I have so many things to do that it is hard to know where to start. It is hard to know where to start because realistically, there is not enough time to accomplish it all — if there were, I could start anywhere. I would prefer to just start anywhere but I must first discern which task takes priority, since I know I cannot finish everything on time; this is very difficult since I have already reduced the size and scope of everything to a minimum.

I am glad at least that my building at work no longer feels hostile or empty, and that I can feel calm at work. I am glad I no longer dread work because of dreading the feeling of dread that came with it.

*

It is easy to criticize oneself but the actual meaning of my overly busy situation is not that I do not know how to manage time, but that my responsibilities are too diverse. People used to say that about my last job, but (a) it was not true except in comparison with a job an Ivy/public Ivy or Big Ten school, and (b) they had not seen this job which is far more diverse.

The Reeducated would tell me I am “blaming circumstances” when I should be “taking responsibility.”  Such people haven’t the faintest idea what they are talking about. In addition, if they had ever moved from a more abusive to a less or non abusive workplace, which I have done about three times at this point,  they should have observed that circumstances do in fact change people. It is not all you, and it is not all a question of how “spiritual” you are able to be or “how you look at things.” I am a materialist and I say practice forms theory.

*

In the Reeducated world, which appears to be the world of the Average Mentality, one cannot know things. In the time of Reeducation this idealist world thought it inappropriate for me to know I did not have time to complete my project as assigned. Nor was I supposed to realize I had not done all the necessary reading. I was to assume that the perception of a need to read was “procrastination,” and that the realization that a deadline I could refuse was unrealistic was “low self esteem” or some such thing. The only forbidden thought was that I could possibly have analyzed the situation correctly.

Now I have discovered that someone else is doing this abandoned project. Reading through the articles, I realize this person really has done all the reading I thought necessary, and more. I was right all along. The project of Reeducation may be to remove one’s legitimate authority, and to keep everyone seething about in some mendicant form of anxious seeking.

In the case my current project, it is past time for me to have started writing — even though there is much more which could be read. It is hard to write because I have so much material, it cannot be put into a small box. The only solution to is to write a great deal, as quickly as possible, and to put as much time into it as possible.

If I were still Reeducated, I would be questioning that thought. How could I be so arrogant as to think I can know for myself what I should do, and so on; how could I possibly believe I had professional expertise; and on, and on. And yet I have.

Axé.

Someone said the typical person does not think at all about the common good, the point of view of anyone else, or doing what is right. They only do what they want, and they are so oblivious to the existence of any other way of operating that they do not realize that this is what they are doing.

I thought this was unnecessarily sour until I heard a different remark. It was in reference to an extremely frivolous fantasy expressed by me, namely that if I could afford it, I would definitely have expensive rejuvenating facials and fill my wrinkles in. I would do this, I said, because having been frozen and distorted for a long time due to Reeducation, I have not done all of the things I would have liked to by now. I want an extension on life therefore and I would acccept both real and artificial extensions on youth and health.

The response: you cannot blame your frozenness on Reeducation! My question: do you mean I have no right to desire an extension on life? I found it very interesting that the opportunity was taken to assume that my topic was blame. Yet it seems people assume one is seeking ways to do this. They appear to have a deep desire to discover others placing blame, and to preach about this.

I wonder to what extent this has to do with the delight people take in police shows. “Do you admit…? You must take responsibility…!” they bleat. I wonder whether this is why they enjoy discussing the deficiencies of  “welfare mothers”.

Perhaps the person first cited here has a point. What, if anything, can one make of all of these neuroses, and what, if anything, do they have to do with the psychologies of capitalism?

Axé.

People do not like to grade papers but I always find it interesting except when I did not create the assignment, do not agree with it, did not create the course goals, do not agree with these, do not find them feasible, do not know what they are, or am unsure whether there is any reason why the course is given as it is other than that it was in 1930.

The above describes my situation about 50% of the time. Not having the information I need to make useful decisions in these situations, or the authority, latitude and time to design creative solutions to problems, is the most frustrating aspect of being a professor.

Having to limit oneself so as to fit into local systems antithetical to national and international norms and often to actual teaching (let alone research) is the most difficult aspect of the job.

Axé.

Dian Emery is another travel blogger who saw a hole in the internet and endeavored to fix it. While researching a girl’s getaway with her mum, she realized that there was a lack of information targeted directly to women travelers.

She traveled extensively as an “Air Force Brat”, spending summer vacations touring Austrian castles, camping near the beaches of Barcelona, and train trips to France.

Dian Emery enjoying lunch in Banes, Cuba

After university, she continued her life of travel, but soon discovered money was a necessary evil required to support her wanderlust. She launched Girlsgetaway.com a few months ago and hasn’t looked back.

“My goal is to encompass all aspects of a girl’s getaway,” she says. “From letting everything that happens in Vegas, stay in Vegas, to having a life altering experience in Marrakesh.”

While the site’s new, it’s lacking in the content department, but it makes up for it in the quality department. Dian’s passion for travel shines through in everything she writes.

However, the site’s not all about Dian, there are guest columns from writers around the world. I was particularly fond of the easy-to-read question and answer style of Laura Byrne Paquet’s “pampered girls” trip to Kingston and Vanessa Villanova’s short, but sweet video of Machu Picchu.

So many people speak of the wonders of Interlibrary Loan and I do understand them, but nothing can substitute a library full of actual books.

I just read an article to which I would not have had access had it not been for the Internet — but which could not have been written with only Interlibrary Loan and an Internet connection.

I know what you will say: summers are the time to gather these materials. I do not have the right kind of personality for that degree of resignation.

Axé.

It is of course Friday, so we should be wearing white, and it is the weekend, so we should sing. I sing that I used to be surprised at what was happening. Then I was shocked, and then angry. After that I was sad, and then I was ashamed for a long time. Next I became anxious, and now my most important emotion is rage.

If I composed a song it would be about myself and my colleague. I do not know what the title could be. It might be something like The Ballad of Leo and the Fire-Girl. In it we would ask how long, how long? How much longer must we continue to defer the development of ourselves and our students to the ravings of each new Blackguard?

Axé.

If during graduate school you lost a TAship at your institution; if you have now tried everyone’s patience here; if you are now being allowed to take certain classes so you can earn a professional qualification in another field; please do not address the professor who is kindly but painedly showing you how to register and directing you to other faculty’s classes as “my dear.”

Axé.

It is October 15, the traditional opening day of the job search season. I have a few suggestions for people going on campus visits — suggestions others may not have covered yet.

1. Good facilities are rare. Take note of the schools that have these.

2. Think of yourself as a colleague, not as an aspirant or a student.

3. That does not mean to think of yourself as a senior colleague.

4. Remember that even senior colleagues, when they are new hires, lead first by following.

5. Go with your gut feeling when choosing jobs. (And do not confuse this with your imagination about how things “should” or “must” be.)

Axé.

Any time is a good time to read Mercè Rodoreda. The Nation’s review article on her is worth reading, too. I have never really studied Rodoreda’s life and I have not read all of her books. Having read the review, however, I am re-fascinated. At one point the writer says:

It’s curious that Rodoreda is so esteemed by feminists (she’s the frequent subject of academic papers), when her novels revolve around the abdication of control by women and their subsequent humiliation. And yet there’s something steely and thoroughly modern about the way Rodoreda acknowledges the unsentimental deal-making that masquerades as love.

For oblique reasons this suddenly made me understand some aspects of Clarice Lispector, whose work to me alwasys seemed as flat as Danish modern furniture. My mistake, perhaps.

*

This, of course, is only further evidence for my theses about Reeducation, which assumed that if one had an education and an independent life then one was exerting inordinate amounts of “control” (this being a major sin for women). In Reeducation, as we know already, such achievements were reserved for people from perfect families; the rest of us mortals were incapable of achieving such things in a genuine way. We were better off without them, because for us happiness and achievement could only be masks.

My point is that if you relinquish control like that, and accept the kind of gender role to which Rodoreda’s characters are forced, you are then open to the kinds of humiliations they undergo. And reeducation was invented to keep women in their places and convince them that the poor results of this were their fault. I have said it before and I run across books and essays confirming this all the time. Note once again:  relinquishment of control leads to abjection.

Axé.

Tnis is one of those old-old posts.

ON CERTAIN FALSITIES

Perhaps it is for no reason related to me that people have always gone on at me how to be and work. So this is another piece of my counterargument against those who threw so much unnecessary time management advice at me — at me, a veritable time mechanic.

I like all of my projects, but I have always had warnings about how I should not like them, should not commit, and so on, if I wanted to be professional and remain in the profession. I have always found the opposite to be true, though, and I have always found things easier to do when you commit.

If there is a deadline, you have to stop reading at some point and start writing. I have known this since age ten at least, but I later received all too many warnings about reading and reflecting: one should not read too much, one should not reflect too much, one should write, write anything. Consequently I often feel guilty and anxious about reading. The effort to write without having read makes writing hard, if I try to write when I am still too uninformed and unprepared.

Overlapping with this is my guilt about thinking while I write. If you cannot think while you write, and write deliberately, then why do it? (I can almost hear Gertrude Stein say something like that.)

SOME VERITIES

I have three large research projects in Discipline A, but I mostly teach senior and graduate courses in the Department B and beginning to intermediate courses in Department C. For these reasons I am rather fragmented. My friends in more privileged positions say I should not be able to do research in these conditions.

I also have friends who allege that in these circumstances writing can only happen on vacation. In fact the opposite is true. Especially if what you teach is only obliquely connected your research, it is easy to lose touch with the latter if you wait. If I have not looked at my project for four months and I have occupied my mind entirely with other things during that time, it will take me the better part of one month to remember where I was.

Others say one must take research days. This is not realistic for me since it is so easy to have these ruined by unforeseen events. No amount of “defending one’s boundaries” will work for a whole day, and the project is doomed to failure. At the same time, I can be sure to have some research hours in most days even if they have to be rescheduled in some way (that is one of the reasons I schedule them early).

The other advantage of research hours, as opposed to days, is that they help one keep one’s project in mind all the time. That generates progress all on its own. A day a week (10 hours on a 60 hour week) is of course better than none and better than I have done many times, but half a day (5 hours) twice a week is better, and a quarter of a day (2.5 hours) on four days is better yet.

2.5 hours x 6 is 15 hours. That is how much time I am supposed to spend per week on research according to my contract. Magically, it is also the minimum amount of time I need (although with 30 hours, I could produce more than twice as much — and with more than 30 hours, the law of diminishing returns would set in, I believe).

Finding 2.5 hours six times every week (or 1.25 hours 12 times, or 1.5 hours 10 times, and so on) is a less modest goal than people realize. I am for it.

This semester, my possible/realistic research hours are:

Monday: 9PM-11:30 PM

Tuesday: 9AM-11:30 AM

Wednesday: 8 PM-10:30 PM

Thursday: 3:30 PM-6 PM and/or 7 PM-9:30 PM (Two possible chunks on this day)

Friday: never (This day is all teaching and service, all the time, and the evening must be taken off)

Saturday: 7 PM-12 AM (Morning and afternoon must be taken off, but there are still two possible chunks on this day)

Sunday: 9AM-11:30 AM (Afternoon and evening must go to teaching and service or housework or recreation)

That means there are eight possible chunks, of which one need only choose six.

Axé.

“I am sorry I said the wrong thing. I am sorry to have upset you. I hope you can get over it.”

Meaning:

“I refuse to apply normal standards of behavior when dealing with you. I will say abusive and dismissive things, I will ask inappropriate questions, and I will make inappropriate remarks.

“I am unable to see why you object to this treatment. Your failure to believe you deserve it is irrational.”

Axé.

I

As we know, I was always told not to be a professor. It was hard to make tenure because you had to publish. A girl, I would teach and not publish, so I would never make tenure. I heard this again and again. I would be on the street and have to get used to it, said the song repeatedly played (and I still break any radio that plays that song).

Earlier I had learned that you had to have a marriage or a job (not both; jobs rejected the married and marriages rejected the employed). Both were abusive, unstable, and dangerous. Either could leave you destitute in the street at any time. You had to hang on and hedge your bets. You would not do well, but you might survive. I had heard this again and again for a long time before I began to hear about my probable failure as an academic.

It was the same for Anne Moody’s sharecropper parents, I discern from reading her book, and I am fascinated to see that middle class people of the same generation felt the same way. This has to mean it was not really about money — it was about ideology here in the land of the free.

II

The best option, of course, was to marry a capitalist gentleman. Someone with a social position and an education, but who did not have to work for a living. That was why one was in school.

Since marriage itself was so dangerous, though, I thought the safest way to marry one  so the best way to marry a capitalist was actually to marry a corporation. That led me back to professordom which, however, was strangely similar to serfdom. And, as we know, the purpose of this blog is to emancipate me from mental slavery at least.

I am not a very successful professor, as my former stalker used to like to point out. I rail at myself about this. But in my experience the academic enterprise has most often like being in an abusive marriage and at least surviving. I think that is in part because I am so well trained to accept those sorts of conditions, but in part because those are the real conditions I have had.

I want shield myself better this year, evade the blows and strengthen myself. The key to that is to remember that it really is abusive and the problem is not just me. I can control how I process the abuse to some extent, but I cannot control the fact that it happens. It is really important to remember this if one is to recognize and deflect it.

That is what successful people do. To accept that abuse is your fault is really wrong. Much of the world does not understand this. I always thought successful people were those who could take a great deal of abuse and still lay golden eggs. Who could be in four point restraints and still win the hundred yard dash.

At the same time what I have never liked about the academic world is that being in it is like being a horse with a lot of horse power and spirit who has to stay tethered way back. Prancing one’s life away in a tiny stall.

III

One of our students imagines that the reason I prefer New Orleans to Maringouin, and California/New York to Louisiana, must be that I am a “snob” who wants to spend time in more moneyed atmospheres.

That is of course laughable on its face since moneyed atmospheres are far more easily accessible in Louisiana than in those places. But my issue with all plantation cultures is their extreme psychological violence, and the authoritarian nature of all their institutions. The Great House penetrates everywhere and … well, that is a sentence I should develop for one of my books.

The reason our student’s repeated injunction to love Louisiana more than I do (he has been here one year; I, twenty; I work full time for the state and I volunteer elsewhere; he is on a student visa) was so oppressive was that it was like being asked to kiss a lecherous uncle by way of apology for complaining about his inappropriate behavior. That is why I am still queasy at this student’s repetition of his request.

You have to note, though, that while I am technically trained for other things, my best literary research insights come from living in Louisiana and Brazil. I really, really love these research projects and really, really must hold my focus to them let them overtake me. Wash over me, rinse me clear.

Axé.

It appears that the eternal foodstuffs of artistic achievement are “discipline, fortitude, ambition and self-belief.” These were not allowed in Re/Education, and that explains my problems with it.

It has been an entire weekend of rather boring work, frustrating in part because all of it must be done rather superficially, uninterestingly. I was tired and went on a walk. Now I will write this post, and then I will do one more thing. Then I will stop, and get up very early. I will be in the office at six.

*

I am trying to reconstruct myself. In the spring I thought about this, theorized it, designed it. Now I am trying to do it. Despite all the flashes of identity I always have, it isn’t easy to reconstruct self. To do this I am going to take guerrilla action to streamline work. The Blackguard would like me to change the whole system, and the Whiteman would like me to submit to it and/or change it to the benefit of everyone else, but the only answer is to take guerrilla action on my own behalf. I see that others have done this. Of course the best solution would be to think systemically, but in the impossibility of this I will take guerrilla action on my own behalf.

When did I give up legitimate authority in life: in a series of somewhat forced decisions in the late 20th century. What was life like before that: I had not yet learned it was illegitimate to save myself and required to rescue others. I was far more centered then, and happier, and I got more done. I am taking back legitimate authority in life and one thing it means is putting academic service last. When I remember how much non exhausted time of my own I had in the days when I still held legitimate authority, I am positively amazed.

Axé.

I work all the time now, basically, but I have so many different things to do that working all the time just keeps me ahead of some really basic things. I am quite fast, and I am only slow insofar as since academic work is a space of abuse for me it is sometimes hard to go in, and hard to focus.

But I have a lot fewer flashbacks now than I used to and most of the time I am able to focus very well and move on ahead. It is heartrending, however, to do so many things in so superficial a way. I would be glad to do any of them if I had time to get just a little below the surface. Only a little. I do not ask for much.

*

Why is it that the courses we teach take so much time, given that our load is not as heavy as it could be? The principal reasons are that (a) one must constantly be giving NEW advanced out of field courses, and (b) one must constantly be giving new VERSIONS of basic courses, whose goals, content and materials have been decided by others, but which have not been revealed to one.

If we had power over our days and had not been taught, before tenure, to be “flexible” and “accommodating,” we would limit the total number of new advanced out of field courses we gave or had to give, and some coordination would be done at the level of the basic courses (as opposed to just dictation of materials).

Now I have announced that no matter what anyone else says I will now give only six advanced courses, ever (content will vary, but they will be only six), and that they will be in field. I think I might secretly make my own versions of those basic courses and teach them my way, no matter what (yes, there will be flexibility and change, but it will be my way). I think this would save a lot of time.

I think I shall also never again invite anyone to speak who cannot speak to and at the hour of one of my courses. This would also save a lot of time.

Axé.

I now do nothing but work, and I still need to step it up further. I understand at last those people who say they do not care where they live or how they dress because all they do is work. I am not convinced the lack of recreation will be good for work on a permanent basis, however.

My work focus is on streamlining the part of work that is drudgery and emphasizing the part that is entertaining and leads to intellectual development.

I am unlearning my guilt about work. To work makes me feel guilty and scared for reasons such as these:

+ it is improper to take anything one is doing seriously
+ it is selfish to actually undertake one’s own job assignment
+ it is not hip to put in effort
+ it is not hip not to be disaffected
+ it is unfair to others to imagine one knows what one is doing and to move right on ahead.

Axé.

It is Friday, and yes, I am wearing white. It being the weekend, I am deciding what to sing. All afternoon I have listened to WWOZ, 90.7 on your FM dial or www.wwoz.org to listen on the Net. It was very helpful. If I were doing this work for the sake of a check upon which to raise children and keep them in the same school as always, it would be no problem.

At 11 AM I told the students I would be in the office from 1 PM to midnight, with a break for a late lunch. I said I would finish Everything, and they would be able to see that on the Internet. I said that if I finished by 10 PM, I would go Out.

In reality, although I did finish almost everything that I had planned to put on the Internet, and although I went to the Library during my late lunch hour and put Readings on Reserve, I was bleary eyed  by 8 PM. John Cleary is at Tipitina’s, but I am in Maringouin.  I left the office definitively at 8PM, my designated favorite Latin American quitting hour.

At 3 PM as I left for lunch, my colleague from Québec was still in hir office. As I passed I said: “Restez là, parce que je reviens, et je ne veux pas être la dernière!” Ze was still giggling when the elevator arrived. And if you do not understand the difference between preterite and imperfect, “Ze was [still] giggling when the elevator arrived,” is a good example.

Dear Blackguard: your analysis of what is wrong with our program is correct. What you refuse to recognize is that we know it, and we have been knowing it for lo these many years. It is the Whiteman who has arranged things in this way, and he is reproducing himself as we speak. You would reform our program, and you are right — except to the extent that your being right gives you an occasion to abuse tenured faculty about the rights we give to adjuncts and instructors. My solution to all of this, for myself, is that I am cross appointed.

You have three options: leave, be fired for speaking up, or get yourself a decent situation (e.g. cross appointment). I have spoken. I regret that these are the only options I can offer you [subunctive  verb on "are,"], but my powers are limited [indicative]. I have spoken. Vos, a tu sitio.

I am “Old Bambi,” as I announced to my colleague from Québec who thought I should continue to screen films with hir. Ze said I was not “Old Bambi”, but ze is very polite and I know I am right because my more familiar colleagues got my joke. I resemble the Emeritus Professor and my dissertation director, both (and they did not like each other), more than I can say.

Axé.

bane of my existence:

tv news

…is not to have every single course be an experiment. It was not this way earlier on, it is only the past ten years, everything has to be an experiment, nothing is ever right, and everything is always being done the for the first time.

Axé.

Por José Antonio Gutiérrez Caballero.

JosanCaballero’s Blog se encuentra celebrando hoy, 15 de septiembre, los cinco meses de haber sido constituido como sitio web, dentro de la Blogosfera Cubana Internacional, con 22 mil ochocientos catorce lectores, hasta las 3 y 45 de la madrugada de este día, en que preparo el material para festejar además, los 3408 comentarios, reunidos en 86 post (número que en la charada china significa “Hermano”), 22 categorías y 586 etiquetas, con un promedio de 24o asistentes diarios, que por supuesto garantizan el éxito y multiplicación de nuestro trabajo periodístico y literario, en las diferentes variantes, con las que se propone entrar en contacto nuestro blog, dentro del maravilloso mundo de los internautas y blogueros. Por eso les traemos dos enseñanzas de vida, cuyas moralejas son similares. La primera proviene del anonimato, y me la envía mi novia eterna, la actriz María Eugenia García, desde Cuba; mientras que la segunda forma parte de un libro, que está preparando el amigo y colega René Dayre Abella, a quien conocí hace poco, por Facebook, pero, sin embargo, ha sido amigo personal del trovador Augusto Blanca y de María Eugenia García, mi mujer, desde cuando comenzaron la Teatrova, en Santiago de Cuba, bajo la égida del director argentino Adolfo Gutkin, en las mismas entrañas del Conjunto Dramático de Oriente.

LECCIÓN DE POBREZA

Papá, qué significa ser Pobre?

Un Padre económicamente acomodado, queriendo que su hijo supiera lo que es ser pobre, lo llevó para que pasara un par de días en el interior, con una familia campesina. Pasaron tres días y dos noches en su vivienda del campo. En el automóvil, retornando a la ciudad, el padre preguntó a su hijo:

-¿Qué te pareció la experiencia?

-Buena – contestó el hijo, con la mirada puesta en la distancia.

-Y ¿qué aprendiste?, insistió el padre… 
A lo que el hijo contestó:

1.- Que nosotros tenemos un perro y ellos tienen cuatro.

2.- Nosotros tenemos una piscina con agua estancada que llega a la mitad del jardín… y ellos tienen un río sin fin, de agua cristalina, donde hay pececitos.

3.- Que nosotros importamos linternas del Oriente para alumbrar nuestro jardín…mientras que ellos se alumbran con las estrellas, la luna y velas sobre la mesa. 

4.- Nuestro patio llega hasta la cerca. y el de ellos llega al horizonte. 

5.- Que nosotros compramos nuestra comida, mientras ellos, siembran y cosechan la suya.

6.- Nosotros oímos CD’s… Ellos escuchan una perpetua sinfonía de golondrinas, pericos, ranas, sapos, chicharras y otros animalitos….Todo esto, a veces dominado, por el sonoro canto de un vecino, que trabaja su monte.

7.- Nosotros cocinamos en estufa eléctrica…Ellos, todo lo que comen tiene ese sabor del fogón de leña.

8.- Para protegernos nosotros vivimos rodeados por un muro, con alarmas…Ellos viven con sus puertas abiertas, protegidos por la  amistad de sus vecinos. 

9.- Nosotros vivimos conectados al celular, a la computadora, al televisor… Ellos, en cambio, están “conectados” a la vida, al cielo, al sol, al agua, al verde del monte, a los animales, a sus siembras, a su familia.

El padre quedó impactado por la profundidad de su hijo…, cuando entonces éste agregó, para concluir:

Gracias papá, por haberme enseñado lo pobres que somos!

Cada día estamos más pobres de espíritu y de apreciación por la naturaleza, que son las grandes obras de nuestro creador. Nos preocupamos por TENER, TENER, TENER Y MÁS TENER, en vez de preocuparnos por SER.

DE YERBERO A HOMBRE AFORTUNADO

Fragmento del libro de relatos testimoniales

La Piel de la Memoria, de René Dayre Abella.

Jorge Sierra era un buen amigo de la familia. Padre de una prole muy numerosa, a la que no siempre lograba alimentar, ejerciendo su oficio de yerbero, por lo que quiso también vender billetes de lotería y, clandestinamente, la “bolita”, la “carioca” o el “folio”, como la gente les llamaban a estos juegos prohibidos.

Recuerdo que la mayoría de ellos consultaba los sueños, que habían tenido la noche anterior a La Charada, una especie de manual, donde aparecían una serie de figuras simbólicas, a las cuales se les asignaba un número. De ese modo, un caballo se convertía en el número uno. Una niña bonita, en el número quince. Y si en algún sueño, un niño hacía caca encima de ti, debías jugar el número siete.

El pequeño libro, más bien un folleto, circulaba entre “folieros” , y algunos particulares supersticiosos, que una vez que soñaban, decidían consultar. Si la policía registraba a algún billetero, y le ocupaba uno de estos folletos, junto con una lista de jugadores, sin duda, la iba a pasar muy mal, incluyendo a los relacionados en la misma, por lo que no era muy extraño que Don Jorge se la pasara, casi todo el tiempo, en el Vivac Municipal, mientras sus hijos y Doña Fela carecían de lo más elemental para vivir.

Todo eso cambió de “la noche a la mañana”, cuando Jorge se compró, para sí, unos billetes, de los mismos que él vendía, y para su buena suerte, resultaron premiados por la Lotería Nacional. De momento, nuestro amigo cambió abruptamente. Con todo el dinero que ganó nunca se ocupó de mejorar la situación económica hogareña.

Doña Fela contrajo tuberculosis, pero Don Jorge jamás se ocupó de llevarla a un médico y darle un tratamiento adecuado. Sus hijos se veían cada día más paliduchos y raquíticos, mientras él dilapidaba su fortuna, en mujeres y amigos.

Una vez llegó a casa y le dijo a mi padre: “Don Juan, quiero unos tabacos, los mejores que tenga a la venta, pues deseo ofrecérselos a mis amigos aquí presentes”. Mi papá le mostró entonces una caja de cedro, muy fina, con unos tabacos super aromáticos, que siempre guardaba bajo llave. Acto seguido prendió uno de los finos tabacos, con un billete de cien pesos. Yo nunca había visto uno de aquellos billetes.

En una esquina de la tiendita de mi padre, el viejo Coto apuraba un refresco.
Al ratito irrumpió, como tocado por las musas, y nos dijo: “Hoy amanecí poeta. ¿Qué les parece esta cuarteta?” Y dirigiéndose al señor Sierra le espetó:” Si la suerte te cambiara, como puede suceder, volverías a vender apazote y mejorana”.

No había pasado un par de meses, desde aquel incidente, cuando volvimos a ver a Don Jorge, ataviado en unos pantalones, confeccionados con tela de costal de harina, y calzando unas alpargatas de lona, pregonando:

“¡Mira el toronjil y la fresca mejorana, que te ofrezco esta mañana!”…

© René Dayre Abella

Fragmento del libro de relatos testimoniales La Piel de la Memoria.

Espero haberles agradado, con ambas historias de estos amigos de la cultura tradicional popular cubana, que nos han ofrecido una verdadera lección de pobreza, sin moralejas, en cada vuelta que da la vida, como una noria insular.

JOSÁN CABALLERO

15 de septiembre del 2009.

This is just one of Historiann’s interesting posts on women and academia.

When I was in elementary school the Emeritus Professor’s long and intense work day included preparing manuscripts in longhand to be typed by the departmental secretary. My mother’s day included preparing social events for the Emeritus Professor’s department, and making diplomatic telephone calls after difficult meetings.

I have always been accustomed to doing my own secretarial work, but on most days I literally feel as though I were switching hats all the time: I am doing the part of a professor’s job that corresponded to that of the Emeritus Professor, but also the part of it that corresponded to his wife. Stepping into and out of each role is one of the larger drains on my energy, and there is no way around it — both jobs must still be done.

“If I had a wife, she would make coffee,” said one of my professors in graduate school. Her point was that holding our seminar in her house because budget cuts precluded the availability of rooms at the university, did not mean she would also make us coffee (and thus turn the seminar into what one of my own students later referred to as a “literary snack hour”).

The world has changed significantly since all these things took place, but many of my male colleagues still have wives. This may be part of the answer to the question of why women do not move ahead more quickly than they do.

Axé.

Whiteman (lecturing severely): At third year review, you will not just be reviewing me — I will be reviewing you. By that time I expect you to overhaul the undergraduate curriculum to my taste, add a new graduate program and have housed in the department an additional journal. If you have not provided these things by then, I will leave!

Whiteman (crying): I came here because I thought you worked as a team. And I discover you do not! (Meaning: we work as a team, but we do not also provide complete housing, chauffeuring, social and psychological services.)

Now that this Whiteman is angry and “not speaking to me” — which means, only speaking to me in a rational, adult way, about topics about which it is appropriate to speak to me — I have a pleasant life again. It is Friday, Oxalá’s day. Wear white. Not the whiteman’s white.

Axé.