I never had trouble saying: Mi Málaga. I first went there during college, and never really left. At least in my mind. Venezuela, on the other hand, has been a more complicated love affair. Not being able to go on a regular basis combined with the political current at that moment never helped. Now, it is a frustrating relationship. How dramatically the land of my childhood is disintegrating from the seams. Both my parents agree it is not a good time to visit. My rational side completely understands. Physically, I look Venezuelan, but my accent is a blend of Andalusian and Venezuelan. Plus my American dress code and mentality give clear signs that President Maduro is not my biggest fan. Indeed red is one of my favorite colors, but not there.
It is sad how politics permeates even what should be a light-hearted conversation on literature and soap operas, one of the Venezuela´s main pastimes. Recently, I went to hear author Alberto Barrera give a talk at the King Juan Carlos Center. He has an interesting career writing books and soap opera stories as well as a weekly column for El Nacional (the main opposition newspaper). The author, so cool and diplomatic, did not want to dig too deep into the oficialismo. When a journalist from another Venezuelan newspaper asked, all he said was he was not censored, and it seemed true from a few of his articles I read online. Barrera is lucky. Is it because he lives in Mexico City? I could not help but wonder.
When I found out that he was going to speak at NYU, I sent my dad a Whatsapp message, and asked him if I should go. He said yes. He was well known and a good writer. Honestly, I did not know much about Barrera, but was glad I went. My two bookcases have several books on Venezuelan art and politics, and felt lucky to have found a compilation of short stories. I read his before the talk, and afterwards asked him to dedicate it. A little cheesy. Maybe. Most, if not all of the intimate crowd there that evening, seemed to be from Venezuela or have an affinity toward the country. It was very heart-warming to hear stories that I could totally relate to even though I have not lived there in twenty-plus years.
Growing up in Caracas, we watched soap operas. That was the normal thing to do. One of my favorites was Cristal with Jeanette Rodriguez and Carlos Mata. Even my maternal grandmother was hooked. Months after her visit from New York and with little to no Spanish in her vocabulary, she still asked my mom how Cristal was doing. Cristal had become part of the family. My mom´s feminist side was always amazed how the female protagonists in any soap opera always had perfect hair, make-up, and nails even when they were rolling out of bed.
Barrera reminded us that realism was never the point. Could this hyper-reality help explain magic realism in literature? I am sure a dissertation or two have been written about this. When I lived in Spain, I was told that I looked and sounded like the Venezuelan soap opera stars that for many years appeared on TV. It must have been my long dark hair and big eyes. I would always chuckle because melodrama was far from my everyday life. For years, I secretly hoped that my parent's separation had a more dramatic reason, but it never did.
My drama today is thinking of the next time I will see my grandmother. Doña Fausta, as she is known in town, is our family matriarch. All of seven her siblings have passed on. This October is special because, God willing, she will celebrate her 100th birthday! Every time we talk, I remind her that we will see each other then, all the time praying that I can keep my end of the bargain. My father, for reasons I will probably never know, is her favorite, but my deep connection with her is purely physical. Out of my thirteen cousins, I am the one who looks most like her. But don´t tell them I said that.
My dad keeps saying the country is going to “explode” but so far, the regime keeps finding new issues to bring oxygen to its lackluster government. Sixteen years of socialism, and it is still going albeit not as strong as in the beginning. Recently, I was reminded of Chavez´s deep infatuation with Fidel in Hierba Mala Nunca Muere, currently playing at Repertorio Español. Spoiler alert: Castro´s character outmaneuvers his would-be assassins even when he is in the hospital with a failing mind (see image above). I am just amazed how he has outlasted eleven US presidents, and still counting. As the title implies, bad seeds never die.
On a lighter note, a few Sundays ago, I went to see pianist Luis Perdomo play at Teatro Pregones in the Bronx. One of the pieces that I most felt in my gut was a joropo, Venezuela´s national dance music. Traditionally played with the harp, cuatro (four string guitar) and maracas, he did a beautiful rendition using solely the piano. Perdomo also played pieces of his latest CD titled 22. Twenty-two years ago he left our beloved Venezuela. As of this year, he has lived as much time away as here in the US. In short: Un pie aquí y otro allá or one foot here, another there.
My equation looks a little different. Most recently, I have lived the same number of years in New York as an adult as all my time in Spain. Venezuela is still the winner by a few years. Until then, I will continue to enjoy injections of Venezuelan culture here in New York City until I find my next destination takes over.
