US AND THEM

Mine is not an exceptional story.

I think it's a story common to many women and that's why I want to tell it.

For all those women who can’t, don’t dare, don’t have the courage; because I've been one of those women too, sometimes I still am.

But that's enough now. Enough.

It ‘s time to raise our voice, to stand up, to raise our fist to the sky and then to kneel thinking of those we have lost.

Only for them we must bend.

I remember the moment I became black.

I mean the moment I realized I was black, I realized I was different.

Don't take it badly, I'm not stupid, I've always seen the color of my skin.

I rephrase: I remember the day when I realized that my skin was a difference, something that would always distance me from "them".

I remember that in my mother's voice, "they" were omnipresent: you are not like "them", do not act like "them", do not have "their" same habits.

"They" were my friends, my acquaintances, the world all around.

The more I thought about it, the more this world seemed aggressive, hostile, and a suffocating feeling of loneliness grew in me.

An epiphany - allow me the romantic feeling - opened my eyes and enlightened me when I was 9 years old.

I was the only black girl in elementary school for the first three years until another scholar arrived.

She was not black like me, she had a slightly lighter complexion, dark and deep eyes, curly hair but not nappy like mine.

It doesn't matter, I noticed her immediately.

It's strange enough when I think about it that my difference has appeared to me in someone else's body.

I had never asked myself questions until then.

Of course, I knew I had a different skin color than my classmates and it was the same for my hair, the color of my eyes, the shape of my nose or my mouth.

There was something in the eyes of others, a curiosity that is proper to children, no malice; up until that moment it had never seemed to me that I was suffering from words spoken about my appearance.

I had a kind of privileged position, an exotic aura that earned me a form of respect: I was designated as the black girl.

I was the only one, it was my trademark, but I never understood to what extent this could be surprising until the arrival of this new student.

It was the effect of a cold shower: was this the way others saw me?

I looked at her with a kind of obsession: she was me.

Wherever she went she was recognizable precisely by the color of her skin that stood out among the faces of our companions who suddenly seemed pale to me.

It was a revelation: it was like seeing yourself in front of a mirror for the first time and it was seeing at what point she was different that I realized at what point I was too.

Something woke up in me , something that was until now turned off or asleep, I began to think, it was like waking up from a kind of dream that lasted so long, too long, abruptly without the pleasant sensation of heat and numbness.

Growing up I of erstood the reality of things.

I believe that unconsciously first, voluntarily then, we tend to make ourselves small and, to become transparent.

A life on mute mode: when you are soobvious, when you have a panel tacitly attached to your back and chest, when the color of your skin means that every moment you can be targeted, you try to be as discreet as possible.

I remember well the pressure of my parents when we all went out together as a family: our behavior had to be excellent.

It was something that went beyond good manners.

It almost seemed to go through everyday life on tiptoe, without making too much noise.

It is a question of survival: every day you seem to have to justify your presence, your every act, your every word, your every success, your every choice, your every friendship.

Be proud of who you are; they always told me.

But it is difficult to be proud when you have the impression that the rest of the world wants to hide, forget, avoid looking you.

It wasn't always like that, of course.

But I'm ashamed to say that there have been many times when it was hard to love being black.

I saw the look in the others, even those from whose mouth came kind words.

Eyes lie with great difficulty and when you are black or black in a world where others are not, you quickly learn to understand the body language of others and to control your own.

There are small things.

Moments.

Gestures, fluid glances, light convulsions on the face, lips that tighten just before relaxing in a constructed smile.

The body lies with great difficulty.

I've never understood why people can do it with such simplicity.