The hours of another holy day of Guadalupe fade, commemorating the apparitions and culminating in a miraculous manifestation in an indigenous ayate tilma of Santa María de Guadalupe. Since 1531, every December 12, a double mystery spreads on a bed of roses and loose petals: for millions of faithful, it is the palpable presence of the mother of Jesus the Nazarene, God in person whose mother was transfigured in brown skin, on a black crescent and a mantle of stars with the constellations corresponding to Mexico. Unlike other apparitions in the world where it is indicated that she was (in a cave in Lourdes, on an olive tree in Fátima or in a small house in Ephesus), the Morenita of the hill of Tepeyac continues to be there in a constant gerund in the same intact fabric of centuries and millions of faithful over five centuries of faith claim to see miraculous appearances in the pupils of the Virgin, in her praying hands and in the silence of his whispered words. For thousands of non-believers, the miracle of Guadalupe also conveys the very essence of Mexico, an infinite identity among a plurality that has always transcended senseless polarization, even if it was a palimpsest painted by the Indian Marcos.
Whether Guadalupe Tonantzin or the crowned Catholic and Apostolic, Guadalupe is mother and sister, a silent smile and unconditional kindness in the hint of her pregnant belly, in the inexplicable aroma of all its mysteries and in the constant miracles: today like a small miracle the sleepy morning press conference at the National Palace did not take place and today, like a big miracle, more than 14 million faithful passed through the atrium of its Basilica who come walking and rolling, flying and kneeling from every imaginable corner of Mexico and the world.
Today the miracle has been repeated of those who give coffee or corn atole to the pedestrian pilgrims and the Samaritans who give tacos and various foods to thousands of Guadalupanos who have aching knees and whispering ejaculations… intertwined with the hypnotic sound of pre-Hispanic drums, teponaxtles and shawms that honor the miscegenation that explains the background of the miracle of Guadalupano for believers and non-believers. This is all Mexico, although there are notable exceptions.
The author (whose name I do not want to remember) of mamotreto Size (putrid publication Planeta) will wallow in his hammock at La Chingada in the face of one of the most virulent criticisms of his audacity in prose. The editorial publishes, like a historical reflection or an essay on the past, a mass of resentments, inferences and intuitions which obey more to a populist objective than to the healthy objective reflection that Clío deserves. The book supports a serious psychoanalytic problem of the author with his two first and two last names, a monumentalist sophistry (perhaps nostalgic for the mass demonstrations of confused people) and a handful of unforgivable nightmares, starting with the pathetic syntax of someone who suffers verbally from pauses (almost stuttering), prone to the magnanimous lie of elephantine projects and the painful or embarrassed admiration for the Danish health system.
The Indian Juan Diego was forced to take a vow of silence when he was locked up in the convent of Tlatelolco and waited almost five centuries for Rome to recognize his holiness. At the start of their demand, Church officials announced the transformation of a former Disney movie theater into a temple of veneration of the indigenous people; another example of the bread and circuses with which they tried to deceive millions of dark-skinned people (not just dark-skinned people) and seal the Nican Mopohuathe true chronicle transcribed by the Indian Valeriano in the living voice and speaking mouth of the Indian Juan Diego. Line by line, the soul of each reader (faithful or unfaithful) can be revealed in the Nican Mopohua the plot of the roses in bloom in the heart of Cerro Pelón, the healing of the dying uncle of the Indian heavenly messenger and even the request of the Franciscan friar (then bishop and later archbishop) Juan de Zumárraga… nodal protagonist of the arrival of the first printing press in America and the first university classrooms on the same street, next to the current National Palace, on the street that is still Moneda (since it is also the street of the first house of the currency). Letters tattooed on the Gutenberg machine (arrival from Seville with the Cronberger brand), coins or desks and chairs should be a sufficient symbol to evaluate the marvelous crossbreeding of Mexico, the civilizational consecration of the West, a knowledge not exempt from imagination or memory… but for the aforementioned ephemeral author of the odious book Size Everything that bled and flourished after 1519, all that complicated birth we know as the Conquest of Mexico, only vomited up darkness, scarless wounds and even – according to him – delays or setbacks.
In the deceptive aim of glorifying the enduring wonders of Olmec culture, the confused writer (politician) avoids pointing out that we have amazing remains of this world, but not a trace of language and in his railway desire to eulogize Mayan culture, he avoids pointing out that the little train of his invention has hurt the flora, fauna and jaws of vulgar tourism. Between a romantic delirium for a bolero by Armando Manzanero, a mixture of blue-skinned heroes like Mel Gibson and the deceptive waste of the rails (in a circle as in amusement parks) the now author of Size Today we must listen to the drums as systole and diastole of the tireless dancers as a metaphor for millions of souls who, year after year, set out for Mexico, survive for Mexico, on their knees for the thousands of missing and dead, penitents scourged by the constant waves of corruption and lies, verbiage and simulations. The aforementioned book dishonors the the profession of historiantaints the prodigious plurality of our mixed-race and inclusive soul and insults the pockets of believers and non-believers who do not have the money to buy the book (nor the power to receive it as a gift from the Senate of the Republic).
La Guadalupana is not a skirt-to-the-bone election sticker and it is not Coatlicue with her snake skirt. It is told in Nahuatl and prayed in Spanish, it is danced among skulls and it is venerated among millions of candles for each of our deaths. The millions of faithful (and infidels) prefer the hope expressed by the tranquil image of a serene woman to the immense slap in the face of millions of pesos wasted on the purchase of copies of a book that will not be read by the taxi driver, the servant, the altar boy, the grandmother and her chocolate, the wrinkled unemployed, the bus driver and the mason who advances each day on his knees. The true Morena, the true greatness is to recognize that five centuries ago, a miracle that would be called Mexico was painfully and laboriously realized, passing through New Spain, where many coins continue to be a passport to abuse and corruption, where many classrooms have fallen into the indoctrination of stupidity, amnesia and blindness… and where many letters have even been desecrated for writing of absurdities that forget, ignore or omit that with the Virgin the Virgin also arrived in these lands. alphabet.
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