March 3, 2000
Sometimes I wonder about our image in the eyes of others. As in, what do I look like with my silver streaks and stress lines, blouse untucked and heels kicked off on the bus home tonight. My feet hurt. You ought to know. Yes, you there across the aisle. And what we must look like to those tea-sipping British on their thrones, one white haired lady in pearls paid to look royal, and the other white haired lady clinking glasses with Pinochet. Until he was escorted out in disgrace. And who are the ones who the cold eyes of the West turn to and say, “They just don’t know how to govern.” We are not the ones dining with dictators.
I am looking at my reflection in this darkened bus window. The British, they colonized everything. They conquered everyone. Just like I wanted to. And then they shipped us back what we created. At least maybe we can take him and try him and someone will listen. For once. I am not young, but I still want to shout. Everyone has been whispering for so long. And now, all eyes are on us. And we are the ones out for blood. I want to know where my uncle went. And I want so many think I can’t have. Beatriz. To believe my husband loved me. To traveled somewhere further than Temuco. But I’m tired.