Wiola Ujazdowska vacuums the floor in the library. She goes around chairs and tables; she reaches right under our feet, making us a little uncomfortable. Stretched to its limits, the vacuum cleaner cord hits the ground as she moves around. The linoleum floor squeaks under her shoes. Wiola vacuums letters: the S, the C, the A, the N, and the D. For a moment we read a ‘scandal’ but no—it’s a ‘Scandinavian dream’.
In a Scandinavian dream, we are zombies. Sleepwalking on the streets, in banks, schools, Kringlan, Grótta, Mjódd, and Klambratún. In our pyjamas with hair tangled, we mumble as though sleep-talking: Where are you from? Where are you from? Our slumbering minds are hungry to know the shade of your skin and your birthplace GPS coordinates: Where are you from? Where are you from? We moan and we yawn.
In a Scandinavian dream, a black girl walks with her dog alongside the bay. She floats in the air. A leash in her hand, only the dog keeps her anchored to the earth. She is drifting. Her skin is too dark to obey gravity. Only white men’s feet can hold the ground of this land. Plus, if she has a dog she looks more local, right?
In a Scandinavian dream, a white Polish woman doesn’t greet an Icelandic woman because she takes her for an Asian tourist.
In a Scandinavian dream, two children dance on a stage. The girl knows her moves; she is a ballet dancer. The boy has no clue, so he pretends to be a rapper. A funny couple, these two little kids. The white people in the audience laugh and clap, until a woman gets offended. She is black and so is the girl.
In a Scandinavian dream, a man opens his mouth and loses everything: his house, his kids, his wife, his car, his money, his job, his kennitala, his rights. Whatever his tongue touches disappears. A bad accent is like bad breath.
In a Scandinavian dream, women sing in the changeroom at the local swimming pool. They smile and laugh. “Negrita,” one of them says, massaging lotion into her arms and chest. “My skin is like chocolate,” she sings.
In a Scandinavian dream, Poles cleaning the Grand Hótel and Vietnamese people working in the Ikea kitchen start their own music theatre. They make musicals and operas. The audience loves all of the shows. People clap, whistle, and cheer the actors: Mei-ra! Mei-ra! Mei-ra!
The vacuum cleaning is an interruption. Wiola wakes us up just like our moms used to do on Saturday mornings, especially after we went out the previous night. They would vacuum right at the doorstep of our bedrooms. Loud like a lawn mower. Knocking the bottom of the door and its frame with the plastic vacuum cleaner head. Knock. Knock. Knock. Reminding their dozy children that there are chores to be done. There are things to take care of. Life is hard work that tends to pile up. Wake up! Wake up!
THIS TEXT WAS COMMISSIONED AS PART OF THE REYKJAVÍK CITY LIBRARY’S INCLUSIVE PUBLIC SPACES PROGRAM. IT WEAVES TOGETHER THE SCANDINAVIAN DREAM PERFORMANCE BY WIOLA UJAZDOWSKA PRESENTED IN THE REYKJAVÍK CITY LIBRARY ON JUNE 5, 2020 AS WELL AS ACTUAL ENCOUNTERS WITH ARTISTS AND ACTIVISTS CONTRIBUTING TO THE PROJECT: ANNA WOJTYŃSKA, ANGELA RAWLINGS, CHANEL BJÖRK STURLUDÓTTIR, DARÍA SÓL ANDREWS, ELÍAS KNÖRR, EWA MARCINEK, HELEN COVA, MELANIE UBALDO, AND NERMINE EL ANSARI. IT ALSO INCLUDES THE AUTHOR’S OBSERVATION OF REAL-LIFE EVENTS AROUND REYKJAVÍK.
