Ways of Resistance

I’ve been emailing and reflecting and learning and wrestling…all those things…and more. Now, I’m not sure what to make of what. I’m lost, I think. Maybe not, but probably I am. I’ve constructed so many lies and so many fantasies and now I’m wondering when the sherade will finally close it’s curtain, turn down the lights, send us all home. I want to get behind (or in front of) the fantasy of having it both ways. You can be rich and be faithful. You can run without getting hurt or without it costing you and your family. Didn’t you know that, son, you’re in for a great deal of pain?

I never thought about suffering this way. Perhaps it’s going to be a slow death. The kind that would make you sweat just thinking about it. Will it wait?

I don’t want to die. I want a promise and a resurrection without a minute to think. I’m tired. I can’t say goodbye yet. I thought I would be able to do what I said. It’s easier to think it through then to be the one who pulls the trigger.

The car slid away from the sidewalk under hazy yellow fake sunlight along with other general intrusions into the nighttime city air. We listened to the radio, restlessly, dispassionate, searching the selections of popular formats in Lima. Surfer music: Red Hot Chili Peppers. Eighties music: The Police. Salsa music: Marc Antony. Reggeton: Daddy Yankee. Politics: RPP Noticias. Christian music: Marcos Witt. No one talked. We all waited. Perhaps the moment was going to surprise us, once we get to where we’re going, perhaps an untimely gift. A night to remember, isn’t that what we all expected? Yelmi sat beside Esmi who sat beside Karen who sat in the back seat of Frank’s red 1992 Volkswagen five-door. I was up front with Frank. Frank was driving.

It’s hard, you might say, to just come on out and break all the details on the table. I’m not Catholic, but if I was I would have been praying my Hail Marys and seeking the consolation of San Martín. Ah, what the hell? Truth be told, it seemed like a good night to become prayerful. We pulled behind the large orange-colored COVIDA bus, the abreviations of all their stops cursively painted across its mast. Through the rear window La Virgen looked at us, our trailing hearts, behind the haze of smoke, smog, and darkness, behind our layers of metal, skin, and paint.

Then…