"La Matadora" (The Bull Fighter): The Brick Wall Between You and Me

I stood in front of him.

As he stared down on me,

With eyes sharp as knives.

My bones trembled,

But my heart stayed firm.

“Hit me first if you’re going to hit her!”

I screamed as loud as I could,

While standing in front of my mother with my arms wide open.

I am a bullfighter.

How did it come to this? And why?

I loved him, and to this date ... I still do.

Although, it was at this point in my life that I could not say “I love you” without my hair being pulled up by my chicken skin.

I thought I knew everything about this raging bull.

No arrow nor blade could pierce through his skin.

His ears were so small to listen to reason,

His eyes were pitch black full of rage.

Not once, did I see his heart,

Nor what hid behind the dark brick wall in his eyes.

Every pound I gained was the result of every bellow he made.

Every insecurity I had was from every scratch he made on me with his horns.

As he hid in the darkness,

My bones got colder and colder.

They’d shiver every time they would stand in front of him.

However, my heart and his skin had something in common,

They were made of stone.

“Hit me first if you’re going to hit her!” I screamed.

His focus was no longer on her,

But on my bull-red flag.

The bomb blew up in front of me,

However, it didn’t touch me.

It blew on our dining room table.

BANG!

The explosion dulled my ears,

Everything became blurry.

Meanwhile, my mother pulled me away from the bull.

She closed the gates,

However, it was too late,

He ran and kicked them down at full force.

He bellowed and bellowed.

The weight on my feet got greater and greater.

I could not run nor hide.

As I was about to accept my fate for the second attack,

I noticed something red on the bull’s face.

It became clear to me,

The bomb never harmed me,

Nor did it harm the dining room table.

It harmed the bull.

Blood was streaming down his face.

As he came closer to me,

I could see the red tears he hid under his thick skin.

His eyes screamed, "Look at me!"

He cried for help,

Then fell to the ground.

How could I ever love someone like that?

Yet I did.

How could I not?

He was my father.

I went to wonderland,

And searched for the wise caterpillar to enlighten me,

And she responded.

“He grew up in the wild,

Which left him no choice but to develop a thick skin.”

All this time, I imagined the bull was my enemy.

However, like the wise old caterpillar,

I needed a new pair of glasses,

like hers,

to be able to see what was behind the dark brick wall in his eyes.

Brick by brick.

I slowly started seeing a difference.

I saw a room behind the brick wall,

Which appeared to be a cave.

I saw only one man,

Dressed in white,

With tears in his eyes,

A rosary at hand,

A bible on his right,

Praying on his knees,

for forgiveness from God.

He had severe bruises,

A heart made of stone,

Untreated wounds,

Broken bones,

And many … many scars,

I do not know how he managed to survive,

All by himself.

This man had lost his humanity,

And was trying to gain it back on his own.

Not once had he felt a sincere, genuine embrace.

Nor had his hand held with love.

“I love you, dad.”

As he and I embraced,

The warm tears that ran through our eyes,

Ended the drought in our fields,

And moss arose in our hearts.

It was the beginning of a new chapter.

It has been many years since my last bullfight.

As for him, he is slowly adjusting to the light outside his cave.

It takes him a while,

But I can see every effort he makes.

I could not believe that I was slowly forming my own brick wall.

I realize now,

That there are no raging bulls,

Just lonely people in empty caves.

We just have to put the effort to get new glasses,

And reach out for that person,

past that brick wall,

removing brick by brick,

and cure their wounds,

with genuine love.

My writing was inspired by Paul Freire's book "The Pedagogy of The Oppressed". I believe pages 44 and 45 closely resemble my approach. I feel like I learn something new every time I read through it. Every page, every line, puts me into deep reflection.