open wounds of Argentina

Something happened to me today; something I will probably never forget. During my long subway ride back home from Plaza de Mayo, I pulled out the book I'd started reading before leaving for Argentina, and one I'd just picked up today after finally finishing the Baldwin novel I'd been working on. Open Veins of Latin America has a distinct yellow cover; but even more eye-catching is the work's author, Eduardo Galeano, a famous Latin American journalist dedicated to excavating the "truth" to his continent's tumultuous past.

At the next stop, a woman sat down next to me and glanced over at the pages I was reading. I looked up, feeling her stare, and then saw a sneer crawl over her lips. She rolled her eyes, adjusted herself, and refocused her attention straight ahead to the passenger on the opposite side of the car. Her behavior most definitely seemed to be directed towards me, but I didn't know why. Under the impression that Galeano was revered by all Latin Americans, including Isabel Allende, a favorite author who happened to write the foreword to the edition I was reading, I began to wonder what about Open Veins of Latin America could possibly bother her. The point of the book is to make the unheard voices of this continent heard, the ones who'd been smothered by the world's most brutal imperialistic nations, including my own home country. Believing all this, I couldn't figure out what might have made this woman to react in such a way.

A few stops before I got off, a person two seats away from me left and the disgruntled woman next to me also abandoned her seat. But rather than getting off the subway altogether, she merely moved to the empty seat at the end of the bench, separating herself from me so that there was another woman between us now. The whole situation was only made a bit worse when suddenly another student on my program, whom I hadn't initially seen, recognized and called out to me, exposing my gringa-ness to the entire train. Ignorantly, we babbled to each other in English, she telling me she didn't even notice me at first, thinking I was Argentinean, and then asking me what I was reading. I didn't really tell her, just kind of showed that my book was clearly written in English, then letting it fall casually back into my hands. A minute later, I got off at my stop, the subway's events still swirling in my head. Perhaps Open Veins of Latin America is the equivalent of reading Mein Kampf in Katz's Deli? (Note: that's not intended as a joke, but just to make a point).

Turns out that it kind of is. Galeano's book was censured in the 70s by the military governments of Uruguay, Chile and...Argentina. Using the little that I know regarding the Argentine political scene (trying to pick it up in Spanish is pretty difficult) got me thinking that any kirchneristas, i.e. anti-peronistas (presumably this woman) would reject Galeano's socialistic writing, regardless of the fact that Argentina's government at the time Galeano wrote was responsible for the disappearances, and deaths, of thousands of its citizens.

But reflecting on the day's event makes me realize how much of this city, this people I will never come close to understanding. I thought that reading Galeano would open my eyes to some of what the Argentines had gone through in their history; I thought that a knowledge of what the past had been like would help me to better appreciate the city I am to live in for five months. Apparently Argentina is still a bit sensitive in some sore spots. The only thing I opened today were wounds that never fully healed. Wow, do I have a lot to learn.