Writing: what i never learned
This piece was made in December 2020 as part of a final project for a class where I studied The Madres de la Plaza de Mayo movement and the impacts of the military dictatorship on Argentina. This is a fictional poem, inspired by studying the events in Argentine history and realizing this poem is a part of an exploration of the effects on my understanding of the world.
what i never learned:
I snuck out of the house today. For the first time in 17 years of being the perfect daughter, I snuck out of the house. And not to go to some party or to do something stupid... I went to a protest. The movement was powerful, invigorating. I was finally letting myself stand up for what I believed in. I was taking charge, and giving myself a voice rather than sitting quietly with a desperate need for approval. I had never felt more alive. The streets were vibrant , buzzing with people. Downtown hadn’t been that crowded in years; I barely had elbowroom. I imagined how every person had come down from their apartments and houses to join in with the chanting. Their voices rung in my ears, they still kind of do. By learning these chants, I could become one with them -- in a way, I too, could be an activist. Slowly, they became one with my breath. I was desperate to become one with the mass of inspiring protestors. This was what I had been waiting for.
I came home on a high. I felt like I was invincible, like I had figured out that there was a better future out there after all. I think my mom saw that hope -- like a glow from within -- the moment I walked into the house. She knew exactly where I had been. I was not in fact at my friend’s house, but downtown amongst the crowds.
It was weird… I could see the relief in her face from knowing that I was home; safe. But I could also see a powerful rage that was emanating from her body, from her inner being. At least there was some relief there first…
She sat me down, with tears pouring down her face. Her breathing was shaky, but she got a hold of it. She then told me about growing up in Argentina. I didn’t get it at first. I didn’t understand why her upbringing was relevant to the situation. But then I got it. You see, there was a military government that would kidnap people of the oppositional party -- those who went out to protest. They were the targets. She told me about all of the horrific things that would happen to these people who were taken at the protests. She told me about the people she knew and loved that just... disappeared -- never seen again. I’d never learned about it in school, and I don’t think I would in the future. Learning about Argentina’s history was outside of the realm of what American schooling would teach me -- and in that, I was losing an understanding of my family and where I came from. School wouldn’t help me understand why my mother was so terrified.
When I was at the protest, she was so scared, so terrified that I would be kidnapped. That was where the relief was coming from: in seeing my face, seeing my body intact as I walked into the living room. That must have also been where the rage and fear were coming from. Underneath all of the lecturing and the shaming, I could tell that she was just scared, terrified rather. That I, her daughter, would be gone too.
