Professor Eduardo Martínez Barrios (may he rest in peace) was my great-uncle (my mother’s mother’s brother). He lived the last years of his life in Cuernavaca, Morelos, where we visited him a few times. Somehow, this writing dedicated to him by the journalist Carlos Barrios Martínez came into our possession (we believe the similarity in surnames is purely coincidental). This is an English translation, the original version is of course in Spanish.

To Professor Eduardo Martínez Barrios.

Song to a rural teacher

by Carlos Barrios Martínez

I remember you back when you were about fifteen, on your rickety bicycle, heading to your little school in Teacalco, still a boy, because life had forced you to grow up too fast and thrust you into the role of head of the family. You came from Xocoyucan, that rural teacher training college that was a breeding ground for restless young people, eager to exchange the servitude of peasant life for the intellectual tools of socialist education.

I remember the path you chose to dedicate your life to teaching. Amajax de Guerrero, Apizaco, Uruapan, Santiago Ixcuintla, Tepoztlán, Jojutla, Acatlipa, who knows where else—the geopolitics of rural Mexico. The land of bare feet and sad eyes. Always immersed in books and notebooks, in sleepless nights that never ended, simply because this humble teacher was born with a hunger for knowledge and a biological need to share what his efforts were revealing to him.

You forgot about the outside world, let alone its pleasures. You devoted yourself to that blessed folly of racking your brain deciphering logarithms and equations. In your dedication to vigilance, you became a peasant leader when that was a profession for honest people. A sociologist, mathematician, physicist, with no titles other than those of true wisdom and integrity.

Your family grew, teacher, in the same measure that your stature grew through this sacrifice. You gained as many children as there were students who passed through your classroom, always open at all hours of the day and night, just like your tireless heart. How many generations grew under your guidance? How many young people loved you like a father? And now, as adults, they pronounce your name with more than just respect and gratitude. How many of them are your children? More so than those truly begotten, because they received from you, without limit of time or patience, the vital essence that transformed them into men.

I remember you at 20, at 40, at 60 years old. Always the same, especially absorbed in your work, when you weren’t fighting with rulers and local bosses, nurturing the hopes of others, which you made your own. Serving a social vocation that was innate and that still hasn’t left you. Destined for modesty, material possessions were as foreign to you as the ambition to acquire them. Thus, you knew nothing of greed, nor were you embittered by the good fortune of friends, colleagues, or neighbors.

You never asked for anything, except perhaps a brick to expand your school. And when, through sheer dedication to your work, some good fortune came your way, your astonishment was touching. Like that of a man who never had a childhood—and that was truly the case—and who suddenly sees that his destiny can be something more than worn-out clothes and daily deprivations. Instead, I see you saving penny after penny to buy yet another book, especially those on the exact sciences that always seemed so impenetrable to me. Do you remember? Until you built mountains, behind which you prepared yourself to give yourself to others, and in a way, as if your very existence depended on it.

That’s how the gray hairs came to you, teacher, and your life unfolded peacefully, without abrupt changes or ups and downs. Not being a man of passions, it’s doubtful that you ever aroused any animosity. Whoever harmed you surely did so with the treachery of someone who strikes at their own flesh and blood, expecting no retaliation, much less revenge. Thus, you were able to navigate life safely, free from turmoil and hidden dangers, something only truly good people can achieve.

You were told so many times to finally take a break from your labors. And you, of course, acknowledged the need to give your body a well-deserved rest. Yet, you always did the exact opposite, going about your business as if nothing were wrong, accumulating wrinkles on your noble face, one for each year of work, one for every thousand young people you sent out into the world, ready to conquer life. Demagogues and scoundrels rose to power around you. You witnessed firsthand the opulence of the corrupt and the cruelty of the powerful. And you, as if nothing had happened, remained the same, neither example affecting you beyond a fleeting moment of astonishment. You have been a rare breed, teacher, a blend of kindness and wisdom.

On this day, the Republic honors you, and José López Portillo, on behalf of the Mexican people, has invited you to his table at Los Pinos to bestow upon you a medal—the Ignacio Manuel Altamirano Medal. And, as in the old days of your youth, you appeared unassuming alongside our president, Han González, and Fernando Solana, observing everything with wonder, as if the celebration weren’t for you and those who have been like you. But that’s not all, teacher, for while 50 years of uninterrupted service is a remarkable achievement—a lifetime dedicated to Mexican education—it barely begins to describe how you have filled those years with exemplary deeds. Let us offer further praise, for these deeds have been performed anonymously, embraced as a cultural responsibility, and carried out with a naturalness that reflects your very essence.

In this golden wheel, received with a tremor of emotion and a gleam in your tear-filled eyes, lies a story. Yours, which I now attempt to outline, so that you don’t think that’s where it all ends. Not at all! When the teaching profession crumbles under inefficiency and irresponsibility, when classrooms are tainted by corrupting interests and education becomes a means of profit, it is fitting to describe you as you have been throughout your dedicated life: an example of generous devotion, civic commitment, and humanistic excellence.

I remember you on horseback, traveling along the dusty paths of Tlaxcala. I haven’t forgotten your makeshift beds, with the luxury of a checkered serape as your only blanket, and your soap crates always overflowing with thick books. I see you sweating, among railroad workers, tobacco farmers, and sugarcane cutters from one end of the country to the other, fighting for a microscope, for one more meter of school, for the dignity of working-class life, always alongside those who still suffer from injustice. It was impossible for you to imagine that one day, your body weary but your mind sharp, you would ascend to the Palace of Bellas Artes for the highest authority to bestow upon you the nation’s gratitude.

You simply did your part, oblivious to rewards and accolades. Yet, the day after you finally receive them, you’re already back at your little school in Acatlipa, Morelos, immersed in your work projects. You’re incorrigible. Put aside your books, teacher. And now, finally, take a moment to let the emotions and tears flow. Why not? From childhood, you gave meaning to your life and have remained faithful, stubbornly faithful, to that meaning. Your simplicity, passed down from parents to children, flourishes in many places, where your name is synonymous with kindness and intelligence.

You have transcended the finitude of human existence, and that is a privilege granted to very few. Enjoy it, old friend! A survivor of those years, of those secular songs that the Cardenist school fostered. No one will begrudge you for now stepping back into life to reap some of what you sowed.

Mexico City, May 15th, 1978.