There's an old U2 song with the lyrics,
"It takes a second to say goodbye, oh, oh, oh. Push the button and pull the plug. Say goodbye, oh, oh, oh."
The rhythm gives visions of soldiers, like play figures all in formation marching dutifully, to certain death - if not their own, someone else's.
I was a child in Chile, long before U2, long before I discovered radios and songs of war. In fact, I was a sweet little rebel without yet being aware of it. One sunny day in Santiago, Chile circa late 70's, in kindergarten we had art class. We were supposedly instructed to use the paper and scissors to create something fanciful! Well, I need to caution you that I have always danced to the beat of my own world-rhythms drum.
I saw the golden opportunity to make myself Art: Artist as subject. I brandished the shiny, brass tools lifting them in the air as a maestro does before descending down into a passionate crescendo for the orchestra. Hoisting scissors in the air, I decided that my hair, though pleasing, was not quite "me". I grasped the shears and started snipping in generous chops across my forehead. I pulled hair from the back so as to add more material for bangs. I had no mirror, nay, I needed none! It was all instinct and exploration. I angled the scissors again and continued on my endeavor. I must have been deeply in the moment as I didn't realize when the scissors got scooped from me and I got scooped to the principal's office.
So minor was my infraction, but those days, children whose classroom backdrop depicted photos of military officials in uniform, did as they were instructed to do. My mother must've come to collect me some hours later and surely put on her best "dismayed" face. Inside I knew she was likely celebrating my incentive, if in a quiet inward chortle. The school officials felt I needed to be made into an example, should the others think it was "OK" to disobey orders, I mean, instructions.
She tidied up the mess and I had extremely short angled bangs for several weeks.
"Held to ransom, hell to pay
A revolution everyday"
That same child with the crooked bangs and sense of adventure would find herself once again in her mother's company, this time on a bus. The bus would stop, and the mother would say to the child, "Listen closely. You are not to look at anyone, do you hear me? Do NOT look at them if they talk to you. It is considered rude. Don't look at them, whatever you do!" I nodded, my cheeks already slanted downward. Who were "they", "them"? Why were people afraid to look at them? I didn't want to find out. A woman on the bus must have glanced at them or something, for she was escorted off. I don't remember if I heard raised voices, threats or pleading from the woman. Only my mother will remember for sure, so unfortunate was she. A few moments later, we were given the "OK" to proceed. I had my head down the whole time until we arrived at our stop a long while later. This enforcement of blind loyalty has been brandished into my memory. "Don't look at them unless you have been instructed to." This was the way to remain safe.
"Lightning flashes across the sky
East to west, do or die"
In a childhood picture from the time, I can see my sweet smile and almond eyes. I am an innocent in the world and behind me is a portrait of (military dictator) Pinochet. This photo is a perfect reflection of the mad juxtaposition of institutionalizing children in a dictatorship. You teach them A, B, and C's and right from wrong, all the while using intimidation, shame and coercion to get them to follow instruction, lest they be let off that bus. Every instruction was an acid test. Learning and being inquisitive about the world were mutually exclusive in my early universe.
"It takes a second to say goodbye
Say goodbye, oh, oh, oh"
My father had to say goodbye. He said it to his fallen comrades, colleagues who were gunned down mere feet from him, as he, a young man in his early 20's learned about the real costs in the world. He said goodbye to us as he left for a new country with a funny name: Canada. He said goodbye to his business, the one he was passionate about and so talented in. He gave it all up in lieu of washing dishes in a new country. He washed dishes so he could outrun the list of names he was on. He washed dishes so he could later send for us. My mother, too, said goodbye to safety and beauty, and home - things she relished. Her youth, her innocence, her own ambitions, also ransacked and ripped from her as she faced unspeakable things, received disparaging news daily. She took any steps to ensure our survival and to feed her two younglings.
I was told, "If you go to Canada, you will get a new bike." A new bike AND have my family together? That seemed like a no-brainer.
As the plane ascended over the snow-covered Andes mountains, a child with long, even bangs dared to look out small, circular windows. She was awestruck by the sense of rocketing out in a giant box. The fires below had led them out and now fires below the tin can propelled them high. The metal box soared above the gods, or someone's god, she hoped. In that moment, she did not belong to the long country with the dark posters on the wall; she did not belong anywhere. She was free. And she reached for a small, white bag and it held in front of her, as terror and hope all came at once.
