Fascists. I hate them with a passion. How could I not? Ever since I was little, I've been surrounded by rightist oddballs a little too keen on their ideological stance. Blame it on my surname (English surnames in Chile dictate a certain social status automatically linked to conservatism). Blame the decade and the country grew up in (1980s Chile was far from democratic and free). Blame the school I went to (an elitist excuse for an elitist upbringing). Luckily in my family we were all a bit lefty, otherwise I'd probably be kissing pictures of General Pinochet and ranting about the wonders of Thatcherism by now. Not that it wouldn't have helped when I was a teenager and had to resist abuse by the 'cool' kids, who would sometimes -inexplicably- yell at me "go home you dirty commie!". Wherever they meant by "home" was always beyond me (though my house was actually very close to the school). As you can see, our cool kids weren't all that cool, neither were they very bright.

Yet the awareness of being trapped in this intellectual swamp started way before. Flashback to the fifth grade and my best friend at the time. Though an otherwise "respectable" clan in the eyes of the community, I always thought his family a little strange. Perhaps it was his mother's parkinson-like shaking hands, his elder brother's closet alcoholism or his father's obsessive knack for order and cleanliness (he would actually comb the carpets). Or perhaps it was my friend's secret shrine in his attic dedicated to the SI movement, wallpapered with the nazilike Patria y Libertad memorabilia. All in all, they were a spooky bunch. But I was just a child, and thought it all normal - even when my friend made fun of my aunt, a former detention camp retainee and torture victim.

(To be continued).