Children of the Moon

“What is it you want from me?” I ask out loud, and like a match striking its strip, I think I have an answer. The recordings and the transcripts I have made of Pó are an intimate invitation to experience this world through her recollections. Unencumbered. Raw. The question What for? comes back at me. I flick my cigarette over the balcony, orange ember spinning. I don't know how this story will end. But I know how it began. I press my pencil to paper, write They are called children of the moon.

“What is it you want from me?” I ask out loud, and like a match striking its strip, I think I have an answer. The recordings and the transcripts I have made of Pó are an intimate invitation to experience this world through her recollections. Unencumbered. Raw. The question What for? comes back at me. I flick my cigarette over the balcony, orange ember spinning. I don't know how this story will end. But I know how it began. I press my pencil to paper, write They are called children of the moon.

My mother pushed me out into a warm evening, where I took my first breath. I was told this story countless times by Simu. I never tired of it. The moment I slipped out from my mother I was greeted by the moonlight that crept into the mouth of our mud hut. My pale body dragged across my mother's belly and to her breast. My skin, white as bone. A curse. A moon child, the men muttered, before running away. Simu remained to soothe the concern in her sister's eyes.

Shortly after I checked into the Hotel Tivoli, I dragged a chair and table out onto the fourth-floor balcony of my corner room, arranging them so that I could see bits of the ocean to my left and the fragile buildings of this poor city to my right. The shouts from shop vendors and street brawls that spilled from bars onto dirt roads, the smell of smoke from outdoor kitchen fires, all reminded me of the favela where I was raised. Like Serrinha and surrounding Florianópolis, there's nothing beautiful about this city; nothing about its architecture inspires me, except at dusk when lights twinkle from apartments or the glow from open storefronts floods the streets, and I think of quieter times.

I don't deserve to participate in life, not after what I saw and what I did. I used to catch myself smiling – children playing, piri piri shrimp, All in the Family – and I would feel guilty for letting joy creep inside me. They give me risperidone, which dulls the noises in my head and lets me drift off to a time and place where everything seems real. I keep telling myself that it's better not to look back. Nothing good comes from going back. Now, I spend part of my day or what is left of the night in my bed or in my chair staring into the dark until my eyes can pierce the thickness to see clearly through it. I see people, animals, and objects all around me, though they try to hide in the carpet pattern or in the paintings on the wall. I never switch lights on in the basement. I like it this way. “I used to have a dream as a boy – not a nightmare,” I say. Then I realize I am alone. Still, I'm careful not to speak too loudly or to give too much away. You never know who is listening.