The Bolivarian Revolution is everything to me. Even if I don’t like it, at this point it would it be stupid to deny that fact. The Bolivarian Revolution defines the way I live, the food that comes to my table, the things I can buy and I cannot, the places I can go and the places I can’t visit without putting my life in risk. It also haves a word on the time I have, on the information I see, on the people I relate to. It even can say something about my mood, that it can fall from a perfect happiness to an unbearable anxiety if one of those announces, rumors, news, or analysis enter my ears. The Bolivarian Revolution also haves a very strong weight on my aspirations, on the things I can desire to have and I cannot, on the future I can dream of and the future I fear of.
But my relationship with the Bolivarian Revolution is unequal, is an unrequited love. While the Revolution is everything to me, I am nothing to them. I often wonder who I am to them really? I started by being an “escuálido” (a shark, an insult Chavez often used in the early years), and an oligarch. Well, I’m actually a daughter of what they call “the old oligarchy”.
From there, I passed to be many things: a traitor, a lackey of the empire, a fascist (a pro-Chavez woman actually called me that way in the subway, when we were returning of a student protest), an (my URL address? Anyone?) antipatriotic, and; when the student movement arise and I was part of it, I was part of the ones called “rich kids”.
I will not be considered, just as I am, for any of the Revolutionary social programs; and If I request something I would have to wear a red t-shirt for getting it. And if one day I simply go and disappear, it won’t make a difference. They will be thankful, that another after another counter revolutionary is leaving them alone.