His kitchen table has an oilcloth with the autonomous map of Spain. Each autonomy of a color. And around the map drawings, with the most important monuments. It is a kitsch work that could lead one to think that the master of the house is very Spanish and a lot of Spanish. But don't trust appearances.
He invites me to breakfast, and I decide to eat toast with jam in Galicia and drink my coffee with milk in Andalusia. I ask him what Spain is for him. And it's hard to answer. The same is one of the questions that is most difficult for us Spaniards to answer. We are even little familiar with the word. And those who are, it seems that the name, the flag and the anthem have remained their property. The day we look without prejudice at the one who wears the little red bracelet, because we have overcome the idea that the little red bracelet is synonymous with appearance, we will have taken a big step. I don't see that day close, because in the trench one lives more comfortable. They will see what festival in Congress with the motion or whatever. You would have to change the name. Motion of those who censor.
Rodrigo's kitchen does not have a microwave, Balay oven, Thermomix or Nespresso. What is that?, he tells me. It still has the wood-burning stove and the Italian coffee maker that was in my parents' house. Zero luxuries, if it is considered little luxury to be able to live where Rodrigo lives and how Rodrigo lives. With fireplace, an orchard, dog, chickens and two donkeys. And with Sergio, the man she loves.
Rodrigo changed schools four times, and each time he changed it was an opportunity for him to behave as he should, like a macho adolescent with all the concerns of a macho adolescent. And he tried, he hid his mannerisms, but soon the pen would come out and the rumor of his homosexuality spread throughout the institution. Every time he was found out, he felt that he had lost again. He went down to the patio alone, endured insults, belittlement, humiliation. And his teachers sat him next to him to protect him instead of acting against the bullies who made his life miserable. They enjoyed the time in the patio, while the fag was cornered, with his head bowed and tears in his eyes. Rodrigo's story is that of many and many. Also today. You will see how those of the motion of those who censure do not say anything about that.
Rodrigo was a musician all his life. Because he vibrated. Piano, tuba, municipal band, concerts in Oviedo, flight to Barcelona, street musician, squat, transgression, freedom. And fulfill his dream of living in the country. He is not a neo-rural. He was always rural. The town is his Ithaca. His promised land. His place in the world. He does not live in isolation. He has built his community, his social network, not in the Zuckerberian sense of the word. It is a human network, full of direct relationships, contact, skin. He vindicates courtship, the one that is full of poetry, verses, words where vowels are not omitted, where "I love you" is not "Tq", and love is love and not an emoticon of a heart.
Rodrigo didn't stop courting even for a minute. That's how he seduced his underwear, those we visited, or those who went to see it en masse in theaters around the world, recovering couples, wristbands, novels, tuned with electronic bases that Bizarrap did not have in his most inspired afternoon.
Rodrigo Cuevas triumphs. Rodrigo Cuevas asks for it. He makes us better as a country. Rodrigo Cuevas is our Freddie Mercury, our Gloria Fuertes, our Federico, our Dylan, our Mocedades. Rodrigo Cuevas represents Spain infinitely better than those who will support the motion of those who censure. Take advantage of the debate to put on your music. They will thank me.