I didn’t know what capitalism was. I didn’t know what inflation meant. Or interest rates. Or politics beyond fear. I only knew that somewhere far away there was a place where people lived well and could speak loudly without consequences. I was a child in the late 70s and early 80s. Six thousand miles away from that place. Six thousand miles, ten thousand kilometers, and a dictatorship apart.

In my house, voices were careful. Opinions were folded before being spoken. My father lost his job and never really stood up the same way again. We moved between relatives’ homes like people who didn’t want to overstay their welcome but had nowhere else to go.

I remember the pain in my teeth. The kind that keeps you awake at night. The solution was simple: remove them. Public hospital. White walls. Metal beds. My mother in a common room with twenty other women, separated by curtains that didn’t quite close. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒔.

At eleven, I sold school bags in Estación Central to pay for my uniform. Later, when my family couldn’t afford college, I had to step off that road and start to “𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒔”. If you know the song by a Chilean Rock band Los Prisioneros , "El baile de los que sobran" you understand what that means.

I sold candies at La Candelaria, a religious fair. I counted coins under the noise of the crowd and tried not to feel ashamed.

I worked at a gas station.

I sold flowers in a small shop.

I cleaned a tennis club before the members arrived.

I worked as a “temporero”, cutting lemons under the sun.

I prepared sandwiches at a truck rest stop.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒊𝒈. 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑼𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑨𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂.

Through movies. Through music. Through images that arrived like signals from another world. Teenagers driving cars. Friends laughing in diners. Clean schools with lockers. Doctors who repaired things instead of removing them. Neighborhoods where a contractor could live next to a doctor and no one seemed out of place. It wasn’t the houses or the luxury that captivated me.

𝙄𝒕 𝒘𝙖𝒔 𝒕𝙝𝒆 𝒄𝙖𝒍𝙢.

𝙄𝒕 𝒘𝙖𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝙞𝒎𝙥𝒍𝙚, 𝒔𝙩𝒂𝙗𝒍𝙚 𝙡𝒊𝙛𝒆, 𝙖𝒏𝙙 𝙩𝒉𝙖𝒕 𝒇𝙚𝒍𝙩 𝙡𝒊𝙠𝒆 𝒂 𝒅𝙧𝒆𝙖𝒎. In those images, happiness looked like possible. The biggest question for a kid seemed to be: What will you become? What do you want to be?

𝙉𝒐𝙩: 𝑯𝙤𝒘 𝒕𝙝𝒆 𝒉𝙚𝒍𝙡 𝙬𝒊𝙡𝒍 𝑰 𝒔𝙪𝒓𝙫𝒊𝙫𝒆!?

That was the 𝘼𝒎𝙚𝒓𝙞𝒄𝙖𝒏 𝑫𝙧𝒆𝙖𝒎 I saw. Not yachts. Not Wall Street. Just the absence of fear. I didn’t know then that while I was watching, the 80s in the United States were already the beginning of its fall.

On the screen, everything looked bigger. Stronger. Richer. But something had started to tilt. No explosions. Nothing burned. It just began to move away from ordinary people.

For a long time, people blamed themselves. They thought they hadn’t worked hard enough. Hadn’t chosen well enough. Hadn’t tried hard enough. 𝘽𝒖𝙩 𝙨𝒍𝙤𝒘𝙡𝒚 𝒊𝙩 𝙗𝒆𝙘𝒂𝙢𝒆 𝒄𝙡𝒆𝙖𝒓, 𝙩𝒉𝙚 𝙧𝒖𝙡𝒆𝙨 𝙝𝒂𝙙 𝙨𝒉𝙞𝒇𝙩𝒆𝙙.

Later, I would learn the name for that shift: N𝒆𝒐-𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒎.

At the time, it just felt like the ladder was being pulled up. No one announced it. They just shifted. Like in my home country during that Dictatorship.

Houses became harder to buy.

Healthcare became heavier.

School became debt.

News became sides.

Money became proof of worth.

Some said the country was losing religion. Maybe.

But another religion was growing. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚.

One that confused success with virtue.

One that separated people from colors or caste, into winners and the rest.

The dream didn’t disappear. 𝑰𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍. It became harder to reach. More fragile. Something you had to defend, sometimes from your friends, even from your own family. And maybe that’s what hurts.

Because that boy who sold school bags in a train station

is now a U.S. citizen. And for that boy, America was never about being rich.

𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒔, 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔. It was about a dentist who repairs. A school you don’t have to leave. A voice that doesn’t tremble when it speaks. It was about 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘.

I still believe that version existed. And I still believe it could exist again.

But only if the dream remembers what it was meant to be. Not a race. Not a scoreboard. Not super-rich, just rich

𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓,

𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒂𝒇𝒆.