The deaths of a woman who defined herself as a communicator and who, due to the lack of qualifications of her guild, awarded her the title of queen of television mornings (how much admiration does almost every god have for the concept of royalty) and of a singer symbolized as a volcanic pioneer of feminism, the issues that give them the most play are parked in the media for a few days. That is, the murders and the catastrophes, the arrogant genitals of the grotesque Rubiales, a gold mine for the sacred cause of the harassed and oppressed, and the very hypocritical debate about whether dialogue means the same as amnesty and independence.


I also perceive that in the language that the same people always target is losing relevance. They are those overused words of the story, the epiphany, the dystopia and the toxic relationship. With that pretentious verbiage you could walk through life for a while feeling very modern. But his fashion is ephemeral. Now I read in the headline of an obituary about María Jiménez that she was an example of resilience and sisterhood. And with those two very current virtues I already feel absolutely lost. I imagine she wouldn’t understand anything either.

But everything is crystal clear in this torrential lady when 20 years ago, in a call to the program Taste of the that Ana Rosa Quintana presented, assures her: “You have me sick of talking about me. Who have you had to suck to be where you are?” The sovereign Quintana responds, embarrassed: “I have studied journalism for five years and I have been a correspondent in New York.” They recover this unspeakable moment on the internet. The absence of mental filters in María Jiménez unleashes my laughter. I really liked the late lioness. She looked real.

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