 Emilio Bernal Labrada, miembro de la Academia Norteamericana de la Lengua Española, es autor de La prensa liEbre o Los crímenes del idioma.
Pedidos a: emiliolabrada@msn.com
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Nuestro idioma de cada día |
«NOTICIAS NUMÉRICAS»
Es normal que los números sean noticia pero, ¿qué tal si las enredan? Tratándose de matemáticas, los profesionales de la noticia están en el ámbito más álgido de la innovación. Tiene que ser así porque francamente nos quedamos perplejos ante sus nuevas reglas.
Vean ustedes, mis queridos amigos —y si lo entienden por favor comuníquenme sus conclusiones—. Nos dijeron, por ejemplo, que la bebida alcohólica es un agente depresivo que, entre ciertas personas, engendra —fíjense bien— «UNA POSIBILIDAD Y MEDIA más» de exagerar su consumo.
Cómo se tiene «media posibilidad» de algo es cosa que queda totalmente fuera del mundo de la lógica y las buenas costumbres.
Dedujimos que, tal vez, quisieron decir algo así como «el 50% más» pero, ¿a partir de cuántas posibilidades? Si empezamos con una y tenemos una y media más (total: 2.5), entonces el aumento es del 150%. En cambio, si empezamos con dos y agregamos una y media (total: 3.5), tenemos un 75% de incremento. Bueno, no voy a seguir porque nos perderíamos irremisiblemente en un laberinto aritmético.
Pero, ¿qué me dicen de la afirmación de que «un país es cuatro veces menos grande» que otro? ¿Cómo es posible que algo sea dos o tres o equis VECES MENOS grande? ¿Acaso no es cierto que VECES implica multiplicación? El país X (usando letras ecuacionales) puede ser dos veces —o sea el doble— del país Z en cuanto a superficie, población, etc. Pero si lo que queremos destacar es la pequeñez , entonces diríamos que el país X tiene LA CUARTA PARTE —o sea el 25%— de la superficie, digamos, del país Z.
Porque si decimos que tiene «dos veces menos» superficie. ¿cómo diablos se saca esa cuenta? ¿No les digo que están en un inverosímil dédalo matemático?
Pero, claro, ¡ahora caigo en la cuenta! Estas avanzadas «ecuaciones» son calcadas del inglés, cuyos legendarios errores —digo, horrores— de léxico y lógica son, por lo que vemos, sumamente contagiosos.
Por último —y aunque no sea precisamente aritmético, sí tiene de números— reproducimos un comentario noticioso, en un programa de mucho «Impacto», sobre el IglooFest de Montreal, en que nos aseguraron que «se celebró bajo temperaturas más allá del punto de congelación».
Entonces, ¿no hacía tanto frío? Creo que no, porque cuando la temperatura está MÁS ALLÁ de un punto se entiende, normalmente, que está por encima de él. Motivo por el cual el BAJO está dislocado: tendría que decir «se celebró a temperaturas BAJO [ese punto]».
Por si fuera poco, luego advirtieron que en Chicago se estableció un nuevo récord gélido (¿qué pasó con el entibiamiento global?): «dos grados bajo cero». Como no se molestaron en decirnos de cuál escala termométrica se trataba, nos quedamos en la incógnita: dos bajo cero Centígrado corresponde a unos 28 Fahrenheit, pero -2 Fahrenheit equivale a -20 Centígrado. Adivinen cuál congela más.
Está visto que estos señores lo que tienen BAJO cero es el magín y están, evidentemente, una posibilidad y MEDIA MÁS ALLÁ de toda redención posible, lo que nos pone una docena de VECES MÁS (¿o MENOS?) helados de lo que ya nos deja, cotidianamente, su uso y abuso del castellano, cualquiera que sea la escala con que se mida.
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«PRÁCTICAS ANTICIPADAS,
SIN POLÍTICA»
Como ya, mis queridos lectores, estarán ustedes aburridos de oír hablar de política, siendo que los políticos son los profesionales del «cuento» y ya nos han contado demasiados, vamos a hablar hoy de los «cuentos» que nos hacen los profesionales de la noticia.
Uno de ellos nos anunció tranquilamente que un comentarista nos daría a continuación una «lectura» de los resultados de cierta elección primaria. Pensé yo que nos iba a leer algo, pero no. Me equivocaba. Lo que iba a hacer el señor era otro tipo de «lectura» (transliteración de «reading»), pues se disponía a hacer un análisis o interpretación de la votación. Nada, que todos los días se aprende algo nuevo.
Luego, otro nos dijo que el señor Obama «estaba diez puntos DETRÁS nacionalmente» respecto a su rival, la señora Clinton. Lo que está DETRÁS de esa curiosa jerigonza es puro espanglés, pues en buen castellano se diría así: «tiene diez puntos de DESVENTAJA a escala nacional». A diferencia del inglés, detrás/adelante (behind/ahead) indican más bien posición física y no son las voces que más se prestan para indicar ventaja/desventaja –o bien que alguien va ganando o va perdiendo– en un concurso o competencia.. Bien se ve que se están quedando A LA ZAGA de lo correcto.
Otro más de los autotitulados «expertos» en la política –pero evidentemente no tan expertos en su idioma, el español– afirmó que se había celebrado la tan «ANTICIPADA» elección primaria. No es cierto. La primaria no se anticipó a nada: simplemente se cumplió en la fecha prevista. «Anticipar» no significa, como en inglés, anhelar, ansiar, esperar. Para nosotros, lo que «se anticipa» es lo que llega antes de su tiempo.u oportunidad.
Pasando a otro tema, en un «impactante» reportaje investigador nos afirmaron infinidad de veces que son muchas las víctimas de «MALA PRÁCTICA» quirúrgica. ¿Será que eso de «mala práctica» consiste en repetir algo hasta que salga mal? Debe ser, porque si no, habría menos perjudicados. Pero no: es transliteración irreflexiva de medical malpractice, cuyos equivalentes en castellano normal, para BIEN PRACTICARLOS (¡por favor!), son incompetencia, negligencia, ineptitud, o falta de ética profesional en la medicina.
Bueno, pasemos a otras PRÁCTICAS, como el uso de la marihuana. No, no se preocupen. No hablo de esa marihuana, la de los narcómanos. Me refiero a la marihuana medicinal, para satisfacer a enfermos que la necesitan a fin de aliviar su dolor y dolencia. Créase o no, nos aseguraron que en ciertos casos «su ACCESO está DISPONIBLE 24 horas al día». Menos mal, pensamos, temiendo que «su acceso» estuviera, contradictoriamente, INdisponible. Nada, que insisten en PRACTICAR MAL el idioma, puesto que hacerlo bien exigiría el cuidado de suprimir palabras redundantes y decir, por ejemplo, «estará accesible 24 horas al día».
Por último, una gran empresa de insuperables éxitos comerciales ha fracasado rotundamente al traducir su publicidad, que termina con este incomprensible lema: «Wal Mart . . . es la compañía». Pues sí, pero, ¿de qué, o para qué, o de qué categoría, condiciones o calidad? El lema o consigna, en español, está cojo: le falta algo así como, por ejemplo, un adjetivo: «es la MEJOR [la GRAN o la PRIMERA] compañía» Más aun: el concepto anglo es que «Wal Mart es ÚNICA, SINGULAR».
Y aquí lo singular es la MALA PRÁCTICA o, mejor dicho, PRACTICAR MAL el idioma hasta ANTICIPAR su lamentable deterioro por la DESVENTAJA de imitar, inútilmente, al espanglés. Bueno fuera que los señores locutores dieran una LECTURA ANTICIPADA a estos principios, antes de hablar
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«CRIMEN DESORGANIZADO»
Nos dejan helados cuando hablan del «crimen organizado», verdadera desorganización idiomática calcada del inglés «organized crime». Tiene que ser así, porque todos los crímenes o delitos, a no ser los totalmente espontáneos y extemporáneos, han sido de alguna manera (bien o mal) organizados o planeados. Lamentablemente, es casi seguro que los criminales autores de este delito de lesa lengua queden tan impunes como los delincuentes a quienes pretenden referirse con tan insólita designación.
Otra cosa sería hablar de «delincuencia (o criminalidad) organizada», de «organizaciones delictivas» o bien de «pandillerismo sistematizado». Pero lo siento, «crimen organizado» no me calza. Si así fuera, también podríamos hablar tranquilamente de la «contravención organizada» y del «equívoco organizado».
En fin, lo que es un «crimen (bien) organizado» es lo que le están haciendo al idioma español con tanta desorganización espanglicista de su léxico, no menos que de su sintaxis.
Escogemos al azar otros ejemplos de la prensa escrita, radial y televisiva. «Tome control» de su vida, nos dice cierto anuncio publicitario. Y constantemente nos hablan de que el gobierno tiene que «tomar acción» para tal o cual fin. Nada, que nos están TOMANDO EL PELO con tantas tomas que no proceden. En el primer caso sobra el tome pues basta con «CONTROLE su vida», y en el segundo también, pues, igualmente, basta y sobra con «ACTUAR». Pero claro, es que están pensando en inglés: take control, take action.
Pasemos ahora a la parte del lenguaje que nos deja helados, con la frase «hockey sobre hielo», por ejemplo. Creo que, siguiendo la norma del español de destacar únicamente la excepción, hay que suponer que el hockey (si no lo vamos a pronunciar «okey», ¿no sería mejor castellanizar el término con «joqui»?) es siempre el que se juega en patines y sobre hielo. La excepción sería el joqui de campo, caso en el cual sí se haría constar con esa descripción. Si no, basta con joqui.
Y para los ya archiconocidos equipos profesionales que se disputan campeonatos, aun menos falta hace explicarnos que son de «hockey sobre hielo», puesto que sabemos que no compiten, como los equipos universitarios, sobre un terreno cubierto de césped. Lo mismo se aplica a las Olimpiadas de Invierno, en las que el joqui se juega inevitablemente sobre una cancha de hielo. Luego entonces creo que podemos reservar la aclaración «helada» para los pocos casos en que pudiera de veras haber dudas al respecto.
Pero parece que la frase es contagiosa, puesto que también nos muestran y realzan las curiosas «esculturas sobre hielo» hechas por singulares artistas, con frecuencia en climas aptos para ello. Bueno, las tales esculturas creo que no son SOBRE hielo, sino DE hielo, que es bien distinto. Si fueran sobre hielo serían esculturas de mármol o de madera, por ejemplo, colocadas sobre una maciza base helada. Otra vez, nos quedamos fríos.
Son detalles de ORGANIZACIÓN de la lengua que vale la pena observar para no TOMAR las cosas con tan DELICTIVA literalidad y ponerlas SOBRE un papel que, como el HIELO del joqui, lo aguanta todo… o casi.
 Eric D. Goodman is a full-time writer and editor. National Public Radio’s WYPR recently called him “a regular on the Baltimore literary scene.” His work as been published in The Washington Post, The Baltimore Review, Writers Weekly, JMWW, On Stage Magazine, The Arabesques Review, Travel Insights, Coloquio, To Be Read Aloud, Neck of My Guitar, and is forthcoming in The Potomac and Scribble. He took third place in the Maryland Writers Association 2007 Short Fiction Contest. Eric has read his fiction at events throughout Baltimore. His first children’s book, The Flightless Goose, is being published by Writers’ Lair Books in 2008. Eric seeks an agent for his novel in stories, Tracks, which was a semi-finalist in the Gather First Chapters Novel Contest. “The Silences” is a story from Tracks.
For more information see his literary blog or the online station for Tracks, a novel in stories. |
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THE LITERARY LIFE - VIDA LITERARIA
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The Silences
They were young, this couple seated on the train. Too young, their friends back home had teased them, to be riding an old-fashioned locomotive. But they'd boarded anyway, and here they sat, side by side, caught in the quiet of the passenger car during one of those rare moments when no one was speaking. The sound of the train's movement came to their ears like a lullaby, a soothing soundtrack to the window's serene scenery.
Malcolm and Tina were the same age: nineteen years old, just out of high school. She'd loved him for as long as she could remember, first as a friend, then as a soulmate. Malcolm worked as a dishwasher at Red Brick Station; Tina was a sandwich artist at Subway. They both had futures ahead of them, they knew, but their individual lives came second to their life together. They considered themselves two halves of a stable whole. They'd been a steady couple for years, ever since they transitioned from middle school to high school, and if they were sure of anything, they were sure of their love for one another.
That's why they weren't in any rush to get into college. There'd be plenty of time for that in the years to come. They knew where to place their value: in one another. It was more important to get married, have children, and devote themselves to one another and their family, than all the education, wealth and worldly success they could possibly muster.
"Too many people place too much importance on glamour, wealth and success," Tina had said early in their relationship, before they'd even exited the tenth grade, before they'd even seen one another in full.
"You got that right," Malcolm had been quick to agree, his gray eyes brightening. "If people put the kind of effort into their families that they put into their careers and making money and getting successful, we'd live in a better place."
"Right," she'd said. They used to spend their after-school hours by the neighborhood pond. The park around the pond was surrounded by a green, with esthetically placed stones and perfectly positioned trees. The tree without a bench underneath it was their favorite place — their place. Others could have their benches; Malcolm and Tina preferred to sit side-by-side beneath the tree in the fresh grass, his long arm around her, cuddling in the shade and watching the sun reflect off the water. They smiled contentedly and watched the ducks try to catch the reflecting sunlight, dipping their heads in the water and their tail feathers in the air. "It would be a better place. More … old fashioned."
Tina's parents and Malcolm's friends often teased them for being old souls in a new world. Malcolm and Tina just laughed it off. They listened to swing, show tunes, and classical music. He could name all of Glenn Miller's songs, but not one artist on the current pop charts. She'd seen every episode of Gilligan's Island but not one segment of Survivor. Others teased them for their old ways, but Tina was sure unspoken admiration was at the heart of it.
On the train, Tina glanced at Malcolm, his copper hair reflecting the sun in an autumn hue. He'd be a shift supervisor in another year; then they could afford to move out of their parents' homes, get married, and start their life as one. She'd get the perfect wedding gown, and it would be snow white, even though he'd taken her virginity when he gave his to her. "It'll be a storybook wedding," he promised, describing the horse-drawn carriage that would sweep them from the chapel to the swinging reception with big-band music. It sounded wonderful.
It was quiet now, on the train. Too quiet, for Tina's taste. Sometimes it seemed they had everything they needed in the having of one another. But now, she needed more. She needed his words, his attention. Malcolm was in the center of one of his silent spells again. She hated it when Malcolm fell into silence, and he seemed to do it more and more often the more comfortable he got in their relationship. She wanted him to say something romantic now. Something about how her radiant smile made his heart as light as her feathery hair, or the how the sound of her voice made his soul sing. She probed for the poetry of their past. It had been his idea, after all, to take the train. He'd said the plane was in too much of a hurry and that a train was nice and slow, that they'd have lots of time together, side-by-side. Railroads are romantic, he'd said.
Tina looked at the man of her life, young, handsome and at her side, his gray eyes reading a paperback of Poe's collected works. He'd been reading it for an hour straight, not sending so much as a word her way. While Malcolm read, Tina alternated between watching the scenery outside the window — young trees intermixed with old — and looking at him. Finally, Malcolm caught her looking. "What?"
Tina's longing eyes asked as eagerly as her voice. "Say something."
He slapped his paperback down, resting it open on his leg. "What do you want me to say?"
"Why don't you tell me you love me? Like you used to?"
He sighed. "I love you." The words and the annoyance in his voice did not match.
Annoyance infected her voice as well. "It's not the same when I have to tell you to say it."
"Can't win for losing," Malcolm griped. "I mean, you just asked me to say it, I said it, and now you're upset because I said it! What the hell do you want? Do you even know?"
Tina noticed the woman shifting in the seat in front of them. The lady peeked back at them and then quickly faced forward. Under the sound of the woman's sigh, Tina lowered her voice, not wanting to infuse the passengers around them with the personal problems between her and Malcolm. "I just want you to notice me!"
"Notice you?" Malcolm's voice didn't lower to meet hers. "You're right next to me — you're a part of me! How can I not notice you? It's like not noticing my left hand or right foot!"
"So you're comparing me to your right foot?" Tina couldn't help but turn up the volume herself. "Nice."
"Tina." Malcolm emitted a deep sigh. "You know what I mean."
The lady sitting in front of them continued to shift uncomfortably. She was probably ten years their senior. The woman stood from her seat and walked the aisle of the moving train, riding the rhythm. Tina watched her, embarrassed to have driven away this quiet neighbor with their argument. This wasn't the first time the woman had gotten up for a walk. Tina then looked back at Malcolm to see him watching the woman as she strutted; his eyes glided down the curvature of her back, onto her rounded behind, down her long, jean-hugged legs. She knows how to move, Malcolm's captivated gaze was saying — although he never would — as he admired the woman's slow, leisurely stroll.
"She's nice looking, for a thirty-something," Tina said softly.
"What? Oh, I was just staring off into space," he said.
"Yes, I saw the space you were staring off into."
Mal put on his devilishly embarrassed grin. "Cheer up, Honey! Of course I love you. Can't I read a little without having to say it?"
"I just want to spend some time with you, Mal. That's why we're here, isn't it?"
"All right," Malcolm said. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I don't know. Anything."
He held up his paperback. "How about Edgar Allen Poe?"
"Never...never mind," Tina said. She was no Poe fan. She gave Malcolm a look as distressed as the writer's prose. "Just go back to your reading."
He smiled and pecked her reddened cheek. "I'll just finish this story," he said. "Then we'll talk."
Tina smiled compliantly. She watched him return to his book, and she turned back to the window. They were somewhere along the border of Ohio and Kentucky, and she could see the Ohio River flowing outside. Leaves from nearby trees skydived from their secure places and soared down toward the water. Like little kayaks, the leaves flowed along the Ohio. Some of them had run one onto the other, connected. They traveled together, the pairs becoming wholes. But most of the kayaking leaves drifted alone down the cold autumn river. Only the lucky ones traveled in pairs.
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Tina remembered a time when it had been all she could do to get a word in when Malcolm was talking. He'd spoken about everything under the sun and some things beyond it. Their early conversations had revolved around school subjects and teachers, then went on to movies and books. When puberty hit, the conversations grew awkward for awhile, but they leveled out into romantic proclamations and private poetry recitals, Malcolm declaring his love for her. Tina found it difficult to decline his words or his kisses. But then, she never really tried to.
Like their first few dates, their first intimate relations had been more awkward than satisfying. But since those early days, they'd landscaped one another's bodies and knew the lay of the land. He didn't need the rhythm of a train to arouse her.
As their relationship flourished, their conversation shriveled. Tina guessed he was less out to impress and more comfortable with her, and that made him less ambitious in his speech. Or perhaps he'd already said everything he had to say, exhausted all of the subject matters he'd mastered. She wondered whether there was anything he knew or thought that he'd not already told her. There was no question of his love for her. But she didn't want to be the comfortable old brown shoe for his right foot. She needed to be lifted from the place where she sometimes dragged herself down.
Sitting alone on the train — Malcolm submerged in the world of Poe — Tina worried about the route they were traveling. She had a clear vision of their future as husband and wife. There would be the nice wedding, the magical honeymoon, the excitement of children. But she wondered what they would be left with when the rearing of children was behind them, when the conversations were abandoned.
They would sit in the living room of their future cottage, just the two of them. He'd have his newspaper or a book open in his hands. She'd be watching a program on television or looking through an album of photos, remembering better times, wishing photos had audio clips, snippets of Malcolm's words, of the conversations that had made her fall in love with him. Sounds from before the silence. Who is this person beside me? she would wonder. And why won't he say anything? Why won't he talk to me? Tina would cook dinner and Malcolm would eat it. They would look at each other, perhaps he would grunt, "Mmm. Good, Honey." And then, back to the activity or inactivity that kept them from talking.
Tina imagined that in that far-off future she would have to break the ice sometimes. She would look at her husband of thirty years and see him in his recliner with the newspaper, working the crossword in his mind. "What are you thinking?"
He'd look up, startled at her voice. "What, Honey?"
She'd smile at him. She'd still be pretty and fit, attractive, still able to get his attention. "What are you thinking about?"
Malcolm would continue to look at her, puzzled by the question. "Nothing." He'd return to his crossword, hiding his face behind it.
"No, really," she'd persist because she'd need his words, the words of their youth, the ones she'd fallen in love with. "You've got to be thinking about something. What?"
This time he'd keep his face hidden behind the newspaper. "A seven letter word akin to love," he'd answer. Or he'd begin talking about a book he was reading and she never would.
Tina would put it to him directly. "Do you think we could talk?"
He'd squirm. "I'm working on this right now."
"After you're done with the paper," she'd say, narrowing her grip. "Can we talk then?"
"Well, sure. Sure we can."
But the newspaper would take longer to read that day. He never looked at coupons or the Taste sections, but Tina imagined he would that day. Finally, he would finish, only the entirety of the stock listings unread, and he would depend on Tina to guide their exploration of once-familiar territory.
But Tina would fall silent. She wouldn't know what to say when the opportunity to say it came, not any more than Malcolm would. After a lifetime together, after retiring from their jobs, raising their children and sending them out into the world to establish their own lines of communication with loved ones, there would be nothing left for Malcolm and Tina to talk about. Once you've said everything, what more was there to say? And so, in their uncomfortable silence, Malcolm would pick up a book and Tina would find yet another photo album to relive, another quiet set of images from the days when there was enough romance to keep the dialogue going.
3
The train continued alongside the Ohio River. Malcolm put the paperback of Poe on his lap and turned to Tina. "So what're you thinking?"
Tina turned from the window view. "Huh?"
"What're you thinking about? You're in a dream."
She smiled, seeing the book out of his hands. "About you," she said. "About us."
"That's what I like to hear." Sincere happiness resided on his face. "Let's go get something to drink." Tina agreed, and the two of them walked hand-in-hand from one passenger car to another until they hit the crowded lounge car.
The woman from the seat in front of them was here in the lounge, drinking a glass of white wine. It appeared she had come here to think, not to talk. Others engaged in friendly conversation: a woman with a huge tattoo on her lower back flirted with a younger man; an old couple talked about their grown kids and as they sipped beer and iced tea; a man in a military uniform comforted a confused-looking old woman. But many passengers sat silently: an older man jotted notes in his planner like he was in a race against time; a silver-haired guy read note cards; a big man in a leather jacket played with an unlit cigarette as he looked around the room.
A sad lady caught Tina's attention. The woman seemed to be trying to mend a broken heart with an old love poem on antique paper, crying over the words or what they represented. Tina hoped that wasn't how she turned out: a thirty-something crying over her memory of Malcolm's words.
Early in their relationship, they'd promised one another that there would be no secrets. Tina had remained true to her word, until recently. She hadn't told Malcolm about her daydreams of their quiet future. She hadn't told him that such visions had driven her to seek out alternatives. That she'd setup a new email account just to correspond with her friend from high school, Katie, who'd moved to New York after graduating. Katie waited tables while her agent tried to find her work as a model. Before leaving, Katie had encouraged Tina to join her, and Tina had refused; it was not part of her plans with Malcolm. But recently, Malcolm's silences had made her question the depth of his devotion to her, the intensity of his love, the stability of their future as one.
Tina had begun using the hours that Malcolm worked and she didn't to investigate the idea of moving to New York City on her own. She'd even called an apartment tower and inquired about rates and availability. The lady on the phone had gone over the details of several apartments she had open, stressing the unlimited opportunities waiting in the big apple. "Want me to reserve one for you? We can do the application over the phone."
Tina's heart raced at the idea. She had to swallow down a lump in her throat before answering. "I'll call back," she said, and hung up. But she never did. The big apple seemed a forbidden fruit, and she couldn't bear the thought of taking a bite without sharing it with Malcolm. It seemed a betrayal. Just thinking about it made her ill.
Forgetting the idea of an alternate life wasn't as easy as hanging up the phone. She thought about life alone in the big city often. That wasn't her desire — she needed Malcolm — but she didn't want to end up living with his silence instead of him. All she needed was his love, his words, his assurance. She wished he'd offer her something now.
"Cola?" Malcolm asked.
"Bottled water's fine."
Malcolm got their drinks and they found a corner with two empty chairs. They uncapped their bottles and drank. Malcolm broke the silence. "So what exactly were you thinking about us?"
"Oh, your favorite subject," she joked. "I was thinking about how much I need you."
Malcolm looked around, embarrassed. "Aw, we don't have to get into that right now."
"Well, you know it's true. I love you."
"Of course I know," he said softly. "You too."
Silence slithered back between them. Then he asked, "What do you want to do first? When we get there? Tickets to the Bears? Or hit the Field Museum?"
"What about Sally and Bo?" Visiting them had been the pretense for their visit to Chicago. Sally and Bo were friends from high school who had graduated a year earlier and moved to Chicago to attend the American Academy of Art. "They'll be at the station when we get there; they may have something to say about our schedule."
Malcolm took a drink of his water. "Yeah, but they'll want to do what we want," he said. "They live there; we're only visiting."
"Don't worry," she said. "We'll see the Bears in action, we'll get to see the dinosaurs at the Field Museum. They'll take us to Hard Rock and Jordan's restaurant."
Malcolm smiled at the activity their week promised. "And that place with the deep-dish pizza they're always talking about...Giordano's." He laughed. "Tina, we're gonna have a great time together."
Tina bent forward and kissed him. As they parted, leaning back in their seats, each took a drink of water. Each looked at the other in turn, but when one set of eyes caught the other, the first would turn away. Their silence lasted a couple minutes, but it seemed unbearably long to Tina. "I hate the silences," she whispered.
"What?"
She met his eyes, then looked at the little bit of water left in her bottle. "The silences. I hate it when we don't have anything to say."
Malcolm looked at her as she averted her eyes. Her fluffy blonde hair swept along her shoulders. "I love them," he said.
Annoyance crept back into her voice. "Whatever."
"Really, I do," he said. "They're comfortable, the silences. We don't have to be yapping all the time. We can be comfortable just being together, without saying a thing."
Tina thought it over. "I guess so. I just hate it when we run out of things to say."
"We're not running out of things to say," Malcolm protested. "We're finding easier ways to say what we have to say." Registering her puzzled look, he elaborated. "We know each other so well, we can say things without really saying them. I know you really want a cola by the way you keep measuring how much water you have left, like you're fulfilling a requirement first. You told me without saying a thing. You want something with flavor, but you're trying to do the healthy thing and get your daily allotment of water in."
Tina grinned. "I guess that's true." She wanted to look at the bottom-dwelling water in her bottle again, but self-consciously refrained.
"The way I see it, the fact that we have these silences just proves how comfortable we are together, how we're made for each other. Your left hand doesn't have to talk to your right foot. We don't always have to be chatting to be into one another."
She smiled and gave him a purposeful look. "Then you're not bored with me? You didn't stop saying you love me because you stopped loving me?"
"Of course not, and you know it. It's just that when a couple is in love as much as we are — practically one person — we don't have to keep saying it to each other. It's like breathing, or our heartbeats. It's automatic. We just know. It's just there, in you, in me, in the speaking and the silences."
She took his hand in hers and looked him in the eyes. "It's still nice to hear it once in awhile."
"All right, all right. I love you, Tina." This time he didn't look around to see who may have heard. "Now, how about a cola?"
4
They were close now, somewhere west of Indianapolis. According to the map, after another stop the train would bend to the right and proceed north toward Chicago. Tina looked forward to a fun week with Malcolm, Sally, and Bo. As much as she was anxious to get off the train, she even looked forward to returning to it for their ride back to Baltimore. She looked forward to a lot of things, and she had a definite vision of her future with Malcolm.
In that distant future, Malcolm would be reclining in his favorite chair and Tina would be on the sofa. It would be quiet in their living room, with their children all raised and sent out to make tracks of their own in the world. Retirement would keep Malcolm and Tina together most of the time, enjoying each other's conversation, each other's presence, each other's silence.
When Malcolm finished the newspaper, he would look over to the sofa, over to Tina. She would return his gaze, no words between them, and pat the open space beside her. He would stand, strut over, and take his place by her side. They would look together at the photo album and remember good times together. There would be no need for audio clips — they would provide their own live commentary. They would talk about those times, remind each other of feelings conjured by the pictures. They would talk, and then not talk. They would kiss and make love and make more good times. Then they'd enjoy the silence.
Tina decided that when she got home she would delete all of her emails with Katie and close the separate account. Katie could have her modeling career in New York City. Tina had all that she wanted in her life with Malcolm.
On the train, back in their seats, Tina looked out the window at the autumn trees once again. Leaves came down like sporadic droplets from branches after a hard rain. Once in awhile, two leaves remained connected at the stems, two leaves joined together, falling as one. As she smiled, a hushed laugh fell out.
Malcolm looked out the window, then at Tina. "What're you thinking now?"
Tina smiled. "Oh, you know." She continued looking out the window.
Tina knew Malcolm could see her reflection in the window, so she smiled. "I love you too," he said, and then returned to the comfortable silence between them.
CRITICA DE TEATRO
por Hainess Egas
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Tu Ternura Molotov
de: Gustavo Ott
Gala Hispanic Theatre continúa su temporada 2007-2008 con el estreno en los Estados Unidos de la obra de teatro “Tu Ternura Molotov”, una picante pieza del dramaturgo venezolano Gustavo Ott. Esta intensa comedia nos confronta con los prejuicios que todos tenemos pero que sin embargo se los achacamos a los demás sin ver los nuestros propios. Se nutre, de las vivencias de una moderna pareja que habiendo cada quien salido de orígenes humildes, han llegado a alcanzar un nivel muy alto de triunfo en sus vidas profesionales.[sigue]
Bobby Fisher
por Pepe Herrera
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En Islandia, a los sesenta y cuatro años de edad, ha muerto Bobby Fisher. El ajedrez esta de luto. Este genio norteamericano con raices hebreas no ha tenido paralelo en la historia del ajedrez mundial. Desde los 13 años en que le ganó una partida a Byrne en una forma brillante, Fisher formó parte del
panorama ajedrecístico norteamericano.
En la primera mitad de su vida, su genio ajedrecístico, su personalidad extrovertida y sus exigencias popularizaron el ajedrez... Como resultado, los buenos jugadores no solo empezaron a ganar juegos sino a ganar dólares; escribiendo, haciendo exhibiciones y dando conferencias... La magia de Fisher había rejuvenecido al ajedrez en norte América. Fisher ganó el campeonato Americano cada vez que quiso, posición que nadie le discutía. Organizo exhibiciones de partidas simultáneas, que consisten en jugar contra cincuenta o sesenta aficionados al mismo tiempo. En unos cuatro meses jugo con cerca de dos mil ajedrecistas, obteniendo un resultado de 94 % victorias.
Bien establecido como jugador nacional su próximo objetivo fue el campeonato del mundo. Para ello tenía que romper la hegemonía rusa que por los últimos veinte años había dominado el ajedrez mundial. Los rusos conocían todas las partidas de ajedrez jugadas por Fisher. Sabían sus aperturas, sus defensas y sus ataques. No había misterios para la elite rusa acerca de las novedades que pidiera crear Fisher en el tablero.
Para clasificar como retador al campeonato mundial tuvo que jugar en el ínter zonal de Palma de Mallorca. No solo quedo en primar lugar sino que venció en encuentros individual a Larsen y a Taímanos 6 -0. Ni siquiera le lograron un juego tablas. Habiendo ganado el ínter zonal ya tenía derecho a jugar un match con Spaski el campeón mundial ruso. La guerra fría estaba en su apogeo y hubo que encontrar Islandia, un lugar neutral. El premio de $125,000 dólares le pareció poco y alguien tuvo que agregar a otros $125,000 dólares al premio. Finalmente, cuando jugó contra Spaski perdió la primera partida. Indicó que había perdido por el ruido y la presencia cercana del público. Perdió el segundo juego por no presentarse a jugar hasta que sus demandas fueran satisfechas. Al fin aceptó a jugar por el campeo del mundo en un lugar aislado con un déficit de dos juegos, adicionalmente el campeón tenía a su lado todo el consejo y la experiencia del grupo ruso. A pesar de todas las predicciones Fisher le gano fácilmente el campeonato a Spaski y se coronó de campeón del mundo. Mas tarde, en el próximo ciclo se negó a defender su título, no jugando contra el retador Karpov porque las condiciones impuestas por los rusos no le satisficieron. Así, sin defenderlo perdió su posición de campeón del mundo.
Aquí llegó Bobby Fisher a la segunda parte de la vida. Su mente perdió su brillo y se hundió en la penumbra. Lo abandona su personalidad gregaria y se convierte en un recluso. Por los últimos treinta años vive en la oscuridad y muere prácticamente solo. Nosotros lo consideramos un enfermo mental y pasamos un piadoso velo por las acciones en sus últimos años de su mente desquiciada. Descanse en paz Bobby Fisher para orgullo se su tierra natal y para deleite de las futuras generaciones de ajedrecistas.
por Fermín García Rodríguez, Sevillano y Pili Gonzalez, también Sevillana
Léelo de arriba a abajo y luego de abajo a arriba
LOS POLÍTICOS
En nuestro partido político cumplimos con lo que prometemos.
Sólo los imbéciles pueden creer que
no lucharemos contra la corrupción.
Porque si hay algo seguro para nosotros es que
la honestidad y la transparencia son fundamentales
para alcanzar nuestros ideales.
Demostraremos que es una gran estupidez creer que
las mafias seguirán formando parte del gobierno
como en otros tiempos.
Aseguramos sin resquicio de duda que
la justicia social será el fin principal de nuestro mandato.
Pese a eso, todavía hay gente estúpida que piensa que
se pueda seguir gobernando con las artimañas de la vieja política.
Cuando asumamos el poder, haremos lo imposible para que
se acaben las situaciones privilegiadas y el tráfico de influencias.
No permitiremos de ningún modo que
nuestros niños tengan una formación insuficiente.
Cumpliremos nuestros propósitos aunque
los recursos económicos se hayan agotado.
Ejerceremos el poder hasta que
comprendan desde ahora que
Somos la "nueva política".
Ahora léelo del revés, empezando por la última frase y subiendo línea a línea
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CAMPAÑA DE APOYO A NUESTROS REYES MAGOS, MARGINADOS POR CULPA
DE UN INVASOR GORDO Y SEBOSO PRODUCTO DEL CONSUMISMO
COMPULSIVO...
¡Basta ya! ¡Fuera Papá Noel y vivan los Reyes Magos!
Estos tres venerables ancianos que llevan dos mil años con su PYME,
atendiendo únicamente al mercado hispano y sin intención de expandirse,
están sufriendo una agresión que amenaza con destruirlos.
Todos los años por estas fechas sufrimos una agresión globalizadora en forma de tipo gordo y barbudo con un ridículo gorro... una manipulación de las mentes de los niños de España y del resto del universo.
Ese adefesio carente del más mínimo sentido de la elegancia y del ridículo, con aspecto de dipsómano avejentado y multi-reincidente en el allanamiento de morada, es un invento de la multinacional más multinacional de todas multinacionales, Coca-Cola. En los años 30, cogieron al San Nicolás de la tradición Nórdica, que se vestía de obispo o de duende zarrapastroso, y lo metieron a presión en un atuendo con los colores corporativos (rojo y blanco , nótese que son los mismos colores del Sevilla f.c. ).
Desde entonces, generaciones de tiernos infantes de medio mundo han
sido machacadas por la publicidad, alienándose hasta tal punto que piensan que ese mamarracho representa todo lo bueno del ser humano.
Los Reyes Magos, en cambio:
- Son un símbolo de la multirracialidad y nunca han causado problemas de inmigración.
- Los Reyes Magos son súper-mega-fashion total. Su elegancia no ha pasado de moda en dos milenios.
- Si no existiesen los Reyes Magos, las vacaciones se acabarían el 1 de enero (muy importante).
- Los Reyes Magos son ecológicos, utilizan vehículos de tracción animal que con su estiércol contribuyen a fertilizar el suelo patrio (nada de trineos, bichos volando y gilipolleces que no existen...)
- Los Reyes Magos generan mogollón de puestos de trabajo entre pajecillos, carteros reales y la gente que va en la cabalgata.
- De Papá Noel puede hacer cualquier mamarracho que se aburra, pero para hacer de Reyes Magos se necesitan al menos tres.
- Los Reyes Magos fomentan la industria del calzado y educan a los niños a que las botas se deben limpiar al menos una vez al año. En cambio, Papá Noel exige que se deje un calcetín, prenda proclive a acumular mugre e indecorosos "tomates".
- Los Reyes Magos planifican su trabajo y lo hacen discretamente, sin buscar protagonismo, sin colgarse de balcones y sin bajar por chimeneas llenándote de porquería todo el salón.
- Papá Noel vive en el Polo Norte y por eso es un amargado. Los Magos son de Oriente, cuna de la civilización de una elegancia no decadente.
- Los Reyes Magos tuvieron un papel destacado y protagonista en la Navidad. Papá Noel es un trepa oportunista que trata de aprovecharse del negocio y que no participó EN NADA de la Navidad.
- Los Reyes Magos son de los pocos que mantienen en pie la minería del carbón en Asturias. No han cambiado los saquitos de carbón dulce por gas natural ni por bombillitas horteras.
- Papá Noel es un zoquete que no respeta los sentimientos de los pobres renos y les atiza. En cambio, no hay ningún caso documentado de maltratofísico de los Reyes Magos hacia sus camellos.
- Los Reyes Magos son agradecidos, siempre se zampan lo que les dejamos en el plato.
- Sin los Reyes Magos no se habría inventado el Roscón de Reyes.
- Finalmente, Papá Noel se pasa la vida diciendo "hó- hó-hó"....risa forzada y sin sentido. Señal inequívoca de estupidez.
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32 NEW BUMPER STICKERS FOR 08
1. Bush: End of an Error
2. That's OK, I Wasn't Using My Civil Liberties Anyway
3. Let's Fix Democracy in this Country First
4. If You Want a Nation Ruled By Religion, Move to Iran
5. Bush. Like a Rock. Only Dumber.
6. If You Can Read This, You're Not Our President
7. Of Course It Hurts: You're Getting Screwed by an Elephant
8. Hey, Bush Supporters: Embarrassed Yet?
9. George Bush: Creating the Terrorists Our Kids Will Have to Fight
10. Impeachment: It's Not Just for Blowjobs Anymore
11. America: One Nation, Under Surveillance
12. They Call Him "W" So He Can Spell It
13. Whose God Do You Kill For?
14. Jail to the Chief
15. No, Seriously, Why Did We Invade Iraq?
16. Bush: God's Way of Proving Intelligent Design is Full Of Crap
17. Bad President! No Banana.
18. We Need a President Who's Fluent In At Least One Language
19. We're Making Enemies Faster Than We Can Kill Them
20. Is It Vietnam Yet?
21. Bush Doesn't Care About White People, Either
22. Where Are We Going? And Why Are We In This Handbasket?
23. You Elected Him. You Deserve Him.
24. Dubya, Your Dad Shoulda Pulled Out, Too
25. When Bush Took Office, Gas Was $1.46
26. Pray For Impeachment
27. The Republican Party: Our Bridge to the 11th Century
28. What Part of "Bush Lied" Don't You Understand?
29. One Nation Under Clod
30. 2004: Embarrassed 2005: Horrified 2006: Terrified
31. Bush Never Exhaled
32. At Least Nixon Resigned
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HELL EXPLAINED BY CHEMISTRY STUDENT
The following is an actual question given on a University of
Washington chemistry mid-term.
Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or
endothermic (absorbs heat)?
Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's
Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some
variant.
One student, however, wrote the following:
First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time.
So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the
rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that
once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are
leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the
different religions that exist in the world today.
Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of
their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of
these religions and since people do not belong to more than one
religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and
death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to
increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the
volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the
temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell
has to expand proportionately as souls are added.
This gives two possibilities:
1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which
souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will
increase until all Hell breaks loose.
2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of
souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell
freezes over.
So which is it?
If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my
Freshman year that, "It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with
you," and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night,
then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic
and has already frozen over. The corollary of this theory is that since
Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls
and is therefore, extinct....leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the
existence of a Divine Being which explains why last night, Teresa kept
shouting:
"Oh My God".
This student received an A+
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 Juan Manuel Pérez, español, gallego y bibliotecario, es investigador en la sección hispánica de la Biblioteca del Congreso en Washington. Autor de numerosas obras, "Manolo" como le conocen los amigos, es también coleccionista de armas de los Siglos XVIII y XIX. Por su excelente obra como autor y su labor en la comunidad hispana del área, como vicepresidente de la Casa de España de Baltimore, el Rey de España le concedió la Medalla de Isabel la Católica.
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The Hispanic Role in America
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A CHRONOLOGY
1372 Basques arrived in Newfoundland.
1492 Cristóbal Colón discovered America for Spain.
1493 Colón introduced sugar cane in the New World.
1494 January 6. Fray Bernardo Boil celebrated mass in Hispaniola, perhaps the first mass celebrated in America.
June 7. Treaty of Tordesillas was signed between Spain and Portugal, which divided the newly discovered lands between the two countries. Under this treaty, Portugal claimed Brazil.
1499 Vicente Yáñez Pinzón, Alonso de Ojeda, Americo Vespucci, Juan de la Cosa, Alonso Niño and Cristóbal Guerra were sent by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella to explore new territories. They went along the coast of Brazil to the Gulf of Mexico and the Florida coast. They also reached the Chesapeake Bay. [more]
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ART - ARTE/VIDEOS - GRAPHICS
|
Jobim y Joao Gilberto en la Garota de Ipanema Un clásico
Ray Charles, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Fats Domino jamming together. What can we say to that?
500 Years of Women in Art. Fascinating!
Una vuelta por el mundo. Fotos increíbles y fabulosas
Democracy One of the greatest songs written in recent years: Leonard Cohen's "Democracy," from his astonishing album, "The Future." Thanks to Andrew Sullivan for discover it to us from You Tube. (Click on the photo twice and wait for awhile. It's a big file but worth waiting for. Also click on the word " Democracy" and read the lyrics while you listen. Also worthwile) Spanish bell making in Saladaña, Spain
La Plena. La música de Puerto Rico interpretada por Los Hijos e Plena. (Archivo muy grande que tarda mucho en descargar)
Driving in Bolivia. A frightening experience of driving in the mountains Beautiful video of Van Gogh's paintings with a song to the Dutch painter by Don McNeal [more] English and Spanish subtitles
Muestras increíbles del franquismo en España . Esto no tiene precio Great sleigh of hand by a Hispanic magician Nice!
Sergio Mendes: Mas que nada=Timeless Music grows, blends with other musics and the world is more and more beautiful because of it.
Un paseíto por Sevilla Views of the most beautiful city in Spain (the world?) --- Más Sevilla
Las Casas Palacios de Sevilla A great view of the collection of magnificient mansions in Seville
Curzo de andalú. Ojú, ezagerao! No tiene precio.
" target="_blank">Strange cars you never see Honda Civic commercial All sounds produced by human voices!
See the creative art juices at work.
El juego de los estados Place the names on the maps
 Pepe (Ramos) Céspedes es de Chiclayo al norte del Perú y vino a Baltimore hace más de 25 años. Trabaja para la Maryland Transit Administration desde hace 17 años, manteniendo los sistemas electrónicos del Metro.
Tiene un portal taurino en el Internet y otro en la red local de MTA donde también hay una viñeta de su creación: METROMAN para distribuir consejos de seguridad laboral. Ramos ha colaborado con el Coloquio por muchos años y sus viñetas, muy graciosas y enormement apreciadas por nuestros lectores, tienen también un serio contenido político y social que refleja, muy a menudo, el sentimiento de nuestra comunidad. |
Un bar en Filadelfia requiere a sus clientes que pidan solamente en inglés
"A ver, denos dos piñas coladas"
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Two Baltimore County families that have been ripped apart by our broken immigration system. Many of you know families like these – they are all too common. 
Governor O'Malley has selected his Commission on Hispanic Affairs for the State of Maryland. Many counties and the city are represented. The Commissioners are: Maria Welch, (Baltimore County) Chair - Elizabeth Bellavance, (Wicomico Co.) - Javier Bustamante (Baltimore City) - Richard Cook (Baltimore Co.) - Veronica Cool (Baltimore Co.) - Marian Cordier (Montgomery Co.) -- Christina Diaz-Malone (Howard Co.) -- Lydia Espinosa Crafton (Frederick Co.) -- Ricardo Flores (Montgomery Co.) -- Colonel Roberto Hylton (Prince George's Co.) -- Elizabeth Ysla Leight (Ann Arundel Co.) -- Hector Manzano (Baltimore City) -- Ricardo Martinez (Frederick Co.) -- Jessy Mejia (Prince George's Co.) -- Luisa Montero-Diaz (Prince Goerge's Co.) -- Sonia Mora (Montgomery Co.) -- Carmen Ortiz Larsen (Montgomery Co.) -- Arelis Perez (Prince George's Co.) -- Maria Pinto Johnson (Hardford Co.) -- Nicolas Ramos (Baltimore Co.) -- Lea Ybarra (Baltimore Co.). Ruby Stemmle from Prince George's Co. will be the Executive Director.
Poetic justice! Best picture of 2007 and a testament to how people the world over feel about war. Stop the war. Now!
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Meet new and interesting people who are also seeking similar challenges. 
Presentación de la edición conmemorativa de Cien años de soledad, de Gabriel García Márquez: FRANZ KAFKA VIENDO LLOVER EN MACONDO
por Gerardo Piña-Rosales, de la
Academia Norteamericana de la Lengua Española 
CASA de Maryland opens new Day Laborer Center in Baltimore. 
Magníficos diseños de joyas por la diseñadora peruana María del Carmen Lanffranchi, Maki 
A magnificent view of the Earth from satellites. An incredible set of pictures you will find amazing. ![[more]](../images/0802_anasol_hillary.jpg){kind=link}
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