New World, New Leaders

Indigenous women buck tradition and take on prominent roles in Greenfield's community

By Drew Himmelstein and Deena Chalabi

Estela Ramirez and Merced Olivera speak no English. Yet they are key advocates in the indigenous Oaxacan community of Greenfield.

In their elevator-sized office attached to the police station, they translate between Spanish and Triqui or Mixtec, two indigenous languages of Oaxaca, Mexico, helping farm-worker families communicate with doctors and teachers or fill out forms.

Among the thousands of monolingual indigenous farm workers who’ve arrived in the area from rural Oaxaca in the last decade, those who can speak and translate Spanish quickly rise to prominence. Though they reject labels like “leader,’’ women such as Ramirez and Olivera nevertheless are catapulted to top positions in their communities, making waves in a culture in which women customarily have submissive roles.

Many Triqui and Mixtec, especially men, don’t approve of women who are active in the community, said Juan Manuel Moran, a Greenfield organizer for the United Farm Workers union.

“They look down upon them,” he said, noting that some men don’t let their wives spend time with women who drive or go around town alone.

In the small villages of Oaxaca, women do not have recognized roles outside of the home, said Leonicio Vasquez, the organizer of Frente Indígena Oaxaqueño Binacional, an indigenous rights organization with offices in California and Mexico.

But here, women’s roles are changing as they increasingly work outside of the home, gain language skills and assume American attitudes towards women’s rights. Mixtec and Triqui women have trained as community health educators and sought grants for business ventures.

Greenfield caught the attention of Frente after an Immigration and Naturalization Service raid in 2001. Frente’s U.S. nonprofit division, Centro Binacional, established a Greenfield office and hired Olivera and Ramirez to support and translate for Greenfield’s indigenous community.

“We encourage their participation and we want them to be involved,” Vasquez said.

People go to Ramirez and Olivera for help with the most intimate of family matters. They accompany people to doctors’ visits and to parent-teacher conferences to help them understand crucial information. The two women are also part of a wider program of health promotoras -- health promoters -- run by Greenfield’s Clinica de Salud, a local health clinic that does outreach to the indigenous Oaxacan community. The clinic trains women to educate their peers about all manner of public health issues, including birth control, diabetes and domestic violence.

People in the community look up to the promotoras, who are all women, said Rosario Aguirre, Clinica de Salud’s outreach coordinator.

“They have all this knowledge and resources,” she said.

But if you ask anyone in the Greenfield Mixtec or Triqui communities about their lideres -- leaders -- they name two men: Eulogio Solano and Andres Cruz, respectively. They, too, translate at community meetings and work with the police department to educate people about local laws. No one formally selected Solano or Cruz to be leaders, but the designation is rooted in the Triqui and Mixtec understanding of the traditional system of self-governance that still plays an important role back home.

Most Oaxacan villages elect only men to run a governing body called the agencia that sets local laws and mediates disputes.

But it’s a tradition rejected by more and more indigenous women in Greenfield.

Martina Alvarez, who frequently translates between Spanish and Triqui at large meetings and on a Sunday radio program, criticizes Triqui and Mixtec men for not letting their wives leave the house alone or learn Spanish. And she believes alcoholism and domestic violence are serious threats to a safe home life for women and children.

She left her own husband several years ago, a move that many people in the community criticize, she said.

“Children need a man in the house,” Efrain Ramirez, a Spanish language educator with the Child Abuse Prevention Council of Monterey County, said to Alvarez at a recent workshop on early childhood education. “The women learn about services and leave the men behind.”

Alvarez threw her arms in the air at the notion.

“Women’s lives are worse with men around,” she said.

Alvarez founded a weaving collective in 2003, Mujeres del Sur, Women of the South, to buy yarn and market hand-woven bags, vests and belts. Though the group disbanded for lack of time and money, Alvarez still sells women’s pieces at events once or twice a year.

“They participate in bringing in money,” said Veronica Gonzales, a Mexican anthropologist who has studied the Greenfield community. “They don't want to be submissive anymore.”

Most indigenous Oaxacan women remain in traditional gender roles in the United States, even more so than other Mexican immigrants, Manuel said. In Oaxaca, men still sell their daughters into marriage, he added.

Though Alvarez misses many things about Mexico, including the land, the food and her family, she’s glad such transactions are not part of the culture in her new home.

“Women have more rights here,” said Alvarez. “It’s a trade off.”