Last year Verso Books sent a new edition of I, Rigoberta Menchú to press with a new preface by Greg Grandin.  Verso never consulted the book’s editor Elizabeth Burgos.  When Grandin’s new preface reached her, she objected and the new edition had to be cancelled.  In the GSN Monday Mailer last week, Grandin claims that Verso Books was unaware that Elizabeth Burgos is the rights-holder.   I find this hard to believe–the 1983 copyright to Editions Gallimard and Elisabeth Burgos has been on Verso’s own title page since 1984.  Burgos’ contractual rights were public knowledge when the Casa de las Américas in Cuba awarded her its prize for testimonial literature.  Burgos’ contractual rights were also in my 1998 book chapter on how the Burgos-Menchú colloboration occurred and how it ended. That Grandin has just discovered Burgos’ decision to retain the royalties is also hard to believe.  Twelve years ago he reviewed the book in which I reported how Burgos turned over the royalties to Menchú until, after receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, Menchú accused her of stealing them.

Who should we believe?   Burgos’ version of events has been consistent and she has shown me documentation to back it up.  Menchú has made many contradictory statements.  On occasion she has accused Burgos of inventing I, Rigoberta Menchú from multiple narrators (impossible); on other occasions she has claimed to be deeply involved in the editing (unlikely).  The unexpected, spectacular success of her 1982 story placed her in an enduring predicament—the chasm between her initial faith in armed struggle and her subsequent disenchantment with this strategy  Forbidden to acknowledge her role as a political cadre of the Guerrilla Army of the Poor, Menchú ended up blaming Burgos for her deeply subordinate status in the EGP.

Grandin claims that his rejected preface moves beyond the controversy over I, Rigoberta Menchú.  But his name-calling in last week’s GSN mailer, as well as the excerpt that he has published in The Nation, show that this is far from the case.   According to Grandin, Menchú’s 1982 story requires his new preface to become “teachable” again, because the controversy (my 1998 findings) has “raised the costs” of assigning it.  Since when is comparing Menchú’s story with the stories of her neighbors and other Mayas a “cost?”  I thought the whole point of teaching Menchú’s story was to introduce students to heretofore marginalized voices, the more the better.  If this is a “cost,” it’s because Grandin has pedagogical objectives which are complicated by listening to all the Mayas who turned against the guerrilla movement.  For reasons that I have never fathomed, Grandin believes that scholars have a moral obligation to prefer Menchú’s version of events and to enshrine the guerrilla movement in a way that few Guatemalans do.

Whether IRM is teachable is not an issue—of course it is.  How Guatemalans look back on the guerrilla movement is a more important issue—in this I agree with Grandin. What is also a significant issue, at least for people who view Rigoberta Menchú as a crucial figure, is her declining stature with her Mayan constituency.  This is a phenomenon that I address in the 2008 edition of my book, which includes a new afterword by myself and a new foreword by Burgos.  It’s certainly not all Menchú’s fault, but many of her people perceive her as monopolizing the international limelight for her own benefit rather than theirs.  Staging another boxing match over I, Rigoberta Menchú, when it reverberates back to Guatemalans, will reinforce the impression that Greg Grandin and David Stoll are secret sharers conspiring to focus attention on ourselves.