¿mató tunco tu tata?
Luis González Serranomi país es un nombre que han borrado de una pared
recuerdo fracturado
fragmento de cántaro de barro
alcancía de cuchito de sueños
rota a medio llenar
mi país es un error de tu geografía.
preguntas comúnmente hechas a un salvadoreño:
¿está El Salvador en Brasil?
¿estuvo Julian Assange en su embajada?
¿en qué parte de EEUU queda Centroamérica?
mi país es un mapa descontinuado.
mi mamá y yo tomamos el café
con el fantasma de la guerra
juntos repasamos el inventario de las cosas perdidas
y desde lejos nos proponemos buscarlas
cada dia las líneas en nuestro mapa se desvanecen
detalles antes claros ahora son un borrón
repasamos direcciones y rutas
a lugares que quizás ya no existen
para no perdernos en un lugar al que no hemos ido en décadas.
mi país ya no sabe contra quién pelea.
la paz se ha puesto rebelde
se ha hecho tatuajes, bebe y fuma
lleva navaja por las dudas.
con ella reviso otras listas:
quiénes mas se fue después del terremoto
a cuáles amigos el país se los tragó
quiénes sobrevivieron.
con mi país hice un pacto
de reglas ambiguas y no escritas
un juego de mató-tunco-tu-tata
en el que siempre cierro los ojos.
cuando me fui, le dejé a El Salvador uno de mis pulmones
y a cambio me traje su lengua
un paladar intraducible
lleno de rimas, trabalenguas y acertijos
un amuleto que me sirve para no olvidar
porque mi país es un nombre que han borrado de una pared.
my country is a name that’s been erased from a wall
a fractured memory
a fragment of a broken clay pot
a smashed piggy bank
half-full of dreams
my country is a mistake in your geography.
frequently asked questions for Salvadorians:
is El Salvador in Brazil?
was Julian Assange in your embassy?
in what part of the U.S. is Central America?
my country is an outdated map.
my mum and I drink coffee
with the ghost of war
together we take stock of things we lost
and from afar we make plans to go back to find them
every day the lines on our map fade away a bit
details that were once clear are now smudged
we recount addresses and routes
to places that might not exist anymore
so we don’t get lost in a place we haven’t been to in decades.
my country doesn’t know who it’s fighting anymore.
peace has become rebellious
she has tattoos, drinks and smokes
carries a knife just in case.
with her I review other lists:
who else left after the earthquake
which of my friends was swallowed up by the country
who made it out alive.
my country and I made an agreement
with vague, unwritten rules
a game of chicken
¿mató tunco tu tata?
in which I always blink.
when I left I gave El Salvador one of my lungs
and in exchange I took its tongue
an untranslatable palate
full of rhymes, tongue-twisters and riddles
an amulet I wear to keep my memory alive
because my country is a name that’s been erased from a wall.
'Mato tunco tu tata' is a word game that children play in El Salvador. The rules are: one person asks 'did your dad kill a pig?' (mato tunco tu tata?), to which the other person is always expected to respond yes. The first person then asks, 'were you afraid?' (le tuviste miedo?), to which the other person is always expected to reply no. The first person then blows air in the other's eyes to see if they blink. If they blink, they lose and they are mocked because they were scared. In the author's opinion, this game says so much about Salvadorians: making fun of brutal subjects, setting themselves impossible tasks, submitting themselves to playful violence, and acknowledging the age-old Mesoamerican theme of death being a part of life.
Luis González Serrano is a Melbourne poet born in El Salvador who came to Australia in 1988 as a refugee. In 2003 he founded, along with two mates, Salt-lick Quarterly, a well regarded poetry journal. In 2005 he published a book, Cities with Moveable Parts (NSW Poets Union Publications). He has been involved in the Melbourne poetry scene since 2002, and directly or indirectly with the Melbourne Overload Poetry Festival, of which he was Artistic Director between 2011 and 2012.