ABSTRACT
When I awoke to a ringing phone close to noon that 15 February, I could not imagine standing ever again. I had had nights in Oaxaca in which I danced too much or drank too much and woke weary to face the ever-sunny day and vibrant good cheer of most Oaxaqueños. But that morning, even before my memory kicked in, my body remembered that the previous night had been unusual. Without rising I found the phone under a heap of beer-laden fiesta clothes. It was C.1 I slowed his emphatic rapid-fire Spanish to hear, “Brenda, you are the host of the party. Send money for the mayordomía but don’t come. F. says he will kill you on sight!” Yes, I recollected, it was actually the case that my field assistant had thrown a beer bottle at my head as a parting shot the night before.
