From the beginning was the verb: to resist. All life long. Resist against times and circumstances. Against real wars and false peace. With all the arguments that melodramas devalue: to be born in emigration, to return as a child to a place that wasn’t yours either. A religious boarding school, a stepmother and a half-sister. Growing up in the familiar corner of things that are borrowed. Youth comes with so many rules and so few clothes. With it comes that curious form of survival: a few laughs amidst the resignation of not wanting to be considered the first in anything. To accommodate oneself in a form of invisibility that moves people to the back of the vital stage. Resisting in this form of transparency as if life were the simplification of a sentimental novel. But the corner also filled up and to make room in that house that was not their own, a married couple appeared. A marriage with a husband who had as his motto a phrase that has been repeated for ever and ever: the man who is wrong to marry remains wrong forever and ever. After words come deeds, and deeds leave no words. Resist until survival is the only recognisable way to breathe. Because marriage was an immense shadow of cardinals, an indefinite contract of violence in which the miraculous was to find moments of respite. Children arrived and, instead of bread, they brought hosts under their arms. Resistance was extended because there was no other possible strategy: a life blow by blow without ever knowing who to protect first. An endless worm of fear, dissimulation, endurance, sacrifice, pious lies to yourself, knowing that to lie better you have to say as little as possible. Enduring, enduring, enduring. Every day a million subordinate sentences containing every fifth word an insult. Breathe when you go to work. Catch your breath when the keys jingle outside the door. Frying a shortbread every day and all the other household chores turning the repetition of homework into a form of refuge. Resisting thirty years of a deadly marriage, three stubborn children, an abortion, the moral qualifications of small towns, minefields, one’s own faults, impossible justice. Surviving a suicidal daughter and the permanent siege of guilt being pushed against you. Resisting not knowing what should have been. To resist without being clear about one’s own limits, without a horizon, without knowing why. Like a single commandment. And, finally, when everything passes, but everything remains and life has stopped pressing, not being able to explain the before or the after and inventing another form of resistance: not to think about the lost. Not to think of the lived. And to resist there: in what remains<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
From the beginning was the verb: to resist. All life long. Resist against times and circumstances. Against real wars and false peace. With all the arguments that melodramas devalue: to be born in emigration, to return as a child to a place that wasn’t yours either. A religious boarding school, a stepmother and a half-sister. …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":51,"featured_media":457087,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":"","_members_access_role":[],"_members_access_error":""},"categories":[204,399],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-457205","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-cover","category-mecanografia-en"],"acf":[],"post_template":"narrativa","post_subscription":"no","pretitle":"","content_extract":"From the beginning was the verb: to resist. All life long. Resist against times and circumstances. Against real wars and false peace. With all the arguments that melodramas devalue: to be born in emigration, to return as a child to a place that wasn't yours either. A religious boarding school, a stepmother and a half-sister....","reading_data":{"word_count":"455","reading_seconds":"109","reading_time":{"minutes":1,"hours":0,"seconds":49},"reading_string":"1'49''","reading_human":"2 minutos"},"announcement":{"finishdate":"","finishdate_text":""},"opinion":{"subject":"","subject_info":[]},"event_info":{"startdate":"","starttime":"","enddate":"","endtime":"","entertainer":null},"interview":{"interviewed":""},"phototext":{"text_author":"","text_photo":""},"video":{"video_source":""},"promotion":{"action":"default","action_data":""},"categories_list":[{"name":"Type","id":399,"slug":"mecanografia-en","parent":0,"template":"default"}],"visible_author":"Camilo Franco","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/posts\/457205"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/users\/51"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=457205"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/posts\/457205\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":457294,"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/posts\/457205\/revisions\/457294"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/media\/457087"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=457205"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=457205"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pisofranco.gal\/en\/api\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=457205"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}