Misplacements

Är du hemhjälp? asked my old-lady-with-dog neighbor as I came into our building. The so-feared moment came in the less expected of all places: the place where I live. At first I thought she meant if I were home. So I said yes, I am finally home after a long day of people reminding me that I am not quite there, that my real home is far away from here and that I shouldn't be so confident about my chances in this country. Or, as my friend says, since I (we) don't have the Made in Sweden stamp, we shouldn't expect too much trust from those who do have it. Those who really know how it should be done in Sweden. But soon, I understood what the old lady meant and just managed to say: no, I live here.

After crying like a baby for one hour, a question came to my mind: Why it hurts so badly? Why it is so annoying that somebody assumes that me, the A student, the big producer, the anti-racist, is just a cleaner? I felt shame. Shame of being ashamed of being associated to a social class that I am suppose to be proud of being from.

The thing is that I have always had clear where I come from. If something has been crucial in my life is the fact that I was born into a working class family; a family that put all their efforts, their double shifts and their expectations in raising me as the confident and free person that I am now. But there has always been someone ready to remind me that it is not that easy. From the blond-always-bright-and-shinny-middle-class-girl in primary school to the well-educated-pretentious-intellectual-middle-class ex best friend at university, there have always been voices wondering what was I doing there. "What is all this trash people doing here?", the previously mentioned ex best fried asked me once after she refused to give the regular salutation kiss to another classmate. Despite the act was not directed to me, it remind me that being at that education level is quite a privilege exclusive for those who belong to certain groups. Or for us that go through all the mimicry to belong.

Years and years of analysis helped me to not be ashamed. And I am not ashamed anymore. Maybe what resonates now is the shame of having been ashamed so many years about the biggest of my privileges: my endless-full-of-love family. I am so sorry about that. After a long reparation and healing process in which marxist and postcolonial readings, as well as many, many films, have been involved. Today I understand that my class origin is nothing to be ashamed, but something that was like it was and that, despite the big journey to the intelectual middle class, I don't want to forget.

So, yes, I get extremely sad when my neighbor assumes that I am some real neighbors' maid. When the color of my hair and my skin, together with my gender, turn into data to stigmatize me in any way. And I am angry with her for taking the liberty to just ask me that, as if it would be normal to go around asking your neighbors what are they doing in the building or how do they make their living. (Would a blond girl be asked like me?) But the worst, for me, is that I didn't reacted, that I said NOTHING to defend myself. A whole life of reflection and preparations for fighting back racism to, in the end, when it happens to me, getting frozen, speechless and sad.

Yes, I know. I can hear the voices saying: oh, don't be so dramatic. You are not in the worst position. You are FINE. Think positive. Think in all the good things you have. Why do you have to make things so tense and uncomfortable for everyone? Keep it to yourself! Tranquila. Many of these voices are, of course, of people that really, really love me. And that I really, really love. People so anxious by rather their lack or their excess of privilege that they can't really stand my anger and my sadness. Or perhaps it is because all they can hear is complaints.

I also know that: that it seems to be just an endless need to complain, a need that I could and should repress. I swear, if I could just repress it without that meaning oppressing myself, I would. But no, it is impossible for me not to feel anger or to not have strong opinions. Should I just change and repress who I am so everybody enjoys the party? Should I be super positive and pretend that everything is great? Maybe is more a matter of finding the right people and the exact situations to talk about it. Maybe is just a matter of keep on fighting and not giving a shit about the other's lack of energy/interest/peace for listening to me.

The thing is that I am tired. But not about "complaining". That is part of me and it makes me the critical and intense person that I am. It comes from the love for the others and the obsession with justice that motivates every single detail of my life. What tires me is to be told that I am just complaining when I point out to what provokes me, to all that make me uncomfortable, to things I find problematic. To all the obvious or very subtle things that create violence but seem to belong down the carpet. All those things that is better to avoid, or to just not let them come out so the fantasy is not over. So the white, liberal, colonial fantasy of order, easiness and relax despite oppression is not over.

No, I am not unhappy. Yes, I am angry. Do you want to know why? Just look around you. Just think about how it would feel that your body, your appearance, your origins, would put you in a position of vulnerability. Must of us know. We experience that, in one way or another, EVERY DAY. Just because our look, our gender, our sexuality, our class are not the right ones. Then why it is so hard to understand when somebody just says Enough? Why it is so irritating? Why does people need to shut us down?

I have my hypothesis, but as I write this I think that a better question is why some people is willing to address the problems, to just confront the problematic, the oppressive, the excluding impulses of our enemies and our closest friends. And then I come to a nicer place. The place where the others, usually the Others, are open for discussion, open for sharing and taking care of each others pain, able to understand that a moment of fury is not just that moment. That it does not come from nowhere. That it will not just pass. That it is not an overreaction: it is the explosion of a long story of mistreatments, humiliations and oppression. Sara Ahmed told me yesterday. And, believe me, she knows.

And that's why I am writing this. Cause I found hope again. After a horrible day of sadness and micro-aggressions I had the luck to be surrounded by people for whom I didn't need to explain anything so they would understand and open their arms to me. So I decided myself to focus on finding this people, not just by getting new friends, but also by appealing to the will to listen of the people that I love. 

We may not agree, but we can get closer. With luck, I will understand and make my thoughts and feelings understandable. To express this deep and real sadness about being out of place in this place that sometimes I think I can call home, without producing anxiety and defensiveness in the others. Maybe not yet. Not today. Not through this text. I still have to show to my old neighbor that short film that I will make about her mistake. A mistake that I will never ever forget, but that, as always, I will transform into wisdom, strength and love.