sábado, 21 de abril de 2018


Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

Weeping next morning in class. Talking about launching resistance. About how many innocent people were going to be hurt. I was taken by surprise by their reaction. I thought they all knew better. They didn´t. They were blinded by being too much inside. I felt deep sorrow for them. I should have told them they day before? I am glad I didn´t. Otherwise, I be now the one to blame.

It didn´t look at all like an election had taken place in America. My first presidential elections ever had led, yes, to "fucking fascism." These two words were whispered all around me. It was not about voting. It was a war that had been lost overnight. They voted, damnit.

I swear that for a moment I thought it was really me the one to blame. Wherever I go, totalitarianism faithfully follows me. Fidel Castro, for example, was still well and alive in communist Cuba. He had turned 90 a couple of months ago. Bu within a couple of weeks he was going to be dead with exclamation signs in the Twitter account of @realDonaldTrump.

It all felt like the first chapter of a brave new digital dystopia. It could happen and, indeed, now it had happened here. Not in 1984, but in 2016. The sales of The Handmaid's Tale were the only winner here. I think I heard that Margaret Atwood in a TV interview even apologized about this.

Before reading the dossier published by The New Yorker, I was already living in a climate of mourning on campus. Silence in the rest of the country, including Republicans. No festive spirit at all. Everybody had lost the election. Everybody had voted against. The Democrat candidate disappeared. The little son of Trump was immediately taken as a surrogate target: disabilities were instantaneously to be thought of as a moral defect again. An eye for an eye. War is war.

I remember that I then wondered: who voted for Trump here? Where were his voters during the presidential debate at WashU? I had felt a little intimidated while watching the TV transmission on campus before the election. I never smiled or applauded after the interventions of Hillary Clinton (or Donald Trump). But still that apathy was suspicious enough. A journalist came directly to me: "Are you a Trump supporter?"

I was going to answer: "Oh, God, yes!" For he needed me to answer "Oh, God, yes!" But I disappointed him and just answered, trying to break even more my broken English: "Not American citizen, sorry, not American citizen."

Where were all the mourners looking at only 24 hours ago? As a total outsider, I was almost confident of the results. I had a feeling, not a knowledge. Too much Trump on the CNN day after day and night after night, for over a year or so. Too much laughter and rage and too many comedians impersonating him. Too much headlines. Too much misrepresentation of the Absolute Evil that it was going to be so easy to defeat.

By November 2016, I was already missing Trump. I couldn´t wake up without reading his last tweets. Hillary, like heaven, could wait.

Like Junot Díaz.

Like Mark Singer.

Like Jia Tolentino.

Like Larry Wilmore.

Like Nicholas Lemann.

Like Gary Shteyngart.

Like Jill Lepore.

Like Mary Karr.

Like Jeffrey Toobin.

Like Evan Osnos.

Like Jane Mayer.

Like Toni Morrison.

Like Peter Hessler.

Like Hilary Mantel.

Like Autul Gawande.

Like George Packer.

Our beloved brute. A super sad but true-to-life love story.

No hay comentarios: