E S P E R A N Z A ’ S R O O M
A M O N S T E R ’ S R E D E M P T I O N M . I . F l o r e s N a c h ó n
A SOCIAL FUNCTION IN THE SEARCH FOR MEANING
V i c t o r M a r t í n e z M i
I T I S N I C E T H A T M E X I C O I S N O T S A D
M I F l o r e s N a c h ó n
C O L O N I A L I T Y I N L A T I N A M E R I C A
9 F a n t á s t i c o S r . Z o r r o
Murales de Jorge González Camarena
It is understood as the behavior or belief that is transmitted from generation to generation, in a culture, society, religion, or family.
This month, Catártica brings different perspectives on traditions, writings that come from Mexican inks, understood from the worldview of Mexicanness; the Latin.
On the cover and index, we celebrate the Mexican muralist tradition, based on the work of Jorge González Camarena, who has been overshadowed by other names, cornering him with books from the SEP. Today we invite you to another ink, Jorge. Welcome everyone to Catártica: October '24
The couple of hours in which Esperanza left her room only happened to remind us that she was still alive, despite everything. A complicated image to see, because her body no longer responded as before It wasn't that she was old, or that she suffered from a serious illness, she had simply lost motivation.
For what? For everything She walked and groomed herself by inertia. She ate out of necessity. She answered two or three questions and emitted an almost imperceptible smile; one could only watch as her incisors peeked out from those dry lips. She went out to prepare her three meals a day, took a bath and ended up locking herself in her room Sometimes other activities kept her out of her room, but she didn't talk much, it was like she was no longer with us.
Its four walls were impassable, in fact, no one remembered exactly what they looked like anymore. At meetings in the living room, when we were all drunk, we would argue about how different each person's memory was: some swore it was green and had porcelain figurines on the shelves, while others claimed it was yellow and that there were no shelves, that there was an old bookshelf with collections of history and geography; Others pointed to a balcony full of flowers, overlooking the horizon, but not one dared to investigate with their own eyes
It's not that it was forbidden to enter, but that except for those two hours in which Esperanza left her room, there was no other time in which we could make our way into her world. It was disturbing because before, we all used to meet in her room, but since that incident, we never set foot in her room again. Many years passed, so many that we no longer remember, and those images became blurry. Entering when she was home was not an option, we did not have the freedom to cross into her space. In the same way, even if I left the room, we were terrified of encountering some unrecognizable footprint, an alien smell, or even the remnant of an already unknown presence.
Likewise, we had lost interest with the passage of time, an atypical case in us was that, despite the years, we kept living in the same place, almost like a family. In this microsociety, we saw ourselves grow from being university students with affairs and superfluous worries to suddenly looking for a job and being assigned with a roster of workers. Everyone except Esperanza. Therefore, when there was time to talk, we were no longer interested in what she did in her room. We looked at the TV or our phones, hoping to find solace in the screens.
At night we heard only the dull sound of her footsteps on what we all remembered was a rug, always barefoot, without disturbing the weather too much, without giving us the opportunity to think about her actions. In a second, the noises stopped and we all went back to thinking about something else. This was the case for many years, until we stopped listening to her, when her spirit began to deteriorate.
One day, Esperanza left her room, as she had done every other day since our younger years. Without making a sound, he opened the refrigerator and made himself breakfast. I, who had spent the night in the living room reviewing details about a loan I had requested, saw her walking like any other morning, but it caught my attention that she was not carrying three plates, only one. “There will be something left over from the night before,” it occurred to me. He entered his room and, out of pure curiosity, I peeked into his refrigerator space. There was no food. Something completely unusual, since she always had food reserves.
Shortly after, she came out of his room with a small gray suitcase and spoke to me for the first time in years: “I can't say goodbye to everyone, they're still asleep. But I tell you now. I'm leaving. It was good to live among you for a while.” I don't remember exactly what her words were, but that was something I was able to quote. The thing is, seeing her leave with that weakness, left me speechless. I never thought that Esperanza would finally leave her room.
Once she closed the door, I felt terrible fear. I became paralyzed and soon, as soon as I could move, I woke up everyone in the house. I knocked on every door except her’s and I really wanted to cry. When they calmed me down, we sat in the living room and discussed everything that needed to be talked about. Where did she get the money to live? When and how did she get her food? Why didn't she leave her room and why did she choose this day to leave? I think the worst thing was that none of us remembered exactly what had happened to her. We all remembered “the incident” or “that thing that made her change from one day to the next,” but no one could verbalize what had happened.
Then we looked at what used to be her door, ajar. For a few seconds we were silent and we all felt the same uncontrollable impulse to reach out and push her. For some reason no one dared to do it and, like every night, the conversation led us to another topic.
When we went to bed, already a little drunk, I woke up in the middle of the night. The hangover wouldn't stop and I felt dehydrated. Then it happened: I walked to the kitchen and turned on the water. Her name kept pumping in my head. Esperanza. Why did you leave? Esperanza. What had happened to you? Why didn't you say goodbye? Esperanza, Esperanza I didn't get a response But when I returned, her room, which was at the end of the hallway, started calling me. A part of me wanted to ignore it, because I already knew what could be behind that door. I was scared to believe it, I was scared to look with my own eyes at what I already knew I would find. But I couldn't stop walking. I couldn't, I swear, because in the face of disappointment one has no options. I pushed the door that creaked as if it had been abandoned hundreds of years ago When I opened it, I found what I expected: nothing.
A M O N S T E R ’ S R E D E M P T I O N
M.I. Flores Nachón
The ring of his teeth instills terror! (...) His sneezes give off light, His eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn. Torches come out of his mouth, Sparks of fire leap from its jaws. Vapors come out of their nostrils like a cauldron that boils on fire.
Job 41: 12-17
This year in the Catártica thematic calendar I was looking to get away from the spooky tradition of the month of October, so Tradition was proposed as a thematic concept. I liked the idea since sometimes I would like to get away from what causes me terror in an attempt to stay calm. However, this weekend, due to strong recommendations, I went to see The Substance - a film of which I will refuse to review at this time, although I dedicate a strong admiration to the director Coralie Fargeat for her work and bravery, a situation that led me to overthink the grotesque, the monstrosity, and the pain of the monster itself when it is a living being. Without intending to ruin the ending of any story, I conclude that Quasimodo was called a monster when he never was one.
The tradition of representation and search for beauty went down the drain of black waters a long time ago. I do not venture to point out a date as a starting point for the idealization of beauty, however I will talk about Classical antiquity in which the Greek civilization considered the canons and rules of proportion as rules of the ideal, put in a word composed of dichotomies: kalós (beauty) and agathós (good) resulting in Kalokagathia, which, in combination, resulted in the greatest virtue of beauty itself However, there was the case of the opposite, found in physical and moral ugliness, which ended up being represented through monsters and portents.
Portents in Western, biblical tradition were understood as signs of imminent misfortunes, such as rain of blood, flames in the sky. Monsters, on the other hand, were anomalous births or living animals from different cultural poles, which, due to the ignorance of otherness, were monstrous; giraffes, elephants, hippos, crocodiles, animals that inspired the narrative of the Book of Job 41:2-25, and the tradition of the Leviathan monster. When seeking to represent the monster or portent in artistic manifestation, the tradition of the search for Kalokagathía is replaced by the aesthetics of excess. The ideal proportions pass into the background, and the image enjoys the incomprehensible rules of imbalance, one finds monstrosity, the grotesque and the ugliness in aesthetic amorality, a deliberate distance from what had previously been a symphony of delicate colors, with defined patterns and symmetry.
However, and contrary to the Greek virtue of the beauty of the soul, physical beauty, beauty in itself, Saint Augustine of Hippo writes in The city of God, XVI, 8: monsters are also children of God. In this, he defends the monster as a beautiful being, for the sole fact of being children of God, arguing that in the Holy Scriptures it would be more convenient to follow the allegorical, spiritual meaning of the word, beyond focusing on superfluous descriptions.
God has created all beings, He knows when and how there is or will be creation, because He knows the beauty of the world and the similarity or diversity of its parts. But those who cannot contemplate the whole are disturbed by the deformity of one part, because they do not know what context it is to refer to.
Without having the intention of defending the monstrosity based on the religious claim that everyone is a child of God - even being a fervent believer in this - I consider that life deserves the capacity for redemption. In the intention to reach and find Kalokagathia in everything that surrounds us, we lose it in ourselves. Beauty itself should exist in love with closed eyes. Pursue and proclaim a personal tradition of seeking happiness and love and acceptance of otherness.
Miguel Jímenez
Often seen as rituals or simple customs inherited from past times, they actually fulfill basic functions for human beings, since they constitute a collective response to the most fundamental needs of a society: the feeling of belonging, the creation of a collective identity, the creation and maintenance of a social structure and they serve a sense of transcendence.
This is why, and what we will see in this article, cultural practices have a value that goes beyond what might appear at first glance.
Sociologist Émile Durkheim argued for the importance of traditions and rituals when trying to create and maintain social cohesion. In his work The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (1995), Durkheim argued that rituals are how groups unify, and beyond that, they also give meaning to collective life; in other words, they are the reason we maintain and care for each other. Their importance is such that they help us preserve the past, give shape and stability to the present, and depending on how we alter and apply them, they indicate and guide us towards the future. Essentially, they are the answers that a society gives to the existential questions of identity and belonging: What or who are we? What purpose do we have? How do we fit into the world?
Even if we disagree with them, traditions structure societies and offer concrete answers to fundamental questions. Humans seek the satisfaction of physical needs, but there are also spiritual and emotional needs. From religious ceremonies to national holidays, it is these practices that allow us to feel that we belong and give meaning to our lives.
A very clear example of this is the Day of the Dead in Mexico, a holiday in which we can observe sets of rituals that culminate in a beautiful representation of Mexican culture and that externalize collective identities.
The way in which these altars that venerate ancestors are built tells us a lot about who they are and what is considered valuable. Mexican communities have the opportunity to remember their ancestors and affirm their identity, connecting the present with their pre-Hispanic roots and their connection with Catholicism and the religious evolution that it has also sustained (Brandes, 1998).
Beyond being simple repetitive customs, traditions are loaded with symbolism, they are given a deep emotional meaning and value that also works reciprocally in people's lives. Victor Turner , a British anthropologist, explains how rites of passage are ceremonies that represent important vital transitions in the lives of members of each society. In Western societies, these rites of passage begin with baptism and continue with confirmations, fifteen years, marriages and even death with burial and the accompanying rites. These traditions allow the transition from a personal social status to a public one, providing emotional and spiritual structures with which to help deal with the changes inherent in the process and result (Turner, 1967).
El Greco El entierro del conde de Orgaz, 1586. Iglesia de Santo Tomé, Toledo, España
It is also important to mention how traditions play a fundamental role during times of crisis, they are emotional anchors that offer a certain stability and reinforce the feeling of permanence. This is especially evident in times of collective uncertainty, such as wars, where these rituals reinforce feelings of community, emotionally console people and also motivate them to take uncertain and risky courses of action for the collective good.
Traditions are often thought of as immutable and unchanging, but anthropologist Clifford Geertz , in his work The Interpretation of Cultures (1973), argues that culture is like a "text" that is constantly being rewritten. Following this perspective, traditions change because they have to adapt over time and with the possibilities of the people who recreate them, ending up reflecting social, political and technological changes of the time in which they are being represented. This allows them to be recreated and even exalted, but it can also result in them losing their original meaning, a clear example of this are religious festivals that have been coopted by consumer culture, lose their spiritual meaning and are transformed into commercial events. The most obvious example is Christmas, celebrated in different ways in various parts of the world, it has gone from being a religious holiday to a phenomenon that represents and celebrates mass consumption (Harvey, 1989).
Although they may lose their meaning, they can also be a way to revitalize or reinterpret them so that they can adapt to new social realities
An example of this is the "reconstruction" of indigenous festivities in Latin America, where communities that had lost their traditions due to colonization and years of oppression by the church and the state have begun to recreate and promote them as a form of cultural resistance and reaffirmation of their collective identity.
Traditions are not just a reflection of the past, they are a constant negotiation and representation of the present. The world around us changes and so do our traditions. They may lose their relevance or need to be transformed, but their fundamental core remains as they serve our deepest needs. They provide meaning, make us feel like we belong and give structure to our lives. They are like a mirror that connects us with who we were, helps us define who we are and directs us towards who we want to be.
Referencias:
Brandes, S (1998) La muerte en la fiesta: Una interpretación cultural del Día de los Muertos. University of Texas Press.
Durkheim, É (1995) The Elementary Forms of Religious Life The Free Press
Geertz, C. (1973). The Interpretation of Cultures. Basic Books.
Harvey, D (1989) The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change Blackwell
Turner, V. (1967). The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual. Cornell University Press
I tripped over the wire that was hidden in the high grass as I walked to the grave. I had never entered a graveyard before. Never in twentyfive years had I had the need to visit a dead person in a cemetery. In my family the tradition was to take them to church after the cremation.
“I don't want the worms to eat me,” I thought for the longest time in my life. After that great time, I stopped thinking so much about what would happen to my body after death. I guess my body will stop holding me inside, and I'll move on to some other place. Not here, not physically.
As I walked through the grass I thought about how wrong my idea earlier about the Campo Santo was. I thought it would be dark, or that it would have a pungent, cadaverous smell, but nothing like that. On the contrary, there was a strange and pleasant smell of flowers. Cempasuchil season has just begun, but the wildflowers pay tribute to all the people buried beneath the earth. I thought it would be sad, and although a nostalgia flooded me that blurred my vision, turning my thoughts into liquids that slid down my cheeks, to the tips of my hands. But it wasn't overwhelming sadness. There was some peace in knowing that all those who had passed through the doors before me were now resting looking up at the sky, high among the mountains.
“The Pyrenees are not that great, then” I thought. The flowers and birds danced and sang. I am pleased to know that sadness slides to the tips of the fingers in Mexico. And on the tips of the fingers they turn into flour, for bread, yeast and orange zest.
Maybe a more complicated stew, steak with onions, chicken in mushrooms or Coca-Cola. Or a text in a digital magazine.
I like to know that the wires that hide in the weeds are part of our traditional carelessness that lazy people drag along, who are so, but so lazy that they don't have the energy to be evil.
Or sad. It is nice that Mexico is not sad.
M.I. Flores Nachón
1
It is necessary to be sap and flow through the nerves of Mexico to understand that just as its paths, rivers and mountains run through the continental mass in relief of creases, we find that they are the same creases in the peasant hands that plant corn or grind nixtamal. When we enter the rural roads of Mexico, peasant roads
that carry the
1
sap of the plants like the veins in the leaves, in the same way that the wise worldview and tradition of the peasant mothers who, from their fertile and transforming womb, have known to be, know and understand that from water, earth, air and fire, life manifests itself in rivers, mountains, skies and sun. The same that is traveled and transcended in the seed that her children sow, germinate and transmute, in an agriculture “...where a ritual is built around Mother Earth that respects and recreates her”. It is a rite based on life, it is an agriculture that embraces, not displaces, it is based on love, it is then when you begin to understand the true value that each earth path travels.
To any country I have gone to, whether south of the Rio Bravo or north of Patagonia, with any sister or brother I have had the opportunity to talk to, history repeats itself:
A
rural exodus, which follows another cultural one, which follows another, which follows another...
How much more senseless uprooting is needed to recognize and stop denying the cultural legacy that exists beyond the cities? We are all grandchildren or great-grandchildren of a farmer, and yet to be one it is not necessary to have land, you only need to endure like land.
I call to use our senses and understand with respect to those traditions of language, narratives, rituals or culinary that the pod system, through the booming official discourse of globalized neocolonialism, displaces us and culturally disaffirms us of our mestizo and rural origin.
I call to be a seed, and not to be a currency, the currency is not born, the currency is not eaten, it is not drank.
Head Editor
María Inés Flores Nachón maines flores@live.com
Cover Design
Antonella Guagnelli Cuspinera antonella.guagnelli@gmail.com
Editorial Design
Junuen Caballero Soto junuen.caballero@gmail.com