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Casa Sendas by Guido Melo

Photo by Dennis Siqueira, Unsplash.

On the fifth day of every month, when my father collected his salary, the same thing happened at my house. My father, a proud Black sergeant for the Brazilian Air Force with short black hair and thick myopia glasses, arrived at home just after sundown. He was dressed in his usual ragged jeans and looked very sweaty with droplets on his forehead. I remember the bags under his eyes. I could never be sure if he was tired from his long shifts at the air base or just getting old. My father placed his tattered brown leather bag on the living room table. Frowning and looking at me from above his glasses, he said, ‘Are you coming or what?’ I nodded profusely, lips flat, attempting to hide my joy. It was supermarket day!

In 1989 Brazil, we needed to buy everything on the day my father’s salary came in because of hyperinflation—a rampant type of inflation due to bad management of the economy by the defunct military dictatorship. If not, by the next day, the prices would hike and we would not be able to afford the monthly groceries and supplies that our large family required. I didn’t understand the economy but my father explained to me that unscrupulous business owners raised prices on salary day to increase their profits. As the population purchased items, prices remained high. Next month, as salaries lost their buying power, everyone got a raise—generating further inflation.

My father said it was good for me to come shopping because my skinny ass could gain some muscles carrying bags and bags of items. But I remember thinking he was also happy that I was bigger and therefore could help out too. We always went to the same place, Casa Sendas Supermarket.

My father said it was good for me to come shopping because my skinny ass could gain some muscles carrying bags and bags of items.

When I was about ten, my father took me to the local swimming pool. As we walked there, I remember how he held my shoulders softly and looked into my eyes. He said, ‘When we are on the streets, you ought to do exactly what I tell you.’ I remember thinking about what kind of situation would be so extreme as to warrant such devotion. So I questioned the severity of it. He then continued, ‘If you are unsure, ask questions at home. But on the streets, if I say “run”, you don’t ask “why”, you run.’

From then on, I followed his commands like a soldier. When we were out, my parents trained me to be hyperaware. I knew there was trouble when my mum held my hands and lifted her eyebrows. My father was blunter. If there was trouble, he just said my name in a deep baritone. My mother chanted a mantra when we would cross the street: ‘A bruised soul is better than a body full of bullets.’

My father also coached me on what to say in case of danger: ‘I am the son of Sergeant Andrade from the Third Communication-Air.’ He emphasised that I needed to say these words as fast and as precise as possible when faced with trouble from the police, which was a regular occurrence for Black Brazilians—I’d seen the police ruffling up older boys sometimes just because their afros were deemed too big.

My mother chanted a mantra when we would cross the street: ‘A bruised soul is better than a body full of bullets.’

One day after school, I had to pick up my mother’s medicine near the supermarket. Despite the fact that I had never been there alone and figuring I was old enough to take care of myself, I decided to venture into Casa Sendas. As I entered, I could smell the bread freshly baked. The warm dough and the noise of cheese slicing reminded me of breakfast, which was my favourite meal of the day. I looked up and noticed the lights were a bright blue-ish neon, just like a siren.

I browsed up and down every aisle deliberately and slowly. The meat section was cold and refreshing and a pleasant contrast to Rio de Janeiro’s thirty-five-degrees-melting-everything-outside day. I walked up and down past the shampoo section. It smelled like flowers and coconuts, just like my crush Simone’s long black hair. Sometimes in class, when she walked in early that morning, the whole room smelled like a floral paradise. I am sure everyone loved it just as much as I did because no one ever said anything to her.

The toy section was the most colourful, with items stacked from top-to-bottom. The biggest section was filled with Playmobil dolls. Some of my White friends had them. When I got invited to their homes, which did not happen often, I played with Playmobils for hours. Otherwise, it was back to the soccer field, where my skills did not require a price tag. If I were rich, I would buy the fireman and the Formula 1 sets. Looking at the boxes, I could imagine holding the toys in my hands, as if I was playing with them in my own house. I could be in that place for ages without noticing that was for sure! Mum and Dad always sped me up out of this section because we could not afford such luxuries.

If I made fast movements to leave, he would assume I was stealing. If I stayed quiet, he would continue to look at me and assume I was about to steal.

As I was squatting on my knees, reading every description on the toy boxes, I felt my ears starting to burn. Was I being watched? The temperature dropped, the lights above seemed to be dimmed and the air changed, shifting the mood. First, I only sensed him. My shoulders deepened and I felt heavy. From the corner of my eyes, I noticed a segurança, a Black man but light-skinned. Much lighter than me. He was in his mid-thirties wearing a chequered red and white shirt and old ragged jeans like my father’s, staring at me. I could feel my throat drying. I could hear my heart pumping rapidly like a samba. My mother’s chants swarmed my head. He must have been thinking I was shoplifting. I was faced with a dilemma. If I made fast movements to leave, he would assume I was stealing. If I stayed quiet, he would continue to look at me and assume I was about to steal. Either way, he would frisk me. This was stamped from the beginning and whatever I did, I would lose.

Seguranças were like bounty hunters. They worked to protect, at all cost, the mostly White business owners of the town. Black-owned business perhaps existed, somewhere, but I was yet to see one. Like their ‘cousins’ in Mexico, the sicarios, the seguranças were the rogue operators of death. They had a de facto licence to kill. They saw themselves as vigilantes—as the good guys. They supposedly worked in the name of business owners and the traditional Brazilian family. But to me, they were the enemy. They hunted Black boys for sport. We all knew instinctively to be out of their way. Even my father’s air force position schtick wouldn’t have worked on them. Because my father was a sergeant and most of the military police were corporals, if the police stopped me, despite all atrocities, they would follow the hierarchy and let me go. Bounty hunters however, listened to no one.

‘Pity you did not steal anything today… I was hoping I could give you a good bash,’ he said with a smile on his face.

I glanced side-eyed at the segurança. He placed his hand on his waist where he probably kept his gun holster. I was drawn to look straight into his eyes. He would not hesitate to fire at me right there and then. We both knew if he did this, he could get away with it. There is a thing with power—when you truly possess it, you don’t need to act for others to fear you. The segurança’s eyes were bloody with fire. I froze like a defenceless animal. He came closer and pointed to my waist. With his palms facing up, gesturing his hands like lifting an invisible weight, he told me to raise up my T-shirt. Not satisfied with humiliating me, he then pointed to my pants. ‘Show me that,’ he said. I lowered them until he could see my crotch.

‘Pity you did not steal anything today… I was hoping I could give you a good bash,’ he said with a smile on his face. My heart was trying to escape my chest. I felt the eyes of other shoppers on me. The segurança said, ‘Get out of my face and don’t you ever come back!’

As I walked out of the store, I knew what most of the adults inside were already thinking about me; that I was just a low-life negrinho thief up to no good.

 

This non-fiction piece is an extract from the anthology Racism: Stories on Fear, Hate & Bigotry, published by Sweatshop Literacy Movement. Racism is available now via Sweatshop and at select book retailers.