Eugenio the Philosopher October 2, 2021
Eugenio relocated his young family to San Cristóbal in 1992. The Mexican was trying to live and to teach a different way. His mission is to introduce philosophy to elementary school students, children so young and unwieldy that I would liken it to teaching the Socratic method to yelping puppies. As it is, he has managed to raise his own children among the Maya to wonderful effect. 29 years is a lifetime for his sons, but Eugenio is wise enough to know that no amount of lifetimes will make them truly Chiapaneco. They are immigrants from Mexico, specifically San Luis Potosi, now living in a foreign land where outsiders are to be suspected, even resented.
“The distrust is great. But the rewards are great.”
He continued, “I moved to Guatemala City in 1987. Worked at the university for teachers, to rebuild after the military years, the massacres. We established these new schools, I think ‘schools at the end of the road’ is how they translate, and they served populations that did not have any schools before.”
I ask, “So you start new schools from scratch, and you want teach the kids philosophy? Do you mean ethics, right and wrong matters?”
“Yes, I suppose, but much more metaphysics, believe it or not. Questions like, Where do I come from? Who am I? What happens when I die? And aesthetics, too. Aesthetics—very important.”
“Don’t art teachers cover aesthetics?”
“The good ones, yes, but, most teach technique,” he says. This gentleman, Eugenio, with the latinized name of my dad, is one of several pedagogues I have met in San Cristóbal. He is an old-timer in the education business, definitely a student of John Dewey, and his reformist erudition brings me back to my idealistic days in the ’90’s at the Stanford School. However, whereas those academics were esoteric, “tinkering toward utopia,” and engaged in their own vanity projects, Eugenio is first and foremost an activist, an unabashed social justice warrior, born of the Movement of ’68, which has served to radicalize three generations of Mexican teachers. Some in Chiapas are in jail for it today.
With the usual language barriers, I would rather observe than ask questions, so Eugenio opens his laboratory, to put his theory to the test. The little boys of the street know him and flock to his small table at La Vińa de Bacco on Guadalupe Real. In Palo Alto, CA, the police would be called at this point. Eugenio has an agreement with the waiter to keep the bowls of popcorn flowing, and these kids, 3 or 4 at a time, and there are many, gather around him as he sips vino tinto and smokes his cigar. They investigate his lighter, help themselves to handfuls of puffed maíz with salt, play with his very sharp cigar clipper, talk among themselves.
Eugenio orders quesadillas to share. The biggest boy does not want to share his quesadilla with the others, so the teacher gently probes the boy’s reasoning behind his selfishness. The boy responds between large bites, his head turned slightly to protect his meal with both hands. His sincere explanation has something to do with girth and levels of hunger. All the while Eugenio peppers the boys with questions, and, as their bellies fill, they engage with a boisterous mix of Spanish and indigenous banter. Part of me still wants to grab the quesadilla from the bully, lower the righteous hammer of justice, Solomon-style, but Eugenio seems less concerned with consequences. He is after change.
“So it’s your birthday today?” he asks one of the shy ones, who did not get a piece of quesadilla. “How many years do you have?”
“8.”
“And what did you do today for your birthday?”
“My brother dumped cold water on my head.”
“Really? Well, that’s not very nice, is it?”
“Está bien. It’s fine. It will help me grow tall.” The child seems serious. I cannot imagine that his brother feels the same way, but such is the relativity of truth.
Eugenio meets his eyes, warmly, saying, “You know, I learn something new everyday.”