I was just cleaning (really, I promise) when El Abuelo, a beautiful song by Argentine singer/songwriter Alberto Cortez came on my playlist. My mind was fully somewhere else, but it’s impossible to listen to that song and not shed at least a tear. At least for those of us who were born in countries made out of immigrants – or who are immigrants ourselves.
In the song, Cortez sings about his grandfather who left Spain for Argentina to look for a better life – he never was able to return. Cortez, meanwhile, would go on to reside in Spain himself.
My story is a little bit similar. My grandmother (Granny) was born in Albany, NY and grew up in Schenectady. At 21 she married my grandfather, who was in the Argentine Navy, and moved to Argentina. Despite time and space, she never thought of herself as anything but an American, and loved America until she died. She would also tell me about America all the time, to the point that I grew up to love it as she did, the two were so associated together in my mind. She did get to go and visit her family several times in her life – for which I’m very glad.
And so are the turns of life that, after she died, my family (parents and siblings) moved to the US. Not to NY state, but California – to an America that was probably quite different from the one she knew, but America nonetheless. And who knows? Perhaps one day, my own grandchildren will move back to Argentina and repeat the cycle.
Here is my free translation of the song “El Abuelo”.
Grandfather one day
when he was very young
over there in his Galicia,
looked at the horizon
and thought that another road
perhaps existed.
And to the Northern wind,
who was an old friend,
he spoke of his hurry,
he showed him his hands,
that tame and strong,
were empty.
And the wind said:
“Build your life,
behind the seas,
beyond Galicia.”
And grandfather one day
in an old ship
left Spain.
Grandfather one day,
as so many others,
with so much hope.
The loved image
of his old village
and of his mountains
he took with him, engraved
very deep in his soul,
when the old ship,
took him away from Spain.
Grandfather one day
got on the wagon
of raising life.
He pushed the plough
fertilized the dirt
and time ran by.
And he quietly struggled
to plant the tree
that he loved so much.
And grandfather one day
cried under the tree
which was finally flowering,
he cried of happiness
when he saw that his hands,
a little bit older,
were no longer empty.
And grandfather then,
when I was a child,
talked to me of Spain,
of the Northern wind,
of the old village
and of his mountains.
He liked it so much
to remember the things
that he carried engraved
very deep in his soul,
that sometimes silent,
without saying a word,
he talked to me of Spain.
Grandfather one day,
when he was very old,
beyond Galicia.
He took my hand
and I realized
that he was dying.
And he told me then,
with very little strength
and with even less hurry,
“promise me, son,
that to the old village
you will go one day,
and to the Northern wind,
you will tell that his friend
to a new land
gave his life.
And grandfather one day
fell asleep
without having returned to Spain.
Grandfather one day,
as so many others,
with so much hope.
And later grandfather,
I saw him in the villages
I saw him in the mountains
and in each morning
and in each legend,
through all the roads
that I took in Spain.
Author: marga (Page 39 of 158)
I just published in our Project Disappeared blog an interview with Analía Verónica, the daughter of accused torturer Eduardo Kalinec. The interview is in Spanish. One of the issues she touches on is the impossibility of reconciling a man who was sweet and loving to her, and a monster on his day job. “It’s very hard to know that my father held a picana with the same hands with which he touched me”. A picana is an instrument that delivers electricity, similar to a cattle prod, but which allows the torturer some degree of control as to the voltage applied. The picana, developed my the Argentine police, was the favorite instrument of torture in Argentina.
Analías words touched me because I also have problems reconciling memories of people who seemed so nice and gentle to me, but who might directly or indirectly been involved in the repression. Among this is an uncle, a very soft and sweet man, who was pediatrician for the Argentine Navy during the repression. As a pediatrician it’s unlikely that he participated in the repression, but he could not have not known what was happening and yet he stayed in the institution. Of course, he never talked about it – but he did want to make sure that his connection to me wasn’t made public 🙂
Another person was the father of an elementary school mate – a police officer. His name doesn’t appear in any lists, so I don’t have strong bases to conclude that he was involved in the repression – but then again, the lists are utterly incomplete. The names in them are those of people who were identified by the survivors – but the disappeared were usually kept hooded so they couldn’t see their tormentors. This man, in particular, was really nice and I loved going to my friend’s house to play after school – but I remember a few things about him that make me suspicious.
In a greater sense, I have real problems reconciling a childhood that was quite pleasant all in all, with the horrors that were going on around me – of which I only learned after democracy had returned to Argentina (when I was 14). I’ve gone back on my memory to trying to look for clues of what had been going on. I remember, for example, that pink house close to ours in City Bell. The house was perhaps a hundred meters away. Nobody occupied it throughout all the time we owned our country house – nobody even visited it. For some reason, my parents forbade us to go there – and we mostly obeyed. I remember going there once, however, looking through a window and seeing a mess of clothing and objects all over the floor. I don’t think we tried the door. Today I wonder if its owners were disappeared.
In any case, the interview is in Spanish, but it’s well worth reading.
I want to dedicate this quote to my friends and colleagues Gregorio Dionis, Antonia Macías and Graciela Lois – among many others. Working in the human rights movement has given me the unequaled opportunity to work with people who have dedicated their whole lives to the good of others. They humble me with their dedication.
—
There are men who struggle for a day and they are good.
There are men who struggle for a year and they are better.
There are men who struggle many years, and they are better still.
But there are those who struggle all their lives:
These are the indispensable ones.
Bertolt Brecht
It’s somewhat pathetic and even shameful, but I have to admit that I’ve totally fallen for the Southern Vampire Mysteries series by bestselling writer Charlaine Harris. The mysteries take place in a fictitious town in Louisiana, a couple of years after vampires had come out (of the closet?). A new (but not that satisfying) blood substitute has appeared in the market, so vampires do not have to attack humans for sustenance – and thus can go public. Still, they are scary creatures, with very different ethics than human beings, much stronger, much faster and with very prone to kill. They are not invincible, however, as they can be incapacitated by silver (it burns them) and killed why wooden stakes, burnt to death and can burn if exposed to sunshine. There are other supernatural creatures as well – werewolves, fairies and so forth – but they still live secretly.
The protagonist of these mysteries, told in the first person, is Sookie Stackhouse, a waitress with the ability (or disability) of reading people’s minds (but not vampire minds). In the first book she encounters a vampire with whom she has an intense romance. She also meets that vampire’s boss, Eric (a thousand year old viking), who takes an instant liking to her. The big question of the series is whether Eric and Sookie will get together.
The books have been made into a television series, shown on HBO, called True Blood. The show is pretty faithful to the general story line of the books (I’ve watched both seasons), though it includes other story lines and changes some incidents. The main characters are very well cast, and it’s easy to picture them while reading the books. Swedish actor Alexander Skarsgård, who plays Eric, is, for example, as good looking (and almost as tall!) as Eric is described in the books. Anna Paquin (who played the little girl in The Piano, one of the worst, most boring movies ever made), may not be as pretty or well endowed as Sookie is supposed to be, but she’s still completely believable in the role.
Anyway, you can find the details about the series anywhere.
Now for the pathetic part: I’ve fallen for the series (both books and tv) because it’s the cheapest, most stereotypical type of chick lit. Even Harlequin romances are not so obvious. Sookie is young, naive, nice – but “different”, people think she’s weird and she has few non-sexual admirers. She is brave and independent, but secretly wants to be taken care of. That’s exactly what the strong, bad ass vampires, want to do for her. In other words, she is the girl we all felt we were in HS. Eric, meanwhile, beautiful and powerful, is interested on her (and wants to protect her), despite the fact that he can have any woman he wants – because /she/ is special. *sigh* There is a lot of conflict, much created by her, so there can be fights and so forth – but it basically follows the standard formula of romantic novels.
Now, I gave up my addiction to Victoria Holt novels (all of which pretty much have the same plot) in college. So why revive it now? How pathetic is it? It’s gotten so bad, that I’m reading the books out of sequence – just to be able to read them at all – and I’ve even been reading fan fiction – never before in my life had I read fan fiction (which, btw, is pretty good – many of the writers give Harris a run for her money)!
Oh well, maybe it’s a midlife crisis (or are only men suppose to get that?).
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