Elena Poniatowska: Guillermo Briseño

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find by walking On any little corner in Chimalistac, Guillermo Briseño was a joy, a relief, because he was always in a good mood and offered to sit at the piano. I met him during the years of El Hábito de Jesusa and Liliana Felipe. Back then, he and I were still neighbors in Chimalistac, and I had a rented little brown upright piano, which I loved very much, because it was like a loyal dog, and if Briseño passed by in San Sebastián, I would shout to him: Briseño, come play , and if he acted deaf, I would run after him: “Don’t be mean, sing me Turn Off the Light.”

It was a very joyful jazz or hip-hop piece, or Irving Berlin or Cole Porter-type piece, that was a joy to listen to and listen to again. In those years, we were all happy, and Briseño never, ever begged for help, nor did he consider himself an unsurpassable genius. We could all approach him and laugh with him because he laughed so hard and, without further ado, he gave you the pleasure of sitting at the piano and playing "Turn Off the Light ." Today I no longer have a piano, but I do turn the light on and off. Briseño, with his white head, places his hands, with lamp-like nails, on an imaginary piano and intones, laughing: "Turn Off the Light."

“I have five children,” he smiles, “two of whom are cultural attachés. I am the real father of two girls and a boy; one is a scientist and works at the University of Vancouver, her name is Adriana; Alejandra, my second daughter, is a veterinarian and is crazy about rabbits; the youngest is named Leonardo, he's 19 years old, and he's a very talented musician. The oldest of all is Juan Sosa, Hebe Rossel's son. He grew up with me; he arrived with Hebe fleeing the dictatorship in Argentina. Hebe is 83; they put a pacemaker in her, but she's doing very well.”

"I also have a pacemaker, and Dr. Pedro Iturralde says it's better to dance at the California Dancing Club instead of being a nuisance. Guillermo, I met you with Hebe in Chimalistac, and later at El Hábito, with Jesusa Rodríguez."

–Hebe showed up at El Hábito. Look, Elena, many circumstances have brought us closer throughout our lives, from being neighbors to now that you have gray hair...

–Guillermo, I loved your rock song " Turn Off the Light." You once started singing and playing it, I think in Chiapas in front of the Subway…

–I've always had pianos. Now I live in downtown Tlalpan and I miss the tranquility of Chimalistac, where Rosita Arenas, Abel Salazar, and other celebrities lived. Where I am now, you're deafened by sirens, trucks, and the rumble of cars—everything thunders in your ears. You hear the motorcycles whirring like crazy, as they head out to Cuernavaca…

–You talk like an old man…

"Wait for me. Living there has its charm, because when the day is clear and transparent, I can see the volcanoes. There are many towns around Tlalpan, but I don't like the fact that every night they set off fireworks to celebrate some saint's day. My Labrador retriever suffers, and the poor thing doesn't know where to go when there's a party, and where I live now, there's always a party."

–Guillermo, you were a walking party, always laughing, always in a good mood…

–All those escapades , which is a bad word, have to do with the adventure of life: what dawns around you, what you're experiencing, and what you want to get closer to and what you want to get away from. In life, you meet people and you fall in love and fall out of love, and that's how you carry them. My other foster daughter is Valeria, daughter of Aurora, my wife, who works at the Ibero-American University of Puebla; she's the director of the University's Department of Outreach, involved in political and social relations. When I met Aurora, she had a 3-year-old daughter, and we ended up becoming a couple, to my delight. I'm overjoyed at her company, and Valeria is a foster daughter who truly loves her father but has an extraordinarily loving relationship with me.

(I must say that I am a fan of Briseño and all the keys that dance around his head in the treble clef, because each of his scores dance and their chords make us laugh out loud and make us very happy.)

–You've got me all mixed up. Since when did you become interested in music?

–Since I was three, I played the piano, in a rather playful way with my fingers, and I remember my connection to music because we had a piano in our house; my parents were constantly involved in music. My mother could have been a pianist; my father was from Chiapas and played the guitar and was a troubadour, composed music, and wrote bohemian verses, although he was a topographical engineer and came to the Polytechnic from San Cristóbal. I wasn't born there, but in Mexico City, although the people of Chiapas call me "paisano."

–Are you from Chiapas?

–No, I was born here, although the people of Chiapas call me "paisano" because my father was from Chiapas. I was very close to the Zapatista movement. As a musician, I did everything I could to make the just struggle of the people part of people's consciousness, so that we could understand it, amplify it, and sustain it. That uprising had effects that are still being felt.

–Have you been to Chiapas many times?

–Yes, I had the opportunity to go to Guadalupe Tepeyac, to San Andrés Larráinzar. I witnessed a process in which they decided to change the notion of freedom and the possibility of being heard. Power is so elastic that it's not assimilated, and human beings are sometimes so prone to betrayal, envy, lies, all those things that corrode.

–Did you play there?

–Sometimes I played because I carried a piano, but it was very difficult because there was no electricity or the extension cords were made of very small cables, and that made me think that I would have a lot of difficulties getting other supplies, but it also helped me see the shortcomings of the townspeople: having electricity for refrigeration, for example, for the children's milk, medicines, and I came up with the idea of organizing the Snake on Wheels festival.

–Did you give concerts in the jungle?

–Yes, also in San Cristóbal, about four or five times. That's how I proposed we electrify the town, through the Serpent on Wheels festival; we put on a really loud concert. The rector of the National Autonomous University of Mexico was José Sarukhán, the rector's secretary was Rafael Cordera, and I went to the rector's office to tell them that the intention of the concert was to keep the Zapatista movement alive, and the famous ¡Ya basta! (Enough! ) still echoes in the walls; there are many things that still haven't been resolved.

–Were you friends with the Sub?

–There were many moments when I felt close to him. It all came about because he sent me a letter responding to one I sent him when the movement emerged. I was in Xichú, Guanajuato, at the house of Guillermo Velázquez's mother, the member of the Leones de la Sierra de Xichú.

–How old are you, Guillermo? You give the impression you've been with the Zapatista movement from the very beginning.

I'm 79; I'll be 80 in November. The thing is, Zapatismo felt natural to me, something I expected. Besides, I'd already been involved with social movements. There was an organization of peasant producers I met years before the Zapatista uprising, who worked in Jalisco, Michoacán, and Veracruz. They were people with a very powerful ideological potential, and music has always been a great ally of protest.

–Why did you choose rock?

–I realized there was little rock music in our language. Rock is associated with frivolity, fun, dancing, and carefree attitude, but music needs ethical and philosophical underpinnings. From my point of view, it's not enough to be born in Mexico, but rather what you're doing from Mexico. Music has been an instrument to express what you think, what you feel. We mustn't forget the history of our country, outrageous events like the Dirty War and the murders of Genaro Vázquez Rojas and Lucio Cabañas. How can I explain what's happened in this country? Because we've seen it move from places that are sometimes very promising and satisfying, to many, many times in tragedy and lies, subjugation, and sycophancy with the gringos.

You grow up and learn from those who came before you. You understand why Shostakovich composed a symphony to inspire the Russian people to defend themselves against the Nazis. Paul Robson was an American baritone who joined the Internationalist Brigades during the Spanish War. There are people who make a notable mark on history, something that ordinary people build, because they're talking about what happens to them.