And then, slowly, Katrina told Shizuka how ugly she felt when she was ignored at Grunfeld’s. Bit by bit, she admitted how hurt she was when Lucía Matía had called her a boy. She talked of listening to the sneers of people on the sidewalk, the horrible words spoken both loudly and under breath. She talked of listening, always listening, for the next possible attack, of trying to slouch as she walked in public, or that time after church when her uncle held her down and kissed her while saying please don’t give him AIDS and that God thought she was a filthy whore.
Trauma voyeurism
