Adelaide Magazine

Adelaide is an international literary magazine that bridges Lisbon and New York. I was selected with a column about friendships and the different expectations about adult life.

The four of us lost the street

By Hellen Albuquerque

When I was 11, I moved to a new school. A new uniform, now dark blue with yellow stripes on the sides that made me look like an official member of the Post Office. New names to remember. New snacks at recess. And luckily, before long, new friends.

As the months went by, 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 had an inclination towards the arts and was an incredibly good drawer. Tabatha was the crybaby. Or sensitive, if we decide to use subtlety. She was sickeningly sweet and would cry at the slightest sign of annoyance.

I don't really know what I was. The poorest, for sure. I lived in a neighborhood far from our school, while they lived a few blocks away from each other, and it took only a few minutes to walk to class. I was probably the one who read the most. Not because I wanted to be educated, but to escape my world. We were all good students. We didn't cause any trouble or fuss.

The other day, the posts gradually informed me: they are all engaged. About to get married. I am a year younger, but I am a lifetime away from such a social milestone. They all studied science. Aline, besides being beautiful, became a doctor. Paula surprised me by exchanging pencils for drills and becoming a dentist. Tabatha is some kind of biologist, the one that made the most sense to me. I imagine her teaching children with the same emotional preparation that she must have developed.

Their lives seem perfect in the photos they post. Once a year they travel to some paradisiacal beach that is enough to be a tourist attraction, but is equally elitist so that they have no contact with the people who really live there and enjoy the nature that surrounds them. They all have parties, with white dresses, waltzes and champagne popping, maybe even Dom Pérignon.

I find myself in a different landscape. Even though we shared years in the same desks, with the same homework and teacher speeches, the scenario after study hours was fundamentally different. They returned to minimally balanced families. Who sat around a table during meals, asked how their days had been, hugged them if they were afraid. They must have never thought about the amount of the electricity bill until they moved into their new apartments that they will soon share with their husbands. While I knew from a very young age that if the bill was not paid, my nightly reading would happen by candlelight.

Because of this or in spite of this, I live in motion. I have a career that changes every day and allows me to change just as often. I write. I use my endless hours sitting on library floors as the foundation of my existence. I am horrified by the idea of marriage - which rhymes so well with madhouse, and I never thought it was a linguistic oversight. I collect flights, while they collect routines. I am free and they are imprisoned. Or is it the other way around?

At some point in our lives, the four of us were in exactly the same place. I remember a drawing Paula made that I kept for a long time. It was us, in lines that highlighted our particularities - Aline's blonde hair, Paula's freckles, Tabatha's cheeks, my very large eyes - hugging and smiling. Above our heads were our names and a title: BFF. Best Friends Forever. The kind of statement that only makes sense if you still use glitter gel pens.

Paula made carbon copies for all of us. For years I kept this drawing intact in a box at my mother's house, treasured as a treasure. Proof that no matter where I came from, for a few years I was part of something bigger than the exile I inherited. I don't remember when I threw the drawing away, I imagine it was when I assimilated the idea that nothing lasts forever.

When I see your photos, I wonder which turn we took that led us to such distant places. Could I have lost the map, or did they follow an old trail that provides some kind of security? Could I have broken the matrix of goals that were meticulously outlined to maintain capitalism? The one that says that marriage and children bring purpose to life, when in fact they only create more labor to maintain the surplus value of the proletariat and thus guarantee the stability of the institutions in power.

Or had they worked through their childhood traumas more diligently than my countless therapy sessions? And for that, they were rewarded with seemingly healthy heteronormative relationships.

How can we measure happiness? Or at least differentiate it from a contract with the system that places 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!”, we get used to it. “I dream of doing what you do, but I’m afraid”.

I'm also afraid. Mainly of waking up one day, after twenty years of 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. A defined plan, from my husband, my children, my work to buy a folding sofa or a new car, suffocates me more than water reaching my lungs. And this nightmare forces me to continue, even if I fall and break half my body more times than seems natural for a human being.

If there is a path with infinite crossroads and it is up to each person to walk to their own, the only correct route is movement. Perhaps the answer is this: it is better to do something, even if guided by autopilot, than to do nothing out of fear. Stagnation is the only mistake.

_____

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 years spending 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 a short-term company, yet I feel twelve again. With the same feeling of displacement 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 asked all these same questions at him, but now... Am I happy? Am I unchained, or am I intending? 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 hardens but changes'.

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 more 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 Sphinx,... There's no logical reason for any of it. Nothing has brought me definitive realizations of meaning nor 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 longs 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.