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TO THE VENEZUELAN WOMAN
As I think of her, my heart aches for her looking at the cosmetic mask that hides her true face. It's not cucumber or avocado, it's a mixture of anguish, unanswered questions, sleepless nights, looking at the cupboard like the Bicentennials of the red star that seem to sell shelves instead of articles, in addition to seeing that the Guri is He put it in the fridge, sometimes showing pure water and other times the empty reservoir. I have seen her face covered with that marble mask, with stoned sadness as if wanting to escape the sadness that dances freely in the center of her heart. Drought has prolonged her suffocating heat, hardens every day the furrows on her face and cracks her formerly lush face.
And while I see her face, I cannot help but see in this, that of every Venezuelan woman, a multitudinous herd that also includes my mother, my daughters, sisters, nieces, friends, sheep, disciples, and other women crossing these desert fields looking for the delicate, succulent, humid, greenish grass, smelling of chlorophyll, Ummmm! Delicious on the palate and the mirage evaporates burned by the burning rays of this reality built to the finger by a string of dream robbers, thieves of hope who burned our past and want like Tanos to destroy our present and undo our future.
And there you go your wife, a Venezuelan, throws her way, the girl who resolves, the mother who sacrifices herself for her offspring, the one who, if she has to ask, asks, but doesn't stay on the phone. how much you fight Girl, in this, the worst battle and don't be intimidated. You resolve the day, you are like the indomitable horse of the plain, nothing intimidates you. Pa'lante is pa'llá and if the world wants to eat you, you eat it first and defeat it with coffee in a thermos, whether it's borrowed or wearing your best clothes to put your best face in the office where you work; she sells Catalinas at a solidarity price and hers in her office listens to her patients, although Freud is looking for her to psychoanalyze her; you rent telephones and there is another one cleaning floors and washing sinks, while Lucy fixes beds and washes sheets to get ahead with hers, both here in Little Venice and abroad, beyond our borders, where tears dampen the pillows in the sad and absent nights of your foreign lands.
If you have to set up a tarantin on the corner, don't be intimidated, much less if you have to diversify the business to stay on your feet. Who said who, "I myself am", you snort at the hurricane and it flees from you because it knows that you can lock it in a glass of juice that you prepared with effort to sell it to the thirsty, tie it with the stethoscope or face it with the shield of a teaching book. It is that you are capable of turning your back on the dragon of hunger by riding its kilometric tail and defeating it with the sword of your resistance; you sweat profusely in that brawl and end up stinking with sweat but with a gold medal as the best marathoner in the world You beat them all.
Of course, always with glamor ahead. You'd rather be dead than badly dressed. Nothing to walk badly painted. Sweaty but with wicks like this they have cost you an arm and a leg and with good blouses and pants, even if you bought it used in a group of "guasap". But that's how you are, woman, warrior of a thousand battles who fears adversity and there you continue without hesitating, being able to flee you decide to step firmly like the one who stands up to the adversary and tells him come, well, tomorrow is late. You are the size of the commitment that is presented to you.
How is that what you do with guts, you don't stay to cry over spilled milk, you always resolve. And there goes the school teacher and the pastry instructor; the doctor and the naturist, the businesswoman and the peddler, the lawyer and the neighborhood leader, the dolled up one, the one who dresses in Trakil, the one who dresses up in the San Juan market and the one who buys at the "guasap" auctions. All fighting against the same giant giving a lesson to the world: That in Venezuela, his women do not crack, they do not break; Rather, they put on a brave face in bad weather, throwing this country on their shoulders, together with the men whose shoulders are so battered from carrying this difficult yoke, this heavy load.
Here we go, world, one country, one burden, and us with the yoke upon our loins. We gasp, we slide but here we go. We have to power, we have to endure. Let's go to the beloved land, paradise of God. Even if it costs us to carry you on our backs, we will pay the price. Because the warmth of your shelter is worth it, as is the milk with which you breastfeed us, the rivers with which you bathe us, the mountains with which you surround us and those beautiful skies with which you cover us, desert, jungle, savannah and mountains.
Those majestic tepuis over there are worth the effort, and here are your beautiful beaches, the snow-capped peaks on this side, the delta on the other, and in the center plains, estuaries, savannahs, lakes.
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