Breathe
By Sofía Guadarrama Collado
La tómbola is a series of short stories written exclusively for Opinion 51.
For several months she has been dancing in a Sor Juana costume outside a branch of Banteayuda, "the bank that helps you". She has a playlist programmed into her cell phone. Mostly cumbias and the occasional reguetón. The one he never misses is La vida es una tómbola, with Marisol "Pepa Flores".
The reasons why she started dancing inside the botarga have faded away. She has given up hope of catching the man who raped her. She has stopped crying. For some time now, she puts on her botarga and dances without feeling hatred or the desire to kill the man who raped her one night while she was walking in the street. It is not because she has forgiven him, but because wounds heal, although there are people who do not believe it. Fortunately, the mind also heals. Not always, but most of the time.
She dances and wonders if crying so many times inside her botarga was what helped her heal or if it was the unbearable heat. She dances and laughs when children come up to hug Sor Juana. Even she herself has learned to play with people. When someone comes walking towards the branch she opens her arms and walks over to hug them. Most smile and reciprocate.
When he gets tired, he sits on the bench at the bus stop, where most of the time there is someone waiting for the next truck.
-Your job must be a lot of fun," says a woman.
-Let's see, you get in that fucking boat," replies another woman in a miniskirt who is also waiting for her truck.
-I'm talking to Sor Juana, not to the congal's ficheras.
-Teibolera, mamacita, and with great honor.
-Worse yet..." replies the woman as she moves away from her as if she had a contagious disease.
She does not answer. She listens, as usual. She doesn't like to talk to people.
-Sister Juanita, tell him how happy you are dancing inside your botarga.
At that moment, the chanting of a crowd is heard:
Let the State, the skies and the streets tremble,
judges and the judiciary to fear.
Today, women are being deprived of our calm,
they planted fear in us, we grew wings.
-Here come the scandalous ones! -I forgot that today is March 8.
-That's right, chingonas! -replies the other.
-Besides being a teibolera, are you a feminazi?
-Feminist," he corrects her.
-Feminism is the opposite of machismo.
-Are you a woman and don't understand feminism?
-Yes, I understand. Better than you do. I did study. There is no need for these marches anymore. There is already gender equality in most legal and labor aspects. They only promote hate speech towards men. And worst of all, with their woke culture, some women receive preferential treatment, which turns into reverse inequality towards men.
-Among many other things, feminism seeks equity between men and women.
-Then they should call it "egalitarianism".
The chanting of the crowd gets louder and louder.
Every minute of every week
they steal our friends, they kill our sisters,
their bodies, they disappear.
Please do not forget their names, Mr. Chairman.
The floor vibrates as if it were shaking. She puts on the head of Sor Juana's botarga and moves away from the bus stop bench. She enthusiastically watches the procession advancing towards the Zócalo. She has never participated in a feminist march.
For all the compas marching on Reforma,
for all the bitches fighting in Sonora,
by the comandantas fighting for Chiapas,
for all the mothers searching in Tijuana,
we sing without fear, we ask for justice,
we scream for each missing person.
Let it resound loudly: We want you alive!
Let the feminicide fall hard!
The procession arrives in front of the branch of Banteayuda, "the bank that helps you" and Ella feels her body light up in a huge flame. Could it be Sor Juana? She gets a lump in her throat when she hears all those women singing in unison:
I burn everything, I break everything.
If one day some so-and-so puts out your eyes,
nothing keeps me silent anymore, everything is enough for me,
if they touch one, we all respond.
"What if it had been me?" she wonders. "I wasn't found dismembered in a vacant lot." At that moment, the terrifying memory comes back to her of that night when a man kidnapped her, raped her and tried to kill her, but she escaped.
I am Claudia, I am Esther and I am Teresa.
I am Ingrid, I am Fabiola and I am Valeria.
I'm the girl you forcibly brought up.
I am the mother who now cries for her dead.
And I'm the one who will make you pay the bills.
She could not make that wretch pay for what he did to her. And so she was filled with hatred. A hatred that little by little has been diluted. She knows she must not live with that hatred.
Justice! Justice! Justice! -shout the thousands of women marching in front of Ella and suddenly, for the first time, she feels that someone is shouting for her. It is not one, not two, not three. It is thousands of women demanding justice for what was done to Ella. And once again, she cries inside her botarga, only this time she cries with joy because all those women are defending her.
For all the compas marching on Reforma.
For all the bitches fighting in Sonora.
For the comandantas fighting for Chiapas.
For all the mothers searching in Tijuana.
We sing without fear, we ask for justice.
His hands and legs tremble. His heart beats with emotion. He looks at the time and knows that it will be a long time before his departure time, but he can no longer contain himself and decides to accompany the contingent.
