Marginow, the art of the margins | Jessé Andarilho | TEDxLaçador

Jessé talks about art made in the favela, art from Marginow, of the favela taking up space. A real charisma.

Writer, street vendor parents, raised in Antares, Rio de Janeiro. He believes literature is the main gateway to transform the lives of youngsters from the favelas and other peripherical areas. Founder of C.R.I.A. - Revolutionary Center of Art and Innovation - an NGO devoted to give visibility to emerging talents obscured by violence in the community, TV director and script writer, cultural producer in CUFA - Central Única das Favelas. When woken up to reading, he realized he had many histories to tell, based on his own experiences as a favela man. That's how his book "Fiel" came about, being written entirely in his Notes app in his cell phone during the four hours he spent on the subway everyday on his way downtown Rio de Janeiro and back. Aiming to reach non readers, he wrote in a simple and real form, giving voice to the favela.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at https://www.ted.com/tedx

Hey you, everything alright?
Everything nice?

I'm Jesse Andarilho, I think
you already know it, right?

I thought I didn't like school,

but I found out later I liked it
so much I never wanted to go away.

Just the seventh grade,
I did it five times.

What are you laughing at?

(Laughter)

Today I have a post degree
in seventh grade.

(Laughter)

I became a writer, as he already said.

It was meant to be a surprise,
he wasn't supposed to tell.

Except I used to be the kind of guy
who didn't like reading,

didn't like writing ...

In reality, I used to like writing,
but I liked doing it on walls,

I was a graffiti artist.

My mother upon seeing me arriving home
with paint in my hands used to say,

"You're making art, aren't you?
You're up to something nasty, aren't you?"

So art was presented to me
as something nasty, you see?

Something "you're up to,"
that you aren't supposed to be doing.

So, that's how I grew up.

And, as Raul has already said,
here, about prejudice -

I've suffered prejudice, too, I'm also ...

black, mulato, dark, negro and so on.

But, it wasn't enough.

When I arrived at school -

I mean, my parents were street vendors,

my mother used to sell sweet cakes
and my father used to sell couscous.

But, the street was tense,

the atmosphere was heavy
in Rio at that time,

and my mom got a job in a company

and got me a scholarship
in a private school, away from the favela.

But I had my habits,
I used to wear my pants like this,

way down, which was pretty cool
in Rio, in the favela, at the time.

I used to say "We is,"
"Dig it," "This stuff."

And I had a very special teacher,

who upon seeing me arrive
with my pants down, every time,

I used to say, "Good morning, Aunt."

And she'd be like,
"First of all, I'm not your aunt!

Second, go to the principal's office.

Pull up your pants
and go see the principal."

I'd to get up, I'd go
to the principal's office,

thanking God she wasn't
my granny's daughter.

Well ...

I became friends with the principal.

The guy really liked me,
the way I talked and so forth.

I'd say to him, "She's wrong!

I say 'we is', I say 'dig it'

the same way she says
'OK', 'positive;' this is prejudice."

He'd go, "No, you need to understand
she's here to teach ..."

Anyway ...

I followed the tips from the principal,
who also owned the school,

and, later, after the tips
he kept giving me,

I realized there was a world
beyond the one I lived in,

which was eighth grade, right?

(Laughter)

(Applause)

The moral of this story is, I went deep,
pulled up my sleeves and studied,

I recognized her importance in my life.

Today she's my friend on Facebook.

(Laughter)

A good friend.

So, I finished high school,
and served the Brazilian Army,

which was mandatory,
and I, of course, didn't want to go.

When I got out, back in the favela,
I started a car wash business,

a fast car wash, because at the favela,
there are many entrepreneurs.

If you don't want
to get involved in "other jobs,"

you've got to find a way to make money.

You start going out with the girls,
you've got to pay them a hot dog.

(Laughter)

Only after we started
our car wash business

did we realize that in Antares,
there were hardly any cars.

(Laughter)

And now? What do we do?

So we started to wash rugs,
bikes, sofas, dogs, sneakers ...

(Laughter)

And the car wash
turned into an internet cafe.

It was the first internet cafe
in the community.

This friend who started the internet cafe
with me was doing very well,

he had been to several TV programs,

because we brought
technology to the favela.

At the car wash, a friend
lent me a book and said,

"Read this book! You'll like it."

I was about 20 at the time,
an old dumb guy, and said,

"I won't read it, books are boring,
stuff for intellectuals, nerds. I won't."

She said, "Not at all, just read it."

I looked at the book,
"OK, I'll take it home."

A party was about to start at home,
I took a shower and waited.

Wrapped in my towel, I sat on my bed,

skimmed through the first page
and it started with a dirty word.

Two women in jail arguing,
things were fucking hard.

Can I say that?

They were having
a fucking hard time and so on.

I thought, "Goddamn it,
lots of dirty language in the book!"

I went on reading, the party started
and was over at home,

and I read the whole book all at once.

I returned it to my friend, she said,
"Damn it, finished it already?"

I said, "Yeah, read it yesterday."

She said, "There are others like that,
that seem like films, like you're saying."

She recommended a few, I started
buying books that talked about favela

and told what life there was like
and I started reading on and on.

The internet cafe,
after I started reading,

ended up becoming this NGO, C.R.I.A.

Because, we helped people
do so many things -

I mean, people wanted to enroll
for an edital and couldn't.

I said, "You see, let's create
this 'business', let's register an NGO,

we'll enroll everybody and make sure
we are thinking of something general."

Then C.R.I.A. was born.

And when we won a prize in São Paulo,

I got this kit, one of those we get
from participating in events,

that contain things
like a small bottle and stuff,

things we never use,
brochures we never read,

stickers we don't stick anywhere.

(Laughter)

So, on the way home,
I picked the book from the kit,

and started reading it on the flight.

First time flying, I felt
so dumb and excited.

"Wow, I'm flying, reading a book."

This friend of mine was listening
to music on his earphones,

thrilled at his music.

I said, "Man, you see, this story
I'm reading, it's a hell of a story

and I could tell one exactly like that,
I've got a story exactly alike."

He looked at me,
took off his earphones and said,

"Well, brother, do you think
you have a better story?

Go ahead and write
your own book, for God's sakes!"

He put his earphones back on again
and I thought, "Wow, look at it!"

(Laughter)

At the time, I was doing some jobs
in downtown Rio de Janeiro.

Antares, where I live, is very far,

so far that I like saying Antares
is two hours away from any part of Rio.

"Where's Antares?"
"Ah, two hours away!"

I used to ride the train a lot those days.

One day the train broke down,
and people began to complain,

they complained about the system,
about transport, about eveything.

I said, "You guys complain, but nobody
listens, nobody wants to hear anything."

I grabbed the phone out of my pocket,
opened the notes app

and had the idea to start writing
my book right there, on my cell.

I was hearing a lot of people complaining
about the time we waste on transport,

that time is money, this and that,

and I realized that I wasted four hours
every day on public transport.

I said, "I'll get this time back!"

I started writing a book about my life,
but I kept thinking,

"Who's going to read a book about the life
of a stranger, that no one knows?"

I figured, "I'll make up a character,
it'll be fictional.

So, it's fiction, people
will want to read it, right?"

(Laughter)

Except at one point,
the character became alive.

I kept writing, just on my cell,
one day I entered a bookshop.

I wasn't used to entering bookshops.

I entered and saw tons of books,

nice-looking guys,
with beards, and I thought,

"Who the hell is going to enter a bookshop
and pick up my book?"

I myself didn't read,
who would want to read my stories?

So I went on,

"No, I'm going to do different."

I started going to all events
connected to literature.

Book releases of whichmacallit,
there I was, queueing.

"So, how's it going?"

I started making friends,
and people used to say,

"Jessé, you gotta start networking."

(Laughter)

"Do what?"
"Networking."

"What the heck,
cut out this networking stuff."

(Laughter)

So, I ignored all those tips
and made friends, met several people.

(Applause)

In this attempt to go to events,
the guys used to say,

"Man, you're crazy,
you live on the other side of town."

Except that when people called me crazy
because I was on the other side of town,

I just thought that on the way back,
I'd have two more hours to write, get it?

It took me two years to write the book.

People say, "Man, you wrote
the whole stuff on the cell phone?

That is hard! That's impossible!
You wore out your finger!"

(Laughter)

I said, "Man, I don't give a damn.
I want to write a book on my cell phone.

I want to write a script on my phone.

All I have to think of is the next word.

I don't worry if a book is thick.

Next word, next word, and each word
calls the next and so on

and things are happening."

When I started to read, I had a car wash.

When I began to like
reading several books,

I had an internet cafe
that turned into an NGO.

And when I started writing
I began to be called to do stuff,

some texts here, some texts there.

I met the guys
from Observatorio de Favela,

I took some of their courses
and was called to work on a TV program

as a producer.

Man!

I participated in a meeting.

"This is the cameraman, this is ..."
They pointed at me, "He's the producer!"

And I, "Goddamn it! I'm the producer."

When the meeting finished,
I called the guys, very close, and said,

"What does the producer do?"

(Laughter)

The guy said, "He produces."
I said, "OK, man, I got it."

(Laughter)

I started to work,
learned what a producer does,

started to shoot.

Five months went by, they called me
to be director of news in the program.

I went, "Man, news director."

I started traveling,
I interviewed Caetano Veloso,

I interviewed Thalles Roberto,
Lenine, the great guys.

The program is broadcast
on TV Brasil, I met a lot of guys.

The book was on the way to the end,
and when I finished it, I went,

"Now, it's easy to publish,
I'm a director."

(Laughter)

I knocked at the door of a publisher,

"Man, a friend told me
I should come talk to you.

I'm a writer, I've got a book."

The guy looked at me and said,

"You don't look like a writer, at all."

I said, "But I write,
I've written a novel."

The guy said, "How many pages
does your novel have?"

I said, "216."

The guy looked at me, top to bottom,
my pants hanging low -

This one I'm wearing is a little tight
because I've put on weight,

otherwise it'd be hanging down, too.

He said, "Two hundred pages
isn't enough for a novel."

And I, very serious, you know,

picked the book from his hands,
the texts and said, "You know, brother.

In the favela, there is no such thing
as a novel. There we just write."

And I left.

(Laughter)

(Applause)

It’s tough.

In the end, I managed to show my book
to a friend who worked with me,

Celso Athayde.

He looked at the book and said,

"Man, this is very good, but you really
don't look like a writer, it's true."

Then I joked about it
because he's also a writer.

I said, "Man, if to have a writer's face
is to look like you,

then I don't want to be a writer
'cause you're too ugly."

The book ended up going
to a big publisher,

the owner picked the book
and started reading it,

and a week later
he called me for a meeting.

All the crew was there,
marketing manager, lawyers ...

I thought, "Gee,
I think I blew it, didn't I?"

He told me that some time before
he had received a book

which he read, liked it, but didn't want
to translate and passed it forward.

And this book was "Harry Potter."

He said, "I'm afraid 'Fiel' might be
the next 'Harry Potter' in my life,

so, would you like to sign with us?"

I said, "Damn it, he compared
my book to 'Harry Potter',

it must be very good then."

I said, "I've got to think
about it, let's have a chat."

(Laughter)

The book ended up being released
in July last year,

and I started being invited
to several events,

I met other artists from the favela,
I started to attend soirees.

I became a poet, too,
I forgot to mention it.

I became a poet because I wanted to speak
on a microphone, microphones were open,

so people could get to know me

and when my book was published they could
say,"The book is that guy's, he's a poet."

I met several artists and started
taking part in events inside the favelas.

People organized soirees,
poetry reading, MPB ...

People from downtown came by,

their audience also came to the favela,

but the favela people
weren't in these events.

I thought it was strange and said,
"Man, aren't local favela people here?"

So I had the idea -

In several places, people
who heard about my book said,

"Ah, this is marginal literature."

And I'd go, "Is it? Cool."

"You're marginal literature,
and so on and so forth."

I've always been gifted with words.

I was trying to learn English then, trying
to drop things in English here and there

so I said, "Now. I'm marginal,
so the margin has arrived now.

So I created the Marginow.

It's time for those in the margins,
now it is our time."

I started to spread the Marginow ideology,
we're marginal, we came from the margins.

I started to have followers and made
my first Marginow soiree in Antares.

Marginal art meeting.

With a sound team,
all made with love, a shirtless DJ

playing forbidden funk,
and other marginal music,

there was the capoeira guy ...

I also invited guys from outside.

The people from downtown said,
"But Antares is too far."

I wrote on Facebook,

"Do you remember all the events
you invited me to which I attended?

It is too far for you, but it was also
very far for me back then!

It still is, until today, so come."

People felt a bit stung and came
all the way, many people came.

And the favela gathered ...

Marginow kept growing,
and I started to think the following,

"Why is our art, our funk forbidden?

Our capoeira isn't in the media,

our people aren't in evidence,

they aren't in 'now,' they aren't."

I said, "Brother, let's do
the following then.

Everybody is marginal, aren't we?

Everybody is marginal!

We're marginal artists, let's do it
our way, should they like it or not!"

Then I received an invitation
to write a TV program

broadcast in a large media company, Globo,

to write stories that will be aired
in a new season of a soap opera.

I said, "Me, writing soap operas?"

I wrote, sent the texts, the guys
liked them, and paid well.

I put black people to be protagonists.

And people kept gathering at Marginow,

guys are now thinking they've had enough
of being in the margins.

But we don't want to be
in the center either.

We want to be in the margins but doing
stuff our way, without discrimination!

We don't need society
to come and say to us,

"The doors are open to you,
come please, you can enter!"

We don't want that, we want to do things
our way, the way we please.

We just don't want to be
discriminated against.

Recently, we were news,
we were in the news.

"The consumption of the C class,"

"The C class has grown
because of consumption."

The favela is now respected
because it consumes, it uses credit.

We want to be recognized
because we shop, okay, that's cool!

But we also want recognition
because we write books, make films,

we dance ballet, dance the step dance, -

not we, they do, I'm terrible at dancing -

we play football, and that's marginal,
typical of those in the margins.

My mom used to say, "Son, don't hangout
on the streets, don't do any nasty thing."

Today, poetry is written on the streets,

I do art, I'm proud to say I'm marginal,

you can call me a mongrel dog
or just anything,

but please, keep on calling me because
the whole thing sucks, it’s so tough.

It's like this, what I always say,

you don't need to open doors
for us, you get that?

Just please don't close them.

If you do it, then just wait;
we are going to break in.

(Laughter)

(Applause)

Time is short.

I've always had the gift
to play with words.

I'll just mention something
that happened recently.

I was surfing the internet,

and the teacher came in,
that one I mentioned, remember?

The one who used to send me places?

I played the program on YouTube,
and in the end I paused it

when the credits were going up,
because my name was there,

"Direction, Jessé Andarilho."

"Hi teacher, you used to send me
to the Direction, look at me, I'm here."

I tagged her.

(Applause)

Time is almost over, so I'd like
to finish with a poem I wrote

when I was trying to become a poet,
after all, to be accepted.

I was tidying the house, everything
was a mess, you know it.

I piled up some clothes together
to put them away, to iron them,

I got all of them together
and made a word pun with them,

with a few things I had been
thinking in that moment.

"Stick something in your head,

for those who dig it,
half a word is enough.

I don't want to let it easy

because when I commit myself,
brother, I do it all the way,

even knowing that somebody
is going to lash out on me.

My commitment is forever,
understand that or leave me alone.

I'm the best I could be.

I might err, but I don't fall out of line.

My honesty is printed,

my work pays my bills,

and dirty clothes, brother,
you'd better wash them at home."

That's it!

(Applause)

Check me out, teacher, look where I am!