And She Was

 

And She Was

 

You could see she would be a beautiful girl from the day she was born, not like some girls whose, for some reason, beauty declines over time. Like the ones with ugly parents that, every year that passes, look more like them. Or the ones with overweight parents, that, as soon as they grow their teeth, they start eating junk food all day like them. Or the ones with parents with awful personalities or terrible taste in clothes and everything else. Or all other unexplainable reasons that make beauty disappear. 

 

 

That was not her case. This girl's beauty would stay with her until her last day. Everybody knew that.

 

She was a privileged girl; her parents were professionals and in a good economic position.

 

She was a spoiled girl from day one. They had little time to share with her but bought people with time, like nannies, babysitters, clowns, and nurses, and they got her all kinds of pets, not to mention all imaginable types of toys. They would take her to the best hospitals and doctors even with a minor cold. And if she were sad, lonely, or depressed, her parents would immediately take her to their psychiatrist.

 

They flaunted their money shamelessly and all they could buy with it. They displayed their wealth ostentatiously to everybody that crossed their path. And the girl noticed, and she became like them. 

 

She took piano lessons, singing lessons, gymnastics, and ballet. And all of that was fine. She was their only child.

 

And, of course, she became a cheerleader. A cheerleader's leader at her expensive private school, where all cheerleaders were beautiful, but no one was as beautiful as her. They all had to be pretty; it was the primary requirement, unlike public schools that nowadays have to follow affirmative action, to give room to all kinds of weirdos in all types of programs, even the cheerleader's squad. 

 

At a young age, she heard how her parents treated the help, with arrogance and airs of superiority. Their gardener was Mexican, Salvadorian, or Guatemalan. The gardener spoke Spanish, so all Spanish-speaking people were below her level. Her wise parents didn't notice the little girl was paying attention.

 

One day, her mom told a homeless man, "You're a freeloader and a loser; go find a job." Her mom was her idol, so that must have been a good example.

 

Her parents didn't like Mexicans, Hindus, Blacks, Orientals, or Arabs unless they were exceptionally brilliant, rich, or famous. And since the little girl was bright and could learn everything fast, she learned that too, and she became like her parents at an early age. 

 

They live in the entire world. They are racist, prejudicial, unfair, and discriminatory. They were white and rich, and some of them were not so white or not so rich. Let's be fair. Not only white people can be this way. Racist people exist everywhere.

 

Some might think that I'm exaggerating a bit, but they might be right. But this little girl was absorbing like a sponge all her parents did, and she was learning to be mean, heartless, selfish, and arrogant, just like her parents. 

 

She believed in God. Yes, she did, but her God was white, too, and she believed her God only loved people like her. And she would argue, "Have you seen a black Jesus or an Oriental God? Of course not. Oh, my God is beautiful like me and loves what I love. And He has a special paradise, exclusively for us."

 

And all the friends in her circle had similar thoughts. And it seemed that they were right because they had it all. God must be on their side. After all, He had granted every single wish they desired. 

 

She disliked poor people; she said it was their fault they were poor. She wouldn't come near anyone with any disability and despised ugly people. She thought all of them were a bunch of ignorant, useless bloodsuckers and parasites. And she had learned to express her thoughts adequately, just like her parents.

 

When she turned fifteen, she convinced her mom to take her to her famous plastic surgeon because she wanted fuller lips. Still, the doctor had good ethics and morals, and he refused to perform unnecessary surgery. He said she was perfect. At first, she was enraged by his refusal, but when she realized the famous doctor had said she was perfect, her ego got a huge boost. 

 

At sixteen, she recorded her first record. Her daddy hired a famous producer and two of the best-known writers. The final product was of above-average quality, but it flopped in any case, but only initially. Because a month later, her daddy bought fifty thousand records for himself, which remain in a storage room. 

 

As a reward for her new status as a "teen pop sensation," her parents bought her a new Mercedes. That night she went out with her friends to celebrate her recent success. The celebration lasted all night long. On their way back, with the sun shining on her face, she fell asleep on the last exit ramp near her house. A Mexican boy was selling oranges there; the boy left his business unattended to get all the beautiful teenagers out of the upturned Mercedes one by one. The girl wasn't wearing her seatbelt because she didn't want her new dress to get wrinkled by the belt. She was the one with the most injuries on her body.

 

They took her to the hospital by helicopter in critical condition, where they performed several urgent operations. She'd been driving at ninety miles per hour; her face and body hit the steering wheel and dashboard before it broke the windshield. Her face was unrecognizable; she had numerous broken bones, but the most severe damage had been internal. Some of her organs ruptured from their ligaments, veins, and muscles. And she had lost a lot of blood. 

 

The result had been catastrophic. The girl's corneas had to be transplanted. The donor was a seventeen-year-old Asian kid who died in another car crash. She also needed a spleen transplant; the donor had been a twelve-year-old Iraqi girl who had died in a house fire. The blood used in the transfusion had been donated or sold by a homeless man. A Hindu doctor performed the operations successfully, and Filipino and African-American nurses assisted the girl with tender care for the eight weeks that she remained in the hospital.

 

When she returned home, the Mexican gardener received her with a bunch of flowers picked from the girl's garden and a Spanish note.

 

She cried, trying to read the note, and she didn't understand a word. But she thought that Spanish was a beautiful language too. 

 

And she was happy to be alive, and the experience had transformed her.

 

And she was pleased with her new God, a God without preferences or favorite people.

 

And she was.

 

 

 

Edmundo Barraza

 

Lancaster, Ca. 08-25-2014

 

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignornt.blogspot.com