For a time in a long time ago I was a reporter at El Sol del Norte, a newspaper from my city, Saltillo. Twice a week I had to do guard duty, that is, stay at the newspaper until the edition closed, in case something of interest came up at the last minute. Alone in the newsroom, I read a book while the monotonous clicking of the teletype sounded with information from Reuters, the UPI or the Associated Press about a world that did not interest our little world. Things happened to me on those guards that are not to be told, which is why I tell them. One night a guy showed up to file a complaint. He was a paletero, he informed me, that is, a seller of ice creams. “A few days ago I began to stand with my cart outside a school. Another paletero was already there, and he was annoyed that I was going to compete with him. Now every time I arrive he throws hints at me ”. I asked him, “What kind of hints are you throwing at him?” He replied: “He tells me: ‘Are you coming again, son of your grumpy bitch?’”. On another occasion the door of the newspaper was flung open and a tall man with broad shoulders and fists like a boxer entered with firm steps. He wore the typical outfit of the northern rancher: jean pants; plaid shirt; leather vest; cowboy boots; belt with a large buckle in the shape of a horse’s head, and a Stetson hat of the so-called “five-pore” hat, because it had the inscription XXXXX inside. Without further ado, he asked me with the tone of a braggart macho: “Are you the one who writes here?” My blood froze in my veins, which is where blood usually is. I thought that I had written something that bothered him, and he came to complain, perhaps with blows. “Yes, sir,” I stammered. He ordered me: “Put a piece of paper in the machine and write what I am going to dictate to you.” I obeyed with the haste imposed by panic fear. And the man began: “Challenge.” He told me: “Put ‘Challenge’ right at the top, in the center of the page and in capital letters”. I did it. He continued the giant: “To all the residents of such and such a street, between such and such streets, I challenge you to verify what they are saying about me.” At this point her voice cracked. He concluded with a sob: “That I am joto.” In those years, homosexuals were called “jotos”, because in the Lecumberri prison, in Mexico City, they were admitted to the corridor marked with the letter jota. Every street, and even every house in Mexican cities and towns, has a story to tell, and sometimes many. The Municipal Archive of Saltillo, directed with love and efficiency by Olivia Strozzi, publishes with the support of the mayor of the city, engineer José María Fraustro Siller, a magazine with a beautiful name with old resonance, as it is called Saltillo gazette, so with zeta. With the neat edition by Iván Vartan Muñoz and an excellent group of collaborators, the magazine reveals cases and things from my native land, and thus makes a valuable contribution to the task of disseminate among the people of Saltilla yesterday and today the noble history and rich traditions of their land. It is clear that the Municipal Archive of my city is not a Yellow Sea of dead papers, but a living source of memories that, revived, become a cordial part -in other words, the heart- of our lives. I thank Mayor Fraustro Siller for his support of La Gazeta, and Olivia and Iván for the love and talent they put into their pages. I also thank you for giving me the opportunity today not to talk about politics, except to say that In next Sunday’s election, a vote for Morena or for the PT will be a vote against Coahuila. END.
manganitas
“INE prohibits López Obrador from proselytizing in the morning.”
Warlord, monarch or king
AMLO says in a violent tone:
“Don’t come to me with the story
that the law is the law!”
AFA
lookout
-You love Me?
-Yeah.
-Do you love me?
-Yeah.
-You want me?
-Yeah.
Do you expect me to always be very happy?
-Yeah.
-Will you marry me?
-No.
-Because?
-Because I love you, I love you, I wish you and I hope you are always very happy.
See you tomorrow!…
#Politics #worse
Leave a Reply