Breathe
By Leticia González Montes de Oca
Loneliness: an unwelcome lover, according to Sabina; the one that sometimes comes between two, sings Serrat. Circumstance or feeling that scares some and delights others: regret or pleasure, emptiness or fullness, punishment or privilege, sadness or happiness; sometimes the first, sometimes the second, depending on whether it comes alone or is desired, a matter of will, of the moment of life, of personality. It can easily go from being enjoyed to being suffered -and the other way around-; from being a gift to a condemnation -and the other way around-, and give us peace one moment to fill us with absence the next.
Soledad González Dávila, "Cholita", is the name of a revolutionary woman, in the broad sense of the word, who actively participated in the history of Mexico, from Madero to Calles, until she was taken by cancer at the age of 58.
Soledad Durazo, Sole, is the kind and renowned journalist from Sonora who talks to me about Opinión51, this space of letters that reflects current life from the necessary voice of women: brain passed through heart; feeling beyond knowing, and knowing tinged by feeling.
Soledad is also the name of a temple located in the rough neighborhood of La Merced that shelters the weeping Virgin in a black cloak, mourned by her son, with a large esplanade for an atrium, not long ago occupied by migrants who have now been relocated a few meters away.
Behind the temple and the encampment is a street market with blacksmith shops and yellow rubber awnings, where everything is sold; piracy in full. Hidden among the stalls is Corregidora Street, and at number 115, a dilapidated building with a dark corridor and stairs with broken steps leading to a shelter for the support of sex workers, where a certain university professor of my daughter's organized a field research visit, broadening of perspectives, and a dose of reality. You can bring whoever you want, he said, and off we went, the three generations in our 80s, 55s and 20s, to meet her - the reality - and them - the women.
No, they were not a parody of voluptuousness and make-up, nor the ladies in coats and cigars that I saw under the streetlights once, when I was thirteen, leaving a Timbiriche concert at the Teatro de la Ciudad. They were ordinary women, with huaraches instead of heels, T-shirts with prints of some child princess or Hello Kitty, no lace, glitter or necklines. On their washed-out faces, though, a pair of sad eyes and some uneven teeth. Older adults and young girls, very warm and hospitable, one could almost say that in a second we had grown to trust each other; one could almost say that we had grown to love each other.
An Almodovarian location with variegated walls, each in a different color: an image of Subcomandante Marcos in the foreground, photos of faces of those who have reached out to them; figures of saints and holy cards; playful posters promoting sex education. Ceramic dolls dressed as odalisques. Water glasses to cleanse energy; a meter that tells them how fast their children are growing; multiplication tables. A desk acting as a medical dispensary full of folders with files classified according to their hand-scribbled label: ABORTIONS, HIV, ADDICTIONS, PSYCHOLOGICAL.
Subscribe to read the full column...
