Valentine's Day, 1973, the day I learned to hate.

Nothing that came before took me to this place...not the white kids at school teasing me for having big lips, or the old woman at the movie theater refusing to sell me tickets because of the color of my skin. I didn't feel hatred for the ignorant rednecks who set off the bomb that killed four of my friends, or for the cops who let those men go without arresting them. I prayed for them all. And even when I was burning the skin around my ears with a hot iron, after one of my teachers told me I'd never be pretty unless my hair was straight, I didn't hate her for saying it, or hate myself for doing it.

Earlier injuries across my years filled me with anger. Brought despair to my soul. But they never ignited the hatred that's burning inside me now for President Miraflores.

For what you did to my baby brother, I hate you with all I am, Generalísimo. My only Valentine's wish is for your heart to turn rotten and split apart inside your chest.