How the knowledge of Latin may help combat bullying

The following is an account of real events that took place last week.

I go to the bank to have my signature notarized for a work document. I see one of the bankers who usually helps me with this task; his name is Victor, and I remember him from former visits. But this time around, a different banker helps me out with the notarization, and I can't remember the name of this particular banker.

I tell him about this: about the fact that I can't remember his name, as I also recognize his face, but for some reason I have never been able to catch his first and last. N.N. banker tells me what his full name is (which, again, I have forgotten, at the moment of writing this account of the events), although he acknowledges that I had indeed recognized his colleague a few minutes earlier. "I do remember Victor's name," I tell N.N. banker. "Yes," N.N. replies. "That's Victor. Or, as I usually call him, 'Weaktor,'" he adds, with an unapologetic scornful tone in his voice.

"Well," I inquire N.N. "Do you even know what 'Victor' means in Latin?" And without waiting for N.N. to tell me that he doesn't know what it means (because it's quite obvious that he doesn't), I answer my own question to N.N.'s face: "'Victor' means 'victorious, the one who wins in the battle,'" while my eyes and Victor's meet and lock in a silent recognition of triumph.

N.N. chuckles and chokes pathetically while swallowing that stone, his mouth unable to utter a single word in any language. Victor and I disengage our exchange of looks. Our battle has been won. I leave the bank with my document notarized by N.N., whose name not only do I not remember, but also isn't worth remembering either.

septiembre otoño y aún verano

septiembre otoño y aún verano

luna llena enorme y amarilla que aparece por sorpresa y por lo bajo

ciervos en la avenida vacía

ni se inmutan con las luces de los autos

como si se soñaran a sí mismos

amor

que te abraza y te acaricia y te agita y te despeina

demasiada felicidad para una sola noche

I am the river

before being anything else

cells or a body or a thought at a sixties’ party

you were a raft

a human-less shape of a vessel in a river

navigating your way down and up

conversing with the spawning salmon and trout

snuggling with the rocks on the bottom and teasing them

with your worn-out wooden paddle

finding the way in the water to let your soul swim free

before being a father or a brother or a son

before meeting me and before anything at all

you were the embodied shadow of a confident sailor

(“I am the river,” you once almost said to me

when I doubted your ability to row in extreme pain)

way before the universe existed

you were there already

as the core of something bigger and better and stronger

populating with your spirit

the whole of the whitewater universe