My Persepolis

I was born in Spain.

In 1979 my country pledged for a change which would put behid a turbulent past that everyone seemed ready and willing to overcome.

In 1979, 4 years after the dictator's death, Democracy was more than a promise. Freedom, a dream cherised by the witnesses of a bloody civil war and the sons of a 40 years long dictatoriship, had become a reality.

I was born into "Occident". I guess that what my parents have dreamt of a that Occident was something different. I guess they were naive; or fed up with all the shortages they had lived with...

I only knew of the scarcity by my grandmother stories of her youth. I was lucky enough to have grown listening to those stories that gave blood, names and a place to the map of my existence.

With them, I made sense of the meaning of my being. They were the glue that put together the pieces of the jigsaw that conected me to the defeat, the mistakes, the fight and the hopes of what I now proudly call my people.

"Forbidden" was for my previous generation a provocation that they torn to pieces at any single attempt to be imposed uppon them.

I was born in a thirsty country that had thrown itself into the search of modernity.

In the 80's, Spaniards were in a rush to catch up, to open our senses to the world that, for so long, had been denied to us.

We were the exotic country of Hemingway's "Fiesta", of bullfighters that made Greta (the most beautifull animal alive) to fall in love from head to toes with them. We were still that and, willing to keep it, we wanted more.

We were the Picaso's characters rising from the ashes of darkness and Dali's dreams waking up in a sunny bed where eveyone was invited...

Pedro came and ended up with the black and white. He filled everything with colour and rescued our alter egos from the peril of becoming grey europeans. He made it clear even to us: We were different!!!

I was born 30 years ago, when the lines were still not so clearly shaped and the brave ones like my mother and my father, started to welcome the changes not knowing where they would lead, but determined to don't go back, to give me and my generation a better tomorrow.

DID I FORGET THAT?

I still have the letter my father gave me in the airport when I freely decided to leave the nest.

Maybe he knew his job was done and that mine had already started and I was too young to understand.

He knew that the ups and downs would come and he was aware of the impossibility to protect me against them. And I know (and it burns) he hoped thatI could fulfill some of his dreams.

He put on me that load and some days it doesn't let me breath...

I don't know if I am a dissapointment for him, for my people or only for myself.

Because some times I feel so tired... And I loose perspective, and...

This not forced emigration it's harder because at times I forget what I want and that makes me feel so bad, so shallow, so petit burgois, so....Grey european. And fuck that!!! Though...which are the alternatives??

I don't forget who I am and I'm not planning to do that.

Knowing the past makes it complicated; Like if everyone, included myself, iwas expecting something soooo damn good from me... Not knowing the future adds excitement to the present, but this blur...it's too blur.

Scapism it's just boring. Nevermind where you want to run. They always find you.

Besides, scapism makes me feel guilty. Everything I do or say makes me feel guilty because who the fuck am I to change anything? I am the fucker who won't give you the pleasure of watching me surrender...

I know who I am... Or at least, I'm trying to find out.

In this Occident, we are the privilege poor people who still have the time to do that.