The tit and the tongue


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Spain will lose Eurovision again, but the exegesis of a nipple, the choreography of a vehicular language and the charcuterie of ‘Spanglish’ will remain. For some time now, Spain, this place blessed by beauty and contradiction, has become obsessed with matters that deal more with tip of the iceberg than from the ice itself. The right thing to do is to debate, to be fair, but the truth, or what is close to it, makes one think: getting angry with a screen is a way of postponing whoever undresses behind it.

The Benidorm Fest hides more complex issues than the chest of Bandini or the Galician in which Tanxugueiras performed the most Eurovision song that Spain could have ever presented.

The race for Eurovision embodies a mess, in its tender way, because the matter is discussed as if it were an important feat. And it may be, although what is relevant is always behind.

Spain doesn’t know what to wear to Eurovision because she herself doesn’t quite know what it is. And whoever writes these lines allows himself to be included in that diffuse concept of what is Spanish. Whoever signs this column has migrated and is part of this time bomb that boils, alive, in the possibility of its contradictions. How can we be the same community if those of us who inhabit Spain do not look alike? It would even be convenient to write ‘paresemos’ -because without being from here, I attend, like many others who share my situation-, the identity brawl.

There is beauty in that question that we are all part of, is Chanel’s Spanglish as traditional as the Spanish shared by 500 million speakers? Is a breast the flag of demagoguery, the tearing of the obvious and the naive, or the claim of the times? Is Galician the language to sing to Europe? I don’t know, but doubt questions, spells out issues hidden under the carpet of occurrence. More than stopping a city, mom! You have to give birth to it.

The words boob and tongue in the same sentence invite us to think of other fights, bedroom or breastfeeding issues, perhaps. But not in this blessed circus of delirium, we hurl grievances at each other for something that questions us with the urgency of what we don’t talk about. Breastfeed or breastfeed, spend all day wondering about something that is not said. Namely! I like Spain for its madness, for its outbursts, but, above all, for the possibility of making these discussions a common affair.

I wish Eurovision would serve so as not to go out of tune in coexistence. It’s a wisp, nonsense, but sometimes light things are needed to wonder about the definitive. The language we speak, the breast from which we nurse. That circus that always ends in confetti and with which we could rebuild the long-lasting building.

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