Tag Archives: Authenticity

The quality of being genuine, transparent, and true to oneself in actions and communication.

#33 Do we remember with honesty?

1 Reply

Listen to this post

The shape of memory

As we advance through life and its various phases, we evolve into something entirely different from what we initially were. Without acknowledging that change, we often forget what we used to be like as children. It’s difficult, though, to look back at our past objectively—we tend to use those memories to justify who we are today, rather than seeing them simply as integral parts of our journey.

Personally, I fluctuate between different emotional states when thinking about my past. Some memories I enjoy indulging in; others, I’d rather forget. However, when I think about the child I used to be—rather than specific events—everything becomes softer, more comfortable. I don’t mind stepping into that skin again. I still find myself in that child’s essence—not in their behaviors, but in their core, which remains a familiar and safe place.

Chaos, imagination, belonging

Until I was about seven, growing up in the high-crime Salvador of the 90s with a single mom, I spent most of my time confined within our residential building.

Aside from sporadic visits to my cousins or my mom’s friends’ kids, my daily social life revolved around that building. With only three children, including me, it was hardly a playground. The other two were brothers, so I wasn’t really part of their dynamic. In other words, I didn’t have much of a social life outside of school, weekends, and holidays.

After doing my homework, I would go kick a ball against the wall in the building’s garage—an underground block of cement with no trees and only a sliver of sunlight for a few hours a day. I had no dreams of becoming a Bebeto or Romário like the other kids. Hitting the ball against the wall just helped me release some stress, I suppose. On the few occasions I left the building for groceries, I got robbed. Once, I was even assaulted at knifepoint and returned home shirtless, stripped of a brand-new baseball cap I had received for Christmas. It may sound traumatic, but back then, everyone I knew had a similar story—whether kids or adults. Robbery was a disturbingly normalized part of our society.

Despite the repetitive, limited, and at times dangerous routine, I remember being a happy kid. I was alone most of the time, but I didn’t mind. I don’t recall ever begging my mom to take me to see people—maybe I did, I’m not sure. What I do remember is asking to go see a movie, buy a comic book, a toy, or a new set of colored pencils. I was really good at entertaining myself with drawing and reading. I also had strange little habits that excited me beyond reason—like memorizing the names of the cars parked outside our gate, which I would stare at for hours from our window while waiting for my mom to return from work. I guess boredom forced me to invent ways to stay entertained.

Whenever I did meet my cousins, I tried to make the most of it—even if that meant doing unusual or dangerous things. I had a constant urge to compensate for the apathy of my day-to-day life. I frequently joined street fights, often ending up beaten, as I tended to challenge older, bigger kids to heighten the adrenaline rush I craved. I would jump off cliffs, swim in stormy oceans, explore abandoned caves and cemeteries, break into buildings or stores just to steal something random. When caught, I’d deny everything with the most bizarre, creative lies imaginable.

Daring and breaking the rules meant being alive. It was my way of affirming that I existed. That need was likely unconscious at the time, but I can’t justify it any other way now.

I have to admit—I loved inventing stories, even if it drove my mom mad. I was always around when crazy things happened, partly because I had a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time, and partly because I was always nosing into other people’s business to compensate for the dullness of my life. I collected wild anecdotes and shared them with others, but I couldn’t help spicing them up. I’d exaggerate just enough to make the stories unbelievable—but I’d tell them with such enthusiasm that people began to believe them.

Once, while playing my car-memorization game, I saw a car crash right in front of our building. It was bad. The woman in the back seat of one of the cars lost consciousness and never woke up. The driver stumbled out, blood covering his face, shouting random nonsense. When my mom got home, I told her a kid had been catapulted from the car (there were no children involved), and that the driver had lost an arm and was screaming in a foreign language.

It’s hard to explain how often bizarre things happened around me. My cousin once threw a rock at a beehive and nearly died from the stings. I saw a girl drown in a stormy ocean. A friend broke his jaw and lost most of his teeth in a skating accident. I saw a gang fight. A gang member once let us hold his gun. And so on. Eventually, I began normalizing—and even seeking out—chaotic experiences. It’s no surprise my favorite movie genre was horror, which, I’m sure, made my mom question my mental health from time to time, though she often found it funny.

A different reality

What I sometimes observe is that my childhood gave me a constant state of alertness that still follows me, even after being “Europeanised”—used to a much less abnormal routine. I still double-check dark corners before walking through them, take wide turns, and instinctively keep my distance when a stranger approaches out of nowhere. The sound of fireworks? My first thought is gunfire.

By the time we moved to Italy, my childhood had already taken some wild twists. I had spent a year and a half living with my aunt and uncle, and their building was a treasure trove of experiences—a wonderland of children hungry for adventure. I bonded with them and collected a new set of PG-13, not-so-recommendable experiences. When I arrived in Italy, I was reactive, restless, troublemaking, and unreliable. My background didn’t match European standards—especially not those of the small town I ended up in. The integration process, both inside and outside my family, was difficult. I’ve talked about this in previous posts, and the re-education process was anything but easy. But that’s a story to dive in again another time.

There are parts of ourselves we hide to fit into the world. That’s a pity. When we’re in touch with who we really are, we know what we want and how to live in alignment with our core. Otherwise, we end up living someone else’s life. And that makes a huge difference. We are all a mixture of light and darkness, good and evil, boredom and excitement—whatever those words evoke in us. We do need to coexist with others, but before that, we need to exist in peace with ourselves and accept who we truly are.

#23 A cross-cultural journey leading to authenticity

Leave a reply

I recently had a conversation with a German friend that brought up an interesting topic highlighting cultural differences and perspectives.
We started talking about ethics in customer service and sales, then expanded the conversation to the importance of being authentic and honest. From his point of view and upbringing, being one’s true self and saying what one thinks is essential and non-negotiable. Today, I agree with him 100% on this viewpoint, but back then, I was caught up in the mechanisms of the main cultures I was exposed to as a child and adolescent. I probably wouldn’t have even been able to acknowledge its importance.

We were drinking tea, and he picked up a mug to make a point:
“In Germany, I would sell this (the mug) to you by saying, ‘You can drink from it.’ Maybe I would additionally mention the quality of the material, but that’s it.”

Yes, I thought, that aligns with my experience with Germans—a very essential, functional, and honest approach. That’s one of the main reasons I like living here: I don’t lose sleep trying to interpret the hidden meanings of something someone told me the day before. They say what they think and think what they say, most of the time.

“In Italy and Brazil, that wouldn’t work,” I replied. “Marketing is a powerful component in selling any product, and you need to deliver a story that touches the heart to catch someone’s attention.”

That’s not exactly what I said; I’m paraphrasing a little. We were speaking in German, so I probably said something even more basic, but that’s what I was trying to communicate. However, as I wrote this paraphrased version, I noticed the issue again in the words “to catch someone’s attention.”

From my experience, in Latin America and Mediterranean countries, emotions and feelings are deeply embedded in communication. Some might perceive this as dramatic, while others might call it passionate. The challenge, however, is that one can easily get carried away by emotions and stories. Trying to convince an audience—or simply “to catch their attention”—by leveraging emotions is a tricky endeavor. It can often blur into manipulation, where pleasing others, telling white lies, or navigating situations through embellished stories (whether true or not) becomes a common practice.

This approach often shifts the focus toward meeting the expectations of others rather than adhering to the values that are meaningful to oneself. As a result, it sometimes feels like everyone is playing a role rather than being their authentic selves. And yet, I recognize that these are cultural traits of the societies and communities I’ve been exposed to. Of course, there are ways to develop ethical practices within these cultural frameworks, but I’d argue that it’s challenging to stay authentic—or, to put it less abstractly, to remain connected to one’s core and true self.

The greater danger is that, in constantly trying to meet others’ expectations, we risk losing touch with our own needs. Personally, I feel I’ve grown closer to understanding my own needs in the five years I’ve lived in Germany than in the thirty-three years I lived elsewhere. Perhaps this is simply part of my natural maturation process, unrelated to the cultural environment—one can never be entirely certain. Still, I believe living here has significantly influenced this journey.

I say all this without resentment or regret about my past or roots—or at least, I hope that’s true.

To close, I hope I haven’t hurt anyone’s feelings with this anecdotal and spontaneous reflection. I realize cultural differences are a slippery slope and are often prone to stereotyping. If I’ve fallen into that trap, I apologize in advance.