Sensibilidad tropical nació por dos urgencias:
Hace muchos años empaqué una maleta liviana con unos ahorros delgaditos y me fui pensando que no volvería, tan solo a ver a mis papás. En uno de esos regresos él me pidió que le leyera algo de lo que tanto escribía en esos cuadernos que siempre he tenido cerca, y sin mucho pudor me animé. Fue mi primer lector, y por él volví digital mi sensibilidad.
Estando en la lejanía dediqué muchas tardes a acompañar a un grupo de personas viejas a pasar las tardes. Hablando, porque generalmente es lo que necesitan hacer, contando sus historias, pero un día quisieron saber la mía. Les hablé de mis frutas al desayuno y no parecían entender. Surreal. Una papaya, cómo no. Me la conseguí a un precio desorbitante, la corte en trozos grandes y se las serví en las manos. Nada de platos, mucho menos cubiertos. Que se les escurriera la dulzura y la miel. Ahí lo saboree, ese es el caribe que corre por mi sangre.
Esta semana vi un árbol enorme de papayas y a mi niño sentado así, anclado a una que acababan de bajar del árbol, con su piel de arequipe, pelo Coca-Cola y esos cachetes, siempre con el rosado ideal.
Sensibilidad Tropical sigue por otras urgencias que se van desplegando y voy atajando.
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Tropical sensitivity was born because of two urgencies:
Many years ago I packed a light suitcase with a few and skinny savings and left convinced that I would never come back again, with the exclusive exception of visiting my parents. In one of those trips, he asked me to read him something from one of those notepads that I have always carried along, and without the slightest coyness I was encouraged. He was my first reader, and because of him I turned my sensitivity, digital.
Being far away from home, I spent many afternoons hanging out with a group of old ladies during the afternoons. Talking, because usually, that’s what they need to do. Tell their stories. But one day they wanted to know mine. I told them about my breakfast fruits and they didn’t seem to understand. Surreal. A papaya, of course. I bought one at an exorbitant price, cut it into large chunks and served it to them in their bare hands. No plates, much less cutlery. Let the sweetness and honey slip away. That was the moment I savored it, that is the Caribbean that runs through my vains.
This week I saw a huge papaya tree and my kid was sitting like that, holding to one that has just been cut from the tree. With his caramel cream skin, Coca-Cola hair and those cheeks, always tinted with the perfect fade of pink.
Tropical Sensitivity continues to explore other urgencies that keep unfolding and I am trying to get a hold off.
