February / Kemigisha / Popoola Un_Masking Difference

Literary Voices from Behind the Mask
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-948631-11-6
Verlag: mikrotext
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 100 Seiten

For the second time in history, masks have become the symbol of a global pandemic. The facial front lines differ in shape and size and are fashioned to the users' desires, reaching from African prints to floral patterns. But are masks solely 'germ-shields' or 'dirt-traps' as referred to a century ago? What does the choice of fabric actually reveal about its wearer? And in which way are differences 'un_masked'? Authors, academics and activists from different backgrounds share their ideas on the historical, political, religious, racial and cultural, as well as on the intersectional dimension of masks. Similar to W.E.B. Du Bois metaphor of 'the veil', which solely exists in people's minds, masks can be seen as the physical manifestation of the inner and outer world, the speakable and the unspoken. With texts by Logan February, Precious Colette Kemigisha, Olumide Popoola, Djamila Ribeiro, Jeferson Tenório und Sheree Renée Thomas. A publication of the Literary Colloquium Berlin with the kind support of the Federal Foreign Office. Natasha A. Kelly has a PhD in Communication Studies and Sociology with a research focus on Black German Studies. Her award-winning and internationally acclaimed documentary 'Millis Awakening' was commissioned by the 10th Berlin Biennale in 2018. Based on her book 'Sisters & Souls' (2015) she has been directing the sequential theater performance 'M(a)y Sister' since 2016. Her dissertation 'Afroculture. The Space between Yesterday and Tomorrow' (2016) was staged in three countries and three languages in 2019/20. Her latest publication 'The Comet - Afrofuturism 2.0' (2020) is a documentary of the Black speculative arts symposium which she curated at the HAU Hebbel am Ufer Theater in Berlin. http://www.natashaakelly.com

Autoren/Hrsg.

February, Logan

Kemigisha, Precious Colette

Popoola, Olumide

Ribeiro, Djamila

Tenório, Jeferson

Thomas, Sheree Renée

Sher,

Kelly, Natasha A.

Leseproben

Test Instructions. By Jeferson Tenório
The way she said it made me know what I have must looked like other mornings: it made me know what I looked like. —James Baldwin, If Beale Street Could Talk
1. colour: positive or negative
I am a black man. Since I was born, I’ve been told this. At times I think that my only path in life is not to be a black man any longer. Perhaps I’m tired of having a colour. My father died ten years ago and was a white man. He was a good man, and even if he was always complaining about things, grumbling about how we were poor, how there was no money left for anything, I never saw him complain about being white. I also never saw my mother complain about being black. Perhaps she had no time to spare for that. But I knew how much the colour weighed her down. As I grew up, I started to understand that white people don’t get tired of having a colour. I thought about it once while waiting for my girlfriend Jessica to come out of the pharmacy. We were out for a pregnancy test when I saw a white couple entering the pharmacy looking like they didn’t have a care in the world. I kept looking, wondering what life was like for them. Perhaps they never thought about the violence of being white. When they saw me staring, I looked away. They bought some aspirin and left. Jessica and I left right after. We went to my house. It was cold in Porto Alegre, a humid day like they always are in wintertime. We can’t have this baby, Ka. As she said this, Jessica, on the way home, looked at me, sad and guilty. I never liked it when she looked at me like that. Those eyes made me weak, I always thought we were too young to be sad and worried like that. Hey, don’t be upset just yet, let’s take the test first, I said. Then I hugged her all the way home. I shared an apartment with my college friend, Guto. I was halfway through an architecture B.A. Jessica was starting journalism. The neighborhood I lived in was predominantly white. It was close to school. When we arrived, we took our masks off, washed our hands. Guto was not there. He had gone to his girlfriend’s. Jessica went straight to the bathroom to take the test. I stayed by the door and lit a cigarette. Ka, don’t fucking smoke in here, Guto is gonna complain, Jessica said from the bathroom. Fuck Guto, I said back. Then I inhaled twice and put out the cigarette. Jessica left the bathroom holding the stick, looking apprehensively at the piece of plastic. Jessica read every instruction out loud and then summed them up: We have to wait a few minutes until a colour for the negative or positive result appears. Jessica was nervous, I thought about reassuring her by saying everything would be OK if she was pregnant. She looked at me, astonished. No, Ka, it would not be ok, because I won’t have this baby. If this fucking test is positive, I’ll start looking for an abortion clinic right now. I'm not going to ruin my life and the life of another black kid in this fucked-up world. Easy, Jessica, I only meant I’m here for you. Jessica kept silent for a while, then apologised and said she was scared. We said nothing until the results came up. 2. of peaceful people 
I am a black man, and I am not dangerous. I should have this written on my forehead. We went to make dinner. Jessica and I liked to cook. Transforming raw things. Getting raw things and changing them up. Doing this was good for us. I don’t know, Ka, pharmacy tests might be wrong, she said as she cleaned a lettuce leaf. Yes, but I heard it’s kinda rare. These tests usually are right. On Monday we can go to the doctor and get a blood test, I said. Maybe that’s better. My period is never late like this. You know I work like a clock. Two weeks is too much. I know the test was negative, but it did not ease my mind. Our silence allowed us to listen to the news about the pandemic on TV. I don’t know how we got used to a thousand deaths a day, Jessica said. We have always gotten used to death. Other people dying has never been a problem for Brazilians. Well, when it happens in the United States, for example, I think we pay more attention. Are you talking about George Floyd?   Not just him. But I get the impression our deaths don’t matter. They never did. Today at the pharmacy I was looking at this white couple, did you notice them as well? I asked. No, what about them? Nothing. It just got me thinking. About what? Their peacefulness. What do you mean, Ka? I think I was envious of their peacefulness. Because you think they were peaceful. Looks can fool us. It’s a cliché, but it’s true. Hand me the tomatoes. I handed them to her. I also got a beer from the fridge, it was not really cold yet, but I opened it anyway. I offered it to Jessica. She took a sip. I don’t know if they were peaceful, they looked relaxed. But I don’t think that’s the point. So what’s the point, Ka? I thought about it for a while. I felt like smoking when I finally spoke. The point is they can choose to be peaceful, get it? You don’t think we can? I don’t. Well, I agree with you. But give me an example. Children, for instance. We’re black and it’s not peaceful to raise a black child in this place. It’s not peaceful to raise a black child anywhere. Then she asked me if I had onions and garlic. I realised I had forgotten to buy them. I can go to the shop to get some, it’s open. No Ka, you don’t have to. It’s late, streets are empty. I’ll go. It’ll be fast, I promise. 3. white mask or my path
When I got to the lobby, I realised I was not wearing my mask. I went back. Asked Jessica to hand it to me. Put it on. Truthfully, I also wanted to buy cigarettes. I went the opposite way to a convenience store inside a petrol station. I didn’t usually go there. When I arrived, I went straight to the cashier, asked for a pack of cigarettes, but the sound of a motorcycle engine covered up my voice and she didn’t answer me. I spoke louder. I thought about taking off my mask in order to be heard. But I couldn’t. The pandemic didn’t allow it. I had to wait for the noise to stop. Even when it did, my voice was still muffled. The white cashier looked scared. The white manager as well. I left the station with my pack of cigarettes and started walking towards the supermarket. I went off the main avenue, entered a street that was parallel to where I lived. I never felt peaceful while walking on the streets of Porto Alegre. Unless I was smoking. Smoking gave me a mix of courage and calmness. Ahead of me, a white lady was walking her dog. It was an ugly dog. I like ugly dogs, though I prefer cats. However, as she noticed me approaching, she tried to pull the dog as fast as she could, but the dog resisted, trying to sniff something. The lady gave up pulling him away and had to stay there, by a tree, until I passed by her. I greeted her with my eyes. It was fun. Fucking old lady, I thought. And she was not wearing a mask. I started to feel breathless, since I was walking in a hurry. The mask made it hard to breathe. I needed to breathe better. My father had died of an emphysema in the lung. He could smoke two packs a day. I couldn’t understand why he walked towards death like that. Maybe now I did. Actually, we expected him to die, but we didn’t admit it. Someone’s life, with or without cigarettes, is this: a beating heart and a breathing lung as long as they can keep going, I thought. I walked. A bit further, I saw two white men. They walked in a relaxed way. One of them looked at me. Soon after, the other one did as well. They started to walk faster. It was fun. So I started to walk faster as well. Even if it was getting harder and harder to breathe. Sometimes just breathing is a kind of violence. They crossed the street. So did I. I got close to them. For a second or two, I got even closer. Then I went past them. I didn’t look back. I didn’t have to. I smiled, still breathless. My desire to smoke was stronger now. I stopped at a corner before getting into the supermarket, took off my mask. Lit a cigarette. The pleasure of not having anything covering my face and the feeling of the smoke in my lungs made me feel really good. I had to think. What if Jessica was fucking pregnant? I thought. What fucking world is this? Halfway through the cigarette, I saw unmistakable red sirens. I kept smoking. I was exhausted of having a colour. Smoking is philosophical, I thought. The police car slowly got closer. The cigarette was so good. I think I never smoked a cigarette as good as that one. The policemen’s arms were hanging out. They passed by me in slow motion. There were four of them. All looked me up and down. I was not wearing a mask. I stared back, peaceful. With the eyes of someone who thinks. Thinking is also a violence sometimes. The police car didn’t stop. They went on, slow as the smoke leaving my mouth. I finished my cigarette. Then I went into the supermarket. I got garlic and onions. On the way back, I smoked another cigarette. It was the last one of the night, I promised myself. When I arrived, Jessica had already finished cooking dinner, without the garlic and without the onion. ...