"Every 23 minutes a young black man is killed in the country. A bullet hits me. It hits me because I'm black and also because I'm young. It hits me, especially, because I don't trivialize the act, much less the pain. It couldn't be like that, or at least it wasn't meant to be.
Rio de Janeiro, a scenario sung in verse and prose for being the postcard, today faces one of its biggest crises. The city, immortalized by the words of master Zuenir Ventura as ‘‘ Broken City ’’ today is ‘‘ Broken City ’’. Once again, a bullet hits me. I learned to love this city, even though I lived in a social apartheid that I didn't choose. Only the place of conditioning was imposed on me, or rather tried. I didn't accept it and turned my back. A bullet hit me.
A bullet hit me when I listened quietly to a colleague's report saying that he was, is and still will, unfortunately, be stopped and searched by the police. For being black and having curly hair. The moment of pleasure and satisfaction of the uniformed person ends when the then colleague shows the identification card of the faculty (the one, which is governed by a religious institution of the Jesuit order). ‘‘ It wasn’t this time ’’, replies the policeman.
And the bullet hit me again.
