LOOK INTO MY TRUNK

I don’t know if any of you have a chest or trunk where you keep your memories. Sometimes the door of the past opens and many things related to our childhood come out. I opened the trunk of my memory and what I found is beautiful. My grandmother had this trunk, which was actually a chest, which served as a coat rack and bag storage, on which we children sat and imagined driving a carriage, complete with a simulation of the noise of the horses’ hooves, beating the timed heels on dark wooden board. This trunk, however, escaped its textbook location because it was in the corridor and did nothing but feed our curiosity as city children looking for new pastimes with which to pleasantly fill the long afternoons spent at grandmother’s house, slippers with heels and television on those TV programs that she called “useless things”. Although curious, we were not used to approaching the trunk in the corridor too frequently because we felt a sort of awe, most likely infused us by our parents, since inside there were “grandmother’s things that if you touch them she realizes and gets angry “. But one day I took courage and asked my grandmother to show me what was hidden in the trunk. She opened it and in the midst of letters, my grandfather’s military clothes, old newspapers and strange objects, photos of her past came out. I looked at that world in black and white and I wondered what colors the clothes and eyes of those people who unconsciously stared at me immortal from the photo cards had had. I asked my grandmother for the names of multitudes of objects unknown to me, information on their function, on what they had done, if the iron was really as comfortable as it seemed from the relaxed expression of a relative portrayed in the moment of starching a shirt. squares with an indecipherable color. And my grandmother promptly answered all my questions, standing, elbows resting on a round table now full of photographs; she seemed younger to me and it was easy for me to see in her the signs of that girl who survived the war.

OH MY DEAR BEAUTIFUL SOUL

Outward beauty is the obsession they have instilled in us since childhood. physical beauty is always expected from women and wherever you turn, every mass media proposes models of perfect beauty that we women yearn to reach. From an early age they give us these dolls with golden hair and slender body, dressed in princesses, queens, models … then the cartoons arrive, those where she turns into a beautiful little witch who makes the most impossible spells and here we are dreaming of disguises magnificent to become what we are not. This ideal of ourselves that they always put us in front of me broke the boxes from the beginning. I was an ugly duckling turned swan who preferred to return ugly duckling. Like a butterfly that comes out of the chrysalis and decides to become a caterpillar again! I cover myself, I hide, I never reveal myself, I leave no trace of myself. Because beauty rules, commands, gets crowds of men in tow, gets so many things, but then what? what remains? I lived as a beautiful and an ugly one, it almost seems like a movie, yet it is true. The problem is not with us, but with men. I was a tomboy girl, an ugly duckling who later became a white swan. And I couldn’t be anywhere without being bothered by someone. I mean that centuries have passed but men continue to judge women only by their physique and all the fights that many women have done have been of no use. Think of a world without the canons of beauty, without anyone judging the other ok or not ok, based only on physical appearance. This is the only thing that is talked about everywhere, the inner aspect is so neglected by everyone and now we live in a world where the beauty of the body comes first. and down pills for weight loss, liposuction, now cosmetic surgery that reigns and goes crazy, and we women are always there to change us, trying to make ourselves perfect, for whom? for him! for them! and what do they do? here they are, blessed and fed up in front of the television watching the game, playing at the play station without the thought of either the extra pounds or the costume fitting. we kill each other between diets, retouches, make-up and stuccoes and they are calm in their princes’ beauty acclaimed by our loving eyes. “dear, you are beautiful … for me”, this is the typical phrase of those who are actually saying “you are not beautiful but I like you” and yet then you find them peeking at the tissue on duty with their buttocks uncovered. and U.S? Here we are again, after a moment of absolute joy, in moisturizing, slimming, exfoliating, modeling creams … and all for what? for him! He is the ruler of the world, he with his eyes that seem inattentive but capture our every failure, even if he were an engineer, and as soon as a few wrinkles furrow our face or some fold is formed in the belly, oh my God, tragedy, he will not love us anymore . Relief! Help! here we are again on a diet, pills, herbal teas, infusions, spells to become what he wants, what he dreams of. he who? He! we are prisoners! we are prisoners of the opinion of men, who would gladly do without our heart and soul and our interior. if it weren’t for that strange little word called Love that plays bad jokes.

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