get used to us being here,” Miriam summarizes, speaking more about her Mexican housemates than herself. “I think it’s silly how people fear Spanish. We’re not trying to change the national language of the United States. People should learn Spanish, because if you speak two languages you’re as good as two people.”
But Miriam is not on a crusade for Latino or migrant worker rights. In fact, her first language is not Spanish, it’s Quichua. She considers herself an indigena, and not a Latino or an Hispanic. And come fall she’ll be back in Ecuador with her family, and her roots.