Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Rich Woman, Poor Woman

Truth can be messy, particularly when it is incomplete (which it always seems to be). So often we believe that our own story is The Truth. While I may claim My Truth, I cannot claim to know The Truth. We share ownership of The Truth. We are burdened by its weight at times; and sometimes Truth's beauty lifts us. Only when we share our truths, claiming our own and recognizing that of others, shall we be liberated. May we know that day.

 The following poem from Fire in the Soul: 100 Poems for Human Rights  was written in Chile in 1973 shortly after the CIA-backed coup d'etat of Chilean president Salvador Allende. The author and translator are unknown.

I am a woman.
I am a woman.

I am a woman born of a woman whose man owned a factory.
I am a woman born of a woman whose man labored in a factory. 

I am a woman whose man wore silk suits, who constantly watched his weight.
I am a woman whose man wore tattered clothing, whose heart was constantly strangled by hunger. 

I am a woman who watched two babies grow into beautiful children.
I am a woman who watched two babies die because there was no milk. 

I am a woman who watched twins grow into popular college students with summers abroad.
I am a woman who watched three children grow, but with bellies stretched from no food. 

But then there was a man;
But then there was a man;

And he talked about peasants getting richer by my family getting poorer.
And he told me of days that would be better, and he made the days better. 

We had to eat rice.
We had rice. 

We had to eat beans!
We had beans. 

My children were no longer given summer visas to Europe.
My children no longer cried themselves to sleep.

And I felt like a peasant.
And I felt like a woman. 

A peasant with a dull, hard, unexciting life.
Like a woman with a life that sometimes allowed a song. 

And I saw a man.
And I saw a man. 

And together we began to plot with the hope of the return to freedom.
I saw his heart begin to beat with the hope of freedom, at last. 

Someday, the return to freedom.
Someday, freedom.

And then,
But then,

One day,
One day,

There were planes overhead and guns firing close by.
There were planes overhead and guns firing in the distance. 

I gathered my children and went home.
I gathered my children and ran. 

And the guns moved farther and farther away.
But the guns moved closer and closer. 

And then, they announced that freedom had been restored!
And then they came, young boys really. 

They came into my home along with my man.
They came and found my man. 

Those men whose money was almost gone -
They found all of the men whose lives were almost their own.

And we all had drinks to celebrate.
And they shot them all. 

The most wonderful martinis.
They shot my man. 

And they asked us to dance.
And they came for me.

For me, the woman.

And my sisters.
For my sister. 

And then they took us,
Then they took us,

They took us to dinner at a small, private club.
They stripped from us the dignity we had gained. 

And they treated us to beef.
And they raped us.

It was one course after another.
One after another they came after us. 

We nearly burst we were so full.
Lunging, plunging - sisters bleeding, sisters dying.

It was magnificent to be free again!
It was hardly a relief to have survived.

The beans have almost disappeared now.
The beans have disappeared. 

The rice - I've replaced it with chicken or steak.
The rice, I cannot find it. 

And the parties continue night after night to make up for the time wasted.
And my silent tears are joined once more by the midnight cries of my children, 

And I feel like a woman again.
They say, I am a woman. 

No comments:

Post a Comment