There are few introductions to Latin American philosophy and even fewer devoted specifically to Mexican philosophy. Carlos Alberto Sánchez’s Blooming in the Ruins: How Mexican Philosophy Can Guide Us toward the Good Life not only introduces the reader to key concepts, figures, themes, and texts in Mexican philosophy, but, by drawing on personal narratives, also makes a convincing case for how Mexican philosophy can be put to use in one’s life, even if one is not Mexican. After all, as Sánchez puts it: “we are not all ancient Greeks, and yet we find it very ordinary to take up the ideas of ancient Greek philosophers and seek to live by them” (272).
The book is broken down into five parts, totaling twenty-eight (short) chapters in all, not counting the preface. The preface opens the book by tackling head-on the following skeptical worry: Is there such a thing as “Mexican” philosophy? As Sánchez puts it, someone who is skeptical about the existence of Mexican philosophy might inquire: “Isn’t philosophy supposed to be a disembodied discipline, free of the restrictions of place and time, and, especially, nationality [so] what can Mexican philosophy teach you that can’t be learned from those well-known French, German, Indian, or ancient Greek philosophical traditions” (xiii)? Sánchez provides a two-part answer to this skeptical worry, which goes on to serve as the foundation for the rest of the book. He contends that philosophy has never been a “view from nowhere.” Philosophy is always a situated search for truth, and in recognizing this we come to see that philosophy has never been the product of a select few. This view of philosophy is not only demystifying, but also empowering to those whose ideas and worldviews have been marginalized and dismissed as not real philosophy. This situated view of philosophy both guides and is defended throughout the rest of the book.
The first part of the book, consisting of two chapters, provides the reader with a concise history of both Mexico and Mexican philosophy. A key claim that Sánchez wants to defend in these first two chapters is that “Mexican philosophy is tied to Mexican history in very intimate ways” (23). We learn from the start that the birthplace of (European) philosophy in the “Americas” was not a place like Harvard. Instead, (European) philosophy finds its origins in the “Americas” sometime around 1540 in the monastery of a small Mexican town called Tiripetío. So, while it could be said that Mexican philosophy begins in 1540, the philosophy produced in Mexico in its first 400 years—a time that encompassed Spanish colonial rule, the wars for independence, and the dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz—was largely European in character. It is not until the twentieth century, and specifically the period following the Mexican revolution (circa 1920–1960), that Mexican philosophy comes of age. Therefore, the relationship Mexican philosophy (i.e., the philosophy that comes of age in Mexico after the Mexican Revolution) has to European philosophy is a lot like “a flower that, while native to European gardens, blooms now in an altogether different soil and, because of this, blooms differently” (5).
The second part of the book, Chapters 3–6, outlines four main themes in Mexican philosophy: nepantla (Chapter 3), circumstantialism (Chapter 4), accidentality (Chapter 5), and singularity (Chapter 6). While there is not enough space here to outline all four themes, I will briefly outline Chapter 3’s treatment of “nepantla” below. This is important because the structure of the chapter is a recurring pattern that we find in the rest of the book’s chapters. Each chapter opens with a short, often personal, story that Sánchez uses to draw the reader in, which at the same time serves to concretely illustrate the theme, concept, or idea under discussion. The chapters then go on to provide a helpful genealogy of the figures and texts central to those themes, concepts, or ideas. This not only provides the reader with essential historical and philosophical background, but it also gives them reference points in case they are interested in pursuing these themes, concepts, or ideas further. Finally, each chapter ends by distilling a valuable life lesson that readers—regardless of whether they are themselves Mexican or of Mexican descent—can apply to their own lives.
Chapter 3 opens with Sánchez retelling the story of his mother having to explain to an American doctor how she tried to cure her son’s (i.e., Sánchez’s) fever with Pedialyte and potato slices. The purpose of the Pedialyte is perhaps obvious to most readers, Pedialyte helps with rehydration, but what is less obvious are the potato slices. According to Sánchez—and as those with Mexican mothers will attest—placing potato slices on one’s forehead is believed to be an effective means by which to draw fevers out of the body. This explanation seems silly to most and it clearly annoyed the doctor in the story, but (unlike the use of Pedialyte) it is a common method for curing fevers in parts of rural Mexico. By deploying both Pedialyte and potato slices, Sánchez’s mother found herself with a foot in two different worlds as she tried to cure her son’s fever. This is an excellent example of “nepantla,” of being caught between two worlds and yet still needing to find a way to move forward. Sánchez’s mother was stuck in “nepantla” and what the doctor could not appreciate was how hard she was trying to navigate her way through it.
As Sánchez informs his reader, his mother’s story should not be taken as an isolated case. Rather, we should understand that “we find ourselves constantly in between ways of life, in between traditions, in between dramatic paradigm shifts. . .[recognizing] that we are (still) nepantla is thus to recognize that we are on the way to a completely unknowable future. This is frightening” (39). But as frightening as nepantla might be, it can also be freeing. This is the lesson of Chapter 3, drawn primarily from the work of Mexican American philosopher Gloria Anzaldúa: “we are not stuck on this or that commitment, but instead free to allow ourselves the simple luxury of becoming who we may become” (39). Sánchez unpacks the remaining three themes of part two in a similar fashion before moving on to the third part of the book.
The third part, Chapters 7–25, is essentially the heart and soul of the book. These chapters focus on either a concept unique to Mexican philosophy or a traditional philosophical idea that has been repurposed by Mexican philosophers to help them make sense of their circumstances. Examples of the former (i.e., concepts unique to Mexican philosophy) are the following: “Zozobra” (Chapter 12); “relajo” (Chapters 13 & 15); “apretado/a” (Chapters 14 & 15); “personalidad” (Chapter 16); “dignified cynicism” (Chapter 17); “imperial passion” (Chapter 19); “rabbitness” (Chapter 22); “hembrismo” (Chapter 23); “aesthetic monism” (Chapter 24); and “nosotros dos” (Chapter 25). Examples of the latter (i.e., philosophical ideas repurposed by Mexican philosophers) include “auscultation” (Chapter 7); “disinterestedness” and “charity” (Chapter 8); “value” (Chapter 9); “death” (Chapter 10); “originality” (Chapter 11); “inferiority complex” (Chapter 18); “love,” “violence” and “mystery” (Chapter 20); and “objectification,” “assimilation,” and “subjugation” (Chapter 21). All of these chapters follow the pattern already outlined above; they begin with a personal story that helps concretize the concept or idea under discussion, then they weave in relevant figures and texts before concluding with a valuable life lesson.
The fourth part of the book, Chapters 26 and 27, is devoted to two Mexican “dichos.” “Dichos” are common Mexican folk sayings that are passed down from generation to generation. They are short phrases that express a timeless and incontrovertible truth. In Chapter 26 we learn the dicho: “el respeto al derecho ajeno es la paz” (253), which roughly translates to “respect for the rights of others is peace” (254). As Sánchez explains to the reader, this dicho is often credited to Mexico’s first Indigenous president, Benito Juárez (1806–1872). We also learn from that chapter’s short story that it was also Sánchez’s grandfather’s favorite dicho. In Chapter 27 we learn about Sánchez’s grandmother’s favorite dicho, “Más sabe el diablo por viejo, que por diablo: The old devil knows more from being old than from being the devil” (261). The brilliance of both of these chapters is how Sánchez is able to take traditional Mexican folk wisdom and distill its philosophical insight. We come to see how his grandparents, who had no formal training in philosophy, nonetheless contemplated thoughts that were as deep as those pondered by the likes of Immanuel Kant and Ralph Waldo Emerson.
The final part of the book, Chapter 28, nicely brings together all that we have learned up to this point. It concludes by outlining the work of contemporary Mexican philosopher, Guillermo Hurtado, and using his ideas to construct a road map for those seeking to make meaningful philosophical contributions in the future. This concluding chapter, as well as the chapters that came before, make good on the promise of the preface. The book is therefore a resounding success in that it leaves the reader with both a feeling of empowerment and a desire to learn more about Mexican philosophy.
If there is anything we can find fault with or missing in Sánchez’s excellent book it might be that he never takes a clear stand on whether he believes that the pre-conquest indigenous peoples of the Americas did philosophy. I suspect that he would not be strongly opposed to the idea that the indigenous peoples of the Americas not only had a philosophy but also did philosophy. But if he does accept something like this view, then I am left wondering what change this would entail, not only for the origin story of Mexican philosophy that he presents in Chapter 1, but also of how we should come to conceive of Mexican philosophy in general. What if, instead of thinking that philosophy in the “Americas” began in the Catholic monastery of Tiripetío in 1540, we imagine that philosophy in Mexico actually started with the Mexica (i.e., Aztec) tlamatinis in Tenochtitlan pre-1492? I’m not sure what the answer would be. I suspect that Mexican philosophy would still be a philosophy that blooms in the ruins. The important difference, however, would be that we would no longer think of the original seed of philosophy’s flower in the “Americas” as being European in origin, but as always and already Mexica-no.