Frida Gorgeous, freedom-seeking Frida, those weren’t dreams you painted. I see you with your flowers, the black hairs of your head and body, determined to prove that your face could hold as much history as any mural, that your eyes contain the gaze of thousands, that your hair could grow long, back to a time before your people were labeled una raza cósmica. Frida, holding hands with yourself, determined to paint your way through Diego’s great form. You didn’t need him but took him anyway, tattooed him on your forehead, donned his suit, asked him to hold you, to see you. But he didn’t, and neither do we, as we transform you into our chic Day of the Dead cover girl, our secular Guadalupe, Mexican Marilyn Monroe, poster child for love addicts and accident victims, as we set you on the altar with Sylvia, Virginia, all the other crazy women artists we forget that what we coo and smile at is your lifelong fight to be seen.
— 21 —