PAOLA DE RAMOS

Displaced

My skin is attaching it onto my body and translating my feelings of being an outsider. Breathing is already hard inside it. Simple movement of getting up is arduous, and the duality of emotions, being scared to face another day and the anxiety to go out into the sunshine, make standing up complicated.
Open the door. Walking in the streets, people looking at me, saying “What is that?”. Some people ignoring me even though I am trying to communicate with them. Skin and language are massive barrier. I am trying to overcome that, I want to be nice waving and shaking hands. Laughing, laughing.... Scared, ignored, scared... “What is that?”.
Finally on the bus, after being rejected by a bus driver. No windows, no windows, suffocating. My skin limits my movement and doesn’t let me open the small window on top, please, some air. Please, some air, please, some air, no one understands me. In the end, a kind woman tries to open it.
Arriving at art school, on the way, more confusion among people. Entering the school, which is my place. Friendly friends trying to help me out. Holding hands, we leave the school and to the refectory. Can’t get food because no one can understand how I eat and find where my mouth is.
Very glad to have people around me, but friends come and go. Alone again, searching for water in the supermarket. Sweet attendant tries to help me, but no communication, no water.
Alone in the streets, trying to make new friends. A hand shake is the best I can get. I am ignored, ignored, a freak, my feelings of loneliness and being an outsider becomes even stronger. No place to go, I sit down tired on the grass, exhausted and lonely in a crowded square.