Page 32 of Kate & Frida

Frida Rodriguez ... En Route La La Land

November 12, 1992

Los Angeles, CA

Dear Kate,

Do I feel guilty about disappearing into books? I feel guilty about everything. Hot showers, mascara, my fully intact Tiger Beat collection from 1979, my unbombed bed, chiles rellenos whenever I want them.

I had to get away from Paris. I don’t know if I’m going back so write to me here in L.A. for now. My parents still don’t know I went to war. When the news is on they shake their heads and tut-tut – how awful – they don’t get how twisted it all is. Tom Brokaw telling America about women and children burned alive and then an ad comes on for Wienerschnitzel jalapeno cheese corn dogs. I tried going to a party with some high school friends, and they’re more upset about Lenny Kravitz and Lisa Bonet splitting up than the fact that Czechoslovakia is breaking up at this very moment. No one wants to hear about the Serbs and ethnic cleansing. Like no one wanted to hear about the Nazis and their final solution, and look how that ended up. They just crank up Tori Amos and analyze Singles and try to figure out how to find their own Campbell Scott to marry. Talk about gross selfish twentysomethings. Who knows? You’re probably right. You’re probably one of them too, caring more about Bumpa’s stroke than entire cultures ravaged by war. In case you’re wondering what kind of disgusting person thinks that about her best friend – me – that’s what kind! How’s that for truth?

Frida