Song of the Hummingbird

Father Benito, a man of faith and reason, embarks on a complex journey of empathy and self-discovery in the novel. He is 27 years old, and with his “thin, light-complected” features (10), he embodies the youthful zeal of a newly-appointed priest. Initially driven by a desire for recognition within the Church, Benito approaches Huitzitzilin’s confession with the self-serving motive of documenting aspects about the Spanish conquest that hadn’t been included in previous accounts. At first, his perspective on the Mexica people is heavily influenced by both Father Anselmo’s pronouncements and his own ingrained biases. These biases lead him to question the veracity of Huitzitzilin’s accounts, particularly regarding her people’s religious practices. He approaches her story with a critical eye, which is emblematic of the colonizer’s gaze that seeks to discredit the colonized.

Benito is constantly surprised—and sometimes discomfited—by Huitzitzilin’s candor, particularly when she delves into aspects of her life that are deemed sinful by the Church. Her unflinching descriptions of the Mexica people’s cultural and religious practices before the Spanish conquest and her justifications for her sexual behavior clash with Benito’s understanding of morality. These moments expose the vast cultural gulf between them and the limitations of Benito’s worldview. He is a product of a rigid religious system that demonizes anything outside its doctrine, leaving him unprepared for the complexities of Huitzitzilin’s experiences. Furthermore, Benito’s abrupt termination of their sessions because he is embarrassed or uncomfortable and his subsequent consultations with Father Anselmo point to his own discomfort and need for validation within the Church hierarchy. When confronted with graphic descriptions or details that challenge his faith, Benito retreats to the comfort of his biased teachings. The motif of silence in the novel is amplified by Benito’s internal conflict. While he grapples with the urge to document Huitzitzilin’s narrative, his cultural conditioning makes him complicit, to an extent, in the silencing of Indigenous experiences. His discomfort with certain aspects of her story and his reliance on Father Anselmo’s biased perspective create a tension between his evolving empathy and his religious role.

However, Benito’s encounters with Huitzitzilin become a catalyst for transformation. While the Church, through figures like his superior Father Anselmo, seeks to control and silence Indigenous perspectives, Benito’s journey becomes one of grappling with his own biases and ultimately fostering empathy. He attempts to steer Huitzitzilin away from details deemed inconvenient to the Church’s agenda, such as Mexica religious practices. However, he acknowledges that his expectation that she sanitize her narrative for the sake of propriety betrays a double standard, as he too would find it impossible to narrate his own story devoid of religious context. This, and other insights he draws from his reflections, make such contradictions increasingly apparent, forcing him to confront the biased nature of his own knowledge base. As he listens intently to Huitzitzilin’s stories of love, grief, and loss, he begins to see a reflection of his own humanity in her experiences. This shared emotional landscape becomes the bridge that allows him to move beyond his cultural conditioning, underscoring the transformative power of human connection and forcing Benito to acknowledge the universality of human experience that transcends cultural differences. His journey is not one of complete liberation since he remains within the confines of his faith and cultural background. However, his evolving empathy allows Huitzitzilin’s voice to be heard, as he acts as a conduit for preserving the Mexica experience within the very system that sought to silence it.

Zintle, Huitzitzilin’s cousin, represents a forbidden yet profound love in her life. He is the first man with whom she has a sexual encounter and the only man she describes to have loved in her life. Their relationship flourishes despite her betrothal to Tetla, and they seize “every opportunity to love one another” (30). They conceive two children: Huitzitzilin chooses to terminate the first pregnancy to protect herself from Tetla’s scrutiny, which could have put her life in danger; their second child, a son, dies during a smallpox epidemic. The Spanish conquest disrupts Huitzitzilin and Zintle’s bond, prompting Zintle to take another woman and leading Huitzitzilin to entertain her desires for Baltazar. Despite their separation, Zintle remains a pivotal figure in Huitzitzilin’s narrative, symbolizing the pure and untamed love of her youth.

Tetla, Huitzitzilin’s husband, epitomizes the first abusive experience of her life. He is the very antithesis of Zintle, and Huitzitzilin’s strong initial reaction to Tetla’s “repulsive” appearance foreshadows his later abuse. The vast age difference between Huitzitzilin and Tetla underscores the power imbalance inherent in their arranged marriage, which is a transaction that prioritizes social standing over emotional connection. Huitzitzilin feels only revulsion towards him, and she describes him as having “a countless number of concubines and offspring” (41). Tetla forces Huitzitzilin to undergo a virginity check and subjects her to physical and sexual abuse on their wedding night. This only increases Huitzitzilin’s dislike and characterizes him as a headstrong, cruel man. After the Spanish invasion, Tetla is burned alive by Cortés’s orders. This fate serves a dual purpose within the narrative: On one hand, it offers a sense of karmic justice for his abuse; on the other hand, it underscores the indiscriminate brutality of the conquest, where even those within the established power structures are not immune to violence.