Chronicles of a Painting: Part 2

I had been with the obsession of buying canvas cloth for a long time even though I loved to paint on masonite panels.  I think it started out of knowing I could get a large amount of cloth at a cheap prize in Reynosa.  Honestly, anything that has to do with buying something at Reynosa makes me happy and much more if I pass/stop at el centro.

El centro is a place that brings me many memories that seem so distant now.  I remember entering into el mercadito and smelling leather all over the place.  I wanted everything all the time.  I wanted a zarape, a leather purse, with leather boots, a sombrero, leather coin purses, all the candy and all the dresses I could fit in.

Last year, my dad and I went to Reynosa without being scared of the violence going on at the border.  I am not a brave one but I am often reminded that I am like my dad who often says, "de algo nos vamos a morir."  It is a joke of course and a harsh one that I also love to say.  My favorite joke coming from my dad has been, up to this point, when I have told him that I was hungry and he replied with, " que bueno, es senal que estas viva."  

I often think of Federico Garcia Lorca and how he went back to his homeland even though he knew he would get killed.  I can say my thought when I crossed the border has been one of happiness.  I can never wait to smell Reynosa.  I love all its ugliness and complexity.  I take it all in.

I had been in Reynosa that Saturday less than three hours when I suddenly found myself at a supermarket restroom trying to calm myself.  I remember wanting to fix my hair in front of the mirror and noticed my hand shaking.  I was scared.  We had been at el centro to buy the cloth and upon coming out we noticed blocked streets we thought were car accidents but in reality was a preparation for a shooting.  

The military helicopter could not had been louder flying over the big traffic congestion we were in.  I saw women running inside stores and covering their heads.  The agony in everyone had vanished all my memories.

When I was in high school, I asked my mom if the amount of violence had increased with time.  If maybe, when I was little it had been calmer.  Her answer was no.  There had been no change.

I think if my grandmother and grandfather were alive I would ask them the same question about the violence that is going on right now.  It will comfort me if they said it was just the same as in the Mexican Revolution.  Yet, what an immense sadness it will generate.