Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza

Irene Chias

boy about four years old, if I understand anything about chi ldren’s ages, who grabs him by the legs and whines about a l ittle treat or something l ike that. “It ’s pink and I don’t want the one that ’s pink. Pink is for girls,” says the whining, shri l l l ittle boy, who, because he’s a male, has already been taught to reject a large part of the color spectrum, l imiting the range of possibi l ities he can choose from. In many ways, I’d say. In l ife. You poor l ittle boys, I think. I have my back to most of the action and holding my change purse, I dig around for 20 and 50 cent pieces to get a half-l iter of acqua frizzante without leaving change to the thieving vending machine. Truth is, I don’t actual ly care about the water or the change. “So give it to your sister if it ’s pink because boys hate pink,” says the father in a “loving” tone, tel l ing what might be the first l ie in the moral and aesthetic destruction of the son. As if colors didn’t belong to everyone. “But I want it! And Noemi has the blue one.” “Nicki , if Noemi has the blue one, take it,” says the nurse, who seems to have a rapport with the boy. They must be related, I tel l myself. Maybe the wife is giving birth and they are waiting for her, in the hospital where the uncle works as a nurse. “But she doesn’t want to give it to me,” shouts the snivel ing boy, hitting a shri l l high note that for a

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