Comentarios Literarios Hispanoamericanos del Siglo XIX.
Sounds sexy, right?
If you don’t speak Spanish, pretend like you’re in a Taco Bell commercial, then say it again.
This class is a contradiction, like all of my experiences in Spain thus far.
The roughest class I have this semester. Interesting, but let’s be honest: I have no idea what the Helsinki Finland is going on. Our professor mentioned that on the final we won’t have any reading samples from what we read in class, but we will have to identify the author of readings that we did not discuss in class. Makes sense, right?
The teacher is a beautiful Spanish woman – thin, great boobs, gorgeous mop of morning-after curls, trendy, a smooth voice and an incredible passion for her field of interest.
In this classroom we have a hearty mix of students. There are but a couple of us that are not Spanish. And then you have your popular Spanish girls, your awkward wannabe popular Spanish girls, your token hipster, a middle-aged non-traditional student, a couple loners, and one single male student.
This post is dedicated to him.
About a month ago, we were reading the 1839 piece “El Matador” by the Argentine author Esteban Echeverría. I remember that day in class vividly because it was the day my innocent American hormones went AWOL and became intoxicated by the literary sangria of Spanish culture. It was not only the first day of the semester the professor asked for class participation due to a losing battle with laryngitis, but it was the day she called on Rodrigo.
Rodrigo…Rodrigo. Each time that name rolls around the hollow of my mouth, I trade in cotton pajamas for black lace lingerie.
Rodrigo sits in the front row every day donning his coke bottle glasses and clad in sweaters, khakis and loafers. He nervously bounces his legs under the table as he holds a bottle of medicated lotion he frequently applies to his flaking, red, patchy, burned skin. He’s always the first and only to interject a commentary in class. Clearly, he spends his free time pouring over these obras with his lit major friends; everyone knows who they are because the small handful of them hang around in the hallway between classes, sitting in archaic window sills next to the classroom and chatting quietly about what I – as the daydreamy foreign student – imagine to be planning sessions for poetry reading and wine nights at a local underground bar.
They’ve got this vibe of coolness. Geek chic.
But oh, Rodrigo. I was on to him. His savage afro of sandy brown curls hinted to his secret.
On that day – that day when I became a real woman – I knew why this boy’s mother named him Rodrigo.
Profesora Gil asked Rodrigo if he would read.
This sweet dork-of-a-guy pushed his glasses up high onto the bridge of his nose, stood up and walked right to the projector screen where he planted his nose so he could see the already enormous letters.
And then he began to read.
…what was this feeling?!?!
I lost all control over my ability to focus.
I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair.
I felt the words rip open my chest and plunge their primal hands into the core of my soul, the factory where raw emotion and carnal desire is manufactured.
I was confused. Here I was staring at the Spanish equivalent of Steve Urkel, but having a lustful affair on my own personal cover of a Harlequin romance novel.
Rodrigo became the author with a quill by candlelight, glancing over at the love of his life wrapped in a sea of white linen, quietly resting on the bed. Rodrigo read like a debonaire, deliciously exotic Spaniard whispering sweet nothings into my ear. Rodrigo was Brendan Fraser taming horses in George of the Jungle, except in this version Rodrigo was taming wild lines of poetry. (If you are unfamiliar with this scene in George of the Jungle, you must watch it…it’s a hot, comedic, melodramatic moment.) This nerdy kid beneath the plastic frames swallowing his face transformed into the most sensual guy I’ve come across in Spain. His voice read each word with the longing and sensuality of an unfulfilled love, holding and caressing each one individually as if each line was his lover.
Please hold while I sit very unladylike and let a draft lower my body temperature just a little before continuing.
There are no words in English or Spanish that will do justice to the beauty that Rodrigo conveyed. His voice trumped all prejudice the world may throw at him. Beautiful. Tender. Tranquilizing.
Now when I’m wandering the second floor on campus, I’m secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of him. And when I do, I’m twittered, even if just from the mountain of respect I have for his knowledge and passion of written word, and his amazing ability to read even the most confusing texts so beautifully and deliver their meaning with such devotion. And sensuality. Let us not forget that little gem.
Way to go, Rodrigo.
Ten points to Gryffindor.