FANTEL scholarship shouldn't be given for abroad studies

As a result of the privatization of public telecommunications services in El Salvador in early 1990’s, Salvadorian Government established an educational fund called FANTEL scholarship, a long term loan-based deal that was intended to supply college tuition and monthly payments for high school graduates with outstanding scores and high potential that, otherwise, wouldn’t be able to cover their educative expenses into the country or abroad.

Because FANTEL scholarship administrates public funds, I think it should be focused on helping students coming from lower economic status, so that they could have the opportunity to access superior education and get a college degree, a good job and break the poverty loop.

Nevertheless, I’ve noticed many cases in which FANTEL scholarship has been given to students whose families actually were able to cover their educational expenses within the country, taking away the opportunity for that benefit to be conceded to other students that really needed it.

Moreover, there are many other cases in which the funds were (and still are) given for abroad studies, which I think is wrong.

On the first hand, it seems to me that most majors that applicants choose for study abroad have few or practically no demand into local labor market, in which case the educational investment will make no sense (if you expect the further graduate will use his/her abilities to improve our country).

On the other hand, according many surveys and daily-basis perception, most Salvadorans want to emigrate. Young talented people are no exceptions, and they're willing to turn the scholarship into an opportunity to establish themselves in developed countries. And that would be fine if the money didn't come from an underdeveloped country faint budget.

Let's face it: there’s no point in providing financial support without reasonable expectation on benefit return, speaking from the point of view of improving our country.

As I said above, I think FANTEL scholarship should be used to give higher educational opportunities for the poor, allowing them to take steps upwards the social ladder.

Why "The Haunting of Hill House" ending spoiled the series

When you’re telling a story (a novel, a play, a movie, etc.), from the very beginning you must aim at a satisfactory conclusion, a climax that justifies all the components in a consistent way.

The ending is so important that if it fails, the entire ship sinks, and that’s exactly what happened with “The Haunting of Hill House”.

SPOILERS ALERT!

The series is a story of ghosts, really evil ghosts, considering all the torment and suffering that they inflict to the entire Crain family, not to mention to the previous families that inhabited the mansion where the traumatic events occur.

Since the first episode, it’s clear that the main source of evil is The House itself, hungry of souls even beyond its own physical boundaries. The House provokes a severe mental illness in Olivia Crain, that derives in her suicide and subsequent traumas on her husband and their five children through their childhood, adolescence and young adulthood. The younger and most tormented girl, Shirley, also commits suicide, but soon we realize she was murdered by the ghosts.

But when the final battle between the remaining Crains and The House is set up, after a very clever path of nine episodes, for no reason at all The House turns itself in a sort of supernatural psychologist that allows them to confront their respective weaknesses, awakening everyone’s inner voice in order to overcome their issues before it can grab and kill them one by one. So that, suddenly the series turns in a personal growth speech.

That’s a serious inconsistency, but not the only one.

Having the absolute power on his side, The House (through Olivia) make an agreement with Hugh Crain, the father, who is willing to give himself in exchange for the four siblings. The House frees the siblings, which is quite absurd considering that The House could easily have taken all of them without resistance.

And finally, for no reason at all, The House ends being a place where ghosts live happily ever after.

Really, I don’t know what the producers wanted to do, but whatever it was, it killed the series.

Hit by a car

Had I told you about the time when I was hit by a car? I think I hadn't, so that I’ll take on that issue.

That happened in 1984 when I was part of the high school’s BKB team. We used to have training sessions every afternoon, and one day the head coach came up with the amused idea of make us jogging towards Cristo Negro Statue on Puerto de La Libertad Highway about 2 miles away and then going back to the school headquarters.

The reader must know that in El Salvador, as a third-world mentality country, safety measures have been considered like unnecessary chicken things. It was (and it still it is) common for people to walk or jog at the side or on the very border of some roads that don’t have sidewalks, without using any warning signal on their clothes (neither safety car nor motorcycle alongside). The only precaution is walking/jogging counter traffic direction, but even this elementary common sense procedure isn't always observed.

So for us, the plan sounded fun enough.

That particular afternoon was cloudy and fresh, with a light rain falling on your face outdoors, so that the road was slightly wet. We were happy and relaxed during the trip, but when we were almost reaching our goal, we must had to cross the street towards Cristo Negro Statue, watching out for moving cars.

Clearly I remember that I looked both sides and started to cross the first lane of the road, but since I saw a car approaching the next lane, I decided not to challenge my chances and stop, staying in the middle of the double-yellow line, letting the vehicle pass in order to finish crossing after.

The next ten seconds proved me wrong. Suddenly I found myself spinning throughout the air, falling out over metal sheets, bouncing several times until I finally landed on the ground and wondering what was happening to me. Then, I realized that I had been hit by a car.

Almost immediately the coach and teammates came over and checked me, asked for someone’s help and took me to the nearest hospital.

Fortunately, I didn’t get a single broken bone, my more serious injury was a wound on the scalp (I still have that 2-inches scar over my head) and curiously I never passed out, keeping conscious all the time. I don’t remember any particularly hard pain until the night fell, when all my muscles hurt while I was lying in bed.

The full recovery took about two weeks and during that time I was very worried, not by the accident but by the classes I was missing (yeah, that’s me).

Regarding the school, they covered the medical care expenses. Needless to say that, at that time, there were few laws regarding subsidiary responsibility and, certainly, there were no customary to sue institutions for negligence or allowing carrying teen students on dangerous activities. If the accident had happened today, I’m sure they would have been sued.

At the present day, I haven’t figured out how the accident could have happened. I clearly remember that I stopped where I had to. Maybe the driver thought that I was to continue crossing and, in an automatic reflection, pushed on the brake pedal causing the car got into a spin due to wet pavement or something.

I could have died but I survived.

But if I have gotten any knowledge from this experience, it'd be this: you better never go jogging on any kind of highway.

A student's significant letter

At the end of any school year, it’s customary that students write goodbye letters to his fellows and occasionally to some of their teachers, either to express their feelings (gratitude, apologies, nostalgia and so on) or made promises to keep everlasting memories about those good old days.

On this subject, I've never seemed like an emotional person to my students, even though I remember some of them with special sympathy. Nevertheless, I’ve preferred to look like Mr. Spock and keep myself away from any kind of tears-and-hugs sessions when the course is about to be over, not only due to personal reasons (skepticism mainly) but also for practical and safety reasons (children and teenagers could get confusing feelings about it). Very few former students can say they witnessed any kind of expression of affection of mine, and I plan to keep that way.

But regarding to those letters that I mentioned above, I can hardly remember five that have caused a strong (and silent) reaction on me, not because I haven’t appreciated or believed the rest of them, their words surely sincerely written and their true feelings. No, nothing farthest from truth. The thing is that those special letters contained something unique that caught me on, considering the context in which they were written.

Recently I received one of that kind, signed “anonymous” but easily recognizable by some references included. Among the not-very-neat grammar (to say the least), this sentence grabbed my spotlight:

You were the first person who believed in me.

Needless to say that I never expected something like that.

Surely that statement came up because, a few years ago, this teen person was involved in a little comedy that had to be shown to students and families. I remember how hard was to encourage her to perform, though her remarkable abilities on the stage.

Despite the fact that the sketch was very successful, she always showed reluctance to continue performing, and in some moment I thought I shouldn’t have pressed her that way (you know: as a teacher, you’re always at risk to overwhelm your students, no matter your good intentions).

But at the end of the day… that experience revealed itself (in her own words) as a breakpoint, something happily positive, memorable for her and inspiring for me to keep doing my best as a teacher.

I'm sick of "el clásico"

Every year it’s the same story when Real Madrid and Barcelona soccer teams clash: tons of pages in the papers and across the web; any kind of sports specialists talking endlessly on TV with every possible analysis, statistics and predictions; people scheduling when, where and whom to watch the game with, surrounded by a wide range of spirit beverages (without that "fuel" it wouldn’t make any sense); and trolling stupidly on social media.

And yeah… I admit I was part of it. Or should I say “I am part of it”? I’m not sure, but I’m trying to leave it behind, hard but not impossible.

As far as I remember during the seventies and early eighties, Spanish soccer league was almost completely unknown in El Salvador. The only European soccer games that we could watch on TV Channel 4 were some of German league on Sunday early mornings. Salvadoran people were concerned about local teams as Águila, FAS, Alianza, Atlético Marte and so forth, none of them transmitted by television. It was not until Mágico González (our best all-time player) was hired by Cádiz CF in 1982 that the papers began to give some faint coverage on Spanish league, but not focused on the big ones.

The evil plan started in the nineties, when papers and local TV stations began to feed us with Real Madrid and Barcelona news, slightly increasing the amount of information that didn’t matter, but that had the ability to set up people for consuming it.

Nowadays, when we have to pay for exclusive TV Spanish soccer league airings, it may sound like fiction to say that in the two-thousands we could watch the main games on local TV for free, specially the two “el clásico” yearly editions. But “there isn’t such thing as a free lunch”. Now we know: they were just doing their job… creating addiction.

And I fell out…

My first “el clásico” as a true fan experience was in 2003-2004 season. Barcelona won at Real Madrid’s home, Xavi scored the key goal with Rijkaard’s as a head coach and Ronaldinho as a rising mega-star. I must have interrupted my lunch at least ten times.

From that moment on, I anxiously followed not only every single “el clásico” edition, but the whole Barcelona’s matches (expecting wins) and almost all Real Madrid’s games (hoping loses). And the marketing knew.

Then, the machine started to reveal itself. First, they cut off free TV airings and sold the Spanish soccer league copyrights to ESPN, available only on cable (so, for the first time ever you had to pay for viewing); then, when finally you had signed for 18-month standard cable service… they sold the copyrights to SkySports, a new service you had to hire if you still wanted your drug.

Oh, but they were considerate: they allowed TDN to keep airing some anodyne La Liga weekly games, maybe one or two Barcelona or Real Madrid games a month and, showing mercy on you, the first “el clásico” match of each season. They kept giving you some sweets, in case you hadn’t decided to buy SkySports TV yet.

And finally happened what we all suspected and feared from the beginning: no more “el clásico” on TDN, you have to fall into the hands of SkySports if you want your object of desire. Their win-win game is now quite clear.

Having said the above, one could think that, at the end of the day, people have freedom to look, pursue or get what they want, and what makes them happy. Ok, but in this particular issue that so called “freedom to choose” is the expected result of the progressively and unaware mass media brainwashing.

Sadly, here in Unredempted Guanaxia (more than 5,000 miles away from any Spain city) people were killed among ridiculous arguing after some “el clasico” matches, which makes absolutely nonsense considering the null life improvement effect after every Real Madrid – Barcelona (whatever was the result), not only related to people’s basic needs, but also about mental health (fanaticism, bigotry, etc.). Also, people are blinded to the fact that Pipil fans are unimportant for those teams, to say the least.

Even though all of these rational arguments, I’m still struggling against “el clásico” addiction and I hope someday I’ll break free. I hope today would be remembered as the day I took one strong step ahead, because… guess what? While Barcelona - Real Madrid (October 28, 2018 edition) were playing, I was writing this post without seeing or hearing any broadcast… only checking occasionally the web.

By the way, Barcelona won 5-1.

When I was 14

A SORT OF PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

When I was 14, I was in 9th grade at Champagnat high school. At that time, that was the end of so called “third cycle on basic education” and for the next year I had to choose some kind of specialized bachillerato (that meant the cycle of middle-education consisting in 10th, 11th and 12th grade, just before college or university).

On that purpose, the school brought me and my classmates the opportunity to take a career aptitude and personality test managed by psychologists from UCA, so that we (as very immature teenagers) could make a better choice.

Since a few months before, I had been considering basically two options: academic bachillerato, focused in subjects like math and physics (wich was supposed to prepare me for further university studies), or industrial bachillerato, focused in practical duties like electricity (wich also would allow me to follow a college career later). It's not superfluous to say that this second option implied me to left the place where I was studying for ten years and to enroll in Santa Cecilia high school.

It's important to say that, at that time, career tests weren’t as usual as they are nowadays, because psychology itself were just starting to develop as a profession in our country, so the experience promised to be quite new and interesting; furthermore, I had been very confused about the big question, what should I study? As far as I can remember, I was far away from any final decision.

So, I started the tests with high expectations, hoping to find some existential answers to clarify my immediate future. After the tests and when the D-day arrived a couple of weeks later… well, the results were not exactly as I had been expected.

The psychologist brought me the definitive sheet of paper with the results… and I anxiously focused my attention on the last paragraph, the final and highly expected recommendation which was supposed to guide my confused teenage-life among the entangled paths of fate: “You are fit for any kind of bachillerato, since you have all the abilities required to succeed in any field”. And if it hadn't been enough, it was followed by this enlightning answer: “Considering your personal interests, industrial bachillerato is recommended and, as a second option, academic bachillerato.”

Ok, guys, thanks for nothing!

Nevertheless, now (more than 35 years later) that I’ve read the previous paragraphs on that very sheet, I’ve found some funny and interesting comments (maybe I’d say “diagnoses”) about me.

Regarding my character and personality, they said: “You defend your ideas and state your points of view, without conceding unless solid arguments are given, but you’re at risk on become stubborn. It’s recommended for you try to be more flexible and fight some tendency to be self-enclosed”.

Well, I can’t deny it, neither at that time nor nowadays.

But they also said: “You’re a very reflective person, patient, generally on good mood, idealist, trusted, tolerant and thoughtful”.

“Patient, generally on good mood” when I was 14…? Come on, guys! Are you sure you didn’t swap some of my tests accidentally with someone else’s?

Un intento más, un paso más.

COMENTARIO A "LA PALABRA DE PABLO"

Acudir a la sala de cine a ver una película nacional es una rareza, primero porque la producción local es exigua y segundo porque nuestro público es reacio a pagar por un boleto de cualquier forma de arte made in El Salvador.

Dicho lo anterior, puede considerarse bastante aceptable el número de espectadores de la función sabatina de La palabra de Pablo, dos días después de su publicitado estreno en el país.

No sé si la gente llegó por "apoyar el arte nacional" como subcategoría, por ver la evolución del director Arturo Menéndez con respecto a Malacrianza y Cinema Libertad, o si basaron su expectativa en el reciente anuncio de que Sony Pictures y HBO adquirieron los derechos para su difusión en Latinoamérica. El hecho es que había bastantes personas atentas y expectantes, ambos adjetivos sostenidos a lo largo de los 84 minutos de duración del filme.

Ciertamente, los espectadores/as querían saber qué estaba pasando pero, sobre todo, querían comprender por qué estaba pasando… y es ahí donde la película revela su mayor debilidad, pues aun cuando tiene la capacidad de enganchar a la audiencia en la trama no es capaz de ofrecer respuestas satisfactorias, incluso para alguien que guste y esté habituado al papel de receptor activo.

La palabra de Pablo muestra mejoras importantes con respecto a las anteriores obras de Arturo, como el manejo de cámara, la edición de sonido y las actuaciones de los personajes principales. Sin embargo, como ya han señalado otras críticas (unas más benévolas que otras), hay varios personajes innecesarios o impertinentes, así como una buena cantidad de hilos sueltos y acciones sacadas de la manga, sin credibilidad (no porque no puedan pasar en la realidad sino porque en la lógica interna del filme no encuentran asidero).

Ahora bien: tampoco nos desubiquemos, que las carencias antes mencionadas son bastante comprensibles, dadas las limitaciones presupuestarias y de producción propias de un país en donde este y cualquier otro arte o deporte es amateur. Por eso mismo, no perdamos de vista que para hacer una película se requiere del admirable espíritu quijotesco de alguien que al mismo tiempo produce, escribe, dirige, busca patrocinio y promociona su propia obra… con las virtudes y carencias que eso implica.

Y es entonces cuando uno acaba entendiendo que, al fin y al cabo, todo esto se trata de "arte nacional”, con el estigma que eso supone y con la actitud receptiva y acaso benevolente que este requiere. Lo siento, pero esto es y parece que seguirá siendo así por mucho tiempo. Por ello, poniéndola en nuestro contexto, la película tiene muchísimo mérito. Mi sugerencia es que pague por verla y disfrute lo que pueda.

Waiting eternally

Have you put yourself in a funny or ridiculous situation in the middle of the street, looking like a candid country person that knows nothing about the modern civilization?

Well, I did.

It happened when I went to a little town in South Carolina, in the United States, last may.

Some of you know that I use to do my workouts on a daily basis, trying to keep a healthy lifestyle. During my brief stay in the States, I kept doing some exercise, jogging a couple of miles in the early morning around the city.

All of you know that we, as Salvadorans, aren’t known precisely for obey the laws, even the transit signals.

Instead, Americans seemed to me very respectful about the transit signals (at least those who lived in that town).

For example, they have semaphores for cars and for pedestrians in every cross-street, and they don’t cross the street when the light is red, even if there isn’t any car in a hundred meters around: they wait at the sidewalk for the green light.

So, the first morning that I went jogging I told myself: “when in Rome, do as the Romans do”, and when I reached the first crossing, I stopped and waited for the pedestrian semaphore to turn green.

I must say that at that time, by the dawn early light, there were neither cars nor people in the streets, but I kept waiting for the green light for one, two, three minutes… and nothing happened.

Finally, I changed my mind and decided to cross the street even during the red light.

And suddenly… I noticed that just beside me, in the lower part of the semaphore’s pole, there was a tiny box with a button, and a little label that said: “press the button to cross”.

You can imagine what happened in the end: I pushed the button… and crossed the street.

Looking back on the story, I think if I were another person looking at me, standing for no apparent reason in the sidewalk in the middle of a lonely city, waiting for who knows what, I’d probably wonder “is that man dumb or something?”

Well... it happens you leave your little village to go to a modern city.

Speaking about learning English at 51

This speech was addressed to mid and high school students, during their English Festival on July 25th, 2018

Good morning, dear students.

I’m glad to be here, invited by Diana Flores (also known as Diane Flowers), head of English department. She asked me to address you about the importance of learning a second language, which in this case is English language.

Probably you’re wondering “Why him, why Góchez”?

Well… In case you don't know, currently (at my fifty-one years old) I'm enrolled in English lessons at UCA Language School on Saturdays, and I’m pleased to share with you my motivations about this learning experience.

I’d like to start by saying that, after my high-school times (a very long time ago), I had never received formal nor informal English lessons, but I'd always felt attracted to bilingual communication.

During my years at the university, when I was studying semantics (that is, the meaning of the words and sentences) I realized that when you make any translation something is always lost, because every language “divides” reality in different ways, and if you really want to understand the original meaning and sense, you need to think in other language.

This aspect is particularly important if you want to enjoy some pieces of art, like music, TV series and movies, not to mention novels and poetry, fields in which -as you know- I'm specialized.

In my case, even the basic English language knowledge that I grabbed informally after my high-school days has allowed me to read a few books, and learn some audio and video software, that has been very useful in my job.

But even if you are not interested in arts or literature, there are many other so-called “practical benefits” for learning English, like get a better job or have better opportunities to get a scholarship.

Having said the above, nowadays there is one personal special reason because I'm actually very interested in learning and developing English fluency, and that's because recently I was invited by some relatives to visit them in the United States and Canada.

I tell you: when I knew that I would go (because I had to), I got panic, because, you know, one thing is to read and listen standard English, and other very different thing is to have real conversations with English native speakers, and I didn’t want to fully depend on my relatives to communicate myself, using them as interpreters.

So, in last January I decided to face the challenge and take the diagnose exam at UCA Language School. I qualified for level ten out of twenty-one. Last week I completed level twelve and I expect to finish the whole course in 2020, and then take the TOEFL as a certification.

And that’s the story.

I hope you have found some motivation in my testimony and keep active an enthusiastic in learning English and other languages.

Thank you for your attention.

Mi abuelita le rezaba a San Antonio

En junio de cada año, mi abuelita Delfina (la Niña Fina, como la conocían sus amistades) organizaba el rezo de toda la novena a San Antonio de Padua, que culminaba el día 13 con la celebración principal.

Los recuerdos de aquellos episodios de mi lejana infancia son un tanto inespecíficos, pero forman un solo bloque ubicado a mediados de los años setenta.

No sé cuándo mi abuelita comenzó con esa costumbre ni tampoco a qué se debía tan especial devoción: si a una promesa cumplida o a alguna expectativa a futuro; el caso es que la sala de su casa no solamente tenía un altar permanente, sino que la misma pared principal había sido edificada para tal fin, con espacios diseñados ad-hoc para los cuadros, las imágenes y los candelabros.

Mis hermanas y yo asistíamos obligados por nuestros padres, que no llegaban porque a esa hora trabajaban en turno extendido para mantener a flote el Liceo Tecleño. Éramos, pues, "el público" que siempre estaba allí durante las ocho sesiones en que la rezadora titular, la Niña Adriana, llegaba puntualmente a las 7:00 p.m. para dirigir el rito.

Aparte de nosotros, a la novena asistían escasamente cuatro o cinco personas más; en cambio, el propio día 13 había casa llena con reparto de tamales, café, refrescos y hasta vino de consagrar, jolgorio vecinal en el que no faltaban los cohetes de vara.

Con excepción de este último día, en las sesiones previas los cuatro hermanos Góchez Fernández nos aburríamos solemnemente en medio de aquella monotonía de oraciones, padrenuestros, avemarías y letanías, de casi 45 minutos de duración, por lo que con cierta frecuencia buscábamos elementos de distracción, siendo uno de los favoritos el divertirnos imitando la pronunciación y entonación características de la rezadora principal.

En una ocasión, creo que hacia 1975, mis hermanas tuvieron la ocurrencia de llevar una grabadora de casete para capturar la memorable voz de la Niña Adriana. Obviamente, no podían tenerla a la vista pues eso habría delatado sus traviesas intenciones, así que una de ellas se presentó con un chal chapín, pese a que no hacía frío, bajo el cual podía tener clandestinamente el aparato.

Creo que Mamá Fina comenzó a sospechar cuando vio que el cuarteto de nietos se había sentado extrañamente cerca de la rezadora (pues desde lejos la grabadora no captaba bien la voz), pero lo que acabó descubriendo todo fue que la duración del casete era de 30 minutos y se terminó antes de finalizar el rezo, haciendo que el aparato diera un sonoro clic con el apagado automático. Entonces, los titánicos esfuerzos por disimular las risas nerviosas se vieron completamente sobrepasados y ya no pudimos más.

Tengo bien grabado (en la memoria, no en el casete) el gesto de reprobación de la Niña Adriana, que no paraba de decir “¡Estas niñas traviesas, no respetan…!”, pues la culpa recayó en mis hermanas mientras yo salí indemne (porque, como suele decirse, “yo pasando iba”).

Diabluras aparte, aquellos rezos continuaron mientras mi abuelita tuvo salud y ánimo para organizarlos, aunque los graves acontecimientos sociopolíticos que afectaron al país y a nuestra familia a partir de 1979 los dificultaron cada vez más.

Mi abuelita Delfina falleció en 1983, a los 83 años, y con ella terminó esa tradición; pero todavía el agradable recuerdo de aquellas tempranas noches de junio, entre el aburrimiento y las travesuras, me saca algunas sonrisas.