Accessing Nature and the Choice to Live

Police brutality in Brazil, Notes from the Deep

On July 23rd 1993 the whistling noise of sleep and sleepless chatter draped a group of 70 street children at Candeleiria Church in Rio de Janiero. The Church was named after a ship that nearly sank to the bottom of the sea. An almost tragedy, leading one couple aboard to make an oath to build a small chapel in its name. Two hundred years later a larger structure was built in Baroque fashion, strengthening a prayer of survival. How is it a solely ship became the brick and mortar of an oath to live. An oath steeped in irony as it would also be the site of the Candaleria Massacre, where eight street children between the ages of 11- 19 were murdered by the police. Candeleiria, meaning “to light a babies way through darkness”. Candeleiria. And what of the dark children in the darkness of night? These children were murdered after a three year period where nearly 6,000 street children were hunted by extermination groups. Made up of police, ex- police and those who stalked in the middle of the night, they were sometimes hooded, deeming who is human and who is not. Little black boys. Hunted by trained assassins, untrained fools, some in groups, Cavalos Corredores, Galloping Horses, death squads. Who gets to choose who lives and dies?

Last week I was swimming at Ondina Beach. My eyes were towards the shore as my new little puppy played with my sister. I needed a few moments with the ocean, a dip, a refresh, a reset. One I haven’t been able to steal in the midst of metabolizing, landing, potty training and re- centering after a lot of travel. I noticed two young boys at the shore. Twelve, maybe thirteen. I saw them on the walk over after riding their bikes, circling back, enthralled by the sight of the puppy. They approached my sister and were surprised and confused to find she didn't speak a lick of Portuguese. Was she playing a trick? They wandered about a stones throw away and we continued, I submerged, she stared at the sea.

I sensed the police quite instantly. Three to four of them walking above the boys on a raised wall. I averted my gaze as not to panic. After my last encounter, the pain in my body, the fear, the memory made me fidget. I looked back and they had turned around towards us. “I’m in the water”, I thought to myself. Float, look distracted, you’re just going for a swim, having a good time. Look.. leisurely. The officers walked to the top of the stairs that led down to the sand, saw the young boys and drew their guns.

What do you do in this moment? Guns drawn on children playing in sand, knowing you could be next. Skin, the obvious target. What other signifiers am I missing?

I left the water as they approached the boys. Afraid. Afraid for their safety. Afraid to be in water in a pool of blood. I stepped on to land hoping my body, as a witness, would push them to lower their guns. Just stand there. Several minutes went by as they searched the backpack the boys carried. Nothing. They left them. My sister saw one boy do the sign of the cross. I saw the other, once the police had fully disappeared run into the ocean in jeans, clothed.

Fala ingles?

Não

You ok? *Thumbs up*

Sim

Fuck the police *middle fingers*

*Laughter*

Some language is universal.

Just a few weeks prior I took a retreat with my partner to the forest and police appeared at our door. We stepped outside from a meditation with an intention to go for a walk by the river and met seven plain clothes officers.

Não falo Portugues

But you do, you do speak Portuguese, he said with a smile. I somehow understood.

Palavaras

They told us we needed to go inside the house so they could come in. We obeyed. Seven officers with guns sniffed around, accusatory, commanding, searching, aggressive until finally the lead detective called someone to translate. He deeply apologized through a FaceTime call with who I believe was his sister. I reached out to shake his hand. I am a man and you will acknowledge me, I beckoned… as painful as it was. I felt his remorse. I felt his sadness. I was surprised. For the first time he was lifted a mirror, solely because of my foreignness. And what of my blackness? What of what I represented for him? What of my relief to truly, not understand, to not be “that guy”. What of that guy? What of my desire to not be seen as criminal? And somehow evade the criminality of my blackness?

You are what you are.

Journal entry 19 April 2023

“… I do not want to die. I want to live, I want to live a beautiful whole fulfilled life. Can that be resistance? Or is it just a folly. A falsehood, an illusion that living, curating safety is just a means to ignore the truth, that this world, the world we are living in is ridden by abuse and racialised violence. I’ve claimed before that I am not an activist. I am not a revolutionary. I have no interest in becoming a martyr…. Is death the only solution for freedom when your literal back is against the wall and it is a choice between your safety and your freedom? And what of the war already waged? What am I using my privilege for? A sense of purpose, supposed and set out for me by my oppressors? My fellow man in pain. Our path is the same, not distanced, ignorant in hope, knowing. Ignorant in our own power and how we choose to wield it. Maybe this is just a testimony to my hiding. What I choose not to do. Who I choose not to be. Can I will a world into existence? Can I will a future out of pleasant desire and trust in myself, my love, my fear, my self actualization, my ability to continue to exist? It’s hard to gauge the magnitude of my experience. Is this a small thing, am I a small thing? Or do I get to decide when these moments are no longer apt for living? And where does that decision leave me, looking back at myself eyes open, a mirror, the police officer, his gun, his terror of the me he saw in himself. Personhood is not a choice but being human is. I am a person. I have a consciousness and I am reflective. When my mind avoids it and disassociates my body does not. What are we holding in our bodies that’s so tough it disallows for humanity. We are that far from the earth. We are that far that when a young black man accesses nature he is the victim and the criminal. How green do I have to become to be as natural as nature? How full of regeneration, rebirth, acceptance and growth. When all I want is sun. Photosynthesis is apart of transformation, when light shines you do what is natural, what is in your being to do, to stand tall, to keep moving to grow. If you are eaten you feed. You feed all the life around you. Maybe that’s what activism is, turning your growth into joy for living. To be accepted as you are for who you are until all of us can grow free.

Love is the stepping stone for civilization, so don’t be afraid to live.