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sexta-feira, julho 13, 2018

My life matters (english version)

(This is a rush translation. Version may not be in its final form.)

My mother, three jobs, she was a worker working even when she was injured, she raised four children by herself. The factories were all gone, wages were getting smaller and smaller. No, white supremacist, I will not let you win. Not rich old white woman, I know you are afraid of changes, that your husband thinks that Obama is radicalization and wants to defend the motherland, that is, car and television. I know your drunken and illiterate spoiled son gets mad at the black power and complains on twitter. It was never easy. Or maybe you're that poor white man, from the heavy work, now trying to say that he's still different, that he was born in a desert world with his carrot yard, and all he needs is an absent government. Or maybe you are the white or black middle class that got frustrated in your plans for ascension even if you are not the major victims of rotten schools and foreclosures. My sisters and I have suffered enough.

Let's not let you get in the way of our lives. If you think that a young black man can not walk the streets, if you think he is suspected to have been born, if you support the guard dogs on your shitty TV and on your shitty site, you are simply a blonde flea. A fucking pale flea. You put the drug war in my people because you were ashamed to say "race." You wanted to arrest the MLK. You think Venezuela is a criminal behind the post wanting to steal your oil. You're bankrupt but you think you're the Tea Party's dancing queen. You think you've always played the rules and that others want to take the socialist shortcuts. You're just too dumb to know what habitat is. You do not care if the news is right or wrong, as long as you sing your mantra of "that's what I say!" "Every breath you take / I'll be whatching you."

I could tell you what it's like to be arrested at age twelve for smoking in school - a school for black people. What's to watch your brother get arrested for fighting at school - by chance, a black guy. What it is to live in the alleys, without cultural centers, squares or even without refrigerator - because they pay very little the blacks. What does a white cow use her sophisticated education to treat you like a strange person, destined to obey. They need a quota of blacks in that prison, otherwise the money will not come. The king must say, "I am the people," he needs some immigrant or Islamic to blame for the shit his rich brothers did. And you never bothered to think about why your life is so much easier, because your people are in college and the mine in prison, even if you live is full of chemical serotonins, a void without purpose or sense, in which all are an "I ", Isolated by layers of plastic, buying things to reestablish their good mood. 

Now you have your opinion bulletin, the newspapers have gone bankrupt, you can thank you for ending that leftist literary class of gays and Jews, and only have rentiers left, whom you call winners. You can turn on your parked car just to be against the green law the blacks POTUS at the White House has approved. As for you the rich can never go wrong, you believed in the director of the Economic Council of shit who ordered the president to cut education, professional training and not cut the taxes of people like you. Because you're the own goal. You think you're the industry elite, but you are just someone who's going to lose their home to the bank, while you are voting for the president and senior executives and so-called "market" bankers are racking up more digital gold without fees. 

Since I am no a Charles Dicken´s orphan, you will not cry for me at Christmas. I will not require some analytical reflection on xenophobic nationalism versus totalitarian "market", after all what you want is to reflect on the incredible "Mama Mia" of that weekend in New York. I should have patience, diplomacy, but you're just a white person who hates.
But you do not know us. We are beautiful. We are the people, I will not let you win. We are on the streets, we are many, you are not as strong as you think.

Afonso Jr. Lima

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