I was still shell shocked over my parents split. After days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, I just knew he wasn’t coming back. I was still hopefully however when my mum knew all along my dad would never return to us. The pain I felt was so unbearable, I was also becoming unbearable to others as I was struggling to come to terms with my dad leaving us. I was shocked, then angry. Everything reminded me of him, the books I read, the TV shows I watched, the music we listened to. For me, life could never go back to normal. My dad was my world, he was the only one I would listen to, the only one who knew how to deal with me.

Even though in my mind we couldn’t go back to normal, life goes on. Returning to school was something I was now dreading. Everything was going so well, too well. I found myself back to square one. When I came to Switzerland, I couldn’t speak a word of French. After few awful years where I faced endless racism I had to endure, I could finally speak the language. However, this time, I just was still shocked and angry to speak, so I bottled everything inside and once again used my hands to express myself which got me into so much trouble. Only this time, I was worse than before. My anger was unstoppable like a tornado. I was horrible to my classmates, did unspeakable things like rip their report cards, stole from them, mock them, make them cry and many horrible things. I was a little viper full of venom.

My new teacher tried really hard with me, but I wasn’t listening nor wanted to. In the early times, my dad was my anchor, my number one person I’d go to when I had bad days. Back then, I had occasionally bad days, but since he left us, bad days were on a daily basis. Even the nuns tried to intervene. In fact everyone tried. I just wanted my dad. My mum, despite going through a hard time now as a single parent, she had to take the duty of being the mum and dad. I pushed her buttons but she was a constant figure in my life, even know. She knew me too well also and tried to reason with me. Sadly for her, I didn’t want to know.

One day, as my mum was talking to me, I kept ignoring her, flipping my hair over my shoulders as we were talking about all the troubles I was causing at school. I turned my back to her and flip my hair again, without saying a word, I made her understand I didn’t care about what her or anyone else thinks. This attitude would define me always. Without saying another word, my mum went to the kitchen and got a pair of scissors and cut all my hair short. I was shocked, outraged. How dared she? Well I asked for it. Well things didn’t improve, if anything, it fuelled my rage further. With short hair, I fitted so well with the boys, more than ever before. As I grew more violent and adopting my tomboy attitude further, the games we played with the boys were also getting more violent and worse.  Always blaming me, well I was an easy target and so out of control. Apparently, to make matters worse, my dad came to the school to try and see us. Thank God I didn’t know, otherwise it could have had a worse effect on me. Alas, my behaviour was getting worse by the minute, I just wasn’t listening to anyone. My teacher met with my mum as a matter of urgency and admitted to her an intervention was needed. At first, my mum explained I was still recovering my father’s departure. My new teacher was adamant she did all she could and I was disruptive to others in class and out of class for this matter.

My mum, despite all her efforts agreed something needs to be done regarding my out of control behaviour.

Life was great at that point in my life; I finally had some friends at school, and school was going great too with a laid back teacher who liked me the way I was. I was even looking forward for the next school year, as time flew by so quickly.

Despite the turn around at school, I could sense loads of tension between my parents. My parents both worked so much still. Our frequent gatherings were less frequent. That didn’t stop my dad going out. He has always enjoyed going out. But now it became more frequent. My dad enjoyed his drinks too which didn’t help the matter. The problem was Switzerland is not cheap like Portugal. He did the same in Portugal, the difference was in Portugal he had a great job who paid well and going out was affordable. In Switzerland, his job paid the minimum wage and life was very expensive. Sadly for us also, my dad was always known to be a playboy. Even though he made so much effort with us, words got out he was playing away again. My mother and father would argue more often and she would tell him off for his behaviour and forgiving him always for love or for keeping the family together. Sadly, my father’s behaviour didn’t change. In fact it got worse.

I recall while we lived in Portugal, my dad cheekily said as he was getting ready to go out, I would go with him. I was so excited, buzzing around like a bee to get ready. I was teasing my mum that while she would stay home, I would be going out with my father. I was only 3 and was easily gullible. My father and I had such a strong bond, I loved him wholeheartedly , he return the same love, probably even more. I was so attached to him.

He’s had another child before me, but he stayed with my mum the longest than any relationship’s he’s had before or after my mum. My dad sometimes knew how much I adored him so much, I’d follow him to the end. I was a version of him and we are so alike; stubborn, determined, we’d overdo things and get carried away, when we liked something we’d like it times 10, when we don’t like someone or something we’d hate it times 10. We were two peas in a pod. My mum also named me after my paternal grandmother Dona Joana as she was known (my second name being Joana) which cemented our bond further. So as I was looking through my clothes, my dad finished getting ready and was already on his way out. He didn’t anticipated me believing I was going out with him. My mum told me repeatedly  how I wouldn’t go out, and she urged my dad to tell me too. My dad confirmed to me he was just joking. It was so funny how I wouldn’t believe or listen to my mum, but only my dad. Reality struck me like a truck that I wasn’t going out after all. As he left, my eyes followed him and I just stood there as if I was glued on the spot. I cried hysterically, and couldn’t stop. I literally cried myself to sleep as my dad left me. The feeling was of abandonment and rejection.

• 

My love for my dad was so unconditional and so deep. I loved him more than life itself. I remember the look we had when we’d go out in the street people would look at us; a white dad and a coloured daughter. When I smiled, I resembled him immediately. We were partners in crimes like Bonnie & Clyde, together until the end. My parents’ relationship survived many storm that came their way. Even racism they faced from both side didn’t tear them apart; my dad faced racism from my mother’s side of the family and my mum faced racism from my dad’s side of the family. I felt stuck in the middle being mixed raced, I couldn’t choose a side. Never could and never will.

Despite all they faced, tension has been building for a while now. My dad was still unhappy in Switzerland, I believe he just needed a distraction which explained why he was going out so much. The atmosphere at home wasn’t warm anymore, you could sense that the atmosphere at home was as cold as ice. My mum was constantly telling my dad off for his antics; it felt like my dad was an extra child. This tension was going on forever until my mum couldn’t take it any longer. It all started when my dad’s spending went through the roof. Switzerland is still an expensive country. His drinking habit and going out habit wasn’t slowing down leading him to spend all his pay checks on his lifestyle, leaving my mum to pay everything herself. From going out each weekend, he started to go out each day as he was less and less present at home. I always wondered how he managed to go to work after going out? So when he didn’t have money left to finance his nights out, he dipped in the savings, and the savings he dipped into was the money my mum received each month from the government for me and my sister. When she discovered that my dad dipped in the savings for me and my sister, my mum saw red. She confronted him when he came back home; of course the very next day. Their argument erupted resulting in the argument becoming physical. Me and my sister were not sure what was going on, but while clueless, we were actually witnessing the collapse of our parents relationship. It was so hard to see. Then I saw my dad coming towards my mum while they were both still arguing.

I stepped forward, surprising myself and my parents. I wanted to protect my mum at the time. I remember I tried to push back my dad, kick him, but he pushed me in return. Very harshly. He never ever laid his hands on me forcefully. He never hit me before. So pushing me forcefully this way remained the only time he has ever been rough with me if that makes sense. Still in front of my mum, I suddenly became her shield. My dad looked at us and left without saying a word. Although I was still reeling of his departure, I was so angry. Angry of the situation, angry at myself for attacking my dad as I felt he was responsible of the situation. Soon, realisation hit home when I realised my dad left and was not coming back. My anger turned to shock.

After this awful episode, my mum was sad and sobbing and I don’t remember quite well, but probably my sister was either crying or was shocked like me. I was still standing in front of my mum, being her armour. It’s so ironic that my dad at first thought I was a boy when he desperately was longing for one. I certainly had all the features of a boy being a tomboy. I suddenly stepped up being all protective. My tough demeanour was deceiving, as I was clearly deceiving myself. Tough on the outside yet very sensitive on the inside. Despite being so tough and with a strong character, something inside me broke. I never recovered from my father’s departure. For when my father left us, something inside me left with him; a part of me. My shock turned to absolute anger. An anger that was so hard to dissipate. Once more and sadly, my behaviour got so much worse at home and at school. If my future teacher could see me, she/he would be dreading having me so out of control in their class. How could I live let alone survive without my ancre? All I knew, my anger, shock and heartbreak would have devastating consequences for everyone around me, including myself.

When I returned to school, I was a nervous wreck. I wondered if I would finally be accepted by my classmates,whether the teacher would be nice?

Let’s be real, so far, ever since I started school at l’Externat Sainte Marie, it has been hell. The language was a problem, resulting in having to redo a year, suffering racism at the hand of my teacher, being mocked, teased and bullied by classmates and older children, fighting back and being labelled a troublemaker. The list can go on.

Somehow, that year felt so different. We lived in a different area and I hoped for some positive changes. My parents were still working loads, but we still managed to have our gatherings which I enjoyed. Surprisingly, I started to feel at home in Geneva. It was time to return to my routine and my return to school was imminent.

My new teacher seemed to be nice, a big smile painted across her face as she greeted us. I was sceptic at first, simply because the same happened with my former teacher before she revealed her true colours. Ever since my awful experience with my 1^st teacher in Geneva, I would never be fully open with people, always reserved and get to know a person before being fully open. That trait earned me yet another label to being troublesome. I couldn’t help it. As time went by, my new teacher seemed to be so laid back, so funny and lovely. She was older than my former teacher definitely not as beautiful. She was so kind, she allowed us to get away with things, she would spoil us with snacks on a regular basis. I was introduced to many snacks thanks to her. I loved Les Merveilles a Swiss delicacy among others she introduced us. There was one snack which had an awful name, and sadly I enjoyed despite the awful name. It’s a chocolate – coated marshmallow, at the time known as têtes-de-nègres, literally meaning niggers head. If you check this up online, the name still exists to name this snack. At the time, I couldn’t understand French properly, but as time went by, I understood the meaning and was deeply outraged. The name was changed for these snacks years later. I started to understand that my treatment I suffered at the beginning of my life in Geneva, was the perception the majority of Swiss people had towards coloured people. The snack’s name was no exception. Sadly, I would face yet more racism in Geneva and Switzerland. One thing for sure, even though I used to enjoy those snacks so much, I ceased to eat them completely. The name put me off and reminded me constantly of how people used to see me.

Nevertheless, my new teacher’s kindness was too good to be true. But to my delight it was true. I was finally getting a breakthrough with my classmates, as I was finally playing with some girls too and not only with boys. The popular girls of course didn’t want me around still. It didn’t matter to me as I had some friends at last. Despite all the positive changes, one thing remained; my struggles academically. My new teacher had more patience with me, she would give me time to complete my tasks, she would support me whenever it was possible to do so. I came to realise how hard French was as a language. It still is.

Performing at my school play

It was with that teacher that my love for reading developed further. Once a week, we would read famous fairytales from France especially. Fairytales like Cinderella ( Cendrillon), The Little Red Riding Hood (Le petit chaperon rouge), Puss in a boots (Le chat botté) and more. I also enjoyed other fairytales from brothers Grimm, Christian Andersen. I learned about the fables of La Fontaine and I was so intrigued that I wanted more. I read almost all of La Fontaine’s fables as they are short and all of them offers life lessons. I loved reading ever since I was younger anyway, but fairytales became what I enjoyed reading the most. I was also introduced by the French literature slowly. Reading, especially when I had a bad day, became my escape. Same with television. It was a great distraction and I submerged myself in any story. Whilst enjoying watching my French channels and reading, I was learning about the French culture too. I became fascinated with France as well as connected with France too.

I was slightly confused too due to our area being right next to the French border, somehow I felt much more at home in the French part, therefore in France, than actually in Switzerland if that makes sense. We used to go shopping in France as it was cheaper and watching mainly French programs as well as listening to French music therefore getting to know about the French enabled me to feel so connected to France. I also became so familiar with French celebrities, French politics including knowing French products. I remember that whenever we went shopping to France (right next to the border), we kept encountering people of colour. It was the same when we watched people of colour in French programs, something unheard of in our Swiss channels or Swiss programs. I also enjoyed watching French films old and new. Later, I would study French films, the French New Wave at Uni in London.

It became apparent, when I enjoy something, I would always take it up a notch. I could overdo it sometimes, well all the time. My love for reading, films and TV became more than hobbies but more like a passion. I became antisocial because of it. Thanks to my father’s introduction to comic books (bande dessinées) I would read on average 5-6 a day as the French/Belgian ones are mainly pictures.

Life was good at that point for me. School life was finally getting better, even though I struggled still academically, I had a great teacher. I was finally being accepted by others, and not only by boys. However, cracks started to slowly appear in my parents’ relationship. My parents were still working so much, too much it seems. My father would go out so much still, and my mother would look after me and my sister like she has always done. Very soon, I would suffer an unbearable pain, worse than any racism or bullying I faced up to that point. A pain so unbearable that would make my behaviour unbearable for teachers and anyone to deal with. Including my mum!

Our regular park trips with our dad. On his lap, a girl that was playing with us.