In the most special music of my life, my mother’s laughter holds a unique place. He laughed a little ugly, just the truth, but to me it was the most beautiful laugh. I don’t remember the last time I laughed at him that much, but I do remember seeing an ad for baby food on TV about ten years ago, telling him in a marketing class I had read that the brand had to be sold in Africa. I had a problem. There, and because of the high level of illiteracy, food product labels carry the image of the person from which they are made and what people believed they were made of. I don’t know exactly how my mother was so gracious, but a tiny bit laughed. The racism wasn’t because we have African-American friends in the United States, but it was a pretty laugh. That was about ten years ago.
A little while ago, just two months ago, the lightning of the morning woke me up. There were some tears on his face from the feeling that Octavio Paz had “forgot the awe of being alive”. As a redhead from Guadalajara told me last year, “Emotion allows us to know, and I had to rationalize that feeling for days. Somehow daylight gave me a certain clarity as to the “wonderful light” that I had. All this in the same room where one day in August, with clarity and twenty-seven years ago, the ‘little me’ had entered the same room, already in uniform, before me to wake my mother. School to go through the day; With patience and love, this extraordinary creature explained to me that it is too early. The moment still resonates with its purest forms. I loved that day and the New Generation Institute is a great place It was where many children from Villa Infantil Kindergarten arrived, just a few blocks away. Although my father had died in an accident years earlier, both had given up in preparation for my arrival in the world, and my father had my mother I taught him a lot about various subjects in books outlined with my notes for him, which I later shared with him. Served. Me. Thus, the ‘sculptor of my life’ was very clear about the importance of educating myself, learning well the first time, and she took great care of my education, well, she did it for a while (but a lot). well done), although not in the land of Guadalajara. Originally planned by my father.
Curious what anyone remembers. I was gifted to my mother about a hundred days after her life was passing due to cancer that she decided to take care of herself. There was a light I didn’t know was going out in that candle like The Tale of Macario by Bruno Traven; In those days we talked less but very varied. I had the privilege that we learned to value in times of pandemic, to be with the one who loved me so much; I returned to Sinaloa to take care of him, along with his family, the little one that a non-specialist could care for. I forced her to talk only about whether it was worth having children: it was necessary for me to decide whether to walk around or close that avenue of possibilities. His reaction was brutal and beautiful.
The woman did the best she could. I thanked him for years and still do. She was one of those mothers who took the time to take their son with the girls who wrote him invitations to go to their house to play in the afternoon, and who had coined his visits with my father to the garden. I was thrown on the ground. That while digging I felt like a treasure hunt.
When she remarried on a hot June day, I understood what was coming over me when no one was feeding me all day. And I understood more when she let her husband beat me with a belt after claiming he couldn’t yell at me because he wasn’t my father. Bato grabbed a communal Bible, a sink read to me and inaugurated an amateur game; I looked into my mother’s eyes and the moment she decided not to do anything, she became my mother from my mother. Earlier, ‘accidentally’, the man had broken the needle of the turntable where he played vinyl from kri-kri to brahms, and he left me in a silence that lasted until the first in my street There was no computer.
Curious what anyone remembers. What does one feel? Joan Didion expresses this very well in Years of Magical Thinking when she talks about what to do with the things we love: their clothes, the artifacts of their lives. I took only two years for their personal things and kept some for the daughters which I have not yet brought into the world. She had good taste and wanted it that way, I believe because of extrapolations made from the notes of her therapy sessions, in which she wrote that she wanted to meet her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He thought big. It deserved more time. We deserved it. Above all, after the reconstruction my hands were fine (with healing and joints that stayed with me until I reconciled with my ‘monsters’) and I was able to glue my pieces together, like those Japanese porcelain that is repaired with resin and gold dust, in my case, blood and gold; Kintsugi they call him.
My mother did the best she could about the world, it would be difficult for me to know and love the other so much, -I think, moreover than I do. It’s like having a ‘chip’ that allows me to see what she thinks about anything. The Nobel Prize in Literature (1978), Isaac Bashevis Singer, sums it up best when he says that “the dead go nowhere, because they are with us all the time.” I think we are all archaeologists of our emotions and anthropologists of our daily routines. With perspective and calmness, I know today that I feel a parallel to the way William Saroyan describes it in his wonderful epistles of Rue Tatbout: My mother is not actually buried in the vault she chose. And what I fought for to bury her husband is in many places, it is in his teachings and in my feelings every moment. If I breathe, she breathes too. I am indebted to him for everything and the most complete thing he has created in my life is my honor. Existing is beautiful and I thank her, she resonates in everything I do. My mother was the woman who dreamed of my dreams before I was invented.
almost everything about my mother