Answered

Bonjour,
Qqn pourrait corriger mes fautes, si il y en a bien sur :
It happened in the 90's, I was 5 years old and I was in a black neighborhood during the apartheid era when Nelson Mandela was still in prison in order to free us a few years later.
On that day, that Sunday I was attending my cousin's wedding. I was as proud as a peacock, with my head raised and smiling dumbly. I clung for endless minutes to this wrought-iron gate because my uncle wanted me to have the posture of an American star of the 50s. He had made a fool of himself by kneeling down in front of me to take this picture in low angle. Most of the people around laughed about it. I also remembered that my feet were so tingly that I had to stand still: my uncle was so slow to adjust his camera, which looked like it was from another time. This happy moment was so short that I had to immortalize it. We were always denigrated, badly led and we risked our lives at every moment. Indeed, a lot of violence was happening in front of my eyes, which was rather terrible.
That Sunday was the most beautiful moment of my early childhood: my mother had dressed me in a grown-up's costume, in a white, wide, buttoned jacket; she had put on a white shirt topped with a red bow tie that was almost bigger than my head. The white illuminated this picture: this white that I hated because it represented domination, which despised us. And yet, I am part of the clan. Indeed, my father was white as the snow of Switzerland, and my mother was black as coal; I was a little chocolate with a very milky skin as if I had just gotten a little tan. However, my curly black hair and my very young face reminded me at every moment, that I was on the wrong side of the wall as shown in this picture: on one side, the yellow and white van for white people; on the other side: the blacks locked behind these barriers.
My mother wanted me to become a good person; she was aware that I was going to suffer because of her illegal love, the snickering on both sides of the fence. For the whites, I did not exist, for the blacks, I was not one of them. In spite of all this, this photo will always remain a mark of my history; I understood that I had to fight to get a place in society. Today, I've acquired it: I'm acting to achieve my goal: that equality reigns in South Africa.

Merci d'avance

Sagot :

ZLARCHANCHE

Réponse:

Bonsoir, j'ai corrigé ton texte c'est presque parfait tu as dû faire 2 ou 3 erreurs.

It happened in the 90's, I was 5 years old and I was in a black neighborhood during the apartheid era when Nelson Mandela was still in prison in order to free us a few years later.On that day, that Sunday I was attending my cousin's wedding. I was as proud as a peacock, with my head raised and smiling dumbly. I clung for endless minutes to this wrought-iron gate because my uncle wanted me to have the posture of an American star of the 50s.I had made a fool of himself by kneeling down in front of me to take this picture in low angle. Most of the people around laughed about it. I also remembered that my feet were so tingly that I had to stand still: my uncle was so slow to adjust his camera, which looked like it was from another time. This happy moment was so short that I had to immortalize it. We were always denigrated, badly led and we risked our lives at every moment. Indeed, a lot of violence was happening in front of my eyes, which was rather terrible.That Sunday was the most beautiful moment of my early childhood: my mother had dressed me in a grown-up's costume, in a white, wide, buttoned jacket; she had put on a white shirt topped with a red bow tie that was almost bigger than my head. The white illuminated this picture: this white that I hated because it represented domination, which despised us. And yet, I am part of the clan. Indeed, my father was white as the snow of Switzerland, and my mother was black as coal; I was a little chocolate with a very milky skin as if I had just gotten a little tan. However, my curly black hair and my very young face reminded me at every moment, that I was on the wrong side of the wall as shown in this picture: on one side, the yellow and white van for white people; on the other side: the blacks locked behind these barriers.My mother wanted me to become a good person; she was aware that I was going to suffer because of her illegal love, the snickering on both sides of the fence. For the whites, I did not exist, for the blacks, I was not one of them. In spite of all this, this photo will always remain a mark of my history; I understood that I had to fight to get a place in society. Today, I acquired it: I'm acting to achieve my goal: that equality reigns in South Africa.