Thursday, June 16, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Abortions - in English
Abortion Guilt is a Social Construct
(ES Original: Oct 09; Revised Dec 10; JLH Review June 11, GD June 2011)
I have been always intrigued by the difficulties surrounding abortion issues in our times. My parents faced them without anguish, fear, or discussions. In the Zhitlovsky organization, according to my mother, everybody knew when a woman had one. It was as open as talking about salaries earned.
I vividly remember my mother’s explanations about sexual relationships. Her doctor had told her that it was ‘psychologically bad’ (sic) to be preoccupied about pregnancies, and if they happened, you got an abortion, and that was that. No existential terrors, regrets, or doubts of any kind. The only necessary condition in order to have an abortion was, naturally, to be pregnant.
I asked her once if there weren’t any, a little bit less radical, forms of contraception, and she told me there was a pill called “L’amour de Paris” (suggestive name, isn’t it?) which needed to be dissolved in lukewarm water, and then shoved inside with a rubber syringe, within 15 minutes of the deed. This was impossible, -she said. I remember looking at her with a doubting face, asking why something that sounded so easy, was so impossible. She gave me the look of “don’t be stupid” and explained the logistics: leave the rented single room where they lived, pass through the open patios, go to the back of the tenement house where the bathroom was, get water, come back, start the ‘Primus’ (a cooking device that uses kerosene), pump as needed… and by the time it was all ready, the 15 minutes were long gone. That’s when I realized how ignorant I was about such poverty. I couldn’t even imagine a time when getting warm water was so difficult.
This means that my mother, who could have been a great Rabbi’s wife, in which case instead of just one sister I would have had at least 15 siblings, paid heed to her doctor’s advice. My sister was born in 1930, and from then on, an abortion every couple of months, until 1944.
So what about the theater? Uh, that’s a side story. Once, a female director from Buenos Aires – I don’t remember her name - came to direct the Zhitlovsky theater group. She was bossy and intransigent. And my mother, recalling that time (and still upset about it), told me about how disgusting she thought the woman was. “She made me go up and down a table about 20 times, and when I started singing my revolutionary song, she would tell me I was doing it all wrong. And the bitch knew that very same morning I had had an abortion!” Needless to say, not only the director, but also the whole cast knew about it, and everybody else too. It was just natural. And no one thought it strange my mother would go to the rehearsal that night, as if it were any other day.
The theater group and the fans in their audience were like a large family. I can’t forget the evening when in one of the plays, rehearsed night after night for about 6 months - in order to perform it a single time-, my mother had to place her hands on her hips and scream ‘Ha!’ Regrettably, that time, her dentures flew out of her mouth, landing in the third row. Oh, the horror! But it wasn’t a problem. A kind spectator picked them up, stood up, and gave them to my mother, who quickly put them back in her mouth, without even cleaning them, and the play kept on going with no troubles.
Moishe wasn’t as lucky (that’s not his real name, but perhaps he was a relative of someone reading this lines, and I don’t want family problems on my head). The scene was a Nazi attacking a Jew with Moishe as the Nazi. The Nazi had to jump on top of the other guy, and as a result of his effort to strangle the Jew, a big explosive fart came out of the Nazi’s ass. The theater had good acoustics, so from that day on, the poor guy came to be known as ‘Moishe der forts’ (Moishe the fart), and that name stuck with him till his death.
But let’s go back to my mother’s abortions. They went on and on, until she was 43 years old. When she didn’t get pregnant for a whole year, she felt relieved, thinking her eggs were long gone, as well as her problems. When at the age of 45 she stopped menstruating, she thought ‘OK, that’s the menopause’, and didn’t pay any more attention to the issue. Four months later, “the menopause” started kicking. Big shit. She ran to the doctor, but he only said: “Lady, congratulations and good luck. You know I don’t do abortions in advanced pregnancies”. She yelled at him, but got no answer.
And then, -she told me-, when she got back home, she filled a container with the wash (remember those large, round, metal containers?) and went up to the roof using a little ladder. When almost up there, she let herself fell backwards, firmly holding the heavy container, in order to really hurt herself badly enough for a hemorrhage to occur. If she ended up in a hospital, she knew they would do a proper abortion, no questions asked. And maybe she could even miscarry without any added help needed. She never thought, even for a second, that she could be seriously injured, and that she was putting her own life in danger. And of course she didn’t think I was too young to hear that story and properly understand it. I was, clearly, not old enough.
Years later, I realized each of my friends had a single sibling, many years older than themselves. I believe they all went down the same road. Their immigrant parents had a child as soon as they got married, because they wanted to. Then, after many years of abortions, they had a late offspring before they could get rid of it. Of course, the economy helped dictate that result. During the 40s, our parents were already in a better economic situation than when they were newcomers to Uruguay, so a second child wasn’t so dramatically difficult at that time.
Yet, I’m still interested in what I said at the beginning. So, why are abortions considered so traumatic today? If the social group accepts them with no remorse, there are no interior dramas. I don’t believe any of our parents had suffered at all for those lost fetuses. The “traumas” of abortion are clearly social.
(ES Original: Oct 09; Revised Dec 10; JLH Review June 11, GD June 2011)
I have been always intrigued by the difficulties surrounding abortion issues in our times. My parents faced them without anguish, fear, or discussions. In the Zhitlovsky organization, according to my mother, everybody knew when a woman had one. It was as open as talking about salaries earned.
I vividly remember my mother’s explanations about sexual relationships. Her doctor had told her that it was ‘psychologically bad’ (sic) to be preoccupied about pregnancies, and if they happened, you got an abortion, and that was that. No existential terrors, regrets, or doubts of any kind. The only necessary condition in order to have an abortion was, naturally, to be pregnant.
I asked her once if there weren’t any, a little bit less radical, forms of contraception, and she told me there was a pill called “L’amour de Paris” (suggestive name, isn’t it?) which needed to be dissolved in lukewarm water, and then shoved inside with a rubber syringe, within 15 minutes of the deed. This was impossible, -she said. I remember looking at her with a doubting face, asking why something that sounded so easy, was so impossible. She gave me the look of “don’t be stupid” and explained the logistics: leave the rented single room where they lived, pass through the open patios, go to the back of the tenement house where the bathroom was, get water, come back, start the ‘Primus’ (a cooking device that uses kerosene), pump as needed… and by the time it was all ready, the 15 minutes were long gone. That’s when I realized how ignorant I was about such poverty. I couldn’t even imagine a time when getting warm water was so difficult.
This means that my mother, who could have been a great Rabbi’s wife, in which case instead of just one sister I would have had at least 15 siblings, paid heed to her doctor’s advice. My sister was born in 1930, and from then on, an abortion every couple of months, until 1944.
So what about the theater? Uh, that’s a side story. Once, a female director from Buenos Aires – I don’t remember her name - came to direct the Zhitlovsky theater group. She was bossy and intransigent. And my mother, recalling that time (and still upset about it), told me about how disgusting she thought the woman was. “She made me go up and down a table about 20 times, and when I started singing my revolutionary song, she would tell me I was doing it all wrong. And the bitch knew that very same morning I had had an abortion!” Needless to say, not only the director, but also the whole cast knew about it, and everybody else too. It was just natural. And no one thought it strange my mother would go to the rehearsal that night, as if it were any other day.
The theater group and the fans in their audience were like a large family. I can’t forget the evening when in one of the plays, rehearsed night after night for about 6 months - in order to perform it a single time-, my mother had to place her hands on her hips and scream ‘Ha!’ Regrettably, that time, her dentures flew out of her mouth, landing in the third row. Oh, the horror! But it wasn’t a problem. A kind spectator picked them up, stood up, and gave them to my mother, who quickly put them back in her mouth, without even cleaning them, and the play kept on going with no troubles.
Moishe wasn’t as lucky (that’s not his real name, but perhaps he was a relative of someone reading this lines, and I don’t want family problems on my head). The scene was a Nazi attacking a Jew with Moishe as the Nazi. The Nazi had to jump on top of the other guy, and as a result of his effort to strangle the Jew, a big explosive fart came out of the Nazi’s ass. The theater had good acoustics, so from that day on, the poor guy came to be known as ‘Moishe der forts’ (Moishe the fart), and that name stuck with him till his death.
But let’s go back to my mother’s abortions. They went on and on, until she was 43 years old. When she didn’t get pregnant for a whole year, she felt relieved, thinking her eggs were long gone, as well as her problems. When at the age of 45 she stopped menstruating, she thought ‘OK, that’s the menopause’, and didn’t pay any more attention to the issue. Four months later, “the menopause” started kicking. Big shit. She ran to the doctor, but he only said: “Lady, congratulations and good luck. You know I don’t do abortions in advanced pregnancies”. She yelled at him, but got no answer.
And then, -she told me-, when she got back home, she filled a container with the wash (remember those large, round, metal containers?) and went up to the roof using a little ladder. When almost up there, she let herself fell backwards, firmly holding the heavy container, in order to really hurt herself badly enough for a hemorrhage to occur. If she ended up in a hospital, she knew they would do a proper abortion, no questions asked. And maybe she could even miscarry without any added help needed. She never thought, even for a second, that she could be seriously injured, and that she was putting her own life in danger. And of course she didn’t think I was too young to hear that story and properly understand it. I was, clearly, not old enough.
Years later, I realized each of my friends had a single sibling, many years older than themselves. I believe they all went down the same road. Their immigrant parents had a child as soon as they got married, because they wanted to. Then, after many years of abortions, they had a late offspring before they could get rid of it. Of course, the economy helped dictate that result. During the 40s, our parents were already in a better economic situation than when they were newcomers to Uruguay, so a second child wasn’t so dramatically difficult at that time.
Yet, I’m still interested in what I said at the beginning. So, why are abortions considered so traumatic today? If the social group accepts them with no remorse, there are no interior dramas. I don’t believe any of our parents had suffered at all for those lost fetuses. The “traumas” of abortion are clearly social.
Monday, February 28, 2011
respuestas de relojero
¿Vieron la costumbre de mucha gente de llevar el auto al taller e insistir en que quieren saber exactamente el problema que tiene? Por supuesto, los mecánicos contestan cualquier cosa y nos vamos tan felices.
Bueno, también insisten en saber en detalle por qué el reloj dejó de funcionar. Y cómo puede ser que después de haberlo usado 50 años, y ayer estaba perfecto, justo hoy se descompuso.
Mi papá ya estaba cansado de esas preguntas insistentes, a las que contestaba 'El eje del volante roza con el tambor'. Cualquiera que siquiera haya visto por dentro un reloj cualquiera, sabe que eso no tiene ni la opción de suceder. Pero los clientes se iban tan contentos...
Bueno, también insisten en saber en detalle por qué el reloj dejó de funcionar. Y cómo puede ser que después de haberlo usado 50 años, y ayer estaba perfecto, justo hoy se descompuso.
Mi papá ya estaba cansado de esas preguntas insistentes, a las que contestaba 'El eje del volante roza con el tambor'. Cualquiera que siquiera haya visto por dentro un reloj cualquiera, sabe que eso no tiene ni la opción de suceder. Pero los clientes se iban tan contentos...
Thursday, February 17, 2011
En inglés (de otro color)
Feb 2011. En una tienda de ropa, hace unas horas.
Una empleada estaba vociferando acerca de la mala actitud de la clienta previa.
Empleada, (acerca de una clienta a quien no le había gustado el color de unas bombachas que estaban en liquidación): “She says, this ghetto”. (Espera la reacción de la otra empleada, que quedó callada)
Entonces sigue: “She don’t know ghetto!!”, "so I says: Sista, this ain’t no ghetto, this ghetto”…
Ahí vi en un gran espejo el reflejo de toda la tienda. La única blanca era yo, como de costumbre.
Lo que es interesante es el uso de la palabra 'ghetto'. Ahí va lo de Wiki en inglés:
Recently the word "ghetto" has been used in slang as an adjective rather than a noun. It is used to indicate an object's relation to the inner city or black culture, and also more broadly, and somewhat offensively, to denote something that is shabby or of low quality. While "ghetto" as an adjective can be used derogatorily, the African American community, particularly the hip hop scene, has taken the word for themselves and begun using it in a more positive sense that transcends its derogatory origins.
Creo que en el caso de la empleada diciendo 'this ghetto', indicaba simplemente 'mal gusto'. No me parece que la calidad sea pertinente.
Una empleada estaba vociferando acerca de la mala actitud de la clienta previa.
Empleada, (acerca de una clienta a quien no le había gustado el color de unas bombachas que estaban en liquidación): “She says, this ghetto”. (Espera la reacción de la otra empleada, que quedó callada)
Entonces sigue: “She don’t know ghetto!!”, "so I says: Sista, this ain’t no ghetto, this ghetto”…
Ahí vi en un gran espejo el reflejo de toda la tienda. La única blanca era yo, como de costumbre.
Lo que es interesante es el uso de la palabra 'ghetto'. Ahí va lo de Wiki en inglés:
Recently the word "ghetto" has been used in slang as an adjective rather than a noun. It is used to indicate an object's relation to the inner city or black culture, and also more broadly, and somewhat offensively, to denote something that is shabby or of low quality. While "ghetto" as an adjective can be used derogatorily, the African American community, particularly the hip hop scene, has taken the word for themselves and begun using it in a more positive sense that transcends its derogatory origins.
Creo que en el caso de la empleada diciendo 'this ghetto', indicaba simplemente 'mal gusto'. No me parece que la calidad sea pertinente.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Moishe
Moishe. (no es su verdadero nombre, pero …)
(Trascribo como R esa gutural que se usa en idish pero no en castellano. También conviene recordar la diferencia entre ‘v’ y ‘b’ como si fueran sonidos diferentes, que lo son en muchos idiomas, pero no en el nuestro).
Recuerdo con cariño a ese personaje que nos hacía reir tanto, con su personalidad y su terrible pronunciación del castellano. Los años en Uruguay no lo cambiaron en absoluto.
Apenas lo veías, inmediatamente se presentaba con un “¿QueRés veR mi Rosa?” Como muy poca gente tenía la osadía de negarse, él inmediatamente se levantaba la camisa para mostrar una enorme cicatriz redonda con un centro bien marcado y aclaraba: “Esto fue la ciRugía después de mi oclusión intestinal. PoRque yo tengo pRoblemas, sabe?”. Sí, sabíamos. Y si no, él pasaba a explicar los detalles.
Una noche, en Las Toscas, cenando con la flia. de él y la mía, se levanta, apoya las manos en la mesa y avisa “Boino, voy a veR si voy del kveRpo…” Y allá desaparece, pero vuelve a la hora de los postres. Se sienta, con un gran suspiro, y anuncia “No foi como yo pensava, peRo…”.
A veces salía a pasear por ‘la CoRdillera SaRandí’, porque le gustaba ver a los pescadores.
La playa de Las Toscas tiene varias virtudes y una de ellas son las dunas, que se suelen utilizar como cuarto de baño, ya que la tecnología no llegó hasta allí a proveer algo más sofisticado. Y ahí iba Moishe, varias veces por día, “…a veR si esta vez tengo sueRte”.
Cierto año conoció a una buena señora y se veían todos los días en la playa. Al poco tiempo, ya enamorados, se levantaban juntos, se tomaban las manos, e iban camino a las dunas, con cara de gran felicidad. Volvían con cara de alivio. ("Amor intestinal", como lo bautizó Leonardo). Se casó con esa señora, pero las cosas no fueron muy bien y unos años después se separaron y tuvieron una seria pelea frente a nosotros por un cierto tacho de plástico verde que ella decía que había sido aporte suyo y él insistía que siempre había sido de él. Mal fin de una hermosa relación.
Mi mejor recuerdo fue un largo monólogo, un día que lo encontré en la Mutualista. Se veía muy agitado y le pregunté qué le pasaba. Su respuesta fue :” Foi a casa de mi hija MaRía, y después salí, me caí antes de subiR a un ómnibus y me apuRé paRa veniR acá y vengo peR un Riñón, peRo no se hace.”
“Moishe”, le dije, bastante preocupada, “¿Qué le pasó en el riñón?”
“¡PeRo ya te lo dije! Foi a veR a MaRía, me caí, y ahoRa vengo acá peR un Riñón, peRo no se hace.”
“Moishe, por favor, dígame ¿qué le pasó en el riñón?”
“¿Qué Riñón, qué Riñón?. ¿Sos boba vos? Vengo paRa un Riñón de Comisión DiRectiva y ahoRa no se hace!”
(Trascribo como R esa gutural que se usa en idish pero no en castellano. También conviene recordar la diferencia entre ‘v’ y ‘b’ como si fueran sonidos diferentes, que lo son en muchos idiomas, pero no en el nuestro).
Recuerdo con cariño a ese personaje que nos hacía reir tanto, con su personalidad y su terrible pronunciación del castellano. Los años en Uruguay no lo cambiaron en absoluto.
Apenas lo veías, inmediatamente se presentaba con un “¿QueRés veR mi Rosa?” Como muy poca gente tenía la osadía de negarse, él inmediatamente se levantaba la camisa para mostrar una enorme cicatriz redonda con un centro bien marcado y aclaraba: “Esto fue la ciRugía después de mi oclusión intestinal. PoRque yo tengo pRoblemas, sabe?”. Sí, sabíamos. Y si no, él pasaba a explicar los detalles.
Una noche, en Las Toscas, cenando con la flia. de él y la mía, se levanta, apoya las manos en la mesa y avisa “Boino, voy a veR si voy del kveRpo…” Y allá desaparece, pero vuelve a la hora de los postres. Se sienta, con un gran suspiro, y anuncia “No foi como yo pensava, peRo…”.
A veces salía a pasear por ‘la CoRdillera SaRandí’, porque le gustaba ver a los pescadores.
La playa de Las Toscas tiene varias virtudes y una de ellas son las dunas, que se suelen utilizar como cuarto de baño, ya que la tecnología no llegó hasta allí a proveer algo más sofisticado. Y ahí iba Moishe, varias veces por día, “…a veR si esta vez tengo sueRte”.
Cierto año conoció a una buena señora y se veían todos los días en la playa. Al poco tiempo, ya enamorados, se levantaban juntos, se tomaban las manos, e iban camino a las dunas, con cara de gran felicidad. Volvían con cara de alivio. ("Amor intestinal", como lo bautizó Leonardo). Se casó con esa señora, pero las cosas no fueron muy bien y unos años después se separaron y tuvieron una seria pelea frente a nosotros por un cierto tacho de plástico verde que ella decía que había sido aporte suyo y él insistía que siempre había sido de él. Mal fin de una hermosa relación.
Mi mejor recuerdo fue un largo monólogo, un día que lo encontré en la Mutualista. Se veía muy agitado y le pregunté qué le pasaba. Su respuesta fue :” Foi a casa de mi hija MaRía, y después salí, me caí antes de subiR a un ómnibus y me apuRé paRa veniR acá y vengo peR un Riñón, peRo no se hace.”
“Moishe”, le dije, bastante preocupada, “¿Qué le pasó en el riñón?”
“¡PeRo ya te lo dije! Foi a veR a MaRía, me caí, y ahoRa vengo acá peR un Riñón, peRo no se hace.”
“Moishe, por favor, dígame ¿qué le pasó en el riñón?”
“¿Qué Riñón, qué Riñón?. ¿Sos boba vos? Vengo paRa un Riñón de Comisión DiRectiva y ahoRa no se hace!”
Monday, February 7, 2011
Por lo menos sabemos castellano
Si no, tendríamos que estudiar disparates así:
b) Si la condición se refiere al pasado, la prótasis va en pretérito pluscuamperfecto o antepretérito de subjuntivo y en la apódosis se emplea este mismo tiempo, preferentemente la forma en -ra, aunque también se admite la forma en -se: Si hubiera/hubiese tenido dinero, me hubiera/hubiese comprado un coche; el condicional compuesto o antepospretérito: Si hubieras/hubieses estudiado, habrías aprobado; o el condicional simple o pospretérito: Si hubiera/hubiese terminado los estudios, hoy tendría un trabajo mejor. También en este caso debe evitarse el empleo en la prótasis del condicional compuesto o antepospretérito, que se da, como ya se ha indicado antes (→ a), entre hablantes de algunas zonas de América y del norte de España: Si lo habría sabido, te lo hubiera dicho.
Diccionario panhispánico de dudas ©2005
Real Academia Española © Todos los derechos reservados
b) Si la condición se refiere al pasado, la prótasis va en pretérito pluscuamperfecto o antepretérito de subjuntivo y en la apódosis se emplea este mismo tiempo, preferentemente la forma en -ra, aunque también se admite la forma en -se: Si hubiera/hubiese tenido dinero, me hubiera/hubiese comprado un coche; el condicional compuesto o antepospretérito: Si hubieras/hubieses estudiado, habrías aprobado; o el condicional simple o pospretérito: Si hubiera/hubiese terminado los estudios, hoy tendría un trabajo mejor. También en este caso debe evitarse el empleo en la prótasis del condicional compuesto o antepospretérito, que se da, como ya se ha indicado antes (→ a), entre hablantes de algunas zonas de América y del norte de España: Si lo habría sabido, te lo hubiera dicho.
Diccionario panhispánico de dudas ©2005
Real Academia Española © Todos los derechos reservados
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