Baby Courage
Silly boots... what was I thinking? I lived in an old town for the new world. One of the first towns, in fact, in this long country, as long as my country of origin was wide, and discordantly, uniquely thin, stretched between the tropics and the frigid continent of Antarctica, and isolated between the high Andes mountains and the immense Pacific Ocean.
Chile bore witness to the brutal conquest of South America at least twice, the second time re-enacted by the assertion of United States dominance and the installation of a rightwing regime well trained by U.S. military personnel in the use of "population control."
The military coup had occurred seven years before I arrived on the scene, naive and idealistic, ready for a helping adventure with the Peace Corps. I had imagined a rural environment and the opportunity to experience real community. Instead, I was sent to La Serena, which along with its twin port city of Coquimbo, and surrounding areas, housed about 100,000 people. I say housed, but many of the houses consisted of not much more than cardboard boxes and slats of wood in some of the outlying neighborhoods.
In La Serena, the quaint 400 plus year old below sea-level village, musty stone cathedrals graced many of the conservative city blocks, and spanish tile rooftops dotted the view from above, in a town where some wisdom had prevailed and no tall buildings dominated the landscape. Coquimbo, perched atop rocky outcroppings, serviced sailors and wayfarers with a totally different flavor than the stuffy colonialism of its more prosperous twin.
The newer part of the University peered out over the ocean from above downtown on a small rise, the beginning of land rising and rising until reaching well over 20,000 feet high less than a couple hundred miles inland. One could wade in the cold Pacific water on a sunny clear summer day and see snow capped peaks in the distance.
Back to the boots... I was walking through La Serena in my uncomfortable leather boots with heels, my one suit jacket with worn leather patches at the elbows, corduroy pants, and the snuggly snug against my body holding my precious baby. Like the binding of women's feet in China, I think heels keep women tied to image and limitation.
Image was my concern. The boots I chose to make me look taller, more powerful, the suit jacket to make me look sophisticated, and the baby, though I did not intend to use her in such a way, and did not realize it at that time, to give me courage. You see, I think I had this irrational thought that they wouldn’t touch me if they saw I had a baby.
The truth is I did not consider it much. I heard they had arrested one of my husband’s students on suspicions of plotting or whatever, against the government. The terms extremista, terrorista, izquierdista, communista, socialista, etcetera, were utilized interchangeably by the right-wing dictatorship of Gen. Augusto Pinochet, to label anyone opposed to his brutal rule. Although I had only met this student once or twice, I felt compelled to do something. I guess I thought if a gringa started inquiring about him, maybe he wouldn’t just disappear.
So, rather rashly, I put on the boots and suit jacket, placed my beautiful daughter in the snuggly, and took the bus to town. Sunless damp days in my coastal village often chilled me to the core. This day was no exception.
Walking the streets of La Serena in the old neighborhoods with no breaks in the walls felt like walking by an impenetrable barrier. The unwelcoming facades blended one into the next. If the houses were not attached, high fences or walls, many with broken glass embedded into the cement on top, made any intruder think twice about trying to scale them. Of course, in those days of tight controls and curfews, one did not have to fear the common thief, and no walls with broken glass were going to keep out the real criminals.
Normally, I like the look of european-style attached homes. I like homes with fences and barriers that provide a sense of privacy and security, the my home is my castle, my refuge, idea, but not on this day.
After walking a couple of blocks, my ninety some pound frame began to shake and my back began to hurt. I hugged my daughter more closely as I fiercely made my way to the other side of town to the jail.
Daughter, forgive me for using you so. Who knows what jeopardy I exposed you to? Somehow we made it. I don’t remember if we knocked or just walked in. I don’t even remember what the building looked like.
What I do recall is trying to be brave and appear stern and confident while I asked the group of men seated inside, who seemed to look at me with a mixture of contempt and incredulity, if I could see the student (I don’t remember his name now). They always made you wait in Chile. So I waited, trying to appear, as I mentioned, stern and confident. An unfriendly man told me I had to get permission from the regional governor (el Intendente).
Although I felt my resolve weakening, I walked the few blocks with my aching back and pounding heart to get the permission. A smiling politician dressed impeccably in his suit of authority walked out to greet me. He said, "Of course, you can see the prisoner. Chile is a free and democratic country."
Dear daughter, you never complained. What did you understand? You had to feel my fear. Yet, you did not interfere. So we walked back. By this time I was beginning to regret my rash action. Though I carried you, I think the truth is you carried me. If I did not have you to hug while walking those blocks, I think I would have faltered.
It must have taken us a long, long time to walk those same blocks back to the jail, for mysteriously, the prisoner was no longer there, or so we were informed. He had been moved for some important reason.
So, exhausted and disheartened, I carried you to catch the bus home. I wonder what happened to the student. The rumor we heard was that he was eventually exiled to Sweden. I ponder the outcome of my rash deed. Did it help or did it hurt? Was he beaten for it? Or did he receive better treatment? Did he ever hear of my rash deed and my baby’s courage?