Gaby's Official Story

In response to the blog query: Write a brief biography of the young girl in Official Story; she would now be in her mid-late 20s.

I was asked the other day to tell you the story of my youth. “What is youth?” I answered. Is it those years where one is too young to eat or cloth themselves without assistance? Or is it when they are filled with ideals about life, that the world is full of possibilities?

I would like to tell you about my family, but I do not know which one to tell you about. I had a mother and a father once, but my memories of them are very slim. It shouldn’t matter. They weren’t my real parents, anyway. I remember a flat with a maid in a pink dress. She would feed me meat and tuck me in at night with my dolly at my side. I remember my mother with her long brown hair, and my father who always had a pinched expression on his face. They are the ones that named me Gaby, and it is the one tangible reminder that they were a part of my life once. My last few memories of them consist of screaming matches and tears. I would listen to them from my bed, and sometimes my mother would sleep with me, wetting my hair with her tears. My mother would look at me like I was the last hope in the world, and near the end, my father wouldn’t look at me at all.

My grandmother told me that they weren’t my real parents, that my own had died during the Dirty War, that these people had bought me from the government. Did they kill my real parents? I don’t know.

When I was five, my mother had picked me up from my grandparents house (well, I had thought they were my grandparents) and dropped me off with Grandmother Rabello. She said I was to live with her now, that she was my real grandmother. I didn’t understand her, and I remember crying for her. Where was Daddy? Did they not love me anymore?

I will always remember her last words to me.

“Oh baby, I love you so much. More than you will ever know. You are the love of my life. Some day you will understand. Someday, baby. Go with your grandmother, Gaby. Go, baby, she needs you.”

I don’t remember what my last name used to be, and Grandmother Rabello never mentions it. I still live in Buenos Aires, and every once in awhile I will see someone that looks so much like my mother I can’t help but stare. I think it is her, and I think she sees me, too, but she is always gone by the time I make it through the crowd, hoping against hope that she will be there when I make it.

I was married last year, and this year I am expecting my first child. I hope it will be a son. I have been spending time in the biblioteca using their computers to see what I can find out about the Dirty War, about my history. I know what happened to my real parents thanks to Grandmother Rabello, and I am hoping my search will lead me to my adoptive parents. I was a desaparecido once. The more I learn about the time of my birth, the more I want to see the woman that sent me back.

I may be found, but I once was lost. And in being found, I have lost so much. I would like my son to meet his grandmother, the one that loved me and cherished me and gave me my name.

I feel blind. I would like to see.