Era o ano de 1968, e eu estava com nove anos. Ela tinha dez e estava na mesma sala que eu: 3º ano primário, em uma escola pública. Eu, mineira; ela, carioca. Morávamos na capital paulista. Chamava-se Nanci, era mais alta e encorpada do que eu, e, embora morássemos num bairro mediano, sua família tinha mais posses que a minha, afinal, quando ela não levava “delicados”, “dan top”, de merenda, comprava pipoca e doces no carrinho em frente à escola. Eu só levava pão com manteiga e café com leite, quando tinha.
Mas eu tinha o que lhe faltava: atenção e inteligência e, por isso, nunca fora reprovada, o que já lhe acontecera. E, ainda assim, ela não aprendia. Então, sua mãe me solicitou que a ensinasse, depois da aula. Eu ia, e, como recompensa, ganhava um saquinho de “delicados”. Voltava para casa admirando as balinhas de goma coloridas… Gostava mais da azul, era de anis. Mas não comia tudo, dividia com os seis irmãos. E ficava torcendo para que a mãe me chamasse mais, para ganhar mais “delicados”. E ela me chamou, porque a filha não perdeu média na última prova. Se a mãe dela apostava em mim, ela se esmerava em me humilhar. Ciente da minha condição financeira, fazia-me “comer com os olhos e lamber com a testa”, espalhando guloseimas sobre a mesa, sem me oferecer. E eu era educadíssima para não pedir. Ao final dos estudos, ela escolhia o que a mãe me oferecereria: “delicados”.
Lívia era a professora de Moral e Civismo, e a ela cabia preparar os eventos de comemoração das datas cívicas. Desde que fui alfabetizada, aos sete anos, no primeiro ano, época que comecei a frequentar a escola, eu era sempre escolhida para declamar poesias: Dia das Mães, Dia da Independência, Dia da Bandeira, etc. Eu tinha facilidade para decorar, pois sempre tive paixão pelos livros. Na minha infância, eu acreditava que todo autor só tinha o livro publicado depois de morto, afinal, Olavo Bilac, Cecília Meireles, Casimiro de Abreu, declamados por mim, naquela época, já tinham passado desta para outra vida. E também os romancistas: Machado de Assis, José de Alencar, Camilo Castelo Branco e tantos outros.
Não que eu fosse a única a ser escolhida, já que havia outros eventos além de declamação, mas sempre eu participava. Já, Nanci, nunca. Creio que era porque não levasse jeito para a coisa. Era dispersa, agitada, ria à toa, e esquecia facilmente o texto.
A mãe, diferentemente da minha que era dona de casa, era despachada e ajudava o marido no comércio. Tinham um pequeno armazém, de onde vinham as guloseimas…
No mês de novembro daquele ano, dona Lívia escolheria quatro alunas para representar as cores da bandeira do Brasil. O fato foi comunicado às mães em uma reunião escolar. Ao final da reunião, vejo Nanci e a mãe puxarem o braço de dona Lívia, para outra sala…
Naquela semana, ao anunciar o nome das alunas que representariam o verde, o amarelo, o azul e o branco, o meu nome não estava na lista. Mas o da Nanci estava.
Os ensaios aconteciam durante as aulas de D. Lívia, sendo assistidos por todos os alunos da sala.
Eram quadras relacionadas a cada cor, cantadas. Nanci representava a cor branca e, olhando para os lados, com risinhos esparsos e puxando pedaços de palavras da memória, cantava com o seu sotaque carioca: “Sou branca, a cor simbólica/ da “pax” que reina “conxtante”/ “nexte” “Paíx” tão amado/ Pátria “dox” “Bandeirantex”.
Depois, mais dez meninas, entre elas, a Nanci, vestidas de enfermeiras, carregando um “fuzil” de madeira enrolado num papel crepom marrom, cantaram e interpretaram: “Defendendo a nossa Bandeira,/ mulher brasileira sempre teve opinião./ Nós seremos enfermeiras/ e, se for preciso, manobramos um canhão./ Não temos medo da fronte de ninguém/ nós, as mulheres, sabemos lutar também./ Cada brasileira representa um fuzil/ para defender a pátria amada, oh, Brasil!”
1968 foi “o ano que não terminou”.
Naquele dia, eu, desprovida de “armas”, fiquei na plateia, assistindo a tudo. Ao final do espetáculo, uma grande mesa, arrumada ao lado do pátio, exibia muitos “delicados”, “dan tops”, chocolates, etc, etc…, servidos por Nanci e sua mãe. E, eu, como já ameaçava poetar, pensava que Nanci repetia para si: “Naisci”. “Naisci”…
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