Connections

July 9, at work;

It is times like this which give me hope my life has value. Maybe not like those of great influence, but there is purpose for what I went through and in my ability to now share it. 

There was a young girl who came into the store who just began speaking with me. At first it was just about her love of Robert Munsch and the collection of books she still has. Then we merged into her living in Quebec, learning French and some of our shared experiences learning new languages. At last we ended up with her telling me very personal aspects of her last year, the trauma she’s been through and her willingness, like me to share it. What an incredible young girl, so strong and compassionate she is – on her way to becoming an adaptable, universal personality. Just a truly beautiful soul! I could not help but admire her strength, confidence and desire to continue with a strong adventurous spirit. Another confirmation that being a victim is a choice!

Just before her father came in to collect her, I handed her my story “Inside Out” attaching my phone number and letting her know she could keep in touch if she wanted. It was my hope she would see the value in my story, but more importantly  the Hummingbird Project enough to start one where she lives. 

Over the years, many visits just like this have surprised me, given me hope. They are like links in a chain built over the years to inspire not just me, but those who read what I share. This is why the stories are put on my page. They seem to me, too important to keep to myself as not everyone, first of all has the curiosity to ask the crazy and sometimes personal questions, then accept the responsibility of hearing the answers, the desire to take time to create stories from them. Not everyone has the perfect situation to receive them either, so it’s obvious to me, my situation is a gift. Each encounter is a treasure to me – there is honor in receiving such stories, confirming we are not alone, never alone. 

July 9, later at work

Another amazing conversation with a woman born in Cuba. OMG what an amazing conversation with someone who actually grew up with one of his legitimate daughters. She told me she was from Cuba when I asked her after hearing her speak Spanish to her children and it just popped out of my mouth that I was born in Argentina.  Then after a few minutes and while I was helping another customer, she asked me if I knew Che Guevara and i said “he’s my father”!  Again, there was no hesitation, it was just out there with someone who could easily discredit and embarrass me. She did not disbelieve me, did not doubt my heritage. At least not after she got over the initial shock of it. She showed a picture of Aleida with her grand daughter and I showed her the pictures of me with papa and Lucas which is on fb. She immediately saw the similarities around the mouth especially and nose. She also told me there were a lot of people in Argentina who looked like me when I said how my hair and eye color distracts people from seeing the resemblance. An amazing feeling to have this conversation and feel stronger for it. She was like an extension cord connecting me to the reality I was separated from my whole life…..a lifeline. 

July 10, 2025

The woman from Cuba returned to visit me today. She had so many questions, not only from her but her friend whom she told my story to in Manchester. Also her father-in-law came into the store and he and I had an opportunity to talk. Unfortunately I cannot remember what department of the government he worked for but our conversation included the possibility of Trudeau Jr. being Castro’s son. He did not deny the possibility, even when I suggested the timeline did not match, because as I also know, these things can be altered when you are the one in control. This brought up my story and who my father was – he did not even flinch at what I was telling him. It was accepted as truth based on what he experienced in his government  position. Government is just another word for mafia, a hotbed of corruption, dishonesty and power plays designed to enhance the wealth of the minority. We, the little people, living on the sidelines and mostly in the dark, haven’t a clue how bad it is. Well, I do, being a victim of it on a very personal and intimate level. 

The woman, whose name I did not even ask for, came back at the end of the day also to say goodbye, thank me for the book I gave her and told me she would read my story. 

Below is the story written in June on the day I finished for the most part, papa’s image. What was said was so incredible, looking back, it has to be included in this post to emphasize the relation to today’s story. They are connected, the change felt was the beginning of the new set of dominoes falling. My life is about to take another major turn, something I’ve said very recently, the day I finished the painting in fact. 

It is a strange feeling to sense such a change, knowing there is no stopping what has been destined to happen your whole life. To be in all the moments of planning, wondering every step of the way, if anything will come of your efforts, very different from the second you realize you are there at the change you anticipated. This woman who came into my store yesterday, was the closest contact I’ve had to date, to my fathers legitimate family. This is the closest I have been to home, to its reality, to its possibility of discovering the whole truth, or at least as much as is known by those who remain alive to share. Yes, my life is about to change. 

July 11, 2025

This morning waking at 4 am and unable to sleep, so many thoughts flooded my mind. There is a deep understanding sharing my story with this woman means this is the most exposed, most vulnerable I have been on this journey. Whereas a year ago, I would have hesitated in my choice to say who I was, in this situation this year, the strength was there behind my words, my conviction. Much has changed in me since Bolivia.

June 22, 2025

What did I know about my father as a little girl of 2 years old?  What does any child of this age know about their parents?

What I understood when the memories began to come to me, was that he was complicated and thus, confusion followed. These memories did not match the man I grew up believing was my father, they were 2 different people entirely. Then there came the moment his identity was shared with me, so now into the mix, there is a man so well known in the world, it became impossible to put the pieces together. At this point it feels like there are 3 different people who are my birth father. The one I remember as the 2 year old, the man the world knows and the man who I was taught to believe was my birth father.  The contrast, as a child coming to this family, was not something I could comprehend as living here had nothing to do with the world I was born into. A very confusing mix! With no one to help me untangle those threads, it took years to finally see the truth. 

The last memories I had of papa were the most cruel, his body as it got hit with several bullets, his body being thrown into a pit, then covered up. This was the point of destruction for me, everything good and bad all thrown together into a room in my mind, so it never had to be faced again. 

The process of painting my father created the space for those positive memories of the 2 year old as I literally got drawn into his left eye while painting it. The feeling similar to that of going down a slide at the park, my spirit being pulled into his, allowing me to feel all the love he carried. Impossible – I realize fully how this must sound, but it is an accurate description of how it felt as the minutes became timeless while working. Something perhaps compared to being suspended in animation. This glorious, precious private space shared with the one person who made sure I didn’t get lost forever in the pain and sorrow. It was probably the most special I have ever felt in my entire life, to be given this feeling of belonging to him heart and soul. It has changed me!

From this point on, there was no stopping me, the painting just had to be finished as quickly as possible. It feels as though it has been the most important job ever given to me. 

Going to Bolivia meant facing the darkest aspect of being his daughter, the loss, the unbelievable sorrow and the desire to allow myself to drown in it so it could finally be gone. Papa was not real, my story not real until we began the climb up the mountain where he died. What he went through that final day was what was stored in my heart. The pain was unbearable, the fear of seeing him in a situation so completely void of the the love I knew forced me to forget him. My mind could not accept what I saw happen to him. Forever bound by this fear and confusion, my life continued as his ended. With no one willing to explain it to me, there was no way to carry it, so the grandmothers helped me lock it away until I was ready to accept not just what happened to him, but all of us who were so closely connected to him. 

The painting hanging on my wall represents a moment remembered of him looking at me the same way. There is so much love in his eyes, I am brought back to my 2 year old self, when everything was perfect and right, real and solid. Today, my day off, the time has been spent absorbing just how special this is. Larger than life, he fills the room, fills my heart and has somehow removed the fear. 

There is no way to define this situation, it does not fit into any normal box, easily explained. Somehow, he has freed me from the responsibility of carrying this tragedy any longer. So much of it was placed on my shoulders from those who raised me. This was intentionally done to ensure my heart was always heavy with guilt. In this way, healing becomes next to impossible. This was how the hummingbird which is my true spirit was captured, imprisoned and almost vanished completely. Had it not been for papa, I would have died of despair many years ago. I was so close to completely letting go, until my daughter was born. Her near death was the trigger reminding me of my own near death as a child. This started the dominoes falling, each one forcing me to fight harder, to push away the barriers preventing my heart from remembering the truth. This was the beginning of finding the inner strength which came from being loved so much. Remembering why would come later when my heart was pierced with the crystal needle. 

Today, my gift is being allowed to sit in the light of his presence, albeit with a rendition of his true self, knowing it is all true. We were bound by this tragedy, by the pain of it. It could only end by remembering the love – see it, feel it, live it, share it. He is my father, I am his daughter. I am free, I am love, I am light. I am the hummingbird.