Sao Paulo, Brazil

Excerpt from A Life of Color: The Autobiography of Pedro Souza

It’s impossible to recount my early life without mentioning A Tempestade. This event that defined the lives of so many worldwide, and influenced countless significant events for years to come, played an important part in my early life. For many of us, our lives can be divided into antes and depois – before and after.

At the time, my family was living in the favela of Heliopolis. On the morning of A Tempestade, life carried on as usual, with a vibrant energy pulsating through the narrow streets. The other children and I played futebol with a makeshift ball, our laughter echoing off the tightly packed houses of the favela. Street vendors shouted their goods, music blared from open windows, and a strong sense of community prevailed. At least, that’s how I always remember the neighborhood.

There was much to despise about growing up in the favelas – the crime, the drugs, the feeling of entrapment, and the hatred that radiated off the wealthier residents living just half a kilometer away who all wished we would just disappear. But there was also community. Despite the challenges – and there were many – there were still smiles, joy, and happiness.

It was noon when A Tempestade hit. I remember the sun beating down on the corrugated rooftops. It wasn’t unusual for the sky to darken suddenly; storms were common, and we were all used to sudden unannounced downpours. But there was something different that day, and those of us playing futebol were the first to notice it.

“Olha! Look!” I shouted to the others, pointing excitedly to the sky.

Instead of the expected rain, tiny glistening bubbles began to fall. They were not the usual, transparent, rainbow-hued bubbles we’ve all seen in the past. Instead, they were solid and came in an array of colors – a cacophony of reds, blues, greens, oranges, and purples – floating gently to the ground. They shimmered in the sunlight, and before long, we were all watching the artistic storm that had struck our tiny section of the world.

Our eyes widened with wonder as the bubbles descended. When they popped against the ground or our outstretched hands, they stained everything with their vibrant colors.

“Bolinhas de sabão!” Maria, my younger sister, shouted in joy. I watched as she ran around the field, trying to catch the delicate orbs. The other kids quickly joined in, their giggles filling the air as we all chased the bubbles through the labyrinthine streets of Heliopolis.

As more bubbles fell and we continued to shout in happiness and joy, adults paused their daily routines and joined us. Our neighbor, Dona Rosa, who had been hanging laundry, came to the window to see what was happening. I can still remember her staring at the sky, her face agog. She shouted to her husband, “Jorge, venha ver isso! Come see this!”

Soon, everywhere I looked was abuzz with excitement. People stepped out from their homes, craning their necks upward to watch the spectacle. The bubbles were everywhere, drifting lazily through the air, unleashing a myriad of colors on the poorest of Sao Paula, as if trying to brighten our lives. It was as if the sky itself decided to play a whimsical game with us.

Astounded by the beauty, the adults couldn’t resist joining in. Grown men and women, who normally bore their struggles with stoic faces, were now laughing and playing like children. It was a sight I doubt I’ll ever forget. They caught bubbles on their fingertips, blew them gently to watch them float away, and danced through the streets, reveling in the unexpected joy.

Everyone was soon stained with a rainbow of colors. Our hair was transformed into a mixture of purples and greens. The streets were dyed blue, orange, and red. The walls of the ramshackle buildings were covered in a multi-colored hue, revealing the natural beauty of our world.

Even the toughest in the neighborhood couldn’t help but marvel at the rain. Groups of teenagers, who usually roamed the streets with an air of indifference and whom my mother always told me to avoid, were now laughing and popping bubbles with the younger children. Mothers carried their babies outside to see the spectacle, the infants reaching out with chubby hands to grasp the beautiful spheres.

Over the course of half an hour, A Tempestade transformed the favela into a place of pure enchantment. For a few precious moments, the troubles of daily life were forgotten, replaced by a sense of wonder and community. Even when the bubbles began to dissipate and people slowly returned to their homes, they found their hearts lighter, and their spirits lifted.

If you want to understand the beginnings of my story, to comprehend why I did what I have done and how I struggled to change Brazil, you don’t need to look much further than that day.

Huettar, Idaho

Ezekial Sanz hated almost everything and everyone.

He hated the government for getting involved in his affairs and trying to tell him what he could and couldn’t do with his own land. If he wanted to build a house, why would he need to file dozens of forms with someone hundreds of miles away to get approval? If he wanted to dig a well, why would he need the permission of local authorities?

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He hated the voters of his state and his country for continuously falling for the honeyed lies of politicians and electing stupid and immoral people. Nothing a politician ever said was true. But people kept buying the bumper stickers and shouting the slogans and rooting for their team and electing the dumbest assholes around. Anyone arrogant enough to believe they should be making decisions for over 300 million Americans was too arrogant to be allowed to make decisions for over 300 million Americans.

He hated the talking heads on TV who manufactured crises, built rage and anger with meaningless issues, and ignored all the stories that actually mattered. He hated the troll political leaders, the ‘debate show hosts’ who argued contrarian and hypocritical opinions, and the rest of the people who cluttered up his television set whose sole aim was to create fear in their audience and keep them watching.

He hated the billionaires for seeking money and doing nothing with it except ‘keep score.’ He hated the investment bankers for ‘creating wealth’ out of thin air. He hated the insurance companies who profited off the pain and suffering of millions.

He hated the landlords who contributed nothing to society and benefited off the work of others. He hated the people who committed violence to make themselves feel big. He hated the racists and sexists and the bigots who lorded their beliefs over others. Why did it matter if a person was white or black, Asian or Hispanic, male or female or transgender? Everyone was equally disappointing, regardless of any superficial characteristics.

He hated the 8th season of Game of Thrones for ruining a franchise. He hated Gamefreak for putting out the same Pokemon game every single generation. He hated Zack Snyder for ruining the DCU. He hated Disney for not developing a concrete story for the Star Wars sequels and instead relying on a ‘mystery box’ style of storytelling that eventually created a convoluted mess. He hated how ‘Palpatine somehow returned.’

He hated people who called it ‘sports ball’ as a way to shit over the entertainment choices of others. He hated the people who would say ‘ahkctually’ whenever someone expressed an interest. He hated the people who despised others who had found a new piece of entertainment and, instead of welcoming them in, tried to bully them to leave. He hated the gatekeepers, the true believers, the assholes and bastards who permeated so many toxic fandoms.

He hated cats for not knowing how adorable they were and not understanding how much he loved them. He hated how they watched him scoop their poop out of a litter box with an almost smug expression on their face. He hated that he would never know the simple pleasure of falling asleep in a sunbeam.

He hated himself. He hated his name, given to him by his mother who swore that everyone had a purpose in this world and his would be of biblical proportions. He hated that she had stuck him with a stupid name and then left him to fend for himself.

He hated that his life was passing him by with nothing to show for it. He hated that his friends and family members, acquaintances and enemies, were all growing their careers, having children, seeing success in their lives, and he was sitting at home trying to retreat from the world he so hated.

But what most drew his ire today was the massive storm that had struck Idaho with no warning whatsoever, and the gigantic forest that had sprung up in his cornfields.

He hated that it was an eyesore. He hated that dealing with the sudden forest would dominate the rest of his day. He hated that the whole thing had ruined his early morning contemplations and that he’d be forced to navigate the forest instead of sitting back and watching the world pass him by.

Ezekial finished his cup of coffee and groaned as he stood up from his chair on the porch. He wandered back to his house to change, putting on jeans and a flannel shirt, shrugging on a pair of old work boots, and grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch.

He stepped back out onto the porch and stared at the dense, sprawling forest that had taken over acres of his farmland. The only silver lining was that it was mid-January and he had long since harvested all the corn. He refused to plant potatoes in his fields because he hated to continue the stereotype that all Idaho farmers grew potatoes. He gazed out at the forest, its sudden emergence so astonishing that, for a brief moment, Ezekial’s hatred turned to awe.

With a deep scowl, he grabbed a hatchet from his tool shed and trudged towards the newly established forest. His irritation mounted with each step as he crossed the tree line and plunged into the woods. After several minutes of hiking, he paused to get his bearings, realizing he had lost sight of his farmhouse. Disoriented, he leaned against a tree and noticed the oppressive humidity for the first time. The air was thick and sticky, so he slipped his jacket off. The sounds of birds and insects foreign to Idaho filled the air.

He turned to his left and right, searching where to go, until he found a small path through the forest. Following it for several hundred feet, he came across a fallen tree leaning against another, creating an arch over the path. He pushed at the tree, making sure it wouldn’t shift as he walked under it, then stepped through the archway.

Towering ferns, vibrant flowers, and the calls of exotic wildlife greeted him. He took a tentative step forward, the ground squelching beneath his boots.

“What the hell?” Ezekial muttered, looking around in bewilderment. Panic set in as he realized that none of his surroundings should exist. He was in the middle of his farm, not a rainforest. He turned back the way he had come, slipped under the tree archway, and chose a different path.

The massive trees lining the path began to thin out. The sunlight, once filtered through a thick canopy, became blinding. The underbrush grew less dense, and patches of open ground appeared, where grasses and a gentle breeze whispered through.

Eventually, the grass became more dominant, their tall stalks swaying in the breeze. Acacia trees began appearing, and soon enough, the forest gave way to a savannah. A vast sea of golden grass stretched out before Ezekial, shimmering under the sun.

A lone lion stretched out, basking in the sun. Ezekial hated how lions looked in nature documentaries, with flies clinging to them and their fur matted. He hated how they were called the King of the Jungle and yet they never lived in jungles and…he sprinted back in the direction he had come, through the plains of grass and into the forest. The lion had seen him, raised its head and sent a bolt of fear through Ezekial. Safely back in the forest, he shuddered out a breath and kept walking.

He continued his journey, moving through landscapes that defied explanations. There was a frozen tundra where the cold bit through his clothes, a serene meadow where wildflowers bloomed in riotous colors, a pampas grass field where the stalks rose to tickle his hands as he walked.

Eventually, Ezekial’s wandering led him to a woodland oasis. Exhausted, he sat on a moss-covered rock, staring up at the waterfall that poured its crystal-clear water into a pond filled with koi fish. He dipped his fingers in the water and thought about the events he’d just experienced.

He hated that nothing that had happened since he woke up this morning had made sense. He knew his farm didn’t have a woodland oasis, towering waterfalls, or koi-filled ponds. It didn’t lead to a savannah housing a hungry lion, or an icy mountain that threatened frostbite after mere moments. His mind raced as he tried to understand what was happening.

A flash of light from behind the waterfall caught Ezekial’s attention, forcing him to investigate. He spotted a tunnel behind the cascading water and ventured inside, following it for several hundred feet until it emerged onto an uninhabited island. As his feet sank into the sand, he gazed up at the cloudless blue sky and took a deep breath, nearly collapsing from the overwhelming stench.

He looked around and noticed it: a massive, beached whale lay rotting under the sun, its horrendous odor making Ezekial stumble and gag. After a few minutes to get his body under control, he managed to stand and breathe without vomiting, taking in the full scene before him.

An island, a colossal decaying whale, and sand that climbed into his boots and grated against his skin. Only one thought crossed his mind:

God, I hate the ocean.