|December 1949 - 26 August 2023|
Because I took all of the philosophy classes that Ramón Xirau gave at the University of the Americas from 1962 to 1963 in Mexico City, I became well versed with existential conflict.
Traditionally I take a self-portrait on the date of my birthday, 31 August. Today I decided I had to preview that operation.
As my thoughts, every day circle around my memory of my Rosemary, I have noticed that as soon as I think about her I get memories of my mother. My mother and Rosemary got along wonderfully and Rosemary was present with me when my mother took her last breath in 1972.
Why is it that suddenly my mother is up there in my remembrances of Rosemary? How is my memory shifting in its content?
There is one certainty (I am almost sure of this) that I can equate the two photographs of me in this blog. The first one was taken for my train carnet in December 1949. The event I can remember in explosive certainty may have happened a year before when I was 6.
My mother taught physics and algebra at the American High School that was but a block from the Belgrano R train station. She had connections with the American Embassy so she brought all kinds of delightful stuff that could not be found in Buenos Aires. This included Bazooka chewing gum and Jell-O (lime flavour was my fave).
One day, the surprise was something she called candy corn. She would give me a few and then would place the bag in her armoire. I could not resist one day when she was not around to open the armoire and to help myself to a lot more of this wonderful golosina.
I opened it and inside there was a top to bottom mirror. I stared at myself. It was then, right then, that I thought, "That is me. I am that image."
That event is, I believe, my first awareness of my personal and unique consciousness.
From that point on, as I go through all the events of my life in different countries, and those 52 years with Rosemary, I will admit that I am a lot older but I have to assert with confidence that I have not changed in being who I am.
Sartre denied that anybody had to find themselves. Sartre simply said we had to be. We could not become. I was, in that fateful day in 1948.
And I am still.