Regarding the saint's day
It's not that we don't like festivals. On the contrary. We're starting to feel a bit like Pep with all this celebrating. If before people were governed by the 'work' calendar—sowing, harvesting, tondre, grape harvest, slaughtering...—now we obey the 'festival' calendar—bonfires and demons, carnival, Easter, popular festivals, Christmas...—which is equally exhausting.
Or even a little more, because there's no respite. Now that we've just finished reviewing the entire summer patronym—from San Pedro to San Mateo—that guides the crown of patron saint festivals—with proclamations, parades, bullfights, dances, open-air dances, giants, nougat-making...—the fair season is here in every town and village, no matter how small. Some are novel and specialized—Dulce, La de Oliva, La de las Hierbas, La del Melón...—; and others, generic and traditional, such as those of Llucmajor –four centenary laps–, which faithfully respond to the original protocol linked, logically, to the saint's day: from Sant Miquel to the Last Fair, the Sunday before Sant Lluc.
But there must be no rest, because soon the Souls, the panellets and the Halloween, and in a nothingness we will abandon ourselves to a more or less concupiscent unreality, which takes off towards the long weekend of the Immaculate Conception and does not end until after the festivities of San Antonio and San Sebastián. Also things of the saints' calendar.
No joke: a month and a half of long weekends, holidays and second holidays, of interruption of all productive activity and the virtual impossibility of planning or executing any human work. The hectic journey also ends with a vibrant week full of stellar moments, like the aromatic cloud—of blood sausage and chuba—that clouds Palma—so urban, it, the rest of the year...—and suddenly gives it a certain, rural aura. You are from the earth and to the earth you must return...
We owe so much to the calendar of saints... Like the endearing Russian roulette of congratulating friends on Saint Anthony and finding a Toni or Tona, or Antonina or Tonyi... risking giving them many years and, oh dear! The most sublime and pristine proof of Mallorcan identity... An authentic cum laudo, the thing about distinguishing the santantonis of Viana of those of Padua –those of the donkeys and those of the apricots. A beautiful secret code with an even more dangerous sequel, that of October 4, when the saint's day unfolds in all its splendor among SantFranciscos from Assisi, from Borja, from Sales, from Xavier... And still the challenge of finding a Francesca felicitable only on March 9th, because it is named after some godmother devoted to Saint Francesca Romana...
Soon, however, it will no longer be a problem because the beautiful and our custom of congratulating the patronymic has entered into frank recession in favor of the celebration of the anniversary, a new submission to the Anglo-Saxon cultural universe. The disaffection reaches the point of explicitly criticizing the reference to the saint's calendar - to place the dates or, simply, to congratulate someone - for being considered patriarchal and of clear Catholic inspiration - what a discovery, Sherlock. Not to mention those who even suggest that progressive calendars - such as that of the Cultural Work, to give an example - should no longer include it... In short, we do like parties, but the saint's calendar is no longer cool, neither sexy, nor is it in.
So much so, that young people paresimaras Mallorcans, when fostering/adopting/surrogating hopeful sons and daughters, radically reject traditional anthroponyms and abandon the classics Antònia, Magdalena, Margalida, Jaume, Joan, Miquel... in favor of more exotic and stimulating vocatives. The lists of students are quite illustrative, and not only in the 'Yéssica/Kevin' sector, because Mars, Ones, Arenes, and other allochthonous species formulated in beautiful Catalan have also arrived on the island. These are not good times for endemic species, as we know... And even less so for raising children who take the names of their godparents.
The onomastic arc that has bound generations for centuries was a valuable intangible heritage that had created a beautiful intangible landscape. We would surely admire him devoutly if we had known him in the mountain ranges of Tibet or in a mangrove swamp in the Amazon. But it happens too close to home.
That's curious. And that it coincides with an exquisite sensitivity for other endemic gems like the longuetes, the same ones, and the local seed varieties. Now that we dance with the cossiers of each town. Now that we distinguish the devil of Manacor from that of Felanitx and the tune of Artà from that of sa Pobla. Now that everyone slaughters, harvests olives, and makes wine at home. Now that young people sing glossas and organize brotherhoods. Now, right now, it seems unbearable to us that a boy or girl should be named Catalina.
