The plea for help that turned into a frame-up.

The act of being socially viewed as suspicious, of having one's skin and body marked by the stereotype of someone dangerous, is never rationalized in time to avoid causing us fear, exhaustion, and great sadness. 

After all, we spend our lives searching for happiness, tranquility, and complete freedom alongside our loved ones. Even without finding them, despite the frustrations imposed by the racist structure on the working class, we greatly value the moments that bring us good feelings. Like walking home from school in a group, laughing and sharing some treats; on a hot Saturday when we chip in with the people on the street to buy esfihas and share them together (regardless of who has a coin or not), at the local football field, at the samba, at the cockfight, at the slam poetry event, at the poetry slam. 

For us, Black people from the periphery, our fulfillment lies in encounters, in exchange, in sharing hugs, poems, smiles, beats, rhymes. But our strength and joy worry and disturb those from the big house and their troop of recycled overseers.

The instinct for survival, for resistance, and for the pursuit of fulfillment is something that comes from long before us; it's ancestral. And in this context, where the genocidal escalation finds in the Covid-19 virus yet another method of super-exploitation and extermination of our bodies, being part of a large Black and marginalized family that manages to survive unscathed through the fourth month of vertiginous growth in infections and deaths from the pandemic is, for me, a source of some satisfaction. 

We continue to take all possible precautions to protect ourselves against the virus and redouble our care for our elderly relatives. Together with one of my sisters, I handle the necessary errands for our family – grocery shopping, banking, pharmacy. As always, I do everything on foot around the neighborhood, now even more so, as I've been avoiding any kind of public transportation due to the risk of contamination. 

I was born and raised in one of the many peripheral neighborhoods in the South Zone of São Paulo, which I love very much. And in times when efforts are focused on social isolation, doing these tasks on foot is a great event. I do them with great pleasure, with my mask, sunglasses, and inspired by Teresa Cristina's live streams - "when the day is a mess, let's listen to Gilberto Gil," the album "Um Banda Um" on my headphones, I set out on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 9th, for yet another mission. 

However, this time, my departure was marked by yet another of the many violent situations I have experienced. I was leaving Banco do Brasil heading towards Drogaria São Paulo, both in Jardim da Saúde – a middle-class neighborhood connected by Avenida do Cursino to many surrounding peripheral neighborhoods, including the one where I live. The main businesses and essential services of the region are located on this avenue. I was waiting at the traffic light to cross when a car passed between the yellow and red lights. Then, already on red, a small paint truck also passed and braked almost on top of me and two other ladies who were crossing on the other side. When I complained to the driver, a white man of average appearance, in his early 30s, he became quite agitated. An argument almost broke out between him and me, but I kept walking while he insulted me, until he said: “After you get shot, you don’t know why.” 

Courage is being cautious.

I'll take a moment to provide context: I'm a Black man, recently turned 36 on the 14th, and I've learned a few things. One of the most important is that to stay alive, courage is about caution. My family, friends, and acquaintances know that I'm not the type to get involved in fights or arguments, especially in this context of brutalized relationships and widespread intolerance that is making our country sick. Yes, the struggle for virility leads to tragedies.    

I kept walking, trying to remain calm. I put on my headphones – pausing the music so I could hear what the man was saying – and watched his movements out of the corner of my eye. He continued cursing at me and driving slowly. Three times he threatened to get out, and on one occasion, he even opened the door, until I finally reached the pharmacy, went inside, and heard him say: “That’s it, get out. Get out of here!” followed by more insults. 

At the pharmacy, I tried to compose myself. I bought my father's medicine, but I was still worried because I still had to walk eight blocks to the market. That's when I thought: "Well, I'm in Jardim da Saúde, a neighborhood with a strong police presence, I'll wait for a police car to pass by, inform them of what happened, and continue my journey more safely. After all, who guarantees that that man won't turn around and wait for me on some corner?"

I was scared. So I went to ask for help from those who, in theory, should assist us in situations like this: the police.

There were two police officers in the car. One of them was Black, with darker skin than mine. I told him the story about the threat. After hearing my account and plea for help, the first question he asked was, "Do you have a criminal record?" Unfortunately, the Black and marginalized population can rarely count on state security assistance; on the contrary, we are victims of it. We rarely, if ever, receive help from the police.

I've seen a few similar situations in the city center. At the police station in Praça da República or Largo Santa Cecília, people in situations of insecurity similar to mine, where the police officers ask them to remain calm and try to reassure them. In my case, a Black police officer with a saint's name asked me rudely: "Do you have a criminal record?" I asked him why he was asking that, since it wasn't a situation of being stopped and searched, but rather a request for help, and I asked if he wanted my ID. Annoyed by my answer, he said, "Yes, I want it," and got out of the car with his gun already in his hand. While the other white police officer checked my background, he interrogated me. What I did, where I lived, who I lived with. When I told him what I did, he seemed annoyed and irritated. I said I worked as a parliamentary advisor in a mandate at the Legislative Assembly of São Paulo and repeated that I didn't understand the way he was treating me. "I'm the one who asks the questions here (!), a parliamentary advisor... How long have you been an advisor?" When I responded, he immediately retorted: “And I’ve been a police officer for 23 years, I know how to do my job.” And he resumed the pattern of repeating the same questions in different ways in order to find contradictions in my answers. At that moment I realized that my request for help had become a setup, complete with a clipboard to record my information, as is customary. Anyone who is Black knows what it’s like. 

I sought composure for the second time. He asked me again what I do, but this time what I did before becoming an advisor, and that's when I felt I could find a way to end that awkward situation. I stated who I am: a popular educator, a teacher, that I worked as an advisor, and that the mandate I represent is allied with the fight for better working conditions and salaries, including for his profession. I suggested he could consult his colleagues who work in the Legislative Assembly about the efforts of the PSOL mandates against the state pension reform. I said I followed the public security commission and that although we have disagreements, we have the respect of the deputies representing the police, and I mentioned the names of two of them. At that moment, that look of distrust and accusation from that policeman welled up, and he said enthusiastically: "I was a corporal in Major Mecca's troop; when you see him, tell him that when he needed help, I was the one who helped him, he'll remember me." I tried to speed up that already saturated dialogue. He handed the document back to me, gesturing to the other person and asking if everything was alright, to which the other replied: "no news".

I finally managed to get back on my feet, still in shock from that series of violent events. Gilberto Gil gave way to a rapper from the region. Sabotage lived with his family from 1998 until his death in 2003 in the Boqueirão favela, which explains the high police presence in Jardim da Saúde, where I'm telling this story. Sabotage came to mind immediately because I needed to calm my anxiety and still had responsibilities to fulfill, even though I just wanted to stay in my own space and go home… Sabotage came to mind because he was from the neighborhood, and his songs narrated our harsh reality. "Something in the air, a disgruntled man arrives, to complain about strong moments of sadness, about a rising gas, partner, strong bro(...) Onilê, Father Ogum, Ai ei eô, Mother Oxum, Son of Zambi, tired of seeing blood here in the South, Odara, Odara to the black people, be obsolete(...) Ozazie, Sheiks in Bahia, Baiano, be a shield for this brother who is in tears, who by mistake, argued with so-and-so and today is his day, before the law of man, the gun… Oh Lord, may the world turn, I ask for love for the suburbs (Singing for the Saint, Sabotage)."

There are culturally structured obscurantist practices in our society that form the basis of control, super-exploitation, and dehumanization of the Black population. The stereotypes of marginalized individuals have always been Black people and the poor from the peripheries. This stems from the creation of the police forces, laden with prejudice, stemming from an oligarchic and slave-owning culture. There is no data to justify the brutal behavior of the police in peripheral territories or during any encounter. Some experts on the subject have told me that in less than 2% of encounters, the suspect is actually an agent of illegality or someone who is truly posing a danger to others, such as someone who is armed. This feeling of tension and brutality is a state control policy that sickens, tortures, and kills our bodies. Ágatha Félix, Kauê Ribeiro dos Santos, Kauan Rosário, João Pedro. George Floyd. The curve that grows faster than Covid-19, in Brazil and the world.

Guilherme Silva Guedes, 15 years old, was executed for choosing not to run when the commandos arrived: "I owe nothing." The reason for his sentence was simply existing. This is the death curve that is growing faster than that of Covid-19, in Brazil and around the world.

The culture of violence is structural. The issue of racism and the many forms of violence against our bodies has been the central theme of worldwide demonstrations. After decades of anti-racist struggle in the US, American states have proposed reviewing methods of immobilization and police approaches like the one that killed George Floyd, reducing spending on visible policing, and investing in social programs; there is even debate about abolishing this police model. This is a product of the historical struggles of the American Black Movements. In Brazil, I hope that this fight for Black bodies doesn't become just a hashtag over time. It is the task of every activist, organization, and movement within the democratic field, including the left, to devise a public security policy in which the police treat Black and poor people not as a cultural stereotype of marginality. I dream of a time when every citizen can fully exercise their freedom and when I, or anyone else, regardless of whether they have a criminal record, can exercise our right to security assistance if necessary. For now, we continue fighting and seeking protection. May the saints of the children be with each of our children. May hatred and intolerance not prevail among us. The trickery lies not in the confrontation but in the avoidance. Knowing how to get out of conflicts that are not worth it avoids stress and preserves life. 

For now, I'll follow as a mantra a maxim from our masters, Racionais MC's: find yours, I'm going after my Magic Formula for Peace.