Today is Father’s Day. Without a doubt a commercial themeand also gives space to reflect and analyze the father with others and their children. In particular, my father always insisted that he should read. For me, that insistence is part of who I have been over the years. A few days ago the lines around the figure of the father leading an infant by the hand were remembered, citing lines from May 2021 (Readings, THE DEBATE, May 16, 2021). Today, following my father’s example, I invite Rigo to read. And there he goes, reading at his pace. And he happily comes to tell me, when he finds in his primary school textbooks, some of the fables that he reads with me. Today, allow me, gentle reader, to remember my father, the Dr. Rigoberto Ocampo Morales. He is no longer on the planet, but he is still here in our memory:
Of my father
The father figure It is something that is at the basis of many episodes that make up the unconscious: the psychoanalytic premise of “killing the father,” or the castration anxiety derived from his presence or absence. But also, it is thanks to this figure that limits and references are woven and built that later, especially if one falls into hell, will serve as springs to rise from the bottom or cling to the walls of the endless well and climb back up. , little by little…
Ángel Parra, in his song “The Railwayman”does a father’s description seen from a distance, about what they left us their teachings. It is the image of the father carrying class consciousness and his silent daily battle, far from the dazzling heroism and praise, but in the construction of a daily life of struggle and work to build that roof and walls that would protect us, build them with their fatigue. and traces of rebellion misunderstood and focused on late-night talks. The first stanza of this trova goes:
“I remember when I was a child / my father walking, / returning late at night / from work, tired. / Memories, beautiful memories, / of my old man I have”
Then, the arrivals from work come to mind, his lament of tiredness, but also the pride of knowing that he is important and highlighting the white of his clothing, sometimes even with the martial style of his attire as a Frigate Lieutenant of the Mexican Navy. You imagined that he could do everything. And it is there, perhaps, where the limits were built and the springs that will make you get up from every fall, even from hell, begin to be copied into the unconscious to return to the route upwards. Don’t waste time licking wounds. Raise barriers against resentment. Leave the past behind, without vengeful violence or lust for power, just follow the path:
“I remember him on the platform, / shiny leather jacket, / earth engineer, /
stoker of the heavens.
When it was her turn at night / she returned at dawn, / her hair full of stars / my window woke up.”
Then comes the memory of the beatings for his political militancy. His stoic way of facing ridicule for being a “communist”, putting it aside and going to work every day to meet the needs of his family. The nights on the roof listening to the shortwave radio, in the child’s imagination almost secretly, the endless speeches of Fidel Castro. On Saturdays I accompanied him to the Pino Suárez market to drink tejuino, and he bought us the authorized comics: the one about Memin Pingüin (as it is and not as it is now called), Kalimán and the life of Che Guevara. No messages from Yankee imperialism in Walt Disney strips and others.
I remember his stories, heard almost in secret, of when he lost his scholarship for being in the National Liberation Movement. He received reprimands from the oligarchs, but he followed their specialty and joined institutional medicine and his private practice. Later, even they went to consult the “communist” doctor. He continued to forge his path, relegated, but firmly forward, teaching us to leave out resentment, see the sea in front and get used to its immensity in the face of the smallness of greed and ambition. He helped us know that the path was not backwards, it was not deeper, it did not involve revenge. That left us the strength to heal the wounds of our own struggles and falls:
“His militant presence / stuck many thorns in him, / relegated by the mountains / he went to heal his wounds.
The smoke of those trains, / the time of the station, / bring it to my memory / and the memory makes song.”
Paragraphs: Of justice and love
The song ends with a message that summarizes the many books that he taught us, gave us to read. A couple of ideas that have been the mark of action, the guideline of behavior. The two references have guided the way. Even in the analysis we have searched: Where did these guides come from? Why insist on this great moral framework beyond philosophical, ideological, economic and political depths? There are the two ideas up to the present: the people and the woman. It was at his side that we understood those ideas, from his hand we received the books and saw the differences and injustices. We always knew and had the reference for both ideas. Even today they remain in memory, after much intellectual processing, having gone through many years of classrooms, study and experiences on the street, what guides these two premises continues:
“I would like to thank him / for what he taught me: / that justice is the people, / that the woman is love.”
This is how Ángel Parra ends, and this is how the father continues to be remembered. Tired going into the night, annoying announcing that tomorrow only lentils because they are going to kick him out of work, teaching that first you build a roof and walls to protect yourself from the rain, the sun and the wind. And, above all, “that justice is the people and the woman is love” (Readings, EL DEBATE, September 17, 2006).
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