Hasta siempre, Billy
My Relationship with the U.S. (in Three Acts)
Billy in the Gimnasio Moderno in Bogotá around 1950. He forgot his uniform and had to stand in the back row.
Act I. The Spanish poet Antonio Machado once wrote, “My childhood memories are of a patio in Seville and a sunny garden where lemon trees ripened;…” Since I am not from Seville nor am I a poet, and have neither a garden nor a lemon tree, my childhood was a lot less lyrical: a soccer ball, homework, a loyal dog, a vacant lot and a group of friends. One of them was the son of a top executive of the International Oil Company in Colombia and his name was Billy. His family wanted him to study in a Bogotá school and with schoolmates from Bogotá, instead of confining him to the usual “ghettos” where the children of diplomats and foreign business executives usually end up. There, they grow up speaking their native tongue, surrounded by other pasteurized kids and, like them, homogenized and protected from dangerous childhood adventures like organizing beetle races on a track of sand or sneaking into an empty house in search of ghosts.
Billy was our age —eight, nine or ten years old —and seemed to be a carbon copy of an emoticon. He was smiling, round-faced, funny, stronger than most of us and with his hair in a crewcut like the gringo Marines. He was really good at arithmetic and at first spoke in a Spanish in which our rolled r’s came out flat, but he improved his pronunciation at the same time we were teaching him dirty words. That is, the bad words that eight-, nine- or ten-year-olds delight in: caca, pedo, moco, carajo… He, in turn, taught us the equivalent in English: shit, fart, snot, damn.
If initially Billy was a rarity at our school, within a few weeks, he was a regular part of the gang. The obstacle was soccer. Since he didn’t grow up with a soccer ball, since he didn’t sleep with a soccer ball and because he didn’t practice skills such as kicking the ball without letting it fall to the ground, in our impromptu games Billy was eternally condemned to the position of goalkeeper, a fate reserved with the least at kicking the ball and in which players take turns with barely concealed resignation, Billy had been the perfect solution. He took his responsibility of goalkeeper very seriously and shouted out proudly every time he stopped the ball.
At one moment, Billy wanted to show us his friendship and began to bring small treasures that his father had brought from his frequent trips: baseball hats, Milky Ways, Bazooka bubble gum, M&Ms, Peeps marshmallows, stamps of famous boxers, comic books like Superman Flash Gordon, Little Lulu, Dick Tracy, Popeye and one that I particularly liked: Dennis the Menace. In Colombia, we knew him as Daniel el Travieso.
Billy’s birthday parties were always a happening; his mother raffled off imported toys to the guests: cap pistols, battery-powered cars, cowboy bandanas and silly tricks like a glass of water that never empties, fake dog poop, glasses with giant eyes…
During his two years at our Bogotá school, Billy was the likeable emblem of the United States, a faraway paradise that we caught glimpses of at the movies or on our recently available black-and-white television sets.
The third year, Billy’s father was transferred and we lost track of Billy, my first gringo friend, whom I had promised to visit someday in the United States, a country that I, like everyone else, dreamed of knowing. We went back to taking turns at goalkeeping.
Act II It was the 60s. I was studying law and working at Colombia’s main newspaper. The smell of rebellion was in the air. Winds of change were shaking Paris and blowing in from Cuba. In my country, opposition was growing to a regime that had not resolved political problems and had only aggravated social problems. Discontented people protested in the streets and promoted strikes in the classroom. The Catholic church shook off its secular paralysis and instead of asking the poor to pray, they preached about a camel passing through needles and a rich man who didn’t manage to get into heaven. The names of Karl Marx and Che Guevara were floating everywhere. Cadres of armed revolutionaries appeared in Latin America. Enemy number one was quite clear: U.S. imperialism.
The managers of the paper where I worked were worried that the revolutionary fever would infect some of the young journalists in whom they had placed their hopes. The antidote, they decided, was to get us scholarships to study in the heart of the supposed monster. Thus, I ended up with my wife and two small daughters at the University of Kansas, Lawrence, in mid-1969. Its renowned William Allen White School of Journalism was going to be our home for three semesters.
It was an unforgettable time. I learned journalism and many other things. I spent long hours in the newspaper archives; my daughters ran around in enormous parks and played with children of all colors and nationalities; we saw the arrival of men to the moon at a professor’s house; we suffered through the winter and we suffered through the summer and enjoyed the fall and spring. We made friends; I got along with almost all the professors and sporadically played with the quite unsuccessful K.U. soccer team.
But what didn’t happen is that the United States managed to placate my sympathies for social change and political reform. On the contrary, several of my professors were leftists and my university, like many higher education institutions, was on tenterhooks because of the Vietnam War and the repression by Richard Nixon’s government. Marx and Che had moved from the streets of Bogotá to campuses across the United States. There were strikes, demonstrations, marches, sit-ins, rallies, debates and manifestos. On May 4, 1970, the National Guard entered Kent State University in Ohio and fired on a group of students protesting the Vietnam War’s spread to Cambodia. Four students were killed and six were wounded. The news sparked a reaction and thousands of colleges and universities were partially or completely closed. One of them was the University of Kansas.
Paradoxically, I’d traveled to the United States to experience my first student strike, filled with agitation, political discussions and finally to witness on television the barrage of gunfire against the defenseless students at Kent State.
Act III. Ever since hanging my Master’s diploma from the William Allen White School of Journalism in my office, I have proudly defined journalism with that made in USA and in the style of the United States. In the course of more than half a century, I have written in many U.S. media, among them, ReVista, the Harvard Review of Latin America. I’ve gone to many journalist association meetings and participated in conferences and seminars; I’ve given talks from coast to coast, and I’ve been honored with Columbia University’s prestigious Maria Moors Cabot Prize. I was the first Latin American journalist to become a Nieman Fellow at Harvard University, where I became a devoted fan of rich clam chowder and of the magnificent Widener Library. I’ve gone to the United States dozens of times, made many dear friends and lived there for several years. I am interested in what happens there. As an international citizen, I was delighted when Barack Obama was elected and saddened when a mediocre figure like George H. W. Bush took office. As a journalist, I have written about the good and the bad in the country, just as I learned to do in its classrooms.
For several months now, however, I have become convinced that the United States I had known with its imperfect but generous democracy was no longer the same as before. Washington threatened to transform itself into a dictatorship of the wealthiest, headed by an arrogant and mercurial businessman who from his seat in the White House conducts war, sows panic, abandons the needy, pursues immigrants, helps business tycoons, breaks the law, punishes without respect for due process and is an enemy of the independent and high-quality journalism that justifies practicing this profession.
Ever since Donald Trump revealed his true and hateful condition, a handful of Colombians educated in its universities have decided not to go back. I’m sorry for many reasons, from the authentic Milky Ways, clam chowder and the Harvard library, to the inevitable fact that I can never make good on my promise to my first gringo friend to go visit him.
Hasta siempre, Billy…
So long, Billy
Mi Relación con los Estados Unidos (en Tres Actas)
Por Daniel Samper Pizano
Billy en el Gimnasio Moderno de Bogotá alrededor de 1950. Olvidó su uniforme y tuvo que pararse en la fila de atras.
Acta I. Decía el poeta español Antonio Machado: “Mi infancia son recuerdos de un patio de Sevilla, y un huerto claro donde madura el limonero…” Al no ser yo sevillano ni poeta y carecer de huerta y limonero, mi infancia fue bastante menos lírica: un balón de fútbol, una tarea escolar por hacer, un perro fiel, un potrero libre y un grupo de amigos. Uno de ellos era hijo de un alto ejecutivo de la International Oil Company en Colombia y se llamaba Billy. Su familia quiso que estudiara en un colegio bogotano y con niños bogotanos, en vez de encerrarlo en uno de los habituales guetos donde implantan a los hijos de diplomáticos y de funcionarios extranjeros en países que no son los suyos. Allí crecen hablando solo su idioma, rodeados de otros niños pasteurizados y homogeneizados como ellos y protegidos de aventuras infantiles peligrosas, como organizar carreras de escarabajos en una pista de arena o colarse a una casa vacía en busca de fantasmas.
Billy tenía nuestra edad —ocho, nueve o diez años— y parecía copiado de un emoticón. Era sonriente, carirredondo, gracioso, más fuerte que la mayoría de nosotros y con el pelo cortado al estilo cepillo, como los marineros gringos. Resultó muy hábil para la aritmética y al principio hablaba un español con eres cuando se trataba de erres, pero fue corrigiendo la pronunciación al mismo tiempo que le enseñábamos malas palabras. Quiero decir, las malas palabras que uno domina a los ocho, nueve o diez años: caca, pedo, moco, carajo… Él, a su turno, nos enseñaba su equivalente en inglés.
Si bien en un comienzo Billy era una rareza en el colegio, a las pocas semanas ya era parte habitual de la pandilla. El obstáculo era el fútbol. Como no se había criado con un balón bajo el pie, como no dormía con él y como no practicaba habilidades al estilo de golpearlo sin dejarlo caer al suelo, en nuestros partidos improvisados Billy era el eterno condenado al puesto de portero, destino que se reserva a los menos hábiles para patear la pelota y en el que se turnan los jugadores con mal escondida resignación. Billy había sido la solución perfecta. Él se tomaba muy a pecho su responsabilidad y gritaba orgulloso cada vez que paraba un tiro.
En algún momento Billy quiso demostrarnos su amistad y empezó a llevar en la bolsa de cuadernos pequeños tesoros que le traía el padre de sus frecuentes viajes: cachuchas de béisbol, chocolates Milky Way, chicles de bomba Bazooka, caramelos M&M, masmelos Peeps, estampitas de famosos boxeadores, cómics de Superman, Flash Gordon, la Pequeña Lulu, Dick Tracy, Popeye y uno que me dedicaba especialmente: Dennis the Menace. En Colombia lo conocíamos como Daniel el Travieso.
El cumpleaños de Billy era siempre un acontecimiento. La mamá rifaba entre los asistentes a la fiesta juguetes importados: pistolas de fulminantes, carritos de pilas, pañoletas de vaqueros, bromas divertidas: un vaso de agua que nunca se vacía, un falso cagajón de perro, unas gafas con ojos gigantescos…
Durante los dos años que pasó en nuestro colegio de Bogotá, Billy fue el simpático heraldo de Estados Unidos, un lejano paraíso que barruntábamos por el cine y la incipiente televisión en blanco y negro.
El tercer año su padre fue trasladado y no supimos más de Billy, mi primer amigo gringo, a quien había prometido visitar un día en Estados Unidos, país que, como todos, soñaba conocer. Volvimos a turnarnos la portería.
Acta II. Eran los años sesenta. Yo estudiaba derecho y trabajaba en el principal diario de Colombia. Olía a revuelta. Vientos de cambio sacudían a París y soplaban desde Cuba. En mi país crecía la oposición a un régimen que no había solucionado el problema político y en cambio había agudizado el problema social. El descontento protestaba en la calle y promovía huelgas en los salones de clase. La iglesia católica sacudía su parálisis secular y en vez de pedir a los pobres que rezaran les hablaba de un camello que atravesaba agujas y un rico que no lograba entrar al cielo. Flotaban los nombres de Carlos Marx y el Che Guevara. Aparecían focos de lucha armada en América Latina. El enemigo número uno estaba claramente señalado: era el imperialismo norteamericano.
Los directivos del periódico donde yo trabajaba estaban preocupados de que la fiebre revolucionaria contagiara a algunos jóvenes periodistas en quienes habían depositado optimistas esperanzas. El antídoto, decidieron, era conseguirles becas para que estudiara en el corazón del supuesto monstruo. Fue así como aterricé con mi esposa y dos hijas pequeñas en la Universidad de Kansas, Lawrence, a mediados de 1969. Su reconocida escuela de periodismo William Allen White iba a ser nuestro hogar durante tres semestres lectivos.
Fue una época inolvidable. Aprendí periodismo y muchas cosas más. Pasé largas horas en la hemeroteca; mis hijas corrieron por parques enormes y jugaron con niños de todos los colores y nacionalidades; vimos la llegada del hombre a la luna en casa de una profesora; sufrimos el invierno y sufrimos el verano, pero disfrutamos la primavera y el otoño. Hicimos amigos, me entendí bien con casi todos los profesores y esporádicamente formé parte del poco exitoso equipo de fútbol de K.U.
Pero lo que no ocurrió es que Estados Unidos aplacara mis simpatías por el cambio social y la reforma política. Por el contrario, varios de los profesores eran militantes de izquierda y mi universidad, como buena parte de los centros de educación superior, se hallaba en ascuas por la guerra de Vietnam y la represión que ejercía el gobierno de Richard Nixon. Marx y el Che se habían desplazado de las calles de Bogotá a los campus de Estados Unidos. Había huelgas, manifestaciones, marchas, sentadas, convocatorias, debates y manifiestos. El 4 de mayo de 1970 la Guardia Nacional entró a la Universidad de Kent State en Ohio y disparó sobre un grupo de alumnos que protestaban por la extensión de la guerra de Vietnam a Camboya. Cuatro estudiantes murieron y seis resultaron heridos. La noticia provocó una reacción y miles de colegios y universidades se cerraron parcial o totalmente. Una de ellas fue la de Kansas.
Paradójicamente, había viajado a Estados Unidos para vivir mi primera huelga estudiantil, llena de agitación, discusiones políticas y finalmente estremecerme al ver por la televisión las descargas de fusil contra los chicos indefensos de Kent State.
Acta III. Desde que cuelga en mi despacho el diploma de master de la William Allen White School of Journalism me he definido, orgullosamente, como un periodismo made in USA y al estilo de USA. A lo largo de más de medio siglo he escrito en muchos medios estadounidenses, entre ellos la ReVista, the Harvard Review of Latin America. He asistido a numerosos encuentros gremiales y participado en conferencias y seminarios; he dictado charlas de costa a costa, he ganado el prestigioso premio Maria Moors Cabot de la Universidad de Columbia y fui el primer periodista latinoamericano designado como Nieman Fellow de la Universidad de Harvard, donde fui asiduo del espeso clam chowder y de la portentosa biblioteca Widener. He viajado decenas de veces a Estados Unidos, he hecho muchos compadres queridos y vivido en sus predios varios años. Me interesa lo que allí ocurre. Me alegré como ciudadano internacional cuando fue elegido Barak Obama y lamenté que ocupara el cargo un personaje mediocre como George H. W. Bush. En mi condición de periodista he escrito sobre lo bueno y lo malo del país, tal como aprendí a hacerlo en sus aulas.
Desde hace algunos meses, sin embargo, me convencí de que ese país cuya democracia imperfecta pero generosa había conocido no era ya el de antes. Washington amenazaba con convertirse en una dictadura al servicio de los más ricos, capitaneado por un hombre de negocios soberbio y mercurial que desde su silla dirige guerras, siembra el pánico, abandona a los necesitados, persigue a los inmigrantes, ayuda a los magnates, viola la ley, castiga sin respetar el derecho a juicio y es enemigo del periodismo independiente y de calidad que justifica ejercer este oficio.
Desde que Donald Trump desnudó su verdadera y odiosa condición, un puñado de colombianos educados en sus universidades decidimos no regresar a Estados Unidos. Lo lamento por muchas razones, desde los auténticos Milky Way, el clam chowder y la biblioteca de Harvard, hasta el hecho inevitable de que no podré cumplirle lo prometido a mi primer amigo gringo. So long, Billy…
Daniel Samper Pizano was the first Latin American to become a Nieman Fellow (1980-1981) at Harvard. He worked for El Tiempo (Colombia) and Cambio 16 (Spain) and has lived in both countries, as well as in the United States. He is the recipient of the Maria Moors Cabot, King of Spain and Simón Bolívar Awards, among others. Samper is the author of more than 35 books and is a member of the Royal Academy of the Spanish Language. He is a columnist for the website losdanieles.com, one of the most influential in Colombia.
Daniel Samper Pizano fue el primer latinoamericano que ingresó al programa Nieman Fellows (1980-1981) en Harvard. Trabajó en El Tiempo (Colombia) y Cambio 16 (España) y ha vivido en los dos países. Es ganador, entre otros, de los premios Maria Moors Cabot, Rey de España y Simón Bolívar. Samper es autor de más de 35 libros y miembro de la Academia de la Lengua. Es columnista del portal losdanieles.com, uno de los más influyentes de Colombia.
Related Articles
Bitter Fruits
I arrived in Los Angeles when I was ten in the midst of two crises: the armed conflict in my country, Guatemala, and my parents’ divorce. I didn’t have any inkling of the atrocity of the first war; I would find out about that later. The second conflict devoured my family; it was a fierce battle. My Aunt Lucy—who had emigrated to California at the end of the 60s— offered to take my sister and me during our vacations in 1979 to provide some relief to my mother, at least for a while.
A Friendly and Kind America
In Caacupé, Paraguay, where I lived part of my childhood, only the pilgrimage on the day of the Virgin Mary broke up the routine. It was in the plaza of this town, some 30 miles to the east of the capital, Asunción, where, in 1966, I heard the U.S. Marine Band on tour through Latin America for the first time. It was marvelous: the musical selections, the Marines with their white uniforms and a group of people who oozed happiness and enthusiasm. It was my first contact with the United States in the times of the Alliance for Progress.
Shuar, Latin America, and The United States
During my childhood and youth in Ecuador, I watched movies such as “Tarzan of the Apes,” in which the actor communicated with the jungle animals.
