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(hier auch auf Deutsch)
Last year in winter, my dear friend M. and I signed up for a capoeira class. Obviously, I was pretty traumatized by the experience, and the only way to cope with this (physical and psychological) trauma was to write it all down. I’d like to publish these notes here today as a warning to everybody, who might get the same crazy idea. This is the second part of my story. If you want to know how it all began, see here

Feb. 14

News from the World of Pain:
Just walked home – at first pretty confidently, then rather with the help of fences, trees and innocent passerby – from my “capoeira fun”. I so didn’t want to go today! My dear friend M. stood me up again. The thought alone that I have to face this big violent animal named capoeira by myself made me so desperate, that I tried offering my colleagues money to go with me (after bagging and sending animated crying smilies on chat didn’t help). But they of course already knew what the deal here was, and “one million dollars” or “a Ferrari” were out of my price range.
So I dragged myself to the class, out of stubbornness of my spirit, against the laziness of my body, without any hope for anything except pain (and also because I already had my bag packed with me). I can’t believe what I’m saying, but it was… fun! It was also lots of lots of pain, but that’s nothing new. We had a female instructor today. But because she didn’t have extra 5 kg of muscles on each arm, like that instructor dude in the previous sessions, the exercises were also doable for the people, who have these extra 5 kg of definitely not muscles distributed somewhere else on their bodies. I can even do a twist punch now, which apparently is a capoeira-only thing. So now whoever messes with me will definitely get a demonstration.
However, there was one dark cloud on my otherwise so clear capoeira sky today. I noticed straight away that I was the only person out of 30 people, who was wearing black pants and a dark t-shirt, looking pretty “afrocapoerian”. All others were wearing either these special white capoeira pants or were dressed much “whiter” than me.
I didn’t care at first, especially because my black pants looked much nicer than the white ones. But later the instructor, who’ve met me like three times already and was also conducting the exercises for the beginners last week asked whether it was the first time I was there. It did hurt my feelings that he didn’t remember my so special and so completely self-invented capoeira style (which I gently call “dance of a wounded hippo”). But the worst of all was the fact that he asked only me – and if I think about it, every instructor does every time – although compared to some other people around I could easily pass as a butterfly of the capoeira universe. Their outfits were all of light colors though.
So as you can see racism already invaded capoeira. Now I don’t have any other choice than to buy the same white pants, if I don’t want to stay a “colored minority” forever. It is like in the real life: you have to give up a part of your identity to belong to and be accepted by a society, a group, a pack. Well, it’s fine by me if it’s only the pants. But there is no chance I’m going to sing those capoeira songs, that’s for sure, pack or no pack. I have my principles, you know.
Unfortunately, this was the end of my capoeira adventures. My dear friend M. broke her leg, and I was not able to endure these South American tortures by myself for any longer. What is the point of “suffering”, when there is nobody watching? Now I only do triathlon: Doughnuts-Pizza-Häagen Dazs.

The End.