By:María Elena Balán Saínz
In general we know more than historical facts played by Cuban patriots that of thier family life, for that reason in this occasion we will refer to the love among José Martí and his son José Francisco.
In the literary work of Martí can be appreciated how much he wanted his descendant, to who wrote before leaving to the Necessary War where had wanted to take him next to him and he promised him that if something passed him he would receive his leontin, as his father's memory.
Of our National Hero's son there are not very well-known facets. He qualified him in his verses as winged, flashing, judicious, with the enough capacity to suffer, to think and to love.
Five years they hardly lived together José Martí, his wife Carmen and his small son. It was August 27, 1891 the last time that our National Hero saw his Ismaelillo, in his mother's union in United States. In that year, Martí wrote verses of deep autobiographical print.
When José Francisco Martí returned to Cuba next to his mom they lived in Camagüey, where he graduated of high school,s tops then to register Civil right in the University of Havana.
After the events of May 19, José Francisco wrote to Gonzalo de Quesada so that he told him if they were certain the rumors of his father's death.
The son of Martí incorporated to the fight, like it was his progenitor's will, and under the orders of Calixto García reached Captain's grade. They assigned him the horse Baconao that the Teacher had used in the redentore farms.
To the 66 years José Francisco died who was married until his decese with María Teresa Bances and they lived in the large house where he resides at the moment in the Cuban capital the Center of Marti`s Studies , property that received like wedding gift for the girlfriend's family.
martes, 26 de enero de 2010
The poor Pancho
By:Ernesto Pantaleón Medina / Televisión Camagüey
His name was Francisco, but in the neighborhood all they called him Pancho. He was a popular man, of those to who all greet with affection, due to his jovial character, his prompt smile and his disposition of helping anyone to solve those small problems that affect the homelike operation with insistence.
That it was damaged a team, or it is necessary to paint a wall, or to carry out an electric connection, there Pancho was, and between jokes and jokes he left resolved the setback.
But a defect put a dark cloud in my neighbor's life: the drink, not for the very common fact of ingesting some that another glass, but for the frequency with which it was given to what called for some strange reason his "whiles friends."
First the wife, then who knew him closely, they noticed him that a dangerous road traveled and in slope, but he didn't assist to any reason , centered in an apparent enjoyment.
He lost everything: the relationships with the neighbors, for his freshness, and more than a sour discussion he had it as drunk main character; in the work the reiterated absences forced to the administration to take severe measures, after many alerts and calls to the order, lastly, the divorce arrived, and the trauma made worse that that was the main cause: the alcohol.
The slope became had itched, and it was frequent to find dirty Pancho, with hallucinated eyes, in any corner, murmuring incoherent sentences, or throwing insults against everything and against all.
He received countless help, from the near relatives, or the acquaintances, until the state institutions in charge of the attention to the social cases and even the reclusion in a especialized center …all in vain, each apparent victory took to a relapse, for lack of own will.
Some days ago a news shook the neighborhood: The good Pancho had just died in a hospital institution, to the 42 year-old age, after reconciling with the wife, the children and siblings, and count that in the last instant he sketched a smile, poor person copy of that frank and kind expression that earned him so much sympathy.
His name was Francisco, but in the neighborhood all they called him Pancho. He was a popular man, of those to who all greet with affection, due to his jovial character, his prompt smile and his disposition of helping anyone to solve those small problems that affect the homelike operation with insistence.
That it was damaged a team, or it is necessary to paint a wall, or to carry out an electric connection, there Pancho was, and between jokes and jokes he left resolved the setback.
But a defect put a dark cloud in my neighbor's life: the drink, not for the very common fact of ingesting some that another glass, but for the frequency with which it was given to what called for some strange reason his "whiles friends."
First the wife, then who knew him closely, they noticed him that a dangerous road traveled and in slope, but he didn't assist to any reason , centered in an apparent enjoyment.
He lost everything: the relationships with the neighbors, for his freshness, and more than a sour discussion he had it as drunk main character; in the work the reiterated absences forced to the administration to take severe measures, after many alerts and calls to the order, lastly, the divorce arrived, and the trauma made worse that that was the main cause: the alcohol.
The slope became had itched, and it was frequent to find dirty Pancho, with hallucinated eyes, in any corner, murmuring incoherent sentences, or throwing insults against everything and against all.
He received countless help, from the near relatives, or the acquaintances, until the state institutions in charge of the attention to the social cases and even the reclusion in a especialized center …all in vain, each apparent victory took to a relapse, for lack of own will.
Some days ago a news shook the neighborhood: The good Pancho had just died in a hospital institution, to the 42 year-old age, after reconciling with the wife, the children and siblings, and count that in the last instant he sketched a smile, poor person copy of that frank and kind expression that earned him so much sympathy.
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