Printer Friendly

Wounded nation, voided state: Sara Uribe's Antigona Gonzalez.

AT the conclusion of his now classic Antigones, as if yielding to the limits of his ambitious attempt to document the legacy of the Greek heroine in Western literature, art and thought, George Steiner states: "Antigones past and present have proved beyond inventory. Already there are so many gathering in the twilight of tomorrow" (199). Among those that would follow his now classic work is Sara Uribe's Antigona Gonzalez (2012), (1) a book-length dramatic poem that draws once again on the Sophoclean tragedy to re-enact the living hell experienced by those victimized by the violence and uncertainty that have characterized Mexican reality during the U.S.-backed drug war in Mexico.

The return of Antigone to the here and now of Mexico in the first decade of the twenty-first century is no surprise. Echoing Steiner's claim that the "Antigone-and-Creon syntax and the myth in which they are manifest" are found "whenever, wherever, in the western legacy, we have found ourselves engaged in the confrontation of justice and of the law" (138), the Argentine Romulo E. Pianacci, at the conclusion of his Antigona: Una tragedia latino-americana, argues that Latin America has been especially fertile ground for the return of Antigone. Paying special attention to the role of women, and citing Raul Antelo, Pianacci states:
   ... es en el contexto americano, donde Antigona adquiere su gran
   protagonismo. Representante de las mujeres del continente,
   reactualiza la funcion efectiva y simbolica, fundamental y
   emblematica de las mujeres en el entramado social y politico de la
   cultura. Son ellas las que abandonan el interior de las casas para
   denunciar los excesos del tirano, son ellas las que invocan el
   derecho de los muertos de recibir sepultura, son ellas las que se
   arriesgan, en contra de la Ley y nombre de esa nocion tan
   indefinible y abstracta como imposible de circunscribir que es "la
   Jus ticia." Ellas construyen su lugar a partir de agenciamientos
   discursivos, universos definidos por lo que Raul Antelo caracteriza
   como "melancolicamente sonar como mujer un lugar ante la polis, que
   es un lugar ante la ley." (177)

While Antigona Gonzalez could be characterized broadly in these terms, Uribe's poetic re-reading of the Greek tragedy reveals a transformation of the play's core agon. By "transformation" I mean that the anticipated conflict between kinship and the state, as well as the related antithetical tensions between woman and man, nature and culture, eros and reason, that have hitherto defined the Greek heroine, are neutralized by the conspicuous and eerie silence, the indifference, and ultimately the voiding of an intelligible and reliable state or Law. This absence or voiding, in turn, alters what has been the Antigone-figure's perennial role, which, in the words of Judith Butler is to speak truth with and against power and "confront and defy the state" (1).

Below I develop a reading of Uribe's poem that considers how the unique context out of which Antigona Gonzalez emerges, that is, a debilitated Mexican state that has yielded control to dark forces of global capitalism, shapes her agency and power. Mainly, she is not driven fatally to stand up to the Law or state authorities as there is an implicit and collective acknowledgement within the social space constructed in the poem that there is no visible state or Law to stand up to. This same context, moreover, creates the necessary conditions for her to activate alternative strategies to carry out her obligation to her disappeared brother. These same strategies re-imagine and recover a precarious form of community--the green shoots of a fledgling and inchoate nation --that, while rekindling human interactions around shared grief and a common purpose, also constitute a compelling poetic protest against the state of affairs of Mexico in the first decades of the twenty-first century.


The character, Antigona Gonzalez, as well as the eponymous poem, emerge within the volatile context of the still-evolving social and political disintegration that has been Mexico in the first decades of the twenty-first century, a state debilitated by unprecedented violence and increasingly devoid of ethical authority. In his July 15, 2015 Frontline report, Jason Breslow offers a chilling portrayal of this context by comparing the civilian death toll of the drug-war to that of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. He notes that while U.S. involvement in each of these nations has dropped off in recent years, "killings much closer to home, in Mexico, have steadily, if quietly, outpaced the number of civilian deaths in Afghanistan and Iraq combined." Citing a Mexican government report released one week earlier, he notes that between 2007 and 2014--"a period that accounts for some of the bloodiest years of the nation's war against the drug cartels--more than 164,000 people were victims of homicide. Nearly 20,000 died in 2014 alone. Over the same seven-year period, slightly more than 103,000 died in Afghanistan and Iraq, according to data from the United Nations and the website Iraq Body Count" (Breslow). Not reported by Breslow's are the estimated 26,000 disappeared that remain unaccounted for in Mexico.

Further challenging the state of affairs in Mexico is the disintegration of the social contract between the state government and the country's citizens. The ethical authority of the state has eroded into little more than spectacle as it becomes increasingly evident that the state is complicit in a protracted war against its people. The highly publicized second arrest of the notorious Sinaloan drug lord, El Chapo Guzman Loera, in January 2016 is a case in point. Approximately a week after the drug kingpin's dramatic arrest involving Mexican authorities, Mexican soap-opera star Kate del Castillo, Sean Penn, and Rolling Stone magazine, the writer and political commentator Juan Villoro, noting the stark contrast between the squalor of El Chapo's dwellings and his alleged control over a powerful global network, suggests complicity between organized crime and legal authorities: "Cuesta trabajo ver al chapo como responsable de tramas de lavado de dinero que pasan por la Banca de Londres, van a los paraisos off shore en el Caribe y regresan a Mexico gracias a empresas aparentemente legales. Si controlara esta red, seria el narco mas poderoso de todos los tiempos. Mas bien parece estar al servicio de esta red." Building on Villoro's observations, Oswaldo Zavala, a former reporter from Ciudad Juarez and now a leading expert on narrative representations of drug trafficking in both the U.S. and Mexico, argues that the vast global network enjoyed by the cartels point directly to a reliance on the state: "Esa red, me parece innegable a estas alturas, remite una y otra vez al Estado. Asumir que hombres como El Chapo ocupan posiciones de verdadero poder es subestimar la capacidad del Estado de excepcion y la capacidad de nuestro actual gobierno de ejercer en la ilegalidad." Laura Carlsen, Director of the Americas Program at the Center for International Policy in Mexico City, confirms the views of Villoro and Zavala regarding the complicity between the state and organized crime: "The deep-rooted complicity between government officials and security forces on the one hand and cartels on the other means that the training, equipment and firepower given in aid and sold to the Mexican government fuel violence on both sides ... The lines blur."

It is within this context of blurred lines between state authorities and cartels that Antigona Gonzalez emerges not to oppose an edict or transgress a Law, but to reveal the devastation, the loss--both personal and political and the grief experienced by her community of San Fernando, Tamaulipas. Her brother, Tadeo, the Polineces figure in this story, is neither an enemy of the state nor a criminal. He is simply a young father and provider for his family that inexplicably disappears while traveling for his employment as a car salesman, a job that required him to drive from the capital city of Tamaulipas, Cd. Victoria, south to the port-city of Tampico and north to the town of Matamoros, the same route taken by tens of thousands of migrants that move north through Mexico to reach the U.S. border near Brownsville, Texas.

It is along this same route, approximately 85 kilometers south of Brownsville in the municipality of San Fernando near the small city of the same name that two interrelated massacres of mostly undocumented migrants from Central and South America have taken place. The first, in 2010, was of 72 migrants, 58 men and 14 women. All were shot in the back of the head and piled on top of one another in the village El Huizachal. As of 2011, date of the publication of 72 Migrantes, a collective project and remembrance coordinated by the Mexican author and journalist, Alma Guillermoprieto, 34 of the 72 of the dead remained unidentified. The second, in 2011, was the mass murder of 193 people at La Joya ranch in the same municipality. The 193 included women and children that were hijacked in passenger buses on Mexican Federal Highway 101, tortured, raped, mutilated and then burned in mass graves that were later exhumed by Mexican authorities. Many of the bodies remain unidentified.

By Uribe's own account, it was the discovery of the bodies of the second massacre in San Fernando that detonated her writing of Antigona Gonzalez. Moreover, as the poet explains it, (2) the final product, while deviating in significant ways from the project's three premises as originally commissioned by the actress Sandra Munoz, was inspired by the collective blog-project, Menos dias aqui. Initiated on september 12 of 2012, at the conclusion of the month-long cross-country peace caravan led by Javier Sicilia and other Mexican activists that called for an end to the U.S.-backed drug war, Menos dias aqui, relies exclusively on volunteers and seeks to "realizar el conteo nacional de muertos por la violencia en Mexico con informacion recabada de los medios de comunicacion en todo el pais" (Menos). Echoing Arendt, (3) finally, the blog's purpose is to keep alive the memory of all the dead: "Queremos ponerles nombres, rostros, dejar de banalizar la muerte" (Menos). It is in fact the name of one of the volunteers or "counters" from this collective blog, the Mexican actress Antigona Gonzalez, who provides Uribe with the title for her book and for its memorable protagonist.

While the central action in Uribe's poem is Antigona's search of her brother Tadeo's disappeared body, this same search engages the reader with the hushed and fragmented voices of a myriad others seeking for their absent loved ones. Thus engaged, the reader is invited to witness, and participate in, a collective counting of, as well as an accounting for, the tens of thousands disappeared in Mexico's drug war. That is, while the Sophoclean heroine is defined by her defiance against the state in claiming the right of burial for her next of kin, the anguish of Uribe's Antigona over the inexplicable disappearance of her brother draws her out of hearth and home to reach out horizontally to those, like her, aggrieved and left behind, to give voice to, and marshal a community around, the collective experience of inexplicable absence and loss:
   Contarlos a todos.
   Nombrarlos a todos para decir: este cuerpo podria ser el mio.
   El cuerpo de uno de los mios.
   Para no olvidar que todos los cuerpos sin nombre
   son nuestros cuerpos perdidos. (13)

Antigona's search for her brother, moreover, and by extension the search for all those unaccounted for in Mexico's dirty war, is mounted from within and as a response to, the deafening silence of an unresponsive state, a state made evident only by its absence. As a point of fact, there is only one reference to Creon in the entire work and it underscores the state's smothering silence. Haunted by this silence, Tebas/ San Fernando/ Tamaulipas is reminiscent of Juan Rulfo's Comala, a liminal woeful lawless space stifled by a power that is as pervasive as it is horrific, invisible as it is indivisible, unintelligible as it is inapprehensible:
   [Yo crei que iba a entrar en el pueblo de los muertos,
   mi patria.

   Tu eras la patria.

   Pero  lapatria no estaba devastada?

    No habia peste en la ciudad,

   no se hacian invocaciones a los dioses inutilmente?

   Yo supe que veria una ciudad sitiada.

   Supe que Tamaulipas era Tebas
   y Creonte este silencio amordazandolo todo. (65)

Within this space, the main resistance that Antigone encounters emerges primarily from the community she reaches out to in her search for Tadeo. Like the obedient and overly cautious Ismene in the Greek tragedy, at first the community responds with fear and resignation. That the ubiquitous nature of this repressive silent "power" as well as the internalized fear it generates thwart Antigona's initial efforts to find her disappeared brother is expressed in the following response to her formulated as a composite of homogeneous voices that is evocative of a traditional Greek chorus:

Son los mismos. Nos van a matar a todos, Antigona. Son de los mismos. Aqui no hay ley. Son de los mismos. Aqui no hay pais. Son de los mismos. No hagas nada. Son de los mismos. Piensa en tus sobrinos. Son de los mismos. Quedate quieta, Antigona. Son de los mismos. Quedate quieta. No grites. No pienses. No busques. Son de los mismos. Quedate quieta, Antigona. No persigas lo imposible. (23)

The agents of power in Uribe's poem are representatives of what might best be described as what Cristina Rivera Garza, in the introduction to the second edition of her essay, Dolerse, describes as a disembowled state. They represent a state that, in an increasingly common trend of global capitalism "rescinde su relacion con el cuidado del cuerpo de sus constituyentes ... En su indiferencia y descuido, en su nocion instrumental de lo politico e incluso de lo publico, el Estado sin entranas produjo asi el cuerpo desentranado; esos pedazos de torsos, esas piernas y esos pies, ese interior que se vuelve exterior, colgando" (Rivera Garza, Dolerse 11-12).

They are agents of a state, finally, in which "the laws and norms that govern the accession to speech and speakability" (Butler 3) are non-existent, thus denying its citizens access to the symbolic--public and social--sphere. In this regard, Uribe's Antigona inhabits a poetic space that is a closed circuit. Permeated by a pernicious silence the only utterances that can be heard in it are the muffled whispers of the citizens of San Fernando paralyzed by fear and numbed by loss and the subsequent neglect of an absentee state. Neither fearless nor especially strong, nor in possession of an iron will, Antigona is driven primarily by a sense of urgency for, to not search, to not give a name and a face to the dead, perpetuates the silence and the banality of death. Ultimately, to not speak condemns her and her community, like the body of her disappeared brother, to vanish without a trace:
   Yo tambien estoy desapareciendo, Tadeo.

   Y todos aqui, si tu cuerpo, si los cuerpos de los nuestros.

   Todos aqui iremos desapareciendo si nadie nos busca,
   si nadie nos nombra.

   Todos aqui iremos desapareciendo si nos quedamos
   inermes solo viendonos entre nosotros, viendo como
   desaparecemos uno a uno. (95)


If absence and oppressive silence characterize the nature of "power" and the "law" in Uribe's poem, what might the reader make of the role of Antigona Gonzalez? One response to this question is that the poem puts forth a denunciation of the violence that has gripped Mexico in the last decade as well as the conditions that have made the unprecedented level of violence possible. Although accurate, this reading is insufficient as it fails to attend to Uribe's Antigona for what she may be revealing to her readers about negotiating agency from within the devastation of a place like Tamaulipas, Mexico, especially affected by the drug-war. Notably, and in a manner consistent with precepts of the aforementioned collective endeavors such as Menos dias aqui and Guillermoprieto's 72 migrantes, Antigona explicitly rejects the logic of vengeance that has crippled her community:
   Tal vez algunos no me entiendan, pero aun a pesar
   de lo que te hicieron yo no anhelo como mucha
   gente dice: "que los maten a todos" "que los exterminen
   como perros." Si yo quisiera eso no seria mucho mejor
   persona que aquellos que acuso. (58)

Instead, she articulates a desire to create another way of being: "Yo lo que deseo es lo imposible: que pare ya la guerra; que construyamos juntos, cada quien desde su sitio, formas dignas de vivir" (59). That is, like the many Antigones that precede her, Antigona Gonzalez is undone by grief but does not assume a position of defiant opposition. Rather, she embodies the collective desolation, the vulnerability, the precarity of those that grieve a double loss: the absence of the body of a loved one, on the one hand, and the inexplicable and interminable sense of suspended abandonment and invisibility conditioned by the indifference and neglect of a disembowled state, on the other:
   Aqui todos somos invisibles. No tenemos rostro.

   No tenemos nombre. Aqui nuestro presente parece

   Voy a despertar cualquier momento, me digo
   cuando intento enganarme, cuando no resisto mas,
   cuando al punto del derrumbe.

   Pero el momento nunca llega: lo que
   ocurre aqui es lo verdaderamente real. (63)

Uribe's characterization of Tamaulipas as a hallucinatory place and space of the barely human where bodies don't matter is reminiscent of the concluding remarks of Butler's Antigone's Claim, in which she reflects out loud about the implications for the Antigone figure in new kinds of social and political territories, in which she will inevitably emerge to reveal and respond to, the unique conditions of our times. Citing Giorgio Agamben, Butler states:

we live increasingly in a time in which populations without full citizenship exist within states; their ontological status as legal subjects is suspended. These are not lives being genocidally destroyed, but neither are they being entered into the life of the legitimate community in which standards of recognition permit for an attainment of humanness. (81)

These concerns regarding the trajectory of the Antigone figure in a new world order anticipate with uncanny accuracy the situation faced by the inhabitants of Uribe's poem especially if one bears in mind that the majority of those massacred in San Fernando were undocumented South and Central American migrants traveling through Mexico to the U.S. border. The voices that speak and the stories told in Antigona Gonzalez, therefore, are best described as belonging, ontologically, to the "shadowy realm" of the excluded, "not negated, not dead, perhaps slowly dying, yes, surely dying form a lack of recognition" (Butler 81).

Conditioned within and by this ontological circumstance, and, more precisely, by the absences and silences that it generates, the fullest meaning of the drive of Antigona Gonzalez must take into account two dimensions. The first, already discussed, is her search to recover the body of her disappeared brother, and by extension all those disappeared. The second, and a logical extension of the first, is her need to re-member and re-constitute the body politic, understood here in the broadest sense as the people of a society considered collectively as an organized group of citizens, in other words, community.

This process of reconstitution is made evident in at least three ways. The first is apparent in the poem's narrative unfolding of the city of San Fernando, which, initially devoid of human connection, is transformed into an intimate space of shared grief. That is, as the story of the poem progresses, Antigona's search for Tadeo and her subsequent outreach to, and networking with, others that search and grieve, generate an affective scaffolding for the rekindling of compassion, of mutual recognition, of empathy, of moral sentiment and ethical action and thus gradually restores the fabric of community.

Grounded in affect and human connection, this scaffolding constitutes a textual iteration of what the Japanese historian and philosopher, Kojin Karatani, provocatively associates with the process of nation-building. Karatani puts forth that the nation is not a substitute for religion, as argued by Benedict Anderson, but rather for the sense of community that has vanished as a result of the capital state; the community that provides for a collective response to the overwhelming burdens of human suffering and includes "not only the living but also its past and future members" (215). For him, like for Benedict Anderson, the nation is understood as belonging to the realm of sentiment and imagination yet is also always conditioned by and resistant to a disintegrating capital state, by its lack or its excess. Thus understood, through her speech and acts, Uribe's Antigona forges the horizon of a fledgling inchoate nation in so far as she reaches out horizontally to gradually recover a mode of exchange and reciprocity, of affect and sentiment; "something that appears within the social formation as an attempt to recover, through imagination, the mode of exchange A (gift-giving and exchange) and community, which have disintegrated under the rule of the capital-state" (209).

This process of collective reconstitution is expressed, moreover, in the discursive make-up of the poem, which relies extensively on citational practices aligned with what Rivera Garza has described as a poetics of disapropriation. Disapropriation she argues, is a writing process that "busca enfaticamente desposeerse del dominio de lo propio" (Rivera Garza, Los muertos 22) and towards forms of expression that are radically inclusive and explicit regarding their reliance on pre-existing source texts. Thus understood, both the processes of writing and their resulting texts are unveiled as experiences of continuous and open collaboration, mutual interdependence and communality.

In Antigona Gonzalez, Uribe's activation of the poetics of disapropriation involves several mutually supporting strategies. The most visible is embedded in the poem's paratactic techniques that radically foreground the diversity and materiality of its source texts. These include but are not limited to: crime notices and obituaries, investigative reports including testimonies from survivors and family members of the dead and disappeared, biographical and bibliographic notations, reflections and quotations from legions of preceding Antigones (by Sophocles, Gambaro, Marechal, Zambrano, Yourcenar, etc.), as well as her most renowned critics (e.g. Steiner, Butler, and Pianacci) and verbatim segments from websites and blogs such as the aforementioned Menos dias aqui. Masterfully arranged by the poet Uribe, the poem takes the form of thoughtfully composed vignettes that give voice to, and evoke the humanity, dignity and individuality of, all those that remain disappeared or whose lives have been truncated prematurely and ultimately subverts the "more reliably scientific, more detached, more sternly rational" (Nussbaum 3) official accounts that disembody and dehumanize the dead and disappeared by reducing them to objective body counts and statistics.

Uribe, moreover, moves beyond removal and graft--the dual operation of citational poetics as described by Antoine Compaignon (4) --to include an explicit acknowledgement of works cited and consulted throughout the poem and in the concluding section, "Notas finales y referencias." Echoing Rivera Garza's dictum that "cualquier acto de escritura es una reescritura" (Aguilar Sosa), this section begins with the statement: "Antigona Gonzalez es una pieza conceptual basada en la apropriacion, intervencion y re-escritura" (103). Seven single-spaced pages of self-styled endnotes and bibliographic entries that document the sources of the poem follow it. Read as a metapoetic utterance, this closing section of Antigona Gonzalez underscores the poet Uribe's commitment to relinquishing the privilege and authority of the highly individualized proprietary lyric "I." It also exposes the poem's second-handedness; Uribe's dependence on, dialogue with, and ongoing participation in, the always collaborative and communal practices that the process of writing entails. The poet, finally, explicitly foregrounds her commitment to copyleft practices. All editions of Antigona Gonzalez have appeared under Creative Commons licenses thus allowing others the "right to share, use, and even build upon" her creative work aligning her with a publishing philosophy that favors free reproduction and distribution of her work over the desire for individual proprietorship and profit-driven sales. (5)


Paraphrasing the central question of Judith Butler's Antigone's Claim, (6) a line within the first few pages of Uribe's text reads: " Quien es Antigona Gonzalez dentro de esta escena y que vamos a hacer con sus palabras?" (15). The scene--la escena--, as I have attempted to describe, is the context of unprecedented violence and dislocation in present-day Mexico; a time during which, to cite Charles Bowden, "no one is really in charge and we are all in play ... And the violence has no apparent and simple source. It is like the dust in the air, part of life itself" (22). The absence of a reliable state authority shifts Antigona's actions and words towards active engagement with her community. Indeed, the poem's narrative thrust hinges largely on a gradual crescendo of disparate voices and on the mounting visibility of those that grieve the inexplicable deaths, dismemberments and disappearances of their loved ones. The communal quality of the poem's narrative, moreover, is supported by Uribe's textual praxis. The foregrounding of diverse discursive registers, the explicit acknowledgement of her dependence on source texts and her commitment to copyleft practices, together forge a fragile network of dialogue and exchange, of quiet affiliation and solidarity, and of resistance. Ultimately, Antigona Gonzalez is a poetic embodiment of a community that writes against the effacement of the collective experience of loss and grief, on the one hand, and for the ongoing obligation to the human dignity of the living and the dead, on the other.


Works Cited

Aguilar Sosa, Yanet. "Cristina Rivera Garza se sumerge en el mundo de la reescritura." El Cultura. 14 June 2011. Web. 25 April 2016.

Arendt, Hannah. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. New York: Penguin Classics, 2006.

Bowden, Charles. Murder Capital: Ciudad Juarez and the Global economy's New Killing Fields. New York: Nation Books, 2010.

Breslow, Jason M. "The Staggering Death Toll of Mexico's Drug War." Frontline. 27 July 2015. Web. 25 April 2016.

Butler, Judith. Antigone's Claim: Kinship Between Life and Death. New York: Columbia UP, 2000.

Carlsen, Laura. "The Drug War and Mexico." New York Times. 25 January 2016. Web. 25 April 2016.

Creative Commons. Web. 21 April 2016.

Estrada Medina, Francisco. "Dimension politica de la estetica citacionista de tres obras poeticas del siglo XXI: Herbert, Fabre, Uribe." Tesis de Maestria. Universidad de Guadalajara, 2015. Guillermoprieto, Alma, Ed. 72 Migrantes. Oaxaca: Almadia, 2011.

Karatani, Kojin. The Structure of World History: From Modes of Production to Modes of Exchange. Durham: Duke UP, 2014.

Menos dias aqui. Web. 22 April 2016.

Nussbaum, Martha. Poetic Justice. Boston: Beacon Press, 1995.

Perloff, Marjorie. Unoriginal Genius. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2010.

Pianacci, Romulo E. Antigona: Una tragedia latinoamericana. Irvine: Ediciones Gestos, 2008. Rivera Garza, Cristina. Dolerse: Textos desde un pais herido. 2da. Ed. Mexico: Tusquets, 2015.

--. Los muertos indociles. Necroescrituras y desapropiacion. Mexico: Tusquets, 2013.

Steiner, George. Antigones. New York: Oxford UP, 1982.

Uribe, Sara. Antigona Gonzalez. Oaxaca: Sur+ ediciones, 2012.

Villoro, Juan. "Un celebre desconocido." Etcetera. 2 February 2016. Web. 21 April 2016. Zavala, Oswaldo. "El Chapo, fetiche de la corrupcion oficial." Proceso. 4 February 2016. Web. 21 April 2016.

(1) An English translation of the poem by John Pluecker was published under the title Antigona Gonzalez by Les Figues in 2016.

(2) The genesis of the poem is outlined in an email I received from Sara Uribe in August of 2015: "Fue en febrero de 2011 (recien me habia mudado de Tampico a Ciudad Victoria, Tamaulipas) cuando, en una visita relampago al puerto, cene con Sandra Munoz, actriz y directora teatral. En esa cena me explico su propuesta. Queria que le escribiera una obra de teatro o mas bien dicho un monologo que basicamente partiria de tres premisas. La primera consistia en que retomara la Antigona de Sofocles, pero adaptada al contexto de lo que estaba ocurriendo en Tamaulipas. La segunda tenia que ver con retomar tambien en la historia de Isabel Miranda de Wallace, quien busco durante muchos anos a su hijo desaparecido y luego de saber que estaba muerto, al cuerpo de su hijo desaparecido. La tercera premisa era justamente que uno de los temas que mas le importaba a Sandra que tratara en el texto era esa necesidad de recuperacion del cuerpo perdido, del cuerpo ausente ... El hecho que detono mi escritura de Antigona Gonzalez fue el descubrimiento, el 6 de abril de 2011, de las fosas de San Fernando, Tamaulipas (San Fernando esta a solo dos horas de Ciudad Victoria). Fue entonces cuando decidi que si queria escribir el texto y que queria contextualizarlo con el descubrimiento de las fosas. La escritura se apuntalo aun mas cuando, a traves de una amiga que participo como voluntaria, conoci el proyecto de conteo de muertes de Menos dias aqui. De ahi provino justamente el nombre de Antigona Gonzalez, de la lista de voluntarios que contaron muertos para este proyecto, una de las personas se llamaba asi. Antigona Gonzalez es actriz de teatro, nos conocimos en 2013 justamente en una presentacion del libro en el DF ... De las tres premisas que me dio Sandra en su encargo de escritura le falle con la segunda. No retome la historia de Isabel Miranda de Wallace. Tampoco creo haber escrito un texto propiamente teatral. El estreno y la primera temporada que Sandra monto fue sobre esa primera version de Antigona Gonzalez, pero justo hace un ano, en agosto de 2014, nos invitaron a ambas a unas Jornadas Literarias organizadas por Conarte en Monterrey, Nuevo Leon y ahi la vi presentar el montaje nuevamente, ahora con una version que incorpora la Antigona Gonzalez publicada."

(3) See Hannah Arendt's conceptualization of the "banality of evil" in her Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of EviI.

(4) Cited and translated by Perloff on page 3.

(5) See Estrada Medina for a more sustained examination of the political implications of the citational practices and copyleft in Antigona Gonzalez.

(6) See Butler: "Who then is Antigone within such a scene, and what are we to make of her words, words that become dramatic events, performative acts?" (82).
COPYRIGHT 2017 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Department of Romance Languages
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2017 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Williams, Tamara R.
Publication:Romance Notes
Article Type:Critical essay
Geographic Code:1MEX
Date:Jan 1, 2017
Previous Article:Oligarquia urbana cordobesa y relaciones literarias a comienzos del siglo XV: Martin Alfonso de Montemayor, Juez Poetico.
Next Article:La memoria como escenario de la tragedia mexicana en Los recuerdos el porvenir de Elena Garro.

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2019 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters