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peaky-shelby · 2 years ago

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NEW ROMANTICS | MBAPPÉ [8]

» summary: in which an arrogant and talented football player (the best of his time as some say) and a focused and harsh critic of a journalist are gonna have to find a way to co-exist.

» chapter 8: life is just a classroom

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» writers note: good luck???

» Taglist: @moonchildohh @formulahoe @princetongirlll818 @mavieesttriste16 @kiwisa @godessstela @hummusxx @kodzuvk @pink-manz @corbyns-smile @ippid @jayruiewo265738 @blueanfield @mrs-bellingham @sorceresski @sooblovebot @okayymochi @army7g @j-rbps @heli991113 @markhyucksmells @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @i0veless @photmath @http-isabela @rainytelevisionfilmwagon @formula101x @neymarloverxxx @cepolar @freespirit-51 @marialikescherries @superswaggycooch @lunasmindinwriting

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His dark eyes glowed in the dark as they looked up at her. His face half hidden in between her thighs. A dangerous view. Her hand grasping on the sheet. Her scream expressed in a gasp of air because her vocal chords felt broken. His hands glued on her, leaving invisible tattoos anywhere he’d touch her. He head appeared whole , he reached closer to her lips. He dived in her neck. Biting her ear. His heartbeat an echo in the dark room.

Knock.

Getting louder. His lips on hers, her sitting up just to be closer, to taste ever part of his lips she could, her hands all too familiar with the back of his head and his hair in between them.

Knock. Knock.

Was that hers or his heartbeat? Was it both in the same rhythm. Her eyes close.

“Taylor” he whispers and it’s a sound she could get drunk on. She takes in a heavy breath; she took in his smell. It’s so wrong. She opened her eyes. He smirked. Behind him she can see the stands, they’re not in her room.

Knock. Knock.

“Taylor!” His voice come out clearer now. He leans in to kiss her again, but she only focuses on where they are. The field. There’s something incredibly romantic about an empty field.

“Taylor!”

She jumped on the bed, her heart beating faster than the drums on a rock song, reaching for air. A hand pushing her thigh, she flinched, screamed, and fell off the bed.

Knock. Knock.

“Open the goddamn door.” Sayd Trish in a gruff and tired voice, her face half hidden in the pillows. Taylor looked around confused, she rubs her head. Her mind stuck on the dream or memory whatever it was. Like someone had set a curse for her to be controlled by him.

Knock!

She got up, tried to steady herself and looked through the peephole. A suited important looking man, black skinned and tall. She opened the door slightly, peaking her head in between.

“What could you possibly want from me?” she asked, not in the mood for conversation.

“Monsieur Mbappe m'a envoyé chercher sa voiture. Si vous pouviez me donner les clés, s'il vous plaît.”

She would have reacted if she knew what the hell he was talking about. Instead, she remained frozen as she was, a dumbfounded, brain cell burned expression on her face.

“Madame va bien ? J'ai juste besoin des clés.”

“What on earth are you on about?”

“Les Cles pour la voiture!”

Maybe if she hadn’t just woken up from a scary dream she would have understood it faster but all she could hear were noises with an accent. Suddenly she was pushed on the side by Trish. A very angry looking Trish, who started speaking in French to communicate with the guy. Taylor stood watching a little surprised by her friend.

“He wants Kylian’s keys!” she said quickly.

Taylor raised her eyebrows, processing and slowly understanding. She looked at the clock tied around her wrist, than back at the unknown guy “It’s 6am” she spat out. They guy seemed to be saying something else, but she couldn’t follow again. Trish was already looking around the house for the car keys while Taylor was contemplating murder, not of the guy but of Kylian. Her friend found the keys under the desk, Luna sitting next to them. She grabbed them and gave them to the employee, faking a smile. “Bonjour!” she said quickly and closed the door. Taylor kept her hand on the door, her eyes settling on Trish.

“I’m going to murder him.”

“If he wakes me up again at 6am, I’m murdering both of you!” she said and went straight for the coffee machine.

“This is an act of war” mumbled Taylor, already planning her own attack in her mind “What does he even need the car for at 6am in the morning? Why would he be awake at 6am in the morning? This was planned! That’s why he gave me the keys in the first place—”

“TAYLOR! TAYLOR! Please, I just woke up, lower your bloody voice.” She complained, starting the coffee machine. “Why is this so noisy?” she bent her head on the counter groaning.

“Since when do you speak French?” she asked, getting closer to her friend.

“I was paying attention in class, wasn’t kicking balls all the time like you.” She paused, smirking “not in sports at least, you know.”

“Oh my god.” Her disgust was visible on her tone. She went and sat back on the bed, pulling the sheets and the blankets over her head “it’s too early for this.”

“You know...” she dropped sugar on her coffee “if you two started fucking each other on regular basis, I think it would solve a lot of problems—”

Taylor threw the sheets away from her face, looking at her “are you out of your mind?”

Trish picked up her coffee, smiling and sat on the edge of the bed “girl you were whispering his name in your sleep—” Taylor sat up in shock, her eyes widening in fear. She held her mouth with her hand. “I’m just saying. You are not exactly subtle. Neither is he. Ramos knows he has a hate-crush on you.” She took a sip from her cup, her eyes staying and watching at Taylor’s expressions. She was enjoying this, she kept opening her mouth like she was going to say something, but no actual words would leave her mouth. She raised her finger.

“Which reminds me—” she started changing the subject “you and Ramos are a little too close, aren’t you?” she asked. Trish laughed, winking. “You never talk to a guy that hot unless you plan to fuck him or have fucked him already and you are leaving to go back to England tonight so—” her voice trailed off, her eyes getting bigger “Oh my god you already fucked him.” Trish sipped loudly on her coffee, a slight smirk on her face as she left the cup down and got up to go to the bathroom. “You slept with one of my players?”

“So did you.” She reminded her from the other room, the water running on the sink. Taylor didn’t have an answer to that, so she just dropped herself back on the bed, sinking in the pillows, wishing it was an ocean instead. Her palms reached for her face, rubbing it and muffling the loud groan that came out of her throat. Trish came back in the room, looking fresh and less like a half awaken zombie. “Besties that fuck the same team, stay together? Or something like that—”

“Trish please”

Trish laughed, picking up some of her shirt from the floor and leaving them on the bed before getting each one to fold them carefully. “Listen, the only reason we are alive is to eat and have sex—”

“OH MY GOD. It’s not happening!” she got up, pushing her hair out of her face “It was just a moment of weakness! Me and him it can’t happen because I’ve already given up my writing for this team— I’m not risking my job for a fuck. End of discussion.” She took her phone and left for the bathroom, closing the door with a thud that made Trish jump.

But Trish smiled because she knew her friend all too well. The door to the bathroom opened again just a few seconds later. Trish studied her friend who had her face stuck on her phone, looking at something important. “What happened, did he text you?”

“No…” she murmured “it’s official.”

“what’s official? Taylor what’s going on?” Taylor handed the phone over to her friend, showing her a post on Instagram. An article about her joining the team. Trish started reading “PSG hires ex female player and journalist as a coach consult before QATAR TOUR 23” They looked at each other, all sort of emotions appearing in their faces. “why do you look like a ghost? This is good news! Are you ok?”

“No, I am not ok.” She confessed, her eyes saddening, worry reflecting on them as realization hit her harder than it had so far “I slept with one of my players.” She paused, her brows lowering, the blood leaving her face. Her voice coming out weak and broken “and I liked it.”

TRAINING CAMPUS / GYM – DAY

“You’re here early.” Mumbled Hakimi when he saw Kylian coming in, already dressed and ready.

“Don’t want to give her any excuses to blow her whistle on my face again.” He said, jumping on the treadmill next to Hakimi. “What about you?”

“We have the fitting for DIOR in the afternoon, wanted to finish before that—”

Kylian almost tripped as he stopped running for a second. He held on to the treadmill to regain his balance and looked at Hakimi “That’s today?”

“Yeah, why? You had other plans?”

“Meant to meet a friend. What time?”

“I’m planned for 5. I don’t know about you. Leo was scheduled for 3 maybe you’re with him.”

“They are separating us?”

“yes” he said simply and continued running. He heard footsteps coming from the entrance and he looked behind him, taking a quick peak. It was Ramos, looking at his phone.

“You guys saw the announcement?”

“What announcement?”

“I think you’d rather get off the treadmill first.” He smiled. Kylian glanced at him. He hesitated but stepped of the treadmill and snatched his phone from him. Reading the same announcement that Taylor had read, his expression copying hers because the same realization hit him like a car, because there was no more hiding on the sin they had committed.

“Merde…” he whispered.

“You ok Man?” asked Ramos, a smirk on his face. Hakimi got off his treadmill too, moving in between them to read whatever they were reading. His first reaction was to look at his best friend, unlike Ramos, Hakimi wasn’t smiling. He was worried, he knew much more and saw way more than he was letting on. Kylian left without saying anything.

“Holy shit.” Was all Hakimi said.

TRAINING CAMPUS / OUTSIDE AREA – DAY

Fog. Cold. Grey skies and grey feelings. All of those things expressing the emotions of almost everyone in the field.

Taylor saw him when she came, passing by her on the hall. Walking in different directions, their energy touching on another. She kept her eyes on the floor while he moved next to her, and he stared blankly in front of him like he hadn’t even seen her. Still, there was a sense of electricity that charged both of them when they walked passed one another. An electricity that made her close her eyes and him close his fist. No jokes, no side eyes. Nothing.

She was in the middle of the field, watching the players moving in between the obstacles. Sometimes they’d stop, they’d fool around. Marquinhos accidently stepped on Neymar and he smacked him on the back of his neck. That started a little game of chasing each other around. She would have blew her whistle sooner if she didn’t get carried away by seeing Neymar laughing like that. She had missed that dork.

“Wilock!” she turned around, meeting Linda, the secretary. “You’re on the third batch. You have a fitting at 5.” She gave her a little card that had her name and a number on it, number 16. She felt a burden on her soldiers.

“What’s this for?”

“DIOR Fitting. You’re part of the team now, they wanna show off their new girl.”

“Wai—wait” she cleared her throat “Did you just say DIOR, or is that another French word I don’t understand?”

Linda laughed, shaking her head “just be outside at 4:30. They’ll drive you and a few more of the players at the fitting.” She said and left but Taylor had so many questions. She read the card again, narrowing her eyes, like she was trying to read in between the lines. She turned it around, her pupils dilating when she saw the stamp on the back “bitch really said DIOR.” She mouthed an inaudible ‘oh my god’ before someone violently crashed on her back, causing her to misstep and ran a few steps in order to not fall. She looked behind her, Kimpembe standing there with his hands raised claiming his innocence. “Wasn’t me!” he said quickly and looked to his left. Bernat was on the ground there, bent to his knees, breathing heavily. He waved his hand, apologizing quickly.

She put the whistle back in between her lips and blew it. Everyone closing their ears.

“I want her whistle privileges revoked.” Complained Neymar at Marquinhos.

Kylian, standing also next to Neymar, overheard the comment. He pulled his neck warmer up, glaring at her from a distance. She caught it, looked in his direction while players moved in the space between them. She put the whistle back in her mouth and blew it, coldly at him.

TRAINING CAMPUS / ENTRANCE – DAY

Taylor walked out, looking at the card, back and forth, again and again. She kept thinking that the words on it would disappear eventually and all of it would turn out to be a prank. One of the employees, held her arm to lead her on the right van. She followed with no complained, her disbelief showing in her face. The employee opened the door for her and nodded for her to go kin.

“Merci” she mumbled and stepped inside, still looking at the card. She slid on the window seat, until her thigh bumped on someone else’s. She looked up, realizing she wasn’t alone in the car.

Hakimi gave her an awkward smile, waving at her. She cleared her throat and moved a few inches away from him, looking away. A few moment later Sergio came on the van, sliding next to her. Then Neymar, sitting across from her and—

“Oh, for crying out loud—” she murmured when she saw him bending himself to get in the car. He stopped when he saw her. Tension rising in seconds. She looked away but she had no idea where to keep her eyes on. She didn’t want to look at Hakimi and she couldn’t look at Neymar either. Looking at Ramos made her stomach twist because she could see Trish all over him. So, the choices were two, ceiling or the floor. She tried the floor first, but her eyes kept looking at his feet. She bit her tongue and laid her head back, staring at the ceiling instead.

“You alright?” asked Ramos.

“Parfait.” she said.

Kylian’s eyes arose in the sound her voice. Hakimi noticed the look his was giving him, a look mixed with crave and anger. He kicked his ankle, to get him back on reality. Kylian looked at him, his expression softening.

“Exercising your French?” questioned Ramos.

“Only so I can yell at you in both languages.” She said simply, keeping her eyes closed.

“Je veux te voir essayer.” Prompted Kylian. She lowered her head, her eyes meeting his. Being locked in a car with him, in such an enclosed space felt wrong. It felt like she was trapped. Her palms were sweating as she thought about last night’s dreams, her dirty thoughts racing at the corner of her mind. She was feeling naked, the more that he looked at her, having to remind herself that they weren’t alone in the car. The only words she picked out was “je veux” which she knew meant “I want”. She had no idea what the rest of was but still decided to torment him.

“Do you?” she asked. Seeing the fear and surprise when he thought she understood him. He was intrigued.

Now it was Neymar’s turn to notice, the way they glared at each other. Like they were going to attack one another in seconds. He and Hakimi locked their eyes, understanding each other, Neymar slowly picking on the tension.

“Hey chill out. Both of you! Jesus.” He waved his hand between them to ruin their moment, feeling weird just by watching them. “Santo inferno.” He mumbled in Brazilian. Taylor looked back at the ceiling again. His eyes would unwilling always find their way back to her but in his defense, he tried to look away.

“Bonjour, bonjour! Je m’appelle Diego! Je suis heureux de vous rencontrer.” Diego was really energetic, dressed in what looked like an expensive suit. Incredibly tall and pretty. He looked so elegant, she thought. As she followed everyone inside the venue. Elise was waiting for them inside, smiling when she saw everyone.

“bonjour!” she said, shaking everyone’s hand. “Venez avec moi. Les loges sont à l’étage.” She explained and motioned for them to follow. Taylor was walking slowly behind them in the back, studying the venue. It was big, with cameras set around and white sheets. She imagined it’s where the boys would be photographed later. While going upstairs with them she noticed how expensive everything looked. Golden and fashionable. Then they reached the room.

The room was separated in small private spaces, that everyone could go change in respectively. There were mirrors around for them to look at themselves after they were dressed. She stood behind Neymar, gulping.

Elise walked up to her smiling “Ta robe dans un de ceux-là.” She said and pointed at the third fitting box.

“Elle ne parle pas français.” Said Kylian quickly, Taylor looked up at him annoyed.

“Oh um.... Your dress…in there. You…change.” Taylor was looking at Kylian while Elise spoke, with her broken English, twisting her tongue.

“Merci” she said, glancing back at Elise.

Kylian smiled, winked even and walked in his fitting room. Taylor did the same shortly after, closing the curtain behind her as well as she could. When she turned around she found the dress. Blue, the color of the team and magnificent. Hanged up on one side of your fitting room “oh my god” she whispered, getting closer and touching it with her thumb. “This is beautiful.”

He could hear her changing from his fitting room, next to hers. Her clothes falling on the floor, her feet moving around the small space. He buttoned up his white shirt as quickly as he could so he’d stop listening to those sounds because it was doing something to him. He walked out, Diego clapping for him and saying he looked amazing. He led him to one of the mirrors and helped him put on the jacket of the suit.

“it feels a little long”

“That’s cause we haven’t adjusted it yet.” Said Diego. Another woman came next to him, examine the suit while holding a box of needles on her hands the other boys started coming out, following the same process while the tailors adjusted their suits for them.

“Elise!” called Taylor from inside her fitting room. Kylian turned to her direction only by the sound of her voice but she was still inside. Elise rushed in to help her while one of tailors reminded Kylian to keep his body straight and steady. He obeyed looking at himself in the mirror until he saw her reflection, walking out of the curtain dressed in the navy blue dress, tied around her neck by two very thin threads, and a length that got just a little over her knees. He couldn’t notice anything wrong with it, maybe because he was too focused on her bare feet and how good they looked on her new pair of black heels. He knew that heat in his chest, all too well by now, she was the only one that could ignite it. Ramos came out of his curtain a few seconds later, whistling when he saw her. That made him mad. Elise led her on the other side of the room, behind him, that allowed him to still be able to look at her reflection while they tailored her dress, shortening it. He could even see her face by the way the mirrors reflected on each other and she could see him too. Their eyes meeting while everyone else clueless of the way the stared on another through the mirrors. Sometimes he’d let his gaze travel down to her hips and her legs before letting get back to her face. She did the same, he noticed it, a slight smirk on his lips when he realized she was checking him out.

“Good length. You see legs better.” said Elise.

“j’aime…” she thought about it “la?” she questioned herself getting a few side giggles from the boys. All except Hakimi, who sometimes was as bad as her. Elise smiled standing up and stood behind her pulling the dress down to show her chest more. The minute she did that her eyes searched for Kylian’s. Yeah, he was still looking and she felt a sense of happiness when she realized.

“Tu es tres belle.”

“Merci, Elise.” She said, while still looking at Kylian until he abruptly diverted his gaze back to himself.

“Just wait till they see me arriving at the stadium looking like this. One-zero, already!” he bragged. Hakimi laughing from where he was standing next to him. Taylor scoffed, looking away.

“such confidence.” She mumbled. Kylian glanced at her.

He smiled.

When they boys were done, they were taken to the venue downstairs to take some videos and pictures for the official psg account. Taylor’s dress took longer. Elise wanted it to be perfect, show her silhouette and all her curves. Communicating was hard when she could barely speak French and Elise could barely understand English. But they pointed at what they needed, making sense of it in the end. When they agreed on everything, Elise told her to change so she could fix the dress. Taylor got back behind her curtain and tried to get off her dress but the knot was so tight around her neck she couldn’t untie it and she was too scared of ruining it. Plus, the dress was filled with needles.

“Elise!” she called “Je… aide?” her hand reached behind her neck, trying to pull on the threads until she heard the curtain opening, a presence behind her. “Merci” she said.

She felt his thumb on the back of her neck before she heard his voice “De rien.”

She jumped and turned out, Kylian standing in front of her. She smacked his shoulder. “Are you out of your mind? Get out!” she warned.

“Je veux t’aider” he said innocently, grinning.

She went to push him out, when she heard steps, Elise, coming back. She walked back against the wall and pulled him closer to her, their bodies slamming together.

“Ms. Taylor, ca va bien?”

“Oui” she said quickly “Oui!”. Kylian’s eyes seemed to find comfort in her lips while she was trying to save his mess. He leaned a little closer, his hands close to her body, looking at her with hunger. “Could you get me a glass of water?”

“Que?”

Kylian pulled back so she could see his face. He’d mouth every word slowly and she’d repeat them

“Pourrais”

‘Pou-ais”

He held back his laugh “je”

“Je.”

“Avoir”

“Aboir-“ he held his hand in front of his mouth, cracking up. She stepped on his foot and he let out an inaudible gasp, pulling his foot away.

“Damn you!” he mouthed.

“Mademoiselle?” tried Elise.

“Yes sorry, I’m trying—” she stopped when she felt his lips on her ear, as close to her as ever. This time whispering the words in her ear. She repeated them slowly, same way he was telling them or at least that’s what she thought. She couldn’t really focus on her accent when she could smell his cologne like that, when his lips brushed her ear, reminding her of her sins. Each word sounded dirty, it almost felt wrong repeating them.

“Pourrais-je avoir un verre d'eau?” she asked in the end with her messy accent but thankfully clear enough for Elise to understand.

“Oui.” Said Elise and left the room again.

Taylor stayed as she was until Kylian decided to move his face away from hers, allowing her to breathe normally.

“That was a C plus” he said, with a cocky grin.

“Leave” she warned.

“We need to talk.”

“Lost your keys?”

“I’m serious!”

“Not here.”

“After the fitting. come with me.”

“No.” she said as if the answer was obvious.

“Taylor—”

“Get out.” She persisted.

He let out a bitter breath, his hand reaching behind her neck, his fingers playing with the thread that was keeping the dress on her. He played with it a little, intentionally. The skin to skin contact made her weak, made her embarrassed for her thoughts. Then he untied it, the dress loosening around her but not enough to fall off. Still she moved her hand over her chest, holding the dress up. He smiled, examining her whole one last time before his index finger stroked her blushed cheekbone for a second.

Taylor let herself crumble against the cold wall, trying to replace the warmth he had ignited.

“I just wanna go home.” Said Neymar, sitting next to Ramos on the couch. He couldn’t take it with the flash and the cameras anymore. He leaned back, covering his face. Ramos laughed and patted his thigh. “I haven’t even packed for tomorrow.”

“I don’t think anyone has.”

“Mr. Ramos! Your suit is ready!”

Ramos got up. For a moment Neymar was alone, half asleep on the coach when he felt the space next to him deepening. He looked to his right, meeting Taylor. She lifted her leg up, crossing them on the coach, getting comfortable. A sweet silence settling between them. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to ignore her.

“Suit looked good on you.” She tried. All she got as a respond was a slight ‘hm’. She sunk deeper on the couch. “This is all very special, isn’t it?” he opened his right eye taking a quick peak at her. She looked at him, smiling. She poked his shoulder “you’re gonna talk to me or what?”

“Where’s your whistle?”

“Left it at the stadium with my devil horns.”

“Ah!” he nodded, letting out a very weak and short laugh before silence came back.

She looked at her fingers, scratching her nails. “you ever gonna forgive me?”

He made a ‘tsk’ sound with his death, shaking his head slowly.

“I know I hurt you. Maybe I was little too harsh in my reviews—”

“Maybe?”

“Fine, very harsh. Definitely. But—” she huffed “it’s the same with Kylian. I see your potential and it stinks that you let personal issues get in the way of it. There is zero chemistry on the field anymore. People can see that, they are not dumb. You’re trying to better when it’s all about working together. He gets mad because he is in denial. You get sad because you know it’s true.”

He avoided her eyes “haven’t seen you writing anything new.”

She hesitated “I gave it up.”

“What?” he looked at her.

“I can’t do both things. I thought I could but… first of all there is no time and…” she smiled “I don’t like dragging my friends online.” His eyes softened, she shrugged her shoulder “I just drag them in their face.” He laughed, nodding. “Whistling in their ear. I have to be honest I’m having a lot of fun torturing you!”

“We can tell!” she smacked him.

The doors behind them opened and laughter was heard. She could recognize both laughs. When she looked behind her, she saw Kylian, next to a much taller familiar man.

“TJ!” Called Bellingham and Taylor jumped up from the couch while Jude came closer to hug her. She hugged him back, feeling a sense of home in his arms.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked, stumbling her words. He pulled back to look at her.

“Kylian called, he said you’re going out for drinks.”

“Did he?” She asked in a high pitched voice, giving him the fakest smile she could master.

“Thought you’d like to see a friend from the past.” Said Kylian, his arm hanging around Jude’s shoulder. “he’s leaving tomorrow. It’s be a shame not to.”

She smiled. Unable to do anything else.

ROOFTOP GARDEN BAR – NIGHT

“She got in a fight every other day with the lads.” Joked Jude.

They all sat in a rounded table. Kylian and Taylor across from each other, separated by everyone else. She was in between Neymar and Hakimi, secretly hoping Ramos would have been here as well. Taylor was pretending to laugh through all the embarrassing stories that Jude was telling about her, the same look of annoyance in her face through the whole night.

“It’s because I knew I was better than all of you.” She supported, sipping on her Margarita.

“You were in trouble with the coaches too.”

“Really?” gasped Neymar.

“Don’t get any ideas on your mind Junior. I was just…” she thought of the right word “a little feisty.”

“A little? You were loud.”

“She’s still loud.” Mumbled Kylian. Their eyes met under their dim lights. His comment dirty for anyone that could understand. She looked away.

“She had a little crush on me too, didn’t you?” he laughed. Taylor opened her mouth, laughing.

“That’s fake news. It was you that had a crush on me. Remember?”

“Don’t listen to her, she was at my house every other day.”

“We were kids” she defended, finally starting to enjoy the moment “It was only because your mother made the best carbonara I’ve ever tasted. I was obviously using you!” Jude pretended to be hurt, holding a hand over his chest. “Oh don’t do that—” she chuckled “Remember my dad’s cooking? Your mother was my last hope—plus, you were all over Sandra when I wasn’t there.”

He raised his finger “oh— hold up now, that’s not fair. I might—” motioned his hands “have filled the empty space you were always leaving me with, with Sandra—” Everyone laughed, Taylor hitting her hand on the table. It was a loud belly laugh. Kylian realized he had never made her laugh like that “but you’re the one that left us, moved away to Chelsea—” She chuckled, looked at her cocktail, cocking her head. Her expression saddening. She bit the corner of her mouth, not really wanting to say anything. “Then she met Mason, forgot all about us brummie boys.”

Neymar raised his eyebrows in shock. She shrunk in her place, shaking her head “Mason Mount?” asked Neymar. Everyone except Kylian was shocked. He already knew. “I could have sworn you said something about being immune to footballers ones—so far you’ve dated two—”

“OK!” She raised her hand “Me and Mr. Dracula over there—” Jude laughed at the nickname, obviously an inside joke “We never dated.”

“That breaks my heart, doll.”

“I was Nine!” she protested, still laughing “and you’d buy candy rings for me. Of course I lied about being in love with you.” She explained “and Mason… it was very brief. You know… got immunity right after him.”

It was Kylian’s turn to laugh, maybe a little louder than he should have, everyone looking at him. Taylor must have tried to kick him but she got Jude’s leg instead.

“What the ‘ell?” He yelled.

Taylor tried to wave it off, like she actually meant to kick him but her eyes found Kylian’s. He was sipping on his wine, an infuriating look on his face while he was picking out every single detail he could about her.

A few more stories about how insolent she used to be, a few more jokes of their shared adventures and how dangerous she could get. A few more laughs, allowing Taylor to forget about Kylian on the other side of the table. Kylian noticed how normal she looked, a whole other side of her, childish even. She was a different person, sweeter, less defensive. He wished he could make her feel like that. As always, he realized he was staring when he felt Hakimi’s elbow, hitting his shoulder. His eyes darting away.

They got downstairs on the street, all of them walking to their cars. The boys had called their personal drivers, taylor would get an UBER. She was anxious when she saw Jude in the beginning, anxious of her past but in the end she felt comfort as they walked side to side. It was like she was getting back a part of her she had lost.

“how’s your dad? Haven’t seen him since the wedding” he asked

“He’s happy, finally.” She reassured him, staring at the pavement “He and Beth are as in love as ever and Little Lily is growing” They stopped their pace. The rest of the boys standing a little farther away from them. He looked at her, a very obvious question in his eyes. Taylor could hear it, she looked away, her hands finding solace in her pockets “He’s... taking it one day at a time. Like always. So is Beth…”

“But is he better?”

She shrugged her shoulders “I don’t know. He’s older, so it’s harder but he never talks to me about it. He still blames himself for what happened. Which is dumb but… you know.”

“Next time, I’m in London I’ll go see him.”

“Oh he’d love that. He’d love to see your mother too.” She said, rubbing his arm. “Thanks for tonight.”

“Thank Kylian. He’s the one that invited me.”

She snorted “yeah, he’s intentions weren’t as good. It just backfired on him.”

She he pursed his lips and opened his arms as an invitation to a hug. She accepted it, sinking in his arms and the memories. Jude lowered his head to her ear, smiling while looking at Kylian who was staring at them both “I think he cares a little more than you think by the way he looks at you.” He kissed her cheek “be careful.” He warned and slipped away from her, to get in his car.

Taylor looked behind her, at Kylian, as her uber stopped in front of her. She gave him and the rest of the boys, a quick nod but her eyes lingered on him as she opened the door to her car. And his eyes lingered on her until her car left and he stood in the middle of a sidewalk, in rainy and moody Paris.

PRIVATE PSG AIRPLANE – EARLY MORNING

She wasn’t used to cameras following her around, the social media team seemed to have a great interest in her all of a sudden. All she’d do was wave and smile. When she entered the plane, she met Kylian, who was apparently fooling around with the flight attendants.

“Welcome on board” he said, smiling, not just to her but to everyone.

The plane was huge, separated in cubicles, small spaces for everyone to be comfortable during the 6-hour flight. She chose one seat on the back, next to a window. Her body sinking the minute she sat, ready to fall asleep again. The boys seemed to be in a cheery mood, despite the hour. She was mentally dying, wishing she could be back on her bed but neither the lights or the voices bothered her. She’d fall asleep again in no time.

“Ola!”

She looked sheepishly on her right. Neymar, sitting next to her. She studied him, her expression remaining unimpressed.

“For your own good, I hope you’re not loud during flights.”

Neymar laughed “Maybe I will just to get back at you.”

“Maybe I’ll just throw you off the plane.”

“Little grumpy, coach?”

“Two days now, I’ve waken up before daylight without my will.”

Neymar took his bag of nuts, started throwing them in his mouth “why’d you wake up yesterday?”

She remembered the reason, turned her head towards the window. “long story.”

“sure.” He mumbled.

She fell asleep a while later. He saw her, a few seats away from her. He kept glancing at her, Neymar sometimes was zoning out as well. He needed some sort of master plan to get to her without making it obvious. Hakimi was sleeping next to him, his head on his shoulder. Kylian moved his shoulder to wake him up, repeatedly. Hakimi hummed, sneered but didn’t open his eyes.

“Haki!” he said a little louder.

“It’s your turn.” He mumbled.

Kylian narrowed his eyes “what?”

“I changed the diapers last night”

“Oh my god! Wake up!” Kylian pushed him off his shoulder. Hakimi woke up violently, looking around a little confused. He rubbed his eye, tiredly.

“What’s wrong with you?” he yawned.

“I need you to do something for me.”

Hakimi’s expression fell “I was sleeping!”

“that’s not the point— don’t look at me like that! Come on, I need you to find a reason to speak to Neymar.”

“like plotting your murder?”

“Sure whatever works for you.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer. Hakimi raised his body to find Neymar. He rolled his eyes when he found him next to Taylor. She was sleeping on his shoulder while he was on his phone. He looked back at Kylian “You have to be kidding me.” He lowered his head “I really don’t want to get involved in this.”

“First and last time, I promise.”

“What am I even gonna say to him?”

“You’ll find something- baby diapers, father stuff, you’ll figure it out, I’m sure!” He said and got up. Hakimi tried to snatch his arm but Kylian left before he could. He walked down the thin hallways, standing over Neymar. He told him, Hakimi wanted to speak to him about something. Neymar hesitated at first but moved Taylor carefully away from him, her head falling on the side of the window and getting comfortable again.

Kylian took his seat as soon as he left, looking over her. He wondered how he was supposed to wake her without losing an eye. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth. While he moved his leg against hers, pushing her thigh, slowly but repeatedly so he’d wake her. Suddenly she moved her entire body closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder, same way she was sleeping with Neymar. It did something to him, her hair on his skin, the smell of lavender. He closed his eyes while she nuzzled closer to his neck. All of a sudden he didn’t want to wake her, he wanted her to stay there until they landed. He slid himself closer, her hair tickling him. Her nose wrinkled, like she was smelling him, waking up. Her eyes opened and she moved away just as quick. He moved his hand to her mouth, so she wouldn’t start yelling and wake everyone up. Her eyes were as wide as he had ever seen them, glaring at him. He put his finger in his mouth telling her to ‘shush’. She slapped his hand away from her mouth, sliding her body as far away from his as possible.

“I told you we need to talk.”

She snapped her head at him “here? Of all places?” she hissed.

“Everyone’s sleeping.”

“So, was I! what happened to Neymar? Did you lock him in the toilet?”

“He’s in deep baby conversation with Haki—”

“You’re using kids to—” Keylor Navas passed by them, both of them looking away, stopping their conversation until he was gone. “—to your advantage now?”

Kylian leaned closer, so he’d be able to whisper in a tone only she could hear. “did you see the announcement?” She reached for one of the magazines, flipping the pages like she was searching for something specific. He took it from her hands, she smacked him “can you focus for a moment?”

“What do you want me to say? yes of course I saw it, it was about me, wasn’t it?”

He waited for her to say something more “That’s it?”

“Kylian is this gonna be a problem?” she asked “I mean besides the fact that you hate me for my website. Is that also gonna be a problem? because I need to know right now.” He didn’t answer “I thought you wanted to talk about this—”

“I do”

“Then talk!” she demanded, looking fearlessly in his eyes. How was it that sometimes he felt like he had all sort of power over her and then the next moment, none at all. “It was my mistake that I didn’t tell you but if you’re gonna pull one of your smart little tricks, tell everyone and ruin this for me—”

“I won’t” he cut her off. She seemed surprise, he sat straight and away from her, letting out anxious breaths. “You really thought I would?”

“I don’t know Kylian.” She mumbled “been realizing lately that I don’t really know you at all.”

He gazed at the ceiling, nodding his head. “So we agree, we pretend like it never happened?”

“Yeah. Sounds good to me.” She stared forward, nibbling on the inside of her mouth.

“good”

“Great.”

Silence.

She looked at the blackness from her window “does Hakimi know?” she asked. And he could almost hear the terror in her voice. He lowered his head.

“He knows something happened. He doesn’t know what.”

“Don’t tell him.” She requested.

He moved his eyes at her, he could only see half her face. “I won’t.” he promised and he realized it was the most sincere, he had ever been with her. Why did his chest felt heavy then?

DOHA

Doha was the first stop. The welcoming was beautiful. Everyone had a smile on their face, shaking everyone’s hands. Some would point at Taylor, whispering something. She’d look away, feeling weird just by the thought that she was being recognized be strangers. She was never that popular as a footballer and she wasn’t used to it either.

When they reached their reception everyone was given their own key and room number. The employees helped them settle in their rooms, Taylor had used most of the boys as a shield while walking around the hotel, hiding in between them so the cameras wouldn’t find her. The members of the team were forced to go on a number of interviews while she could stay in her room, sleep, drink, do whatever she wanted to until the charity event in the hotel, later in the night. She chose sleep.

PLAY MUSIC

Kylian liked getting dressed up, it made him feel good and that outfit certainly looked good on him. He admired himself in the mirror, examining how it fell on him.

He fixed his handkerchiefs and his collar first.

Taylor fixed her make up first, blue eye shadow and maroon lipstick, same color as her favorite wine, puckering her lips in the mirror. She picked half her hair up, while the rest laid curly on her body.

He put on his black suit, dusting off any dirt that might have gathered during the trip.

She slipped in her blue dress, feeling like it was uniform made for her and her only, moving her head side to side, so her hair would fall better on her shoulders.

They stood on the edge of their beds, putting on their shoes. He tied his and she slipped her feet on her black open toe heels, strapping them. Her hands stroking her legs, she smiled, feeling way too sure of herself for the night.

She stood up when she heard a light knock on her door. She snatched her mini bag from the bed and opened the door, smiling.

“Ready?” asked Marquinhos.

She smiled and slid her hand around his elbow.

Kylian was already on the venue across the hotel, a glass of red wine in his hand, taking pictures with his teammates and interacting with fans or people that looked important. His eyes scanning the room, always, like he was expecting a bomb to go off any time. It was hard for him to hold a conversation, mostly because he’d always twist his head, any time he thought he saw a woman in a blue dress. The dim purple lights made it harder for him to spot what he was looking for until he saw her, close to Marquinhos, laughing about something.

He could hear whoever was next to him still talking but it was like a void, a noise in his head that wouldn’t go off. His eyes found a home in her silhouette, like he was seeing her in that dress for the first time. He didn’t know where to focus, her legs? Her heels? Her exposed neck or chest? He had never seen her with make up before, red lips like those, a curse and a gift. Hakimi was nowhere near to remind him he was staring so he was still staring until her eyes locked with his. He noticed she held on Marquinhos hand tighter after she saw him, getting closer like she was seeking protection. Her attention was taken away by a reporter, asking her questions. He watched as her lips moved, curling in a smile or shutting in a straight line while she listened to the questions. Marquinhos helping her through the chaos that he was used to a long time now.

“Kylian!” His companion said, pulling on his arm. He finally looked away from her and back at the man next to him.

“Excuse moi.” He said and motioned for him to continue with whatever he was saying. He very cheekily made a few steps backwards so he’d be able to look at her while also pretending he was part of the conversation, taking slow sips from time to time. Following his prey as it moved around the venue.

So, we both agree, it never happened?

But it did happen, and he wanted it to happen again.

Taylor was feeling exhausted just an hour later, any opportunity she’d find she’d sit on an empty seat, massaging her ankles that were begging to be let free of the heels. She had met more people in an hour then she had met in the entire year and she didn’t even remember her names. Her boys would compliment her, always, without ever making it inappropriate, something that made her feel better but there was one that hadn’t even come near her.

While sitting in one of the empty tables she searched for him, finding him in between the crowd. She couldn’t deny he looked good in a suit; it made him look older and wiser. His presence was louder than most people and yet he didn’t have to make any noise for people to notice him. She studied how even the fabric couldn’t hide his perfectly structured body, the body she had stroked like few woman had, the body that was hers a few nights ago. She caressed her own palm with her thumb, trying to remind herself what touching him felt like.

So, we both agree, it never happened.

Sounds good to me.

But it did and she’d never be able to forget.

A figure came and stood in front of her, hiding the view. She looked up, Ramos, smiling down at her.

“Are you allowed to dance with us?” he asked. She laughed, shaking her head.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Rumors can be terrible.”

He studied her “it’s hard being around us, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes harder than others.” She admitted, her eyes looking for him again. He wasn’t there anymore.

“Fuck the rumors.”

She laughed louder “you hanged out with Trish way too much.”

“She was good company. Knew what she wanted.”

“Yeah…” she hummed “I was always jealous of her for that.”

“Ah…” Ramos knelt in front of her so he’d be on the same level. She let her head fall on the side, narrowing her eyes. “I believe we all know what we want. Pretending we don’t is easier.” He got up and left to go back to the dance floor. She thought about his words. What if she wanted more than one thing and it was one or the other? Which one was the one she should pretend like she didn’t want it at all?

A chair moved next to her; she turned her head. Him, she thought. He kept staring at her while he sat down, as close to her as he could. He gave her a glass of wine while holding his in the other hand. She took it, their hands touching ever so slightly. They took a sip, their eyes not moving. If intoxication was a picture, it would have been this one; them, their eyes locked, sipping on the red liquid, her letting her leg fall against his and moving away when it touched his thigh. Reading their thoughts. No need for conversation. Confessing crimes to devil himself would have less tension than whatever they were doing.

“Stop staring.” She whispered

“You first.”

She swallowed the eternity of her glass in one go and left it on the table. She got up and lost herself in between the crowds until she was outside. Cold air sending a chill all over her body, she walked as far deep in the wide garden of the hotel as she could until she reached the back pool, empty and lonely. It wasn’t as cold as Paris but she was exactly well dressed.

Her body trembling until his jacket and smell covered her shoulders.

PLAY MUSIC

She closed her eyes, taking it in. His hands rubbing on her arms. She leaned her head back to him, weak to keep it or her thoughts straight as she craved to be closer to him.

He slipped his hands under his jacket so he could hold on her body as he moved closer, his breath on her neck. “you’ll freeze.” He whispered. She turned around so she’d be able to face him, her hands placed on his chest, covered by his white shirt. They could still hear the music from the distance, their bodies moving in the rhythm of it while her tachycardia seemed to pick up the closer his face would get. She gripped on his shirt, wrinkling it. Their mouths half open, moving in opposite directions while they brought each other to insanity.

“It never happened.” She reminded him with whatever strength she was left with.

He looked at her lips, his hand reaching behind her neck, his thump stroking her face. “Maybe it should.”

She moved her head to the side, so she’d stay away from his lips just to be safe. She wasn’t sure if she was trembling because of the cold or him. She looked over his shoulder at the pool. She shook her head and walked away from him closer to the pool. He watched her, half wondering what she was doing. He followed her, standing next to her. She took off her heels, returning back to her normal height and testing the temperature of the water with her toe.

“we are sinking.” She whispered “there’s only one way to go when you’re sinking.”

He turned his head away from her. He started unbuttoning his shirt, throwing it on the ground and then his pants. She watched, confused. He took off his shoes, staying in his underwear. “If we are sinking, we might as well swim.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. A minute later and he was diving in the pool, his body lost in the water. She stepped a little closer, before sitting on the edge of the pool. Leaving her phone by her side. Her feet sinking in the water as well. He returned to the surface, smiling. She grinned when she saw him until he started throwing water at her, splashing it on her. She laughed holding her hands over her dress. “This is a DIOR!” she yelled. Begging him to stop. He swam closer, enclosing her in between his arms.

“I’ll buy you an other.”

She snorted “cheeky.”

He moved even closer, her feet against his bare chest, the two of them staring at each other. Sinking, indeed. Dangerous, for sure. His hand moved away from the marble and settled on her leg. She didn’t react, a symbolic gesture for him to continue. He caressed her skin in the water, his hand finding it’s way in between her thighs, always looking her in the eyes. Opening her legs slightly. Enough to be able to leave kisses on her inner thigh, that’s when he got the first reaction, a gasp. He continued, higher, until she shut her thighs together. A momentary lapse in judgement and she jumped in the water in between him and the marble, her lips finding his in seconds. Finally allowing him to taste that lipstick, to suck every little part of her and drink it like it was whiskey. The dress getting stuck in her body as it got wet. His hands still travelling in between her thighs while his mouth got complete access to hers.

Because it did happen and it was going to happen again. And when you’ve already started sinking, there is only one way to go.

“Who’s down there?” yelled the security guard.

Screaming crying perfect storm.... Oh well..... Sinking we go. Down to the bottom we go. Unless of course they were caught. Are they gonna sleep together? Are they not? Qatar trip is gonna be fun from now on. I mean it's getting hot in here. People missing. Where is Ann? Jude's a cutie isn't he🥺 BUT HEY-- STAY CHILL PEOPLE. WE DON'T HAVE A LONG WAY TO GO. 😭😭 Ones again thanks to everyone that is reading, writing this for you is pleasuee and all i need in return is your feedback so i can't wait to see your comments. You're THE BEST!!! See ya next Sunday (maybe) xx

Next Chapter »

#kylian mbappe #mbappe imagines #mbappé #mbappe #mbappe x reader #football writing #football imagine #football requests #neymar one shot #neymar x reader #jude bellingham x oc #jude bellingham x reader

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lefeusacre-editions · 5 months ago

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PAPY A FAIT L'ALGÉRIE, par Maud Bachotet (1/2)

Première partie d'une chronique à la fois familiale et historique, du portrait d'un homme et d'une guerre, "Papy a fait l'Algérie" convoque un réseau d'images gardées secrètes que l'écriture se charge de donner à voir, de transmettre, relier, faire parler. C'est un voyage de recouvrance à la fois physique et mental aux deux pôles Nord/Sud. Maud Bachotet est écrivaine et ��ditrice, ses travaux d'écriture récents ont pour points de départ l'enquête psycho-géographique, l'imagerie populaire et anonyme, ou encore l'autofiction "psychopompe" (le récit intime se lovant dans celui d'une figure réelle dont l'écrit est leur point de rencontre). "Papy a fait l'Algérie" est sa première contribution au blog du Feu Sacré. Gooble Gobble, bienvenue à elle !

Les Parapluies de Cherbourg, Jacques Demy.

J’ai tant grandi que la maison d’enfance me semble devenue de poupée. Je déborde aussi bien du lit que de la baignoire, me cogne le crâne dans la largeur de la trémie chaque fois que je descends l’escalier et peux sans peine m’accouder à la table du séjour depuis le canapé tout en ayant un pied dans la cuisine. C’est un peu comme de vivre dans un voilier à jamais amarré.

Je me souviens du jour où la grande marée avait envoyé le fleuve valser dans les ruelles du village. Mon père, craignant le naufrage, avait pulvérisé de la mousse expansive sur le pas de la porte. Depuis la fenêtre, j’espérais que l’eau monte assez pour emporter notre bicoque au loin. Peut-être aurions-nous ainsi pu rendre visite à nos « cousins des îles ». Mais l’eau s’était arrêtée à une dizaine de centimètres seulement de notre porte. Comme pour me narguer. J’étais dévastée. Autant que je le suis aujourd’hui de me coucher bredouille dans mes draps de petit mousse. Après trois années passées sur les bancs de l’université à ne pas chercher à regarder plus loin que l’horizon de la licence (mes parents n’avaient pas su me payer de longue-vue en laiton ni me conseiller dans mon orientation), j’ai dû me résoudre à m’échouer sur le banc de sable bordant mon bled littoral. Me voici donc ensevelie sous une mer de cartons que je me refuse à ouvrir. Quitte à faire trois pas en arrière (un par année passée loin d’ici), je préfère encore m’immerger dans l’hier. Je retourne placards et tiroirs, relie chaque objet, vêtement ou feuille volante à une image de mon enfance ou de mon adolescence – je fais bien plus confiance aux récits de l’inanimé qu’à mes propres souvenirs. Dans la maigre bibliothèque, je tombe sur un livre de Jéromine Pasteur, Chaveta. Entre les pages, tournées à la volée, je feuillette ma mémoire qui se supplée à celles de l’exploratrice. C’est mon grand-père, dont je n’ai jamais vu le nez dans un bouquin, qui me l’avait donné à lire. Je me souviens d’un bateau construit des mains d’une jeune femme sans expérience. Je me souviens de ce même bateau engloutis quelque part sous l’Atlantique et des larmes de la jeune femme sans expérience. Je me souviens aussi d’un plan élaboré à la récré – au fil de ma lecture, peut-être ? – ayant pour dessein une virée à deux (pré-adolescentes sans autre expérience qu’une poignée d’heures de cours de voile) en catamaran. En revanche, je ne me souviens pas sur-le-champ de la forêt péruvienne, des Asháninkas ni des guérilleros. Ce n’était pas tant le prolongement de l’arrivée qui m’avait fascinée que l’urgence du départ.

Cette urgence, je l’avais toujours eue en moi. Enfant, j’avais vidé une valisette en plastique rouge (un jouet) de son contenu (des jouets) pour la remplir de ce qui me semblait nécessaire à la fuite, à savoir deux culottes blanches, un crayon télévision à double mines rouge et bleue et mon ours en peluche rose. Une fois sur le trottoir, tétanisée par le grondement des voitures, j’avais pris conscience qu’il n’était pas si simple de partir et étais rentrée affronter la peur de ma mère assourdie par le vrombissement du Moulinex. Plus tard, j’avais fini par accepter les vacances de la Toussaint, de Noël, d’hiver et d’été à demeure. Mes amies me postaient des cartes où tout était blanc, les pistes de neige comme les plages, et qui me réconfortaient lorsque le vert des champs, des dunes et de la mer me donnait la nausée.

Mon grand-père ne s’est jamais lassé des paysages de son enfance. Tous les matins, il prend sa voiture pour aller saluer la baie et prévoir le temps qu’il fera selon le niveau d’ennuagement du mont. Le samedi, il se laisse conduire par ma grand-mère jusqu’au sémaphore de Granville où il occupe son après-midi à inventorier les bateaux du port. À quoi pense-t-il depuis son banc de guet public ? Au jeune pêcheur en partance pour les grands bancs de Terre-Neuve ? Au jeune appelé sur le point d’embarquer sur l’El Djezaïr ? Au petit garçon rêvant de marcher dans les sabots de son grand-père ? Peut-être m’avait-il mis le livre de Jéromine Pasteur entre les mains pour cultiver chez moi ce désir héréditaire du grand large et qui semblait toujours sauter une génération.

Un jour, ma mère m’a dit : « Je ne comprends pas d’où te viens cette envie de voyager. Moi, je n’ai jamais eu envie de partir. » Je rêvais alors de contrées lointaines, de coutumes exotiques et de langues imprononçables. Je nourrissais une passion dévorante pour la Chine, ensuite détrônée par l’Inde, tandis que ma mère s’était contentée de ne jamais quitter le village qui l’avait vue grandir. Quant à mon père, il n’avait eu qu’à parcourir moins de quatre kilomètres pour l’épouser. La seule personne de mon noyau familial à n’avoir jamais franchi les frontières du village et du pays tout entier se trouvait être mon grand-père. Plus qu’une guerre, l’Algérie avait été pour moi un voyage dans sa jeunesse. Ce n’était pas la Chine, mais ça m’allait bien aussi. C’était un autre continent et on y parlait une langue qui se peint. Quelque part, j’enviais mon grand-père d’avoir « fait l’Algérie ». « Faire l’Algérie », à mes oreilles, ça ne signifiait pas « faire la guerre ». Avec l’innocence de l’enfance, je posais des questions sur le pays et il traçait devant mes yeux des paysages étrangers. Je posais des questions sur la langue et il posait sur la mienne des mots arabes. Je notais déjà sur des feuilles volantes à moitié noircies de dessins tout ce qu’il voulait bien me raconter. Mais j’ai beau fouiller la chambre de fond en comble, je ne parviens pas à mettre la main sur ces premiers témoignages recueillis à l’encre pailletée, peut-être même parfumée. Cette fois, il me faut me fier à ma mémoire.

Je repense à la boîte cartonnée. Plus tôt dans la semaine, mon grand-père m’a demandé au téléphone « dis, la boîte avec mes photos, sais-tu où qu’elle est ? » « C’est moi qui l’ai, papy. Rappelle-toi, tu me l’as prêtée… Je te la rends la prochaine fois que je passe ! » « Ah ! Bon, bon… » Je me suis demandée si ça lui prenait souvent de parcourir ces images. Avant de les lui rendre, je me lance dans un grand inventaire. Je dénombre un total de 190 photographies, 11 cartes postales et photos-cartes et 4 documents. Je distingue les photos de famille des photos que j’associe au service militaire. En attendant que mon grand-père accepte de poser des mots sur ces images, je me contente de les trier à l’estime :

FAMILLE (66)

· Baptême maman (14)

· Maman (15)

· Chantiers (5)

· Chiens (10)

· Fête de mariage (5)

· Autres (17)

SERVICE MILITAIRE (124)

· France (11)

· Algérie (113)

CARTES POSTALES & PHOTOS-CARTES (11)

· Deux femmes devant un décor peint (1)

· Carnaval (1)

· Le vieux pont (1)

· Rue du Pavé (1)

· Gavarnie (1)

· Algérois (1)

· Alger, casbah (1)

· Heureuse année (1)

· Souvenir de mon passage sur l’El Djezaïr (1)

· Souvenir de mon passage sur le Kairouan (1)

· Souvenir de mon passage sur le Ville de Tunis (1)

DOCUMENTS (4)

· Ordre de mission (1)

· Permission (1)

· Ticket de pesage de la grande pharmacie de Bab El Oued (1)

· Carte de prière Sœur Marie-Céline de la Présentation (1)

Les photos ainsi répertoriées, je les scanne une par une. Zoomées et rétroéclairées par l’écran de mon ordinateur, j’en découvre les détails.

Une vue en plongée du pont. Une mer vide occupe quasi entièrement la moitié supérieure du cadre. Au premier plan, deux rangées de valises bon marché, trop petites pour contenir des vies entières. Près des valises, trois hommes en uniforme. L’un d’eux a remarqué la présence du photographe. Il y a de la méfiance dans son regard. Ou peut-être est-ce un rayon de soleil. Sur la gauche de l’image, des civils, trois hommes et une fillette dont la tête est masquée par un foulard, s’appuient au garde-corps pour suivre du regard la trajectoire du bateau. Sur la droite de l’image, un jeune garçon et deux soldats les imitent. Au centre de l’image, deux autres soldats fixent l’objectif. Leur air penaud semble avoir été saisi par surprise. Sans doute le photographe les a-t-il sifflés depuis son nid perché avant de déclencher l’obturateur. Le mauvais cadrage donne à l’image une impression de mouvement.

À force de fixer la photo, je vois la houle onduler, les cheveux ondoyer, les corps tanguer. Surtout, je vois les valises. Le sujet de ce cliché, ce sont elles. C’est le départ. L’ailleurs. L’inconnu. Que met-on dans une valise quand on n’a rien ? Quand on nous somme de tout laisser derrière soi ? De ne prendre que le stricte nécessaire ? Une carte de prière confiée par les mains d’une mère inquiète et qui a marginé au dos « Réciter cette prière pendant neuf jours. N’oublie pas. » ? Moi, dans ma valise, je glisserai cette photo de deux inconnus surpris par le regard de mon grand-père. Il ne remarquera pas qu’elle a disparu.

À faire défiler sur l’écran de mon ordinateur ces paysages en noir et blanc, l’urgence du départ se fait plus que jamais ressentir. Comme l’ont fait avant moi Jéromine, papy, Zachary – la première par défi, le deuxième par devoir, le dernier par nécessité –, je m’en vais prendre la mer. Par dérobade. À une vitesse de 21,5 nœuds, soit 39,8 km/h, il me semble que je pourrais mettre à bonne distance le futur qui s’entête à me rattraper.

Le choix de la destination est simple : 1) il me faut un pays où me rendre par bateau ; 2) il me faut un port d’arrivée au départ de Cherbourg. De tous les pays qui peuplent mes fantasmes d’ailleurs, il ne reste donc plus que la Grande-Bretagne et l’Irlande. Je choisis les rebelles aux colons, la république à la monarchie, la patate à la Marmite, les Pogues à Police.

Pour se rendre à Cork, il n’est pas nécessaire de construire son propre bateau, pas plus qu’il n’est requis de posséder un ordre de mission ou des compétences en matière de pêche à la morue. Il suffit simplement de sélectionner au clic avec ou sans cabine, standard ou supérieure, avec ou sans hublot. Parce que je rêve d’aventure – qui a l’avantage d’être plus à portée de porte-monnaie que le confort –, j’opte pour l’expérience du grand large sans cabine, option hublots à volonté, dix-sept heures de traversée. Débarquée à Rosslare Harbour, il ne me restera ensuite qu’à prendre un premier bus pour Waterford et un second pour Cork. Quatre à cinq heures de route, trois comtés (Wexford, Waterford, Cork), vingt-six arrêts.

Arrivée à Cherbourg, il pleut. Je ne m’en étonne pas. Car l’économie cherbourgeoise repose sur l’eau dans tous ses états. D’un côté la mer, dont quatre ports (militaire, de pêche, de commerce et de plaisance) permettent de tirer profit, de l’autre la pluie, que Jean-Pierre Yvon a l’idée (soufflée par Jacques Demy) d’exploiter en créant en 1986 « Le Véritable Cherbourg », un parapluie haut de gamme multiprimé qui voyagera jusqu’au Japon couvrir la tête de l’actuel empereur Hiro-no-miya Nahurito dont la notice Wikipédia nous apprend qu’il a été décoré Grand maître de l’ordre du Soleil levant mais malheureusement pas de celui de la Pluie tombante. L’Antibourrasque étant à 149 euros, le Pébroque à 299 euros et le Milady en Moire à 650 euros, je prends la pluie. Et je me demande si Geneviève (Catherine Deneuve) aurait pu se refuser à Roland (Marc Michel) et lui jeter ses pierres précieuses à la moustache si seulement elle avait fait une école de commerce et vendu des parapluies de Cherbourg à des princes héritiers.

Je pense à Guy (Nino Castelnuovo), appelé en Algérie dans la première partie du film, en novembre 1957. J’entends ses paroles : Oh... Tu sais, maintenant, ça n’a plus d’importance... / Nous avons même tout notre temps... / Ce matin, j’ai reçu cette feuille de route / et je dois partir pour deux ans... / Alors, le mariage, on en reparlera plus tard... / Avec ce qui se passe en Algérie en ce moment, / je ne reviendrai pas d’ici longtemps... Je pense alors à mon grand-père, Normand lui aussi, ouvrier lui aussi, appelé lui aussi, au même âge, à l’été 1959. C’est drôle, je cours à l’aveugle derrière cette histoire que personne ne veut regarder droit dans les yeux et la voilà qui me devance sur le quai du port de Cherbourg tandis que j’embrasse ma mère, comme tant d’autres l’ont fait avant moi.

Sur la passerelle d’embarquement, je me demande si, là-bas, du côté de la mer Celtique, je trouverais des réponses dans mon disque dur saturé de photos. Sans doute trouverais-je plutôt des questions à poser dans le micro de mon téléphone, que mon interlocuteur, rejetant la faute sur la mauvaise qualité du réseau, pourra ignorer comme bon lui semble.

Depuis le pont, j’observe le quai. Ça fourmille d’adieux en bas. Je distingue mon grand-père, dans son uniforme foncé. Nous ne sommes plus à Cherbourg mais à Marseille. Derrière lui se dresse La Major. Il n’a ni mère à consoler – elle tient son café en Normandie –, ni fiancée à qui chanter des adieux – il ne l’a pas encore rencontrée.

Je sens une présence à mon côté. C’est lui, qui s’accoude au bastingage. Il considère la cathédrale d’un œil déformé à la fois par les rayons du soleil et par un professionnalisme juvénile. À 20 ans déjà, il ne peut s’empêcher de détailler la structure d’un édifice aussi digne – lui qui s’apprête à rejoindre un conflit qui l’est si peu –, de se figurer, sans posséder aucune connaissance de l’histoire de l’art et de l’architecture, quelles techniques les ouvriers de l’époque ont-ils utilisées. Bien plus tard, lorsqu’il sera transporté par taxi à Reims pour qu’un spécialiste de renom pulvérise au laser la tumeur venue se loger dans son oreille, il rendra chaque jour visite (du lundi au vendredi, pendant plusieurs semaines) à la cathédrale de Reims, sans jamais laisser faiblir son admiration.

Je me souviens de la présence de deux photos de La Major, la cathédrale de Marseille, dans la boîte, prises depuis le bateau. Il y en a également trois qui font le tour presque complet (nord, ouest, sud) de Notre-Dame-d’Afrique, à l’ouest d’Alger. Il n’y aucune piété chez mon grand-père. Ces édifices religieux sont pour lui comme des phares. Des points de départ. Et d’arrivée. Des témoins familiers parce que taillés dans le plus noble des matériaux : la pierre.

Je voudrais lui pointer du doigt le Mucem, ce cube posé sur la jetée et voilé d’une mantille de béton. Mais lui ne peut pas la voir. Il ne sait pas encore qu’un musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée verra le jour en 2013 à Marseille et qu’il s’enrichira en 2017 d’une collection d’œuvres et d’objets rassemblée en vue de l’ouverture d’un musée d’histoire de la France et de l’Algérie qui n’aura pas lieu. Alors je me contente de lui dire « est-ce que tu vas finir par me parler ? » Mais lui ne semble pas m’entendre. Son regard s’est posé à son tour sur le quai devenu celui du port de Granville. Il scrute un homme à l’accoutrement d’un autre temps : gros chandail, veste et pantalon cirés, bottes cuissardes, suroît en toile brune, mitaines en laine, baluchon. Zachary, le terre-neuvas. Un peu plus loin, une chorale d’hommes avinés entonne : Ceux qui ont nommé les Bancs / les ont bien mal nommés / ils en font des louanges / ils y ont jamais été. À son côté, une femme fixe la mer avec défi. Derrière eux, une fillette à qui l’on a dit de ne pas se retourner, sous peine de ne pas voir revenir son père, caresse un énorme chien à robe noire qui bientôt s’endort. Je me tourne vers mon grand-père. Je voudrais lui poser des questions sur Zachary, ce grand-père qu’il aimait tant. Mais il a disparu. Je suis de retour à Cherbourg. Et le ferry lève l’ancre.

La seconde partie sera publiée la semaine prochaine.

#algérie #enfance #nord #sud #cartespostales #lesparapluiesdecherbourg #jacquesdemy #maudbachotet

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harriet-de-g · 9 months ago

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Encore des rêves indociles de justice handie pour la fin du monde

[initialement publié dans la revue Multitude 94, Justice handie pour des futurs dévalidés, traduit de l’anglais (Canada) par Emma Bigé et Harriet de G. Texte Original et Image d'illustration de Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha]

Comme tous les textes de ce blog avant lui, il est disponible à la commande à prix libre, pour permettre de soutenir cette activité. Pour cela, il suffit de m’envoyer un message privé en précisant sa commande, le prix qu’on veut payer, son mail & selon le mode d’envoi : une adresse. Vous pouvez aussi le retrouver ci-dessous ou dans sa version imprimable ici (en pleine page) ou ici (en format cahier).

Tu te rappelles comment, en 2019, on a survécu ? Comment tu as appris que tu avais un cancer, et comment tu as cru que tu allais mourir, soit du cancer, soit de la négligence du chirurgien sur la table d’opération ?

Tu te souviens comment, en 2018, c’était l’année où un groupe de personnes handicapées avait construit un réseau de distribution de masques pendant les incendies de forêt en Californie, distribuant près de 80’000 masques en un mois ? Tu te souviens de la première fois où tu as entendu les termes « pic de pollution de l’air à grande échelle », et comment ce n’était pas la dernière ? Tu te souviens de la première fois où tu as vu une section « justice handie » à la bibliothèque municipale, avec les visages d’Audre Lorde et de Leroy Moore côte à côte sur l’étagère créée par Dustin Gibson ? Tu te souviens quand la loi sur les revenus annuels garantis est passée, et quand le revenu minimum a été augmenté et quand les personnes sous protection sociale avons enfin pu garder nos revenus ? Tu te souviens des réparations obtenues après les abus médicaux ? Tu te souviens du jour où le dernier centre d’internement de force pour jeunes autistes a fermé, et où on s’est retrouvées pour des cérémonies de deuil et de célébration ? Tu te souviens du jour où on a commencé à faire des réserves de masques, d’eau et d’essence avant d’emménager dans la ferme, tenue par des crip racisées, où nous vivons maintenant ? Tu te souviens quand nous avons construit notre premier monument aux mort·es pour célébrer celleux que nous avions perdu‧es, Carrie Ann Lucas, Steve, et toustes les autres ?

Au printemps 2019, Alice Wong du Disability Visibility Project [projet de visibilité handie] m’a demandé d’écrire une suite à mon article de 2017, « Cripper l’apocalypse : rêves indociles pour une justice handie » pour son anthologie Disability Visibility. J’ai dit oui. Et puis, j’ai eu du mal à l’écrire. Il est difficile de rêver quand on est terrifié·e, et c’est et c’était des temps terrifiants. La répétition incessante des traumatismes des trois dernières années, des horreurs du trumpisme qui sont souvent pires que ce que l’on pouvait imaginer, et qui ne cessent de s’empiler les unes sur les autres, m’ont mis·e, moi et tant d’autres de mes proches, dans une sorte d’état perpétuel d’immobilité du type « chevreuil pris dans les phares d’une voiture ». Des camps de concentration aux durcissements des conditions d’accès à la nationalité, de l’ascension de Brett Kavanaugh à la Cour suprême à l’interdiction d’entrée aux ressortisssant·es de pays musulmans, aux feux de forêt dans tous les coins du monde et à la glace qui fond aux deux pôles : on dirait qu’il est plus facile d’apprendre à lire le monde dans un livre que d’essayer de répondre à ses urgences en temps réel.

L’année dernière, au cours de la tournée pour mon livre Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice [le travail de prendre soin : rêver la justice handie], je me suis souvent retrouvé·e à porter (à l’occasion des conversations publiques et sur les campus) le T-shirt conçu par la militante queer handie Latinx Annie Elainey Segarra où il est écrit que LE FUTUR EST ACCESSIBLE. Je fais ce truc régulièrement pendant mes interventions, où je demande au public de fermer les yeux un instant, de plonger au dedans, et d’imaginer le futur. En tant que personnes actives dans le mouvement pour la justice handie, nous savons que l’accès n’est que le premier pas sur la voie d’un futur handi libéré : c’est la rampe qui nous permet d’accéder à la porte où le futur pourra être façonné, mais ce n’est pas le futur comme tel. Mais quand je demande : « okay, à quoi êtes-vous arrivé·es ? », on entend le son des grillons. Tout le monde reste bloqué. Au mieux, iels arrivent à imaginer un futur où iels ne mourront pas dans des camps de concentration.

Mais en tant que personnes handies, nous savons que l’un des plus beaux dons que nous recevons, ce sont nos rêves Fols, malades, handis et Sourds, ces rêves que nous rêvons au-delà de ce que nous sommes autorisé·es à rêver. Et non, je ne parle pas de la « pornographie inspirationnelle », cet imaginaire validiste des rêves handis qui voudrait que « nous ne laissions pas le handicap nous arrêter », qui s’imagine que nous voulons marcher, voir ou être « normales » à tout prix. Être une super-estropiée ou une inspiration, mais jamais un être humain.

Je parle des petites, énormes façons quotidiennes dont nous rêvons de révolutions crips, de la façon que j’ai de me regarder dans le miroir, cheveux en désordre et mon vieux jogging et mes douleurs le cinquième jour d’une poussée majeure, et de dire : vous savez quoi, je ne vais pas me détester aujourd’hui. Et nos rêves de révolutions crips sont aussi dans nos manières de créer des refuges pour handicapées, des réseaux de parrainage pour handicapées, des façons d’aimer, de se battre et de s’organiser pour les handicapées que même les valides les plus talentueux·ses ne pourraient imaginer en un million d’années.

Et malgré toutes les manières dont nous sommes en enfer, nous sommes toujours en train de rêver. Alors que je vais à trois réunions du réseau de soutien par semaine pour des amies confrontées au cancer, à une chirurgie rénale et à des besoins continus en matière de handicap psy. Au moment où je prends, enfin, une profonde inspiration et demande l’aide dont j’ai le plus besoin à mes amies, et que je suis capable de le faire grâce au travail collectif effectué pour rendre l’acceptation de ce soutien sûr et possible. Alors que je commence à devenir l’artiste handicapéE d’âge moyen que j’avais peur de devenir, alors que j’arrête de prendre autant l’avion et que j’apprends à écrire et à parler et à partager mon travail sans voyager dans le Nebraska ou le Maine, dans une communauté d’autres écrivain‧es et artistes handicapé‧es qui ont trouvé une manière crip de produire et de vivre d’excellentes vies d’artistes handicapé·es.

Nous rêvons de brillantes réponses handies à la violence du changement climatique. Mask Oakland distribue 80 000 masques gratuits lors de l’urgence aérienne à grande échelle des incendies de forêt de l’automne 2018 en Californie. #PowerToBreathe, un réseau de douze organisations de justice pour les personnes handicapées, s’unit lors de l’incendie de Kincade de 2019 pour créer un réseau de « centres de survie » accessibles avec des générateurs et des purificateurs d’air pour et par les personnes handicapées qui s’organisent pour survivre aux coupures de courant potentiellement mortelles de de la compagnie électrique PG&E. Nous créons un espace culturel public de justice pour les personnes handicapées racisées, alors que Dustin Gibson, activiste noir basé à Pittsburgh, construit une collection dédiée à la justice handie dans une bibliothèque de quartier.

Quand UnitedHealthcare assassine la militante et avocate handiqueer latinx fèm grosse Carrie Ann Lucas en refusant de lui rembourser un antibiotique à 2000$, nos peurs, nos deuils et nos rages conduisent le Health Justice Commons à établir la toute première ligne d’assistance téléphonique contre les abus médicaux. Les travailleureuses du sexe handicapé·es, les migrant·es handicapé·es, les prisonnier·s handicapé‧es, les personnes handicapées qui sont en invalidité ou utilisent Medicaid se sont auto-organisé·es pour survivre face à Trump – et sont la raison pour laquelle Medicaid et l’ACA ont tenu bon tandis la règle de la « charge publique » de Trump n’a pas été adoptée1.

De nouveaux collectifs de justice handie se multiplient partout, du Disability Justice Network of Ontario à Detroit Disability Power et à Fat Rose. Mon adelphe, læ militant·e queer coréen·ne Stacey Milbern, a acheté et rendu accessible sa maison à East Oakland – le Disability Justice Culture Club – avec les 30’000$ qu’elle reçoit, tous les mois, en petits montant de vingt dollars envoyés des quatre coins de la planète par la communauté handie. Et deux cent personnes handies, grosses et vieilles brandissent des pancartes qui disent irremplaçable et #PersonneN’estJetable aux manifestations de Crips and Fatties Close the Camps [Les estropié·es et les gros·ses ferment les camps] en face des bureaux de la police aux frontière de San Francisco – un aperçu d’un mois de manifestations quotidiennes en août 2019 contre les camps de concentration formés par les services d’immigration aux ordres de Trump, manifestations menées par des personnes grosses et handicapées qui créent des liens entre d’un côté, nos expériences de l’enfermement dans les institutions psy, les maisons de retraites et les hospices, et de l’autre celles des immigrant·es (y compris les immigrant·es handicapé·es) qui sont enfermé·es.

J’écris tout cela pour me rappeler et pour nous rappeler. Même et surtout quand nous sommes terrifiées au point d’être immobilisées, nous continuons à rêver collectivement des futurs de justice handie et à les rendre possibles.

Se souvenir du passé pour rêver le futur : nous nous sommes toujours trouvé·es les un·es les autres

« Tu connais, toi, ce genre de personne handicapée qui veut juste être là pour les autres personnes handicapées, qui ne demande aucune reconnaissance, qui veut juste faire ce qu’il faut ? », me dit mon ami Lenny au téléphone. Bien sûr, je connais. Je ne lui dis pas, mais il a justement toujours été ce genre de personne pour moi.

À l’époque à Toronto, nous étions les deux seules maisons avec des rampes d’accès faites-mains du quartier. Avec le triomphe de la gentrification dans les quartiers ouest de Toronto, nous vivions au milieu de gens pauvres et de maisons aux porches à moitié déglingués. Des années avant le mouvement pour la justice handie qu’on connaît aujourd’hui, sa maison était un lieu où les gens pauvres, les personnes multiraciales, queer et handicapées, pouvaient venir traîner, se soutenir, faire de plans et rire ensemble. Pendant des années, il tenait des « dîners du vendredi soir » où n’importe qui pouvait venir manger. Il me disait toujours à quel point il était important pour lui de centrer le travail sur les estropié·es les moins populaires : celleux qui tiraient la gueule, qui étaient en colère, les « difficiles », les tellement cinglé·es que même les autres Fols s’éloignaient en disant que c’était « vraiment trop ». Parce que le validisme nous tue en nous isolant les unes des autres, il voulait que les gens qui ont le moins de communauté puissent se sentir quelque part à la maison.

Quelques semaines avant cet appel, je donnais un atelier sur les « réseaux de soin (care webs) » dans un centre communautaire local tenu par des personnes queer et trans racisées : comment créer des réseaux d’entraide en tant que personnes handicapées, comment bien recevoir et comment bien offrir du soin. La première moitié de l’atelier s’était bien passée ; j’avais beaucoup parlé du travail de soin non-payé que de nombreuses personnes réalisent, de la difficulté qu’il y a à demander du soin quand on est une personne racisée malade et handicapée en raison de toutes les fois où l’on est forcé de faire ce travail gratuitement, et où l’on est puni·es pour en avoir besoin. Toutes ces manières qui ne cessent de nous rappeler que les bonnes filles, et mêmes les enfants queer, sont celles qui restent pour aider. Toutes ces peurs d’être un fardeau.

Mais les choses se sont corsées quand j’ai commencé à demander : « Ok, maintenant, pensez à un besoin que vous avez, et prenez un temps pour réfléchir à ce qu’il faudrait pour que ce besoin soit bien satisfait ! » Les gens ont répété plusieurs fois : « Pardon, est-ce que tu pourrais réexpliquer la question ? » La température dans la salle est descendue de dix degrés. En bonne facilitatrice, j’ai dit : « Hé, je commence à remarquer une tension, est-ce que quelqu’un veut en parler ? » Et c’était bien le cas. Iels m’en voulaient parce qu’iels avaient l’impression que je leur racontais des contes de fée à propos d’une chose qui ne leur arriverait jamais : recevoir de l’attention. Certain·es d’entre elleux dirent qu’iels n’y croyaient pas : les personnes ne recevraient jamais l’attention appropriée. Quand je leur ai demandé de penser à une chose dont iels avaient besoin et sous quelles conditions ce besoin pourrait recevoir le soin adéquat, une personne a répondu, dégoûtée, « Je comprends pas pourquoi je devrais m’embêter à lister ce dont j’ai besoin – y a pas moyen que je reçoive quoi que ce soit sans qu’on abuse de moi. »

Face à ce cercle de gens tristes, traumatisés et en colère, j’ai ressenti beaucoup de choses. Je me sentais salement triste. Je me sentais stupide. Du genre, comment avais-je pu ne pas me rappeler, en préparant l’atelier, que tant de personnes handicapées et malades n’avaient jamais reçue de soin sans être traitées comme de la merde ? Et une partie de moi aussi était incrédule, frustrée et énervée. À l’intérieur, je me disais : Allez, personne ne t’a jamais donné de cigarette quand tu faisais la queue au bureau des bons alimentaires, personne ne t’a jamais apporté de plats à emporter quand tu étais malade ? Si moi j’ai déjà donné à plus pauvre que moi, vous aussi, non, arrêtez l’embrouille !

Mais je comprends. Au cours des quinze dernières années, depuis que l’expression « justice handie » [disability justice] a été inventée par un petit groupe de personnes handicapées intersectionnelles et radicales, nous avons fait tellement de choses : nous nous sommes retrouvé‧es et nous avons changé le monde. Nous avons fait en sorte qu’il y ait un mouvement des personnes handicapées qui ne soit ni blanc, ni masculin, ni cis. Un mouvement handi où l’on a enfin pu commencer à parler non seulement des meurtres policiers de personnes handicapées noires et racisées, mais aussi des olympiades de la désirabilité validiste qui s’imposent à la communauté queer trans racisée. Nous avons créé des communautés handies et des manières profondes de prospérer. Alors évidemment, je peux l’imaginer ! J’ai eu tellement d’exemples de réseaux de soins handis, imparfaits et beaux. J’ai une décennie de discussions archivées et animées de Sick and Disabled Queers (SDQ) sur mon ordinateur, des souvenirs des moments où nous avons collecté des fonds pour offrir à mon ami Dorian une camionnette accessible en fauteuil roulant que nous voulions également être un accès communautaire à du transport à la demande ou quand les gens envoient des pilules à de parfaits inconnus qui en manquaient. Le tout passant sous le radar valide, le tout sans financement extérieur, intégralement payé par nous. Et bien plus que les collectes de fonds et les collectifs de soins : la façon dont nous avons passé du temps ensemble sans essayer de nous « réparer » ; et comment nous sommes allé‧es rendre visite à des amis dans des maisons de retraite, et comment nous avons joué à des jeux de société, créant des amitiés et des socialisations communautaires où le handicap était au centre. On s’est mutuellement sauvé la vie. Et pourtant, si vous n’étiez pas là au bon moment en 2013 sur SDQ, ce monde-là vous est peut-être invisible, parce que vous n’avez pas pu nous retrouver.

En tant que personnes handicapées, nous sommes à la fois hyper visibles et invisibles. Simultanément dévisagé·es et invisibilisé‧es, notre travail et nos vies sont effacées. Je pense qu’une partie de notre plus grand pouvoir réside dans ce qu’un ami appelle « l’obscurité révolutionnaire ». Nous nous organisons d’une manière inconnue des personnes valides, pour passer sous leur radar. On ne rejoint pas le mouvement pour la justice handie en payant une cotisation à une organisation nationale de justice handie. La justice handie existe partout où deux personnes handicapées se rencontrent à une table de cuisine, sur des bouillottes dans leur lit, discutant de nos amours. N’importe qui peut faire partie de la justice handie s’iel s’organise à partir de ses propres cuillères, de son propre corps et de son esprit, et de sa propre perception des besoins de sa communauté.

Les fondations commencent à comprendre que la « justice handie » est le nouveau truc sexy à financer. Même si l’argent pourrait bien nous être utile, on sait ce que ça fait habituellement aux mouvements. Nous savons que le complexe industriel de la charité a une longue et riche histoire histoire d’investir dans des mouvements puis de les déstabiliser et de les déradicaliser. Dressant les groupes les uns contre les autres, donnant souvent de l’argent aux plus blancs et à celleux qui ont la peau la moins foncée, à ceux qui ont le plus de diplômes et payent leurs impôts. L’argent est tellement compliqué, et pas compliqué du tout, mais tentant. Nous nous creusons la tête en essayant de comprendre comment et quel type prendre. Je ne pense pas qu’il y ait une seule bonne réponse, ni que l’argent soit même le plus risqué pour nous – mais la tension que nous pourrions ressentir à mesure que le Justice handie grandit et que les gens qui ne sont pas nous pensent qu’il est important de s’éloigner d’un mouvement bancal entièrement horizontal d’anonymes où n’importe qui peut avoir une idée, n’importe qui peut diriger, ce que nous avons été, vers un endroit où seuls les estropié·es avec les diplômes et les mots qui ont un sens pour celleux pouvoir sont adoubées comme des stars.

Je crois fermement, comme j’y croyais dans mes années de jeunesse à étudier les techniques de guérilla radicale, que notre pouvoir est plus fort lorsque nous employons une diversité de tactiques selon nos propres conditions – des tactiques qui nous renforcent, qui frappent là où l’ennemi est faible ou faillible. Nous faisons de notre mieux lorsque nous nous battons pour gagner selon nos propres conditions de personnes handies. Pas de compromis. Créez quelque chose de handi et de merveilleux.

Quand j’ai peur de tout perdre, je me rappelle qu’avant même de disposer d’un nom pour nous dire, nous arrivions déjà à nous trouver les un·es les autres. Dans la maison de Lenny, sur les porches de nos maisons avec leurs rampes d’accès bricolées. Et dans les maisons de retraite, dans les prisons, dans les hôpitaux psy, et oui, dans les camps. Je sais que aussi terribles que puissent être les circonstances, nous continuerons à nous trouver les un·es les autres. Nous l’avons toujours fait. Nous nous retrouverons, que nous soyons exalté·es comme le dernier parfum à la mode ou ciblé·es pour être éliminé·es, ou les deux.

Propagations indociles

Je parle depuis le début de l’indocilité des rêves handis, alors voici quelques rêves handis pour les temps qui viennent :

À mesure que grandissent nos réseaux, les personnes qui les composent, les collectifs et les groupes culturels dans lesquels ils s’organisent, pouvons-nous imaginer des formes de communication entre nous ? Pouvons-nous développer des principes pour nos actions et nos solidarités là où le complexe industriel caritatif et les systèmes de pouvoir essayent de nous mettre en compétition ? Pouvons-nous nous préparer à affronter les luttes de pouvoir et les dégâts qui, inévitablement, en résultent ?

Les personnes handies radicales – en particulier les personnes handies noires, autochtones, racisées, queer et trans – vont continuer à écrire, à créer, à faire de l’art. Quelles structures voulons-nous créer pour construire les unes avec les autres ?

Les réseaux sociaux nous ont donné un outil important pour nous connecter les unes aux autres et en finir avec l’isolation des dernières décennies, mais Facebook, Instagram et la plupart des réseaux sociaux étouffent et censurent secrètement nos paroles au point d’empêcher un certain nombre d’entre nous de publier leurs idées, ou de voir leurs idées relayées. Et si nous créions nos propres réseaux sociaux de communication ?

La vieille garde des luttes pour les droits handis est en colère contre les militant·es pour la justice handie parce que nous avons réussi à convaincre davantage de genxtes à se dire handicapées, parce que nous ne sommes pas racistes et parce que nous ne concentrons pas seulement sur le travail de réforme. Nous nous dédions à la construction de maisons, à la construction d’un million de petits groupes plus bizarres les uns que les autres et d’actions et de projets et de hashtag sur Instagram et de médias et d’histoires et de partages de rampe d’accès et de boîtes à outil prêtes à l’emploi pour des bibliothèques et de projets d’habitats partagés et de pratiques de sexe collectives. Alors que se passerait-il si nous prenions la direction de Centres pour la vie en autonomie ou de programmes en Études Handies ? Et si nous faisions quelque chose de complètement nouveau ? Et si nous créions des Centres pour la vie en interdépendance plutôt qu’en autonomie ?

D’ici vingt-cinq ans, les personnes noires, indigènes et racisées constitueront la majorité des personnes vivant aux États-Unis, et l’une des grandes victoires du mouvement pour la justice handie est d’avoir fait en sorte que moins en moins de jeunes personnes racisées ont peur du handicap – de plus en plus d’entre elleux s’en revendiquent, ou l’intègrent à leurs activismes. Que faire de ce potentiel ?

Poussées à quitter les villes côtières par les forces croisées de l’hypergentrification et de la montée des eaux, quelles nouvelles maisons et communautés handies pourrons-nous construire dans ces banlieues et ces terrains vagues de l’exode ? Quels foyers crip construirons-nous sur les îles que deviendront la Floride dans les zones industrielles désaffectées, dans les réserves autochtones ? Que se passerait-il si nous crippions le Green New Deal ? Que se passerait-il si les infrastructures vertes qu’on nous promet adoptait, dès leur point de départ, les principes de justice handie ?

Nous luttons pour maintenir la sécurité sociale tout en sachant que les structures de soin payant telles qu’elles existent ne payent pas suffisamment les soignant·es, et restent trop souvent difficiles d’accès ; nous faisons éclore des structures de soin collectif mais nous savons que pour nombre d’entre nous, elles ne sont pas accessibles, notamment parce que nous aimerions que ce ne soit pas nos ami·e·s qui nous torchent les fesses, ou parce que nous n’avons pas le capital social/amical qui le permettrait, ou parce que nous savons que prendre soin continuellement épuise. Et nous nous demandons : quels sont nos rêves de réseaux d’entraide collective, d’une société où le soin gratuit, juste, accessible, est un droit humain pour toustes ? Et si nous pouvions créer un système d’entraide et de soin à l’échelle de la société fondé sur les principes de justice handie ? Je pense à quelque chose comme la société des Dépossédés de Ursula K. Le Guin où une lune anarcho-syndicaliste est dotée de logements, de travail et d’entrepôts remplis des biens nécessaires pour toustes. Et si tout le monde avait accès à ce genre de soin ? Et si le droit au soin et à l’accès se trouvait inscrit dans toutes les constitutions ? Et si des Réformes du Soin étaient implantées biorégionalement, en lien avec les autochtones qui vivent dans chaque ville, chaque localité ?

Dans son appel à financer sa maison, Stacey Milbern avait écrit « les rêves de justice handie m’ont portée jusqu’ici, et je continuerai à m’appuyer sur eux. » Il n’est pas exclu que d’ici cinq ou cinquante ans, nous soyons toustes mortes, étouffées par les airs viciés des incendies provoqués par le changement climatique. Mais je sais que nous avons déjà persévéré et survécu face à l’adversité. Et je sais cela aussi :

Nous avons ce que nous avons toujours eu, et davantage encore.

Nous savons vivre nos deuils, prier

persister

trouver la résistance dans les plus petits espaces

nous retrouver les unes autres et créer des foyers

nous allonger au milieu de la rue et, animées par le deuil et par la rage, bloquer la circulation

déployer des trésors d’imagination crip

faire des trucs que tout le monde pense impossibles

inventer des gestes indociles et inattendus, qui passent sous les radars et nous permettent de continuer.

1 NdT : L’Affordable Care Act ou « Loi sur la Protection des Patients et les Soins Abordables », surnommée Obamacare, est une législation de 2010 qui, aux États-Unis, édicte l’interdiction pour les assurances de refuser d’exercer des discriminations du fait de maladies ou handicaps. La règle de la « charge publique » permet, sous l’administration Trump, à un État des États-Unis, de refuser un visa à une personne du fait de son handicap/sa maladie faisant d’elle une « charge » pour la collectivité.

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

#disability justice #disability #intersectionality #Leah Lackshmi #criptheory #disabilitystudies

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