Retorno a la orfandad

Sin padre ni madre

que te arrope,

Obama,

llevas la orfandad

en la mirada cana.

Sin patria ni hermano

que te acoja,

Obama,

eres el pirata que anunciaba

tu foto de niño:

ya capitán de un bajel

a la deriva de derivados

permutantes,

ya comandante de guerras sin nombre,

náufrago

en el oleaje del mare ignotum

con manchas de fuel

en las orillas.

Que el Hado o Neptuno te

encaminen bien, Obama,
en este tramo de tu historia

y puedas retornar
cual pirata a tu refugio:

No, no a la Casa Blanca
en asedio
sino al beso de tus niñas

y al abrazo de Michelle--
genealogía irrefutable

con ramas de esperanza.

No, no eres huérfano

Barack Obama,

eres hijo de tus hijas

e inexplicablemente

hermanastro de tu pueblo.

Mitología de Nueva York (2010)

El lector asiduo de manga intuirá de inmediato cómo navegar por las primeras páginas de Mitología de Nueva York (2010). Una vez aceptadas las reglas de juego propuestas por Dan Rogers (el narrador en primera persona), el lector quedará despojado de sus narratologías aprendidas para internarse en una metaficción que precisa de una lectura cómplice. La novela transcurre por dos planos narrativos alternantes, el de Dan Rogers de estilo coloquial y directo, y el de Benedict Abbott, narrador en tercera persona cuyo relato (en negritas) se asemeja a la voz en off del film noir. A diferencia de la estrategia utilizada en el remake de Stranger than Fiction (2006) el protagonista de Mitología no es un ente de ficción pasivo puesto que desde el inicio reescribe la versión presentada por Abbot, haciendo de esta novela un palimpsesto de narrativas superpuestas. Al igual que los “contempladores del agua”, Dan es plenamente consciente de que no puede acceder a los mundos paralelos donde habitan Abbott (su creador) y Laura (su objeto del deseo y lectora ideal de un libro también titulado Mitología de Nueva York). Dan se tiene que conformar con una visión parcial de esos mundos a través de espejismos y puntos de encuentro intangibles. Dan Rogers me recuerda mucho a esos personajes borgesianos, siempre condenados a transitar por caminos que se bifurcan, siempre queriendo ser otro para terminar descubriéndose a sí mismo.

El trasfondo detectivesco de esta nivola negra consiste en anticipar la próxima jugada de “Los Hijos del Azar”, una organización criminal que salda cuentas de juego montando escenas célebres (como El grito de Munch, La Victoria de Samotracia y El beso de Rodin) con los ajusticiados. El informante Dan Rogers cuenta con la ayuda de personajes pivotes como Barry (el ascensorista de la Calle 176), Wanda (la mnemonista de Wards Island) y Elías (un niño judío de Williamsburg), todos de una textura tan terrenal y sin embargo etérea que sobresalen en este catálogo de superhéroes.

No faltará algún crítico de este lado del charco que catalogue a esta obra como “novela de turista” tal como lo hiciera con Paraíso Travel (2002) de Jorge Franco. La escritora madrileña no pretende recrear un testimonio de la ciudad como tal sino que diseña una Ciudad Ficción sobre el imperio de la palabra, demarcada por referentes culturales que evocan tanto a elementos de la alta cultura (artes plásticas, escritura, música de cámara) como de la cultura popular (películas, cómics, música pop). El jazz es uno de esos elementos neutrales que resiste clasificación alguna y sirve de comodín para transitar entre esos mundos superpuestos. Tampoco faltará algún tiquismiquis que advierta que una calle no coincide con otra. La Ciudad Ficción de la novela, ya gótica ya arácnida, está configurada sobre espacios que insinúan lugares de la ciudad real y está poblada de motivos sacados de nuestro arsenal mitológico para dar cohesión a este pastiche multidimensional y multimedia.

Los que vivimos en Nueva York, los que sufrimos la ciudad desde dentro, entendemos que Montfort no reproduce la ciudad como personaje sino sus quejidos, sus lamentos, el chirrido insoportable del metro, el crujir de los huesos de los pájaros que parecen ángeles caídos, el último aullido del hombre que cuelga de la ventana de un rascacielos. Montfort nos invita a contemplar la ciudad “desde el mirador de sus ojos” al igual que Dan visualiza la ciudad a través de la lectura de Laura. La escritora nos advierte que tal vez “somos los neoyorquinos los que, a base de masticar celuloide, la hemos convertido en una película verdadera, la ciudad mitológica donde desearíamos vivir”. El artefacto titulado Mitología de Nueva York, al igual que la perinola de la película Inception (2010), nos mantiene anclados a esa misma realidad de la que empezamos a dudar.

Taught to Hate (2009, 27 min) A film by James García Sotomayor

This film objectively captures the human tragedy that unfolds as consequence of misinformed decisions on both ends.  García Sotomayor does a great job at humanizing the often times criminalized figure of the day laborer by recurring to intermittent flashbacks that bring back memories of the mother he left behind in his home country.  In the same vein, the director portrays a middle-class, suburban family, whose upbringing is deeply rooted in compassionate moral values, even in the private setting as Mary (Helen Proimos) vehemently scolds her brother after the incendiary assertion that "Mexicans are taking our jobs."  The film director skillfully brings to the table the fears and tensions that have arisen due to the presence of Hispanic day laborers in many Long Island towns, while managing to maintain his integrity and objectivity.  In the absence of a father figure, uncle Ethan (Nick Raio) fills the void with his rhetoric of hate, racism and fear of losing "the little we have left" to the presumed undocumented immigrants.  Mary and her daughter's rebuke is not enough to prevent John (Brandon Hannan) from internalizing this rhetoric of fear, disseminated by the uncle he looks up to.  This amplification of unfounded hatred is reinforced by his high-school peers who are mere spokespeople for the intolerance of some adults, some public officials, and some media outlets.  These teens embody the archetype of the typical perpetrator of a hate crime: a young student with no previous disciplinary record, outstanding academic or athletic prowess, who simply sees himself as the defender of a nation his elders yearn for, a nation that promised a good living with just a high-school education. 

The opening scene, a flash-forward in which we see uncle Ethan broken down in tears as he holds a family portrait, reminded me of Jeffrey Conroy's father covering his face with both hands, as his son was escorted to the courtroom in handcuffs.  At this very moment I understood that tragedy had not only struck the Lucero family but the Conroys as well.  A reporter covering the trial at the Riverhead Court House commented that even if Conroy was found guilty of a lesser charge, his family would still be devastated for life, not only emotionally but also financially.  This tragedy could have been prevented if someone (a friend, an uncle, a teacher, a public official) would have told Jeffrey that it is simply wrong to make fun of the suffering of "other" people, no matter where they come from.

Twenty years in the making

I still remember Paul Caliguiri's goal against Czechoslovakia in the 1990 World Cup (hosted by Italy), the first U.S. soccer goal in the modern era.  The 1994 World Cup, hosted by the United States, marked the coming of age for the U.S. soccer program as they pulled a major upset, defeating Colombia- one of the tournament's favorites.  Fast-forward 16 years later and the U.S. soccer squad has established itself as a solid second-tier powerhouse in the same league as England, France, Mexico, Japan, and Ghana.  Despite the loss in quarterfinals to the latter, the U.S. team remained faithful to its disciplined and passionate style that got them through the first round.  Soccer (football as its known throughout the globe) has gained a lot of popularity in the United States in the past  decade as it is evident in the increasing number of fans that gather to support the national team. 

Those of us who have followed the beautiful game our entire life, understand (and accept) that the rules of engagement have a few imperfections.  U.S. fans have learned that the game has its ups and downs, a bipolar roller coaster that takes you on an ecstasy high one minute and on the verge of depression the next. We tied England thanks to Green's miscalculation as the official ball (Jabulani, $150) spun out of his hands into the net...beginner's luck? not really.  We came from behind against Slovenia to tie the game at 2-2, and were then robbed of the winning goal in a legitimate play...poetic justice? maybe.  Against Algeria we scored in the last minute, in the fashion of Uruguay, Italy, or Argentina; soccer passion at its peak!

After many years of following fútbol, I've come to realize that the game reflects each nation's take on life itself.  The U.S. squad embodies tenacious American ideals, devoid of stoicism but rather a serene attitude, fueled by the conviction that anything can be accomplished with hard work and effort.  Giving up is not a choice, as Yogi Berra used to say, "It ain't over till it's over."  Despite elimination, the U.S. soccer program has earned the respect and admiration of the soccer world- that is, the entire world.  After twenty years in the making, the United States has finally become a full-fledged soccer nation.

Sex and which city?

Despite the fact that the movie portrays alternative models of filiation, the underlying subtext insinuates that everything can be fixed with expensive gifts, preferably Spring collection designer items. The tension between tradition and progressive modernity permeates every major scene in the film. The luscious gay wedding at the start of the movie, in which Liza Minelli performs to Beyonce's "single ladies" (a new must at weddings), is embedded with five minutes of artificial language aimed at recapitulating each character's personality, particularly for aficionados of the series. Despite the exuberant display of subversive, same-sex marriage vindication, the couple culminates the ceremony with the Jewish ritual of the breaking of the glass, after which Carrie reaches the conclusion that "tradition sneaks in whether you like it or not". Although the movie presents four different types of women, that range from traditional (Charlotte) to unrestrained (Samantha), their common thread is their penchant for fashion, which contradictorily turns them into mere consumers of the latest trends if fashion. None of them wears "vintage" clothes purchased at a thrift store, or accessories made of recycled items, let alone garments manufactured in fair-trade zones.

This glorification of expensive bags and Manolo Blahniks is challenged when Carrie realizes at the Abu Dahbi market that beautiful things don't need to carry an exorbitant price tag. The elegant yet simple shoes that Carrie picks up for a mere twenty dirham evoke Western fable topoi (Cinderella) intertwined with "exotic" references (Scheherazade). Big is the modern Persian king that embodies traditional forms of masculinity reminiscent of Gary Grant (thus the intertextual black-and-white movies) who is about to behead Carrie's ideal of a marriage devoid of societal expectations when he insinuates to spend two days apart every week. Carrie confesses, over a long-distance phone call, to having kissed an ex-boyfriend she encountered in the market. Big reacts in anger but in the end secures the deal with a black diamond, wedding ring (tradition sneaks in...put a ring on it!). The Cinderella tale resurfaces as she returns to the market to retrieve her passport (she had left if on the counter at the shoe stand when she encountered the mirage of her former prince charming). As the shoe vendor refused Carrie's monetary reward she decided that the best way to compensate this old man's good deed was to purchase "shoes for everyone" (Of course!).

The deterritorialization of Carrie and her girls to Abu Dahbi, the city of the future, enables them to put their lives in perspective; after all, they are not wearing burkhas as their Islamic counterparts, right?. Nonetheless, the girls take a shot at masculine insecurities back home as Miranda realizes that her former partner in the law firm was not afraid of her because she was a woman but because she had a voice. A voice that may not be silenced with a veil but rather by a sense of conformity, both in the sense of conforming with societal expectations and in the sense of choosing not to break through the glass ceiling. The feminist, egalitarian part of the movie seemed promising until the local women that helped the four girls escape (after Samantha confronted the men) disclose that they get tips from Suzanne Sommers' book and wear the latest fashions under their burkhas, again, globalization and rogue consumerism at its best.

The movie glorifies the rhetorical topic of escaping to distant and exotic lands to find ourselves, places that tend to be more distant and less affordable to the average citizen. Had Carrie and her friends revised Emerson's writings on self-reliance and American exceptionalism, they would have found their new selves in their own back yard, imitation bags and vintage watches included. The priciest is not necessarily the most genuine.

Simulacra of post-consumerist societies

James Cameron’s latest film revolves around traumatic images of Imperialism, deforestation, and rogue capitalism; the same self-destructive behavior that has fueled global warming and the demise of sustainable environments. Earthlings failed attempt to colonize Pandora, a remote moon inhabited by elongated Smurf-blue natives, that carry themselves with the solemn stature of Egyptian pharaohs in the guise of characters from Cats, is reminiscent of Western imperialistic endeavors. In the same vein, military contractors set out to colonize vast territories in order to extract valuable raw materials as they try to impose their “civilized” language and culture on aboriginal peoples who maintain a holistic connection to their environment. Colonel Quaritch refers to the Na’vi (the indigenous population) as savages who “want to kill,” thus adopting the paternalistic tone of the conqueror who perceives them as soulless bodies worth wiping off the face of the Earth (Pandora, that is) should they refuse to adopt “civilized” ways.

The Na’vi struggle to preserve their sacred land in the face of multinational interests is as relevant today as it has been for the indigenous peoples of colonized nations. The film Crude (www.crudethemovie.com/) documents the over-half-a-century ordeal that Amazonian tribes have gone through in order to preserve their lands and spirits from the speculative interests of Chevron. Although Western and westernized societies have come to respect the symbiotic coexistence of ab/original tribes with their natural surroundings, neither modern science nor sorcery has been able to trace, let alone explain, this communion between man/woman and nature. In the film Avatar, Cameron does a good job at conveying this symbiotic communion by employing mechanisms familiar to the audience such as the plug-and-play connection of the natives’ long braids to tree branches, a horse like animal and the pterodactyl. It is perhaps in the jurisdiction of aboriginal peoples, in their rudimentary, translucent devotion to their surroundings, where lies the cure for maladies brought about by the excess of post-industrial societies. The film emphasizes the power of the human mind and the axiomatic connections that bring the Avatar (an updated version of Frankenstein) to life.

Perhaps the underlying message is that Nature has a mind of her own, as ancient civilizations have understood for centuries, a wisdom that the Age of Reason relegated to the realm of superstition and fairy tales. In our current climate, Mother Nature has brought about global warming, drastic changes in weather patterns (droughts, floods, and unstable seasons) as a reminder that we are mere avatars, a mechanical reproduction of mercantile interests, outcasts of the original human tribes.

Pescador mexicano en Montauk

Nunca imaginó aquel pescador
que terminaría vadeando a la proa de la isla
que lo odia, lo destroza, lo degrada,
lo embarra de grasa, de hierba y de yeso.

Le da una puñalada por la espalda, lo tumba
de su bicicleta y lo desmiembra. Lo acoge y
lo abandona, le paga off-the-books y le pega
off-the-record. Le da una palmadita en una
mejilla y le deja una cicatriz en la otra.

(Entiendo que cada bandera tiene su enemigo,
este pescador no es nuestro enemigo).

Parece que el anzuelo se ha quedado enganchado
al hocico del monstruo insular, medio perro,
medio gárgola, epítome del miedo y la ignorancia.

En su vadeador impermeable, parece estar tirando
de esa misma isla que lleva a cuestas.
La isla es un montículo de bloques superpuestos,
de contornos difusos y siluetas prefabricadas.

Sólo los privilegiados que saltamos esa valla
pudimos ver al pescador a orillas del faro,
junto a la atalaya tumbada del antiguo imperio.

No quisimos perturbarlo y nos quedamos sentados
frente al chapoteo de un tronco, satélite
del hombre que aún no sabe si va o viene.

Santiago de Compostela o la humedad de las reliquias

Cuando llegamos a una gran urbe como Nueva York nos sentimos neoyorquinos de inmediato. Al bajar del taxi nos tropezamos con el vendedor de cacahuates tostados y alguna de nuestras neuronas cinéfilas identifica ese olor tosti-dulce. Al fin y al cabo todos llevamos un neoyorquino dentro. Santiago de Compostela es una ciudad que se va interiorizando de a poco, de la misma forma que la humedad se penetra en los huesos de las estatuas de granito y el moho se escurre por las paredes del románico. Nuestras máscaras se desfiguran al igual que los rostros de esas estatuas, van perdiendo la nariz esnob, luego la mirada prejuiciosa y terminamos pareciéndonos a una de las imágenes ubicuas de Santiago apóstol. Nos quitamos el sombrero para lavarnos la cara en cualquiera de sus fuentes y quedamos tal como somos: flacos, rechonchitos, con el pelo rizado, con la piel tostada y la nariz chata. Al recorrer sus calles recobramos fuerza ya sea con una taza de chocolate o con una queimada; reforzamos ante todo la noción de ayudar al prójimo, de ayudar a la señora mayor a bajar el carrito de la compra escaleras abajo, de indicarle al peregrino o inclusive acompañarle al sitio que andaba buscando. Santiago es una ciudad sobria y serena que se presta a la meditación, es como un filtro Brita para la purificación del alma. Es muy probable encontrarse con gente tan amable que se le olvida al visitante que existe el mal o, por sonar menos cursi, las malas intenciones. La musicalidad de la lengua gallega termina por bajarnos la guardia, la armadura urbanita se descascara y nos permite respirar el frescor verde de la higuera. Al principio le preguntaba a Nieves por qué la Xunta de Galicia no iniciaba una campaña para quitar el moho de las estatuas y las paredes, a lo que me respondió que sería algo inútil por la humedad perenne del frente Atlántico. Eso es precisamente Santiago, una ciudad que se te mete en los huesos con tal intensidad que el escalofrío te baja por la médula espinal, es quizá por eso que los gallegos ofrecen tanto calor humano.

Barça campeón... en tiempos de crisis

El triplete del Barça no es solamente el premio al buen fútbol sino también a una filosofía de sobriedad en tiempos de vacas flacas. El FC Barcelona es la antitesis de su archirival, el Real Madrid, y de su oponente en la final de la Champions, el Manchester United. Ambos rivales habían invertido cantidades exorbitantes en los fichajes de la temporada pasada, muchos de los cuales comprobaron ser grosos desaciertos. El Barça ha seguido apostando por la cantera, desde su técnico Pep Guardiola hasta el chico Muniesa que acaba de hacer su debut. De igual manera, el club blaugrana sigue perteneciendo a los socios mientras que el Manchester pasó en 2005 a manos del magnate estadounidense Malcolm Glazer quien, maneja el club como tal, como un monopolio carente de sentimentalismos; con todo y la insignia de AIG, logotipo de la primera debacle económica del nuevo milenio. Por su parte, el Barcelona ofrece este espacio publicitario en su camiseta a UNICEF, sin costo alguno, y contribuye además a muchas de sus causas humanitarias en los rincones más olvidados del planeta. El triunfo del Barça es reconfortante, particularmente en estos días de escasas noticias halagadoras. Al menos por esta vez se ha hecho justicia poética, ha ganado la disciplina de un fútbol que gravita en torno a la retención del balón, el juego colectivo y la paciencia. Acaso estrategias que deberíamos adoptar para sobrellevar la resaca financiera, producto del exceso de excesos, de pensar que todo se puede solucionar con dinero.

Summer ride

“Do you have a car?”, the old man asked as he approached my table. I instinctively replied “no” as a built-in reaction after so many years of living in the suburbs. He who doesn’t have a car is not just suspect of being poor (what a crime!) but also suspect of having trouble with the law. The old decrepit man asked the same question to two other parties that welcomed him with a rotund negative response in the spirit of both safety and disdain.

The old woman in her flowery dress sitting across the dining area of the fast-food joint felt guilty and said to me “I would give him a ride but I’m a woman, maybe if you come with me…” I did not entertain the idea and looked away. She projected her own loneliness onto the man as she exclaimed “poor man, he doesn’t have any family!” We both looked at how the man walked out the door...he could barely move... hunched over... took a gasp of air...and managed to make it past the door until he collapsed a few steps into his endeavor. It seemed like he had fainted in the middle of a scorching ninety-nine-degree july afternoon, everyone inside the establishment blustered a fake “oh-my-gOd!” and kept about dipping their fries into ketchup. He had just taken a respite, sat down by the well-kept bushes and started coughing. He wiped off his face with a small towel, stood up and made it to the pedestrian crosswalk where he collapsed again but managed to anchor himself to the sidewalk as an ancient vessel with no knowledge of navigation.

He had only advanced half a block on a street with no sidewalks (of course, sidewalks were not part of the suburban design to oblige suburbanites to purchase a vehicle). I caught up with him and offered him a ride as he was sitting on the grass, his arms and legs crossed, as an ancient mystic about to levitate. “Come on grandpa, get on!” He pointed in the direction he was headed, he was just going up the hill to the senior citizen residence by the lake. The old man stunk like urine, excrement, and loneliness combined, as if he had not showered in several days, but his solitude was more palpable. He just stared into the empty space as if he himself was empty in the inside. He had lost his will and joy of living, he walked back to the nursery by inertia, as a habit rather than a preconceived thought. We drove up a steep ramp as we entered the “Active adult facility.” “No wonder you needed a ride” I tried to joke around with no response. He thanked me as he got off the car and asked with a very asthmatic voice: “Do you have a cigarette?”