In an 11 by 14 feet room with no air ventilation, where there was nothing but a single bed and a coffee table, there was Damara.
Damara, the Celtic Goddess, laying on that bed full of bedbugs. Thinking about her aching past, where she experienced repudiation about her true self, while still perceiving the blended aroma of her proscribed profession and a trace of spared vodka from the night before.
Her maternal instinct was the source for her name. Immortalized in myths, always caring for the vulnerable, always battling against injustice. Beautiful and heroic for some, prohibited and immoral for others.
It was a Tuesday before sunrise in the Mission District, and Damara was unable to fall asleep. Her memories contaminated her thoughts. The remembrance of her life in Buenos Aires tasted distant but her pain was visible, tangible, and transparent like herself. She only yearned for acceptance, for a promised life where she would ultimately be loved, be respected.
Damara was finally closing her eyes without tears flooding her dreams when she heard a loud scream. Voices, so many voices, in so many languages, and the voices sounded loud and desperate. She wanted to open the door of her room, but was too afraid to do so. She hid herself under the sheets, like she did when her drunk father discovered her secret.
She prayed for protection to the Pagan Goddesses she worshipped, she made her present vanish and submerged into the world of wonder and faith she once fabricated as a hopeless child. The world that saved her existence, and allowed her to survive her so called life.
The violent sound of her door abruptly opening escorted her back to the present. Damara continued hiding under the sheets, but was able to notice four robust shadows on the other side of the sheets. She was trembling, she was crying, and her mascara was dispersed between her face and the sheets that were protecting her from the disturbing reality.
“Identify yourself!” One of the robust shadows ordered.
“Damara Russo” she responded, in a low and fearful tone.
The other robust shadow forcefully removed the sheets that were covering her body. Four men, dressed in dark blue uniforms. One pointed a bright flashlight to her face, so bright that she could barely recognized their faces.
Damara blinked several times, trying to adjust her sight to the unpleasant brightness of the flashlight, just to notice that the other three shadows were pointing three guns at her.
“Sir, tell us your real name.” One of the men said.
“Damara is my real name.” She said, in her broken English.
The men looked at each other and started to laugh. A rotten, repulsive laugh of pigs.
“Ok Sir, we are going to arrest you since you are not telling us your real name.” The one with the flashlight said.
Damara had walked far throughout the rockiest road to be herself, to be accepted, to be tolerated, to be respected. She had nothing but herself. She was terrified, but by no means she was going to toss her individual self for the inanity of these four demeaning uniformed pigs.
She just lifted her arms up and waited for her unjustified arrest.
The four men laughed again, and proceeded to arrest her.