viernes, 31 de agosto de 2012

Erich Fromm

Roger Schank


Hacer es saber
Ha sido profesor en Stanford, Carnegie Mellon y Yale, donde dirigía el Proyecto de Inteligencia Artificial. En 1989 la Universidad de Northwestern le contrató para crear el Instituto de Ciencias de la Educación. Aboga por una educación pragmática basada en la experiencia directa: conocimiento práctico de por qué suceden las cosas con las que nos enfrentamos. Apuesta por el cierre de los colegios: “Donde los niños son infelices”. Su alternativa es la educación on line basada en casos reales que, con ayuda de un profesor, deben solucionar. Lo está poniendo en práctica en la Escuela de Negocios de La Salle: “No quiero que aprendan la historia de las finanzas, sino a leer un balance”.


Qué comprendió investigando la inteligencia artificial?
Para que las máquinas fueran inteligentes debía enseñarles a aprender, y para ello tuve que investigar cómo aprenden las personas.

¿Y qué averiguó?Que absolutamente todo lo que aprendemos se basa en la práctica y que, por tanto, nos educan mal. El sistema educativo, en lugar de formar, deforma.

Trascendente conclusión.¿Usted aprendió periodismo en la facultad o ejerciéndolo?... Año tras año los profesores enseñan aquello que leyeron y memorizaron pero que no han puesto en práctica, todo es teoría.

No sea radical.
¡Es que hay que transformar radicalmente el sistema educativo! Dígame quién ha sido tradicionalmente la responsable de la educación... La religión. Y la postura de todas las religiones es: “Nosotros estamos en posesión de la verdad y vamos a transmitiros el conocimiento”. Y ese es el concepto opuesto a lo que debería ser la educación.

Aquí las escuelas laicas son mayoría.Pero utilizan el mismo modelo. Todos nosotros hemos estudiado álgebra, ¿alguien me puede decir la ecuación cuadrática?

Yo no.¡Pero si la ha estudiado! Ese es el modelo estúpido: Todo el mundo debe aprender algo que luego no pone jamás en práctica. Estamos enseñando las materias equivocadas con la metodología equivocada.

¿Cómo debería enseñarse?
Nadie nos sentó en un aula para que aprendiéramos a hablar. Hablamos, y cuando nos equivocamos, nuestros padres nos corrigen. Y no hay ningún niño de dos años que no haya hecho este experimento.

¡Cuidado que va a romper el vaso!De eso se trata. Los seres humanos debemos equivocarnos y aprender de nuestros errores a partir de la experiencia, y tener un objetivo claro que nos motive.

Me ha empapado el pantalón.... Por esta razón se nos deben plantear escenarios reales en los que experimentar, equivocarnos y analizar posteriormente nuestros errores, con tal de conseguir interiorizar y solidificar nuestros conocimientos y prepararnos para la vida real. Otro experimento que todos hemos llevado a cabo...

No por favor.
La pataleta, que en algún momento de nuestra vida adulta dejamos de hacer.

¿Quién?Ja, ja, ja… Si hay adultos que todavía tienen rabietas es porque a los dos años no aprendieron lo que tocaba. Se aprende a través de la práctica. No sirve el “esto no se hace”.

Educación experiencial.La educación debería estar enfocada a ayudarte a vivir una vida mejor. ¿En qué clase le enseñaron a ser una buena madre?

Usted hace preguntas trampa.Lo que necesitamos es conocimiento práctico de por qué suceden las cosas con las que nos enfrentamos cada día de nuestras vidas.

¿Cómo enseñar eso en las aulas?Las escuelas deberían ser eliminadas, para empezar están controladas por los gobiernos y su pretensión no es que salgan de ellas personas inteligentes que piensen por sí mismas, sino simples y obedientes, que no se hagan preguntas y que produzcan.

¿Y entonces?Cuando mi hija me hizo esta misma pregunta le propuse montar una escuela con otros padres de chicos de seis años (doce niños con un profesor) y creé para ellos un programa en el que les enseñamos a ser ingenieros. Y no hay suspensos frustrantes porque aprenden equivocándose. Así se aprende, ¿o no?

Sí, y es mejor no frustrarse.A los niños de esa edad les gusta construir, así que construyen puentes, trenes... Tienen que poner en marcha una fábrica de chocolate con todo lo que implica...

Pero no todos los niños saben lo que quieren ser en la vida.Hay que observarles y preguntarles. Si a un niño le gusta subirse a los árboles, probablemente le gustará ver cómo funciona una granja y a partir de ahí le podemos introducir en temas agrícolas. Debemos hacer de su afición su profesión.

Suena utópico.Hoy la escuela parte del concepto opuesto: Todos los niños son iguales y todos deben aprender lo mismo. Mi idea de la educación son clases superreducidas, de unos cinco alumnos, con un profesor que está ahí para alentarles y ayudarles a seguir el proceso formativo especificado en el programa on line basado exclusivamente en la metodología del aprender haciendo.

¿Y los ciclos superiores?Cuando ya son más mayores no necesitan aulas, todo es vía internet.

Pero en la escuela ya se les expone a distintos temas: música, arte, ciencias… y luego eligen.Esa es precisamente la línea argumental que se ha cargado el sistema educativo. En lugar de exponerles a profesores tenemos que exponerles a la vida, y esta les sugerirá sus materias de interés.

Internet no es la vida.El cambio es cómo se enseña, no los instrumentos. Yo presento diferentes programas, según el interés del niño, que les exponen a situaciones reales y les damos una metodología para resolverlos. Un interés es un activo que es muy triste perder.

jueves, 30 de agosto de 2012

Bertolt Brecht



Quiero ir con aquel a quien amo...

Quiero ir con aquel a quien amo.
No quiero calcular lo que cuesta.
No quiero averiguar si es bueno.
No quiero saber si me ama.
Quiero ir con aquél a quien amo.



Loa del estudio
¡Estudia lo elemental! Para aquellos
cuya hora ha llegado
no es nunca demasiado tarde.
¡Estudia el "abc" !No basta, pero
Estúdialo. ¡No te canses!
¡Empieza! ¡Tú tienes que saberlo todo!
Estás llamado a ser un dirigente.

¡Estudia, hombre en el asilo!
¡Estudia, hombre en la cárcel!
¡Estudia, mujer en la cocina!
¡Estudia, sexagenario!
Estás llamado a ser un dirigente.

¡Asiste a la escuela, desamparado!
¡Persigue el saber, muerto de frío!
¡Empuña el libro, hambriento! ¡Es un arma!
Estás llamado a ser un dirigente.

¡No temas preguntar, compañero!
¡No te dejes convencer!
¡Compruébalo tú mismo!
Lo que no sabes por ti,
no lo sabes.
Repasa la cuenta,
tú tienes que pagarla.
Apunta con tu dedo a cada cosa
y pregunta: "Y esto, ¿de qué?"


Bertolt Brecht


Preguntas

¡Escríbeme qué llevas puesto! ¿Es cálido?
¡Escríbeme en qué duermes! ¿Es también blando?
¡Escríbeme qué aspecto tienes! ¿Sigue siendo el mismo?
¡Escríbeme qué echas de menos! ¿Mi brazo?
¡Escríbeme cómo te va! ¿Te respetan?
¡Escríbeme qué andan haciendo! ¿Tienes bastante valor?
¡Escríbeme qué haces tú! ¿Sigue siendo bueno?
¡Escríbeme en qué piensas! ¿En mí?
¡La verdad es que sólo tengo preguntas para ti!
¡Y espero con ansiedad la respuesta!
Cuando tú estás cansada, nada puedo llevarte.
Si pasas hambre, no puedo darte de comer.
Así que estoy como fuera del mundo,
perdido, como si te hubiese olvidado
.

Power

Workers

martes, 28 de agosto de 2012

Desmond Tutu


Nobel Laureate Desmond Tutu is one of the world's most beloved religious figures. A longtime foe of apartheid, he retired as Episcopal archbishop of Cape Town, South Africa, and was then named chairman of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the organization charged with bringing to light the atrocities committed during apartheid and achieving reconciliation with the former oppressors.
What is God’s dream, and how was it imparted to you?

God's dream is that you and I and all of us will realize that we are family, that we are made for togetherness, for goodness, and for compassion. In God’s family, there are no outsiders, no enemies. Black and white, rich and poor, gay and straight, Jew and Arab, Muslim and Christian, Hindu and Buddhist, Hutu and Tutsi, Pakistani and Indian—all belong. When we start to live as brothers and sisters and to recognize our interdependence, we become fully human.
This dream can be found throughout the Bible and has been repeated by all of God's prophets right down to Martin Luther King, Jr., and Mahatma Gandhi.

Is it realistic to say there are no enemies when we are involved in a war?

God’s love is too great to be confined to any one side of a conflict or to any one religion. People are shocked when I say that George Bush and Saddam Hussein are brothers, that Yasser Arafat and Ariel Sharon are brothers, but God says, “All are my children.” It is shocking. It is radical. But it is true.

Aren’t some people simply beyond redemption?

We in South Africa had the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and we had the most devastating revelations of ghastly atrocities. We could describe them as monstrous, even demonic. But even these torturers remained children of God, with a possibility of being able to change. After all, a thief on the cross was able to repent and Jesus promised that thief, "You will be with me in paradise." Jesus didn't say, “Look at what kind of life you have led up to this point.” All of us have the capacity to change, even to become saints.

Is your book relevant to non-Christians or people with no religious faith?

I believe so very much. Because love is universal. I mean, you don't have to believe in God to know that loving is better than hating. We are trying to remind them that all of us are fundamentally good. The aberration is the bad person. God is not upset that Gandhi was not a Christian, because God is not a Christian! All of God's children and their different faiths help us to realize the immensity of God. No faith contains the whole truth about God. And certainly Christians don't have a corner on God. All of us belong to God. Even the nonbeliever is precious to God. And one simply tries to remind them that they are made for transcendence. They are made for goodness.

What compelled you to write this book now?

I think the fact that we are overwhelmed by so much conflict—or nearly overwhelmed. So many of us feel despair because of all the suffering in our world and in our lives. And one needed to say that God has not finished with God’s work. Creation is a work in progress. Evil is not going to have the last word. God has us as God’s collaborators, fellow-workers, and ultimately good—and those who strive for it—will prevail.

Even during the darkest days of apartheid, we kept saying, “They have already lost.” And they had—because immoral laws and rulers will always topple.

You say that this is a moral universe and that “God is a God who cares about right and wrong.” How do you explain suffering and injustice in the world?

The problem of evil and suffering is important and is not to be dealt with lightly. Our ability to do evil is intimately connected to our ability to do good. One is meaningless without the other. Empathy and compassion have no meaning unless they occur in a situation where one could be callous and indifferent to the suffering of others.

Suffering, it seems, is not optional. It is part and parcel of the human condition, but suffering can either embitter us or ennoble us. I hope that people will come to see that this suffering can become a spirituality of transformation when we find meaning in it.
Have you had any moments when you yourself doubted that God is just?
[During apartheid] I got angry, very angry with God, but never doubted that the issue would be resolved through the triumph of good. There were, of course, times in South Africa when you had to whistle in the dark to keep your morale up, and you wanted to whisper in God's ear, "God we know You are in charge, but can't You make it a little more obvious?" You see, we are free to be completely human and authentic with God. Jeremiah says, "God, you have deceived me." Sometimes I did get furious with God. I officiated at many funerals.
Of all the things you saw in South Africa, what was the greatest evidence of God's power and love?

During the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, when we witnessed the ability of victims to forgive their torturers—and of former torturers to transform their lives.

How would you apply the concept of reconciliation to the situation in the Middle East and the cycle of violence and retaliation? How can the two sides ever achieve peace?

One of the things we learned in South Africa is that there is no true security from the barrel of a gun. The conflict in the Holy Land is one powerful example. I am on the Board of the Shimon Peres Peace Center in Tel Aviv, and I understand the desire Israelis have to live in peace and safety. But as we saw in South Africa, there is no peace without justice, and safety only comes when desperation ends. Inevitably it is when people sit down and talk that desperation ends.

Negotiations happen not between friends but between enemies. And a surprising thing does seem to take place, at least it did in South Africa. Enemies begin to find that they can actually become friends, or at least collaborators for the common good. They come together and then actually they ask themselves, “Why did we take so long to get to this point? Why did so many people have to die?” Of course, you must have leaders who are willing to take risks and not just seek to satisfy the often-extreme feelings of their constituencies. They have to lead by leading and be ready to compromise, to accommodate, and not to be intransigent, not to assert that they have a bottom line. Intransigence and ultimatums only lead to more death.

You lived with constant death threats, yet managed to continue your work. What can you tell us about dealing with fear and anxiety?

People often ask whether I was afraid. You bet. Especially for my family. All of us experience fear, but when we confront and acknowledge it, we are able to turn it into courage. Being courageous does not mean never being scared; it means acting as you know you must, even though you are undeniably afraid. Actually, courage has no meaning unless there are things that threaten, that make you feel scared. Whether we are afraid of physical harm or social shame and embarrassment, when we face our fear instead of denying it, we are able to avoid it paralyzing us.

What do you mean when you say that “God only has us”? Isn’t God all-powerful?

I mean that God works through us and through history to bring about God’s dream. God actually needs us. We are God’s partners. When there is someone who is hungry, God wants to perform the miracle of feeding that person, but it won’t any longer be through manna falling from heaven. Normally, God can do nothing until we provide God with the means, the bread and the fish, to feed the hungry. In so many ways, God uses each of us to realize God’s dream.

Many of us feel distant from God. How can we feel the kind of intimacy you obviously experience?

Frequently we assume that only a special few can hear the voice of God in their lives but I try to explain that people can “be still” and know that God is God in and through them. This is why prayer and meditation are so important. If I do not spend a reasonable amount of time in meditation early in the morning, then I feel physical discomfort—it is worse than having forgotten to brush my teeth!

You mention the African concept of ubuntu. What is it, and how does it relate to God’s dream for us?

Ubuntu is a concept that we have in our Bantu languages at home. Ubuntu is the essence of being a person. It means that we are people through other people. We cannot be fully human alone. We are made for interdependence, we are made for family. When you have ubuntu, you embrace others. You are generous, compassionate. If the world had more ubuntu, we would not have war. We would not have this huge gap between the rich and the poor. You are rich so that you can make up what is lacking for others. You are powerful so that you can help the weak, just as a mother or father helps their children. This is God's dream.

I would never worship a homophobic God.

-Archbishop Desmond Tutu

Desmond Tutu

“If you are neutral on situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” -Desmond Tutu

Injustice

lunes, 27 de agosto de 2012

John Donne



Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.

Wit


domingo, 26 de agosto de 2012

Bertolt Brecht

EL ANALFABETO POLITICO

El peor analfabeto es el analfabeto político.
No oye, no habla, no participa de los acontecimientos políticos.
No sabe que el costo de la vida, el precio del poroto, del pan, de la harina, del vestido, del zapato y de los remedios, dependen de decisiones políticas.
El analfabeto político es tan burro que se enorgullece y ensancha el pecho diciendo que odia la política.
No sabe que de su ignorancia política nace la prostituta, el menor abandonado, y el peor de todos los bandidos que es el político corrupto, mequetrefe y lacayo de las empresas nacionales y multinacionales.
Bertolt Brecht



George Bernard Shaw




On his ninetieth birthday, George Bernard Shaw was visited by Scotland Yard’s celebrated Detective Fabian. To mark the occasion, Fabian suggested that Shaw’s fingerprints be recorded for posterity.
Incredibly, so faint were Shaw’s prints that no impression could be made. “Well,” Shaw playfully declared, “had I known this sooner I should certainly have chosen another profession!”

Boy Interrupted


Albert Einstein

Walter Pierpaoli


Eduard Punset:Walter, hace 5 años, más o menos, estabas haciendo investigación en un laboratorio europeo y de pronto te descolgaste con un libro titulado “El Milagro de la Melatonina”, que tuvo un impacto mundial. ¿Qué ha sucedido desde entonces? ¿Hay novedades en la política o en el conocimiento del problema del envejecimiento y su lucha? ¿Cuál ha sido el gran cambio? ¿Todavía crees en la melatonina?

Walter Pierpaoli:
Sí, por supuesto. La melatonina fue el principio de lo que se ha venido a llamar la revolución antienvejecimiento. Desde 1995 han pasado muchas cosas y nada ha cambiado, porque la melatonina apareció como un rayo en un día soleado y creo que la opinión pública, la comunidad científica, no estaba en absoluto preparada para ello. Sin embargo, hay grupos de personas clarividentes que se han dado cuenta de que esto es algo destinado a cambiar nuestra concepción del envejecimiento.

Eduard Punset:
¿Qué es el envejecimiento?

Walter Pierpaoli:
El envejecimiento es algo muy sencillo. El envejecimiento es un programa endocrino de nuestro cerebro. Existen estructuras cerebrales, como el hipotálamo, que regula los ciclos hormonales, la hipófisis (todo el mundo, todas las mujeres conocen las hormonas relacionadas con los ovarios: los estrógenos, la progesterona, la gonadotropina, el tiroides, la hormona del crecimiento, la cortisona: son todas ellas hormonas)… pero eso que llaman mi descubrimiento –y creo que es una demostración cierta– no es que produzcamos hormonas, sino que las producimos siguiendo un cierto ciclo entre el día y la noche. Todos somos cíclicos, somos periódicos, y el milagro de la melatonina sirvió simplemente para entender que el ciclo del cerebro es fundamental para el mantenimiento de la salud. De modo que cuando envejecemos (al hacernos viejos empezamos a desarrollar una serie de enfermedades degenerativas), el mensaje del cerebro, ese pico nocturno, empieza a bajar, a aplanarse y a desaparecer. Cuando el ciclo desaparece es que vamos a morir, porque el programa se ha acabado. Es un mensaje hormonal muy preciso procedente del cerebro….

Eduard Punset:
Que dice... se acabó

Walter Pierpaoli:
Sí, que regula la inmunidad, lo regula todo. Pero no es una cuestión de cuánta hormona producimos en nuestro cerebro, en la glándula endocrina en el ovario o en la tiroides: es una cuestión de ciclicidad. Yo siempre insisto en esto: que en nuestro cerebro tenemos un programa de envejecimiento, y es algo muy sencillo que todo el mundo puede entender: al nacer crecemos, y crecemos porque así está programado, por un programa de crecimiento que obviamente es genético, propio de los mamíferos a los que pertenece la especie humana. Somos como un perro, como un gato: todos ellos tienen su programa de crecimiento, y se desarrollan, y se convierten en adultos, se vuelven fértiles, pueden procrear, se pueden reproducir... todo esto está programado. El programa de la mujer hace que sea fértil hasta los 45 ó los 50 ó 55 años, y entonces se acaba, y esto también está programado.

Eduard Punset:
Todas las especies crecen, pero no todas las especies envejecen. Me gusta decir que nunca he visto a un pez con arrugas. Lo malo de la especie humana es que no sólo se desarrolla y muere, sino que también envejece, y se llena de arrugas y aparecen enfermedades degenerativas. En esto somos ligeramente diferentes a las otras especies ¿no es cierto?

Walter Pierpaoli:
Sí, existen los animales de sangre fría y también los que no son de sangre fría -peces, anfibios- que, de hecho, no sabemos cuánto tiempo viven. Generalmente creo que el envejecimiento en los poiquilotermos, los animales de sangre fría, es totalmente diferente del de los homeotermos, a los cuales pertenecemos. Y la regulación de la temperatura es nuestra desgracia, nuestra tragedia, porque, de hecho, tienes razón en lo que dices, la pregunta es correcta. Entre lo que te decía antes de la ciclicidad se encuentra también el mantenimiento de la temperatura…

Eduard Punset:
...del cuerpo…

Walter Pierpaoli:
Sí claro, porque ya debes saber que cuando nos vamos a la cama a dormir, sufrimos una hibernación: la temperatura de nuestro cuerpo desciende, y todas las hormonas cambian. O sea que el ciclo circadiano del día y la noche regula también la temperatura del cuerpo. Los animales de sangre fría no envejecen: crecen, y nadie sabe cuánto tiempo pueden vivir. Y tienen mucha suerte porque adaptan la temperatura de su cuerpo a la temperatura ambiente. Desafortunadamente para nosotros, los mamíferos tenemos que mantener estrictamente regulada nuestra temperatura corporal.

Eduard Punset:
A 36ºC…

Walter Pierpaoli:
Entre 36,2ºC y 36,4ºC.

Eduard Punset:
O sea que tienen que luchar mucho contra el frío…

Walter Pierpaoli:
Sí, es un proceso que consume mucha energía. Y este consumo también es causa de envejecimiento. De modo que la termorregulación es necesaria, pero, por otro lado, cuando ya no podemos regular más la temperatura, es que estamos a punto de morir. Y todo el proceso de regulación térmica está bajo control hormonal. Como sabes perfectamente, la glándula tiroides produce tiroxina, la tiroxina es fundamental para proporcionar energía a todas las células. Y no sólo la tiroxina, hay otras moléculas en el cerebro, una de las cuales hemos podido encontrar e identificar, que son absolutamente importantes para el proceso de la termorregulación. Quiero decir que el programa de envejecimiento se encuentra en nuestro cerebro pero tenemos una programación de tiempo para el envejecimiento. Para un perro es de 10 o 12 años, para los seres humanos es de 120 años. Yo diría que nuestro programa llega hasta una edad de 110 a 130 años. Y creo que, si pudiéramos prevenir las enfermedades del envejecimiento, podríamos vivir sin ningún problema hasta los 120 años. Pero de repente aparece un mensaje en el cerebro, muy preciso y dominante, que hace que muramos sin enfermedades, porque el programa se ha acabado. Y esto lo he demostrado con mucha precisión en un artículo que he publicado hace dos años en los EEUU, donde explico que cuando enveje la glándula pineal, que, por así decir, es el director de la orquesta, esta empieza a emitir mensajes equivocados a la orquesta, entonces la orquesta está acabada, se produce el desastre. Y esto es exactamente lo que sucede.

Eduard Punset:
Walter, dices que estamos programados, que nuestro cerebro está programado…

Walter Pierpaoli:
Para crecer, para reproducirse y para morir.

Eduard Punset:
¿Y no hay nada que podamos hacer? ¿No podemos cambiar este programa? Me refiero a que se están dando cosas muy importantes: en primer lugar las técnicas para combatir el envejecimiento, pero también todo este asunto de las células madre, que surgió hace 3 años al descubrir que los seres humanos también tienen células madre, que en cierto modo son inmortales. Y luego está toda esa investigación dedicada a la forma de regenerar órganos y partes del cuerpo, del cuerpo humano ¿Has descubierto algo que pudiera llevarnos a contemplar la posibilidad de alterar esta programación, o no hay nada que podamos hacer respecto a esta programación genética que dice que vamos a morir cuando lleguemos a los 120 años?

Walter Pierpaoli:
La pregunta es adecuada, pero imposible de responder. Nos hemos adelantado tanto en la cuestión de reprogramar el envejecimiento, que es prácticamente imposible…, porque desde la publicación de “El Milagro de la Melatonina” se ha generado tanta confusión en la prensa, en los medios de comunicación y en la misma comunidad científica, que prácticamente no… no comprendieron que la glándula pineal produce la melatonina por la noche, y no entendieron que el problema, para llegar a comprender el envejecimiento, es intentar mantener la funcionalidad del director de orquesta. Porque si la glándula pineal no produce la melatonina por la noche, entonces podemos suministrar esta melatonina por la noche para mantener la función de la glándula pineal. La clave para no envejecer no es suministrar melatonina, sino proteger del envejecimiento a la glándula pineal. Porque si tenemos una orquesta y un director, y hacemos que el director se mantenga joven, la orquesta continuará tocando indefinidamente bellas armonías y sinfonías. Por consiguiente, al suministrar melatonina por la noche, ¿qué sucede?: se protege al director de orquesta, porque el director de orquesta no tendrá que trabajar y producir melatonina. Y este era mi truco y este es el tratamiento que doy a mis pacientes.

Eduard Punset:
Pero, ¿qué pasaría si todo esto fuera demostrado realmente de manera científica? Quiero decir, ¿qué le pasaría a la sociedad si, de repente, todos pudiéramos alcanzar la vejez -vamos a decir que no en perfectas condiciones- pero, al menos, sin esas terribles enfermedades que son el Alzheimer, el Parkinson y otras enfermedades degenerativas?

Walter Pierpaoli:
Creo que estamos muy lejos de que eso vaya a producirse inmediatamente, porque los gobernantes del mundo deberían reunirse y decidir qué se va a hacer. Quiero decir que el efecto de que se pueda invertir el envejecimiento o posponerlo durante unos años cambiaría totalmente nuestra sociedad. Porque haría, por ejemplo, imposible nuestro sistema de seguros de vida. Es por ello que somos muy prudentes a la hora de decir algo. Yo creo que en este momento la sociedad no está en absoluto preparada para prolongar la vida. Puedes imaginarte lo que sería si habláramos de invertir el proceso de envejecimiento y convertirlo en algo completamente diferente. Digamos que todo el mundo pudiera vivir hasta los 120 años sin ningún tipo de enfermedad – mi próximo libro describe precisamente una situación así-, la media sería de 120 años. Esto es algo totalmente fantástico para muchos, pero es la auténtica realidad.

Eduard Punset:
Cuando dices fantástico, quieres decir que es una fantasía.

Walter Pierpaoli:
Sí, una fantasía. Pero no es una fantasía porque la realidad supera hoy a la fantasía.

Eduard Punset:
Pero dices que no estamos preparados, que la sociedad no está preparada para contemplarlo

Walter Pierpaoli:
Creo que la sociedad no está preparada: el sistema social. Si me lo permites, yo creo que el sistema se basa en las enfermedades crónicas. Imagínate que pasaría si, de repente, nadie necesitara más medicamentos porque pudiéramos posponer el envejecimiento sin necesidad de recurrir a una intervención agresiva. Créeme, es imposible, es totalmente imposible cambiar. Porque el sistema entero de nuestra sociedad está basado en el envejecimiento. Todos los periodos de subsidio, el sistema sanitario entero, se basa en el hecho de que vamos a envejecer y luego morir. Si lo cambiamos y hacemos, por ejemplo, que el envejecimiento se retrase 5 años, o que se mantenga una buena salud, el sistema entero se derrumbaría. Es totalmente imposible. Como científico siento una gran curiosidad por la vida, y siento el gozo que me daría poder ver una vida libre de enfermedades y de envejecimiento. Es una curiosidad, una curiosidad humana, es la búsqueda de la libertad, ser libre en el cosmos, ser dominante de dominar tu vida y tu muerte. Pero esto no es un experimento, y este experimento está avanzando hasta el punto de convertirse en verdad. Lo que podemos decir es algo intelectual; pero la aplicación real, que es posible, es imposible de comunicar y de llevar a cabo.

Don Alfonso

De la fiera infancia a bolero ambulante
Alfonso Tapia Herrejón
«Siempre he sido un caminante de la ciudad, durante décadas cargué el cajón en tramos largos de una colonia a otra. No tenía ningún problema. Pero hace dos años me operaron una hernia inguinal y los doctores me prohibieron cargar cosas pesadas. Porque la atrofia regresa».
La disposición a la vida ambulante y el gozo por andar la calle se originó en su fiera infancia. Dueño de su ruta Alfonso Tapia Herrejón se desayuna a la ciudad desde muy temprano. Practica −hace cuatro décadas−, el digno oficio de lustrar zapatos.
Entre aromas de gasolina blanca, cremas, tintas, betunes y grasa neutra para calzado el recorrido principia en el metro Tacubaya.
De una bodega salen el carrito de maletas, el cajón y la bolsa cargada con líquidos y pócimas adecuadas para el aseo escrupuloso del calzado.
Por ello el bolero ambulante no va solo en el vagabundaje por amplios bulevares, camellones, glorietas, plazas y avenidas, lo acompaña su carrito de maletas, el cual le aligera el viaje.
El espíritu andariego de Tapia lo impulsa a cumplir el itinerario por distintos rumbos de la gran ciudad. De Iztapalapa sale de su casa y acompaña a su hija Ana Esmeralda, enfermera del hospital ABC. Del barrio de Tacubaya va hacia la colonia Condesa para hacer un alto en la calle Zitácuaro. De ahí a un punto para él clave, la Comisión Federal de Electricidad, pues ahí recorre pasillos y oficinas con clientes cuya fidelidad y confianza permanece a lo largo de muchos años.
La mañana resulta apenas suficiente para la imponente demanda de sus servicios. El día aún no acaba, quedan muchas horas para ir de nuevo a la Condesa y acudir a los parques México y España y tocar a las puertas de los vecinos de las calles de Chilpancingo, Sonora, Alfonso Reyes, Juan Escutia, Salvatierra, Juan de la Barrera. Y las avenidas Amsterdam y Nuevo León.
Apreciado por los resultados de su trabajo, «un brillo permanente y lucidor en el calzado» sale al paso sobre el sentido profundo de cómo se gana la vida.
«Hay personas que me preguntan acerca de si hago mal o bien la boleada. Siempre apelo al derecho a la duda. Les digo, primero vean mi trabajo y luego juzguen. Yo sólo sé que procuro hacerlo con esmero y muchas ganas».
De alma transparente, sincero, en una tarde lluviosa me desvela los trucos para lograr una boleada impecable.
«Quitamos polvo y tierra a los zapatos con el cepillo, algunos colegas usan jabón para lavarlos. En mi caso prefiero hacerlo con gasolina blanca. Enseguida empezamos a untar crema a la piel y vamos a dejar que se humecte a fondo. Permitimos que los zapatos se oreen unos minutos. Empezamos a cepillar un zapato y luego el otro y seguimos aplicando crema».
Sigue el paso denominado del brillo y «el chiste lo tenemos −según cuenta Tapia− en aplicar la grasa neutra y al tiempo de cepillar y pasar el trapo de manera rápida y vigorosa por encima de la piel a fin de lograr un fulgor permanente».
Maestro consumado del arte de la boleada muestra a mis ojos sorprendidos distintas cremas de colores manufacturadas por él mismo.
«La única forma que tengo de lograr un trabajo de calidad, sobresaliente, es elaborando mi propia crema para el calzado. Compro productos incoloros y con tintas logro un color único, además de una densidad apropiada que penetre la piel a fondo».
Con 62 años a cuestas a Tapia le ha tocado vivir el México de la estabilidad económica y también el de las crisis recurrentes, de su exigente oficio estima le ha dado muchas satisfacciones y le ha permitido sortear las épocas de apreturas y vacas flacas.
«Vi salir a mis hijas con sus estudios adelante, mi señora y su servidor tenemos casa propia en Iztapalapa. Ahora ellas trabajan y le sacan provecho a sus conocimientos. No se han casado y viven con nosotros».
Pero la vida no siempre le ha sonreído, también hubo un tiempo en el que se vió en una esquina de la ciudad, con el vientre hecho un rechinadero de hambre, lloviendo, los zapatos rotos, en harapos, temblando al paso de cada policía, sin poder decirle a nadie: oiga usted, buenas noches, ¿me podría ayudar?
«Me golpearon tanto – me dice Tapia−, me golpearon tanto que no tuve más salida que la calle. Era un niño de cinco años edad sometido a una fiera infancia de palizas de la madre y el padrastro».
Ambos le tundían con igual saña y violencia y, más allá de los golpes, lo que más le dolió fue el profundo desamor de su progenitora.
Lo que siguió para él fue el vagabundeo por los laberintos de una ciudad en pujante crecimiento. Tener noticia de su odisea sacude a cualquiera pues resulta inimaginable la vida a salto de mata de un pequeño obligado a dormir en baldíos y hoteles de paso.
«Ora sí que era un vaguillo pero me gustaba trabajar y juntaba unos centavos con los cuales vendìa chicles, periódicos o la boleada. El chiste era obtener dinero para comer y vestir. Sobreviví sin broncas hasta los 14 años. De mi familia no supe nada. Vivía en la calle y hoteles baratos. Dependía de lo que tuviera uno, a veces había dinero y luego no. Tenía que dejar el hotel y entonces pasar la noche en un terreno baldío o donde fuera».
La feroz realidad endurecía a Tapia y fue justo el tiempo en que le ocurría un cambio de piel, de niño a joven, cuando la fatalidad lo alcanzó.
«Paseaba por el Bosque de Chapultepec y unos malandros me buscaron pleito, la verdad a esa edad uno no se deja de nadie. Ora si la misma vida te arrastra a defenderte como un perro rabioso. Eran muchachos de familia, riquillos. Ellos me vieron feo por mal vestido y mi aspecto desaseado. Se les hizo fácil ofenderme. Me pelié con ellos. Pero el que se me fue encima sacó una navaja de muelle. Traté de quitársela y al darle el jalón se fue de bruces y se provocó una herida de quince centímetros en el muslo superior de la pierna izquierda».
Presa del pánico Tapia fue detenido por los guardabosques, presentado ante el Ministerio Público en la novena Delegación. Desafortunadamente el joven herido y agresor era hijo de un agente policiaco cuyo propósito fue el de enviar al inocente al Tribunal para Menores.
«Allí pasé encerrado cuatro años, era el infierno. Debía sobrevivir y no dejarme de nadie. Si usted se deja lo hacen como a un trapeador. Imperaba la ley del más fuerte. La defensa era asunto de cada quién. Ninguno de los otros te iba a defender».
Y como una fatalidad casi siempre encadena a otra a Tapia le surgió un enemigo. Se trataba de un vigilante que le agarró tirria o quizás había recibido un soborno del agente policiaco empeñado en vengar la afrenta a su hijo.
El caso es que un mal día el guardia le propinó una salvaje golpiza al recluso y, sin embargo, el muchacho marcó un cabezazo en pleno rostro del agresor.
«Fui a dar a la Correccional y permanecí recluido hasta cumplir los 18 años de edad, me soltaron sin que hubiera un familiar de por medio».
Determinado a ser un hombre de bien logró colocarse en la desaparecida empresa Productos Pimienta. De modo natural se entusiasmó por la electromecánica industrial y debido a su buen empeño en los primeros años fue designado jefe de mantenimiento.
Antes de formar su propia familia su abuelo lo topó en la calle y le dijo que no anduviera solitario como un perro. Le propuso viviera en su casa con los suyos. Aceptó el ofrecimiento. Vivía con el viejo y trabajaba tenaz como electromecánico.
Una tarde la madre de Tapia fue a visitar a su padre. El muchacho lleno de resentimiento no quiso verla y salió de la casa. El abuelo le suplicó fuera amable con su progenitora. Madre e hijo se reconciliaron.
«Rescaté a mis cuatro hermanas y a mi mamá de ese rufían, él las maltrataba. Muy pronto, mis hermanas encontraron marido y mamá vivía solita en un departamento. La visitaba con frecuencia y la atendía. El gusto de recuperar su estima duró poco tiempo. Vivió solamente cinco años más».
Casado con Teresa Amaro procreó a dos hijas, Ana Esmeralda y Rebeca, la primera es licenciada en enfermería y la segunda “dos años menor” se graduó como ingeniero textil. La disposición y la entrega al estudio motivó a los esposos a apoyar a sus hijas, sobre todo en el tiempo en que emprendían sus carreras profesionales.
«Trabajé muy duro más de 20 años como técnico electromecánico pero las envidias y rivalidades me orillaron a pedir a mis patrones el retiro y la correspondiente liquidación».
Desempleado le fue difícil volverse a reinsertar en el trabajo, «fui a a varias empresas pero me di cuenta de que el salario era muy bajo».
Fue en ese punto de quiebre y con las hijas en la escuela preparatoria cuando decidió volver al mundo de la boleada. Como en la fiera infancia de nuevo agarró el cajón para nunca jamás desprenderse de él.
Ahora de su recorrido por bulevares, camellones, glorietas, fuentes y parques de la Condesa, así como de su incursión en el inmueble de CFE, asegura:
«No dejo el día por mínimo 500 pesos».
De los contrastantes destinos que le ha tocado protagonizar, Tapia me advierte, armado de sabiduría:
«No te preocupes por lo que te pasará en el futuro, agarra la vida como llega. Ve soluciones y deja los problemas. Pide cosas a la vida. No te resignes que al ser rico no tendrás tropiezos o que al ser pobre careces de existencia».
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José Alberto Castro es periodista y creador de documentales.
@jcastrom27
Fotografías: Fernando Velasco

miércoles, 22 de agosto de 2012

Ron Clark


Ron Clark has made it his specialty to go into classes filled with the “most difficult” students in the school and turn the class around, both in North Carolina and in the Bronx, New York. Called “America’s Educator” by Oprah Winfrey, Clark is the author of “The 55 Essentials: An Award-winning Educator's Rules for Discovering the Successful Student in Every Child,” a national best-seller. Clark, who is 42 years old and has been teaching for 12 years, feels that learning can only happen when the students become a family—which implies acting with respect and manners. He has just started a middle school in Atlanta to implement his philosophy. The dramatic story of his time in the Bronx has become "The Ron Clark Story," a made-for-television movie that debuted recently on TNT.
Can you talk a little about where you grew up and what your journey was? It sounds like you didn’t expect to be a teacher.
I grew up in a small tiny town, in North Carolina, population 400, and all my life I wanted to get out and have adventures. My family never had a lot of money to travel and so I never got an opportunity to scratch that itch. I went to school at ECU, Eastern Carolina. I graduated and went to work at the Dunkin’ Donuts. I saved up $600, I thought I was high on the hog.
I got a one-way ticket to London and flew there, and I became a singing and dancing waiter at a restaurant called The Texas Embassy Cantina. I got my backpack and went all across Europe. I went country to country, and I loved it! For the first time in my life, I felt really alive, and I was seeing what the world was about.
I ended up in Rumania, staying with a family of gypsies. Whatever they fed me, I ate it, 'cause I didn’t want to be disrespectful. One time they fed me something, I wasn’t sure what it was, turns out it was rat. I got really sick, I had food poisoning. I kept getting weaker. So I flew home to North Carolina, and my mama said, “Listen to me, these adventures have got to stop!” And she told me at the local elementary school there was a fifth-grade teacher who passed away. It was a rough school, she said, they had a hard time getting teachers in that area. She said, “If you don’t take that job, that class is going to have substitutes for the rest of the year.”
She said if I didn’t at least go talk to the principal that she was never going to support me financially again. So I said, okay, I’ll at least go talk to this principal. And I went in, the principal was telling me how challenging the class was. I told her I wasn’t interested in teaching. She said, “Well, if you’re not interested, why are you even here?” I said, My mama made me come, I didn’t want to be here!
But she said, “Let me show you the class.” I walked into the classroom, the kids were going crazy. They were loud. The poor substitute teacher’s wig was off to one side. This little boy’s desk was pushed up to the front door. I looked down at this kid. He looked up at me and said, “Is you gwon be our new teacher?”
And I said, “I guess.”
Anyone who knows me would tell you I follow my heart. If I really feel something I know I’m supposed to be doing, I don’t even question myself, I just go for it. In that moment, I had a feeling I was called to go into that classroom. And I said, “Okay, I’ll teach this class.”
When I got in that classroom, I found out these kids didn’t really have what I had growing up. I grew up with a true Southern upbringing; my grandmother lived in the house with us. Manners, respect, discipline. I was taught how you should care for other people. My family just set a great example of the meaning of life, for them, which is to do all you can to make a difference in the lives of others, and to help your friends, your family, your enemies, your neighbors…everyone around you. So I was brought up with that same philosophy.
I really started working hard at developing, not only curriculum, but rules about manners and respect for others, and that’s how the “55 Essential Rules” started. The first year I had a list of 5, and then the next year I went to 8, then 12, then 22, then the next year 28. Then I moved to Harlem to teach and it grew to 55. What I found was that once I taught these kids about life, and about how to respect each other and how to be a family in that classroom, the environment in the classroom totally changed. The kids wanted to be there, they were clapping for each other, lift each other up. At the end of the year, their test scores went through the roof.
And so the program started to spread to other classrooms as well. It’s all about being specific with kids and letting them know your expectations. You don’t have to have 55 rules. You can have 20 or 25. As long as you let them know exactly what you expect in terms of manners, respect, discipline, academics. And then the results will be better. Just like your own kids at your house. The more specific you can be with them about what you expect from them, the better the results are going to be.
People always ask me what inspired me to teach, and what inspired me was once I got in the classroom and discovered that kids were less fortunate than I was and the kids didn’t really have a chance yet of someone lifting them up. That was what motivated me to remain in the classroom. And once I saw the difference that can be made when you put your whole heart and all of your passion into a group of kids, I saw how you can really change their lives. That is what has fueled me to continue teaching and to continue in this field.
You’re also a speaker, right?
I do talk to groups of people and teachers about my ideas. I’m here in Houston, Texas, I just spoke to a school district today. In August, every day I’ve been speaking to a different school district. Which is great, because it gives me a chance to get in front of anywhere from 3,000 to 15,000 teachers and share my message and ideas and motivate teachers.
What are the ideas you most hope they’ll come away with?
Overall, just a passion. And when you’re working with kids, especially with kids who drive you crazy, just seeing that those kids have potential. Finding a way to dream big for every child in your classroom, no matter how challenging or difficult the situation may be. You have to look at every child and see potential. I do feel like I’m being used to make a difference. I’m just spreading the message.
During the filming of The Ron Clark Story, you were specific that you wanted to honor the kids and their achievements as much as what you were doing. Are there any kids that still stand out to you in some way?
All of them changed me in some way. The ones in the movie are really powerful stories. Especially Shamika—in real life, her name is Tamera. She’s such a powerful individual, and she’s such a success story. To go from not being on grade level in math or reading to, in fifth grade, she scored perfect scores on her integrated test. When I say perfect scores, I mean she didn’t miss one. Not a single question. That’s a miraculous thing. To watch her go from hating school and being suspended for the majority of the year, now she’s an honor roll student, she’s applying to Spelman in the fall.
Are you still in touch with any of these kids?
I’m in touch with all of my former students. We travel around the world. We’ve been to Japan, Costa Rica, Russia, England, South Africa. I stay in contact with their teachers, I take them on college tour trips in 11th grade. The first group of fifth-graders, I said, I promise you, if you will all stay in school until 11th grade, I will take you on a college tour trip. I’ll take you all across North Carolina. We’ll stay in dorms. So when my first group of fifth-graders got to 11th grade, they called me. “Mr. Clark, how about those trips?” Now every year we go college to college. I teach them about the application process, about financial aid.
I have kids whom I taught in fifth grade twelve years ago, calling, asking, “Mr. Clark, should I take this job?” “Mr. Clark, should I ask for a raise?” It’s all about creating a mentor in their lives.
Is this something you think more teachers can do?
Yes! I think there are hundreds of flaws in the education system in our country, still a lot of things that can be done differently. We’re riding an antiquated system right now. There’s so many issues. But, yeah. I think it’s a shame how, especially these kids in low-income areas, if they form a bond with a teacher over a school year, at the end of the school year, that bond’s broken. That kid moves on to a new teacher. And that teacher has a whole group of new kids to worry about. I think that’s the wrong way to do it. I think if you want education to be successful, you need to be a family, you need continuity, and you need to have kids in schools where every teacher knows their name. It’s a family atmosphere. When you have that, you tend to be more successful.
As you know, these days principals’ jobs and school rankings all rise and fall on test scores. My kids’ teachers have been saying, with some despair, that they can no longer teach creatively and spark imagination in the kids, because they’re forced to "teach to the test."
It’s an embarrassment for teachers. It’s an insult to qualified, intelligent teachers to have to teach to a test and use worksheets. All across America, I’ve been to 49 states, talking to teachers about this problem, and in every state, it’s the same thing: teachers feel frustrated, like their hands are tied, they’re being told what to teach every day, taking the creativity out of the classroom. That’s why teachers are being burned out. That’s why they’re quitting.
And the kids—they’re being taught how to take a test. They’re not being inspired with a love for learning. They’re not going to be lifelong learners. They’re going to be test-takers. When they get into college, they’re not going to have that thirst to learn, that thirst for knowledge. We’re not inspiring them to do great things and to dream big, we’re inspiring them to take a test. It’s a shame.
I do support accountability, but I support finding innovative and creative ways to inspire kids to learn. I don’t teach to the test. I teach my kids content. And I make it as fun and exciting as I can. And every year their test scores go through the roof. It’s because they have that thirst for knowledge, and they want to learn, that they learn at a faster pace.
No Child Left Behind is a nightmare. It’s sucking the education system dry of passion and creativity. You need to focus, not on how high test scores are, but how much progress was made. Any class of students you want to give me right now--three years behind grade level, I couldn’t care less. Give me those students. Have them take a test. At the end of the year, have them take that same test or another test, and show the growth. For that, you can hold me accountable all day long--on how much progress those students have made. But holding a school accountable for how high the scores are? That’s not a fair judgment. What you have to look at is the improvement you’ve made with those students.
When you’re in a classroom and you care about kids’ spirits and imagination, how do you make time to teach the whole child?
You have to have faith. People sometimes say to me, “I don’t have time to teach 55 Rules, I have to teach the math curriculum.” In New York City, I told my principal I was going to teach these 55 Rules the first few days of school, and she told me, no, I wasn’t. I was going to go in there and teach a math lesson the second the kids walked in the door. She said, “We’re going to send a message to these kids that this year is all about curriculum and learning.” And I said, if I don’t teach these rules, the kids are going to be crawling up the walls by October. She said, “Mr. Clark, I don’t care, you listen to me, I’m the principal, you go in there, you teach that math lesson.” So I went in there that first day, and I closed the door, and I taught my rules. I mean, sometimes you just gotta do what you’ve gotta do. I knew I had to teach those rules. Then by November, my class was the model class in the school. We went from the worst to the best class.
I see first-year teachers come in with so much passion and want to do things different, and creatively, and they’re not allowed to. Sometimes you have to fly under the radar, close your door, teach how you want to teach, but don’t make too much noise about what you’re doing. Then, once your kids have high test scores, then you’re going to have respect, then your principal will trust you and trust what you’re doing. Then you can get away with teaching how you want to teach and sharing your methods. But until you’ve got the test scores to prove it, you really don’t have a leg to stand on, with education the way it is today.
Let me ask you about the school you’re starting in Atlanta. It sounds like the entire school is going to be made up of kids who need to be there on a scholarship.

Yes, all of them.

And the information says that you’ll be traveling with the students, and they’ll have gone to different continents by the time they get out of school?
Yes, I’ve been doing that for 12 years. One trip can change the life of a child forever. We’re with kids fifth through eighth grade. By time they’re in eighth grade, they’ll have visited 6 of the 7 continents. It’s going to be an incredible experience. What I do is, I integrate what I teach with travel. Whether it’s a mile up the road, or around Atlanta, around the country or around the world. When the kids go to South Africa, they can tell you when we land, the history, the economics, the religion, the culture. If we meet Nelson Mandela, before we meet him, we’ve read “A Long Walk to Freedom.” When we go to Japan, they can tell you what every temple means, the history of every battle, I mean, they totally internalize these trips. It’s all about bringing education to life for these kids.
Where do you get the money to do this?

All the money I’ve made from the book, the royalties—Oprah put the book on her show, and I made a lot of money from that. I used that money to buy the facility and get the renovation started. Now we have to find people who will sponsor these kids. The kids can’t afford the school themselves, and it costs $14,000 a year per kid. So we have to get corporations, individuals, foundations, grants, to come on board and say, “Yeah, I’ll sponsor a kid at your school.” Now, a lot of people can’t sponsor a kid for $14,000, so we say, can you go together with a group of friends?

And you know, if someone can’t even afford to go in on the tuition with friends, it really helps if they could donate one uniform, or a backpack. They can go to our website and select an item they’d like to donate.
How do you choose which kids get to come to the school?

It’s an interview process, we take recommendations from teachers. We’re looking for kids who have untapped potential. We interview each kid who applies, and their parents, to make sure they’re willing to abide by the parent contract, which is quite rigorous. We let both the student and the teacher know what will be expected of them. We look for the kids who can most benefit. We look for the best fit.

Do you feel this is something that can be replicated?

Yes. We’re creating an educational laboratory. The purpose of this school is to really flesh out programs, different ideas, different concepts, and to come up with things that work. At some point, when we’ve got our program 100% functioning on a school-wide level, ready to go, then I want to replicate the school. But I want to do it as charter schools. The reason we’re doing the first one as a private school is that we need a lot of freedom right now. But once we’ve got the programs, we’ll try to replicate as charter schools across the country.




martes, 21 de agosto de 2012

Here Comes Trouble


Stories from My Life

Tet

I can’t quite remember when I turned against the idea of war, but I’m sure it had something to do with the fact that I didn’t want to die. From pretty much the sixth grade on, I was firmly, solidly, against dying.
But up until then, I spent many years dying with verve in our neighborhood. The favorite game to play on our street was War. It beat Bloody Murder by a mile because it had weapons. Bloody Murder was really just a game of hide-and-seek (when you found the person hiding, you would yell “Bloody murder!” and everyone would try to make it back to touch the home pole before those who were hiding could tag you).
War was the real deal - and girls couldn’t play. The rules were simple. A group of boys, ages four to ten, would divide up into two groups: the Americans and the Germans. We each had our own set of toy machine guns, rifles, and bazookas. I was much admired for my fine stash of hand grenades that came complete with the pin you could pull out as you tossed it, accompanied by a very loud “explosion” that would come out of my mouth.

None of us minded whether we were chosen to be a German or an American - we already knew who was going to win. It became less about winning and more about coming up with creative and entertaining ways to kill and be killed. We studied Combat and Rat Patrol on TV. We asked our dads for ideas but none of us got much help as they didn’t seem to want to talk about their war experiences. We all imagined our fathers as well-decorated war heroes, and it was just assumed that if we ever had to go to war we would be every bit the brave defenders of freedom they were.

I was particularly good at dying, and the other kids loved machine-gunning me down. Especially if I was playing a German; I’d stand for as long as I could, taking as many of their bullets as I could, and, long before Sam Peckinpah arrived on the scene, I was going down in a slow-motion agony that gave all the other boys a thrill for offing my sorry Nazi ass. And when I hit the ground, I’d roll over a couple times and, in a fit of spasms, I would expire. As I lay there, eyes open, motionless, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction that I played an important role in seeing one more nasty Nazi bite the dust.

But when I played an American, I would try to stay alive as long as possible. I would find some way to sneak in behind enemy lines, hide in a tree, and then take out as many of the Germans as I could. I especially loved lobbing the grenades from above; it was so upsetting to the “Nazi” boys who could not figure out where all these little bombs were coming from. I would make sure to leave one or two of them alive so they could shoot me. Then I could die a hero’s death, cut down in my prime, maybe taking one last “Nazi” with me as I fell on them, pulling the pin off my final grenade, blowing both of us to bits as we hit the ground.
But by 1966, as the pictures on the evening news seemed nothing like what we were acting out on our little dirt street, “playing” war became less and less fun. These soldiers on TV were really dead - bloody and dead, covered in mud, then covered by a tarp, no slow-motion heroics provided. The soldiers who remained alive, they looked all scared and disheveled and confused. They smoked cigarettes, and not one of them looked like he was having much fun. One by one, the boys in the neighborhood put away their toy guns. No one said anything. We just stopped. There was homework and chores to do, and girls seemed distantly interesting. The Americans won The Big War That Counted, and that was enough.
By the summer after seventh grade our family left the dirt street and moved on to a paved one – the very street that we lived on when I was born. I started to think a lot about the Vietnam War that summer, and most of what I thought about wasn’t good. I did the math and I realized I was just five years away from draft age! And it was becoming clear that this war was not going to be over anytime soon.
Mrs. Beachum was our afternoon lay teacher in eighth grade. Because our nun was also the Mother Superior for the school, she taught us only in the morning. Her afternoons were spent on her administrative duties and doling out the necessary disciplinary measures to the fallen ones among us.
Mrs. Beachum was black. There were no other teachers and only three black kids in the entire school -and perhaps because their last name was JuanRico, we somehow convinced ourselves they weren’t really black, probably Cuban or Puerto Rican! One of the boys was called Ricardo and the other was named Juan. See - not Negro! They were popular, and their parents were at every event helping out in any way that they could.
But Mrs. Beachum was definitely black. There was no getting around it. Her skin was nearly as dark as coal, and she spoke in a Southern dialect none of us were familiar with. Not a day would pass where she wouldn’t say to one of us in her distinctive Southern black accent, “Don’t be facetious, child!” We had no idea what that meant, but we just loved the sound of it. She had a body that was not covered by a nun’s habit, and I would not be surprised if, in 1967, I wasn’t the only boy in our class whose first “dream” had the good fortune of Mrs. Beachum playing a significant role in it.
But in our waking hours we did not sexualize her, as none of us wanted to deal with that in the confessional booth. Plus, the Mother Superior kept a strict and watchful eye on our puberty and its progress, and she made sure to spend time reminding each gender in the class just how much we could trust the other gender - which was, to put it simply, not a lot. Since fifth grade, the two genders of our class did their best to put down or ridicule each other, and by the time we were thirteen or fourteen, we had developed enough of a vocabulary and a streak of meanness to slice and dice the opposing side with plausible gusto. The girls were most fond of pointing out the boys who had hygiene issues, and they would anonymously leave a can of Ban deodorant on the locker of the offending boy for all to see. The boys had already picked up on the girls’ sensitivity to their growing (or not-so-growing) breasts. One boy had swiped his older sister’s falsies and they were thus left on the desks of those girls who had failed to blossom rapidly enough to match the ones we saw in Mike McIntosh’s Playboys.
This was how we spent our mornings in eighth grade, fighting back the heat inside with some church-sanctioned cool cruelty - all done with the good intention, I am sure, to keep us out of trouble and way out of wedlock.
After lunch, though, it was all jazz.

Mrs. Beachum would have none of this “boys versus girls” stuff. She believed in “love” and “being in love,” and though we couldn’t quite put our finger on it, years later we knew she was also the only teacher in the school making love (or so we wanted to think). When she taught us history, she made the characters come alive.
“What do y’all know about Teapot Dome!” she’d say, never meaning it as a question. We had no thoughts about Teapot Dome, but we knew we were going to hear a sassy story about it.

“Warren G. Harding — uh-huh! He sure was sumpin’! Scandal? Lordy, he wrote the book on it!”
Every class was like this.
“Lemme hear some sweet poetry today, children! Who’s written a poem just for me?” Oh, believe me, we were all writing poems. She had us rhyming and she taught us rhythms, and sometimes she would take our poem and sing it back to us. Every once in a while, the Mother Superior would stick her head in to see what was going on. She didn’t object, just as long as the boys were still sitting on one side of the room and girls were on the other. Her tacit approval of Mrs. Beachum’s methods made us less worried for her, and it relaxed the room to the point where on the day Mrs. Beachum proposed her Big Idea, there was surprisingly little objection among us.
“I think it’s time to teach y’all a little manners! You ever hear of ‘etiquette’?”
We had heard of it but certainly had never been practitioners of it.
“Well, boys and girls, I think it’s time we all went out to dinner with each other and learn how proper people do things! Boys, I want you each to pick a girl to be your dinner partner. Then for the next three weeks we’ll all learn proper table manners. When we’re ready, we’ll go to Frankenmuth for one of those famous fried chicken dinners!”

Of course, what she had in mind wasn’t “learnin’ manners” or “etiquette.” She was going to teach us how to date. I’m sure she had to sell this idea to the authorities without saying the word date, and I guess they saw nothing wrong with us knowing which one was the salad fork and understanding how the releasing of toxic gasses during a meal was not how God expected us to enjoy the fruits of his earth.
The twenty-seven of us in Mrs. Beachum’s class had just been told that nature’s gates could now be opened. For a few minutes we all giggled and twitched and - and, dang, we liked this idea! It was remarkable how quickly we each took to this concept of “going out” with someone else in the classroom who didn’t have our specific reproductive organs. (In years hence, I’ve wondered what this must have been like for the nonheterosexuals in the room - finally a chance to acknowledge sexual feelings! - but, damn! With the wrong gender! For them, I guess, it became an early lesson in faking it.)
The proper order of the world fell into place quite perfectly as each boy in the room rushed over to ask out the girl who was “appropriate” for him. The basketball star asked out the softball whiz. The piano player asked out the dancer. The writer asked out the actress. The boy from the trailer park asked out the girl from the trailer park. The boy with the hygiene issues asked out the girl with the hygiene issues.

And I asked out Kathy Root. I’m not quite sure how to explain the matchup, but perhaps the easiest way is to say she was the tallest girl in the class and I was the tallest boy. For my part, I couldn’t have cared less about our height – I had not taken my eyes off her for the past three years. She had long tan legs and a constant smile and was truly nice to everyone. And she was whip-smart. She was the girl most of the other boys would be too afraid to ask out – including me - so she made it easy on me and came across the room to where I was, frozen and petrified at my desk.
“Well, I guess it’s you and me,” she said gently so that I wouldn’t collapse into my pants.
“Sure,” I responded. “Yeah. For real. It’ll be fun.”
And that was that. I had the catch of the room. The girl who in high school would be elected our homecoming queen was going to be my “date” at our “etiquette” dinner.
By the next afternoon, though, tragedy struck.
“Michael,” Mrs. Beachum called out to me in the hallway after lunch. “Can I have a moment with you?”
She led me to a corner so that no one could hear us.
“I just want you to know that you’re probably the only boy in the class to whom I could ask this favor.”
She had the most encouraging eyes. Her hair made it seem as if she were the fourth Supreme. Her lips . . . Well, I didn’t know much about lips at thirteen, but what I did know, now standing closer to her than I ever had before, confirmed to me that there were no more inviting lips than those that Mrs. Beachum carried with her.
The lips parted, and she began to speak.
“I’ve already talked to your date, to Kathy Root, and she said it was OK with her if it’s OK with you.”
Yes, go on. Please. Don’t let the twitch on the left side of my face distract you.
“There are thirteen boys and fourteen girls in the class. So all the girls have a date except Lydia.”
“Lydia” was Lydia Scanlon. “Lydia the Moron” was the name most of the boys in class called her. Lydia was the class cipher. No one sat by her, and even fewer knew anything about her. She never spoke, even when called on, and she hadn’t been called on since fifth grade. There is always that student or two whom the teachers have to decide whether to fish or cut bait - there are only so many minutes in the school day, and if they won’t talk, you have to move on and teach the others. Five years of working on her to participate were apparently enough, and so most of us didn’t even know she was still in our class, although she was there every single day, in the last seat in the row farthest from our reality.

Lydia’s Catholic schoolgirl uniform was ill fitting, most likely the result of having been worn by two or three other girls in the family before her. Her hygiene was said to be worse than a boy’s, and her hair was cut . . . well, at least she had access to a mirror while she was cutting it.
It was no surprise that not one boy had made a beeline to her to ask her to be his date.
“I need you to ask Lydia to be your date for the dinner,” Mrs. Beachum said.
“Huh?” was all I could mutter. There was an instant lump in my throat because she was asking me TO GIVE UP THE BRONZE-LEGGED FUTURE-HOMECOMINGQUEEN BEAUTY AS MY DATE! I had won the Gold Medal, and now I was being asked to give it back! Just like Jim Thorpe! You cannot do this!

Without saying any of the above, Mrs. Beachum could read it on my face.
“Look, honey, I know you wanted to go with Kathy – but I know you know that no one will ask Lydia, and there’s just sumpin’ not right ’bout that. She’s a nice girl. Just a little slow. Some people fast, some people slow. All God’s children. All. ’Specially Lydia. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Beachum.” Yes, I knew that, and I actually even believed it. But weren’t the longest tanned legs in the school also something worth believing in?
“I knew that would be your answer,” she said proudly.
“Couldn’t ask this of the other boys. No sir! Only you. Thank you, child.”
Ugh. Why not? Why not ask them? Why me?
“Plus, I figured seeing how you are thinking of going to the seminary next year, you won’t really need many of these ‘manners’ I’m teaching you, now will you?”
Apparently the Mother Superior had shared my thoughts about becoming a priest with Mrs. Beachum. And, of course, what use does a priest have for sex, much less “manners,” much less those pink-black engorged lips you’re using to hand me the worst news of my life?
“Sure. It’s fine. But what about Kathy?” I asked. Yes, what about Kathy? You’re not considering the grief she’s going to experience not being able to be my date!
“Like I said, I already talked to her. She was very happy to do this special thing for Lydia. Said you would be, too.”
I decided to give it one last shot. “But, but then Kathy will be all alone at the dinner!”
“No, child, here’s what we do. Lydia will sit across from you. Kathy will sit with the both of you, next to Lydia. So in a way, Kathy will still be there as sorta your date, too.”
Sorta. (This will become the story of my dating life. More later.)
“But you’ll officially be there with Lydia and you will pull her chair out for her and order for her and talk to her and make her feel that she, that she . . . is . . .”
A hint of tears began to make their way to the front of her eyes, but she blinked fast enough to catch them and wick them back behind her sockets and finished her sentence.
“That she is wanted. Can you do that, Michael?”
That this had suddenly been elevated beyond an etiquette lesson, beyond a date, to a call for mercy and possible sainthood - well, that was all I needed to hear.
“Yes, I can do this. I want to do this. You can count on me! You’re right, I won’t have any use for girls after this year anyways!” Exactly! Mrs. Beachum, you’d just be wasting all these lessons on me. I’m off to be a monk for life!

I had a pain in the pit of my stomach.
I went into the classroom and asked Lydia to be my date. Though I tried to say it soft enough so none of the other boys would hear me, it wasn’t long before word got out that I had given up the top prize for the Loser Lydia - and these little men in their high - waisted pants spent a lot of time on the playground scratching their butch-cut heads and trying to figure out exactly what had happened to me.
“Don’t make sense, Mike,” Pete said, shaking his head. “How are you even gonna stand it, being next to her?” “I dunno” was about all I could muster. How was I going to sit next to her? Ewww.
The big night came to go to Frankenmuth, and Lydia was all freshly scrubbed and her dress was plain but pretty. I opened the door for her, let her take my arm, pulled her chair out for her and, in a momentary act of rebellion against my impending lifelong celibacy, I pulled Kathy’s out for her, too. Kathy talked to Lydia, then I talked to Lydia, and Lydia talked back to us. We heard the story of how her brother had died and how her dad was working two jobs because her mother had health problems and how she spent her time in her room writing poems. Lydia was shy but not a cipher. She was funny, and she had a snorty laugh that after a while was cute and catchy. The other classmates looked down the table to see what the three of us were up to, and a couple of the boys joined in to talk to the newly interesting Lydia. This gave Kathy and me a chance to talk, also a new thing for me, for up until now she had just been an object to observe as often and as vigorously as possible.
“You were a good guy, Mike, to do this,” she whispered to me.
“Really? Um, well, you know I’m going to the seminary?”
“Sure. I heard that.”
“So, you see, this class wasn’t really for me.”
“Well, it was fun, don’t you think?”
“Sure. Can I have your pie if you’re not gonna eat it?”
After our class’s First Date Night at the Frankenmuth Bavarian Chicken House, there was no going back to the War of the Sexes. Thanks to Mrs. Beachum, we all discovered that we liked each other - a lot. And while others contemplated their next moves in the dating life, I had time to ponder such things as what kind of trouble would Mrs. Beachum be in for having upended the Puberty Retardation Policy that the Church had implemented. Boys stopped picking on girls, and girls stopped laughing at boys. We helped each other with homework. We let the girls throw the basketball around. Everything felt better and we were grateful to Mrs. Beachum for her enthusiasm and her desire to teach us more than just the capitals of all fifty states. We looked forward to our afternoons with her; it was the best part of every day. So when we came back from lunch for our afternoon with Mrs. Beachum on February 5, 1968, we were surprised to learn that she had not shown up to school. She did not show up the next day, either. Nor the next day. We were told that no one knew where she was, that she was missing. At first, we hoped that maybe she had overslept and just not shown up for work for a few days. The Mother Superior filled in for her. But as the week went on, the look of worry and concern on Mother
Superior’s face was evident, and her attempts to follow Mrs. Beachum’s lesson plans were awkward, as she was surely distracted. She offered no information, and by the fifth day of Mrs. Beachum’s absence, enough of us had complained to our parents and asked them to please get to the bottom of just what the heck was going on.

The nightly news on TV that week was grisly. It was the Vietnamese New Year (“Tet”) of 1968, and though this was the first time any of us knew the Vietnamese got a second New Year, the only reason we knew this was by way of Chet Huntley and David Brinkley explaining to us why the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese had launched their biggest offensive of the war. NBC News was especially graphic (in those days, TV showed the war uncensored). Their camera caught a South Vietnamese general grabbing a Viet Cong suspect on the street, putting his gun to the man’s temple, and blowing
his brains literally out of the other side of his head. That made the Swanson Salisbury Steak TV dinner go down easier.
The Tet Offensive of 1968 sent a shock wave through the American public because, opposite of everything we had been told about the United States soon “winning” the war - “We can see the light at the end of the tunnel!” - in fact, Tet showed just how powerful the other side was and how badly we were losing. The Viet Cong were all over Saigon, even at the door of the U.S. embassy. We were nowhere near to winning anything. This war was going to be with us for a very long time. I stared at the TV, and I was happy I was going to the seminary next year. If you were in the seminary, they couldn’t draft you. One more reason not to need Mrs. Beachum’s dating service.
Word eventually filtered through the parents that Mrs. Beachum had indeed vanished. There was no official word from the parish, but this much was said:
“Mrs. Beachum’s husband is missing in Vietnam and presumed dead. Nobody knows where Mrs. Beachum is, but she has probably left and gone home to be with her family.”
We never heard from Mrs. Beachum again. No one did. It was said she was too distraught to talk to anyone at St. John’s and, if she had, no one would have quite known what to say to her. Others said she had a complete nervous breakdown when she got the news about her husband and she went off, to be far, far away, to be by herself and shun this cruel world. One parishioner said she took her own life, but none of us believed that because if there was one person who was thrilled about being alive, it was Mrs. Beachum. We finished out the year with an afternoon substitute teacher who did his best, but he never asked us to sing him a poem.
It was then, in the spring of 1968, after the deaths in Vietnam of Sergeant Beachum and a boy from the high school, plus the assassinations of King and the sweet man in the Senate elevator who helped me find my mother, that I made up my mind: under no circumstances, regardless of whatever amount of coercion, threats, or torture leveled at me, I would never, ever, pick up a gun and let my country send me to go kill Vietnamese.
And if anyone would ever ask me why I felt this way, I’d just look at ’em and say, “Don’t be facetious, child.” Perhaps Mrs. Beachum is reading this. If so, I want to say: I’m sorry for whatever it was that took you away from us. I’m sorry we never had the chance to say good-bye. And I’m so sorry I never got to thank you for teaching me all those wonderful manners.
Copyright © 2011 by Michael Moore

Michael Moore



En respaldo a Julian Assange

Michael Moore *
Amigos: este lunes, en la corte de magistrados de Westminster, en Londres, los abogados del fundador de Wikileaks, Julian Assange, presentaron un documento enviado por mí, el cual expresa que he aportado 20 mil dólares para la libertad bajo fianza de Assange.
Además, públicamente ofrezco el apoyo de mi sitio web, mis servidores, mis nombres de dominio y cuanto más pueda hacer para que Wikileaks siga vivo y floreciente y continúe su labor de exponer los crímenes urdidos y cometidos en secreto en nuestro nombre y con el dinero de nuestros impuestos.
Con una mentira nos llevaron a la guerra en Irak. Hoy, cientos de miles están muertos. Imaginemos lo que habría pasado si los hombres que planeaban esta guerra en 2002 hubieran tenido que enfrentarse a un Wikileaks. Tal vez no habrían logrado ponerla en marcha. La única razón por la que creyeron salirse con la suya fue porque tenían un velo de secreto garantizado. Hoy esa garantía se ha desgarrado, y espero que jamás puedan volver a operar en secreto.
¿Y entonces por qué, luego de prestar tan importante servicio público, está hoy bajo un ataque tan virulento? Porque ha destapado y avergonzado a quienes han ocultado la verdad. Los denuestos e imprecaciones han rebasado los límites:
El senador Joe Lieberman dice que Wikileaks ha violado la Ley de Espionaje.
George Packer, de The New Yorker, llama a Assange supersigiloso, de pellejo delgado y megalómano.
Sarah Palin sostiene que es un agente antiestadunidense con las manos manchadas de sangre, a quien habría que perseguir con la misma urgencia con que perseguimos a Al Qaeda y los líderes del talibán.
El demócrata Bob Beckel (director de la campaña de Walter Mondale en 1984) declaró en Fox acerca de Assange: “Un muerto no puede andar filtrando cosas… sólo hay una forma de hacerlo: meterle un plomazo ilegalmente al hijo de puta”.
La republicana Mary Matalin afirma: “Es un sicópata, un sociópata… un terrorista”.
El representante Peter A. King califica a Wikileaks de organización terrorista.
¡Y vaya que lo es! Existe para aterrorizar a los mentirosos y belicosos que han llevado a la ruina a nuestra nación y a otras. Tal vez la próxima guerra no será tan fácil porque se ha volteado la mesa y hoy el Gran Hermano es el vigilado… ¡por nosotros!
Wikileaks merece nuestra gratitud por arrojar una gran luz sobre todo esto. Pero parte de la prensa corporativa ha minimizado su importancia (poco de lo que ha revelado es nuevo) o lo retrata como un sitio anarquista (lo que hace es simplemente publicar todo sin ningún control editorial). Wikileaks existe, en parte, porque los medios dominantes no han cumplido su responsabilidad. Las corporaciones que son sus propietarias han diezmado las redacciones e impedido que los buenos periodistas hagan su trabajo. Ya no hay tiempo ni dinero para el periodismo de investigación. Expresado en términos sencillos, los inversionistas no quieren que esas noticias se revelen. Les gusta que sus secretos se mantengan… en secreto.
Les pido imaginar cuán diferente sería nuestro mundo si Wikileaks hubiera existido hace 10 años. Hay una foto en la que se ve a George Bush a punto de recibir un documento secreto, el 6 de agosto de 2001. El encabezado dice: Bin Laden, decidido a golpear a EU. Y en esas páginas se indicaba que la FBI había descubierto actividad sospechosa en este país, consistente con preparativos para aerosecuestros. Bush decidió hacer caso omiso y siguió de pesca cuatro semanas más.
Pero, si ese documento se hubiera filtrado, ¿cómo habríamos reaccionado? ¿Qué habrían hecho el Congreso o la federación de aeronáutica? ¿No habría habido una probabilidad mayor de que alguien hubiera hecho algo si todos hubiéramos sabido del inminente ataque de Bin Laden usando aviones comerciales?
Pero en ese tiempo sólo unos cuantos tuvieron acceso al documento. Porque el secreto se mantuvo, un instructor de vuelo de San Diego que observó que dos estudiantes sauditas no mostraban interés por el despegue y el aterrizaje no hizo nada. Si se hubiera enterado por el periódico de la amenaza de Bin Laden, ¿tal vez habría llamado a la FBI? (La ex agente de la FBI Coleen Rowley, distinguida por la revista Time como una de las personas del año 2002, escribió un artículo en Los Angeles Times en el que señala que si Wikileaks hubiera existido en 2001, se pudo haber evitado el 11-S.)
¿Y si en 2003 el público hubiera leído los memorandos secretos en los que Dick Cheney presionaba a la CIA para que le diera hechos que le permitieran construir su argumentación falsa a favor de la guerra? Si un Wikileaks hubiera revelado en ese tiempo que en verdad no existían armas de destrucción masiva, ¿creen ustedes que se habría lanzado la guerra? ¿O más bien habría habido un clamor para que se arrestara a Cheney?
Apertura, transparencia: ésas son de las pocas armas con que cuenta el pueblo para protegerse de los poderosos y los corruptos. ¿Qué hubiera pasado si en los días posteriores al 4 de agosto de 1964 –luego que el Pentágono fabricó la mentira de que un barco nuestro fue atacado por norvietnamitas en el golfo de Tonkin– un Wikileaks nos hubiera dicho que todo fue un invento? Supongo que tal vez 58 mil de nuestros soldados (y dos millones de vietnamitas) hoy estarían vivos. En cambio, los secretos los mataron.
Para quienes creen que está mal apoyar a Julian Assange por las acusaciones de ataque sexual que lo tienen sujeto a proceso, todo lo que pido es que no sean ingenuos respecto de los ardides de un gobierno cuando decide ir tras su presa. Por favor, nunca crean la historia oficial. Y, al margen de que Assange sea culpable o inocente (entérense de la extraña naturaleza de las acusaciones), tiene derecho a presentar una fianza y defenderse. Me he unido a los cineastas Ken Loach y John Pilger y a la escritora Jemima Khan para reunir el dinero, y espero que el juez acepte la fianza y lo ponga en libertad este martes.
¿Podría Wikileaks causar algún daño imprevisto a las negociaciones diplomáticas de Washington en todo el mundo? Tal vez. Pero ése es el precio que se paga cuando un gobierno lleva a sus ciudadanos a la guerra con base en una mentira. Su castigo es que alguien encienda las luces de la habitación para ver qué se trae entre manos. No se puede confiar en él. Así pues, ahora todo cable, todo correo que escriba está abierto al escrutinio. Lo sentimos, pero eso quiso. Ahora nadie puede esconderse de la verdad. Nadie puede maquinar la próxima gran mentira si sabe que tal vez sea expuesta.
Y eso es lo mejor que Wikileaks ha hecho. Dios lo bendiga por salvar vidas con sus acciones. Y quien se sume al esfuerzo por apoyar a Wikileaks realiza un verdadero acto de patriotismo. Punto.
Hoy estaré en ausencia al lado de Julian Assange en Londres y pido al juez que le conceda la libertad. Estoy dispuesto a garantizar su retorno al tribunal con el dinero de la fianza que he enviado. No permitiré que esta injusticia quede sin respuesta.
Sinceramente, Michael Moore.
* Tomado del portal de Internet:

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