Capítulo 2: Entre dos escuelas — La Colonia Guerrero como maestra

Capítulo 2: Entre dos escuelas — La Colonia Guerrero como maestra

La educación no ocurre solo dentro de las aulas. Algunas de las lecciones más importantes de la vida llegan silenciosas, casi desapercibidas, y solo muchos años después las reconocemos por lo que realmente fueron.

Cuando tenía seis años, mi educación formal comenzó en el Colegio Los Ángeles, una pequeña escuela católica a pocas cuadras de nuestra casa en la Colonia Guerrero. Las hermanas que enseñaban allí creían firmemente que la disciplina rígida y la fe católica eran los cimientos gemelos del carácter. Se esperaba silencio. La obediencia era recompensada. Las preguntas eran raras y la fe, absoluta. Para nosotros, Dios parecía estar vigilando cada acción, cada palabra y hasta cada pensamiento fugaz.

Mirando atrás, no juzgo con dureza a aquellas mujeres. Eran producto de su tiempo, al igual que mis padres. En el México de la posguerra, la estricta disciplina se consideraba una expresión de amor y la autoridad rara vez se cuestionaba. El aula simplemente reflejaba la sociedad más allá de sus muros.

Lo mismo hacía mi hogar. Mi padre gobernaba nuestra casa con la misma certeza absoluta. Una de sus expresiones favoritas era: «Sólo mis chicharrones truenan». De niño, lo aceptaba sin cuestionar. De adulto, llegué a comprender que esa certeza tan rígida a menudo oculta un miedo profundo. Mi padre había sobrevivido a la pobreza, el hambre, la revolución y una profunda incertidumbre; el orden se convirtió en su forma de proteger a la familia que tanto le había costado construir. Me tomó décadas reconocer la diferencia.

La escuela fuera de la escuela

Sin embargo, cada tarde se abría otra escuela. No tenía director, ni uniformes, ni exámenes. Sus aulas eran las bulliciosas calles de la Colonia Guerrero, y el barrio mismo se convirtió en mi gran maestro.

Los vendedores ambulantes anunciaban su llegada con llamadas melódicas que jamás aparecieron en ningún libro de música. El silbido agudo y vibrante del afilador resonaba por las calles estrechas. El ropavejero empujaba su pesado carrito, pidiendo ropa vieja y cacharros. Las madres asustaban rutinariamente a los niños desobedientes diciendo: «Si no te portas bien, el ropavejero te va a llevar». Ninguno de nosotros lo creía del todo, pero ninguno quería averiguarlo.

Las calles y banquetas se transformaban en canchas de fútbol, y los umbrales de piedra eran nuestras tribunas. El barrio entero pertenecía casi exclusivamente a sus niños hasta la puesta del sol. Hoy en día, los niños suelen conocer mejor los centros comerciales que las banquetas. Nosotros, en cambio, conocíamos cada grieta del pavimento, cada árbol y cada tendero de los pequeños comercios familiares que bordeaban nuestra cuadra. Conocíamos a cada vecino que velaba por nosotros como si fuéramos parte de una enorme familia extendida.

Teníamos muy poco. Sin embargo, de algún modo, poseíamos el mayor lujo de todos: la libertad.

Un tipo diferente de belleza

Todo cambió cuando me transfirieron a la Escuela Belisario Domínguez. A primera vista, era simplemente otra escuela pública. Solo años después comprendí lo que la hacía verdaderamente extraordinaria: sus muros hablaban.

Los murales nos rodeaban por todas partes. Las obras maestras de Carlos Mérida, Emilio Amero, Pablo O'Higgins, Antonio Ruiz, Arnold Belkin y muchos otros brillantes artistas transformaron aulas ordinarias en lugares donde la historia, el arte y la educación se volvían inseparables. A los diez años no conocía sus nombres. Solo sabía que aquellos muros vibrantes me hacían sentir algo profundo.

Los niños suelen experimentar la belleza mucho antes de poder articularla. Quizá ese fue mi primer encuentro verdadero con la compañera más cercana de la arquitectura: el arte. Años más tarde, al diseñar edificios, recordaría esas aulas. Llegué a creer que los edificios deben educar, que los espacios públicos deben inspirar y que la belleza pertenece a todos, no solo a quienes visitan los museos. Sospecho que esas ideas fueron sembradas en mí mucho antes de que supiera que la arquitectura existía como profesión.

Esperando a mi hermana

Otra lección arquitectónica llegó de manera inesperada. Mi hermana mayor asistía al Instituto Washington, ubicado dentro de una de las elegantes mansiones porfirianas diseñadas por el legendario arquitecto Antonio Rivas Mercado.

De vez en cuando, la esperaba a la salida. Mientras tanto, deambulaba por el edificio mirando con asombro las escalinatas imponentes, los balcones ornamentados, los techos altos, las puertas de madera tallada y las proporciones graciosas del espacio. No habría podido explicar por qué esa casa me fascinaba tan profundamente; simplemente se sentía... diferente.

Algunos edificios hablan en voz baja. Nunca exigen tu atención a gritos, pero años después permanecen grabados permanentemente en tu memoria. Solo tras convertirme en arquitecto descubrí quién había diseñado esa magnífica mansión. Entonces, todo cobró sentido repentinamente. Tal vez la arquitectura me había estado llamando mucho antes de que supiera cómo responder.

Tres maestros

Cuando pienso en aquellos años formativos, me doy cuenta de que tuve tres maestros notables. Las monjas me enseñaron disciplina. Mi padre me enseñó artesanía, control de calidad y puntualidad. Pero la ciudad... la ciudad me enseñó a observar.

La observación se convirtió en la base de todo lo que siguió en mi carrera. Los arquitectos deben aprender primero a ver, no meramente a mirar. Deben aprender a notar. A preguntar por qué una calle se siente acogedora y humana mientras otra se siente fría y hostil. Por qué un edificio parece atemporal mientras otro se vuelve obsoleto rápidamente. Por qué un barrio sigue vibrante porque la gente se cuida mutuamente. Comencé a hacer esas preguntas mucho antes de saber que tenían nombres técnicos. Era simplemente un niño curioso caminando por la Colonia Guerrero.

Hoy, cuando regreso a esas calles, muchas cosas han cambiado. Los niños son diferentes, los sonidos son diferentes y hasta el aire se siente distinto. Aun así, si cierro los ojos por un momento, todavía puedo escuchar las risas resonando en los patios que quedan, el silbido distante del afilador y las dulces melodías de las marimbas y los organilleros.

La memoria, he descubierto, es la única ciudad que nunca desaparece por completo.

💬 ¿Quieres reflexionar y comentar?

Únete a la discusión en La Estructura de la Palabra:

👉 [ENLACE_A_LA_ESTRUCTURA_DE_LA_PALABRA]

📖 Versión en inglés: Capítulo 2: Between Two Schools

#LaCiudadQueMeConstruyó #MemoriaCDMX #ColoniaGuerrero #CiudadDeMéxico #CDMX #Rec

Chapter 2: Between Two Schools — The Streets That Taught Me to See

Education does not happen only inside classrooms. Some of life's most important lessons arrive quietly, almost unnoticed, and only many years later do we recognize them for what they truly were.

When I was six years old, my formal education began at Colegio Los Ángeles, a small Catholic school just a few blocks from our home in Colonia Guerrero. The sisters who taught there firmly believed that rigid discipline and Catholic faith were the twin foundations of character. Silence was expected. Obedience was rewarded. Questions were rare, and faith was absolute. To us, God seemed to be watching every action, every word, and even every fleeting thought.

Looking back, I do not judge those women harshly. They were products of their time, just as my parents were. In postwar Mexico, strict discipline was seen as an expression of love, and authority was seldom questioned. The classroom simply reflected the society beyond its walls.

So did my home. My father ruled our household with the same absolute certainty. One of his favorite sayings was, "Sólo mis chicharrones truenan" — in other words, "In this house, my word is final." As a child, I accepted that without question. As an adult, I came to understand that such rigid certainty often hides a deep fear. My father had survived poverty, hunger, revolution, and great uncertainty; order became his way of protecting the family he had worked so hard to build. It took me decades to see that clearly.

The School Beyond the Walls

Yet every afternoon, another school opened its doors. It had no principal, no uniforms, no exams. Its classrooms were the lively streets of Colonia Guerrero, and the neighborhood itself became my greatest teacher.

Street sellers announced their arrival with musical calls that never appeared in any songbook. The high, trilling whistle of the knife sharpener rang through narrow streets. The scrap man pushed his heavy cart, calling for old clothes and worn-out things. Mothers would warn children: "If you misbehave, the scrap man will take you away." None of us truly believed it — but none of us wanted to find out.

Streets and pavements became football fields; stone doorsteps were our grandstands. The whole neighborhood felt like it belonged to its children until sunset. Today, children know shopping centres better than sidewalks. We knew every crack in the road, every tree, every shopkeeper. We knew every neighbour who looked out for us as if we were one big family.

We had very little. Yet in some ways, we had the greatest gift of all: freedom.

Beauty in Unexpected Places

Everything changed when I transferred to Belisario Domínguez School. At first glance, it was just another public school. Only years later did I understand what made it truly special: its walls spoke.

Murals surrounded us everywhere. Works by Carlos Mérida, Emilio Amero, Pablo O'Higgins, Antonio Ruiz, Arnold Belkin and more turned ordinary rooms into spaces where history, art and learning became one. At ten, I did not know their names. I only knew those bright walls made me feel something deep.

Children feel beauty long before they can name it. That was perhaps my first meeting with art — and with architecture, its closest companion. Years later, designing buildings, I remembered those rooms. I came to believe that buildings should teach, public spaces should inspire, and beauty belongs to everyone — not only museum visitors. Those ideas were planted in me long before I knew architecture could be a profession.

A Mansion and a Calling

Another lesson came unexpectedly. My older sister attended the Washington Institute, housed in one of the elegant Porfirian mansions designed by the legendary architect Antonio Rivas Mercado.

Sometimes I waited for her there. I would walk through the building, amazed by wide staircases, decorated balconies, high ceilings, carved wooden doors and graceful proportions. I could not explain why it felt so special — it just did.

Some buildings speak softly. They do not shout, yet they stay with you forever. Only when I became an architect did I learn who designed that house. Suddenly, everything made sense. Perhaps architecture had been calling me all along.

Three Teachers

Looking back, I see I had three remarkable teachers. The nuns taught me discipline. My father taught me care, precision and reliability. But the city... the city taught me how to see.

Observation became the foundation of everything that followed. Architects must first learn to notice — not just look. Why does one street feel welcoming and human while another feels cold? Why does one building feel timeless while another ages quickly? Why does a neighbourhood stay alive because people look after one another? I asked those questions as a boy walking through Colonia Guerrero, long before I learned the professional words for them.

Today, many things have changed. The children are different. The sounds are different. Even the air feels different. Yet if I close my eyes, I still hear laughter in courtyards, the distant whistle of the knife sharpener, and sweet melodies from marimbas and barrel organs.

Memory, I have learned, is the one city that never truly disappears.

💬 Join the Discussion & Practice

Share your thoughts and practice your English at La Estructura de la Palabra:

👉 [ENLACE_A_LA_ESTRUCTURA_DE_LA_PALABRA]

🇪🇸 Read in Spanish: Capítulo 2: Entre dos escuelas

#LaCiudadQueMeConstruyó #BetweenTwoSchools #MexicoCity #ColoniaGuerrero #CDMX #ChildhoodMemories #Architecture #LearningToSee #CityStories #Bilingual #EnglishReading #CulturalHeritage #RivasMercado #MexicoHistory

Education does not happen only inside classrooms. Some of life's most important lessons arrive quietly, almost unnoticed, and only many years later do we recognize them for what they truly were.

When I was six years old, my formal education began at Colegio Los Ángeles, a small Catholic school just a few blocks from our home in Colonia Guerrero. The sisters who taught there firmly believed that rigid discipline and Catholic faith were the twin foundations of character. Silence was expected. Obedience was rewarded. Questions were rare, and faith was absolute. To us, God seemed to be watching every action, every word, and even every fleeting thought.

Looking back, I do not judge those women harshly. They were products of their time, just as my parents were. In postwar Mexico, strict discipline was seen as an expression of love, and authority was seldom questioned. The classroom simply reflected the society beyond its walls.

So did my home. My father ruled our household with the same absolute certainty. One of his favorite sayings was, "Sólo mis chicharrones truenan" — in other words, "In this house, my word is final." As a child, I accepted that without question. As an adult, I came to understand that such rigid certainty often hides a deep fear. My father had survived poverty, hunger, revolution, and great uncertainty; order became his way of protecting the family he had worked so hard to build. It took me decades to see that clearly.

The School Beyond the Walls

Yet every afternoon, another school opened its doors. It had no principal, no uniforms, no exams. Its classrooms were the lively streets of Colonia Guerrero, and the neighborhood itself became my greatest teacher.

Street sellers announced their arrival with musical calls that never appeared in any songbook. The high, trilling whistle of the knife sharpener rang through narrow streets. The scrap man pushed his heavy cart, calling for old clothes and worn-out things. Mothers would warn children: "If you misbehave, the scrap man will take you away." None of us truly believed it — but none of us wanted to find out.

Streets and pavements became football fields; stone doorsteps were our grandstands. The whole neighborhood felt like it belonged to its children until sunset. Today, children know shopping centres better than sidewalks. We knew every crack in the road, every tree, every shopkeeper. We knew every neighbour who looked out for us as if we were one big family.

We had very little. Yet in some ways, we had the greatest gift of all: freedom.

Beauty in Unexpected Places

Everything changed when I transferred to Belisario Domínguez School. At first glance, it was just another public school. Only years later did I understand what made it truly special: its walls spoke.

Murals surrounded us everywhere. Works by Carlos Mérida, Emilio Amero, Pablo O'Higgins, Antonio Ruiz, Arnold Belkin and more turned ordinary rooms into spaces where history, art and learning became one. At ten, I did not know their names. I only knew those bright walls made me feel something deep.

Children feel beauty long before they can name it. That was perhaps my first meeting with art — and with architecture, its closest companion. Years later, designing buildings, I remembered those rooms. I came to believe that buildings should teach, public spaces should inspire, and beauty belongs to everyone — not only museum visitors. Those ideas were planted in me long before I knew architecture could be a profession.

A Mansion and a Calling

Another lesson came unexpectedly. My older sister attended the Washington Institute, housed in one of the elegant Porfirian mansions designed by the legendary architect Antonio Rivas Mercado.

Sometimes I waited for her there. I would walk through the building, amazed by wide staircases, decorated balconies, high ceilings, carved wooden doors and graceful proportions. I could not explain why it felt so special — it just did.

Some buildings speak softly. They do not shout, yet they stay with you forever. Only when I became an architect did I learn who designed that house. Suddenly, everything made sense. Perhaps architecture had been calling me all along.

Three Teachers

Looking back, I see I had three remarkable teachers. The nuns taught me discipline. My father taught me care, precision and reliability. But the city... the city taught me how to see.

Observation became the foundation of everything that followed. Architects must first learn to notice — not just look. Why does one street feel welcoming and human while another feels cold? Why does one building feel timeless while another ages quickly? Why does a neighbourhood stay alive because people look after one another? I asked those questions as a boy walking through Colonia Guerrero, long before I learned the professional words for them.

Today, many things have changed. The children are different. The sounds are different. Even the air feels different. Yet if I close my eyes, I still hear laughter in courtyards, the distant whistle of the knife sharpener, and sweet melodies from marimbas and barrel organs.

Memory, I have learned, is the one city that never truly disappears.

💬 Join the Discussion & Practice

Share your thoughts and practice your English at La Estructura de la Palabra:

👉 [ENLACE_A_LA_ESTRUCTURA_DE_LA_PALABRA]

🇪🇸 Read in Spanish: Capítulo 2: Entre dos escuelas

#LaCiudadQueMeConstruyó #BetweenTwoSchools #MexicoCity #ColoniaGuerrero #CDMX #ChildhoodMemories #Architecture #LearningToSee #CityStories #Bilingual #EnglishReading #CulturalHeritage #RivasMercado #MexicoHistory