"¿Por qué eliges mutilarte?" La historia de John Foppe

Un articulo que me paso el antropologo. :)



John Foppe, hombre completo

"Nací sin brazos, pero no me pongo límites por eso"

Tengo 39 años. Nací y vivo cerca del Misisipi. Soy asesor: ayudo a transformar sueños en resultados. Estoy casado y tengo una hija de tres años. ¿Política? ¡Basta de ideas discapacitantes! Soy creyente. Eres un discapacitado si te resistes a sortear barreras

¿Cómo le doy la mano?

Apriéteme el hombro.

Encantado.

Igualmente.

¿A qué edad supo que le faltaban los brazos?

Al ir a la escuela, a los cinco años, me di cuenta de mi diferencia. Y sentí angustia y miedo, vergüenza y autocompasión.

¿Qué fue lo más duro?

Intentar acoplarme unos brazos ortopédicos: me daban calor, peso, era espantoso.

¿Nació así?

Sí. Y con malformaciones en la cadera y escoliosis, aunque esto se fue corrigiendo.

¿Cuál es la causa de su falta de brazos?

Desconocida. Somos siete hermanos, y sólo yo nací así.

¿Qué le decían sus padres cuando volvía triste del colegio?

"No eres menos que nadie por no tener brazos". Pero yo sí me tenía por menos y me autocompadecía... Y no hacía nada por mí.

¿Nada?

Como despertaba compasión, la utilizaba: tenían que hacérmelo todo, desde vestirme por la mañana. Pero sucedió algo...

¿Qué pasó?

Quise ir a las colonias del colegio. Y mis padres decidieron aplicarme el amor rudo.

¿Qué es el amor rudo?

Iría a las colonias si demostraba que podía hacerme cargo de mí mismo. Y ordenaron a mi hermano, que me vestía cada mañana, que a la mañana siguiente no lo hiciese.

¿Y logró vestirse usted solo?

No. Y me desesperé. Mi hermano, pobre, quiso ayudarme: mi madre se lo prohibió. Me dejaron solo en la habitación, desnudo...

¿Y qué hizo usted?

Puse los calzoncillos en el suelo, coloqué un pie en cada agujero, me tumbé de espaldas, levanté las piernas, dejé que la prenda cayera en mis muslos, me arrastré hasta una cómoda y usé sus salientes para subírmelos…

Vaya gesta.

Yo gritaba, lloraba, suplicaba ayuda... Sentía mucho miedo... Me veía perdido. Quedé en el suelo en un charco de sudor y lágrimas... Fracasé, y algo se me rompió por dentro..

¿Qué se le rompió?

La fe en la vida...

...

Pero luego reaccioné decidiendo que si había sido testarudo para no hacer nada, ¡ahora lo sería para actuar! Y así abandoné toda la rabia y la pena a un lado..., y actué.

¿De qué modo?

Pedí calzoncillos con gomas, y ropa fácil de ponerme, y un reloj de pulsera con gomas...

¿Dónde se lo puso?

En el tobillo, ¿ve? Y me adiestré en usar los pies para todo.

¿Qué es capaz de hacer con sus pies?

Escribir, dibujar, pintar, pasar hojas, cocinar, usar cubiertos, coger un vaso, conducir mi coche, llamar por teléfono, rascarme la cabeza..., ¿ve?

Sí.

Pero todo esto no tiene mucha importancia.

Hombre...

Lo que importa es dejar de ser espectador de las cosas: pasar a ser actor protagonista.

¿Y cómo vivió su adolescencia, cuando quería ligar?

Ellas querían ser sólo amigas. Y sufrí... Pero luego me relajé y decidí disfrutar de las cosas... Y entonces llegó mi pareja, Christine, igual que Meg Ryan: mírela en esta foto...

¿Qué le gustó a Christine de usted?

Mi amor por la vida. Ella tenía un novio culturista, guapísimo..., pero muy quejica, que odiaba mojarse el pelo... Cuando Christine vio como yo me tiraba de cabeza al mar...

¿Cuál es su lema, John?

Ser antes de hacer, hacer antes de tener.

Explíquemelo.

La gente suele decirse "¡no tengo dinero!" o "¡no tengo tiempo!", y de eso deduce "¡no puedo hacer nada!". Y de eso concluye "¡no soy nada!". ¡Qué error!: es justo al revés. Convéncete de esto: ¡sí "eres"! Y con ese motor interno, el resto va viniendo.

Pero cuesta "ser".

Porque todos somos discapacitados... anímicos: "no puedo", "es imposible", "no hay nada que hacer", te dices. Y, convencido de que tienes razón, te acomodas en esa idea.

A veces pienso así.

¿Y crees tener razón en esto? Entonces eres un discapacitado... con dos brazos.

Vaya.

Si das por inamovibles tus límites, eres tan discapacitado como yo cuando creía imposible ponerme los calzoncillos por mí mismo.

Denos un consejo a los discapacitados.

Elige ser. Elige quién serás: ten una visión y conviértete en tu propia visión. ¿Cuál es tu excusa para no hacerlo, dime? Pregúntatelo. Yo no soy un gurú de esos, no: ¡yo sólo hablo de lo que sé porque lo he vivido!

¿Y qué sabe, al final?

Que fracasar consiste en no intentar demoler barreras. Así que en vez de repetirte "¡no merece la pena intentarlo!", repítete siempre "¡merece la pena intentarlo!".

¿Sean cuales sean mis circunstancias, mis límites físicos o materiales?

Aunque pueda parecerte que no, ¡siempre hay una alternativa! La realidad es lo que tú creas con tu percepción de las cosas. ¡Crea una realidad nueva, pues! Porque tú puedes elegir tu manera de ver el mundo. O sea, ¡puedes elegir el mundo! Pero sólo tú, nadie por ti. ¿Por qué eliges mutilarte?

Si volviese al vientre de su madre y pudiese elegir nacer con brazos, ¿lo haría?

¡No! Yo soy este que soy.



VÍCTOR-M. AMELA - La Vanguardia 18/06/2010

http://www.lavanguardia.es/lacontra/lacontra.html

An afterthought on 12.6.2010

Despite having lived in 6 different countries during my life, I still have so much to learn about culture, identity and respect. It's humbling to realise that. I read over my post from two days ago and realised I wrote it feeling somewhat frustrated and a bit angry, and I feel that my intolerance came through perhaps a bit too much, especially in the part about culture and language. It can be difficult to embrace difference while juggling the many differences that fluctuate within your own identity.

I think that, as I am thinking more and more about belonging, establishing some kind of sense of community and having a network of friends and family to give their support which will be particularly important if I am blessed with a family one day, I am more and more conscious of the way I construct my identity. To some extent my identity is a case of pick and mix (although I can assure you I am by no means an extreme case), which makes for a lot of thinking as to what aspects of culture and society, and of what culture and society, you want to take on as your own and pass on to the next generation. I feel like I have spent at least 10 years mulling over this matter and only now am I starting to see myself a bit more clearly. Or so I thought.

Yesterday I was speaking with my dear anthropologist about the fact that, while I am keen to try and do something new and "settle down" a little bit more when I move back to Spain, how silly I feel about getting involved in a community that isn't mine (Gracia, Barcelona, Catalonia, Spain), and about my interest in being involved in a project to do with Latin America because, as I already pointed out, I am not from that continent. He astutely asked me why I was so keen to be involved in something to do with Latin America, and why did I think I had to get involved in working with e.g. a support group for Latin American women. Was there not something else I could do that wouldn't make me constantly question my involvement and my own identity?

I was a bit taken aback by his question. It made me realise that not only had I limited myself to a certain idea of Latin America and of being involved in some kind of community development project, I had undermined my own identity. I was trying to come up with a way of fitting a mould that I was never going to fit instead of creating a space for myself. That is not to say that I could or should never be involved in something that purely corresponds with who I am (if it were the case I don't think I'd ever find anything!). It simply made me realise that I sometimes compromise myself for no reason and seek ways of being me which maybe aren't who I am at all.

When a Colombian friend of mine said to me a while back that I was "practically Colombian", I took it as a wonderful compliment and a sign of friendship and acceptance from someone who takes pride in her country and her heritage, but also as a sign of perhaps having something of an insight to life and culture in her country. Now that the football World Cup is on, I join my Mexican friends in the pub, wear my Pumas t-shirt and support the Mexican team in some kind of desperate attempt to identify with these people who I have learned to love, but at the cost of what? At the cost of my Finnish and "other" heritage? Why do I sometimes not feel so strongly about those heritages?

For the past two months or so I have been reading and learning a lot about Colombian political systems due to the presidential elections in Colombia that have their final voting round on the 20th of June. I am also reasonably knowledgeable on Colombian education policy because of it is an integral part of the dissertation I'm working on. What frustrates me is that I probably know more about Colombian politics and education policy than about their Finnish equivalents. And occasionally I take this frustration out on my dear anthropologist, who, while taking an interest in Finland and its culture, is by no means as interested in it than he is in his own culture. And there is no reason why he should be. Having a strong interest for Latin America and having many friends and a significant other from that geo-cultural region, I sometimes I forget - as funny as it may sound- that in fact I in am NOT Latin American, never will be and should never even strive to be. Although I have learned to embrace my uprooted Finn-identity, I sometimes think that my identity is an obstacle. It of course, is NOT an obstacle. I just sometimes make it into one. I sometimes exaggerate the importance of other cultures and belittle "my" culture. And sometimes vice versa - being annoyed at people who think the Finnish language is "weird", or praising the Finnish social security system and every other possible system to high heaven.

Why is it that after all these years I still have such a love-hate relationship with my Finnish heritage? Or, better yet, why do I still struggle to find the right balance of my "other " heritage, all the many heritages and cultures that I love and can identify with due to my uprootedness? Why the imbalance?

All those cliches about getting to know yourself and finding yourself are true. It takes time to get to know yourself. It takes courage to live your life the way you want to. A dear friend of mine recently said that she was more afraid of succeeding than of failing, and I felt that at least to some extent I could identify with her feelings.

It's madness!

Why are we so afraid of ourselves?!

What I have learned.

My academic year at UEA is gradually coming to a close. I am in the process of writing my dissertation, and in a few weeks’ time I’ll be moving back to Spain. It has been a tough year in more ways than one: being a full-time student after a 5-year break; being in a long-distance relationship; trying to find my feet in a small city to which I had no previous connections. It has definitely been a learning experience. I think it took me about 6 months to feel more at home here and more settled in my friendships, and then the academic year was pretty much over after that. Some of my course mates have already left Norwich; others, like myself, are coming and going for the past couple of months. We have all been dispersed somewhat – not that I really feel like we were exactly united and in the same place at any point. But yes, geographically we are all dispersed again, and those of my friends and acquaintances that remain Norwich are few and far between. We are all off to start a new adventure, or to return to where we were at before, just that little bit more knowledgeable about international development, with a fresh perspective on life and an inquisitive mind.

What have I learned this year?

I have learned a lot about international development. I had no previous academic background to the subject, so everything was new. One of the first things I discovered that Amartya Sen is a development theory guru and by quoting him you can cover your back pretty much on any topic. I learned a whole lot of jargon, buzz words and concepts that don’t necessarily mean anything much, the word “empowerment” perhaps the most over- and misused of them all. What I still haven’t learned is what “development” is, or whether such a concept even exists. Or, maybe that is exactly what I have learned.

I have (re-)learned that we live in completely unjust, corrupted world and that most of the efforts of those who try to fight it remain within a framework of structural injustice, and that there is always an us and them-juxtaposing going on.

Following from the above learning experience, I have (re-)learned that the language and way of thinking in the field of international development is often racist, prejudiced and patronising towards “developing” countries, and that studying post-colonial theory when I did English Literature at undergraduate level has helped me remain critical of that kind of discourse.

I have (re-)learned that I can write and that my writing is at its best when I just plough on bravely without constantly editing myself.

I have (re-)learned that I can be rather impatient and hard on myself, but that I can do anything I set out to do if I really want to.

I have learned to stress and worry a little bit less.

I have learned that I still procrastinate and that I still get very frustrated with myself for doing so.

I have learned that I can overcome silly little personal fears, but also some bigger ones, and I have overcome some of them to a great extent this year. A very silly example of this is my slight fear of horses. Having to walk past about 12 of them every morning on my way to lectures, and occasionally feeding them a little, was a good way to feel more comfortable around those beautiful (and huge) creatures.

I have learned to meditate a little bit.

I have learned that I have had enough of country-hopping for a while, and that I would like to feel more part of a small community and maybe put down some roots somewhere. This is a huge step for me as I have never really felt much like part of any community or even had much of a desire to do so. I think it will be challenging for me but exciting too.

I have learned to value and love my family even more than before.

I have also learned that some of my closest and dearest ones are very special and that it is important to hold on to these people, care for them and appreciate what I have with them.

I have learned that truly good friends are hard to find.

I have learned that I am starting to like alcohol less and less – especially beer.

I have learned more about trusting others and myself.

I have learned that it is worth investing in some funky heels and a timeless dress.

Having said that, I have also learned that I don’t really need that many things to be happy. Unfortunately, I sometimes forget.

I have learned to appreciate plants more.

I have (re-)learned that thank you-cards are important.

I have learned that sometimes I chase dreams that aren’t mine. But I have also learned to pursue some of my own dreams in small steps.

I have learned oh so many other things as well this year. I guess that goes to show that it has paid off and that despite my constant feeling of not having made the most of my time, I have got a lot out of my year.

And maybe –and that’s just maybe- I have learned something about that over- and misused word empowerment.

Some Words of Wisdom

"I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself..."-D.H. Lawrence

"We are the ones we have been waiting for."-June Jordan

A pleasant re-encounter with myself

February has never been my favourite month of the year. I'd quite happily leave out November and February from the calendar and have 2 Junes and 2 Julys instead. The further up north in the world you go, the darker and more miserable these months get. You go to work in the morning in the dark and come back from work in the dark. November is miserable because you're exhausted by work/study and the Christmas holidays seem too distant. February is dreary because it's the month between the festitivites and spring. When T.S. Eliot claimed that "April is the cruellest month" (The Waste Land, 1922) he was horribly wrong. The only good things about November and February are candles, hot drinks and if you are lucky, cuddling by the fireside with someone lovely or a good book.

February 2010 was a tough one for me for various reasons, but I'm sure the mere fact that it was February didn't help. But the real reason I had the longest shortest month of the year this time around was because somewhere between my Christmas holidays and spring, I had lost myself.

I had lost my essence a little and one February evening I found myself again, or the part of me that had gone missing for a while. How did it happen? I was with some friends for an evening of sushi and singing. We made sushi rolls, had some wine, some ice-cream, some potent black liquid I had brought back with me from my brief visit to Finland, and we sang, played the guitar and all sorts of percussions. We sang beautifully, we played badly, we sang so loud that the neighbours came to knock on the door, we played more quietly. Or, as my French teacher used to say, we made a joyful noise.

And in that joyful noise I re-encountered myself - I felt much more normal again, much less anxious. I remembered what my priorities were, what I enjoyed doing, what I wanted to experience and try out in the near future. And after that evening I went and did those things.

That evening has been followed by a couple of other similar evenings that have reminded me of some of the things that are important for me in life: good food, good music, the company of friends, absolute relaxation, laughter, forgetting yourself and remembering who you are at the same time.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet...

There is a tiny new person in my family. He is less than a month old, and has no name yet. I used to call him Possu (Piggy) because his mother got a swine flu jab a bit before he was born, and I thought he might turn out to have a bit of a piggy nose like his aunt (I sometimes call this tiny new person's sister Kananen (Little Chicken) but in case you're wondering it has nothing to do with avian flu - she's just a wee chicken, that's all).

I haven't met the tiny new person yet, but I have seen a few photos and I can imagine he is wonderful. The most wonderful thing is that he has no name because his parents haven't decided on one yet. Although his mother seemed a bit distressed about the topic the last time it came up, I can't help but think that this tiny new person still has a certain freedom that comes from having no fixed identity in the form of a name. He has his whole future ahead of him not only in the sense that he is a baby and will most probably have many years of life to live, but also because he is simply the much loved tiny new person that does not have to respond to his name, does not have to sign his name or write down his initials, and has none of the other responsibilities that come with having a name.

When I was a child I wanted to change my name, and even more so when my mother told me that I could when I grew up. Now, well over the legal age required for changing your name, I can't think of what I would change my name to. I have had my fair share of problems with my name as the different linguistic environments (?) I have lived in have not always allowed for the correct spelling or pronunciation of my name, and so after I left university I considered calling myself by my middle name. But I soon realised that not only was it an equally confusing name, it simply wasn't me.

How do you decide on what to call your child, anyway? My parents apparently just knew. They liked the name and that was it. I share my middle name with one of my aunts who I never really got to know, and I have come to appreciate carrying her name for that very reason - it's my connection to her. Not too long ago I got a better peak at what her life was like through some photographs from the 60s and 70s that another one of my aunt's showed me, and it looked like she didn't shy away from enjoying life despite the hardships that came along her way.

Liking the name or wanting to pass on a family name are of course very good reasons, but there must be an element of compromise in the decision making process if for some reason the other parent , or, worse yet, your family does not agree with you. Or if a name may sound beautiful in your language, but in the other parent's language it means something rude. Or if the family name is just too commonplace and you want to name your child something that is a bit different, or not the fashionable name of the half-decade.

So, you think MY name is strange? Here are some that I think are strange, some to the point of being hilarious or scary or just...wrong. I opted to exclude the strange names of relatives and friends so as to avoid offending as few people as possible...;)

Milady (F, Mexico)
Ladydi (F,Mexico)
Stalin (M, Mexico)
Lyly (M, Finland)
Nyyrikki (M, Finland)
Hemminki (M, Finland)
Ylermi (M, Finland)
Signe (F, Finland)
Ilmatar (F, Finland)
Suometar (F, Finland)
Julio Cesar (M, Colombia)

Feel free to add to the list...

A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt
Of Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies,
Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.
Corpses are scattered through a paradise.
Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:
"Waste no compassion on these separate dead!"
Statistics justify and scholars seize
The salients of colonial policy.
What is that to the white child hacked in bed?
To savages, expendable as Jews?
Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break
In a white dust of ibises whose cries
Have wheeled since civilizations dawn
>From the parched river or beast-teeming plain.
The violence of beast on beast is read
As natural law, but upright man
Seeks his divinity by inflicting pain.
Delirious as these worried beasts, his wars
Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum,
While he calls courage still that native dread
Of the white peace contracted by the dead.

Again brutish necessity wipes its hands
Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again
A waste of our compassion, as with Spain,
The gorilla wrestles with the superman.
I who am poisoned with the blood of both,
Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
I who have cursed
The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
Betray them both, or give back what they give?
How can I face such slaughter and be cool?
How can I turn from Africa and live?

A Far Cry From Africa by Derek Walcott (1962)

Introducing...El Otro

I hope to get working on a blog on ID and postcolonialisms and "the other", with emphasis on literary/"cultural" topics...Nothing posted on it yet but hopefully in a few months' time it'll be buzzing with good stuff.

www.elotroproject.blogspot.com

Doctor, doctor...

Hernando led Schultes into the park where they stopped en route to the pensión to have their shoes shined by an old man who had set up his station beneath the shade of an enormous ficus tree. Just behind them the steeple o the San Francisco church rose above the red-tiled roofs of the city. Four stories high, it was as tall as any building in Bogotá.
"Orange peels?" the bootblack asked as Schultes placed his oxfords on the small wooden step.
"Excuse me?"
"Do you want me to use orange peels, Doctor?"
"For the leather," Hernando explained.
"Sure, why not?" Schultes said. "But how did you know I was a doctor?"
"In this country," the man said casually as he rubbed the fruit along the instep of the shoe, "every son of a bitch with a tie and a pair of bifocals is a doctor."
"I see." He turned to Hernando. "Ten years of training, and all I really needed was a pair of glasses and a proper suit coat."

From One River by Wade Davis (1996)

Vapaapaivan huokauksia

"La Nena".Tuudittaudun kaneliteen tuoksuun ja olen kirjoittavinani jotain maailmaaparantavaa.

Viereisen poydan tytolla on suomalaiset silmat ja karsinyt tukka.

Joskus tunnen oloni niin yksinaiseksi, etta etsin tuutuja kasvoja ihmisjoukosta...luulen loytaneeni lapsuudenystavan, kohdanneeni kaverin kadunvarrelta.

Kahvilassa soi No Woman No Cry laiskana jazzversiona. Haarukkani taistelee omenapiirakkaa vastaan, vaantaa kunnes leivos murtuu ja antautuu.

La biblioteca - Vila de Gracia. Kirjasto muistuttaa opiskeluajoista. Se on kolkko ja kirjahyllyjen vaatimattomat kokoelmat tuottavat pettymyksen, mutta siita huokuu 70-luvun vasynyt charmi.

Other useful constructions

In my dream last night a man left a black briefcase in the middle of the metro I was in. I knew it had a bomb in it, the way you know in dreams. The briefcase was right next to me. I started to panic. The dream ended. This morning I thought back to my dream and decided I had probably been too absorbed in either the news or a book I´ve been reading for who knows how long, Year 905 by Noam Chomsky. In it he talks about "International terrorists, Hispanic narcotraffickers...crazed Arabs and other useful constructions" that are used in the media and by various governments to control "Americans" or other "Westerners". And it just made me wonder how often people actually start to panic when they see the "crazed Arab" with a big bag on public transport...? In a city like Barcelona, which is full of people from various ethnic and religious backgrounds, or in London, do people immediately think of the "construction" shown in the media...? Because if they do...it´s a hard life.
And what "construction" am I?
I don´t think I actually quite said what I wanted to say, at least not in the way I intended. But oh well.