February 14, 2015
Go ahead, call me El Pípila, I do sound a bit like a turkey when I laugh and my freckled face suggests the eggs of that nutritious, earthbound bird. Come and see my statue on a hill overlooking Guanajuato. Admire my muscular legs, chest, and arms, the right of which holds high a torch I wielded, when frail others declined, as I charged through Spanish gunfire and set afire the inviting wooden door at the granary Alhóndiga de Granaditas, a refuge for Spanish occupiers. My comrades and I enjoyed not the slaughter of women and children but shed nary a tear at the immolation of our male oppressors. That was two centuries and more ago and still I stand poised to strike. On occasion I’ve done so. I’ve pounced from my stone platform and bounded down the hill, torch in hand, and smote our enemies. That’s why Guanajuato remains a town of peaceful renown.