Mexico City: Mujer, amante del punk y delirio

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Alistándonos para salir de fiesta, tomando mezcal, The Cramps resonando por todo el depa. A dies minutos para la media noche, la ciudad nos apresura, le damos fondo a nuestras bebidas mágicas y vamos rumbo a alcanzar el último metro que nos llevará a las pistas ultravioletas infundidas de punk.

Ser jóven y amante del punk y todos sus derivados, de querer y poder bailar sin importarte en lo minimo quien o que te rodea — hombre, muxer, chavx, fresa, goth y todo lo que cabe en medio: bailamos. Entrega completa al fuzz de la guitarra y hondura del bajo, a la desesperación de las batacas y el delirio colectivo de cuerpos aplastando, empujando, moviéndose.

Ser mujer, amante del punk y delirio, y vivir en el DF. Las desveladas, los slams, lxs amigxs nuevos y las pistas de baile, innumerables como las botellas vacías de jumex y tequila. Memorias derramadas y esfumadas en calles sin nombre. Nada se compara a los slams de surf y garage punk de mis favoritas bandas rápidas frenéticas y chilangas. A los círculos de chavos banda chocándose enérgicamente en el corazón de Iztapalapa. A bailar rodeada de gente que dicta su movimiento colectivo a una música subversiva y alucinante.

Fui chavita, amante de punk por primera vez en la secundaria. Los CDs de The Clash de mi hermana y mi primer novio, que me dio la credibilidad necesaria para asistir a tokines en el barrio de Los Ángeles, me iniciaron en un viaje irreversible.

Avanzamos ocho años, surgiendo del metro Niños Heroes, cruzando Jardin Pushkin y reviviendo mi amor por el delirio musicalizado en la pista del MultiForo Alicia. Al llegar, agotó mi energía bailando al compas del caos. Y cuando los efectos de mi última chela se desvanece de mi cuerpo, bailo totalmente sobria, alentada por una energía inagotable, espíritu agitándose, ojos entrecerrados, cuerpo y alma libre.

Mandar a un chavo dos veces mi tamaño volando a través del slam. Pierdo los aretes, rompo mi reloj, me tumban me revuelco me levantan del suelo, delineador y pelo hecho desmadre.

Amante del caos, del desmadre, bailar, perder y encontrarme en el centro de la pista de baile, soltarlo todo.

El punk en la ciudad de México me hace mujer libre, loca, y delirante. La mujer combativa que siempre he sido.

Ella Está Embarcando: The Retreat Forward

The soft lavender hue of my notepad makes writing this a pleasant visual experience. A compliment to these feelings of tranquility and peace affirmed by the music and conversation of the last few hours, of the last few days. Everything that surrounds me at this precise, building, fleeting moment encourages me to retreat ahead in the construction and expression of my creative desires. A shift, a recalibration, a decision. A choice in the direction to do what I have always wanted to do in the places I have always wanted to be.

It has been a long and agonizing accumulation of pain and heartbreak, this life and becoming. As I’ve probably expressed in my writing and in conversation and in silence, I am who I continue to become because of Mexico City and the traversing of physical, spiritual, emotional, creative terrain that it has entailed.

Navigating the intersections of these has challenged and strengthened every inch of my spiritual and physical body. It has broken me down and built me up a hundred times over. Destroyed and inspired an identity faithful to the emancipation from a spiritually, culturally, physically, creatively bordered existence. And the embracement of it. I am a child and inhabitant of the borderlands. They have birthed and destroyed me. Crossing them and inhabiting each edge, each crevice, has strengthened me.

Four years ago, at twenty years old and during my first return to Mexico City, I crossed the physical terrain in search for the affirmation of an authenticity of the self. I returned to Mexico, a symbolic and deeply spiritual journey masked as a study abroad opportunity, to demystify what it meant to live and be and perform as a Mexican from within its political and ephemeral borders. I sought the authenticity and approval that I never received. Because of my language, skin, lived experiences and condition as child of both the diaspora and the transbarrio, I experienced the violence inspired by nationalism and cultural and social distance. I wasn’t Mexican but Pocha, not Spanish but Spanglish, not authentic but foreign. I suffered but eventually relished in it all. I began to look for the unique and non-conforming in Mexico City and I found it at every corner, found that I belonged there because of my love and passion, because of my difference. I learned there that that is precisely what this world depends on.

I fell in love with that city and during my second and third returns, I began to more comfortably occupy this new and different position and perspective, felt the opportunities to reflect and discard, better understand and build anew. The liberty and opportunity of traveling to a new place unfamiliar with your past and who you have been before. A place that attracts people in search of this opportunity. Here I studied, I researched, I worked, and I became.

My fourth return was pure and exhilarating escape. I proved that DF has always been mine, it has always been within my grasp, just a plane ticket, a phone call, an email, a decision away.

This realization was a long time coming. For four years, I felt deep pain when for different circumstances, I have had to leave DF behind for the US. It is when I have felt furthest away from these feelings and visions I mention inspired by the city, from the superior passional quality of absolutely every detail of rising to live another day, from the prospect of recreating this just one more time, that I have retreated into depression and pain. A physical pain inflicted by denial, negation, and distance. My own negation and the impossibility of finding the encouragement and affirmation from my surroundings.

Yet meanwhile this suffering may very well have been self inflicted, it was my reaction to this sudden shift and recalibration into a different terrain, one that I felt and knew was hostile to everything that I had loved so deeply in Mexico City. Being in the US, I felt frustrated and oppressed with the apathy and alienation that inspires people to prefer material well being versus poetry. How this preference informed social interactions, a hug, a kiss, a glance was drained of the desire to truly connect and acknowledge – two exercises I learned to do while living in the city of my dreams. Social and public distance charted out my navigation of space and I hated it so deeply. I made the resolve that my only escape was back to Mexico. And I saw it as an escape in the direction of the fulfillment of my happiness.

This dream that still holds true and that is perhaps more mature with experience and steadfast with conviction, is one that has made many people uncomfortable and has solicited critique, and even spiritual violence, from people I deeply love and have surrounded me all my life. This violence was me denying this for myself. Retreating backward to nostalgia.

Yet everything that surrounds me at this precise, building, fleeting moment affirms that if I continue to obey an environment so unfamiliar with what i love and propels me forward, I will probably never transcend any challenge and pain. Never create of it, use my vision and love to express this experience. This life.

All of this movement and migration has liberated my spirit in such an irreparable way: it can never be undone. I can never retreat backward.

The only option, my only opportunity to continue to live and love, is to move forward. Yet, what I have recently learned is that the pain and suffering that has characterized my life for four years must now be what propels me forward.

In my past, I had refused to accept that I had to expand and deepen and express myself and my vision, to be and use what I had lived to create, to understand that this was another way of living, that it wasn’t anyone else’s say but my own, and that I had to faithfully inwardly listen to this truth. Pain because I couldn’t and was not ready to decide for myself. Pain because we are constantly told to follow the path of obedience. Because to choose sometimes means to challenge those who so desperately seek to preserve the integrity of their decisions, choosing differently means breaking away, building anew.

I will use this pain and life and ultimately love and inspiration to propel myself forward and not to oppress my decision and vision. There is only one way left to escape alienation of present day society, to retreat ahead of it. Wherever the retreat forward takes me.

Mexico City: Añoranza

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¿Como nombrar este sentimiento que me paraliza de tristeza al contemplar sus amaneceres desde la memoria? ¿Qué es esto que me agobia de desesperanza de cerrar los ojos para abrirlos y encontrarme parada a la altura de uno de sus innumerables cerros, a la altura de todo su caos? ¿Qué es esto lo que siento, qué es esto que me a afligido por cuatro largos, hermosos, increíbles, dolorosos años?

¿Como y porqué nombrarlo?

Este amor, este sufrimiento, es el principio y fin de mucha poesía, mucho silencio, mucho mal entendimiento. Fuente inagotable de inspiración y principal tema de debate. Con el fin de racionalizar la poesía, de teorizar acerca del laberinto que es el corazón, me entorpezco con sentimiento, con nostalgia, con añoranza.

Lo que sufro, siento y no pienso, es la poesía encarnada y sollozada. Evidencia de que he sentido un amor inigualable. Que por haber partido por primera vez hace cuatro años, estoy conectada eterna e ineludiblemente con la ciudad. La partida, la ruptura en pleno amor, justo en los más intensos y hermosos momentos, cuando duele más. Cuando es imposible regresar.

Si me hubiera quedado…si hubiera vivido, amado, habitado la ciudad ininterrumpidamente, ¿hubiera bastado el tiempo? ¿me hubiera sentido plena de amor, satisfecha de sentir?

Pero me fui. Y siento. añoro. amo.

Nunca dejare de extrañarla. Nunca dejaré de pensar en ella cuando me encuentre muy lejos. Pese a una felicidad distinta inspirada por otros lugares, pese a la tranquilidad meditada, pese a la sabiduría de los tropiezos, de las distancias, del amor. Nunca.

Siempre me va a doler no estar allí. Siempre me va a doler aunque regrese. Siempre.

Mexico City: Muse

Chad Santos Photography

It is difficult to explain this even to myself.

A wave of emotion overcomes me upon admiring this beautiful picture by Chad Santos of the Valley of Mexico. Burdened with euphoria and bliss, I am surprised to deeply feel and validate a truth that’s lived inside of me for such a long time, a faithful companion in all of my journeys in the past four years.

In my frantic desire to be within and be surrounded by this city, I realize that although physical proximity is and will always be a priority for me when in comes to DF, what I have deeply yearned for is to absorb as much of its essence in order to mold my spirit and being after the beauty of its vastness and its absolute singularity.

A mujer in love with a city. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of people in love with Mexico City. Out of so many of us, constantly growing and multiplying, sharing and encouraging, I wonder how many love it so deeply and so differently as to want to imbue their life and their being with some of its best, most spiritual, most haunting and thus most human qualities. I find myself contemplating how many of us begin to think and feel that this overwhelming love is the beginning of a process of root shaking growth, of emotional and spiritual cultivation.

I entertain this new revelation: I love Mexico City in order to become more like it.

To imbue each detail, each part, each morsel of my days with the qualities and characteristics that have irremediably enamored me. Its restless nature. The love and warmth of its public space. The millions of opportunities to share a smile, a drink, a poem, a sunset with absolute strangers. The sonorously rich cadence of twenty-seven million people rising with the sun and moving through the entirety of its surface, swarming in beautiful choreography of the every day bustle both above and below its concrete lake bed. The opportunity to share anything and everything with it and with its inhabitants, relishing it all in the solace and solidarity of solitude. The scenes, the films, the music, the sunrise, the Sunday strolls, the Saturday café con leche y chocolate croissants, the freedom inspired while on the brink of a kiss, on the brink of a taxi collision. The marvelous of the everyday, the quotidian of the surreal. The fluidity of life within chaos, hope comforted by unpredictability, resting and growing within the unfamiliar, expansion of the self and of the spirit within endlessness.

All of this has inspired me to write profusely and ceaselessly. It has inspired fleeting and soul-searing love affairs. It has inspired my activism, my journalism, my voice, my political and spiritual commitments and expressions. It has inspired such a shift in my cosmovisión that not one thing I do upon rising and upon laying to rest has remained unaffected by my connection to it. It has inspired such profound irreparable change. An unleashing of an incessant river within me, that nourishes my spirit and sprouts the creative projects that serve as ode and poetry to its inexhaustible capacity to inspire this sort of love in us.

What I carry with me, what nourishes me on my journey that is this life, is the affirmation that I am as great and expansive as that city. Of looking within and seeing a reflection of that which I love without measure. A reminder to live and love in homage to this gift: I am serendipity. I am unpredictability. I am vast. I am endless. I am alive. 

Mexico City: Performativity a lo Chilango

In Mexico City, everything is performative. The dress of denizens reflect social positioning, sub-culture loyalty, political affiliations and both economic privilege and injustice. The majority of Mexican people, like individuals and entire communities globally, use clothing to express themselves – fresas flock to the gigantic malls of the city that house transnational clothing chains like Zara and Bershka, rockeros punkeros and goths do their shopping on Saturday mornings at El Chopo tianguis, and autonomous and revolutionary minded students and people opt to thrift, recycle and trade clothing in direct resistance to the mass spending that characterizes Mexico’s consumer habits.

But there are also people who are not given this option of personal and social expression through dress: a large population of Mexico City lives in severe poverty, surviving off the pocket change of the millions of transients that pass them by on Metro station entrances, intersections of major avenues, and important pedestrian streets in the city’s center. Meanwhile many people live without the choice nor the ability of economic consumption, their presence is an important part of Mexico City’s collective identity. It is a city of contradictions, where abundance and scarcity live in the same neighborhood, walk the same streets, and struggle to make themselves seen, heard, and noticed.

Performativity encompasses not only dress, but many aspects of cultural expression such as language, social relationships and especially in Mexico City, corruption. Just like people work on sidewalks to gather change, many police officers, underpaid and unscrupulous, often ask for mordidas or pay-offs from young folks caught drinking out in public, from motorists accused of traffic violations and from unsuspecting denizens identified as srewable. This performance is intimidating as they menace people with arrest and if you’re a foreigner, deportation. Witnessing the performativity of corruption and poverty of Mexico’s police force is not cool at all, trust me.

Yet for me, the most aesthetically pleasing and insightful example of urban performativity in Mexico City remain to be the hundreds of street performers, mimes and movie characters brought to life on weekends in el Centro Historico. Panhandling is turned into a ritual that involves entire families and public life in the city and is a view into this society’s perpetual hunger for constant entertainment, a direct result of unceasing consumption of television and mass media.

The pictures that follow, taken by the talented photographer and chronicler of Mexico City, Chad Santos, illustrate the faces that both symbolize necessity and epitomize the happiness of many of the city’s children: the Joker, Neyteri, the Rocker, el Payaso, y la Catrina.

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The Joker, impeccably cynical, attracts both young and adult boys alike. The eery shadows and contrasts between grey, blue and black hues of the growing night in El Centro frame his stage: limitless urban space.

 

 

 

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The research, time and artistry of DF’s public and street side celebrities represents the DIY attitude that characterizes DF living. Yet there is something deeply beautiful about it all, the crafting of the faces of Mexico City, los rostros de la ciudad, adapting and transforming them, the limitless possibility of becoming something and someone else.

 

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Their faces, perfectly crafted and painted, pay homage to contemporary norteamericano culture, a lo Chilango. But it seems that even street performers themselves are capable of believing that they can become these idols. For minutes, hours and entire evenings, he is Gene Simmons.

 

 

chad santos_payasoLos payasos, clowns, are among the most widespread streetside musers in DF. Exhausted and often overwhelmed faces are costumed in bright colors. They share jokes in the metro, juggle on Reforma and offer balloon animals and smiles in el Centro. Happiness to momentarily lighten the ceaselessness of everyday life of an often overwhelming city.

 

chad santos_catrinaLa Catrina is a quintessentially Mexican expression of beauty, immortality and pride. It is an aesthetic inspired by Posada and appropriated worldwide, especially on Nov. 2 (Día de los Muertos). In Mexico City, children gaze upon el rostro de la catrina,  an admiration and assertion that lo Mexicano, us mexicans, us too, are beautiful.

México’s Mourning

November 8, 2014: Estoy destrozada. Camino por los andenes del metro y percato como la gente camina muta, tranquila, como un oceano impenetrable de humanidad y silencio, agobiados, de luto perpetuo. 

43 Ayotzinapa normal school students murdered, burned, destroyed, and thrown into a river. Disappeared. In such a surreal an disgusting context, where 43 students from southern Mexico were burned and killed, where only their jaws and teeth remain remnants of the violence, I search to understand how this society as a collective, makes sense of this violence, not only in thought but in feeling, in attachment and empathy, in compassion, in anger, in mourning.

What does this society feel? What do they grieve? Walking through the city, in the metro stations, every profile, in every child’s gleaming brown face, in every silence, I discern a deep and old mourning. How can a society be used to such sadness? Or how can we exist when tragedy is everyday’s news? Born in Los Angeles, born in Chicago, born in Ciudad Juarez, born in Iguala, Guerrero. Born brown? Born poor? Born a womyn? Born in such deep and enveloping oppression that your life has lead you to work, feel, think and hope for something different? Born in Iguala, a student, a protester and you are burned and thrown into a river of oblivion that runs blood and is quickly overflowing with bodies, no longer able to hide the thousands of lives destroyed and disappeared within its riverbed.

Walking in Mexico City, a day after the government’s admission of the killing of Ayoztinapa’s students, I truly feel we live in mourning. The mood that has enveloped me informs my perception of my grey, concrete and overwhelming urban context. A sad and melancholic view of the city and country. Only that I believe that this mourning is not fresh. It is an old and ancient mourning. A mourning that is embedded, sown, embroidered, and consumed by this country’s people since long before the student massacres of 1968 and 1972, since before the Dirty War, since before the disappearance, killing, and sexual violence against womyn in Juarez, the State of Mexico, and Atenco. This mourning precedes the unfulfilled utopia of the Mexican Revolution. Since before, long before, the consolidation of the putrid Mexican state that has agonized and lived so proximate to death since its inception. The Mexican pueblo has always lived in mourning. It has lived, loved, rejoiced, resisted and been repressed and murdered within perpetual mourning. Why does Ayozinapa not stir us from this trance, from this state of desensitized and lethargic state of mourning? In the small and vast injustices we must mourn, but not in silence and lethargy, but in catharsis and resistance:

Basta. Ya me canse. De luto a resistencia.

Mexico City: Descenso

Alex Neyra

Peaking through the window, I searched for signs of life as we lowered deeper into the abyss of pollution and morning fog.

As we penetrated what appeared to be an endless sea of grey foam, I began to discern patches of light. A million spheres of light suddenly peaked through the thick layers of pollution and I realized that the enormous slumbering creature had been tracing the trajectory of our plane as soon as we began our descent over the fringed edges of its endlessness.

I suddenly realized Mexico City slumbered below me and my heart jumped. It was five in the morning and I had finally arrived to the city that has been my destination ever since I first arrived almost four years ago.

It is precisely that moment of exaltation inspired by my palpable proximity to it that characterizes its entrancing nature. I arrived to Mexico City two days ago and I find myself adjusting to how it awakens, its palpitations, its breath, its restlessness. Returning means a natural and fluid synchronization, matching energy and breath.

Regreso al monstruo, y me arrojo a su mar de luz, de caós, de vida.

Mexico City: An Ode to Self-Love

This is the city where I first began to appreciate solitude as a necessary fortifier of self-love. In waking all over the city, enjoying a late evening film screening, and reposing on a park bench on a Sunday evening by and with myself, I began to appreciate the importance of abounding within my own company: of enjoying my whole being within the greater scheme of existence.

Through witnessing and participating in a city characterized by poverty, disparity, excess, beauty, resilience and ingenuity, I spiraled down a path of introspection and self awareness. When I began to navigate through the city I was struck with semiotic, verbal, and silent affirmations of injustice. I noticed how the hierarchy of race and class informed the ways in which people interacted and existed in the city. Indigenous and non-Spanish speaking people beg for food and work for incredibly low wages all over the city meanwhile the richest people lavished in lifestyles of excess and leisure in the secluded, almost segregated, neighborhoods. The colonias would be divided and organized among patterns of class and social positioning – walking from comfortable upper middle class living to poverty was only a matter of about six meters. Although I was familiar with racism and discrimination from within the U.S., as a person of modest and comfortable urban poverty in Los Angeles and as a brown bodied muxer, it was a different matter experiencing this in Mexico City.

These silent and withdrawn observations intersected with how the urban locality interpreted and contemplated my existence. In my navigating and moving through the city, I have experienced how my own body and existence has been codified and measured according to the social codes of race and class. As a daughter of rural and poor northern Mexican roots, my skin color is the shade of what the racial and political elite consider poor, naca, chaka: a dark and luminous shade of brown. And as soon as I broke the corporal silence muted by my skin shade, something interesting would happen: my Spanish oscillated between the perfect chilango spanish and my English that of the “typical American” accent. I was stuck between literally being too brown to be a U.S. citizen and possessed too strange of an accent to be an authentic Mexican. Yet my social positioning as a student and my economic comfort of being what some may consider middle class in Mexico allowed me to lavish and enjoy the privileges of a comfortable apartment, a university education, and many nights out on the town.

This first year in Mexico City proved to be a challenge of my well established understanding of myself, of the existence I had worked hard to reconcile over the expanse of 21 years. As a womxn of color with migrant histories and completely conscious to the injustice and oppression imposed on my communities in the U.S. as a student and activist, living in Mexico I was challenged and questioned for my assertiveness and self-love. I learned to see myself in a different light and in a different context, and I learned to deeply value and appreciate the reflection I discerned as a testament of my own history and my belonging to greater and more vast history of migration, of resistence, and of love. It is thus that through the experiences of living and interacting with the city and the people who inhabit it that I learned that people also navigated and struggle with social, cultural, racial and economic codes and barriers like people do in the U.S.. Racism and classism is very present in the national subconscious and is seen plastered throughout the city in advertisements, nightlife social dynamics, street side encounters, and public transportation systems. Yet discerning the ways in which the lack of self-love and the imposition of self loathing are as violent in Mexico as they are in the rest of the world, is a lesson still remains with me to this day.

Although it was painful and challenging, I was able to understand who I was in the slightly greater scheme of things, being flexible with that understanding, while retaining my lived experiences as markers of my history and everything that those symbolize. It is the deep meditation of interacting with people, being a silent spectator and participant in the public life of the city, and being a lover and friend that have taught me to love and be who I am and am meant to be.

Because I have also met many people and forged both romantic and amicable relationships. Meanwhile many of these I have been able to keep and nurture others have fallen victims of the circumstance of distance and time. Meanwhile my past and my memory and my present self will always be informed because of them, I am still able to discern Mexico City as the city that taught me to love. Mexico City is the city that taught me to love myself. That in light of so much existence and so much excess, I was able to become more intimate with myself: with what angered me, with what inspired me, with what filled me with so much energy for life. This is what has thus inspired my journey to find the words to communicate the anger, the inspiration, and the love.

As I write, I prepare myself to return to the city in a few weeks. And as I conjure memories of my favorite streets smells and tastes, a love and excitement bursts within me. It feels as if I am returning to an old friend, returning to someone who has seen me grow and has seen me change. It is the city that taught me to listen to my deepest and most forgotten desires, to contemplate who I am within the endless and expansive and throbbing existence that is life, and has taught me to love and appreciate my place within it. It is the city that taught me to become the poet I was always meant to be.

Mexico City: Presencias Urbanas

Chad Santos Photography
Chad Santos Photography

Unos de mis recuerdos más tempranos de la Ciudad de México es de una mañana en el sur de la ciudad, caminando sobre Avenida Universidad hacia Metro Quevedo, contemplando y asombrándome del ajetreo de aquella mañana de sábado, del flujo de gente y de auto. Conforme me iba acercando a la entrada del metro percataba como la vida fluía sobre planos contradictorios. Los autos, la gente, la sonoridad y los tempos se movían y expresaban en corrientes que chocaban, necios y tercos en su fluir.

Dentro de este ecosistema caótico se suponía que teníamos que coexistir. En estas condiciones extremas muchos agrandamos nuestras necesidades, ignorando los sufrimientos ajenos.

Estos silencios y ausencias los he vuelto a ver y sentir a través de todo el tiempo viviendo en el DF. Caminando y reventándote de alegría en una noche de fiesta en la ciudad, tienes todo a la mano, unos chicles unas rosas unos cigarros. En el metro te venden todo lo que ofrece un OXXO a un cuarto del precio. Gozas de entretenimiento de clase mundial de malabaristas, tragafuegos, payasos y acróbatas en cualquier intersección de la ciudad.

Esto es el paralelismo y contradicción del mundo chilango. Diversos especies de chilangos quedan relegados a los distintos planos que dividen y conforman la panorama citadina. En las colonias a donde algunos acuden por un buen café, orgánico y muy local, debajo de las terrazas cubiertas de los edificios, gente degusta de una ensalada de quinoa mientras que a sus pies una persona pide en silencio el apaciguamiento de su hambre. Por las calles del Centro, en donde la grandeza del legado intemporal se mezcla con la decadencia y la pobreza urbana, la gente camina entre los edificios maravillándose del esplendor del espíritu humano mientras ignorándolo en su peor y más olvidado estado.

En mi travesía por la ciudad, viajo ensimismada, pues me ocupo con resguardar mi confort y supervivencia, evitando el contacto visual, fingiendo apatía y fastidio, apresurando el paso, e ignorando y suprimiendo la tormenta que brota dentro de mi. Al fin, me resulta más cómodo aguantar la culpabilidad y evitar la mirada que enfrentar el rostro del hombre trabajando de tragafuegos, del niño que toca el acordeón en el Centro todas las noches, de la pequeña niña vestida de payasita, de la madre que se sienta, todos los días, por la entrada del Metro Quevedo con sus pequeños hijxs a vender dulces de amaranto.

Contemplarlos, como si su hambre y necesidad se fundiera con el paisaje urbano, convirtiéndolos en abstracciones urbanas, notas de pie en la crónica de la ciudad que cuenta con los centros comerciales y la trasplantación de la cultura yankee como protagonistas.

Pues, el hambre y la pobreza sí tiene rostro. Son niñxs, gente, humanos que agrupamos con millones de otrxs bajo la etiqueta “chilango”, miembro humano de la población urbana de la Ciudad de México.

Mexico City: Días de lluvia

“Parece que va llover, el cielo
se está nublando, parece que
va llover ¡ay¡ mamá me estoy
mojando”
Pedro Infante, fragmento de la canción “Parece que va llover”

The Metropolitan Cathedral of the Assumption of Mary  © Chad Santos Photography
The Metropolitan Cathedral of the Assumption of Mary

Es verano en Los Ángeles, tiempo y clima que agobia y fastidia y que a menudo nos hace perder toda paz y calma. El tiempo muchas veces determina nuestro interior, nuestra conducta, nuestra paz. A cambio me pregunto y contemplo mi afinidad por el frío, por los otoños e inviernos.

En Los Angeles, mi más temprana comunidad y hogar, gozo del confort que me brindan los rayos de sol que penetran mi ser, que calientan el alma. Pero el calor también trae desequilibrio, como si su exceso me alejara de mi contacto con los demás, como si su sofocante presencia me alejara de la intimidad conmigo misma. Pero en los tiempos de lluvia encuentro una intimidad con el entorno, con las ciudades que habito.  Las lluvias, que tan a menudo abruman la Ciudad de México, es lo que extraño y disfruto.

Es el tiempo de lluvias torrenciales, aquellas que te sorprenden a media calle desamparada y sin paraguas. Para mi, el agua es algo especial y espiritual, algo casi tranquilizante.

Es por eso que la lluvia llega a significar fuerza. La ciudad de México ha sobrevivido siglos de estas lluvias y sin embargo su suelo, aunque agobiado por tiempos de exceso y escasez de agua, persiste como si conservado por esa violencia fortificante.

Aquí comparto algunas tomas de los días de lluvia del fotógrafo Chad Santos junto con algunas reflexiones suyas acerca del DF en tiempo de lluvia:

“El capitalino promedio suele usar paraguas, otros más botas y lo más despistados que salieron desprotegidos suelen adquirir capas de plástico por 10 pesos, éstos últimos portan un look de muñeco de Lucha Libre de mercado, los niños se sienten superhéroes con ellas.”

 

 

 

“Conforme las lluvias van siendo más recurrentes se debe salir de cualquier sitio con una hora de anticipación y sobre todo encontrar asiento para dormir ya que el camino será largo. Ir escuchando música en el celular o jugar al Candy Crush es la distracción de algunos, otros tantos ya evolucionaron para dormir de píe.”

 

 

“Cuando Tláloc el dios de la lluvia hace acto de presencia en las vialidades del Distrito Federal todo se torna en un concierto de smog con claxons, sobra decir que bajo tierra el metro es una sinfonía de vendedores ambulantes con transeúntes mojados que luchan por llegar pronto a casa. De algún modo la naturaleza reclama un poco de su pasado, vivir en lo que fuera un lago conlleva resignación en los habitantes.”