I Remember: Martín Kohan
Thinking of Joe Brainard's "I remember" [whose model was followed by Georges Perec and so many others], we asked Argentinean writer Martín Kohan to share with us some of his memories. This is what he sent us.
I remember the exact angle and height at which airplanes flew over my house during all the years of my childhood. They would land in the Buenos Aires airfield and, while descending, they almost seemed to float, to fly effortlessly. At night they weren’t whole airplanes, they were just lights. Sometimes, I don’t know why, they didn’t make any noise.
I tried to find that angle and that height in places where airplanes fly through. I was never able. I even tried standing in front of the window which was my home during my childhood. Inexplicably, even that way, I never managed.
I remember the day of Perón’s death. I was seven. My parents took me to see the funeral procession. They weren’t Peronistas, they never had been. But the funeral procession passed by a couple of blocks away from my house. That’s what drew them in: the proximity of the event, more than the event itself. We walked a couple of blocks and arrived at the avenue through which the black car, the dead president, and national history would pass. I don’t know if I actually remember or can now deduce that, given winter had already begun, it was very cold that day.
It was the first time in my life that I saw grown-ups cry. They did it without hiding their faces.
I remember the colors of some of the bus lines of Buenos Aires: red and black (line 130), blue and red (line 38), brown (line 133), baby blue and yellow (line 41), orange and beige (line 36).
These bus lines still exist today, and follow the same routes they always have. But they’re painted with completely different colors.
I remember the dark nook that would form in one of the river’s bends. This was one of the vacations which, during my childhood, was spent in a little town of Córdoba. The river where we went by heat and habit was so simple it was modest; neither wide nor rushing, almost still but moving, it always looked so much like itself that it seemed as if its real purpose was to help refute Heraclitus and his famous phrase.
It was clear, though not transparent; but in that strange nook it got dark to the point of blackness. They called that part a whirpool, despite the fact that it was impossible to see any kind of swirling in the water. They called it a whirpool and said with a concerned tone that just a day before, a fairly young boy had jumped in there without knowing the danger.
The water swallowed him up; he drowned.
A day later, we were playing in the river, in the sun. With water up to our waists, with nothing to fear. But a few meters away was the whirpool, which we wouldn’t approach for anything in the world, looking apprehensively out of the corners of our eyes at that perverse side of the river. Innocent and horrifying like a cat taking a nap on a pillow after devouring a bird.
I remember we used to ask ourselves if the dead boy had been pulled out or if he was still there, at the bottom, in the darkness, in death.
I remember that stage in my life, when I was eight or nine, when I couldn’t stop blinking compulsively, shutting my eyes really hard.
I remember my grandmother, who apparently did not believe in involuntary actions, asking me, again and again, why I did that.
I remember my dad, who apparently preferred to come to terms with my body before coming to terms with me, striking me hard with his almost open hand on my shoulders and back of my neck: his idea of correcting.
I remember Mariquel’s cheek. Mariquel’s cheek, more than Mariquel herself. Her name was María Raquel; but no one, not even her parents when scolding her, called her by her full name.
One summer afternoon in Córdoba, when all the grown-ups were sleeping, we decided to kiss. We were nine years old, ten tops. We brought our cheeks together, we made it last an instant. We called it a kiss.
I remember it as it was: the first kiss of my life, although in reality, if you think about it, there was no kiss.
I remember the Boca Juniors of 1976; the first team I saw win the championship. And I can prove it right here, since I cite strictly from memory: Gatti, Pernía, Sa, Mouzo, Tarantini; Benítez, Suñé, Zanabria; Mastrángelo, Veglio, Felman.
I remember, as if it were today, the first time I fell off a bycicle. The long bag hanging from the handlebars swung until it got in the way of the front wheel’s rays. The bicycle stopped short and I literally flew forward. She fell a couple of seconds after I did. That’s how I got to see her from the floor: alone, loose, absurd. She seemed disappointed in me. Afterwards she fell, or allowed herself to fall.
I had chocolates and cigarettes in the bag that caused the accident: a donation for the soldiers fighting in the Falklands which, surely, never reached its destination.
I remember when they changed the rules on the street of my house: it stopped being a two-way street and became a one-way street. However, it took all of us a long time to get rid of the habit of looking both ways before crossing. It was particularly hard for me, because my parents had only recently given me permission me to get off the curb and walk in the street on my own.
I remember the sound of my dad’s heavy-smoker breathing: it dominated the whole house at night. It spoke to his discomfort, to how hard it was for him to breathe. The effort of that breathing made us think, at the same time, of two very different things: one, that he was going to die; the other, that he was still alive.
I remember the exact taste of the little cookies I would zealously eat as a kid. They were covered in a crust of sugar and I’d scratch off the sugar with my teeth before eating the rest.
They still make them, by the way, although they’re not the same anymore.
For me, it’s the opposite of Proust: I’m capable of evoking my entire infancy, as long as I can recover the taste of those little cookies.
I remember the first time I saw a naked woman. It was at the movies, and actually, at the drive-in. My dad, my mom, and my little sister were all with me in the car.
Other entries:
Sergio Chejfec
Margo Glantz
I remember the exact angle and height at which airplanes flew over my house during all the years of my childhood. They would land in the Buenos Aires airfield and, while descending, they almost seemed to float, to fly effortlessly. At night they weren’t whole airplanes, they were just lights. Sometimes, I don’t know why, they didn’t make any noise.
I tried to find that angle and that height in places where airplanes fly through. I was never able. I even tried standing in front of the window which was my home during my childhood. Inexplicably, even that way, I never managed.
I remember the day of Perón’s death. I was seven. My parents took me to see the funeral procession. They weren’t Peronistas, they never had been. But the funeral procession passed by a couple of blocks away from my house. That’s what drew them in: the proximity of the event, more than the event itself. We walked a couple of blocks and arrived at the avenue through which the black car, the dead president, and national history would pass. I don’t know if I actually remember or can now deduce that, given winter had already begun, it was very cold that day.
It was the first time in my life that I saw grown-ups cry. They did it without hiding their faces.
I remember the colors of some of the bus lines of Buenos Aires: red and black (line 130), blue and red (line 38), brown (line 133), baby blue and yellow (line 41), orange and beige (line 36).
These bus lines still exist today, and follow the same routes they always have. But they’re painted with completely different colors.
I remember the dark nook that would form in one of the river’s bends. This was one of the vacations which, during my childhood, was spent in a little town of Córdoba. The river where we went by heat and habit was so simple it was modest; neither wide nor rushing, almost still but moving, it always looked so much like itself that it seemed as if its real purpose was to help refute Heraclitus and his famous phrase.
It was clear, though not transparent; but in that strange nook it got dark to the point of blackness. They called that part a whirpool, despite the fact that it was impossible to see any kind of swirling in the water. They called it a whirpool and said with a concerned tone that just a day before, a fairly young boy had jumped in there without knowing the danger.
The water swallowed him up; he drowned.
A day later, we were playing in the river, in the sun. With water up to our waists, with nothing to fear. But a few meters away was the whirpool, which we wouldn’t approach for anything in the world, looking apprehensively out of the corners of our eyes at that perverse side of the river. Innocent and horrifying like a cat taking a nap on a pillow after devouring a bird.
I remember we used to ask ourselves if the dead boy had been pulled out or if he was still there, at the bottom, in the darkness, in death.
I remember that stage in my life, when I was eight or nine, when I couldn’t stop blinking compulsively, shutting my eyes really hard.
I remember my grandmother, who apparently did not believe in involuntary actions, asking me, again and again, why I did that.
I remember my dad, who apparently preferred to come to terms with my body before coming to terms with me, striking me hard with his almost open hand on my shoulders and back of my neck: his idea of correcting.
I remember Mariquel’s cheek. Mariquel’s cheek, more than Mariquel herself. Her name was María Raquel; but no one, not even her parents when scolding her, called her by her full name.
One summer afternoon in Córdoba, when all the grown-ups were sleeping, we decided to kiss. We were nine years old, ten tops. We brought our cheeks together, we made it last an instant. We called it a kiss.
I remember it as it was: the first kiss of my life, although in reality, if you think about it, there was no kiss.
I remember the Boca Juniors of 1976; the first team I saw win the championship. And I can prove it right here, since I cite strictly from memory: Gatti, Pernía, Sa, Mouzo, Tarantini; Benítez, Suñé, Zanabria; Mastrángelo, Veglio, Felman.
I remember, as if it were today, the first time I fell off a bycicle. The long bag hanging from the handlebars swung until it got in the way of the front wheel’s rays. The bicycle stopped short and I literally flew forward. She fell a couple of seconds after I did. That’s how I got to see her from the floor: alone, loose, absurd. She seemed disappointed in me. Afterwards she fell, or allowed herself to fall.
I had chocolates and cigarettes in the bag that caused the accident: a donation for the soldiers fighting in the Falklands which, surely, never reached its destination.
I remember when they changed the rules on the street of my house: it stopped being a two-way street and became a one-way street. However, it took all of us a long time to get rid of the habit of looking both ways before crossing. It was particularly hard for me, because my parents had only recently given me permission me to get off the curb and walk in the street on my own.
I remember the sound of my dad’s heavy-smoker breathing: it dominated the whole house at night. It spoke to his discomfort, to how hard it was for him to breathe. The effort of that breathing made us think, at the same time, of two very different things: one, that he was going to die; the other, that he was still alive.
I remember the exact taste of the little cookies I would zealously eat as a kid. They were covered in a crust of sugar and I’d scratch off the sugar with my teeth before eating the rest.
They still make them, by the way, although they’re not the same anymore.
For me, it’s the opposite of Proust: I’m capable of evoking my entire infancy, as long as I can recover the taste of those little cookies.
I remember the first time I saw a naked woman. It was at the movies, and actually, at the drive-in. My dad, my mom, and my little sister were all with me in the car.
Other entries:
Sergio Chejfec
Margo Glantz
