Prologue

As a few words may, unaided, mark a country’s great landscapes, three verbs demarcate people’s natures, said Gloria Achucarro. What was the premise she spoke a warm vivid November day upon the outskirts of Buenos Aires? Does it cast a light on our story’s actors, as a lamp placed left, instead of right, of a marble statue’s stone pose shows new shapes and contours?

Consider first the land of Argentina. Note how five words — long, mountain, desert, plain, ocean — each describe integral aspects of the land. Long. Looking down upon the South American country, its shape stretches like an upturned triangle pulled vertically. The southern tip anchors fifty-five degrees latitude to the equator’s south — just a short trip ride to icy Antarctica. The land stretches north, continuously, for three thousand and five hundred kilometers, reaching just past hot Tropic of Capricorn (twenty-three and one-half degrees to the equator’s south). Summer’s solstice, arrived at year’s end, escorts humid heat to a forested border north and cold brisk winds to rugged terrains furthest south. Mountain. Along all the land’s west edge stand the immense Andes, like a cold column of giant sentinels watching lower lands lying east. From a rough mountain mass, vertical peaks ascend high above clouds, the rocky crests’ faces free-falling to glacier-cut canyons. Giant summits jut seven thousand meters into the sky. Desert. Loading moisture above the Pacific, east-flying winds dump all their cold wet freight onto the Andes. Dried-out air borne eastward desiccates a chilled, sandy realm south — windswept Patagonia — and a dry, warm northwest interior, the gaucho’s dusty lands. Plain. In a temperate heartland, a fertile expanse of earth — the flat wide Pampas — nourishes fields of farms and ranches. Meadows of tanned crops abut grass pastures dotted with black-brown cattle, the slow creatures heavily grazing like skin-covered statues barely come to life. Ocean. Along the eastern edge, the long land descends onto the vast Atlantic. On flat beach sands and a long continental ledge, throngs of territorial penguins, steel-hued sea lions, gigantic elephant seals, and great whales meet yearly to breed.

[Source: David Rock. Argentina 1516-1987: From Spanish Colonization to Alfonsin. University of California Press. Berkeley and Los Angeles, California. 1987. pp. 1-2.]

As the words mountain, desert, plain, ocean each mark a feature key to Argentina’s territories, now consider three verbs of Spanish — ser, estar, tener — that each capture, perhaps, different natures of people.

Ser. Gloria Achucarro said, “A ser person needs to be”. In English, ser means “to be”. Like an equal sign (=), the verb links things that endure, like a person and gender: Ella es una mujer. She is a woman. Or a place and shape: La tierra es ancha. The land is wide. So ser creates equations saying what things are. As a noun, ser means “being”, as in ser humano (“human being”).

A ser person must live uniquely. How? Picture before you an oak that, in fantasy, is ser. To trouble its mood, confuse its species. “You are an encina … or a roble or a blue?” To an encina say, “You look like all encinas” and “Another oak can supplant you”. Then draw your attention away. To care for an oak that is ser, notice the leftward lean of a strong, heavy trunk; a trailing scar line along the dry bark; uplifted, bent arms; high branches subtly shaking sunlit leaves.

Estar. Gloria Achucarro said, “An estar person enjoys the moment”. What does this mean? Estar also means “to be”. The verb reports temporary things, as an ongoing action: Ella está bosquejando. She is sketching. Or a mood that could pass: La tierra está tranquila. The land is quiet. Like a weather monitor of daily changes, estar relates settings, actions, emotions.

Picture an estar oak standing in nature. The oak feels silky breezes touching it, soft sun rays alighting on it. From a high hillside, it notices a spread-out bay: a wide carpet of water laid onto a broad valley’s grand floor; enclosing the smooth blue, a rough border of dense forest dotted with white boxes — the bay’s buildings; a thin wire bridge — a metal millipede — stepping quickly across the matted blue; tan masses of distant, dim mountains.

Tener. Gloria Achucarro said, “A tener person must acquire things”. Tener means “to have” and shows ownership: Ella tiene un lápiz. She has a pencil. Or — La tierra tiene ríos. The land has rivers. The tener nature covets money, titles, status, and power.

This discourse ends presently. As the Andes, Patagonia, and the Atlantic — mountain, desert, ocean — converge upon Argentina’s rugged, southern end, the three Spanish verbs — ser, estar, tener — may convey some people evenly. And surely, a few terms only begin to describe living things. Yet a particularly vital word might spark light by persons we know. Let us consider them.