Saludos estimados hivers- nautas de esta atractiva comunidad.
Hoy necesito hablar de mi padre. El segundo entre ocho hermanos, pero primero en muchas otras cosas....
Su existencia estuvo signada de apremios que le asistieron para poder sortear los rudos e insólitos avatares que el destino le deparó.
De niño tuvo que vender turrones a centavo, no por capricho o simple juego, sino por necesidad. De ahí, su carácter fuerte. Pero detrás de esa coraza, el amor silencioso, tierno y la afabilidad que le admiraron siempre...
Aprendió temprano que la dignidad no se hereda: se construye y se cultiva.
Que tener lo propio no es exceso ni lujo, sino reafirmación independencia y soberanía personal, además de cumplir con el deber de contribuir en un hogar numeroso. Con orgullo llevó, a cuestas, esas convicciones que le llenaban de orgullo y se empeñaba en transmitir.
Sí, esas eran algunas de sus enseñanzas...!!
Su padre, mi abuelo masón, fundó una bodega aquí en mi pueblo. Pero, mientras otros aspiraban a heredar, él soñaba con tener lo suyo por sus propias fuerzas. No quiso estar protegido en la sombra de su padre. Quiso edificar la suya.
A los quince años, recomendado y llevado de la mano por su propio padre, comenzó a trabajar en una tienda de ropa, por quince pesos. Era poco, pero era suyo. Irradiando carisma, en cada actitud de su desempeño como dependiente, mostraba afán por la excelencia y disposición por complacer a todo cliente que visitaba el negocio. Los que fueron percibidos como rasgos distintivos del buen emprendedor por un viejo e influyente comerciante.
Pero un buen día de esos en que Dios te bendice, bastaron, sólo, la sugerencia y el apoyo del viejo comerciante, sumado al cúmulo de iniciativas, esfuerzo, visión y terquedad de hombre joven, para materializar su sueño de comerciante. Así abríría, allá por los años 50 del siglo pasado la tienda de ropa: "La Libertad". Comenzaría así, su nueva vida de dueño de comercio.
Poco a poco, fue creciendo la clientela y el negocio aumentando su notoriedad entre el resto de los dueños de establecimientos de iguales caracteristicas.
Y llegaron los días de desvelo e incertidumbre y una inesperada y absurda realidad truncaron los días felices de mi padre: sus sueños, como muchos otros, fueron confiscados
Pero no se fue del país. No se exilió. No se quebró. Se reinventó.
Comenzó a trabajar en un incipiente comercio cuyo objeto social estaba orientado a la ventas de libros y discos... Allí, al parecer, lograría rescatar el sociego y la estabilidad laboral. Pero no fue así.
Un buen día le dijeron que esas plazas, por decisión de arriba, serían destinadas a mujeres.
Recuerdo, nitidamente, ver a mi padre amolar machete y azadón, con asombrosa naturalidad. Para irse al campo. A la tierra. A la agricultura.
Entonces, días tras días lo vería llegar a casa con la marca del sudor en su nueva ropa de agricultor, pero con dignidad.
Entre surcos transcurrieron varios años de su vida. Uno de sus enseñanzas era: "el trabajo no mata, lo que mata es el hambre".
Luego llegó a ser subdirector en una empresa agropecuaria. Se integró, no por conveniencia, al parecer por convicción, a la nueva relidad cubana. Tampoco para recibir aplausos y condecoraciones inmerecidas, pienso que, tal vez por coherencia...
Mientras otros despojados de sus vienes, tomaron la decisión de marchar a otras tierras.
Muestra de resistencia, o terquedad, de quien decide no abandonar su historia, aunque le hayan raptado sus sueños.
Mi padre, Enrique Raúl Yero Lastres murió jubilado, tranquilo un día del mes de septiembre de 2009.
Mi padre joven
Un hombre que quiso tener lo suyo, y cuando lo perdió, no dejó de ser él. Fue un símbolo de lo que significa sostenerse en medio del despojo. Un hombre que no emigró, tal vez, porque su raíz estaba más honda que el desencanto.
Hoy escribo sobre mi padre, mi amigo, no para contar su vida, sino para sembrarla. Para que su memoria no se nos pierda entre pasajes olvidados, sino, para que florezca como tronco de un árbol de gran sombra que nos cobijó con amor y dolor, pero con dignidad, en el regazo de nuestra historia familiar.
¿Su epitafio?: "Aquí yace un vencedor"...
➥ Texto e imágenes originales y propias. Libre de IA. Separadores uso libre. Banners creados por mi. Traducción: Google translate
"My father's epitaph"...
My young father
Greetings, dear hivers-nauts of this attractive community.
Today I need to talk about my father. The second of eight brothers, but first in many other ways....
His existence was marked by hardships that helped him overcome the harsh and unusual vicissitudes that fate had in store for him.
As a child, he had to sell nougat for a penny, not on a whim or simply for fun, but out of necessity. Hence his strong character. But behind that shell, the silent, tender love and affability that always amazed him...
He learned early that dignity is not inherited: it is built and cultivated.
That having your own property isn't excess or luxury, but rather a reaffirmation of independence and personal sovereignty, in addition to fulfilling the duty to contribute to a large household. He proudly carried those convictions that filled him with pride and that he was determined to pass on.
Yes, those were some of his teachings...!!
His father, my Masonic grandfather, founded a winery here in my town. But while others aspired to inherit, he dreamed of owning his own. He didn't want to be protected in his father's shadow. He wanted to build his own.
At fifteen, recommended and guided by his own father, he began working in a clothing store for fifteen pesos. It was little, but it was his. Radiating charisma in every aspect of his work as a clerk, he displayed a zeal for excellence and a willingness to please every customer who visited the business. These were perceived as distinctive traits of a good entrepreneur by an old and influential merchant.
But one fine day, one of those days when God blesses you, it only took the suggestion and support of the old merchant, combined with the wealth of initiative, effort, vision, and stubbornness of a young man, to make his dream of becoming a merchant come true. Thus, back in the 1950s, he opened the clothing store "La Libertad." Thus began his new life as a business owner.
Little by little, his clientele grew, and the business became more prominent among other owners of similar establishments.
And the days of sleeplessness and uncertainty arrived, and an unexpected and absurd reality cut short my father's happy days: his dreams, like many others, were confiscated
But he didn't leave the country. He didn't go into exile. He didn't go bankrupt. He reinvented himself.
He began working in a fledgling business whose corporate purpose was to sell books and records... There, it seemed, he would be able to regain peace and job stability. But it wasn't to be.
One day, he was told that those positions, by decision from above, would be reserved for women.
I vividly remember watching my father sharpen his machete and hoe, with astonishing ease. To go to the fields. To the land. To agriculture.
Then, day after day, I would see him come home with the marks of sweat on his new farmer's clothes, but with dignity.
Several years of his life passed between the furrows. One of his teachings was: "Work doesn't kill, what kills is hunger."
Later, he became assistant director of an agricultural company. He integrated himself, not out of convenience, but apparently out of conviction, into the new Cuban reality. Nor to receive undeserved applause and decorations, I think perhaps out of consistency...
While others, stripped of their possessions, made the decision to leave for other lands.
A demonstration of resilience, or stubbornness, of someone who decides not to abandon his story, even though his dreams have been stolen.
My father, Enrique Raúl Yero Lastres, died peacefully, retired, one day in September 2009.
My young father
A man who wanted to have what was his, and when he lost it, he never stopped being himself. He was a symbol of what it means to endure in the midst of dispossession. A man who didn't emigrate, perhaps, because his roots were deeper than disenchantment.
Today I write about my father, my friend, not to recount his life, but to sow it. So that his memory isn't lost to us among forgotten passages, but rather, so that it may flourish like the trunk of a shady tree that sheltered us with love and pain, but with dignity, in the bosom of our family history.
His epitaph? "Here lies a victor"...
➥ Original text and images. AI-free. Free-use separators. Banners created by me. Translation: Google Translate
