Myriam Yataco: Mi texto es el cielo

Coloquio sobre la Oralidad e Interculturalidad

Santiago de Chile Octubre 25-27 2011

"Mi texto es el cielo" reflexiones sobre la Oralidad y su trabajo con el manuscrito de Juan Santa Cruz Pachacuti Salcamaygua
Miryam Yataco

Quién es Myriam Yataco?




Miryam Yataco, sociolingüista de la Escuela Steinhardt de la Universidad de Nueva York habla de la oralidad, y de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui, el gran autor colonial de Perú, cuya obra le ha servido como guía en su pensamiento.
http://www.oysi.org/miryam-yataco
http://www.linguistic-rights.org
/miryam-yataco/

Un film de Cecilia Vicuña, parte de su serie "Documentos Orales #3"

www.oysi.org

Christmas Trees Around the World and Christmas Curiosities

 This was sent to me by my good friend Ken Bun and I wanted to share this information with my readers.

What's really interesting at the end is the real meaning of the 12 days of Christmas - I didn't know that... Make sure you go all the way to the bottom of the e-mail, the picture and information about Arlington Cemetery in the winter, before Christmas is beautiful!
 
The Capitol Christmas tree in Washington , D.C. , is decorated with 3,000 ornaments that are the handiwork of U.S. schoolchildren. Encircling evergreens in the 'Pathway of Peace' represent the 50 U.S. states.

The world's largest Christmas tree display rises up the slopes of Monte Ingino outside of Gubbio, in Italy 's Umbria region. Composed of about 500 lights connected by 40,000 feet of wire, the 'tree' is a modern marvel for an ancient city

A Christmas tree befitting Tokyo 's nighttime neon display is projected onto the exterior of the Grand Prince Hotel Akasaka.

Illuminating the Gothic facades of Prague's Old Town Square, and casting its glow over the manger display of the famous Christmas market, is a grand tree cut in the Sumava mountains in the southern Czech Republic.

Venice 's Murano Island renowned throughout the world for its quality glasswork is home to the tallest glass tree in the world. Sculpted by master glass blower Simone Cenedese, the artistic Christmas tree is a modern reflection of the holiday season.

Moscow celebrates Christmas according to the Russian Orthodox calendar on Jan. 7. For weeks beforehand, the city is alive with festivities in anticipation of Father Frost's arrival on his magical troika with the Snow Maiden. He and his helper deliver gifts under the New Year tree, or yolka, which is traditionally a fir.

The largest Christmas tree in Europe (more than 230 feet tall) can be found in the Pra�a do Com�rcio in Lisbon , Portugal . Thousands of lights adorn the tree, adding to the special enchantment of the city during the holiday season.

'Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree': Even in its humblest attire, aglow beside a tiny chapel in Germany 's Karwendel mountains, a Christmas tree is a wondrous sight.

Ooh la la Galeries Lafayette! In Paris , even the Christmas trees are chic. With its monumental, baroque dome, plus 10 stories of lights and high fashion, it's no surprise this show-stopping department store draws more visitors than the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower

In addition to the Vatican 's heavenly evergreen, St. Peter's Square in Rome hosts a larger-than-life nativity scene in front of the obelisk.

The Christmas tree that greets revelers at the Puerta del Sol is dressed for a party. Madrid 's two-week celebration makes millionaires along with merrymakers. On Dec. 22, a lucky citizen will win El Gordo (the fat one), the world's biggest lottery.

A token of gratitude for Britain 's aid during World War II, the Christmas tree in London 's Trafalgar Square has been the annual gift of the people of Norway since 1947.

Drink a glass of gluhwein from the holiday market at the Romer, Frankfurt 's city hall since 1405 and enjoy a taste of Christmas past.

Against a backdrop of tall, shadowy firs, a rainbow trio of Christmas trees lights up the night (location unknown).
There is one Christmas Carol that has always baffled me. What in the world do leaping lords, French hens, swimming swans, and especially the partridge who won't come out of the pear tree have to do with Christmas?

This week, I found out.

From 1558 until 1829, Roman Catholics in England were not permitted to practice their faith openly. Someone during that era wrote this carol as a catechism song for young Catholics. It has two levels of meaning: the surface meaning plus a hidden meaning known only to members of their church. Each element in the carol has a code word for a religious reality which the children could remember.
-The partridge in a pear tree was Jesus Christ. -Two turtle doves were the Old and New Testaments. -Three French hens stood for faith, hope and love.- -The four calling birds were the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke & John. -The five golden rings recalled the Torah or Law, the first five books of the Old Testament. -The six geese a-laying stood for the six days of creation. -Seven swans a-swimming represented the sevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit--Prophesy, Serving, Teaching, Exhortation, Contribution, Leadership, and Mercy. -The eight maids a-milking were the eight beatitudes. -Nine ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit--Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self Control. -The ten lords a-leaping were the ten commandments. -The eleven pipers piping stood for the eleven faithful disciples. -The twelve drummers drumming symbolized the twelve points of belief in the Apostles' Creed. So there is your history for today. This knowledge was shared with me and I found it interesting and enlightening and now I know how that strange song became a Christmas Carol...so pass it on if you wish.' Merry Christmas Everyone

CHRISTMAS AT ARLINGTON CEMETERYI wonder why the press hasn't enlightened the public about it?? Arlington National Cemetery
Rest easy, sleep well my brothers. Know the line has held, your job is done. Rest easy, sleep well. Others have taken up where you fell, the line has held. Peace, peace, and farewell...
Readers may be interested to know that these wreaths -- some 5,000 -- are donated by the Worcester Wreath Co. of Harrington, Maine . The owner, Merrill Worcester, not only provides the wreaths, but covers the trucking expense as well. He's done this since 1992. A wonderful guy. Also, most years, groups of Maine school kids combine an educational trip to DC with this event to help out. Making this even more remarkable is the fact that Harrington is in one of the poorest parts of the state. Please share this with everyone on your address list. You hear too much about the bad things people do. Everyone should hear about this.

La Navidad y Mis Cosas Favoritas

Hay una canción de Rodgers y Hammerstein que fue escrita en 1959 para el show de Broadway, El Sonido de la Música (en español se le llamó, La Novicia Rebelde) que se llama Mis Cosas Favoritas. Fue interpretada por Julie Andrews, en el papel de María, la institutriz encantadora, que se ganó el corazón de los niños que cuidaba, y que luego se convertiría en la esposa de su empleador, el Capitán Von Trapp. Es una obra basada en una historia de la vida real de la famosa familia Von Trapp que cautivó al mundo cantando en un coro familiar que luego sería contratado por diferentes teatros del mundo. La familia posteriormente se estableció en Vermont, USA, donde se dedicaron al negocio hotelero, al mismo tiempo que deleitaban a su audiencia con sus canciones alegres e inspiradoras.
A pesar de que Mis Cosas Favoritas nunca se ideó como una canción de Navidad, muchos cantantes famosos la han incluido en sus álbumes navideños, quizás debido a su asociación con la estación invernal, que es donde se celebra esta fiesta en el Hemisferio Norte. Quién no recuerda de memoria la letra en inglés, que por supuesto suena mejor con la música que acompañó a ésta. Es simple y revigorizante!
Y reza así: Gotas de rocío sobre las rosas y gatitos con bigotes, teteras de cobre brillantes y guantes de lana calentitos, paquetes de papel marrón amarrados con pitas…Éstas son algunas de mis cosas favoritas
Caballitos de color crema y tartas de manzana crocantes, timbres y campanitas de trineos y milanesas con fideos, patos salvajes que vuelan con la luna sobre sus alas… Éstas son algunas de mis cosas favoritas
Niñas vestidas de blanco con lazos de satén azul, copos de nieve que se caen sobre mi nariz y pestanas, inviernos plateados que se derriten en primaveras… Éstas son algunas de mis cosas favoritas.
Cuando el perro muerde, cuando la avispa pica, cuando estoy triste, simplemente recuerdo mis cosas favoritas, y entonces no me siento tan mal.
Y si puedo como María Von Trapp decir cuáles son mis cosas favoritas, yo también podría componer una canción que dice así:
Me gustan los niños, me gustan las flores y el canto de los ruiseñores, me gusta ver reír a mi esposo, reunirme con mis amigos para tomarme unos tragos y sentir el calor de su amistad…Estas son algunas de mis cosas favoritas
Me gusta cocinar, las piedras resplandecientes e iridiscentes y las joyas que confecciono y las cosas que embellezco y decorar mi casa, el mundo y las estrellas…Estas son algunas de mis cosas favoritas.
Me gustan mis hijos, el recuerdo de los tiempos pasados con ellos, sentir que significo alguien importante para sus vidas, la carita de mi nieta cuando descubre algo nuevo y su creencia de que vive en un mundo encantado…

Estas son algunas de mis cosas favoritas.

Me gustan mis amigas del presente y del pasado y recorrer con mi mente las memorias de tiempos felices, soñar que la vida se suspende en los momentos alegres y que cuando queremos, podemos cruzar dimensiones que ninguna máquina moderna ha podido materializar y a las que podemos llegar rapidísimo con el pensamiento.

..Puedo imaginarme que soy niña, joven y mayor al mismo tiempo, aunque el espejo me devuelva una imagen contraria.

Soy feliz porque puedo dar, ayudar y porque soy quien soy y no importa mi imagen externa, si no el resplandor positivo que puedo emanar desde lo profundo de mi ser.
Así que cuando la gente me ofende, cuando la nostalgia me invade, cuando las injusticias quieren apoderarse de mí, cuando estoy triste, no hago más que cerrar los ojos y transportarme a dimensiones felices o dedicarme a mis cosas favoritas… ¡y ya! Y si como parte de ese Ser etéreo, eterno y amoroso en el que creo, puedo también influir y ser recordada para bien, ese sería mi deseo favorito.
Ahora que estamos en la estación navideña siento alegría por el colorido de las lucecitas en los dinteles e interiores de todas las casas, por las múltiples fiestas anuales donde se reúnen amigos y familiares, por las manifestaciones de aprecio de las personas a las que no vemos frecuentemente, pero que a través de sus fotos, tarjetas o recuentos anuales nos actualizan acerca de sus vidas…

Parece que el nacimiento del niño Jesús, hace más de 2,000 años, sigue tocando las almas de sus seguidores y las redime de sus ofensas y negligencias, de sus olvidos y descuidos, y las desprende de la vorágine en que andan sumergidos todo el año y les trae paz y más atención al mensaje de amor que este gran hombre pudo mantener latente mientras deambuló difundiéndolo por esos pueblos del Lejano Oriente. Y si sólo creemos que el tiempo es una dimensión creada por el hombre para hacérsele más fácil el planificar sus actividades, entonces discurro que ese tiempo no ha pasado…que el ayer sigue sucediendo hoy y que toda energía positiva queda flotando en el ambiente…como una estrella que a pesar de que su luz brilló hace millones de años, todavía flota en el firmamento igual de brillante. Así es la luz de este gran Profeta…no importa que para algunos no sea el hijo de Dios, pero su influencia y triunfo sobre las mentes de las personas que lo escucharon y siguen oyendo su mensaje, sigue siendo igual de fuerte…más fuerte que esos mensajes políticos exuberantes que sólo son válidos, con excepciones por supuesto, para épocas determinadas… Porque el mundo quiere paz, quiere amor, quiere justicia, quiere comprensión, quiere redención, quiere positivismo…y eso es lo que El predicó y por eso su mensaje sigue siendo eterno y su nacimiento marcó una nueva era en el mundo…no sólo el religioso, sino en los individuos de todas las creencias.
Así que en esta celebración del nacimiento de Cristo, les deseo a todos que los plácidos copos de nieve caigan sobre sus caras y refresquen sus espíritus, que las alegrías de los que todo lo tienen sean extendidas con su caridad y desprendimiento y sentido de justicia para aquellos que claman por ser atendidos, que el resplandor del amanecer ilumine todos los rincones desolados y oscuros, que de los desperdicios crezcan plantas y árboles que nos permitan respirar, pero que sobretodo, reine la paz, y que de la quietud de una noche estrellada surja la aurora de un mundo de amor.

Tradiciones Peruanas de Don Ricardo Palma (versión completa)

Para una versión completa de las Tradiciones peruanas de Don Ricardo Palma entrar al siguiente link:
http://es.wikisource.org/wiki/Ricardo_Palma

Lucy, la cibernética

Me encantó este video y lo incluyo en mi blog para crear conciencia...en la misma línea que mi comentario sobre el libro Help o Caminos Cruzados.

Cathy Couric Interviews Kathryn Stockett, autor of THE HELP and a letter written by an African American Maid of the 1920s

“We Are Literally Slaves”: An Early Twentieth-Century Black Nanny Sets the Record Straight
In folklore the black nursemaid was seen as a dutiful, self-sacrificing black woman who loved her white family and its children every bit as much as her own. Yet the popular images of the loyal, contented black nursemaid, or “mammy,” were unfortunately far from the reality for the African-American women who worked in these homes. In 1912 the Independent printed this quasi-autobiographical account of servant life, as related by an African-American domestic worker, which dispelled the comforting “mammy” myth.


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I am a negro woman, and I was born and reared in the South. I am now past forty years of age and am the mother of three children. My husband died nearly fifteen years ago, after we had been married about five years. For more than thirty years—or since I was ten years old—I have been a servant in one capacity or another in white families in a thriving Southern city, which has at present a population of more than 50,000. In my early years I was at first what might be called a “house-girl,”or, better, a “house-boy.” I used to answer the doorbell, sweep the yard, go on errands and do odd jobs. Later on I became a chambermaid and performed the usual duties of such a servant in a home. Still later I was graduated into a cook, in which position I served at different times for nearly eight years in all. During the last ten years I have been a nurse. I have worked for only four different families during all these thirty years. But, belonging to the servant class, which is the majority class among my race at the South, and associating only with servants, I have been able to become intimately acquainted not only with the lives of hundreds of household servants, but also with the lives of their employers. I can, therefore, speak with authority on the so-called servant question; and what I say is said out of an experience which covers many years.

To begin with, then, I should say that more than two-thirds of the negroes of the town where I live are menial servants of one kind or another, and besides that more than two-thirds of the negro women here, whether married or single, are compelled to work for a living, — as nurses, cooks, washerwomen, chambermaids, seamstresses, hucksters, janitresses, and the like. I will say, also, that the condition of this vast host of poor colored people is just as bad as, if not worse than, it was during the days of slavery. Tho today we are enjoying nominal freedom, we are literally slaves. And, not to generalize, I will give you a sketch of the work I have to do—and I’m only one of many.

I frequently work from fourteen to sixteen hours a day. I am compelled by my contract, which is oral only, to sleep in the house. I am allowed to go home to my own children, the oldest of whom is a girl of 18 years, only once in two weeks, every other Sunday afternoon—even then I’m not permitted to stay all night. I not only have to nurse a little white child, now eleven months old, but I have to act as playmate or “handy-andy,” not to say governess, to three other children in the home, the oldest of whom is only nine years of age. I wash and dress the baby two or three times each day, I give it its meals, mainly from a bottle; I have to put it to bed each night; and, in addition, I have to get up and attend to its every call between midnight and morning. If the baby falls to sleep during the day, as it has been trained to do every day about eleven o’clock, I am not permitted to rest. It’s “Mammy, do this, ”or“Mammy, do that,” or “Mammy, do the other,” from my mistress, all the time. So it is not strange to see “Mammy” watering the lawn in front with the garden hose, sweeping the sidewalk, mopping the porch and halls, dusting around the house, helping the cook, or darning stockings. Not only so, but I have to put the other three children to bed each night as well as the baby, and I have to wash them and dress them each morning. I don’t know what it is to go to church; I don’t know what it is to go to a lecture or entertainment or anything of the kind. I live a treadmill life; and I see my own children only when they happen to see me on the streets when I am out with the children, or when my children come to the “yard” to see me, which isn’t often, because my white folks don’t like to see their servants' children hanging around their premises. You might as well say that I’m on duty all the time—from sunrise to sunrise, every day in the week I am the slave, body and soul, of this family. And what do I get for this work—this lifetime bondage? The pitiful sum of ten dollars a month! And what am I expected to do with these ten dollars? With this money I’m expected to pay my house rent, which is four dollars per month, for a little house of two rooms, just big enough to turn round in; and I’m expected, also, to feed and clothe myself and three children. For two years my oldest child, it is true, has helped a little toward our support by taking in a little washing at home. She does the washing and ironing of two white families, with a total of five persons; one of these families pays her $1.00 per week, and the other 75 cents per week, and my daughter has to furnish her own soap and starch and wood For six months my youngest child, a girl about thirteen years old, has been nursing, and she receives $1.50 per week but has no night work. When I think of the low rate of wages we poor colored people receive, and when I hear so much said about our unreliability, our untrustworthiness, and even our vices, I recall the story of the private soldier in a certain army who, once upon a time, being upbraided by the commanding officer because the heels of his shoes were not polished, is said to have replied “Captain, do you expect all the virtues for $13 per month?”

Of course, nothing is being done to increase our wages, and the way things are going at present it would seem that nothing could be done to cause an increase of wages. We have no labor unions or organizations of any kind that could demand for us a uniform scale of wages for cooks, washerwomen, nurses, and the like; and, for another thing, if some negroes did here and there refuse to work for seven and eight and ten dollars a month, there would be hundreds of other negroes right on the spot ready to take their places and do the same work, or more, for the low wages that had been refused So that, the truth is, we have to work for little or nothing or become vagrants! And that, of course, in this State would mean that we would be arrested, tried, and despatched to the“State Farm,” where we would surely have to work for nothing or be beaten with many stripes!

Nor does this low rate of pay tend to make us efficient servants. The most that can be said of us negro household servants in the South—and I speak as one of them—is that we are to the extent of our ability willing and faithful slaves. We do not cook according to scientific principles because we do not know anything about scientific principles. Most of our cooking is done by guesswork or by memory. We cook well when our “hand” is in, as we say, and when anything about the dinner goes wrong, we simply say, “I lost my hand today!” We don’t know anything about scientific food for babies, nor anything about what science says must be done for infants at certain periods of their growth or when certain symptoms of disease appear, but somehow we “raise” more of the children than we kill, and, for the most part, they are lusty chaps—all of them. But the point is, we do not go to cooking-schools nor to nurse-training schools and so it can not be expected that we should make as efficient servants without such training as we should make were such training provided And yet with our cooking and nursing, such as it is, the white folks seem to be satisfied—perfectly satisfied. I sometimes wonder if this satisfaction is the outgrowth of the knowledge that more highly trained servants would be able to demand better pay!

Perhaps some might say, if the poor pay is the only thing about which we have to complain, then the slavery in which we daily toil and struggle is not so bad after all. But the poor pay isn’t all—not by any means! I remember very well the first and last place from which I was dismissed. I lost my place because I refused to let the madam’s husband kiss me. He must have been accustomed to undue familiarity with his servants, or else he took it as a matter of course, because without any love-making at all, soon after I was installed as cook, he walked up to me, threw his arms around me, and was in the act of kissing me, when I demanded to know what he meant, and shoved him away. I was young then, and newly married, and didn’t know then what has been a burden to my mind and heart ever since: that a colored woman’s virtue in this part of the country has no protection. I at once went home, and told my husband about it. When my husband went to the man who had insulted me, the man cursed him, and slapped him, and—had him arrested! The police judge fined my husband $25. I was present at the hearing, and testified on oath to the insult offered me. The white man, of course, denied the charge. The old judge looked up and said “This court will never take the word of a nigger against the word of a white man.” Many and many a time since I have heard similar stories repeated again and again by my friends. I believe nearly all white men take, and expect to take, undue liberties with their colored female servants—not only the fathers, but in many cases the sons also. Those servants who rebel against such familiarity must either leave or expect a mighty hard time, if they stay. By comparison, those who tamely submit to these improper relations live in clover. They always have a little“spending change,” wear better clothes, and are able to get off from work at least once a week—and sometimes oftener. This moral debasement is not at all times unknown to the white women in these homes. I know of more than one colored woman who was openly importuned by white women to become the mistresses of their white husbands, on the ground that they, the white wives, were afraid that, if their husbands did not associate with colored women, they would certainly do so with outside white women, and the white wives, for reasons which ought to be perfectly obvious, preferred to have their husbands do wrong with colored women in order to keep their husbands straight! And again, I know at least fifty places in my small town where white men are positively raising two families—a white family in the“Big House” in front, and a colored family in a “Little House” in the backyard. In most cases, to be sure, the colored women involved are the cooks or chambermaids or seamstresses, but it cannot be true that their real connection with the white men of the families is unknown to the white women of the families. The results of this concubinage can be seen in all of our colored churches and in all of our colored public schools in the South, for in most of our churches and schools the majority of the young men and women and boys and girls are light-skinned mulattoes. The real, Simon-pure, blue-gum, thick-lip, coalblack negro is passing away—certainly in the cities; and the fathers of the new generation of negroes are white men, while their mothers are unmarried colored women.

Another thing—it’s a small indignity, it may be, but an indignity just the same. No white person, not even the little children just learning to talk, no white person at the South ever thinks of addressing any negro man or woman as Mr., or Mrs., or Miss. The women are called, “Cook,” or “Nurse,” or “Mammy,” or “MaryJane,” or “Lou,” or“Dilcey,” as the case might be, and the men are called “Bob,” or “Boy,”or “Old Man,” or “Uncle Bill,” or “Pate.” In many cases our white employers refer to us, and in our presence, too, as their “niggers.” No matter what they call us—no matter what they teach their children to call us—we must tamely submit, and answer when we are called; we must enter no protest; if we did object, we should be driven out without the least ceremony, and, in applying for work at other places, we should find it very hard to procure another situation. In almost every case, when our intending employers would be looking up our record, the information would be give by telephone or otherwise that we were “impudent,” "saucy,“ "dishonest,”and “generally unreliable.” In our town we have no such thing as an employment agency or intelligence bureau, and, therefore, when we want work, we have to get out on the street and go from place to place, always with hat in hand, hunting for it.

Another thing. Sometimes I have gone on the street cars or the railroad trains with the white children, and, so long as I was in charge of the children, I could sit anywhere I desired, front or back. If a white man happened to ask some other white man, “What is that nigger doing in here?” and was told, “Oh, she’s the nurse of those white children in front of her!” immediately there was the hush of peace. Everything was all right, so long as I was in the white man’s part of the street car or in the white man’s coach as a servant—a slave—but as soon as I did not present myself as a menial, and the relationship of master and servant was abolished by my not having the white children with me, I would be forthwith assigned to the “nigger” seats or the “colored people’s coach.”Then, too, any day in my city, and I understand that it is so in every town in the South, you can see some “great big black burly” negro coachman or carriage driver huddled up beside some aristocratic Southern white woman, and nothing is said about it, nothing is done about it, nobody resents the familiar contact. But let that same colored man take off his brass buttons and his high hat, and put on the plain livery of an average American citizen, and drive one block down any thoroughfare in any town in the South with that same white woman, as her equal or companion or friend, and he’d be shot on the spot!

You hear a good deal nowadays about the “service pan.” The “service pan” is the general term applied to “left-over” food, which in many a Southern home is freely placed at the disposal of the cook or, whether so placed or not, it is usually disposed of by the cook. In my town, I know, and I guess in many other towns also, every night when the cook starts for her home she takes with her a pan or a plate of cold victuals. The same thing is true on Sunday afternoons after dinner—and most cooks have nearly every Sunday afternoon off. Well, I’ll be frank with you, if it were not for the service pan, I don’t know what the majority of our Southern colored families would do. The service pan is the mainstay in many a home. Good cooks in the South receive on an average $8 per month. Porters, butlers, coachmen, janitors, “office boys” and the like receive on an average $16 per month. Few and far between are the colored men in the South who receive $1 or more per day. Some mechanics do; as for example, carpenters, brick masons, wheelwrights, blacksmiths, and the like. The vast majority of negroes in my town are serving in menial capacities in homes, stores and offices. Now taking it for granted, for the sake of illustration, that the husband receives $16 per month and the wife $8. That would be $24 between the two. The chances are that they will have anywhere from five to thirteen children between them. Now, how far will $24 go toward housing and feeding and clothing ten or twelve persons for thirty days? And, I tell you, with all of us poor people the service pan is a great institution; it is a great help to us, as we wag along the weary way of life. And then most of the white folks expect their cooks to avail themselves of these perquisites; they allow it; they expect it. I do not deny that the cooks find opportunity to hide away at times, along with the cold “grub,”a little sugar, a little flour, a little meal, or a little piece of soap; but I indignantly deny that we are thieves. We don’t steal; we just “take”things—they are a part of the oral contract, exprest or implied. We understand it, and most of the white folks understand it. Others may denounce the service pan, and say that it is used only to support idle negroes, but many a time, when I was a cook, and had the responsibility of rearing my three children upon my lone shoulders, many a time I have had occasion to bless the Lord for the service pan!

I have already told you that my youngest girl was a nurse. With scores of other colored girls who are nurses, she can be seen almost any afternoon, when the weather is fair, rolling the baby carriage or lolling about on some one of the chief boulevards of our town. The very first week that she started out on her work she was insulted by a white man, and many times since has been improperly approached by other white men. It is a favorite practice of young white sports about town—and they are not always young, either—to stop some colored nurse, inquire the name of the “sweet little baby,” talk baby talk to the child, fondle it, kiss it, make love to it, etc., etc., and in nine of ten cases every such white man will wind up by making love to the colored nurse and seeking an appointment with her.

I confess that I believe it to be true that many of our colored girls are as eager as the white men are to encourage and maintain these improper relations; but where the girl is not willing, she has only herself to depend upon for protection. If their fathers, brothers or husbands seek to redress their wrongs, under our peculiar conditions, the guiltless negroes will be severely punished, if not killed, and the white blackleg will go scot-free!

Ah, we poor colored women wage earners in the South are fighting a terrible battle, and because of our weakness, our ignorance, our poverty, and our temptations we deserve the sympathies of mankind. Perhaps a million of us are introduced daily to the privacy of a million chambers thruout the South, and hold in our arms a million white children, thousands of whom, as infants, are suckled at our breasts—during my lifetime I myself have served as “wet nurse” to more than a dozen white children. On the one hand, we are assailed by white men, and on the other hand, we are assailed by black men, who should be our natural protectors; and, whether in the cook kitchen, at the washtub, over the sewing machine, behind the baby carriage, or at the ironing board, we are but little more than pack horses, beasts of burden, slaves! In the distant future, it may be, centuries and centuries hence, a monument of brass or stone will be erected to the Old Black Mammies of the South, but what we need is present help, present sympathy, better wages, better hours, more protection, and a chance to breathe for once while alive as free women. If none others will help us, it would seem that the Southern white women themselves might do so in their own defense, because we are rearing their children—we feed them, we bathe them, we teach them to speak the English language, and in numberless instances we sleep with them—and it is inevitable that the lives of their children will in some measure be pure or impure according as they are affected by contact with their colored nurses.

Source: "More Slavery at the South," by a Negro Nurse, Independent, 25 January 1912, 196–200.

Comentarios sobre el libro "The Help" ( Caminos Cruzados)

Acabo de terminar de ver la película "The Help" (se refiere a las trabajadoras del hogar) y que en español tiene el título de "Caminos Cruzados". Esta película está basada en el libro de Kathryn Stockett del mismo nombre, y ésta es su primera obra. Se ubica en Jackson, MISSISSIPPI, donde nació y creció Kitty (así le dicen). Ella se graduó de la Universidad de Alabama con el grado de Inglés y Literatura,se mudó a Nueva York donde trabajó en publicaciones de revistas y en marketing por nueve años.
La obra es tan impactante que ha sido llevada a la pantalla produciéndose un film que tiene un efecto poderoso sobre las personas que han tenido la suerte de verlo. La actuación de artistas de gran calidad, como Emma Stone, la actriz Viola Davis, quien fue nominada para el premio de la Academia a la mejor actriz en la categoría de apoyo (No quiero traducirla como actriz secundaria)por su rol en la película Doubt(2008), Octavia Spencer y Bryce Dallas Howard.
The Help es la historia de una epoca de conflicto racial en los Estados Unidos, que se materializa en un pueblo alejado en Mississipi,Jackson, donde la gente de color es venida a menos y donde las leyes del gobierno apoyan esta discriminación. La historia es contada a través de la vida de tres mujeres: Aibilene, Mini y Eugene Phelan, apodada Skeeter; las dos primeras negras y sirvientas en casas de personas de alta alcurnia y Skeeter, una joven rebelde para su época, estudiante de periodismo, activista social de corazón y con deseos de convertirse en escritora. Skeeter se reune en un ambiente de peligro (por las consecuencias sociales) con estas mujeres y escribe un libro polémico en el que aquellas mujeres denuncian las injusticias de sus empleadoras blancas. La actuación de Viola Davis es tan genial que seguro le merecerá un Oscar de la Academia este año.
Pero regresando al tema del libro,es importante notar que la autora de aquel también fue criada por una nana de color y vivió en Jackson, Mississippi,lugar donde algunos años antes de que naciera fue el centro de las luchas sociales en los Estados Unidos, y donde todavía, a pesar de las reformas de las leyes, se conservaban las mismas creencias acerca de la inferioridad de la raza negra.

 Aunque Kitty, en una entrevista que le hizo Katty Couric nos dice que esta es una historia ficticia, creo sinceramente que ella hizo su libro en base a sus experiencias personales de niña(tiene 40 años), y que ella se identifica con Skeeter (la obra se sitúa en los años 60)quien tiene la misma profesión que ella. Es un libro que trae un mensaje muy importante para la sociedad norteamericana, tanto a nivel local,cono nacional, haciéndoles ver que a pesar de que los fundadores de la patria abogaron por los derechos igualitarios de la ciudadanía, en la práctica, y en especial en esa época, se desecharon aquellos conceptos; y apoyándose en el poderío económico de una clase privilegiada, se fomentaron abusos de las personas en desventaja económica, sobretodo de la raza negra.

Tuve la oportunidad de ver una exhibición importantísima en la Biblioteca Pública de NY, y en ella pude ampliar más mi visión acerca de los abusos que se han cometido en contra de la raza negra alrededor del mundo. Es sorprendente cómo la sed de poder económico y político no conoce fronteras para disfrazar sus intenciones aprovechándose de los más débiles y de los que no tienen armas físicas ni monetarias para asegurarse una voz en las decisiones de las naciones. Así, utilizan la discriminación como una espada que blanden para asegurar su status quo. Ya Bobby Seale, en los Estados Unidos, decía en su libro Seize the Time: "Desde nuestro punto de vista se trata de una lucha de clases entre la clase trabajadora proletaria y la pequeña clase gobernante. Los trabajadores de todas las razas deben unirse contra la opresión y explotación de la clase gobernante. Así que dejadme enfatizarlo de nuevo: creemos que nuestra lucha es una lucha de clases y no una lucha de razas." Y aunque a este concepto se opusieron grupos nacionalistas negros más radicales, Martin Luther se acercó más a esta tendencia pacifista en contra de la desigualdad y segregación racial.
En una República Africana llamada Bophuthatswana, por ejemplo,las personas negras sobre la edad de 16 años eran obligados a llevar con ellos un pasaporte cuando salían fuera de su pueblo o un lugar designado, so pena de ser arrestados. En los años 1960, las demostraciones en contra de la exigencia de este documento llevaron a la masacre de 69 personas en Sharperville, un pueblo en las afueras de Johannesburg, Sud Africa.

En otra vitrina, se puede ver la carta de un esclavo que refleja la brutal influencia de la esclavitud sobre la estructura familiar allá por los 1800. El esclavo, James Tate le escribe a su esposa e hijos que habían sido recientemente vendidos en Georgia y le dice que jamás podrá volverla a ver porque su amo no lo permitirá y que incluso, éste le ha ordenado que se case con otra esclava.

Los movimientos radicales del Poder Negro, y los más pacifistas, como en el caso de Malcom X (quien abogó por una concientización para la obtención de la dignidad racial de los negros) y Martin Luther King, sembraron el camino para la obtención de los derechos civiles y la modificación de las leyes que fomentaban la desigualdad, y abrieron el paso para otros movimientos como el feminista, el de los derechos de los homosexuales y otros.

Sin embargo, han pasado años y todavía estos conceptos siguen habitando en las mentes de algunas personas que no piensan en la igualdad racial ni de clases, por sus propias conveniencias, y siguen oradando el sistema social de los pueblos del mundo y siguen queriendo todavía demostrar la incapacidad de estos grupos para integrar puestos decisivos importantes en la vida de las naciones. Antes creí que la elección de un presidente negro en los Estados Unidos fue un paso importante en la renovación de las mentes americanas,sin embargo, hoy en día con todos los juicios que se tejen alrededor de este proceso político y las culpas que se quieren atribuir basadas en acusaciones de ineptitud y ineficacia, disminuyen mis esperanzas de un mundo igualitario en un futuro inmediato.
Y así regresamos al libro de Kitty para felicitar este esfuerzo valiente y sincero por publicar un libro que denuncia un sistema que debería ser declarado obsoleto.
En el caso concreto del Perú, este debería ser propagado entre los grupos de lectura de esos señores, señoras y señoritas encumbradas, que basándose en abolengos y títulos rancios y pasados de moda, siguen tratando a la servidumbre como seres de segunda clase con derechos limitados. Ya me siento medio Bryce Echenique, cuando me declaro testigo y hasta un poco culpable de haber tratado injustamente a esa servidumbre que me crió, que me acompañó con sus limitaciones, en mis tareas del colegio, que me llevaban a visitar a su familia en sus días de salida, que tomaron el lugar de mis padres cuando iba al parque o comía o me vestía. Así como el tipo de relación que tenía Aibilene, la nany de la historia de Kitty con Mae Mobley, la última de las 17 niñitas que crió, así nos criamos muchas niñas de aquella época; y cuando crecimos, muchos de nuestros hijos también tuvieron sus mamas. Y qué decir de la cocinera, el mayordomo o la empleada de servicio...todos prestaron una colaboración grande en nuestra crianza y servicio, sin embargo, no siempre el trato que se les dio, o se les da, es justo o reconoce su valor. Quién no se acuerda cuando algunas mamás no querían mandar a las empleadas al colegio para que no se pusieran muy sabidas? O cuántas "niñas bien" mandan viente veces al "chino de la esquina" a la empleada para que les compre un chicle o caramelo? O que hay de esos señorones o señoras a los que no se puede contradecir porque si no lanzan a su servidumbre insultos raciales o irrespetuosos de su dignidad humana? Cuántos mantienen a la servidumbre hasta altas horas de la noche despiertas a pesar de que éstas han trabajado más de las 8 horas reglamentarias? Cuántos de éstos consideran estúpido darles el mismo tipo de alimento a toda la familia, servidumbre incluída? Cuántas pertenecen a esos clubes de playa donde la servidumbre no puede contaminar el mar con su piel cuando se bañan las encumbradas?

"empleadas rebeldes"

Ya es hora de que se fije uno más en educarnos, fijarnos que todas estas desigualdades han contribuido a la miseria humana y que es tiempo de pensar en un cambio justo, donde se respete a los seres humanos por su contenido espiritual y no por su envoltura! Y que no digan que el problema de los negros es problema sólo de los gringos...y de quién es el problema de la servidumbre peruana?
Esta novela me dio la oportunidad de sacar toda mi preocupación por estos temas que se mantenían ahogados dentro de mí, ya sea para no crear polémica entre mis congéneres o porque no tenía el valor para hacerlo público. Ahora denuncio esa actitud...no...no por comunista como dirían algunos...sino porque si queremos progresar le debemos dignidad a la gente del mundo donde vivimos. Lean esta valerosa novela!