I was thirteen and had no idea what was going to hit me. My father, a complex man with whom I had neither the easiest nor the best of relationships decided I had to see Pink Floyd’s The Wall. It was PG18 in our ideologically dictatorial Argentina (officially, the dictatorship had ended, but it hadn’t in more ways than one; it took decades for that to happen). So, he instructed my mother to dress me up to look older, take me to see the movie and, if anyone said anything at the theater, to state that only my parents had the right to make decisions on what was appropriate for me to see.
So, I went. It was an afternoon on a weekday for which I was allowed to skip school. And I sat there, in the dark, wondering exactly what I was going to see. And the colors on the screen, breaking down like a bucket of paint thrown at me, shocked me, amazed me, and suddenly I was in love.
And it is funny because it was at the rhythm of “We don’t need no education” that my own education started.
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