I don’t remember the reasons that led me to leave home. Maybe it was a moment of anger, possibly the excruciating weight of the unending routine. Or an urgent need to find the answer to a question that was never asked.
Now I was lost in the middle of the jungle that, over the years, had regained its dominance over the city. The shapes of the buildings and vehicles that had been buried by the vegetation could still be guessed. Things that I never knew and that I have only seen in the old videos at the library.
There was a time when this place was crowded with the noises of diverse engines and the bustle of voices mixing without harmony. Now there are only the murmurs of the jungle, the incessant hum of insects, the occasional songs of the birds, and the calming sound of the wind swaying the vegetation. That orchestra had a hypnotic effect that soon made me forget why I was there.
Hundreds of eyes watched me from the anonymity provided by the undergrowth, all those presences observing my clumsy advance on the irregular terrain, but there was a pair of eyes following me with a particular curiosity. The owner of those eyes seemed to forget all precautions that are due to a stranger, the sound of dry leaves crushing behind me confirmed that it was just a few steps away. I could hear its heavy breathing a few inches away from me just before I turned around and found myself face to face with the creature.
I cannot calculate the number of thoughts that attacked me when I had it in front of me, the mixture of terror and astonishment that this creature provoked in me made it impossible to reach a clear conclusion. The resemblance between us was impossible to ignore, and certain words that I once read arose from my memory “In our image, after our likeness”.
When his finger touched me, I wished I had the ability to cry. We were so alike that I felt the immediate sensation of responding to his gesture, but my bewilderment prevented me from doing so. However, there were some differences that worried me even more. The first one is that the creature was almost entirely covered in hair, the second one was the proportion of its limbs since its arms were longer than mine and its legs shorter, and the last one is that this being was breathing.
It suddenly turned around and left losing itself again in the thickness of the jungle, the sound of footsteps behind me scared it away.
“I have been looking everywhere for you”, my brother said when he arrived by my side.
“I have seen a human; I have met our creators.” I told him while looking into his eyes.
“Humans are extinct, that was an orangutan.” He answered me outlining a smile as we turned to go home.
Her door opened in the middle of the night. The doorknob thumped against the wall, and the voices coming from the hall rode in screams into the room. The girl’s eyelids went so wide that her eyes looked like they were going to escape, and her mouth closed so tightly that she could feel her teeth gnash.
A lamp in the living room gave off the only light illuminating the house that night. A couple of shadows were projected against the wall that was right in front of her door. The larger figure twisted over the smaller one, flapping its hands as if it was trying to destroy it. The smaller figure seemed wanting to stretch out, trying to defend itself and shaking violently.
Her father paced back and forth, yelling words she was not allowed to say. He was taking things from all places and throwing them into a suitcase that already contained more than it could handle. Her mother was crying with rage and clenching her fists against her body while shouting other words she was forbidden to use.
They both stopped for a moment in front of the door. Her father said he wanted to say goodbye to the girl, but her mother said she would not allow it. He screamed that it was his right, she said a man like that had no right to get close to such a pure and innocent girl. Then came more shouting of adult words she didn’t understand.
The door to the street opened, and both figures turned into shadows. Then came the noise of a suitcase spilling its contents across the room, and more screams. Heavy footsteps in and out of the house. Things banging in her parents’ room. The sound of an engine. Squealing tires. A neighbor yelling. Voices turning into whispers. The street door closing. Silence.
The girl clung to her blankets. She searched for her teddy bear, but it wasn’t in its habitual place by her pillow. As she moved, the tears that had pooled in her eyes trickled down her face. She stood still for a while, feeling she should cry, but she couldn’t. She needed her bear. She started looking for it between the covers and under the bed, but it wasn’t there. Suddenly she saw it lying face down, trapped between the bed and the nightstand. She thought he must be terrified and reached out for it. Tears kept slipping from her eyes and fell on the bear’s back.
When she managed to take it, she took him to her side and got him under the sheets. She hugged him with all the strength she had and knew that he was as scared as she because he was full of tears. They comforted each other, vowed to be brave, and left the room holding hands. They walked into the living room, the door was ajar, and they could hear several voices whispering outside. Her mother was talking with the neighbors.
She decided to sit on the couch and turn on the TV. A man was talking about the most wonderful vacuum cleaner in the world, capable of getting rid of all the dirt and reaching the most difficult places. She wondered if it could wash away the tears and make everyone happy again.
Her mother entered the room and closed the door behind her. She approached her and hugged her with the same strength with which she had hugged her bear moments ago. The bear was caught in the middle of the hug. He couldn’t stop crying.
The girl asked about her father. Her mother replied that he would not return that night. Then she asked when he would return, and her mother told her that they should go to sleep. That question would be answered years later with a letter from a man apologizing for his absence and speaking with empty words about pride.
I still can’t understand the impulse that led me to speak to the woman on the corner. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know what she did for a living, it was obvious. She immediately told me the price as I went near her. I did not know what to do.
“No discounts.” She told me.
I took my wallet in front of her. I’d say it was my first mistake, but it was my third. While I was choosing the bills to pay the fare, her face quickly changed from an evident weariness to a mischievous smile.
I had never done anything like that, so I took her to the only place I knew: my house. After we entered, I offered her something to drink. She waited for me to drink first and said she wouldn’t start until I went on my second. I had already taken several drinks before noticing that she was still with the first one.
I told her my whole life and all my pains as if she were one of those dolls my grandmother liked so much and called quitapenas, which means sorrow takers. I don’t know when I fell asleep.
My house was empty when I woke up. In other circumstances, I would have felt heartbroken, but at that moment, I could only feel calm and joy because she took all my sadness with her. There was nothing left in my place that could bring me back bad memories.
Today I tried to rip my heart out. I woke up with the strange feeling that it was a little loose. I didn’t mind at first, but as the day passed by, the feeling became more and more annoying. I unconsciously began to push it a little, trying to accommodate it in its place. After a while, I began to feel that its place was no longer inside my chest.
At noon the discomfort became unbearable and I decided that the best thing to do would be to tear it off. I started by pulling a little on the arteries trying to get it to come off, but each movement was more painful than the last. I thought then that I should rip it off in one try. I approached a girl whom I found fascinating. She was one of those girls who can’t help but break men’s hearts. I tied my heart to her eyes with a silk ribbon and waited for her to walk away.
When she left, I felt a yank so intense I thought my heart had come off. But instead, I was left with a torn heart hanging from my chest supported only by a small swollen piece of flesh. The pain became excruciating to the point where the slightest breeze of air gave me stinging sensations.
I spent the last hours of the afternoon trying to ignore the pain but to no avail. The pain became more and more intense. For a moment I thought that suffering would kill me. My throat closed up and I wasn’t able to breathe. My vision began to close until everything went black. I started to feel so cold that I thought I would completely break down. Then the pain disappeared and along with it all my discomforts.
I discovered a black piece of meat lying in front of me. It was my heart that had detached at last. I haven’t felt so calm in a long time. I know I will sleep very well tonight.
The jar where I kept my favorite song broke this morning.
I was able to listen to it one last time as it escaped through the pieces of broken glass. I’ve spent the whole afternoon humming the song, so I don’t forget it. Over and over I sing it in my head, trying to keep each note in its place, just like the first time I heard it. I’m afraid to leave my room, I’m fearful that if I accidentally hear some other tune, it will make me forget it.
I wish I could preserve the song somehow. I wish a fly would come and catch the notes that have been scattered in the air, and then played them with its wings. Until a spider would eat it and then played the song with its web until it broke, and the song would fly again. I wish a bird ate the song dispersed in the wind and came to sing it every morning at my window until a cat ate it and then the cat would meow the song every night on the sidewalk in front of the house. Finally, the cat would sing the song one last time, whispering it into my ear as I fell asleep before leaving life.
Refusing to think that the song could be lost forever, I keep the window closed hoping the notes are still out there, in the air in my room. I’d try turning on the fan to play them, but I’m afraid they’re out of order, and listening to them like this might make me forget the correct tune.
It has started to get dark and I start to forget little lines of the song. I’m afraid, I think if I fall asleep, I’ll forget it. The thought of never hearing it again terrifies me. In my despair I started to walk across the room, waving the notes. I accidentally put my bare foot on a piece of broken glass and cut myself. One of the notes had been trapped under the glass and I could feel it getting between the cut and seeping into my skin until it reached my blood. Now every time it passes through my heart, I hear the note being played.
Now I have found a method to preserve the notes, I have taken the glasses from my room, and some used to keep notes like the first one. My heart starts playing snippets of the song with each cut. Those notes that fluttered in the air stuck to my skin when they listened to the chords that sound with each beat of my heart. I have cut my skin with the glasses to allow them to enter.
The song is almost complete. My heart interprets the notes with singular pleasure. Each time, it sounds slower, more leisurely. As if my heart wanted to give space to each note and each chord so that they could be engraved in him.
I made the last cut with relentless perfection, despite the little strength left in my fingers. I listened to the whole song again, and after that, it started again from the beginning, each note lasting longer than the last, and each time the song gets slower. Listening to it like this I can’t understand why I liked it so much, it’s a depressing sound. If the song played faster, maybe I’d like it again, I’d like to hear it again as I heard it the first time. But that will not happen again.
Antoinette watched the clock that was in front of her. The second hand had advanced more and more slowly until it convulsed, like the leg of a spider that had been violently torn off. Then, it had stopped completely, announcing the death of time.
The corridor brought the murmur of distant laughter. They belonged to the children playing outside, unaware of the death of time. Also ignorant of Antoinette’s terrible crime, the reason for which she was at that moment, outside of time, sitting on that cold bench, clinging to her seat with her little fingers. Fearing that, if she let go, the universe would break.
For a moment she thought that perhaps it would be better to live in a shattered universe now that time had died, instead of facing what awaited her on the other side of the door. The consequence of her terrible crime, the cause of that guilt that rattled on the back of her neck like a woodpecker that grew stronger and stronger.
From the other side of the door came a persistent sound, perhaps it was hundreds of spikes crashing against some stones. Then there would be the sound of a car being pulled, and then the spikes would come again. This is how hell must sound, like a mine.
Antoinette wanted to get away from that place and run towards the flowers in the garden. She thought about how much she liked to talk to them and tell them her secrets, knowing they would never reveal them. She then remembered how they withered when she told them sad things. Surely, they would all die if she confessed what she had done to them.
A tear trickled down her face and landed on one of her shoes. She then noticed that her socks were dirty. Her mother didn’t like her getting dirty. And her father would be upset to see her cry. It didn’t matter anymore; they couldn’t love her after what she had done. She was about to cry when she realized that the sound of the spikes had stopped. The door opened. The hour of her sentence had arrived.
A very tall man called to her with a serious voice from the other side of the door. She wiped her tears with her sleeve and stood up. Each step she took toward the door seemed heavier. She felt her stomach try to rise and hide behind her heart. But her heart was shrinking and wouldn’t be able to hide it.
In an instant that seemed violent to her, the door closed behind her. She was now exiled from the world. The tall man invited her to sit in the chair across from the desk. Antoinette walked over to the desk, looking at the guillotine that rested on it. She looked at the corpses of the sheets arranged in the trash can and imagined that her head would end up right there. As she walked, she felt that she could hear the voices of her parents and the teachers whom she had let down.
Antoinette sat in the chair. She heard the click of a second hand. There was a clock hanging on the wall that still did not know that time had died. The girl put her hands on her lap and watched the man as he arranged the typewriter that was in front of him, next to the guillotine.
The man fingered his tie and cleared his throat. He then looked at Antoinette with a disapproving gesture and put his fingers on the machine. He struck the keys, A N T O I N E T T E, each one sounding like a pick striking a stone.
The man kept writing. Maybe he wrote Antoinette’s crime, maybe her sentence. But that moment seemed so long to Antoinette that she believed that she would stay there, listening to the sound of the pikes and the running of the car until she herself, like the second hand, writhed a few moments before death.
The sound of the machine stopped. The man sighed. He looked into Antoinette’s eyes. She felt the man grew behind his desk and she thought she saw a reddish flash on the man’s face.
«You didn’t do your homework». The man finally said as Antoinette read the plaque on the desk: Principal Sanson.
Christmas. That time when schools organize festivals so that parents can enjoy the acting skills of their children who are coursing kindergarten. And it is precisely on this date that one of my oldest memories comes to me. My performance as a pastor in one of the kindergarten plays. The role that launched me to stardom and with which I discovered that I was made for comedy.
In the previous post, I told you about some of the things I enjoy about Christmas. So now I want to talk to you about the pastorelas. In Mexico, they are celebrated as part of a tradition that dates back to colonial times. The Franciscan missionaries took advantage of certain practices of the peoples who inhabited what is now known as Mexico to introduce religious plays that had the purpose of transmitting passages from the life of Christ.
Nowadays, the pastorelas always represent, more or less, the same story. The birth of Christ. It is narrated from the moment in which one of the angels receives the mission of announcing to the Virgin Mary that the Messiah will be born from her. She, along with her husband, Joseph, will have to walk the path that will take her to the crib at Belen (Bethlehem). Meanwhile, other angels will bring the good news to the shepherds in the area that the savior will soon be born, and they must go to receive him, but it is not an easy task because the demons try to prevent it. In the end, all the characters reach the moment in which the Godchild was born and remember the importance of Christmas for Christianity, receiving Christ.
These stories, of course, have been adapted by different authors who take certain artistic liberties and introduce characters that may or may not be related to Christianity to make the play more comical. It is also not uncommon to introduce into the dialogues some picaresque jokes intended for the most refined members of the audience.
I can’t remember the particularities of the story that was represented in that pastorela in which I participated in my early childhood. But I do remember very well that my role was that of a shepherd. A role reserved for children in the second grade of preschool, since the roles with dialogue, and therefore the leading roles, were intended for older children, those in third grade. The first-year children, the youngest, had to interpret the animals. Even though my role had no dialogue, it was not difficult for me to stand out from the rest of the pastors.
It certainly wasn’t intentional. It happened more as a product of my innate improvisational skills (which is to say, it happened against my will). The instruction was simple, the shepherds had to guide the animals (the children dressed as animals, I mean) to the rhythm of the song «Arre borriquito» around the stage to reach the manger and position ourselves around the scene that made up the nativity.
The execution, however, was not as smooth as I had planned. My fellow actor and I were completely committed to the role. At that moment we stopped being a pair of children and became a shepherd and a sheep. I must say that his performance as a sheep was exceptional, and my rise to fame would not have been possible without him.
The song began to play, and he responded with excessive joy to the call of “arre borriquito”. He looked at me and smiled with that devilishly mischievous face children make after consuming large doses of sugar. And he launched himself, not like a sheep, nor like a donkey, but like a wild horse. The song kept encouraging him, “arre, burro, arre” and he, despite the fact that he was crawling, made every effort to go as fast as possible… in the opposite direction that we should go.
I was determined to do well and make my family proud of my participation in that play. My mom had already made an effort to get me the costume and characterize me as a pastor, it was the least I could do. So that change of plans became an obstacle to my purpose. And as I have already mentioned in other entries, I was apprehensive since I was little.
The rest of the shepherds followed the indicated path. But my sheep ran in the opposite direction and I, fully immersed in my role, could not just abandon him. So, I did my best to shepherd him on the right path, but he was hell-bent on going somewhere else. The song lasted just a few minutes, it was about to end, and we were far from our place. Laughter began to break out among the audience, at that moment I felt that I had failed as an actor and as a pastor. Finally, after much fussing and furious stomping, I was able to get the sheep back on the right track.
At that moment, the important thing for me was that we arrived at the destined place. I didn’t realize that by the time we arrived, the child had already been born, and the three wise men were already giving him the gifts they were carrying. However, the laughter continued to be heard.
The play ended at the point where I felt we had screwed everything up. I thought that I had let my family down and that the teachers would not be happy about what happened. But when the audience applauded, it was very clear that they liked our role. My fellow actor was right… that was the way to win the sympathy of the audience when you don’t get any dialogue.
Since then, the pastorelas, and the theater, have been one of my favorite activities. I’ll tell you more about that in future posts. I hope you had a merry Christmas surrounded by your loved ones and that Santa brought you lots of gifts. This year is about to end, let’s close it with grace. I hope to see you at the next entry.
Navidad. Esa época en la que las escuelas organizan festivales para que los papás puedan disfrutar de las dotes histriónicas de sus hijos que están cursando el jardín de niños. Y es precisamente en esta fecha en la que viene a mí uno de los recuerdos más antiguos que poseo. Mi actuación como pastor en una de las obras del kínder. El papel que me lanzó al estrellato y con el que descubrí que lo mío era la comedia.
En la entrada anterior les comentaba sobre algunas de las cosas que disfruto de la Navidad. Así que ahora quiero hablarles un poco sobre las pastorelas. En México se celebran como parte de una tradición que viene desde la época de la Colonia. Los misioneros franciscanos aprovecharon ciertas prácticas de los pueblos que habitaban lo que actualmente es México para introducir obras de teatro religiosas que tenían el propósito de transmitir los pasajes de la vida de Cristo.
En la actualidad las pastorelas siempre representan, más o menos, la misma historia. El nacimiento de Cristo. Se narra desde el momento en el que uno de los ángeles recibe la misión de anunciarle a la Virgen María que de ella nacerá el Mesías. Ella, junto a su esposo, José, deberá recorrer el camino que la llevará hasta el pesebre. Mientras tanto, otros ángeles llevarán a los pastores de la zona la buena nueva de que el salvador pronto ha de nacer y deben ir a recibirlo, pero no es una tarea fácil porque los demonios tratan de impedirlo. Al final, todos los personajes llegan al momento en el que el niño Dios ha nacido y recuerdan la importancia que tiene la Navidad para el cristianismo, recibir a Cristo.
Estas historias, por supuesto, han sido adaptadas por diferentes autores y se permiten ciertas libertades artísticas y la introducción de otros personajes que pueden o no estar relacionados con el cristianismo con el fin de lograr que la obra sea más cómica. Tampoco es raro introducir dentro de los diálogos algunos chistes picarescos destinados para los miembros más conocedores de la audiencia.
No logro recordar las particularidades de la historia que se representó en aquella pastorela en la que participé en mi tierna infancia. Pero sí recuerdo muy bien que mi papel era el de un pastor. Un papel reservado para los niños de segundo grado de preescolar, pues los papeles con diálogo, y, por lo tanto, los protagónicos, estaban destinados para los niños más grandes, los de tercero. Los niños de primero, los más pequeños, debían interpretar a los animales del pesebre. A pesar de que mi papel no tenía diálogo, no me resultó difícil resaltar entre el resto de los pastores.
Desde luego, no fue algo intencional. Ocurrió más bien como producto de mis dotes innatas de improvisación (lo que quiere decir que ocurrió contra mi voluntad). La instrucción era sencilla, los pastores debíamos guiar a los animales (a los niños disfrazados de animales, digo) al ritmo de la canción de “Arre borriquito” alrededor del escenario para llegar al pesebre y colocarnos alrededor de la escena que conformaba el nacimiento.
La ejecución, sin embargo, resultó no ser tan sencilla como lo había planeado. Mi compañero actor y yo estábamos completamente comprometidos con el papel. En ese momento dejamos de ser un par de niños y nos convertimos en un pastor y un borrego. Debo decir que su actuación como borrego fue algo excepcional y que mi lanzamiento al estrellato no habría sido posible sin él.
Empezó a sonar la canción y él respondió con excesiva alegría al llamado de “arre borriquito”. Me miró y sonrió con esa cara diabólicamente traviesa que suelen hacer los niños después de consumir grandes dosis de azúcar. Y se lanzó, no como un borrego, ni como un burro, sino como un caballo salvaje. La canción lo seguía animando, “arre, burro, arre” y él, a pesar de que estaba gateando, hacía todo su esfuerzo por ir lo más rápido posible… en el sentido contrario al que debíamos ir.
Yo estaba empeñado en hacer un buen papel y hacer que mi familia se sintiera orgullosa de mi participación en esa obra de teatro. Mi mamá ya se había esforzado en conseguirme el disfraz y caracterizarme como pastor, era lo menos que podía hacer. Por lo que ese cambio de planes se convirtió en un obstáculo para mi propósito. Y como ya les he mencionado en otras entradas, yo era aprensivo desde chiquito.
Entonces, el resto de los pastores siguieron el camino indicado. Mi borrego corrió al lado contrario y yo, por supuesto, completamente metido en mi papel, no podía simplemente abandonarlo. Así que hice todo lo posible para pastorearlo y llevarlo por el camino correcto, pero él estaba empeñado en ir hacia otro lugar. La canción duraba apenas unos minutos, estaba por terminar y nosotros estábamos lejos de nuestro lugar. Las risas comenzaron a brotar entre el público, en ese momento sentí que había fracasado como actor y como pastor. Finalmente, después de muchos esfuerzos y zapateos furiosos, pude conseguir que el borrego regresara al camino adecuado.
En ese momento para mí lo importante era que llegáramos al lugar destinado. No me di cuenta de que para cuando llegamos el niño ya había nacido y los reyes magos ya le estaban entregando los regalos que llevaban. Sin embargo, las risas se seguían escuchando.
La obra terminó en el momento en el que sentí que lo habíamos arruinado todo. Creí que había defraudado a mi familia y que las maestras no estarían contentas con lo ocurrido. Pero cuando llegaron los aplausos del público era muy claro que nuestro papel les había gustado. Mi compañero actor tenía razón… esa era la manera de llevarse una obra cuando a uno no le dan diálogos.
Desde entonces las pastorelas, y el teatro, han sido una de mis actividades favoritas. Ya les contaré más sobre eso en próximas entradas. Espero que hayan pasado una feliz Navidad rodeados de sus seres queridos y que Santa les haya traído muchos regalos. Este año está por terminar, cerrémoslo con gracia. Espero verlos en la siguiente entrada.
It is time for Christmas. I am not going to say that I am like The Grinch and hate it because I enjoy some elements of it a lot. But I want to make clear that I can’t stand the Christmas songs that sound everywhere (except Carol of the bells, of course), the many movies produced for this time of the year (and have little to do with Christmas besides happening during the holidays), and, above all, the aggressive marketing used to make you feel guilty for not buying presents.
Taking away the superficial publicizing, I find some fabulous things in Christmas. I have always been convinced that magic exists, even if the media does everything in its power to make us believe otherwise. So, the part of Christmas I love is that it is the time of the year when magic is allowed to be real.
And I am not referring to the Christmas miracles that flood the seasonal movies, but to the beliefs around this celebration. During this festivity, adults allow children to believe in magic without attempting to shatter their dreams. If a kid says that he witnessed a fairy during spring, most adults will immediately explain that fairies are not real and that whatever they saw must be the product of imagination. But most of them wouldn’t dare to say that Santa Claus or his elves are not real. Certainly, childhood is the best time to enjoy Christmas, that time before your mind becomes corrupted by the adult’s lack of faith. And there is nothing better than the expectation of receiving Christmas presents that night.
Christmas is one of the festivities in Mexico that are completely influenced by TV content from the United States. And most of the knowledge that Mexican kids have about Santa Claus comes from the movies. For this reason, I had certain worries when I was a little boy (yes, I have always been apprehensive).
One of those worries was Santa’s arrival and how it would be possible for him to enter my home if we didn’t have a chimney. In movies, he or his elves are always seen entering the houses through the chimney and leaving the presents under the tree before eating the milk and cookies that the infant of the house left for them in gratitude (with that diet, there is no wonder about him being so characteristically big). But my mom explained to me then that he, as a magical being, could enter through the space between the door and the floor, and the chimneys were only a convenience and not truly necessary. That thought brought me to lie down on the floor and watch the space below the door, wondering how it could be possible for a man his size to pass through there. Luckily, I watched a cartoon where he was able to do that without issues by becoming magical glowing dust. So that one was solved.
Another troubling thought I had was how could he find me if we were visiting my grandmother’s house. But my mom explained that he has a way of always knowing this kind of thing. And, of course, there is the famous song about Santa where he seems to be a professional stalker that specifies it, so that was another fear solved.
My last concern was that my mother had explained to me that Santa only comes to leave the presents if everyone at home is asleep. That one was particularly troubling because adults always seemed to sleep until way too late. They had a dinner that ended at midnight, and then they had these long conversations that never seemed to end. I never knew how long they really lasted because I always fell asleep before. I thought the worry wouldn’t let me sleep, but as a kid, I could always fall asleep no matter how worried I was. That is a magical power that I would like to get back.
This last case brings to me an existential question, and it is something that I have not been able to solve even to this day. I have always wondered how Santa always managed to leave the presents without me noticing. It didn’t matter how late I slept and how early I woke, he always came just at the right time when I was fully asleep. Every year I had a personal mission to see him arrive, but I always failed. And I’m glad I did because my mother told me that Santa would stop to bring me presents if I ever saw him.
Those mornings were truly amazing. There was a mixture of the excitement of receiving the presents and the wonder of knowing that Santa, with his magic, had left them there. Those gifts, therefore, became the irrefutable proof that magic is real. At some point, I also wondered about what kind of abilities the elves possessed that allowed them to make exact copies of the items found in the stores (sometimes even with labels included) but that became quickly irrelevant in the face of true magic and excitement.
There is nothing more real than the magic of Christmas. Magic that adults don’t question and children can freely enjoy. The magic of being with our loved ones and being able to thank for those who are here and remember with joy those who are no longer with us but are still in our hearts. Because my mom explained many things to me, and her words and her love are still with us every Christmas.
Teach the children to believe in magic and never allow it to go out in you. Magic is so real that we can’t see it, but we can always feel it. It resides in our minds and makes everything more beautiful. Happy holidays and Merry Christmas. Don’t forget to give Santa Claus a glass of lactose-free milk and cookies.
Hace un tiempo les conté sobre lo mucho que me gusta el Halloween. Ahora es momento de hablar de la Navidad. No voy a decir que soy como el Grinch y que la odio, porque hay ciertos elementos que me gustan bastante. Pero sí debo aclarar que no soporto las canciones navideñas que suenan en todas partes, las muchas películas que se producen para esta época (y que poco tienen que ver realmente con la Navidad, salvo que ocurren en esa fecha), y, sobre todo, la publicidad agresiva que usan con el fin de hacerte sentir culpable si no compras regalos.
Quitando esas cosas superficiales de la mercadotecnia, encuentro algunas cosas maravillosas en la Navidad. Siempre he estado convencido de que la magia existe, aunque los medios hagan todo lo posible para convencernos de que no es cierto. Y la parte que me encanta de la Navidad es que es la época del año en la que se le permite a la magia ser real.
Y no estoy hablando de los milagros de la Navidad que abundan en las películas de temporada, sino de las creencias que hay alrededor de estas fiestas. En esta época los adultos permiten a los niños creer en la magia sin romperles sus sueños. Si es primavera y un niño ve un hada, la mayoría de los adultos le explicará que las hadas no son reales y que seguro se lo imaginó. Pero ninguno se atrevería a decirle que Santa Claus o sus duendes ayudantes no son reales. Ciertamente, la Navidad se disfruta más cuando se es niño y no ha sido contaminado por la falta de fe de los adultos. No hay nada como la magia de esperar los regalos en la noche de Navidad.
Navidad es otra de esas festividades que en México están completamente contaminadas por los contenidos televisivos de Estados Unidos. Y gran parte del conocimiento que uno tiene de niño sobre Santa Claus viene de las películas. Por esta razón me surgían ciertas preocupaciones cuando era niño (sí, era aprensivo desde chiquito).
Una de esas preocupaciones era sobre cómo iba a llegar Santa Claus a mi casa si no teníamos una chimenea. En las películas siempre se le veía a él o a sus duendes descender por la chimenea y dejar los regalos bajo el árbol antes de comerse las galletas y la leche que el niño de la casa le había dejado como agradecimiento (con esa dieta seguro cualquiera genera el sobrepeso que se carga ese señor). Pero mi mamá me explicó en aquel tiempo que Santa Claus era mágico y que siempre encontraba la manera de entrar, que las chimeneas eran una conveniencia y que no eran realmente necesarias, que en dado caso él podía entrar por debajo de la puerta. Eso me llevó a acostarme en el suelo y ver por debajo de las puertas preguntándome cómo es que alguien de su volumen podía pasar por ahí, pero en alguna caricatura había visto que Santa podía convertirse en polvo mágico y brillante y pasar por ahí sin problemas, así que esa cuestión quedó resuelta.
Otra preocupación que tenía era sobre cómo me iba a encontrar si estábamos de visita en casa de mi abuelita. Pero mi mamá también me explicó que él tenía la manera de saber siempre esas cosas. Y por supuesto, la famosa canción de Santa en la que parece un acosador profesional ya lo especifica muy bien, así que esa fue otra inquietud resuelta.
La última de mis preocupaciones era que mi mamá me había explicado que Santa Claus solamente llegaba a dejar los regalos si todos en la casa estaban dormidos. Eso me parecía especialmente preocupante porque los adultos siempre parecían dormir hasta muy tarde. Hacían una cena que terminaba a medianoche y después de eso se ponían a platicar y aquellas reuniones parecían no tener fin. Nunca supe cuánto tiempo más se quedaban despiertos porque siempre me quedaba dormido antes. Creía que la preocupación no me dejaría conciliar el sueño, pero de niño siempre me podía dormir sin importar qué tan preocupado estaba. Ese es un poder mágico que me gustaría recuperar.
Este último caso me trae además una duda existencial y es algo que hasta la fecha no he podido resolver. Y es que siempre me he preguntado cómo es que Santa siempre lograba dejar los regalos sin que yo me diera cuenta. No importaba qué tan noche me durmiera y qué tan temprano me despertara, siempre llegaba en el momento justo en el que yo estaba dormido. Cada año me planteaba la misión de verlo llegar, pero mi misión siempre fracasaba. Aunque me alegro de que nunca logré verlo porque mi mamá también me explicó que Santa dejaría de traerme regalos si algún día lo veía.
Esas mañanas eran realmente increíbles. Estaba la mezcla de la emoción por recibir los regalos y la maravilla de saber que Santa los había dejado ahí con su magia. Los regalos se convertían en una prueba irrefutable de que la magia es real. En algún momento también me pregunté sobre qué habilidades tenían los duendes para hacer copias exactas de los artículos que veía en las tiendas, pero eso era irrelevante ante tanta magia y emoción.
No hay nada más real que la magia de la Navidad. Magia que los adultos no cuestionan y que los niños pueden disfrutar. La magia de estar con nuestros seres queridos y poder agradecer a los que están y recordar con alegría a los que ya no están pero que siguen en nuestros corazones. Porque mi mamá me explicó muchas cosas y sus palabras y su amor siguen con nosotros en cada Navidad.
Enseñen a los niños a creer en la magia y nunca dejen que se apague en ustedes. Porque la magia es tan real que no la podemos ver, pero siempre podemos sentirla. Está en nuestra mente y hace que todo sea más bonito. Pasen buenas fiestas y no olviden ponerle un vaso de leche deslactosada light y galletas a Santa Claus.
Frank M. Sevilla 