Two women that I do not know

Last week, the media virtually brought me close to two women who, for different reasons, caught my attention. One was the PP deputy for Ourense, Ana Vázquez, 51 years old; the other, Maricarmen Abascal, an 87-year-old pensioner from Madrid who was evicted by court order. I will not go into the background that motivated their respective (omni)presences in the media over a few hours, because otherwise the article would end up being the typical argumentative hodgepodge of an accelerated talk show. I will focus on how this brief (omni)presence will condition the rest of their lives, whatever they do. Regarding deputy Vázquez, I was perplexed by her vulgarity, beyond the little scene with the pepper spray: the gestures, the diction, that impertinent look... Regarding the pensioner Abascal, on the other hand, I was surprised by a serenity that, given the situation, was even more impressive. I don't know much more about these two women, especially the older one. I have read that Vázquez took the civil service exam for the National Police force, but jumped into politics at the age of 25, and that Abascal worked as a secretary at an American pharmaceutical company for more than three decades. I have a certainty, however: the Andy Warholian 15 minutes of fame of both ladies will be attempted to be stretched out for reasons that have little to do with the essential purpose of journalism, which—I remind you in case anyone has forgotten—is none other than to inform with rigor and truthfulness. It is probable that Ana Vázquez committed a more or less serious infraction in a parliamentary setting, and it is reasonable to think that Maricarmen Abascal personifies a situation that should not have been reached. The way the media will swallow both cases, however, is another matter. Their media history, so brief and noisy, will surely not vanish with the same speed with which it erupted. On the contrary: even if many forget about it, it will remain adhered to their public biography like a kind of second skin, a layer of interpretations that they have not chosen and that, nevertheless, they will have to swallow. It is the price of having been transformed by chance into involuntary symbols. From now on, any gesture by Vázquez will be filtered through the caricature of her unfortunate stunt; any appearance by Abascal, through the image of vulnerability that has been attributed to her. And it is here that journalism, when it abdicates its essential function, ceases to be an instrument of understanding to become a dangerous mechanism of solidification or fixation: it freezes people in a single frame and condemns them to represent it indefinitely. An example that people of my generation might remember: in 1975, the President of the United States Gerald Ford (1913-2006) went from being a politician to being only "the man who fell down the airplane stairs".

What worries me is not so much what the two women starring in this role, or President Ford himself, have done or failed to do, but what they will be made to do: repeat themselves, embody a role they did not choose (in the case of poor Ford, posthumously: eternally). The deputy will have to live with a label that will reduce her to an episode, perhaps like that colleague of hers from her party who made a mistake in a decisive vote. The evicted pensioner, with a narrative that will turn her into an emblem of a problem that, for obvious reasons, exceeds her. In this way, the media narrative, which should be a bridge to factuality, will become a kind of distorting mirror that forces one to contemplate these two people always from the same angle. Perhaps it is inevitable, but it remains unsettling. Glory lasts fifteen minutes; the simplification of one's own image, on the other hand, does not usually have an expiration date. Beyond the coincidence in time, are we facing two parallel or comparable stories? No, absolutely not. The public presence of deputy Vázquez, a talk show guest with a hardcore style, is voluntary and well remunerated; that of the 87-year-old evicted pensioner is totally accidental. This does not mean, obviously, that the former can be treated like a fairground doll and the latter as if she were a secular saint, but it does mark a moral difference that I am very clear about when it comes to qualifying them. In any case, the one who makes me suffer most is Mrs. Abascal, who is the age of my parents. The temptation to politically instrumentalize her story in one sense or another is irresistible. The possibility that this instrumentalization will turn into a circus with many clowns and lions, so unadvisable for a person of her age, is considerable.