Mexico.- Body of Luis Enrique Ramirez found in a ditch on the side of the road Thursday, May 5, in Culiacán, Sinaloa, his land. I met him several years ago in La Jornada. He was a tall, smiling young man. I could never have imagined that he would be wrapped in plastic thrown on the dirt road on his own land.
I met him in the news room of La Jornada, and Braulio Peralta, who was then head of the culture section, commissioned reports and interviews that young intellectuals did with true mastery. Smiling, intelligent, sensitive, he captured everything his interviewer said (and what he didn’t say) and He gave remarkable reports, as only good observers can do.
He captured the character traits, weaknesses and successes of his interviewer or interviewee, and it was easy to smile reading his charming and enticing texts. Braulio Peralta recognized his talent and encouraged him like good teachers.
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Luis Enrique Ramírez fell in love with the writer Elena Garro and her daughter, La Chata, Helena Paz, and wrote a one-of-a-kind notable novel or biography: La Ungarnerable: Encounters and Assistance with Elena Garro, published by Consuelo Sázar . At that time, thanks to the support of Braulio, Luis Enrique sE became the star reporter for the culture section of La Jornada. and became the darling of his companions. Now, in 2022, it turns out The ninth reporter was murdered in Mexico this year.
As far as I know, he had only returned to Mexico from Culiacán once and came to visit me with a smile, but was too fat. They were still as simple and imaginary as they wrote in their country. Chabela, with whom she also liked to talk, enjoyed making breakfast and knitting her sweaters.
“Will the young Luis Enrique come?” he asked excitedly. The reporter and I laughed at a thread because he had a great sense of humor and imitated fellow interviewers, me and Carlos Monsivas.
When Elena Garro and her daughter, Helena Paz, came to Paris in 1993 to be honored, first in Monterrey and then in Mexico City, Luis Enrique Ramírez followed them to Cuernavaca and interviewed them at the home of Elena’s sister, Devaki. . Painter Jesus Guerrero Galvan.
The young reporter did a first-class job because Elena dazzled him and he pissed me off: “The great writer is starving, he’s an extraordinary human being, I’m going to pay him my salary.” “No, Luis Enrique, don’t even think about it.” Luis Enrique Ramírez was passionate about the hardships or glory of his interviewers and that is why his articles turned out so well.
Luis Enrique was a porter because he was born in Culiacán, Sinaloa. There Started in journalism at the age of 17 in El Diario, He was later at El Debate and began interviewing at North West. When he made trips to the capital, he stayed at the Regis Hotel.
The first time he came with his brother Juan Carlos – taller and even skinnier than him – in a second-class Tres Estrellas de Oro truck, amid the smell of chickens, pigs and chilorio, machaca and chorizo. After 24 hours on the road, it came across as jargon and no one picked it up. “We come to visit,” he said in unison with his brother. Both believed that Mexico City was made up of La Vila, Chapultepec, Alameda and the Zocalo.
For the second time, he came as a student from the Sinaloa School of Social Communication and attended a congress with his teacher María Teresa Zazueta at the Carlos Septián García School of Journalism. She took him to the theatre, he visited museums and galleries, he attended concerts, he bought Catholic books and after admiring Diego Rivera’s frescoes at the Prado Hotel, he had a performance at Super Leche with Alejandro Aviles. ate hot chocolate. The façade of the Paseo de la Reforma was covered with posters of the Gay Pride Parade, part of the glow of gay power in Mexico City, because no one in the north knew what the thing was eaten with. “Lets go!” said Luis Enrique, and his mother-teacher reprimanded him: “Listen, how modern you have become!”.
In November 1992, he entered La Jornada and made his move to stand out as an interviewer. It was easy to see him on the road around one o’clock in the afternoon, he runs very fast. He loved her very much because he was so noble, he himself carefully ironed his shirts. His cleanliness carried over to his writing. Luis Enrique scrutinized his texts almost imperceptibly to avoid any wrinkles, any folds, sprayed and ironed them carefully, and yet, when he saw them published he said: “Chinguets, me Missed that comma!”.
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That’s how he reviewed his interviewers, analyzed their responses, observed them, broke their gestures and even took off some of them (in a figurative sense).
I have never met a more passionate journalist than this. Hence perhaps their constant depression and endless sadness. He pierced his interlocutors and guessed them before answering them. I think he was the best, the best, the smartest, the most talented among the young, although now the youth snatches away the old men who only torture. And of course, he was the most attractive.
Text published in La Jornada