Gómez, the Shame of America
€ 2,99
The age of oil in our western society traditionally starts in the 1950s, but it largely ignores the effects of discovering black gold in the countries where it originated. José Rafael Pocaterra describes, with the sharp and crystal-clear tone we know him for, the incursion of foreigners on Venezuelan land, the effects of the vast new income on the Venezuelan regime, and then, in the form of his prison diary, how this regime deals with those who oppose it.
The author wrote this book in the jail for political prisoners, La Rotunda, in Caracas. Fearing for his life, he smuggled the manuscript out on slips of paper hidden in matchboxes. It was first published in New York anonymously, while he was still in jail, to gather international support for the opposition to dictator Juan Vicente Gómez.
The clear descriptions and flowing story quite often feel like fiction. As a precursor to the style of New Journalism, even the horrors of La Rotunda could not soften Pocaterra’s pen or take away the humor and lightness so typical of Venezuelan culture.
This edition includes, in addition to the author’s original translation of the book, a translation of his account of the famous naval military coup of 1929, the so-called Falke expedition, in which J.R. Pocaterra took an active role as one of the organizing members.
Caobo Ediciones publishes this book to promote and support one of Venezuela's greatest authors, José Rafael Pocaterra: a prolific writer, courageous activist, and active politician who lived in the first half of the 20th century in Venezuela and Montréal, Canada.
Gómez, the Shame of America, is a curation and translation of the memoirs of José Rafael Pocaterra, of his years of activism against the dictatorships of Cipriano Castro and Juan Vicente Gómez in Venezuela. The original work is in Spanish. The selection of the texts and the translation are by the author himself. The numbering of the chapters refers to the original version of the work, by choice of the author.
This edition is as faithful as possible to the version of 1929. The editor’s foreword has been kept intact. The texts are updated to modern English where deemed absolutely necessary only; spelling was corrected where appropriate, and where useful annotations were added, or the original annotations extended. The added annotations are signed by the editors of this edition. When possible, the illustrations from the original edition were included.
We’d like to point out that this book could be a difficult read for several reasons.
Firstly, Pocaterra wrote this book from jail. He wrote it in secret, on small pieces of paper which were smuggled out of the prison in matchboxes, part by part. It’s not a diary, but rather a collection of thoughts, experiences, and anecdotes that sometimes follow a certain chronology, and then stray away from it. In certain chapters, he talks about people passing away, who are then featured again in an anecdote in a later chapter. Moreover, the first edition was published in New York without the author's editing, as he was still in jail at the time. He finished the full work in exile later on. Being one of the few survivors of his generation of activists, his writing was heavily criticized despite his ordeals and heroism. Out of respect for these conditions, and the danger Pocaterra put himself in by publishing the book in this way, we kept the original as intact as possible.
Second, we remind the reader of the state of the written Venezuelan language during Pocaterra's time. In a certain sense, this written language still had to be invented. Venezuelan writers of generations previous to Pocaterra traditionally looked for inspiration to the French and Spanish writers, who at the time had already well-established rules of language and style. There was no Venezuelan writing guide, no handbook the author could refer back to during the edit, no examples: he chose to look to the style of the country itself for his work. Therefore, sometimes the language feels old-fashioned or wrong, and although we often do find in this text the flowing style characterizing his well-edited fiction work, The Shame of America might sometimes use constructions and sentences which are hard to follow. Again, out of respect for the work and the conditions the author wrote the book in, we kept our corrections to a minimum.
Starvation stalks in our midst. Hunger and silence, that silence which Tacitus mentions when he describes Rome during the burial of Germanicus . Only the pigeons are as before, coming and going, warming themselves in the sun, taking their baths, making love. The sight of these creatures, free, happy, unconstrained in any way, becomes unbearable. Lying on the floor, I look up at the roof with its semicircular vaulting on which the dampness and replastering have drawn lines that seem like maps or faces, or obscene images. The Song of Hunger echoes in my bowels and obsesses my mind. I hear Lara reciting the classic recipes for preparing certain delicious dishes:
“Place in a saucepan an ample layer of butter, which is then melted over a slow fire. Scatter on this a first layer of macaroni with which one has mixed some parmesan cheese, grated fine…”
Some of the prisoners call out. “For God’s sake, shut up.” But Lara continues solemnly.
“To prepare the real poteé de canard, you take a duck…”
It is now literally three days since I have eaten a mouthful. What little rice is given us floats in a slimy juice, the sight of which, as well as the smell, turns my stomach. Lara goes on, pitilessly.
“Add white wine, olives, dry grapes, Brazil nuts and stir slowly…”
As no one is allowed anything from outside, some of the prisoners are devouring everything within their reach, even banana skins. The pigeons roam about picking up seeds, or grains of rice that have fallen into the cracks of the floor in front of the cells.
“The white meat of the duck is generally considered…”
I make a sudden spring like a tiger. Swiftly, with an ease that astonishes me, my hand shoots out under the curtain. When I draw it back, a second later, it has grasped a palpitating, heaving little mass of feathers. Everything is done in a flash. My hands are no longer human; they have become claws. I strangle the little bird. Its wings fall limply, and the coraline eyes disappear under lids that flutter in a final spasm. I carry it to the back of my cell. There I rapidly strip the feathers from the frail body and hide them carefully.
My stomach contracts. This warm, white flesh, with its blue veins and delicate pink spots, maddens me. With teeth and nails I tear off the wings, sever the muscles, wrench out the entrails. I clean them all as best I can, and I devour gluttonously everything I can find to eat on the little beast. The only thing I put aside, intending to throw it away later, is a bit of tough skin that I cannot swallow.
The next day I ate the rest.