Mi padre no llora

Hace un par de días, mi Papá mandó al chat familiar la imagen de un niño japonés durante la segunda guerra mundial esperando su turno para cremar a su pequeño hermano muerto. En la imagen reza la historia de la foto, en la que el niño mordía tan fuertemente su labio para no llorar que le sangraban las comisuras de los labios. Palabras más, palabras menos, la imagen hasta hoy en día es símbolo en Japón de fuerza, y a la foto le acompaña un texto que dice así:

«Que esta foto sirva de ejemplo para los pequeñitos modernos que sufren por palabras, que creen que el mundo se terminó porque la novia deshonrada le cambio por otro. Niños que dicen sufrir de depresión y se cortan con láminas (que supongo son navajas) en sus habitaciones, haciendo que sus padres lloren de disgusto por los chantajes emocionales. Maduren!!! Vayan hombres, el mundo se está jodiendo por sus traumas. Su única alternativa es ser fuerte en este mundo…»

Me dio muchísima pena, y no fue el pequeño que en la foto trae cargando a su hermano a cuestas, obviamente sin vida, me dio pena mi padre, mi hermano. Este par de hombres a los que se les dijo C O N T I N U A M E N T E y a lo largo de su vida que llorar «no es de hombres» que sentir «es solo para las mujeres». Este tipo de roles de género a creado una sociedad que no quiere pretende aceptar, no solo que los hombres lloren, sino que exista equidad en nuestros géneros, tampoco permite o juzga que exista más de un género, que juzga y que limita nuestro entendimiento del amor, de la familia, de nuestro rol en la sociedad. Que castiga y estigmatiza a quien se ve diferente, que nos pone etiquetas por permitirnos vivir en libertad el amor, el sexo, carajo, hasta los deportes!!!

El llorar, no le quita su hombría a mi padre, ni a mi hermano ni a ningún hombre sobre la faz de la tierra, sin embargo se les ha dicho que sí, y qué es lo que pasa con toda esa energía que se acumula cuando no podemos llorar? Bueno pues eso es muy fácil de explicar, cuando en México mueren 11 mujeres víctimas de feminicidio, cuando la taza de suicidios de hombres supera por MUCHÍSIMO la taza de las mujeres, cuando vemos que los hombres en general y en todo el mundo mueren antes de las mujeres, y no creo que sea una cosa que tenga que ver con lo que comen o con biología, creo que tiene que ver en demasía con la constante presión que se le pone al género masculino para ser fuerte, independiente, proveedor, líder, ganador, capaz, buen padre, buen amante, buen hijo, buen esposo, buen hermano, buen amigo y SIN QUEJARSE, SIN LLORAR, -eso es para las niñas, eso es para los maricones-

Qué me gustaría que pasara? Que tú, que tienes un hijo, un hermano, un primo, un amigo, conocido, allegado hombre, que ves que sufre porque no puede siquiera estar en contacto con su llanto le aconsejes que vaya a un psicólogo, que le digas, -LLORA CARNAL, DESAHOGATE, ESTÁS EN UN ESPACIO SEGURO- que permitas que las figuras masculinas en tu vida se den la oportunidad de abrir su corazón para que no se les cierre la vida. Tal vez no llorar te haga parecer ante los demás como fuerte, pero está debilitando tu alma.

LLORA, SIENTE, RIE, VIVE. AQUÍ YO NO TE VOY A JUZGAR. Te quiero, bye.

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Heritage

The more time passes by, the more I am convinced why I never had any children. I was raised by  and with a tribe of people of all ages and ideas, even different backgrounds: my mother’s mother María and her younger children Maribel, Toño and Alejandro; my father’s mother Quina, her husband Juan; my uncles and aunt Miguel, Carlos, Chavo, Francisco and Lety; and also later on by a family that rented a space to my mom where she had a laundry business. They were the Jaramillos: Mr. Raúl, Mrs. Luz María, Alejandra, Raul and Luz Ma.

None of these people had the same upbringing and ideas, not even the same religion or culture. This made me a mix of all things, which made me “weird.” There was one thing, however, that they all shared, they all knew, they all agreed upon and without realizing, they all left as a heritage for generations to come: MACHISMO!

I really fought this monster my entire life without knowing I was doing so. I never even heard the word “feminist” until I was probably in college, and I thought it was a bunch of lesbian women fighting for their rights. It took me literally a lifetime to understand the cancer that machismo is in our society.

For as long as I can recall in all the houses where I grew up, there was always a motherly figure  who would take care of everything around the house -laundry, dish washing, cooking, cleaning, paying the bills on time (with the money given by the men in the family). When a man would come to the house, the women in it would move around like little ants answering to whatever needs he might develop even before he thought of them. It was magical. (For them of course)

When I was well into my teens, and I was at home with my parents, it drove me crazy to know that I needed to set the table so my brother and father would sit there and eat, and then I would have to pick up the dishes so my mother could wash them and put them away when dry. All they had to do was eat and say thank you. 

Why was I asked to perform all these roles, and why did my mom also always do them with grace and without hesitation?

When I started dating, my mother would always say, “Agg MoNo, those guys you date. They are such hippies, not paying for your things, not opening the door for you, not asking you to marry them. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” My answer was always the same, “I work to pay my own bills, Mom! I don’t need a man, a woman or a quimera to do that for me. If so, why am I even working?”

When I experienced my first rape attempt, I didn’t share it with anyone but a friend; first because I felt it was my fault, going out in the street at such an hour, and alone with no money. Then my friend said, “Well, nothing happened to you in the end, so why would you complain about it?” After almost a decade, I shared the story with a group of friends and my mom, and she said almost the same thing and thought the comments were intended to make  me feel like it was my fault. Why was I out at that time? Why did I do this instead of that?

My feminist quest didn’t have an exact moment of appearance. Several events triggered it; for example, when I started living on my own at age 22. Back then, in 2002, it was such a weird thing to do as a woman without being married. The quest continued when I started working, and I saw how women treated other women in the workforce. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but the competitiveness didn’t feel «sane;» it felt more like a crazy-ass, winner-takes-all competition. My journey into feminism continued with a set of wonderful women I began meeting along the way. Not only did they show me the importance of my own voice, but also the similarity mine had with their voices, which was further consolidated through the #MeToo Movement.  I heard so many women telling stories that resonated with mine. All the memories, all the insults, all the fear, all the pain. All of it started to emerge from inside me and poured out like an endless fountain. It hurt. I cried. Inspired by all those feelings, I created a workshop for women only to learn personal defense. It felt like something I needed to do, but later I also realized that this isn’t a battle for women to fight with fists, but with knowledge and by changing our state of mind.

Later when I found out my brother was going to have a baby girl, I was crying tears of joy, but then I got extremely serious. His father-in-law came over and put his hand on my shoulder and  asked me, “MoNo, aren’t you happy you are going to be an auntie?” I got up with tears still rolling down my cheeks and told him, “Happy? No, I feel afraid and extremely responsible for a little girl who is coming into this world. I need to step up my game.” I think he got a bit scared, and he just smiled at me and left.

Still to this day at my parents’ house, all the responsibility falls into a single person’s hands: my mom. But it is very important to state that it falls into her hands because to this day, she still doesn’t ask my brother or father to help with simple tasks like loading he washing machine, doing the dishes, sweeping the floors, or whatever. She has two reasons for this:

1. She says that they do it wrong.
2. She would rather do it herself.

But isn’t it funny that if I do it, there’s no problem? 

Is this the heritage I would want to leave to my children? Is this the heritage I would want to pass on to my niece? Is this the heritage we as women deserve?

I actually never intended to not to have children because of these issues; but the more time passes, the more these problems surface, and I find myself grasping the real baggage of machismo. I feel like I made the right decision. 

I can talk to my niece about all these things, but what I feel I should do – and actually have been  trying to do – is share my experiences more openly with my mom, ask her to listen to podcasts that talk about sexuality, machismo and feminism. I’ve taken the responsibility to educate myself, my family and the people I love, in order to live a life that might set an example of what happiness stands for outside the stereotypes of previous generations. 

To me, the best heritage for my niece would be to show her that all human beings deserve happiness, and that the pursuit of it is different for all of us. Because of that, her happiness will depend solely on her, on her values, ideals, ideas and faith. Furthermore, I want her to know it’s ok to go against the tide if that is what her heart tells her. That institutions (all of them) should be questioned, and she should make her own conclusions. That going down the road of intelligence rather than conformity is a hard and tortuous one, but that following it does bring the greatest of satisfactions. 

Above all, the heritage I want to pass on to my niece is to resonate with the sound of her own voice and femininity. I want to be there for her and for all women and sentient beings that I  possibly can be, in the best way I can possibly offer. After all, she’s the future of our race, and she and all the members of new generations deserve better than we had. I owe it to her and to all the women before me. I just hope she understands the importance of it.

• 

Heartbreak

My grandmother was very young when she lost her first husband. The family legend says that she lay in bed for a whole week when he passed, and the eldest of her sons (my father), who was nine or 10 years old, lost his childhood in the blink of an eye. I have no further information about my grandfather, none whatsoever. It was a taboo subject, and my grandmother never mentioned his name again. NEVER. I think that when she lost her husband, my grandmother’s heart cracked in such a way that it could never mend again. The fact that she never mentioned my grandfather’s name kind of confirms that. Whenever she referred to him, she would call him “El Finado,” which literally means “the one that found its end.” The dictionary translates it as “dead.”

So, none of the six children my grandmother had (then) really overcame the death of my grandpa. My father cannot speak more than two sentences about him because the pain and loss overwhelms him, and his voice breaks and his eyes become watery. So no, no talking about EL FINADO.

My grandmother remarried very shortly after the loss of my grandfather, and her new husband Juan León was the only grandfather I ever knew and remember. He was a very dark–skinned man, and I always remember him being at the entrance of my grandmother’s house, looking at the horizon or in his garage, cleaning some piece of a motor or something. Grandpa Juan (as I used to call him) came to mend my grandma’s heart. She used to call him Gordo (fat).

Grandpa Juan was a weird person, but he was always sweet to me. I was his first granddaughter, and he was very patient with me. I grew up in their house because my parents were very young, and they worked all my life, so my grandparents raised me – my Grandma Quina, my Grandpa Juan and my Grandma María.

Grandpa Juan LOVED to read, and he LOVED crossword puzzles. He also loved Coca-Cola and to have a smoke after lunch. I don’t think he ever had a steady job, but he would do one thing here and one thing there. He was always at home and was my Grandma’s companion. He did love to travel, though, and he joined a radio club called “Conejos Liberales.” With those friends, he would go up and down Mexico, and he would have long radio conversations with them when he was home. He was a very quiet person, and he loved my mom. They would always go and have a cigarette after lunch. He would give her honey candy. He would have one, too, and then they would smoke their cigarette together in the entrance of the house while looking at the horizon.

Grandma Quina was older than Grandpa Juan, and she always used to say she would die before him and ask him to take care of her children when she was gone. She had six from her first marriage and shared one with Grandpa Juan. They all got along pretty well, I think.

One day, Grandpa Juan went to the doctor for a check–up, and he never came back. The news of his death was a total shock for the entire family, especially for my grandmother. Her heart was absolutely shattered. The same thing that happened with Grandpa Felipe had repeated, and my Grandma had a meltdown. I think she had to be sedated, and she slept for days. I do remember, though, that when I finally saw her again, she had aged. She looked so old, so sad, so heartbroken. It was hard. It was extremely hard.

As time passed by, Grandma Quina started to get back to her normal life of cooking and keeping herself busy, but he light in her face was gone. She never actually recovered. A year passed by, and we met her for Christmas. She was sitting in a corner of my grandpa’s garage and solemnly said, “I miss my Gordo, dear family. I’ve done my best, but this is the last Christmas I’ll spend with you. I’m sorry.” We all pumped her up, telling her she had so much to live for, that we loved her, etc, etc. She had tears in her eyes but still managed a small, gentle smile. I felt for her.

On December 2 the following year, Grandma Quina had a stroke and died. She kept her promise and didn’t spend that Christmas with us. Even though the death certificate stated she died of complications due to her stroke, I knew she died of a broken heart.

I should confess something at this point. Grandma Quina was my favorite family member, and when she left, she broke my heart, too.

Finding

I got a promotion and with it I had to move to Queretaro. I was living in a beautiful apartment in Mexico City just around Condesa, but when I got the promotion, I was ecstatic! I have always loved change, moving around and finding new places.

But shortly after I received news of the promotion, I met a guy, and our relationship became pretty serious in a matter of weeks.

The happy feeling of moving to Queretaro soon vanished because I didn’t want to spend a second away from this guy that had become so important so fast. I promised myself I would make it work, and every weekend for 4 months, I went back and forth to be with him. Until he broke up with me. I went back to Querétaro with a broken heart and no one to actually talk to about the situation. I was in this new place, living by myself and just crying my heart out. I felt lonely and sad, and all I wanted to do was leave this new place and go back to Mexico City and make the relationship work. I was devastated.

Every day I would drive myself to my office just to come back and fall down into that lonely abyss and cry myself to sleep every night. I was feeling so deeply alone.

A few days passed, and one morning I went down the stairs of my house to find a cat inside my living room. She didn’t move, meow, or get scared (God knows I sure did!). She gently and slowly walked towards me and then started rubbing herself on my leg. I leaned down to stroke her and ask her, “Hey! How are you? What’s your name?” I saw a collar but no name tag. She turned around and ran to the window and left just as silently and swiftly as she had when she entered the house. I remember smiling and taking a box of cereal back to my room. To my place of solitude.

Later that afternoon I called my mom and told her what happened, and she immediately said, “DO NOT FEED IT MONO! It’s not your cat! You don’t know where it’s been or if it even has an owner or anything! If you feed it, it’ll always go to your house just for food, and well, you are going to be feeding a stranger’s cat! PLUS, YOU ARE SO ALLERGIC! DO NOT FEED IT MONO!”

“OK, Mom! OK! I won’t. Thanks for your input.”

The next day, though, the cat was back in the house again. She explored a bit more, going all the way into the kitchen and now answered by meowing in reply to my random questions. It was very weird how she kept interrupting my solitude with her very mystic and majestic personality, as if saying, “Hey there! I’m just checking if you are still alive. OK, bye now!” And she left again.

The weekend was over, and I went back to work. When I returned home that evening, the cat was waiting for me ON MY BED! I was very surprised to see her there, but I was also quite happy to find someone to talk to. I didn’t feel so lonely. That day I discovered that “it” was a “she,” and I started calling her Gatita (Kitten).

A whole week passed, and Gatita kept getting into the house during the day and getting out during the night. I figured she was just going back home, but for the next week, she stayed over, and after that she never left. I never saw a sign asking for a lost kitten. I asked my neighbors, but they had never seen her before. So I started feeding her, and my mom went a little crazy (along with my allergies).

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO FEED HER! Well, never mind, send me a picture or something. Is she pregnant?! OH GOD, MONO! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH BABY KITTENS?! I hope she doesn’t have fleas! Does she have a name? AAAAWWWW, YOU SHOULD CALL HER FELIX!!! TAKE HER TO THE VET! WHAT IF SHE HAS RABIES?!”

“OMG, Mom! Do you want me to keep her or not?! How can I call her FELIX if its a SHE?! You know what? I’m taking her to the vet. I’ll talk to you later.”

The sadness that was instilled in me previously quickly disappeared with the thought of seeing with my cat every day. I never gave her a different name, and Gatita simply turned into Tita. She would sit next to me at night until she fell asleep and wake me up with little purrs in the morning. I started to feel better in no time. When I finally stopped thinking about my ex (whom I shall call Israel) he suddenly called me and asked me how I was and how was I feeling. Then I told him about the cat and how she had helped me with the sadness he caused me after we broke up. He was so excited about the cat and very sorry about what happened. He confessed he missed me and said a million other things, and eventually we got back together. Later on, he moved to Queretaro, and Tita was only the first of three cats we ended up taking in. Each of them found us exactly when we needed it, in magical and unexpected ways.

Israel and I decided we were going to move abroad, the 12,500-kilometer trip was a big deal. The first thing we knew was going to be difficult was moving away with three cats. There was never an argument about not taking them. NEVER. We knew they were coming with us, and that was it.

When we made the decision to move, we took the cats to the vet, and started the research for the trip. But then something happened. Tita started to leave the house and not come back during the night. Our cats were always free to go out and about if they wanted, but they always came back home for the night. Tita left for three nights straight, and we almost lost our minds. A neighbor told us she had taken care of Tita the same way I was now until Tita found me. Tita would go to the neighbor’s apartment for a few hours then leave. She began leaving for longer periods of time and then entire nights.

We realized right then and there that Tita had made the decision to not move with us, and Israel was very sad about this. We had actually learned a few days before that we could only take two cats with us, and we were thinking about paying someone to take one of the cats, or send it by courier or something. We never argued about this inside the house, but Tita just knew, and she made the decision for us. I also realized right then why Tita had found me when I was so sad and lonely and why it was time for her to move on now – exactly the same way I had needed to move on to the next chapter of my life.

It was time for Israel to leave and get all our things ready for our arrival to that foreign country. The day he was supposed to leave, no one could find Tita, not even our neighbor. A week had passed since we last saw her and we were afraid she was dead, sick, or something bad had happened to her. I remember feeling a huge hole in my stomach.

We needed to go to Mexico City to catch a plane, and Israel was crying his eyes out. He couldn’t believe that after three years, he couldn’t even say goodbye to his furry baby. We closed the house doors, walked to the car, and called Tita with treats, food, and jam – all the tricks in the book but nothing. Fifteen minutes passed, and we just started to drive away. I remember feeling so sad and lost. I also felt a little guilty, Israel was leaving before me and the rest of the kittens to get us an apartment and maybe a job, so that meant that I could go back home and see her again, but Israel would never have the chance to do so. We drove away.

I don’t even know how he noticed, but Israel suddenly stopped the car, opened the door, and ran back to the house. There Tita was, standing in our parking space! Israel grabbed her, kissed her, and we both cried as we said goodbye to our baby girl. It was one of the most sad yet magical moments I had ever experienced, and I was also so grateful that she was there to say goodbye.

The cat that had found me, that showed Israel and me a different way to love, was saying goodbye to us and letting us go. She was moving on and so were we.

I never saw her again. To this day I can’t believe the way she found me and showed me the path to find myself, as well as teaching me how difficult and extremely sad it can be to say goodbye. But sometimes you just have to move on and carry on.

Historia de un padre

Me dejó de dar envidia ver a mis amigas y miembros de mi familia disfrutando de una relación amorosa con sus padres. Recibir besos y un TE QUIERO o TE AMO HIJA nunca formó parte de la comunicación que mi papá y yo tuvimos y ahora entiendo o por lo menos trato de entender de manera amorosa por qué mi papá es así conmigo.

Yo fui producto de una relación amorosa muy inesperada, mis padres no estaban casados y la historia de como unieron sus vidas entre amenazas y malos tratos por parte del papá de mi mamá me hacen entender que tal vez mi papá vivió mi nacimiento con un poco de miedo y cautela.

No supe hasta hace poco, de verdad muy poco que mi papá no quería tener hijos, de entrada y luego supe que el motivo por el cual se separaron por una temporada cuando yo tenía nueve años y hasta pasaditos los 10 fue justamente porque mi mamá insistió en tener otro hijo, cosa a la que mi papá se negó tan rotundamente y resultó en una separación bastante complicada en la que fui moneda de cambio… pero esa es otra historia.

Tengo pocos recuerdos de convivencia con mi papá y en general todos ellos son compartiendo todas esas pasiones que forjaron las mías eventualmente. El deporte, los viajes, el conocimiento. Creo que cuando uno es joven lo único que quiere es la aprobación y respeto de sus padres y la manera en la que yo lo intenté conseguir fue copiando todas las pasiones que mi padre tenía, la lectura, la música, los deportes y viajar. Todo ello me hizo un poco masculina, ligeramente marimacha y bastante aventurera y justo cuando estaba agarrando carrera fue cuando mis papás se separaron y las cosas cambiaron mucho.

Cuando mis papás por fin se reconciliaron ya esperaban otro hijo y es curiosísimo, luego de sentarme y analizarlo y de horas de trabajo psicológico entiendo que mi papá por fin tuvo el hijo que no había tenido y toda atención que tuve de su parte simplemente se esfumó y se fue para su hijo. Nota, no es reclamo, simplemente fue algo que pasó y ya.

Alguna vez hablé con mi papá de ello y me dijo que sí, que sí sabía que había tomado esa actitud, que sí había hecho eso pero que no encontraba la manera de volver a retomar su afecto como padre hacia mi. Me da pena, digo, yo he tenido un camino pavimentado de una enorme cantidad de figuras paternas, que sí me dijeron al crecer lo mucho que me querían, lo mucho que me amaban y con mi papá pues simplemente lo tomé como a un amigo, alguien con quien comparto muchísimos gustos, alguien con quien platico de esas cosas que nadie en mi familia adoptó por no tener esa necesidad de aceptación y que agradezco.

Agradezco por supuesto la dureza de su trato porque me hizo fuerte, su necedad en hacerme ver toda película y caricatura en inglés porque de otra manera no hubiera desarrollado esa habilidad. Su lejanía para poder compensar con cercanía con los demás su discreción y su ética de trabajo, su pasión por el baile y su finísimo gusto musical. Su pasión por viajar y conocer, por investigar y por saber.

No hay tiempo como el ahora para agradecer y por eso en este día papá quería dejarte por escrito todas estas cosas que me han hecho lo que soy. Gracias por ser mi padre en esta vida. Que vivas muchos años más en felicidad y en salud.

FELIZ DÍA DEL PADRE!

 

 

Buen Viaje Pepetón

-Sí verdad hija?-

Fue una de las últimas palabras que me dijiste, habías tenido tu accidente unos años antes y con mucho trabajo al hablar me dijiste eso cuando bromeaba a cerca de tu «equipazo» como tú solías describirlo, el Atlante y yo te decía, qué onda con tu equipo maletón tío?

Verte, en una silla de ruedas, tan delgado, tan distinto me quebró, giré sobre mis talones y salí de ahí porque no pude contener las lágrimas, Muti se me acercó y me llamó la atención, mi tío seguía vivo y de nada le servía verme mal. Ciertamente de nada sirve sentirme mal, prefiero hoy, que dejaste tu cuerpo físico, recordarte como siempre, atacado de risa, con tu pants con zapatos de vestir, era lo que más te criticaba mi papá, tu pants del Atlante y tus zapatos de vestir.

Amaba tu casa, tus colecciones me parecían la cosa más fascinante del mundo, tenías un botellón de agua repleto de cajetillas de cerillos, y una habitación COMPLETA sólo para guardar tu colección de vinilos, siempre fuiste melómano, creo que jamás conocí a una persona que amara tantísimo la música como tú. Eras tan malo bailando a comparación del resto de la familia, pero eras tan simpático, recuerdo que siempre empezabas a hacer un striptease frente a mi tía, empezabas a des-fajarte mientras decías la frase con la que siempre te voy a recordar «te juro que eres la única» mientras todos soltábamos carcajadas al unísono, mi tía se tapaba la cara botada de risa y te daba de manazos mientras tú seguías bailando. Levantabas tu camisa y luego girabas y decías «aaaah, ya, ya» tomabas tu cara entre tus manos y reías a carcajadas.

Así prefiero recordarte, empecinado por ponerte a tu hijo el nombre más raro del mundo porque admirabas a Eumir Deodato y así se tenía que llamar el niño, y así se llamó.

Ese cuerpo que te falló un día, pero que también no trataste nada bien hoy se desprende de tu mente, pero tu recuerdo aquí se queda con nosotros hasta que te alcancemos. Te voy a extrañar tío, te quiero, descansa, ya es tiempo.

Comadritas

Continuamente y en una ciudad como esta, CDMX, escuchamos la frase «Que chiquito es el mundo» nos encontramos a gente que no veíamos hace años en conciertos acompañados de amigos que también tenía años que no veías y resulta que son pareja o vas a un evento y te encuentras a tu jefe, que resulta ser amigo de la persona que te invitó a dicho evento, o pasas por una calle y señalas que tu papá jugaba dominó por ahí y dices EL MÍO TAMBIÉN y resulta que el papá de tu gran amigo, también es amigo de tu propio padre.

Cosas como estas pasan una y otra vez y a personas como mexicanos nos pega aún más porque no podemos creer que en este país, tan basto, tan grande, en esta ciudad tan caótica, tan inmensa, nuestro círculo de amigos esté tan conectado, nuestras líneas de vida se entrelazan como el de ellas:

Quina, era vecina de la cuadra de María, siendo Quina la prestamista y gran amiga de todos los de la colonia, eventualmente tenías que conocer a alguien que también la conociera, todos, todos en la zona conocían a Quina y María no era la excepción, eventualmente, y con el pasar de los años, se volvieron mejores amigas, al grado de volverse comadres, los hijos de la una y de la otra eran también mejores amigos. Salían los fines de semana, subían montañas y acantilados juntos, salían a paseos y eventualmente comenzaron a crecer, pero siendo vecinos, jamás se alejaron, siempre terminaban en las mismas fiestas, en las mismas escuelas, compartiendo las mismas amistades.

Uno de los hijos de Quina, siendo ya un adolescente conoció ya grande a una de las hijas de María y terminaron casándose. Victor y Angélica se casaron y esas amigas, esas comadres, se volvieron también consuegras, familia.

Cuando mi Abuela Quina murió una de las más afectadas fue mi Abuela María, ni mamá, ni mi papá, ni nadie encontraba la manera de decírselo, de contarle que su «Comadrita» ya no estaría con ella en navidades, que no se contarían los chismes de aquella cuadra donde Quina vivió hasta el momento de su muerte, donde se desarrolló la historia de su pequeño mundo que posteriormente se volvería el inicio de cada uno de nuestros micro universos.

Mi mundo sí era pequeño, otra de mis tías se casó con un primo de mi papá y no necesité nunca salir de esa pequeña esfera que era el mundo de mis abuelas, de su cariño, de su amistad, de su crianza en conjunto porque cuando no pasaba las noches con María, las pasaba con Quina. Muchos años me acogí a su seno, a su sazón, a los ronquidos de María y a la comida de Quina, marcaron mi vida, me formaron, me hicieron tener los gustos que tengo, tener las manías que tengo.

Extraño mucho yo también a mi Abuela Quina pero debo estar agradecida que por tanto tiempo fue parte de mi vida, y aún más agradecida que aún cuento con la bendición de tener todavía a María, a mis casi 40 años, ahí sigue, dando lata, viendo las luchas y comiendo tamales como tanto le gusta.

Mi familia es la viva prueba de lo pequeño que puede llegar a ser el mundo. No por eso deja de ser importante, no por eso deja de ser mi mundo.

A la izquierda mi Abuelita Joaquina (qepd) platicando con su comadrita su consuegra y amiga, mi Aguelurca María.

 

 

 

 

 

Parte 3: Cuando pase el temblor

Llegamos a Yellowknife la madrugada del 19 de Septiembre. Despertamos luego de una noche en vela tratando de ver más auroras, luego de la elección de nuestras respectivas habitaciones y felices de que ya no tendríamos que compartir un sofá cama, fuimos a dormir plácidamente. Por la mañana y luego de un sueño reparador Fer preparó un rico desayuno rayaban las 12pm en Yellowknife mientras yo me disponía a revisar pendientes con Polo y con Eliud, pasé por la habitación de Fer y le dije

-Puki me aguantas? tengo que hacer una confe con la oficina

-Sip, yo mientras hablo con César, pero no te tardes para aprovechar el día

-Lo prometo

Para cuando me senté en nuestro hermoso pórtico con vista al río y a los vecinos eran pasaditas de las 12 (íbamos una hora atrás), saqué una foto para presumirla con los chico, se las mandé y en ese instante Eliud nos dijo:

-NO MAMEN! ESTÁ TEMBLANDO BIEN CABRÓN CHICOS!! Mono, habla con los muchachos, habla con tus papás!

En ese preciso instante, Austin me mandó un mensaje y comenzó el río de fotos, de mensajes, nadie de mi familia me contestaba, ni mi papá, ni mi mamá, ni mi hermano y Fer salió corriendo de su habitación pálida como la nieve y me dijo

-ESTÁ MUY CABRÓN MONO!! TENGO QUE HABLAR CON MIS PAPÁS!!!

 

El primero en contestar fue mi papá, TODO BIEN

Luego mi hermano, TODO BIEN PERO NO ENCUENTRO A MAMÁ

Unos 20 minutos después se reportó, se fue a mi departamento corriendo y me dijo que no veía daños, luego se fue a casa, mandó fotos de como su cama había recorrido casi medio metro de la pared, de como los marcos de las fotos familiares en la mesita de la entrada se habían quebrado CASI TODOS. Mandó fotos de mi gatita, de las perritas y dijo, TODO BIEN.

Decir que disfrutamos de Yellowknife luego de ese día, fue casi imposible, pasamos casi toda esa mañana, mandando mensajes, hablando con gente, tratando de ayudar desde lejos lo que pudimos. Por supuesto no dimensionamos la magnitud de lo que había pasado desde nuestra trinchera. Decidimos salir de la casa por primera vez para distraernos, lo cual conllevaba bajar entre las dos una ENORME canoa metálica al río y luego remar hasta la orilla, unos 3km aproximadamente.

Decir que fue una aventura el estar tan lejos de casa bajo esas circunstancias es de verdad POCO, lo que vivimos en Yellowknife en 5 días no basta para media  entrada en este blog, pero la experiencia fue absolutamente diferente simplemente porque el primer día que pudimos disfrutar de Yellowknife pues fue el día del temblor.

Yo, en lo personal, quise que las aguas se calmaran para hablar al respecto, guarde luto por la gente que pereció y también mi luto personal, porque claro, una madre siempre protegerá a sus hijos; Muti, sí fue a ver mi depa y efectivamente se veía bien por fuera, pero Luna y yo fuimos desalojadas y seguimos en espera de que nuestro edificio sea reconstruido para regresar. Muti guardó esta información para no preocuparme cuando estaba tan lejos, para que pudiera pasar unas buenas vacaciones y un buen cumpleaños. No sé si fue la mejor decisión pero fue su decisión y hay que respetarla.

Entonces ahora sí en forma y como debe de ser, en un siguiente post hablaré de Yellowknife, la aventura en el ártico!