Let 'Em Have It

I saw a wonderful film the other day: Machuca.
It shows, witnessed through the innocent eyes of a boy, the last few days of the Allende government of Chile in 1973 before the (American assisted) military coup. I found the film well-written, well-directed, well-acted, and well-shot. The score and soundtrack were rather impressive too.

I'd have to admit that I had not learned of Chile's government being overthrown until I was involved with a Chileña whose parents were there when it happened. With a hint of irony, her parents left for the United States to be given more freedom, leaving their home where it was being taken away. When I went to Chile, I asked my girlfriend's aunt and uncle many questions about the Pinochet regime that took over back then. I can't say that I sympathize, but I certainly empathize with what the slender South American country has gone through.

As I watched the film, I found myself sympathizing more and more with the people who only wanted their rights, who only wanted to be an active part in society. At one scene, after the inevitable military takeover, I was almost moved to tears by what I was watching.
I realized that the film struck chords within me, about how our government has not always been what it claims to be, about how there are still countries around the world that don't have our true help.
When the credits began the man behind me leaned over to his wife, and I heard him say ever so smugly, "We had to handle that too."
I shot a look at the Counselor. "What did he say?"
I heard her answer softly, "We had to handle that too."
Fuming is the best word to describe how I was feeling. Did the man not watch the same movie as I? Did he think that the U.S. didn't have involvement in the death of the beloved president, Allende?
"Fucking dumbass," I said. I turned around and watched him walk out of the theatre.
I was antsy, agitated, that he could think that the U.S. is the savior for all.
"I want to--" I said to the Counselor, yet couldn't finish the sentence.
With her understanding, she said, "Then go."
I leaned back in my seat, breathing heavily. Then I got up. I stepped over my friend Ryan's feet as he watched the credits. I stormed out of the theatre, as only one can storm in flip flops.
The plan in my head was to engage the man in a discussion. I would ask him what it was that he said, though I knew, and then I'd give the bearded fuck a lesson in U.S. international involvement.
I got outside of the theatre, looking around. A car pulled out of a parking spot and drove away; the man wasn't in it.
I waited and the Counselor came out. Ryan was probably still in the theatre analyzing the credits and wondering if pigs or dogs were hurt in the making of the film.
"Did you find him?" she asked.
I shook my head, still scanning the lot and the entrance to the theatre.
"Can you believe that?!" I said angrily. "We had to handle that," I mocked the man.
"Uh, Matt. He said, 'We had a hand in that,'" she explained.
I turned and looked at her. "But I asked you--"
"I said 'We had a hand in that.'"
I could feel my anger being dragged out and a wave of embarrassment coming over me. I laughed. "I was going to let him have it."
She smiled and said, "I wondered what got you going." She gave me a hug, and added to soften my obvious abashment, "I can see why you got upset. He said it with a very smug tone." She paused, "I like that you were willing to get in an argument with someone over something like that."
Ryan came out and I explained the mistake that had me hurdling over him. He heard what the Counselor heard as well.
I chuckled at myself. With another shake of my head, I thought, I better use two Q-tips in the morning.