Aylin Pekanık
Defined as “the hold exerted over a human being by external forces or entities more powerful than she” (Boddy 407), spiritual possession is an existential horror that annihilates one’s bodily autonomy and free will, brings the moral integrity and humanity of the possessed into question, and reduces them to a “grotesque and blasphemous” (Crapanzano 8687) manifestation of evil. Within these narratives, women are presented as particularly vulnerable to possession due to their “alleged lack of willpower and alleged emotional liability” (Skultans 57). In such narratives, women’s corruption into immoral deviants and their loss of purity are presented as an especially terrifying possibility as their innocence represents the status quo that must be protected, as seen in works such as Andrzej Żuławski’s film Possession (1981), Felicitas D. Goodman’s novel The Exorcism of Anneliese Michel (2005), and William Friedkin’s film adaptation of The Exorcist (1973) which, “while seemingly invested in the spectacle of the rebellious, possessed female body, actually works to preserve the patriarchal order by purging it of the monstrous-feminine” (Olney 561).
Fig. 1. The Exorcist (1973), Dir. William Friedkin
Castro’s 2021 novel Goddess of Filth, which tells the story of a Chicana girl named Fernanda who is possessed by an ancient Aztec goddess, deconstructs the conventional possession narrative by presenting possession as a collaborative inhabitation rather than a total domination, resulting in the ultimate self actualization of both a young girl and a goddess. The narrative initially plays into readers’ familiarity with the conventions of possession narratives to paint a terrifying picture of its possessing entity. Fernanda’s possession is a brutal ordeal as she “moaned, grunted, and hissed…The expression on her face through parted hair was ecstasy and pain. Her lips became thinner, her teeth larger, as she opened her mouth like a bottomless, black cenote” (Castro 14). After the possession, her body is further transformed as “[her tongue] appeared bright crimson with raised bumps….Her throat bulged and contracted with unnatural elasticity like she was swallowing something” and her eyes become “inhuman, double-lidded…vertical black slits…surrounded by shades of green and yellow” (65). The entity’s manifestation in dreams, untethered from the limitations of corporeality, is even more monstrous with “an elongated tongue covered in raised bumps licked the ground. The tip struck hard, leaving red and blue flames in its wake. Her open mouth showed teeth worn from gnashing…she seemed to burn from the inside like a human candle” (36). This transformation is also specifically gendered in nature as Fernanda is in a constant state of menstruation, “squatt[ing]in a birthing position in the dirt, crimson stains between her legs in full view” (33) and of lactation with “the tips of her nipples glistening with white milky stars made of hot gas” (36). These descriptions invoke the conventions of the monstrous feminine, “the abject or demoniacal potential of the feminine” (Kristeva 65).
However, despite assumptions of a demonic nature, the spirit inside of Fernanda is revealed to be the Aztec goddess Tlazōlteōtl, the Goddess of Filth, “the eater of ordure” (Sullivan 15) who both inspires illicit desires and cleanses sin. She is associated with “sexual excess, perversion, and illicit love” (7), as the goddess of “carnal love and of sin and of confession” (Soustelle 104), as well as “of lechery and unlawful love” (199). The unclear nature of these unlawful, carnal desires makes it difficult to determine whether the goddess incites acts of nonconsensual sexual violence or simply sexual acts that might have been considered immoral by the standards of her time. Many sources also acknowledge the possibility of Tlazōlteōtl being misunderstood as “colonial acts of translation might have informed concerns, meanings and practices that link ideas of dirt, sexuality and morality” (Saldaña-Tejeda 194). Tlazōlteōtl occupies a dual role of the invoker and the purifier as it is she “who inspired the most vicious desires, and, in the same way, it was she who forgave them. She took away the defilement; she cleaned, she washed…and thus she forgave” (Soustelle 199).
Fig. 2. Depiction of Tlazōlteōtl in Codex Borbonicus (p. 115)
Thus, Tlazōlteōtl arrives in the modern world, a world that oppresses similar urges, discourages sexual experimentation, and prevents young women’s self discovery, as she emerges in the body of Fernanda, a shy, innocent girl with “morals and a soft heart” (Castro 17) whose purity is seen as what attracted the possessive entity. However, what is assumed to be a classic tale of demonic possession instead gives way to a collaboration as Castro reinterprets Tlazōlteōtl as a symbol of consensual sexual exploration who challenges moralistic attitudes towards sexual experimentation and wishes to lend her strength to Fernanda in order to usher in her self discovery. While Fernanda’s sexually charged transformation, rendering “her lips, usually bare, […] slicked with black lipstick and her eyes […] heavily outlined…the way [her] mother hated because it made [her] look like a Pachuca… [wearing] only white cotton panties and a cotton T-shirt” (33), invokes a presumption of corruption from society, it is, in fact, Fernanda’s own desire for exploration that manifests these changes as she states, “I don’t want to be afraid of my body anymore. I want to know more about it, what it craves” (69), with the goddess easing “the guilt ingrained since before her first communion, the white veil hanging on her wall a constant reminder” (71). Castro’s aim was to “take the stigma placed on female sexuality away” as she believes the shaming of sexual desires by both men and women “can rob us of joy” (“Horror Author V. Castro”). Tlazōlteōtl herself believes “it is natural to love, to touch. To touch without love and experience the pleasures given to us is also fine” (Castro 116). As such, the goddess does not simply represent an injection of corrupted morals into a pure vessel, but “the displaced embodiment of tendencies that are repressed” (Punter and Byron 264). The goddess’ role as a sin eater is also recontextualized as she only ingests the sins of men who drug women in bars, a priest who murders women, and human traffickers, with the sexual experimentation of young girls specifically differentiated and left out of her scope.
While “horror stories about possession are almost universally always about the forces of evil taking over and ruining an otherwise virtuous and innocent woman’s life and body” (Rodriguez), the relationship between Tlazōlteōtl and Fernanda is a mutually beneficial symbiosis, with the goddess promising to leave her body if Fernanda wishes and becoming “a friend and confidante, a necessary well of knowledge for a young woman about to go to college in a community that has not prepared her for the larger world” (Rodriguez). Fernanda gradually allows Tlazōlteōtl to tell her stories and enact justice through her body while the goddess affords Fernanda the freedom of self actualization as they “grow to understand each other and cooperate for a better world” (Iglesias). Even as Fernanda entertains the possibility that her newfound companion might be nefarious, she believes the freedom gained through this partnership is worth the risk. Within this context, Tlazoltéotl represents the ideal manifestation of a woman, even her monstrous form invoking a sense of awe instead of terror: “Everything about her could be considered a nightmare, but I wasn’t scared. She glowed with fury, beauty, and power. Half woman, half beast, this was no ghost or demon. She was everything I wished I could be” (Castro 36). As such, her occupation “allows Fernanda the sort of freedom she has been denied, and the ability to really make her own choices” (Turpitt). In return, through her connection with Fernanda, Tlazōlteōtl is able to reject her traditional image as a scapegoat, stating: “My nature by birth is sin-eating for others to feel free…I no longer want to be seen as crazy or a thing to be forgotten. My existence is more than a bloody dirty rag you cast away every month” (Castro 106). The narrative concludes with Tlazoltéotl and Fernanda living in harmony: “Tlazoltéotl remained in hibernation, only coming out when she was called by Fernanda. There she worked through her, with her; they listened to each other in harmony, achieving their goals with the help of the other” (141). Thus, this “possession gone right” (Iglesias) is redefined as an inhabitation, a collaborative sharing of one body by two harmonious beings.
In addition to the hardships of growing pains, Tlazōlteōtl also aims to ease the pain of racist injustices done to young Chicana girls as she is “drawn to [their] collective anger and strength” (Castro 31). These young women live in a world where the intersection of racism and sexism leaves them vulnerable, their hardships ignored and their disappearances dismissed as they are labeled “runaways or high-risk youth” (37). The novel shows that young Chicana women are in a constant struggle to show they have something worthwhile to contribute to the world: “When you aren’t white or don’t come from a place of privilege, the world needs a compelling, tangible reason to say you belong” (39). The narrative interweaves images of social injustice with images of environmental decay as the self destruction of humanity is seen in global warming, pollution and “the volatility of the planet” (37), but also in ICE raids, border patrols and other examples of racism in the lives of young Chicana women. The prejudiced worldview of white supremacy isolates Chicanas from their own history: “The gods of our ancestors were deemed savage and wiped out, much like the people themselves…but much of our knowledge of our ancestors is from the invaders. Their own words are subject to interpretation” (100). Therefore, Tlazōlteōtl’s desire to bring back “the stories of ancestors…in our chaotic contemporary moment” (Rodriguez) and her insistence on not telling the stories in English as “their language and vision must be preserved in their tongue” (Castro 87) is also a part of her attempts at circumventing racial injustices in the world. The goddess manifests in our world to usher in the environmental and social healing the earth desperately needs, her arrival marked by the rain after a long summer heat.
This framing of the goddess as a source of hope and freedom who approaches humans on their terms is in direct contrast to the novel’s true villain, Father Moreno. He is the embodiment of the moralistic perspectives commonly found in conventional possession narratives, of oppressive Christian values and predatory men with his mantra: “Purity in mind and purity in heart! You are for your husband and Christ and no one else” (Castro 26). Father Moreno becomes dedicated to exorcising Fernanda, seeing her possession solely through the dichotomy of good vs. evil and reducing Tlazōlteōtl to “a vile temptation…making [Fernanda] do things she doesn’t want to do” (128) while Fernanda’s friends interject, “You can’t exorcise her. She isn’t possessed” (50). In a way, Father Moreno suffers from similar issues that are forced upon Fernanda; suppression and demonization of sexual desire as his desire for his cousin Martha clashes with his self image as a celibate, devoted priest. His inner thoughts are riddled with guilt regarding his sexual desires: “His face still burned when he thought how he would have wanted her body…Heat traveled to the lower parts of his body as shame scalded his cheeks” (57). His thoughts on young women are a tangled mix of judgment and sexualization, labeling them “the promiscuous type, just looking for trouble in her dirty Keds, tight denim shorts, tank top that didn’t cover her bra straps…Her womanly curves were displayed in such a way that you didn’t have to imagine what she would look like in the nude” (57). When he finally faces Tlazōlteōtl’s manifestation within Fernanda, her embodiment invokes the image of the devouring vagina as a manifestation of Father Moreno’s desire and fear of women: “Her skirt lifted to show her bare sex, a dark vertical slit like her eyes that wanted to devour him” (59).
However, while Fernanda’s suppression manifests in quiet self doubt, Father Moreno’s suppression manifests as spiritual superiority, a sense of entitlement, and the impulse to correct the world according to his values. As his monstrous nature is manifested through obsessive, spiritually motivated, and violent acts of seeking God, Castro seems to position him as the one possessed as opposed to Fernanda who is simply inhabited. He is, in the words of Aldous Huxley, secularly possessed, “by [his] thoughts of a hated person, a hated class, race or nation…possessed by, and who manifest, the evil [he has] chosen to see in others” (260). He refuses to take responsibility for his feelings and puts the blame on the object of his affection, Martha, hating her “for ruining him” (Castro 57). In his desperate search for his own Virgin Mary whom he sees as “woman perfected as she gave forth life but remained pure” (121), he ends Martha’s life and keeps her as a frozen trophy, “his immortalized Virgin…His La Virgencita always and forever” (85). His assertion of his own morals as universal truths parallels the healers Tlazōlteōtl bemoans for passing judgment onto others “as if they alone possess such absolute knowledge, something they can hoard and deal out as they see fit” (32). As such, Tlazōlteōtl and Father Moreno are positioned as ideological opposites as he “embodies colonialism and the erasure of indigenous religions and beliefs [and] a force that, at gunpoint, restricts a young woman’s freedom and physical agency” (Iglesias). When Tlazōlteōtl refuses to be called a demon by the priest, she distances herself from his religious sensibilities and the common narrative of demonic possession rooted in Christianity. Father Moreno’s sexist actions and religious morals other him as the true monster; just as the demon is defined through its transgressions against Christian spirituality, Father Moreno is defined as the immoral monster through his transgressions against Tlazōlteōtl who is the truly deified entity and the moral core of the story.
Ultimately, Goddess of Filth presents an alternative approach to conventional possession narratives and presents inhuman transformation as a source of experimentation and self actualization. The traditionally dominating nature of possession gives way to a rejuvenating power that acts as a source of confidence and protection against true horrors: predatory men and oppressive religious authorities that both seek to take ownership over women’s bodies. Similar to historical accounts of female possession in which “a woman who was spoken-through by a possessing spirit could say things to public audiences that women were not otherwise tolerated for saying” (Keller 8696), Fernanda finds her voice through Tlazōlteōtl, forming a partnership that allows her to discover herself through the mutual sharing of one body whose monstrous transformation is wholeheartedly embraced in pursuit of an existence beyond the social conventions of humanity.
Works Cited
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Turpitt, Elle. “Book Review: ‘Goddess of Filth’ by V. Castro.” Divination Hollow, divinationhollow.com/reviews-and-articles/wihm-goddess-of-filth-v-castro-review-ele-turpitt. Accessed 22 Sep 2024.
