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Adelaide Magazine

Fui publicada na revista literária internacional Adelaide

Adelaide é uma revista literária internacional que faz ponte entre Lisboa e Nova York. Fui selecionada com uma crônica sobre amizades e as diferentes expectativas sobre a vida adulta.




 

Nós quatro perdemos a rua

Por Hellen Albuquerque


Quando eu tinha 11 anos, me mudei de escola. Novo uniforme, agora azul escuro com listras amarelas laterais que me faziam parecer parte oficial dos Correios. Novos nomes para decorar. Outros lanches na hora do recreio. E por sorte, em pouco tempo, novas amigas


Com os meses nos tornamos um grupo de quatro. Eu, Aline, Paula e Tabatha. Aline era a mais bonita, loira de olhos azuis, com um sorriso cativante muito branco. Paula era a talentosa, tinha inclinação às artes e desenhava incrivelmente bem. Tabatha era a chorona. Ou sensível, se decidirmos pela sutileza. Era doce de forma enjoativa e chorava ao menor sinal de contrariedade.


Não sei bem o que eu era. A mais pobre, com certeza. Eu morava em um bairro afastado da nossa escola, enquanto elas viviam poucas quadras a parte uma da outra, e chegavam às aulas depois de poucos minutos de caminhada. Eu era talvez a que lia mais. Não por querer ser culta, mas para fugir do meu mundo. Todas éramos boas alunas. Não causávamos confusão, nem alarde.


Dia desses, os posts gradualmente me informaram: todas estão noivas. Prestes a se casar. Sou um ano mais nova, mas estou a uma vida de distância de tal marco social. Todas estudaram ciências. Aline, além de bonita se tornou médica. Paula me surpreendeu trocando lápis por brocas e virou dentista. Tabatha algum tipo de bióloga, a que me fez mais sentido. A imagino ensinando crianças com o mesmo preparo emocional que ela deve ter desenvolvido.


Suas vidas parecem perfeitas nas fotos que postam. Uma vez ao ano viajam para alguma praia paradisíaca suficiente para ser ponto turístico, e elitizada na mesma medida para que não tenham nenhum contato com quem realmente mora por ali e vive da natureza que os cerca. Todas terão festas, com vestidos brancos, valsas e champagne estourando, talvez até Dom Pérignon.


Eu me encontro em uma paisagem diferente. Mesmo que tenhamos partilhado anos nas mesmas carteiras, com as mesmas tarefas de casa e discursos professorais, o cenário depois das horas de estudo eram fundamentalmente opostos. Elas voltavam para famílias minimamente equilibradas. Que sentavam em volta de uma mesa nas refeições, perguntavam como tinha sido seus dias, as abraçavam se elas sentiam medo. Nunca devem ter pensado no valor da conta de luz até se mudarem para seus novos apartamentos que em breve dividirão com os maridos. Enquanto eu, sabia desde muito cedo que caso o boleto não fosse pago, minha leitura noturna aconteceria à luz de velas.


Por isso ou apesar disso, vivo em movimento. Tracei uma carreira que muda todos os dias e me permite mudar com a mesma frequência. Escrevo. Uso minhas infinitas horas sentada em chãos de bibliotecas como fundamento da minha existência. Tenho horror a ideia do matrimônio - que rima tão bem com manicômio, e nunca achei que fosse descuido linguístico. Coleciono voos, enquanto elas rotinas. Sou livre e elas aprisionadas. Ou seria o oposto?


Em algum momento das nossas vidas, nós quatro estávamos exatamente no mesmo lugar. Me lembro de um desenho que Paula fez e que guardei por muito tempo. Éramos nós, em traços que destacavam nossas particularidades - o cabelo loiro de Aline, as sardinhas de Paula, as bochechas de Tabatha, meus olhos muito grandes - abraçadas e sorridentes. Acima de nossas cabeças estávam nossos nomes e um título: BFF. Best Friends Forever. O tipo de declaração que só tem sentido se você ainda usa canetas de gel com glitter.


Paula fez cópias com papel carbono para todas nós. Por anos mantive esse desenho ileso em uma caixa na casa da minha mãe, guardado como tesouro. Uma prova de que independente de onde eu tivesse vindo, por alguns anos eu fiz parte de algo maior que meu exílio recebido como herança. Não me lembro quando joguei o desenho fora, imagino que quando assimilei a ideia de que nada é para sempre.


Quando vejo suas fotos me pergunto qual curva tomamos que nos levou para lugares tão distantes. Teria eu perdido o mapa, ou elas seguido uma trilha já antiga, mas que traz algum tipo de segurança? Será que quebrei a matrix de metas detalhadamente traçadas para manter o capitalismo? Aquele que diz que o casamento e os filhos trazem propósito para vida, quando, na verdade, apenas criam mais mão de obra para manter a mais valia do protelariado e dessa forma garantir a estabilidade das instituições no poder.


Ou teriam elas resolvido seus traumas de infância com mais afinco que minhas incontáveis sessões de terapia? E por isso, ganharam como recompensa relacionamentos héteronormativos aparentemente saudáveis.


Como medir felicidades? Ou ao menos, as diferenciar de um contrato com o sistema que nos coloca em espaços medíocres, mas suportáveis?


Sempre que alguém escuta que matei escorpiões antes de caminhar pela praia em frente a minha casa do mês, para onde vim sozinha, carregando malas de mais de 20kg, recebo as mesmas perguntas e elogios. “Você não sente saudade?”, não. “Que corajosa!”, a gente se acostuma. “Eu sonho em fazer o que você faz, mas tenho medo”.


Medo tenho também. Principalmente de acordar um dia, depois de vinte anos de transe, e perceber que continuo no mesmo lugar, fazendo as mesmas coisas, com as mesmas pessoas, e pior ainda, com a mesma versão de mim. Um plano definido, do marido, dos filhos, do trabalho para comprar um sofá dobrável ou um novo carro, me sufocam mais que água chegado ao pulmão. E esse pesadelo me obriga a seguir, ainda que eu caia e quebre metade do corpo mais vezes do que parece natural a um ser humano.


Se existe um caminho com infinitas encruzilhadas e cabe a cada um andar até a sua, a única rota correta é o movimento. Talvez a resposta seja essa, é melhor fazer algo, ainda que guiado pelo piloto automático. Do que não fazer nada por medo. A estagnação é o único erro.



_____

We missed the street, then lost the map

By Hellen Albuquerque

My eyes moved fast, my fingers scrolling through my timeline in a blur. Should I try this Yoni ritual? Pandas are so cute. If I just learned how to make almond cheese, I could be vegan again. I spent mere milliseconds on each post, my mind racing until I spotted it: a familiar face beaming in the center of the photograph. Aline lifted her right hand to the camera, grinning from ear to ear as the diamond on her ring finger sparkled. The memories flooded back, making it hard to breathe.


When I was 11 years old, I changed schools. Now, I had a new uniform. New names flew by me like bullets as I tried to memorize them all. A myriad of new snacks at recess. And luckily, in a short time, new friends.

Over the months, we became a group of four. Me, Aline, Paula, and Tabatha. Aline was the prettiest, blonde with blue eyes and a very white captivating smile. Paula was the talented one; she was artistically inclined and drew incredibly well. Tabatha was the crybaby. Or sensitive, if we choose subtlety. She was sickeningly sweet and would cry at the slightest sign of disturbance.


I don't know what I was. The poorest, for sure. I lived far away from our school and had to take two buses to get there. The building was in a neighborhood that had plants for street names, a sign of luxury in that city. While the other girls lived a few blocks away from each other and could reach the classroom after a short walk. I was the one who read the most. Not because I fancied being cultured but to escape my world. We were all good students—no muss, no fuss.


Despite never inviting them to come to my house after school, we shared everything else. School projects and study groups, delicious fried lunches, and small trips to the movies. I adored them as we do with celebrities, thinking we know and understand them, while also being aware we belong to a lower caste.


Their carefully curated social media posts gradually informed me: they are all 28 years old and about to get married. I'm a year younger, but I'm a lifetime away from such a social landmark. All of them graduated in science. Aline, in addition to being beautiful, became a doctor. Paula shocked me when she switched from using pencils to drills and became a dentist. Tabatha became some sort of biologist, which made the most sense to me. Kids seem to be the ideal recipients of her sensitivity.


Once a year, they travel to paradisiacal beaches—exclusive enough to keep away the locals, yet well-known enough to attract the elite. Sun-kissed and relaxed, they spend days lounging poolside in luxury. Their weddings will be just as indulgent, with white gowns, waltzes, and bubbling champagne—perhaps even Dom Pérignon.


I find myself in a different landscape. Despite spending years at the same desks, doing the same homework, and listening to the same professorial speeches, the scenario after study hours was fundamentally opposed. They returned to minimally stable families. Aline to siblings and parents who were doctors, paving her future since childhood. Paula to a three-story house and a family who sat around the table during meals, asking about each other’s days. Tabatha to a mother and an aunt, with cute dogs and an endless supply of chocolate.


They must only have thought about the cost of the electricity bill once they moved into the new apartments that they would soon share with their husbands. While I knew from a very early age that without payment, my nightly reading would take place by candlelight.


Because of or despite that, I now live on the move. I've planned a career that changes every day and allows me to change with it. I use my endless hours sitting on library floors as the foundation of my existence. I recoil at anything marriage-related, from invitations to reality shows. I collect flights, while they collect routines. I am free, and they are imprisoned.


I'm somewhere in Nicaragua, where volcanoes cut the horizon filled with lakes. It's warm with a nice breeze, and I don't have any work today. I have a cute hippie guy and his dog as short-term company, yet I feel twelve again. With the same feeling of dislocation and the same longing to belong. "Why do you care if they are getting married?" The cute hippie asks. "If they are happy with that and you are happy with this, what's the difference?" I was feeling so smart when I ranted all these same questions at him, but now... Am I happy? Am I unchained, or am I pretending? Are the choices I made pretexts to justify my running away?


At some point in our lives, the four of us were in the exact same place. There was a drawing that Paula made that I kept for a long time. It was of the four of us, with features that highlighted our particularities—Aline's blonde hair, Paula's freckles, Tabatha's rosy cheeks, my enormous eyes—hugging and smiling. Above our heads, she wrote our names and a title: BFF. Best Friends Forever. The kind of statement that only makes sense if you're still using pens with glitter.


Paula made us all carbon copies. For years this drawing lived unharmed in a box at my mother's house, treasured. Proof that, regardless of where I came from, at least for a few years I was part of something greater than my inherited exile. I don't remember when I threw it away, perhaps when I came to the realization that ‘nothing endures but change’.


If you do something without ever wondering why you are not actually free. At least, that’s what the Philosophy of Freedom by Rudolf Steiner says. He offers a map to introspective observation, and at the end of the rainbow, you may find clarity. I wonder why I do things time and again, and most often than not, the answer is because I can.


Traveling alone, hiking volcanoes, paragliding in the Andes mountains, swimming with dolphins in the Caribbean Sea, getting lost in the Balkans, crying in mosques, drinking mezcal, eating a power bar while in front of the great Esfinge,... There’s no logical reason for any of it. Nothing has brought me definitive realizations of meaning neither purpose nor zen master peace. But I keep at it.

When I see their photos, I wonder which crossroads took us to such distant places. Had I lost the map, or had they followed an ancient trail, which brings some kind of security? Did I break the matrix of goals outlined in detail to maintain capitalism? You know the one, that says marriage and children bring purpose to life, when, in fact, they-only-create-more-manpower-to-maintain-the-added-value-of-the-protracted-labor-and-thus-guarantee-the-stability-of-institutions-in-power. Pause for breathing.


Or had they worked through their childhood traumas better than my countless therapy sessions? And for that, they were rewarded with seemingly healthy hetero-normative relationships. How do you measure happiness? Or at least, differentiate it from a contract with the system that puts us in mediocre but bearable spaces?


Whenever someone hears that I killed scorpions before walking along the beach in front of my house of the month (where I came alone, carrying suitcases weighing more than 20 kg), I receive the same questions and compliments. "Don't you miss it?", no. "How brave!", you get used to it. "I dream of doing the same thing as you, but I'm afraid."


I'm afraid too. Mostly of waking up one day after twenty years in a trance and realizing that I'm still in the same place, doing the same things, with the same people, and even worse, with the same version of myself. An ultimate plan with the husband, the children, and the job so I can buy a folding sofa or a new car suffocates me more than water reaching my lungs. And this nightmare compels me to continue, even if I fall and break half my body more times than seems natural for a human being. At the same time, there is a part of me that yearns for the stability and security of a home and routines.


If there is a path with infinite roads and it is up to each one to walk on their own, the only correct route is movement. Maybe the answer is this, it's better to do something, albeit guided by autopilot, than to do nothing out of fear. Or maybe I should find myself a husband or wife. I most definitely should unfollow all of the girls to stay away from all these questions. Yeah. Unfollow; that’s better.

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THANKS FOR STALKING!

GRATIDÃO, GRACIAS, GRAZIE
AND ALL THAT

Estou pelo mundo, mas você pode falar comigo aqui

 

+1 551 350 2016

oi@hellenalbuquerque.com

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