The Songbook of the Bolivian Diaspora: Narratives of Migration and Return
Wagner Ramírez preforming at the 59th St.Lexington Ave subway station in 1988. Photo courtesy of the Ramírez family.
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It is September 1988 and Wagner Ramírez is performing “Copacabana,” a huayño cacharpaya from one of Bolivia’s most acclaimed conjuntos Los Jairas. His stage? A subway platform within the Lexington Avenue/59th Street station in New York City. His guitar case is wide open on the floor, holding what looks like a couple of bills and an assortment of coins. A mini-dolly for transporting his amplifier stands behind him holding up his windbreaker. The people around him are in motion, having entered from the station’s 3rd Avenue entrance or walking down the stairs from the other direction for the N or B train to Astoria, Queens—a route that Wagner himself would later take that evening to go home after a long day of work.
“I had just arrived to the United States. And to do something I loved and was so familiar with as playing Andean music really helped me cope with being an immigrant in New York City. Many arrive and have to find any means to survive even if they have their own dreams and aspirations.”
Wagner is my father and that enthusiasm for Bolivia’s musical and lyrical rhythms also rippled throughout my childhood. In the music posters and zampoñas found throughout our living room; in the jam sessions held with local and visiting musicians that went late into the night; Los Kjarkas or Jorge Eduardo playing on a repetitive loop as I completed assignments for school. Bolivia never felt that distant even though in all the sense of the word it was—irregular migratory statuses, intermittent communication with relatives. In my Queens upbringing, however, its music was unabashedly a constant.
Postcard greeting depicting New York City in the late 80’s. Para ti papí, con todo cariño - Betty is written on it. Photo courtesy of the Ramírez family.
Wagner working in the kitchen of Gables Seafood Ristorante in Astoria, Queens. Photo courtesy of Ramírez family.
As Wagner tells me the story of his first couple of years in the United States, the circumstantial aspects always astonish me. The flashing $99, Newark! flight promotion on the screen which prompted the split-second decision while on the ticketing line to head to the northeast versus Atlanta, Georgia. His run-in with a group of Peruvian and Chilean musicians on a busy subway platform on his way home from his Midtown restaurant job where he prepared salads. The on-the-spot hour long audition that left him with $40 and a new gig as a subway performer. And from how he describes those years to me, he relished it. In contrast to cultural venues and theatres, when audiences in public spaces like the street or the public plaza stick around to listen, it’s because they genuinely want to. And the New York City Subway, the world’s largest public transit system, was the largest public stage around. I imagine the rhythms of Paja Brava, Rumillajta and Savia Andina echoing through Grand Central, Times Square 42nd St, Union Square-14th St.—all bustling subway stations my father’s conjunto frequented. As he narrates the creative process behind the curation of the setlist or the finite sound of the charango, it is the self-determination and joy that echoes the loudest to me. It shouldn’t, but in a world where Black and Brown working-class people are consistently depersonalized and tied to the labor their bodies represent, I cannot but feel joy for him as I listen to these stories.
Wagner and his bandmates holding an assortment of instruments at a NYC subway station. Photo courtesy of the Ramírez family.
A busy 59th St. Lexington Ave subway station in late the 80’s. Photo courtesy of the Ramírez family.
“So-so days left you with $80, on really good days you could earn $250-280. This obviously was not everyday but typically restaurant work would get you $120 a week so the money was good. We played till 11pm or 12am but I was never tired.”
Eventually, that money becomes the seed money for Wagner Design, the sign business my father launches and which ultimately becomes the foundation of my family’s claim to the elusive and ultimately flawed notion of the “American Dream.” However, for Wagner, music never leaves the picture entirely. In fact, he still considers music central to the legacy he hopes to leave behind. And as we converse about some of the themes omnipresent within Andean music: tradition, kinship, relationship to land, nostalgia—I understand better. In the Andean cosmovision, the concept of the temporal and the spatial is represented by Pacha (tiempo-espacio) in which the world/cosmos and time are cyclical as opposed to linear. This means our past is our present and future thus representing what we should be looking towards. It was not uncommon for him to see members of the audience tear up as they watched him perform. They would come up to him, say they were from Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and that his music reminded them of home. For Wagner, despite having lived in the United States for over 35 years, his legacy is tied to his origins and keeping them alive so they’re not forgotten.
While my father’s story may seem like a one-off immigrant anecdote, it actually forms part of a considerable yet complex subgenre within Bolivian music—one that explicitly centers migratory narratives. Songs that form part of this subgenre are quite common among the repertoire of many contemporary and established Bolivian musical acts such as Bonanza (“Volveré”), Llajtaymanta (“San Simon USA”), Luis Rico (“De Regreso”) and others. Some are initiated and composed by musicians back in Bolivia, while others are commissioned by and for fraternidades (Bolivian folkloric dance troupes) throughout the diaspora. Typically sung from the point of view of the migrant or in the case of fraternidad-commissioned songs, the collective diaspora, they express nostalgia, one’s relationship with the land or the promise to physically return. Almost all are in first person. The vocalist narrates their own story, something fitting as it is orality as opposed to text that is the central transmission of knowledge as source and form in the Andes. Ultimately, it is this aspect that makes this genre so powerful and familial to me, a vivid illustration of a lived-experience of which I am an extension of and that is seldomly represented.
Browsing the web, there isn’t much documentation on when the first “Bolivian migration songs” were first released, but looking at release dates alongside global migration waves could be an indicator. The 1980’s and early 90’s (which saw significant migration from Bolivia to Argentina, Brazil, and the US) also saw the release of Wara’s “Mi Regreso” (1992), Grupo Amaru’s “Bolivia Querida” (1993) and of course, the iconic “Añoranzas” from Los Brothers (1995). During Spain’s economic crisis from 2009 to 2014, a notable amount emigrated back to Bolivia. Here, we saw the releases of Proyección’s “Volver a Mi País” (2013) and Bonanza’s “Volveré.” For many of these songs, there are also music videos which serve as an visual extension to show the personal and quotidian aspects of how migrants navigate their new home and ultimately, for some, the ever-elusive return.
“For Volveré’s music video, in respect of our migrant brothers and sisters, we tried to most accurately depict the socio-economic and psychological realities that Bolivian migrants face. It is a reality that many Bolivians migrate too without papers which impedes the actual ability to return, even just for a visit. And we as musicians and, in my case, composers have the obligation via our music to be representative of those socio-political realities that Bolivians face within and outside our borders.”
This is Édgar Rojas Casazola, director and lead composer of Bonanza, one of Bolivia’s critically acclaimed folkloric groups. By way of Chuquisaca and now in their 30th year, Bonanza incorporates an array of traditional instruments and rhythms such as cuecas, bailecitos, and caporal-saya, with more contemporary folklore styles. I reached out to him in the hopes of learning more about the origins and creation process behind “Volveré.” Ultimately, I find out it comes down to storytelling or in this case, transnational storytelling.
Bonanza in concert in Barcelona. Photo courtesy of grupo Bonanza Bolivia
“We always lament the departure of fellow Bolivians but don’t really understand the heaviness and complexity that decision entails. It was until we (Bonanza) traveled to Europe for a tour that we physically saw/heard the visceral emotion, so we felt the need to give people relief through the way we knew how—the lyrical poetry of a song.”
Edgar’s account of visiting and being in conversation with Bolivian diasporic communities in Europe largely mirrors the process behind “Añoranzas” from Los Brothers almost 30 years back. In interviews, David Castro, Los Brothers’ then emblematic lead singer, and Jaime Reyna, the song’s composer, both affirm that “Añoranzas” was inspired through the sharing of first person accounts while on tour in Argentina and Brazil in the early 90s. In this case, Bolivian garment workers in Sao Paulo had invited the band to the factory where they worked for the traditional ch’alla or blessing of the space. Social networks built by Bolivian migrants in their new home cities provide musicians the opportunity to make these connections via local press conferences at restaurants or invitations to community social gatherings. In going over old footage, it’s somewhat powerful to better understand the intentionality behind the creative process. For example, in the making of the music video for “Añoranzas,” Reyna was emphatic that the protagonist travel by bus or hitchhike, something more akin to the experience of working class and rural Bolivian migrants who mostly migrated to other South American cities at that time.
Cover art and track listing for Los Brothers’ album Amada Mía, released in 1996. Photo Credit: Sante Fe Records
Cover art and track listing for Los Brothers’ album Amada Mía, released in 1996. Photo Credit: Sante Fe Records
Of course, the experience of Bolivian migrants and by extension, newer generations that grow up in cities as distinct as Bergamo, Italy; Buenos Aires, Argentina; or Portchester, New York; vary not only by geography but by implications of class and race. Bolivia, where 41% of its population (per the last census in 2012) identifies as Indigenous, continues to live (and at times struggle) with the irreconcilable—that our heritage can be simultaneously modern and ancestral. In the diasporic context, these oppositional struggles are inscribed within our communities and perhaps most visible in our music.
“One of our primary ways of social organization are through comparsas and fraternidades; for us as Collas, Aymaras and Quechuas, music and dance are so intertwined with how we relate to one another. Beyond that, whether it be for parties or traditional events, music is always there—whether it’s traditional, folclórico or pan-latin. Here in the Bolivian DMV, on Sundays we get together...Mondays, Wednesdays in the summer...for the fraternidades and dance practice.”
This takes me to the Bolivian DMV,¹ home to almost half of the total Bolivian population in the United States.² Most are from Cochabamba, specifically pueblos throughout El Valle Alto. This means it is pretty common to hear Quechua spoken alongside Spanish in many community events like kermesses and local soccer games, especially amongst elders. It is these social networks that Shana Inofuentes, DMV native and Director/Co-founder of The Quechua Project (TQP), refers to as crucial. She adds: “You live by your relationships, when I meet someone in my community, I first ask from what pueblos, fraternidades or comparsas do they belong to? Who are their parents? My dad’s relationships are my relationships and vice versa.”
This intergenerational and communal aspect particular to the Bolivian DMV is what inspired Shana to co-found The Quechua Project, a community-run initiative that champions the intergenerational survival of the Quechua language through public programming and digital campaigns within the Bolivian diaspora community of the D.C. metro area. Indigenous language transmission within our families, particularly our parents’ generation, has been largely interrupted as migration to cities within Bolivia in the latter half of the 20th century took place. Shana’s paternal grandmother never passed on their ancestral language of Aymara to her father and she saw the same start to take place amongst her friends in the DMV, many whose families migrated from the Valle Alto countryside to the US thus learning Spanish for the first time.
“My mother is a monolingual Quechua speaker who learned Spanish when she migrated to Spain when I was 11 years old. We primarily speak in Quechua ‘til this day but even she doesn’t quite understand my linguistic work. However it is this cultural inheritance that she’s left me with that has made Virginia really feel like home. There is this preconceived notion that learning an Indigenous language will not contribute to a good job or skill set but connecting with the elders of the community here in Virginia has been so meaningful to me.”
María Luz ‘K'ancha’ Coca. Photo courtesy of María Luz ‘K'ancha’ Coca
I also meet María Luz ‘K'ancha’ Coca, Quechua educator (also co-founder of TQP), host and radio presenter of ‘K’ancha.’ Originally from Provincia Germán Jordán-Cliza (Cochabamba), K’ancha’s work aims to uplift Bolivian Quechua traditional practices within the DMV. Her radio transmissions on Facebook Live are wholly entertaining as she seamlessly transitions between Quechua and Spanish while introducing songs and interacting with her global audience. Within the Bolivian DMV, there is a also a thriving local music scene with musicians within the diaspora such as Orchestra Lo Nuestro, Luz y Sombra USA, Tatay, Yeyson y su Grupo, as well as other informal groups that spontaneously get together for community guitariadas or charangueadas. However, it is the religious or agricultural festivals like Todos Santos, Santa Vera Cruz Tatala or Carnavales season, where local comparsas like Los Alegres de Mizque get together and communicate via song (coplas) in a call and response-type manner.
“Coplas, especially during Carnavales, have a particular and double-ended sense of humor. There is this skillful and playful word play within them that I really like, especially paired with improvisation and the accordion. Typically coplas are sung in both Spanish and in Quechua and since there are many from El Valle Alto here in Virginia, you tend to hear them a lot here.”
Migratory songs are also part of this local scene, such as “Soy Boliviano”, “Bolivia Tierra Querida” (Julio Cuellar) and “Coplas de Todos Santos” (Misk'i Songos Del Cono Sur). In the latter example, Nelba Gonzales Rosales and Fredy Ramirez Torrico sing coplas to each other, in Quechua and Spanish while reminiscing on their youth in the pueblos, as well as how much they miss Bolivia—all to the backdrop of an accordion and D.C.’s National Harbor, making it distinctly set in the diaspora. As K’ancha shares about musical practices in El Valle Alto and the DMV, it is clear that she’s talking about música tradicional. She clarifies that lo tradicional, as opposed to música folclorica, is more defined by its lyrics, which are more centered in el campo and Bolivia’s distinct regional traditions.
“For me, the lyrics within traditional music reference specific memories and lived experiences that folklore doesn’t. You have Luzmila Carpio’s lullaby “Wawa Tusichinapac Phatitan,” where she sings about a very specific childhood tradition for me and others growing up in Cliza. It’s quite common for parents in my culture to hold up their children as they’re taking their first steps and say Chaaa papapaq chichipaq...Chaaa awilita apamuckkan! ¡Párate, tú puedes!” And Luzmila does that in her song.”
This is an important distinction. Despite being an ubiquitous word strongly associated with Bolivian national identity, I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about the word folklore/folclorico, nor its implications. In writing this essay, I wondered if in fact this word is accurate in describing the multifacetedness within Bolivian identity. Short answer, it’s not and of course, this is no accident. Bolivian folkloric/national music has roots in an early 20th century musical scene where it was actually elite and middle class Bolivians (Paceños specifically) that led Bolivia’s folklore movement. Indigenous music-dance expressions were incorporated and stylized to meet the aesthetic of criollo/mestizo audiences, yet rarely were Indigenous musicians invited to partake. After the Movimiento Nacionalista Revolucionario’s (MNR) rise to power in 1952, music was essential to the party’s agenda of Bolivian cultural mestizaje. National unity amongst criollos, mestizos and indigenous peoples was the key to “modernization.” From the MNR’s perspective, this meant an Andean cholo-mestizo middle class with a singular and unified cultural identity.³ For music, according to Bolivian-American ethnomusicologist Fernando Ríos, this meant major musical folklorization initiatives that took place through state-sponsored folkloric music-dance events, as well as the creation of the National Department of Folklore and a state-owned folkloric ballet company. To keep up with these processes of hybridity, some Indigenous musicians and dancers began to adopt pan-folklore (such as la diablada) within their own genres to try to keep up with ongoing shifts within the mainstream cultural scene.⁴
Talking to K’ancha reminds me of why I’m writing this essay in the first place. To continue to look to the past so as to not perpetuate mistakes of the past. While folklorization can represent the remixing of new cultural practices through multi-directional migration, it too—as history shows—can emerge from elite-driven political projects or in essence, cultural appropriation and erasure. To seek to maintain a racialized hierarchy in the name of nationalism. The more we learn about our histories, the more complicated and nuanced they become. Ultimately, that is a good thing. It is true that our narratives as transnational Bolivians belong within the construct of Bolivian identity, but how do we as a diaspora also consider colonial legacies, gender, class, and yes, race, within our identities and cultural practices—especially when they may be central to how we may relate to our Bolivianidad?
The day of the Charlottesville attack in 2017, I was in Virginia visiting my sister. We had decided to hike that morning at Harpers Ferry National Historical Park, a significant site of the abolitionist movement which ultimately sparked the US Civil War. I recall being around too many confederate flags for my comfort—as a visibly racialized person it was eerie. We returned to Arlington for an Bolivian event that afternoon. As overt white supremacy imploded only two hours away from us, we were at alongside familiar sounds and food all around us. A group of young girls in their Salay outfits were running around me and looking like they were having the best time. And that is honestly what made me feel safe in that moment. At the same time, I—an able-bodied, non-Black cis-woman—need to acknowledge that even our own spaces as they exist aren’t safe for all Bolivians. I am hopeful that our communities can continue to build towards creating spaces where we can feel joy and be our most authentic selves—all of us.
As mentioned previously, an integral part of Bolivian diaspora social networks are fraternidades and comparsas. They embody cultural and social spaces where Bolivian identities and communities are created and performed. It’s not uncommon for a child to join then for the rest of the family to as well, making it a literal extended family-space. Fraternidades and comparsas also manifest spatially. They exist within parking lots, public parks, backyards, and basements—while acting as dance practice sites—and become local and cultural markers. For example, the enclosed boardwalk area in Flushing-Meadows Corona Park is a shared site of memory for Bolivians who grew up in Queens, New York. Throughout the last decades, if you happened to be there on a Friday evening or Sunday afternoon, it was almost a given you’d walk into an outdoor rehearsal space with fraternidades congregating to practice or develop new dance routines in preparation for upcoming parades and events. Every group typically brings their portable (and usually improvised) sound system and has guides who coordinate their tropas (sub-groups). Some even wear matching gear with their group colors and name. In other words, they are legit and organized. Fraternidades can also be in competition. Groups seek to have the best traje or the most recognizable song. This is typically where musicians come in. In creating a personalized song, usually it is the musicians (though not always) who write lyrics on behalf of the fraternidad and develop the song’s composition and musical arrangement. The name of the dance troupe is featured predominantly throughout the song as well as the specific city or filial. Some include a monetary transaction but relationships and storytelling are key.
“In our collaboration with Llajtaymanta, they asked us, the leadership board, to get together, talk to each other about our respective migratory experiences and write it all down. The song “Somos de Bolivia” is literally based on that story circle. There is a level of care in each relationship. For example, in the song “Diablada en Virginia” that la Banda Intercontinental Poopó wrote for us, I and El Comité Pro Bolivia, which I used to run at the time, get a personal shout out because [of] the collaboration between all of us.”
“Con mucho cariño a nuestros hermanos en Estados Unidos. En Virginia, bailaré nuestra diablada, nuestra cultura es boliviana. En Virginia, bailaré con la Fundación Socio Cultural es boliviano. En la USA y su comité Pro-Boliviano siempre lo mejor.
Esa Nelly, ¡vamos Nelly! ”
Nelly Zapata is the president of the Fundación Socio Cultural Boliviana (FSCB) a cultural and social institution in Virginia that is over 30 years old. They have seven folkloric dances as part of their ensembles repertoire, with la diablada as the core one. FSCB has also closely worked with musicians in Bolivia in serving as co-organizers of concerts in the greater DMV, including the likes of David Castro, Kalamarka, and Yalo Cuéllar. As we talk about her experience of working with musicians abroad, for Nelly there is also a reciprocal notion of mutual gratitude. La Banda Intercontinental Poopó, Alaxpacha and Llajtaymanta have all dedicated songs to la FSCB. The social networks of the diaspora are what welcomes and supports musicians when they go on international tours, as well as connects them to new audiences.
Benjamín “Benjo” Carvallo is one of the co-founders of Oruro’s Llajtaymanta (translated to “in my homeland” in Quechua), considered one of Bolivia’s most established and beloved folkloric musical groups. I am able to speak to Benjo in between recordings as Llajtaymanta work on their upcoming album to commemorate their 35th anniversary. Quite familiar to this subgenre, Llajtaymanta has written and composed songs for Bolivian fraternities in Brazil, Argentina, Switzerland, and Peru: “We start with the composición, the recording, and then comes the music video.” I realize that part of this process is also relationship-building as Benjo shares anecdotes of the group being invited to people’s homes for dinner to share and converse.
“One of our most popular songs “San Simon USA”⁵ came about while on tour in Virginia (in the early 2000’s). We got together with friends from that fraternidad for lunch and there the idea to make the song was born. Generally, fraternidades contact us and ask us if we could compose a song that reflects their respective lived experiences abroad. Each fraternidad is different. They pitch ideas, add some requirements and we take that material and translate it into song lyrically and rhythmically.”
This is something that Edgar from Bonanza shares as well as he recollects a relationship between them and Amigos Por Siempre, a Pan-Andean fraternidad in Barcelona, which also resulted in a song. In this group, I would also include local media organizations that cater to the diaspora via daily broadcasts on social media. They too have collaborated with musicians in promoting new releases and having them on their Facebook transmissions. One example is Virginia-based Radio TV WasaVision who collaborated with artist Betty Veizaga on the song “Radio TV WasaVision.”
Another distinguishable factor in this group of songs, particularly in the US, is the lyrical and visual representation of diasporic communities. The incorporation of the names of US states and cities such as Arlington and Porchester in song lyrics are more common, as are words in English within the verses. Aside from full shots of recognizable American landmarks such as the Washington Mall, Baltimore Harbor, or Times Square, some music videos are set in hyperlocal spaces more akin to scenes you’d find in our home-movies. Shots of the big annual Bolivian Festival in Manassas, Columbia Pike (a popular corridor in Arlington previously full of Bolivian restaurants), fraternos getting ready for a performance in what looks like a school building, backyard parties—all instances I myself have experienced growing up in the Northeast.
LLajtaymanta concert flyers for past shows in Virginia in October 2012 and August 2016.
LLajtaymanta concert flyers for past shows in Virginia in October 2012 and August 2016.
BOLIVIA, U-S-A! Somos Kullawada Bolivia, bailamos en Port Chester desde Nueva York. Anhelando bailar en nuestro carnaval.
-Kullawada Bolivia - USA, 100% Yara
Son mis raíces que alimentan mi alma, soy de Bolivia y lo voy a gritar. Nunca te voy a olivar. Y hoy bailo con los simones rompe monteras. En USA mi Bolivia brillará. Desde Virginia con amor.
-Tinkus San Simon USA, Maria Juana
Aun estando lejos de mi tierra amada, bailo caporales con todo mi alma ...Desde de Nueva Jersey hasta Nueva York, cada 6 de agosto bailo en Washington con los caporales de Alma Boliviana.
-Alma Boliviana, Llajtaymanta
While it is these songs that provide a peek into our transnational identities and networks, they also hold much more than its lyrics may describe at face value. They hold anecdotes, relationships, and even, at times, intergenerational tensions. They hold established networks found throughout neighborhoods across this country and beyond. For example, the “Alma Boliviana” song, composed in the early 2000’s and performed by Llajtaymanta, is in reference to one of the DMV’s non-affiliated dance troupes Fraternidad Alma Boliviana (founded in 1991) which also included Fraternidad Cultural Pachamama and Fraternidad Folklórica Cultural Ruphay (both founded in 2008), among others. This means that they were founded in the US versus being affiliated with a group back in Bolivia, which tended to be the norm. This represented, in particular for first-gen Bolivians, a space to remix outside the approval of the older generation who mostly were at the helm of leadership in fraternidades. Shana, a long-time fraterna of Alma Boliviana, recollects:
“Alma [Boliviana] was one of the first groups to do this in caporales-saya. I credit Ariel [Sandoval] from Fraternidad Cultural Pachamama with their introduction of teatrical introductions in tinkus which inspired us to do the same with saya.⁶ There is also former Alma guia Veronica Suarez who came up with the dance step of the high morenos. I was inspired when she would tell us (tropa de chicas) “I want to hear you ladies scream and clap!” I was her subguia and after she retired, I tried to build on top of that with other dance techniques. In Alma, we were known for centering our women tropa.”
Tropa de chicas de Fraternidad Alma Boliviana. Photo courtesy of the Shana Infofuentes.
Despite growing up in New York City, I am already familiar with some of these names. In fact, the fraternidad I was a part of while growing up—Fraternidad Cultural Pasion Boliviana—had respect and admiration for the cultural work that was coming out of the DMV during that time. In fact when talking to Benjo about their “Alma Boliviana” song, which he wrote,⁷ it was a whole moment to tell him what the lyric “Desde de Nueva Jersey hasta Nueva York…” meant to me as a Bolivian kid growing up in the northeast. Traveling to neighboring states in the northeast for parades and festivals was a typical thing! Thinking about hybridity of cultures, it was in the concursos and performances where you would see this the most, i.e. the addition of other rhythms like cumbia villera or pop to folkloric music and dance as well as theatrical and multilingual introductions. While less familiar, I am sure similar remixing was happening in Miami-Dade County, Anaheim/Orange County, Providence, Rhode Island, etc. It is these collective memories that prompted me to first write about migratory songs—memory is important, but so are perspectives.⁸ Building on the networks that our parents and elders have already built we may already have a unique start. Thinking of the future, I look towards the Quechua Project, Centro de Residentes Bolivianos en New Jersey (which has, in the past, approached dialogues on racism in Bolivian folkloric dance), and other emerging digital initiatives such as the American Bolivian Collective, Colectivo Kawsay and New Amauta.
My grandparents in at the festivities of the Sindicato Mixto de Transportes 26 de Julio in their hometown of Patacamaya, Provincia Aroma. July 20th, 1957. Photo courtesy of the Ramírez family.
Gathering in Arlington, Virginia, August 13th 2017. Photo courtesy of Yvette Ramírez.
Wrapping up our interview, my father says bluntly, “You will always be confronted about your identity, with the question where are you from?” It’s unavoidable, but what happens if you can’t answer that question for yourself? Perhaps that’s why every single person in this essay continues to look back and partake in these multitudes of cultural practices—to experience momentary relief and joy in a capitalist society that continues to devalue our humanity. To relive our essence and traditions, collectively.
Reference Notes
¹The DMV is considered to include the Washington D.C. metro area: the District of Columbia, Maryland, and Virginia.
²Paz-Soldan, Edmundo. “Obsessive Signs of Identity: Bolivians in the United States.” In The Other Latinos, ed. José Luis Falconi and José Antonio Mazzoti. (Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies at Harvard, 2008).
³Albro, Robert. 1998. “Introduction: A New Time and Place for Bolivian Popular Politics.” Ethnology 37, no. 2: 99–115
⁴Rios, Fernando. Panpipes and Ponchos : Musical Folklorization and the Rise of the Andean Conjunto Tradition in La Paz, Bolivia. p.115 Oxford University Press USA - OSO, 2020.
⁵Video clip of Llajtaymanta performing San Simon USA at 2007 concert in Alexandria, VA. Caporales San Simon USA is a US-founded caporales fraternity with affiliates in Virginia, New Jersey, Barcelona and Milán among other cities.
⁶Shana Inofuentes: There was a time we (Alma) needed a refresh and to inspire membership so we, the younger dancers, decided to design the traje for the choreography. We got in touch with the bordador in La Paz, passed along our drawings, the colors we wanted. The theme was rebirth after hardship around the symbol of the phoenix rising from the fire and Julio Cuellar narrated the intro which I wrote. Everyone felt really inspired, especially since we actually won the saya concurso in VA that year!
⁷Benjo Carvallo: “Llajtaymanta’s Alma Boliviana song came about after a conversation with my friend (and Alma Boliviana member) Carlos Méndez who asked us to make this song.”
⁸I’d be remiss to not acknowledge the impact Covid-19 has had on our communities here in the US but also in the Bolivian music scene back in Bolivia. This past June, we saw the passing of Jaime Junaro, founder of Savia Nueva, and Luisa Molina, co-founder of Grupo Femenino Bolivia.
Yvette Ramírez is an arts administrator, oral-historian, and archivist from Queens, NY. She is inspired by the power of community-centered archives to further explore the complexities of information transmission and memory within Andean and other diasporic Latinx communities of Indigenous descent. With nearly a decade of experience as a cultural producer, Yvette has worked alongside community-based and cultural organizations such as The Laundromat Project, PEN America, Make The Road New York and currently is a ‘21 Archiving & Preservation Fellow with Dance/USA.
She received her MSI in Digital Curation and Archives at the School of Information at The University of Michigan in 2021.