pilar saw mati tocando los bombos in a rally, laughing, then shouting PRESENTE at the top of her lungs after every name of every missing/murdered girl with her first as up as it could get. mati, a mess in purple glitter and paint all over her body and face. mati, topless with ni yuta ni tuya written on her back, her body exposed for nobody’s consuming pleasure. mati / free.
it was pilar’s first march. she didn’t even want to go, she had heard about these crazy feminists, revolting and breaking things and being violent and dangerous ! hairy pits ! gross ! they don’t shave or use deodorant ! disgusting women ! could they even be called women ? no, son todas tortas, necesitan una buena pija, she had heard everything there was to hear. every little negative thing media had to say. still, curiosity won. and as she felt every emotion these women put in all the chants and songs they sang, her little mind explode and expanded.
pilar worked for her father, a job given to her in a silver platter. pilar didn’t suffer what happened in 2001. pilar didn’t vote for macri, she didn’t vote at all. pilar used to think living in argentina was bad, pilar didn’t consider herself latina because her skin was lighter, and every day she thanked god for it. pilar was ashamed of who she was because that’s the chip they put in your brain as soon as you are born. pilar had always known she was a lesbian, but that was against the hetero-normative way of living her parents inculcated deep in her heart, and the plans they had for her, obviously. pilar would get her degree in economics and get married, and have one or two kids, and of course, be a stay at home mother after.
pilar was unhappy. pilar hated the person she had been shaped into.
pilar went to a march once, about 3 years ago, and found herself in a sea of women. women who were fed up, who DEMANDED their rights to be respected.
pilar is still deconstructing herself.
