Una Carta de Amor

We read a story in Spanish class called "Una Carta de Amor". As always in such classes, we were forced to spend half an hour poring over the glorified stick figure illustrations and 'before you read' questions before we were allowed to start in on the actual story.

The illustration this time was a bunch of people on a bus. We had deduced from the before you read questions that this love letter was written by one regular bus rider to another, and we set about trying to guess who was the stalker and who was the stalked. We had about 60% consensus about who the stalker was - a checker-shirted fellow with messy black hair and glasses in the back row. But who was he stalking?

One of the girls on the bus was a lot prettier than the others. She was my personal pick. But then I got logical and and realized that our stalker-man was looking at the other side of the bus. There were two possibilities on that side: two very average looking girls, one looking very nervous. She became our new best guess. On that side of the bus there was also an obese and quite ugly woman, and behind her a similar looking man.

"I am going to laugh so hard," I said, "If the fat guy is stalking the fat girl."

I was half right. It was Checker-Shirted Man, with the Fat Girl, on the Bus. And the tone the letter takes is interesting, to put it lightly. (My translations here are relatively free)

"Usted no necesita que le aclare que yo no soy lo que se dice un churro, así como yo no necesito que Ud. me diga que no es Miss Universo."
MT: "You don't need me to tell you that I am not what they call a stud, just like I don't need you to tell me that you aren't Miss Universe."

"Si le voy a ser recontrafranco, le confesaré que a mí también me gustan más las delgaditas; tienen no sé qué cosa viboresca y latigosa que a uno lo pone de buen humor y en primavera lo hace relinchar."
MT: "If I am going to be frank, I will confess that I too like the little skinny girls better; they have that... I don't know what... quality that is painful and puts you in a good mood and in the springtime makes you whinny."

"No le tiene miedo a una vejez solitaria? No siente pánico cuando se imagina con treinta años más de gobiernos batillistas, mirándose al espejo y reconociendo sus mismas voluminosas formas de ahora, pero mucho más fofas y esponjosas, con arruguitas y allá, y acaso alún lobanillo estratégico? No sería mejor que para esa época estuviéramosuno junto al otro, leyéndonos los avisos económicos o jugando a la escoba de quince?"
MT: "Aren't you afraid of an old age in solitude? Don't you feel panic when you imagine thirty more years of government unrest, looking at yourself in the mirror and and recognizing your current voluminous form, but worse - spongier, with wrinkles, and perhaps even a disfiguring tumor? Wouldn't it be better to pass through this age together, reading the newspapers or playing card games?"


This story produced outrage throughout the class. I sat back and watched the anger and disbelief unfold.

It was as if they simply could not step back from their own lives enough to understand the letter in the context of who had written it and who it was written to - that these people are perhaps not like them, with their sorority houses and neverending train of parties and games - that they are lonely, probably rather poorly educated, ugly, downtrodden... that they are lonely.

Would my classmates accept such a letter? Of course not. And such a letter would never have been written to them.

Would I accept such a letter? Of course not. And such a letter would never have been written to me.

But if I were she - the 'fat one'... then what? Yes, perhaps I would wish that I had a suitor who was passionate for me, who offered me riches and love and romance. But I haven't had that, ever, and I've been waiting years. Yes, he is almost necessarily harsh with his words. But his honesty is perhaps one of his lesser qualities, just as my weight is one of my lesser qualities, or perhaps it is even a good thing, that I can trust what compliments he does give, and admire his frankness.

Listening to my classmates, I felt like saying, "Don't any of you know any ugly people?" I wondered whether it was just an absolute ignorance like that, or whether yes, they knew them, but even imagining themselves in that position was too difficult.

And... there are also the years to consider. The years, the economic situation, and everything. Can my classmates imagine not only being ugly and maybe even having a personality flaw here and there, but also speeding towards middle age in a world that is not kind, just getting by financially, having to take the bus daily, all possible avenues away from this life being long gone?

I don't know whether to blame it on an overactive imagination, an overdeveloped imagination, or simply on the fact that in small pockets, here and there, I have experienced imperfection... and stood on the border between normal and strange... and standing on that border one sees that those on both sides must live their lives, search for happiness, be human... and cannot keep the wall in their conscious the whole time lest it become too painful.

No, let's pretend instead that this wall is the outer limit of reality, that those beyond are characters in our lives instead of housing their own striving consciousnesses. But I've spent a lot of my life standing on that wall, or even while I was on the normal side so close to it that I could put my back up against it... Enough to understand context and potential, that the world is not everyone's oyster.

I'm willing to be challenged on this, but as for myself, the two pages of Una Carta de Amor said more about humanity than Romeo and Juliet.