Asthma

In Barcelona in 2004 I had a Canadian flag sewed to what I called my rucksack but thought of as my backpack. The fact that you found me burning an effigy was just a fluke—if I ever met George W. Bush in a dark alley, I’d probably ask him for coke. I had no interest in sitting in bars and parties fighting over welfare plans and school zoning laws. All I was interested in was you, and you wanted to join and lead a movement, so I spent a lot of time in bars and parties hearing people righting all wrong between sips of their Cuba Libres. I also spent a lot of time being blamed for two wars I knew about and any number of covert wars I didn’t.

“Don’t you care what your country is doing? In the Middle East? What you did in South America? Southeast Asia? Then you have to scream, no? You have to protest, to fight! This is a war, comrade. Make sure you know which side you’re on.”

I had to laugh. I watched the protests at home, the commentary in Catalan. Watching on mute would have been more accurate—a million protesters together still wouldn’t have the money to buy a voice. How could I scream when I couldn’t even get my asthma treated?