Friday, June 13, 2003


Raven is trying to scrunch up my black boina small enough to get it to stay on his tiny head.

Rave, I just don’t think it’s going to work. You will have to commemorate the 75th birthday of Che Guevara some other way.

“Phooey. If anyone is the New Bird—it’s me.”

We are going to have people reading poems and parts of Che’s diaries and I think we might even have a cake. Your wearing the boina would really be a superfluous touch. Try pinning a star to one of your feathers.

“Savage. That’s what you are. I don’t suggest you poke holes in yourself.”

It’s not much different from putting a barrette in my hair, guy. You’re over-reacting.

Raven sniffs, offended.

You don’t have to be a star, baby—to be in my life. This is the time to remember Che—and others who have had the now increasingly rare habit of standing up for their principles and beliefs.

“I suppose. What kind of cake did you say we were having?”

When I looked at the chronology of Che’s life that Lucinda had written for us on the whiteboard, I thought about how carefully Che’s life has been picked over:


tu vida atrapada
como mariposa por un aguja—
pero ¡vuelas, vuelas!


your life trapped
like a butterfly by a needle—
but you fly, you fly!


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