In France an inquiry into incitement to racial hatred was opened by the State prosecutor's office after the selection of Mathilde Edey Gamassou to interpret Joan of Arc in the annual festivals of Orleans was greeted by racist insults from far right social media’s users.
The girl, 17 years old, whose father is from Benin and her mother is Polish, was chosen among 250 girls.
"Joan of Arc was white", says one of the most shared post, "we are white and proud to be white, don’t change our history".
Yes right, let’s not change our history...
The first man on earth was not a colour.
He was the earliest, although he didn’t know it, although he didn’t understand it, but it was already too much, what being human would have entailed.
The very first woman to set foot on this planet was not just a colour.
She was the initial one, albeit ignoring it, even though discovering every day the weight and responsibility of being a woman, between presumed, first men.
From that debut, promising at least on paper, of primates and eternal seconds, of unjustly last and excluded expiators, there have been a lot of lives to admire.
Even just to observe.
To study, noting evidences and details.
Among them, proceeding randomly, or rather, passionately, Martin Luther King was not a colour.
Because his hopes for a civil compromise and his faith in the possibilities of the many, were wonderfully enclosed in one only body, covered with a skin that spoke to everybody, moreover the silent good people who copiously live in the most intolerant areas of the world.
Also Gandhi was not a colour, but a gesture of zero and infinite degree at the same time, remaining motionless, indomitable and tenacious where the aggressive man become crowd to oppress and humiliate the most vulnerable notes of the living pentagram.
Indeed, even Albert Einstein was not a colour, but a dilator of times up to really touch the stars and a shortening of lengths allowing us to appreciate the light at the very best moment: when the life that made it eternal, from fragile meat has become indelible memory. And, if you think about it, since world is light, it’s never the colour what you’ll remember, but the precious warmth, the variegated shapes and more than ever the beauty it has illuminated.
Similarly, Shakespeare was not a colour, but billions, as many as may melt in the same tale, in one page, in a single magic verse, who sees words, just oceans of words, when all are looking at something else.
You might call them writers.
Yes right, the great storytellers, as the braver explorers, the least probable heroes and more than anything else, them, the victims rushed in a hurry and the anonymous lives in the basement of fate, the extras of the official screenplays and all the strictly non-protagonists actors, out of the ending credits of the story that we’re still writing together.
Everyone, in this history.
All of us have not been and will never be colours.
Fortunately for us, we were and still are much more.
But if just a colour is what you believe to be...
Poor you, because you are wasting your life on a grain of dust in the presence of the whole universe…
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