Benito Juarez March 21, 2018
“Entre Los Individuos, Como Entre Las Naciones, El Respeto Al Derecho Ajeno Es La Paz“—Among Individuals, As Among Nations, Respect For Rights Is Peace.
Benito Juarez (1806-1872)
A little fat kid, nick-named Gordito, the product of a heavily-sponsored high-fructose corn-syrup diet, wanders onto a windy DK patio to serenade with kazoo a crowd of Texan lion-fish enthusiasts, but the gluttons are having none of it, chatting between bites about their personal experiences with the Mexicans. If this kid is ever going to get healthy, he could certainly use the lion-fish on special tonight, but surely not at these prices—the fish have to be speared, so the meat is expensive to catch. Gordito, instead, is fishing for propina tips that might improve his foreseeable future, but there is not the slightest nibble around here.
Luis reminds me that this first day of spring is also the birthday of Benito Juarez, and a national holiday. I last considered the historic president on August 8, 2016—I know, it is spooky that I can specifically reference in writing every day of my life here—in a report called Viva Revolucion!, from Mexico City. Juarez, the name, permeated my thoughts back then—Avenido Juarez was the busiest street in my neighborhood, Historic Centro; and the ghost-white statue of the man stood across the unyielding traffic on La Alameda, the mall, among the pigeons and the homeless, beneath the sculptured angels.
Benito grew up a poor boy of persecuted Zapateca heritage, but he managed his bookish charm to marry up, as they say, in a socially mobile world, wedding a prominent Spanish beauty of Oaxaca, which allowed the young ambitious lawyer to enter the network of politics. As a student and teacher of liberal legal theory, the dark-skinned southerner eventually rose to supreme court justice in the capital. In 1857, by quirk of constitutional fiat and an ousted predecessor, Juarez became President of the Republic of Mexico, and, soon thereafter, an indigenous icon—native son done good. He entered office to redress the past by embracing a fair and just future, chasing after the Catholic abusers and the corrupt politicos, while pursuing social relief and land reform. True liberty seemed at hand.
All of these superlatives are to say that Benito Juarez did not stand Hielo’s chance in hell of staying in power in Mexico for very long. At least not in the National Palace. His tenure technically lasted until his death in 1872, but much of that time was spent in hiding, first during a civil war, second during a 5-year French occupation. In 1867, the USA finally rose from its own war torpor and paid to hoist the Napoleonic-Maximillian frogs by their petards and given the boot.
By then it was too late for the aging ambitions of Benito Juarez. His natural heir in the struggle was Emiliano Zapata, forty years later, who was more charismatic and less lawyerly, but that indigenous populist resisted the presidency, and he was killed for it. No matter, a legend was born in Juarez—the patriot that resisted the foreign invader, the Zapateca that ultimately repelled the conquistador, just as the old story was always supposed to turn out. And then Benito Juarez resisted time itself and died, while working at his desk. Mexicans have hated their presidents ever since.