MIGRANT THOUGHTS

I am a migrant.

To remain myself is a test of courage these days.

It is not always easy to be a black Italian woman.

I love my native country, I love its people, even those who see me as an unknown.

I love its heart.

I hope it beats for me too, as a distant, runaway daughter.

Wherever I go, I take Italy with me.

Leaving home opened wounds where I thought I was bulletproof.

Embracing my migration experience has required patience, resilience, boldness and determination.

It is a challenge to say out loud what I am and not to let go into the stereotype of those who see me without seeing me, bending me to a label that does not correspond to me.

When people talk about migrants, they immediately think of those who have to leave their homes without hope, running away, towards a path full of obstacles and continuous struggle.

From a privileged position, those who leave to study, work or even love, do not consider themselves migrants.

Yet the movement is there.

What differentiates the two categories is only the passport one leaves with and the skin one carries.

As a black woman, not only am I not considered Italian in Italy, but I am constantly being sent back to countries that are unknown to me.

I am lucky to be familiar with languages, to be able to master them, to make them my own.

Knowing the language when you are a migrant is a privilege.

I am aware of this.

It frees us from invisibility, silence and fear.

We have a voice. So we exist.

But in my case, my accent and my face do not match.

People don't understand and start a guessing game "where are you from? From...." and the list of all the Black African countries they have in mind begins.

Faced with my answer, which by now I say almost provocatively "I am Italian", the most representative reactions are a cordial and still smile, or better, an incredulous "really?".

I had to learn about France and the French. I had to get to know them and make them accept me, integrate me, as they say so much these days.

I had to explain and reveal myself, give of my being little by little, reassure them of my intentions, be a "good immigrant".

To become like them, or at least to try.

Then I realised. It's no use, except to get lost.

I am a migrant.

I am privileged in many ways.

Gradually I got used to it, I learned to respond, to react or to let it go because sometimes the energy is lacking.

I have learned to remain myself

to tell my story

to reclaim my origins.

I am a migrant.