Cubans celebrate José Martí’s birthday every year. Martí is Cuba’s national hero.
Originally published: HAWKINS BAY James Porteous
19 May 2018 | Various Sources | Hawkins Bay – This Day
This Day – 19 May 1895
“Like stones rolling down hills, fair ideas reach their objectives despite all obstacles and barriers. It may be possible to speed or hinder them, but impossible to stop them.” Jose Marti
During his life, he worked as a poet, essayist, journalist, translator, professor, and publisher. He was very politically active, and is considered an important revolutionary philosopher and political theorist.
From adolescence, he dedicated his life to the promotion of liberty, political independence for Cuba, and intellectual independence for all Spanish Americans; his death was used as a cry for Cuban independence from Spain by both the Cuban revolutionaries and those Cubans previously reluctant to start a revolt.
Martí was also used as a figurehead by the Cuban government throughout the regime of Fidel Castro, and his writings were commonly cited as supporting socialism within Castro’s administration.
22 January 2018 | W. T. Whitney | CounterPunch
Cubans celebrate José Martí’s birthday every year and preparations this year are elaborate. As before, there will be a torchlight parade in Havana to mark the 165th anniversary of his birth on January 28, 1853.
Youth organizations are organizing tours of places throughout the island identified with Martí. Commemorative meetings and symposia are taking place, along with voluntary work projects and torchlight parades in other cities.
Martí, untrained as a soldier, died in combat in eastern Cuba on May 19, 1895 at the onset of war for independence from Spain. The importance of his memory and example for Cubans is evident to visitors there.
They see buildings and spaces named for Martí and statues in cities and small towns of the man Cubans regard as their “Apostle.” Cubans Leaders of the revolution headed by Fidel Castro identified him as the “intellectual author” of the 1953 attack on Santiago’s Moncada Barracks that initiated their uprising.
Martí is Cuba’s national hero. That’s so because during his short life he became the master of societal change in Cuba. Martí took charge of – was the master of – preparations for the revolution aimed at securing national independence. He was a master for Cubans in another sense of that word; he was their teacher. He took on that task with a seriousness that was exceptional among political leaders at any time.
Enabled through experience, knowledge, skills, and ideals of justice, Martí was a strong political organizer. He had been molded by imprisonment in his youth by the colonial power and by living in exile in Spain, Mexico, Guatemala, Venezuela, and for 15 years in the United States. Proselytizing Cuban exiles, he traveled widely in eastern United States, the Caribbean, and Central America beginning in 1890.
He was instrumental in forming the Cuban Revolutionary Party in 1892 as the political vehicle for both the uprising and an independent Cuba. Martí established, edited, and wrote for the Party’s Patria newspaper which became an essential tool for agitation and recruiting.
Martí, importantly, smoothed over disagreements between rebel generals Máximo Gómez and Antonio Maceo. Through his cajoling, they accepted civilian leadership for the independence revolution.
José Martí defined the ideas upon which the revolution was built. In speeches and writings, he called for education, land, and livelihood for workers and small farmers, for racial equality in Cuba, and for respect for Spanish soldiers – not hate. He famously proclaimed, “With all and for the good of all.”
Martí warned of dangers to Cuban independence from the United States, something Cuban revolutionaries since then have taken to heart. Martí also explored linkages between Cuba’s independence struggle and stirrings of unity among Latin American and Caribbean nations. He advanced the notion of “Our America” in a famous 1891 essay of that name calling upon Latin Americans to value their cultural and historical uniqueness and distance themselves from European traditions and, by implication, from U.S. pretentions. 
In addition to being a revolutionary leader, Martí was also a teacher, and has remained a teacher since then through his legacy. He taught as author and speaker. Texts of his speeches were preserved, and he produced translations and wrote books of poems, a novel, and hundreds of articles and essays for periodicals in Latin America. He reported on U.S. political developments, the lives of ordinary U.S. Americans, and past and present artistic, literary, and political personalities of the world.
Martí’s articles appearing in La Nación in Buenos Aires showed up in newspapers throughout the region, and he thus became “the most widely read writer in Spanish in the Hispano-American world in the 1880s,” according to editor José Olivia Jimenez. 
For two years in New York Martí was a classroom teacher of Spanish evenings in a public school. He organized courses for exiled black Cuban and Puerto Rican workers – some being recruited for the independence struggle – and shared in the teaching. He wanted new emphasis in school curricula on science and technology and programs that combined study with work.
In writings and speeches, Martí emphasized moral and ethical values and cultural enlightenment. He was preparing Cubans for a new society. Indeed, for Martí, “Being cultured is the only way to be free.” He explored Cubans’ cultural heritage as a way to enhance their awareness of what it means to be Cuban – “cubanidad.” Martí was introducing ideas of nationhood.
Monthly Review Press in 1979 published On Education by Jose Marti. Edited by Philip Foner, the volume contains 35 of Martí’s “Articles on Educational Theory and Pedagogy.” He writes in one of them that, “Education – who can deny it – is above all a labor of infinite love.” 
In New York schools, he observed, “teacher and pupil do not share that warmth of affection which enlarges to giant size the student’s desire and aptitude for learning, and which remains in their souls as sweetly as a vision of paradise.” Children there leave school “without having acquired any cultured tastes, or grace of childhood, or enthusiasm of youth, or a liking of knowledge.” That’s due to a “niggardly sense of life which is a national cancer [in the United States].”
José Martí in 1889 published a monthly magazine for children. Lasting only four issues, The Age of Gold contained fables, poems, translations, stories of Latin American heroes, a summary of the Iliad, reports on native American civilizations and on French colonialism in southeast Asia, and much more – all written or translated by Martí.
“The Age of Gold is the best-written book for young people in the Spanish Language,” says one literary critic cited by Philip Foner  “The writings of Martí for The Age of Gold “are the most clear and truthful ever published in Spanish for children and young people,” says another. No wonder that in Cuba, a visitor sees busts of Martí at entrances of schools throughout the island, even tiny schools in remote areas.
Today unfriendly commentary on Cuba complains of communist domination there. José Martí in fact took exception to the teachings of Karl Marx. He attended an 1883 meeting in New York where Marx, who had recently died, was being honored. Journalist José Martí begins a report to La Nación this way:
“Look at this large hall. Karl Marx is dead. He deserves to be honored for declaring himself on the side of the weak. But the virtuous man is not the one who points out the damage and burns with generous anxiety to put it right; he is the one who reaches a gentle amendment of the injury.” 
In one of his poems Martí does say, “With the poor people of the earth/I want to cast my lot.” But his political views were never much about class conflict. So it’s an anomaly that a socialist nation takes on a non-socialist as its preeminent national hero. But maybe it’s one that exemplifies the special nature of Cuba’s brand of politics.
Cuban political thinking, for example, is more pragmatic than it is doctrinaire. And, consistent with Martí’s teachings, it draws upon ideals and values and not entirely on economic parameters.
Martí put his mark on the socialist nation’s highly-regarded practice of international solidarity. The title for his commentary in Patria on January 26, 1895 was “Homeland is Humanity.” Four days later he would leave for the revolution in Cuba. For Martí, homeland is “that part of humanity that we see up close and into which we happened to be born.” What with Martí’s great concern about peoples and places everywhere, so-called proletarian internationalism took root in Cuba on well fertilized soil.
And with his close attention to the education and well-being of children, Martí had much to do with children in Cuba being, as is often noted, the “privileged class” there.
Jose Marti: Our America
Published in El Partido Liberal (Mexico City), March 5, 1892
Whatever is left of that sleepy hometown in America must awaken
The prideful villager thinks his hometown contains the whole world, and as long as he can stay on as mayor or humiliate the rival who stole his sweetheart or watch his nest egg accumulating in its strongbox he believes the universe to be in good order, unaware of the giants in seven-league boots who can crush him underfoot or the battling comets in the heavens that go through the air devouring the sleeping worlds.
Whatever is left of that sleepy hometown in America must awaken. These are not times for going to bed in a sleeping cap, but rather, like Juan de Castellanos’ men, with our weapons for a pillow, weapons of the mind, which vanquish all others. Trenches of ideas are worth more than trenches of stone.
A cloud of ideas is a thing no armored prow can smash though. A vital idea set ablaze before the world at the right moment can, like the mystic banner of the last judgment, stop a fleet of battleships.
Hometowns that are still strangers to one another must hurry to become acquainted, like men who are about to do battle together. Those who shake their fists at each other like jealous brothers quarreling over a piece of land or the owner of a small house who envies the man with a better one must join hands and interlace them until their two hands are as one.
Those who, shielded by a criminal tradition, mutilate, with swords smeared in the same blood that flows though their own veins, the land of a conquered brother whose punishment far exceeds his crimes, must return that land to their brother if they do not wish to be known as a nation of plunderers.
The honorable man does not collect his debts of honor in money, at so much per slap. We can no longer be a nation of fluttering leaves, spending our lives in the air, our treetop crowned in flowers, humming or creaking, caressed by the caprices of sunlight or thrashed and felled by tempests. The trees must form ranks to block the seven-league giant! It is the hour of reckoning and of marching in unison, and we must move in lines as compact as the veins of silver that lie at the roots of the Andes.
Only runts whose growth was stunted will lack the necessary valor, for those who have no faith in their land are like men born prematurely. Having no valor themselves, they deny that other men do.
Their puny arms, with bracelets and painted nails, the arms of Madrid or of Paris, cannot manage the lofty tree and so they say the tree cannot be climbed. We must load up the ships with these termites who gnaw away at the core of the patria that has nurtured them; if they are Parisians or Madrileños then let them stroll to the Prado by lamplight or go to Tortoni’s for an ice.
These sons of carpenters who are ashamed that their father was a carpenter! These men born in America who are ashamed of the mother that raised them because she wears an Indian apron, these delinquents who disown their sick mother and leave her alone in her sickbed! Which one is truly a man, he who stays with his mother to nurse her though her illness, or he who forces her to work somewhere out of sight, and lives off her sustenance in corrupted lands, with a worm for his insignia, cursing the bosom that bore him, sporting a sign that says “traitor” on the back of his paper dress-coat?
These sons of our America, which must save herself through her Indians, and which is going from less to more, who desert her and take up arms in the armies of North America, which drowns its own Indians in blood and going from more to less! These delicate creatures who are men but do not want to do men’s work!
Did Washington, who made that land for them, go and live with the English during the years when he saw the English marching against his own land? These incroyables who drag their honor across foreign soil, like the incroyables of the French Revolution, dancing, smacking their lips, and deliberately slurring their words!
And in what patria can a man take greater pride than in our long-suffering republics of America, erected among mute masses of Indians upon the bloodied arms of no more than a hundred apostles, to the sound of the book doing battle against the monk’s tall candle? Never before have such advanced and consolidated nations been created from such disparate factors in less historical time.
The haughty man thinks that because he wields a quick pen or a vivid phrase the earth was made to be his pedestal, and accuses his nature republic or irredeemable incompetence because its virgin jungles do not continually provide him with the means of going about the world a famous plutocrat, driving Persian ponies and spilling champagne.
The incapacity lies not in the emerging country, which demands forms that are appropriate to it and a grandeur that is useful, but in the leaders who try to rule unique nations of a singular and violent composition, with laws inherited from four centuries of free practice in the United States and nineteen centuries of monarchy in France. A gaucho’s pony cannot be stopped in midbolt by one of Alexander Hamilton’s laws.
The sluggish blood of the Indian race cannot be quickened by a phrase from Sieyes. To govern well, one must attend closely to the reality of the place that is governed. In America, the good ruler does not need to know how the German or Frenchman is governed, but what elements his own country is composed of and how he can marshal them so as to reach, by means and institutions born from the country itself, the desirable state in which every man knows himself and is active, and all men enjoy the abundance that Nature, for the good of all, has bestowed on the country they make fruitful by their labor and defend with their lives.
The government must be born from the country. The spirit of the government must be the spirit of the country. The form of the government must be in harmony with the country’s natural constitution. The government is no more than an equilibrium among the country’s natural elements.
In America the natural man has triumphed over the imported book. Natural men have triumphed over an artificial intelligentsia. The native mestizo has triumphed over the alien, pure-blooded criollo. The battle is not between civilization and barbarity, but between false erudition and nature.
The natural man is good, and esteems and rewards a superior intelligence as long as that intelligence does not use his submission against him or offend him by ignoring him-for that the natural man deems unforgivable, and he is prepared to use force to regain the respect of anyone who wounds his sensibilities or harms his interests. The tyrants of America have come to power by acquiescing to these scorned natural elements and have fallen as soon as they betrayed them.
The republics have purged the former tyrannies of their inability to know the true elements of the country, derive the form of government from them, and govern along with them. Governor, in a new country, means Creator.
Our own Greece is preferable to the Greece that is not ours; we need it more. Statesmen who arise from the nation must replace statesmen who are alien to it.
In countries composed of educated and uneducated sectors, the uneducated will govern by their habit of attacking and resolving their doubts with their fists, unless the educated learn the art of governing. The uneducated masses are lazy and timid about matters of the intellect and want to be well-governed, but if the government injures them they shake it off and govern themselves.
How can our governors emerge from the universities when there is not a university in America that teaches the most basic element of the art of governing, which is the analysis of all that is unique to the peoples of America? Our youth go out into the world wearing Yankee- or French-colored glasses and aspire to rule by guesswork a country they do not know.
Those unacquainted with the rudiments of politics should not be allowed to embark on a career in politics. The literary prizes must not go to the best ode, but to the best study of the political factors in the student’s country. In the newspapers, lecture halls, and academies, the study of the country’s real factors must be carried forward. Simply knowing those factors without blindfolds or circumlocutions is enough-for anyone who deliberately or unknowingly sets aside a part of the truth will ultimately fail because of the truth he was lacking, which expands when neglected and brings down whatever is built without it.
Solving the problem after knowing its elements is easier than solving it without knowing them. The natural man, strong and indignant, comes and overthrows the authority that is accumulated from books because it is not administered in keeping with the manifest needs of the country. To know is to solve. To know the country and govern it in accordance with that knowledge is the only way of freeing it from tyranny.
The European university must yield to the American university. The history of America from the Incas to the present must be taught in its smallest detail, even if the Greek Archons go untaught. Our own Greece is preferable to the Greece that is not ours; we need it more. Statesmen who arise from the nation must replace statesmen who are alien to it.
Let the world be grafted onto our republics, but we must be the trunk. And let the vanquished pedant hold his tongue, for their is no patria in which a man can take greater pride than in our long-suffering American republics.
Our feet upon a rosary, our heads white, and our bodies a motley of Indian and criollo we boldly entered the community of nations. Bearing the standard of the Virgin, we went out to conquer our liberty. A priest, a few lieutenants, and a woman built a republic in Mexico upon the shoulders of the Indians.
A Spanish cleric, under cover of his priestly cape, taught French liberty to a handful of magnificent students who chose a Spanish general to lead central America against Spain. Still accustomed to monarchy, and with the sun on their chests, the Venezuelans in the north and the Argentines in the south set out to construct nations. When the two heroes clashed and their continent was about to be rocked, one of them, and not the lesser one, turned back. But heroism is less glorious in peacetime than in war, and thus rarer, and it is easier for a man to die with honor than to think in an orderly way.
Exalted and unanimous sentiments are more readily governed than the diverging, arrogant, alien, and ambitious ideas that emerge when the battle is over. The powers that were swept up in the epic struggle, along with the feline wariness of the species and the sheer weight of reality, undermined the edifice that had raised the flags of nations sustained by wise governance in the continual practice of reason and freedom over the crude and singular regions of our mestizo America with its towns of bare legs and Parisian dress-coats.
The colonial hierarchy resisted the republic’s democracy, and the capital city, wearing its elegant cravat, left the countryside, in its horsehide boots, waiting at the door; the redeemers born from books did not understand that a revolution that had triumphed when the soul of the earth was unleashed by a savior’s voice had to govern with the soul of the earth and not against or without it.
And for all these reasons, America began enduring and still endures the weary task of reconciling the discordant and hostile elements it inherited from its perverse, despotic colonizer with the imported forms and ideas that have, in their lack of local reality, delayed the advent of a logical form of government.
The continent, deformed by three centuries of a rule that denied man the right to exercise his reason, embarked-overlooking or refusing to listen to the ignorant masses that had helped it redeem itself-upon a government based on reason, the reason of all directed toward the things that are of concern to all, and not the university-taught reason of the few imposed upon the rustic reason of others. The problem of independence was not the change in form, but the change in spirit.
Common cause had to be made with the oppressed in order to consolidate a system that was opposed to the interests and governmental habits of the oppressors. The tiger, frightened away b the flash of gunfire, creeps back in the night to find his prey. He will die with flames shooting form his eyes, his claws unsheathed, but now his step is inaudible for he comes on velvet paws.
When the prey awakens, the tiger is upon him. The colony lives on in the republic, but our America is saving itself from its grave blunders-the arrogance of the capital cities, the blind triumph of the scorned campesinos, the excessive importation of foreign ideas and formulas, the wicked and impolitic disdain for the native race-through the superior virtue, confirmed by necessary bloodshed, of the republic that struggles against the colony. The tiger waits behind every tree, crouches in every corner. He will die, his claws unsheathed, flames sho0ting form his eyes.
But “these countries will be saved,” in the words of the Argentine Rivadivia, who erred on the side of urbanity during crude times; the machete is sill-suited to a silken scabbard, nor can the spear be abandoned in a country won by the spear, for it becomes enraged and stands in the doorway of Iturbide’s Congress demanding that “the fair-skinned man be made emperor.”
These countries will be saved because , with the genius of moderation that now seems, by nature’s serene harmony, to prevail in the continent of light, and the influence of the critical reading that has, in Europe, replaced the fumbling ideas about phalansteries in which the previous generation was steeped, the real man is being born to America, in these real times.
What a vision we were: the chest of an athlete, the hands of a dandy, and the forehead of a child. We were a whole fancy dress ball, in English trousers, a Parisian waistcoat, a North American overcoat, and a Spanish bullfighter’s hat. The Indian circled about us, mute, and went to the mountaintop to christen his children. The black, pursued from afar, alone and unknown, sang his heart’s music in the night, between waves and wild beasts.
The campesinos, the men of the land, the creators, rose up in blind indignation against the disdainful city, their own creation. We wore epaulets and judge’s robes, in countries that came into the world wearing rope sandals and Indian headbands. The wise thing would have been to pair, with charitable hearts and the audacity of our founders, the Indian headband and the judicial robe, to undam the Indian, make a place for the able black, and tailor liberty to the bodies of those who rose up and triumphed in its name.
What we had was the judge, the general, the man of letters, and the cleric. Our angelic youth, as if struggling from the arms of an octopus, cast their heads into the heavens and fell back with sterile glory, crowned with clouds. The natural people, driven by instinct, blind with triumph, overwhelmed their gilded rulers. No Yankee or European book could furnish the key to the Hispanoamerican enigma. So the people tried hatred instead, and our countries amounted to less and less each year.
Weary of useless hatred, of the struggle of book against sword, reason against the monk’s taper, city against countryside, the impossible empire of the quarreling urban castes against the tempestuous or inert natural nation, we are beginning, almost unknowingly, to try love. The nations arise and salute one another. “What are we like?” they ask, and begin telling each other what they are like. When a problem arises in Cojimar they no longer seek the solution in Danzig.
The frock-coats are still French, but the thinking begins to be American. The young men of America are rolling up their sleeves and plunging their hands into the dough, and making it rise with the leavening of their sweat. They understand that there is too much imitation, and that salvation lies in creating. Create is this generation’s password. Make wine from plantains; it may be sour, but it is our wine! It is now understood that a country’s form of government must adapt to its natural elements, that absolute ideas, in order not to collapse over an error of form, must be expressed in relative forms; that liberty, on order to be viable, must be sincere and full, that if the republic does not open its arms to all and include all in its progress, it dies.
The tiger inside came in through the gap, and so will the tiger outside. The general holds the cavalry’s speed to the pace of the infantry, for it he leaves the infantry far behind, the enemy will surround the cavalry. Politics is strategy. Nations must continually criticize themselves, for criticism is health, but with a single heart and a single mind. Lower yourselves to the unfortunate and raise them up in your arms!
Let the heart’s fires unfreeze all that is motionless in America, and let the country’s natural blood surge and throb through its veins! Standing tall, the workmen’s eyes full of joy, the new men of America are saluting each other from one country to another. Natural statesmen are emerging from the direct study of nature; they read in order to apply what they read, not copy it.
Economists are studying problems at their origins. Orators are becoming more temperate. Dramatists are putting native characters onstage. Academies are discussing practical subjects. Poetry is snipping off its wild, Zorilla-esque mane and hanging up its gaudy waistcoat on the glorious tree. Prose, polished and gleaming, is replete with ideas. The rulers of Indian republics are learning Indian languages.
America is saving herself from all her dangers. Over some republics the octopus sleeps still, but by the law of equilibrium, other republics are running into the sea to recover the lost centuries with mad and sublime swiftness. Others, forgetting that Juárez traveled in a coach drawn by mules, hitch their coach to the wind and take a soap bubble for coachman-and poisonous luxury, enemy of liberty, corrupts the frivolous and opens the door to foreigners.
The virile character of others is being perfected by the epic spirit of a threatened independence. And others, in rapacious wars against their neighbors, are nurturing an unruly soldier caste that may devour them. But our America may also face another danger, which comes not form within but from the differing origins, methods, and interests of the containment’s two factions.
The hour is near when she will be approached by an enterprising and forceful nation that will demand intimate relations with her, though it does not know her and disdains her. And virile nations self-made by the rifle and the law love other virile nations, and love only them.
The hour of unbridled passion and ambition from which North America may escape by the ascendancy of the purest element in its blood-or into which its vengeful and sordid masses, its tradition of conquest, and the self-interest of a cunning leader could plunge it-is not yet so close, even to the most apprehensive eye, that there is no time for it to be confronted and averted by the manifestation of a discreet and unswerving pride, for its dignity as a republic, in the eyes of the watchful nations of the Universe, places upon North America a brake that our America must not remove by puerile provocation, ostentatious arrogance, or patricidal discord.
Therefore the urgent duty of our America is to show herself as she is, one in soul and intent, rapidly overcoming the crushing weight of her past and stained only by the fertile blood shed by hands that do battle against ruins and by veins that were punctured by our former masters. The disdain of the formidable neighbor who does not know her is our America’s greatest danger, and it is urgent-for the day of the visit is near-that her neighbor come to know her, and quickly, so that he will not disdain her. Out of ignorance, he may perhaps begin to covet her.
But when he knows her, eh will remove his hands from her in respect. One must have faith in the best in man and distrust the worst. One must give the best every opportunity, so that the worst will be laid bare and overcome. If not, the worst will prevail. Nations should have one special pillory for those who incite them to futile hatreds, and another for those who do not tell them the truth until it is too late.
There is no racial hatred, because there are no races.
There is no racial hatred, because there are no races. Sickly, lamp-lit minds string together and rewarm the library-shelf races that the honest traveler and the cordial observer seek in vain in the justice of nature, where the universal identity of man leaps forth in victorious love and turbulent appetite.
The soul, equal and eternal, emanates from bodies that are diverse in form and color. Anyone who promotes and disseminates opposition or hatred among races is committing a sin against humanity. But within that jumble of peoples which lives in close proximity to our peoples, certain peculiar and dynamic characteristics are condensed-ideas and habits of expansion, acquisition, vanity, and greed-that could, in a period of internal disorder or precipitation of a people’s cumulative character, cease to be latent national preoccupations and become a serious threat to the neighboring, isolated and weak lands that the strong country declares to be perishable and inferior.
To think is to serve. We must not, out of a villager’s antipathy, impute some lethal congenital wickedness to the continent’s light-skinned nation simply because it does not speak our language or share our view of what home life should be or resemble us in its political failings, which are different from ours, or because it does not think highly of quick-tempered, swarthy men or look with charity, from its still uncertain eminence, upon those less favored by history who, in heroic stages, are climbing the road that republics travel.
But neither should we seek to conceal the obvious facts of the problem, which can, for the peace of the centuries, be resolved by timely study and the urgent, wordless union of the continental soul. For the unanimous hymn is already ringing forth, and the present generation is bearing industrious America along the road sanctioned by our sublime forefathers. From the Rio bravo to the Straits of Magellan, the Great Cemi, seated on a condor’s back, has scattered the seeds of the new America across the romantic nations of the continent and the suffering islands of the sea!
02 Feb 2018 | Radio Ebelde | Translated by: Aylen Lesmes Bonachea
Martí always had the Homeland as his first love, but, where to overflow his permanent inspirations and the feelings of honorable Cuban which were with him in his pro-independence determination?
His passion as a man in love used to go with him all the time; it was one of his essences. Many letters and poems are proofs of it. The most part of those letters have been deciphered by researches which nowadays tell us the stories between lines, the contexts that inspired to the Apostle, the dazzles due to one or another lady, her reactions, the destiny of those affairs…
In Zaragoza (Spain), Martí studied law and met Blanca Montalvo. That was just an affair and she would end up marrying the doctor Manuel Simeón Pastor. But there was an eternal trace: she named her son José.
Then, between 1871 and 1874, years of exile, the Cuban hero met a lady who signed his letters with the letter “M”. And that remained: the inspiration to continue fighting in those difficult years and the missives became at the present time into historical documents.
In Mexico he found the actress Concha Padilla, protagonist of the drama “Love with love is paid”. Later, in the same Aztec land, love verses were born: “In you I thought, in your hair, / which the shadow world would envy. And I put a point of my life in them, / and I wanted to think that you were mine ».
Rosario de la Peña was the cause of that inspiration, a tall and dark woman that many people called Rosario of Acuña, because a poet with that name had already committed suicide for her love. However, Martí’s life had greater efforts, Death only for the Homeland. And that certainty had many more poems.
The Cuban researcher Luis García Pascual, in his book “Addressee José Martí”, publishes several love letters between the Apostle and the actress from Camagüey Eloísa Agüero, whom he met at the Principal Theater of México, in 1875. According to García Pascual himself, that romance coincided at a certain moment with the beginnings of the relationship between Martí and Carmen Zayas-Bazán.
Already engaged with his future wife, the hero travels to South America and there he meets María García-Granados, a tender 20 years girl that the world would know thanks to the poem: “The Guatemala’s child”. For José Martí it was a memorable friendship, for her, the discovery of a love that only left the sadness of the unrequited passions to her.
On December 20, 1877, Martí married Carmen Zayas-Bazán in the side Chapel of the Metropolitan Tabernacle of México parish church. The nuptial party was celebrated in Manuel Mercado’s house; in the marriages book his marriage would be marked with the number 27; and from then on, many wars would come.
Several historians have taken charge of vindicating Carmen, because others have pointed her out as a woman who was not up to her husband. It is true that he himself complained about her misunderstandings, but he would have had strong reasons to choose her among many and consummate one of his highest prides: his son José Francisco Martí Zayas-Bazán. This is how José Martí left it written for the story, in a letter addressed to his friend Manuel Mercado, in May of 1880:
“… Carmen does not share, with these judgments of the present that do not always reach the future, my devotion to my tasks today. But she compensates for these small injustices with her always tender affection, and with an exquisite dedication to this delicate creature that our good fortune gave us as a son … ”
The historian Ercilio Vento, author of “Carmen, the verse agony”, writes: “José Martí’s marriage has been touched superficially and touched from the edge of the partner. The most daring people speak about incomprehension, but not in a deeper analysis. Carmen is a rebellious woman, ahead of her time.
It’s true that she claims her rights as a wife in a strong way but she is also a realistic woman. She deserves to be understood, Marti is deported for the second time and she stays with a son, without a penny in her pocket and rejected by both families. Let’s remember that Carmen’s father ostracized her and also sent her to live with some aunts, even one of them tries to attempt against José Francisco’s life because he is José Martí’s son. Let’s imagine the agony that suffers that woman”.
Finally, the definitive couple’s break took place on August 27th of 1891. Mrs. Zayas Bazán only preserved the son and the wedding album that she carried with her everywhere, like someone who does not want to detach herself from the good memories.
When they separated, the inspiring Carmen Mirayes who was married with the Cuban Manuel Mantilla, already flittered around Martí’s life. There are many mysteries about her, and there are many others about her daughter, who was María Mantilla when she was alive, but she is buried under the name of María Martí.
Scientific studies have deal with the similarities of physical features between her and the Apostle. The letters, from a more subjective level, of course, reinforce such suppositions and reveal the flesh and soul of the Marti’s passions:
(To Maria, from Haitian Cape, April 9th, 1895)
“Go, quiet, among the vain people. Your soul is your silk. Hug your mother, and love her, because it is a great honor to have come from that woman into the world. That, when you look inside yourself and inside what you do, you could find yourself like the earth in the morning, bathed in light. Leave the frivolous world to others ladies: you are more valued. Smile, and go. And if you do not see me again, do like the kid when burying Frank Sorzano: put a book, -the book that I ask you-, over the grave. Or on your breast, because there I will be buried if I die, where men do not know it. You, work. I send you a kiss. And wait for me.
Your, J. Martí