There has been a time I was seriously wondering "Who am I?"
Sometimes I see people at this stage, and I feel maximum -extreme- concern for them.
My mum used to be a busy lady, four children and a full time work, plus a social life. I often talked about abstract systems to her, while she was cooking. She used to wear her coat, while cooking, or that’s what I remember… She was so fast, that I am sure more than once I had to ask her to take off her hat, while cutting onions. I was very small, probably seven years old, when, one day, in front of the fire, I told her: "Mum, I think I know about my future… I will travel a lot, and write, and…"
"Oh, that’s a journalist, do you want to be a journalist?". I said: "Nooo, that’s not what I am, that’s not what I mean…". She called daddy, smoking in front of TV, in the next room. "Yes, if you travel and write, you’ll probably be a journalist". My brother came, so tall. He started to laugh at me: "Ahaha! Babele will be a journalist!". No matter what I would say to defend my profession, they could not understand. "But I will write… not only text, something else, something more…"
I could not explain. I became sad, no one understood me, I had a vision, thus I didn’t know much about it. I felt lonely, and I refused food. As ever, I didn’t sit in front of TV, but hid beneath the table, reading a book.
Years later, I was almost eight-teen. I ask around: "Who am I?"
No one answered. I ask my teachers, always the same answer: "You can do what you want." My favourite teacher, the one I would trust, spent few words for me, while I’d run after him over the corridors, repeating: "Maestro…". "You can basically do what you want. You can be a doctor, a scientist, a criminal, a bagger, also a thief…"
Some days later, I decided. We met again, in the same corridors. I was collecting the papers to leave the school. "Have you decided what to do?"
"Yes, I will be an artist."
"Ahah! That’s difficult, that’s the most difficult decision. Good luck."
Ciao…
I left.
