For those wonders that occur in the network, I will participate for the next four months in a spectacular project: The superdemokráticos . Along with other American and German authors will write about history, citizenship, and globalization body. Here the list of authors, with a map so affable that Israel has a right in the Caribbean, an island off the Venezuelan coast. ! What a beauty! The project is bilingual, so besides reading my fellow language, I will have the opportunity to meet those German writers who otherwise might not have read! (The Google Translate, you know, is coming to life itself, and instead of translating, infinitely combines words to create stories, like the mythical machine pigliana) And I'll read in German! My God! The newspaper published a special Freitag texts of several of the participants, also mine. can see here. Dream of the best in German! To check out in English:
Black Doll
Before the first class of my English course, I see my students from afar. I do not see, do not recognize me. They talk about their trip to Latin America, their backpacks, their dictionaries, the words they learned in the bars, the ravines, the hardware. I see from afar and I know they expect the teacher to be a mix of Jennifer Lopez with Penelope Cruz, Carmen Miranda fruit and feathers of the Tongolele. But I come: American off, almost white with black nose and mouth, but hips and curves sheathed in a sober stateless. The class will not go for a nap at the party, quite the opposite: they do oral exams, written, multiple choice - say, frowning, trying to erase all common place of the Latin American. After a while I come home tired. Wear the mask of neutrality weight. I shot up in bed and I get a thousand blankets. Before the astonished eyes of my husband, I say, 'Because I'm not Venezuelan. " To which he replies, "But dear, if you look like a selling souvenirs to tourists, look in a mirror." I'd rather not look at me because I think I'll find a blurred face, a hair that curls are not as dry as the climate, increasingly clear skin therefore winter, very few tendrils Israelis. Miro
my house and find that neutrality is also taking hold of her. My husband says his magazines on a shelf of rock argentino, its Brazilian maracas, their flutes of all countries. But I endeavor to see the furniture packages we get from the thickness of a pizza box, designed by cold developed by a Swedish and Chinese exploited. Then he shows me the poem Poems taped to the wall as a national symbol and speaks the ominous word "hybrid." It is not neutrality, is hybrid. And we opened the kitchen pantry to wallow in our culinary hybridity. And in the nursery, among all the monsters, the Bratz and the hydra, found a black rag doll as the blackest night of all drenched Caribbean coast forest. A doll that I bought in a Venezuelan road by the sea. A place where people know the term "politically correct" and wrists are black because. Because there who like pink dolls and some people prefer black. I remember one day my daughter took a walk to the wrist. He carried a small pocket of her backpack and a lady who was behind us stared at her as someone who sees a puppet to voodoo. Wide-eyed, almost crosses. Then I thought: that doll that my daughter kisses all the time and want to take a walk, for others it is a horrible bug, culture shock, fright. The doll that my daughter loves, he thinks it was my child, I bought it because it reminded me of my childhood, that wrist to the other are referred to darkness. A doll like the one my mom bought me a thousand years, probably remembering his childhood as well. On the phone my mother explained that in Venezuela and girls do not even want to see these dolls.
'm a limbo, a mesentery, a disappointment: a black doll reminds me of a country where girls and not want to see black dolls. And my children are growing up with a black doll to frighten and scare here to there. I like that black doll, only understood by the domestic identity.
A second English class will not take no fruits or feathers do not know where to wear them, but a Rita tecnomerengue Indiana milder us the differences between being and being.
Black Doll
Before the first class of my English course, I see my students from afar. I do not see, do not recognize me. They talk about their trip to Latin America, their backpacks, their dictionaries, the words they learned in the bars, the ravines, the hardware. I see from afar and I know they expect the teacher to be a mix of Jennifer Lopez with Penelope Cruz, Carmen Miranda fruit and feathers of the Tongolele. But I come: American off, almost white with black nose and mouth, but hips and curves sheathed in a sober stateless. The class will not go for a nap at the party, quite the opposite: they do oral exams, written, multiple choice - say, frowning, trying to erase all common place of the Latin American. After a while I come home tired. Wear the mask of neutrality weight. I shot up in bed and I get a thousand blankets. Before the astonished eyes of my husband, I say, 'Because I'm not Venezuelan. " To which he replies, "But dear, if you look like a selling souvenirs to tourists, look in a mirror." I'd rather not look at me because I think I'll find a blurred face, a hair that curls are not as dry as the climate, increasingly clear skin therefore winter, very few tendrils Israelis. Miro
my house and find that neutrality is also taking hold of her. My husband says his magazines on a shelf of rock argentino, its Brazilian maracas, their flutes of all countries. But I endeavor to see the furniture packages we get from the thickness of a pizza box, designed by cold developed by a Swedish and Chinese exploited. Then he shows me the poem Poems taped to the wall as a national symbol and speaks the ominous word "hybrid." It is not neutrality, is hybrid. And we opened the kitchen pantry to wallow in our culinary hybridity. And in the nursery, among all the monsters, the Bratz and the hydra, found a black rag doll as the blackest night of all drenched Caribbean coast forest. A doll that I bought in a Venezuelan road by the sea. A place where people know the term "politically correct" and wrists are black because. Because there who like pink dolls and some people prefer black. I remember one day my daughter took a walk to the wrist. He carried a small pocket of her backpack and a lady who was behind us stared at her as someone who sees a puppet to voodoo. Wide-eyed, almost crosses. Then I thought: that doll that my daughter kisses all the time and want to take a walk, for others it is a horrible bug, culture shock, fright. The doll that my daughter loves, he thinks it was my child, I bought it because it reminded me of my childhood, that wrist to the other are referred to darkness. A doll like the one my mom bought me a thousand years, probably remembering his childhood as well. On the phone my mother explained that in Venezuela and girls do not even want to see these dolls.
'm a limbo, a mesentery, a disappointment: a black doll reminds me of a country where girls and not want to see black dolls. And my children are growing up with a black doll to frighten and scare here to there. I like that black doll, only understood by the domestic identity.
A second English class will not take no fruits or feathers do not know where to wear them, but a Rita tecnomerengue Indiana milder us the differences between being and being.
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