When I was 10 years old, I used to transcribe stories from books onto the computer. Computers were just starting to appear; it was the era of MS-DOS and black-screen codes. My dad and I had gone to Lanús Oeste to get one from a guy who cloned and built them piece by piece. For us, it was almost unaffordable, so the excitement I felt that day was better than being taken to a toy store.
After memorizing the entire Encarta '98 and playing the memory game with paintings by famous artists, writing texts became my pastime. Having internet back then was too expensive, so that’s how I remember my sunday mornings—while the sun streamed through the window of my room.
After transcribing several of Horacio Quiroga’s Jungle Tales, at 8 or 9 years old, I wrote a short story and called it The Eagle Prince.
Lulú, a friend from the boarding house where my dad lived, published it in the the neighbourhood newspaper. He was a writer too. He always told me I was his adopted granddaughter.
Wow.
Only now can I see all those memories that had been erased from my mind.
— "I don’t know what makes me happy", I said, almost as a question, to the men who spoke with souls.
— You don’t? Think—what did you love doing as a child?
And then I saw myself... How had I forgotten so much?
I had always written.
Now I understand that writing was a companion for that only child who, too early, found no solace in the pains of the world. For her, it was her parents' separation. Her world.
Today marks seven years since my dad passed away. Without knowing it, he taught me this path. He also wrote—a lot and beautifully. He wrote acrostics.
Maybe I carry some of that in my blood.
He would tirelessly tell me stories of the Cuban Revolution, of Che Guevara, and the bloody impunity of Argentina’s military dictatorship. He would give me the iconic books on revolution: "El libro Verde Olivo" and "Nunca Más" to read while I was in fifth grade.
And with that, he also gave me idealism and a sense of struggle.
And that’s how I grew up…
For a long time, I had forgotten that I wrote. I only remembered it now, at 34 years old.
The forgotten Superpowers.
They are so natural to us that we forget their magic.
But even so, they always, always come to light.
How could it not happen? It’s obvious... They are the essence of who we are.
__________________
Thank you for everything, old man. You are always here, and you always return. So humbly, almost imperceptibly, like a flower carried by the breeze on spring afternoons. Thank you for every lesson of love. They made me who I am today.
H.L.V.S, just like you always wrote in your notes when saying goodbye: Until victory always dad!
I had the best teacher ♡
And you, have you already recognized your Superpowers?
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