First - I have to give a huge shout out to blogger for offering a new blog designer app. for this website. I have been struggling for weeks trying to tweak the background, text color, and other layout elements of my blog, with rather poor results. When I logged in today they were highlighting this feature, and within 30 minutes I accomplished what it took me two weeks of failed attempts to do; beautify my Den. So thanks!
Second - I just stumbled on some old photos that my brother had tucked away. These little gems deserve the spotlight, so I'm posting them here.
Cabin four runners. My brothers and I (center) explore our New Mexico mountain playground.
Early 90's I think. Oooo the clothes. I am sporting the awesome purple jump suit.
Carey Johnson, my grand father in his naval Uniform.
Carey on right, building the family empire. Go 60's!
This young vixen is my grandmother posing for a theatrical performance.
And the great Leslie Leonidas Johnson, LLJ, from whom I take my name, baptist missionary in Brazil for a solid 39 years.
Excuse the mess, I'm just looking for new ways to spoof up my Den. I've been experimenting with blogger templates and backgrounds. So far nothing seems to be working. Apparently the HTML script has been written simply to piss me off and waste my precious time. But whatever, let's see how things turn out.
When I first landed in Salvador da Bahia two years ago there was much take in.Apart from the brilliant pastel colored buildings, the rapturous smell of the sea, or the intense and varied rhythm of life in Brazil’s original capital, what struck me most was just how African this new world colony was. From the blocos afros (African drum groups) of the historical center, the spicy palm tree oil cuisine, to the worship of various Yoruba and Nago deities, Salvador is a city mixed and proud—a heady cosmopolitan vortex of Portuguese and West African influences.
When you travel, great joy can be found in simple things, like the way a chilled coconut tastes by moonlight, or the sticky feeling of wet sand as it slips between your toes.In Bahia, when your eyes are new, unaccustomed to the shrill color of fresh experience, there are many things that stand out, including how people dress, dance, and fix their hair.
In terms of hairstyle, Salvador is a city where you can see just about everything, from braids, to curls, natural locks, updos, weaves, dreads, to the now popular cabelo black—where people let out their hair to its full voluminous potential.A current favorite in the city is where girls part their natural hair to one side, pin a flower on the part, and fro out the rest.Like the people in this city, hair in Salvador is at once beautiful, varied, and uncompromisingly creative.
Of the many hairstyles I have come to appreciate, nothing has mystified me more than my girlfriend’s hair.Left to its own devices, her hair is striking—short dark curls that stretch just below her chin.Generally she gravitates between keeping it natural in the hot summer months, to putting it in braids during the rainy winter season.
Recently, I got a chance to see how the braiding takes place, when two stylists dropped by to fix up her hair.From my perspective the process looks tortuous—a kind of hair lobotomy that can last from 6 to 8 hours.
It all begins with buying the synthetic hair at a local shop, which is imported from the US and can cost up to 50 dollars depending on the quality.This can be quite a lot of money considering that the minimum wage in Bahia is around 350 dollars a month.Colors range from black, brown, gold, to more extravagant blues, reds, and rainbow hues.
From the beginning the experience is tedious, generally demanding two braiders and a great deal of patience.The hairdressers begin by weaving the natural hair into fine braids, and then selectively attaching one section of fiber at a time.
The material of the braids ranges in size and thickness, and the style of braiding is equally diverse.Often, braids on the top of the head are shaped into intricate patterns, and the bottom half left to swing freely.
While the session is indeed long and grueling, it amazed me how fast these hairdressers could work, their hands whipping through the patterns in a concentrated blur.
By the end of the session, everyone is tired.My girlfriend downs a few pain meds to ease the dull throb of an oncoming headache, but smiles at the results of her new hair.It may not be completely natural, she notes, but is a welcome change to the chemical treatments that she used in the past.As for me, all I can do is smile, and think about how this place can, at best, award one for spontaneity, for creativity, and for embracing a beauty that is all your own.Whether synthetic or natural, frizzed, braided, or locked, the point is to be happy with who you are, and to find that inner confidence to shine – through your own sense of style – on the outside and beyond.Living in this city; watching the steady parade of styles, this is something that I continue to love and to learn.
Well maybe that’s not entirely accurate; it’s not the blog that I am really missing, it’s my writing. It’s been a few months now since I have been off the register, checked out, away from these digital street corners that I once frequented. Part of me has enjoyed this little break. If anything I have been busy. The greatest endowment of life is that it is indisputably good at filling up a vacuum. In the space that my writing once occupied I now have distraction A, B, and C, lovely little hobbies, pleasures, and pastimes that seek to apprehend my attention. I have Facebook to play around with, a Masters course to attend to, and lots of wonderful books to read. I have a profession to ruminate over, a girlfriend to concentrate on, and a household that needs my attention. I have rivers to jump into, trips to take. I have movies, children, and performances to watch. I have Sponge Bob, beer, cartwheels and coconuts, parents, priorities, amen’s and allergies. I have life filling up the vacuum.
Somewhere in that grand ice cream swirl of existence I have my book. It’s out there somewhere, floating in the realm of possibility. I started working on a couple chapters – one on Carnival and the other an opening scene at the Festa de Iemanja – but have lacked the inspiration to move on. I realize that if I want to accomplish anything significant I’m going to have change the way I approach my writing. With my research and academics I have always been disciplined, setting out healthy blocks of time to complete my assignments. My creative writing, on the other hand, has always been fueled by capricious waves of inspiration. When I FEEL like writing, I do. I get out the shit dancing inside my head. It is my therapy, my release, and not something I can entirely control.
There is also part of me that feels like I am not ready to start working. This book will be about my time here in Brazil, about my right of passage experience, about cultural heritage, and relationships, and finding adulthood. How can I begin writing, I think to myself, when the final chapter has not yet been lived?
Speaking of which, there has been a number of developments (or realizations) in these last few months that need to be addressed.
Realization 1: I love Brazil. I love it so much that I am now ready to leave. How does this work you may ask? Well, it works much like that ex relationship you once had; the one that you invested a great deal of your heart, and time, and hopes into. At one point, the relationship worked great for you. It was satisfying, challenging, and fun. But then, one day, you realized that despite your good intentions the relationship was actually holding you back—that in all honesty it could exhaust your life potential rather than establish it.
This hard won understanding can be mostly attributed to…
Realization 2: I am poor. Exceptionally poor. I live in a veritable slum. I can’t afford a cell phone, personal transport, or regular visits to the grocery store. For the most part, that’s ok. I can’t think of a better life lesson for an American to learn because, quite frankly, stuff does not equal happiness and there is great liberty in owning little (wake up people!). That said, I am ok with this lifestyle, just not forever. I am getting close to the big 30—that awkward transition into phase 1.1 of adulthood (i.e. “planning for the future”). There are certain things that I want to accomplish in my life that I just can’t do from here.
Realization 3: I am an educated and talented professional, or at least I am on the brink of becoming one. I am a Magna Cum Laude Anthropology graduate, with international experience, who in just over six months will graduate (possibly with a 4.0) with a Masters in Education. If I continue to apply myself, I will be a tri-citizen, tri-lingual, and have great potential in the fields of Public History, Anthropology, Global Education, [insert field here].
The unfortunate thing is…
Realization 4: I can’t get there from where I’m at. The international school where I currently work is on a push to get approval from SACS, an organization that legitimizes educational institutions. My original hope was to get a teaching position at the school, and I had a good chance considering my work background, the masters, and my personal connections. But the current director is now weeding out people who don’t have a teaching certificate from the States (which I don’t). My options are, remain a teacher assistant and cut out paper for the rest of my life, or hunt for better job and schooling opportunities elsewhere. Could that elsewhere be somewhere else in Brazil? It could. But the reality is…
Realization 5: What I can accomplish in 3 years of working in the States would take me at least 10 years in Brazil. This is the unfortunate truth, and I wouldn’t care so much if I was still in my adventure phase. But now, as a working stiff, the Brazil formula doesn’t add up. Better to pick the option which gives me more options I always say. With money, I can always come back, visit, even have a summer home. Without options, I am stuck, and there is nothing worse than feeling trapped.
Anyway, that’s enough for now. My plans are in motion. Vivi is graduating in December, and I will be done in January or February. Come June or July of 2011, should various other unknowns fall into place, we will both be on our way to some other (hopefully first world) horizon. What we do when we get there is another matter – perhaps a Ph.D. for me, a Masters in Linguistics for her – who knows.
All I know with certainty is that…
I miss my blog. I miss my blog. I really miss my blog.
This is the end, beautiful friend This is the end, my only friend The end of our elaborate plans The end of ev'rything that stands The end
--Jim Morrison
And it certainly is, my friends, the end. The Lion’s Den is finished. After four years of occupying this space, I am pulling the plug. What began as a thought experiment, a therapy session for a soul desperately in need of exhale, has drawn its last and lingering breath. I am off to bigger and better things, my friends, off to dedicate my time to a true calling:
My book.
I have realized how precious my time is these days. Working full time and going to school leaves few opportunities to blog, let alone dream of grander things. In these last few months, something in me has been gaining weight, telling me it’s time expand my literary horizons, to shuck off the limitations of self-doubt and yearn for something worth yearning for.
Blogging has definitely served its purpose, allowing me a safe and accessible means to express my thoughts, record the past, and generate confidence in my ability to compose.
But now things are beginning to happen. I have ideas swirling about my head, inspirations drawn, born on the back of my internal compass and muse. I feel, for the first time, that I could actually do this thing if I would but give myself a chance to.
And so…
For those who have accompanied me on this journey my greatest of thanks. You will be the first to receive a copy should this project ever get off the ground.
For now, there remains once and always…
One mans quest toward mind, matter, and the undiscovered country.
Today marks the first post of the rest of my life. I grin as I write that. It seems appropriate for the opening phrase of the year. Other matters worth celebrating, today marks my two year anniversary in Brazil. That’s a long time when I stop to think about it. Two years. There are few things in my life that I have committed a solid 730 days to. Learning to swim took a month. My first bike ride, a few of days. Eating fresh mozzarella pizza in Italy, maybe 35 minutes. But two years. Yeah, that’s a solid chunk of time, and certainly a highlight in the grand scheme of my existence.
I’d like to think that all of this cultural pedaling, this dance through foreign puddles has been for, dare I say, a higher purpose. When I was in the midst of my divorce to my Brazilian wife back in the States, I felt like I was amputating a piece of my future. I felt a strong pull towards Brazil, an almost unexplainable feeling that it would play some larger role in my life. At the time, I thought that it was over—that whatever loose connection I had with the country would surely get flushed out with my failed relationship.
But for some reason, I kept reading, believing, dreaming that someday I would make this place my reality. I needed a fresh start, a new title, and a way to challenge my budding individualism and personality. Above all, I wanted to prove to myself that I could survive on my own, that I could walk the path of the cultural warrior, disciplining my mind to inherit this new and exciting world.
I suppose that this path, this longing, this expression of my life is the closest thing to spirituality that I have known. Somehow I feel fated to be here. To run my hand through my girlfriends hair, to taste the sea and feel the sand slip gently through my toes. I feel blessed for this opportunity to breath in a new life and become somebody that I wasn’t before.
Now, after a long month in the States, after a taste of the bitter cold, I am back in Bahia. The weather is warm (beyond warm, more like scorching hot!), and I feel content that my two years are up—that I am moving beyond the initiate phase in my tango with Brazil.
Low tide on the shores of Itaparica.
Hark hark the great future awaits. (p.s. I'm white again)
All things considered the vacation has been going well. I feel like I am getting the US out of my system and that I won't feel the need to eat fast food, or sit in an SUV, or go bowling for quite some time. The weather has been pretty overcast, cold, and bleak since I arrived, with icy storm fronts threatening to steal away my personality. New Mexico was nice, Boulder swift but savory, and Michigan somewhat oppressive but fun. I have crossed paths with old friends, danced around a Capoeira roda, eaten exorbitant amounts of hamburger with fries. I have run through snow drifts, sword fought with icicles, and played god awful amounts of Halo in HD. I have exercised my first world purchase power and will bring home gobs of electronics, shoes, clothes, and just about every thing else under the sun.
It's been good, real good. A bit fattening and non-productive at times, but certainly worth the trip. As I spend my last few days on my parents farm one this is for sure: I think I'm ready to get home. Bahian heat is calling, in all of its mystery and majesty. I miss the girl, miss drinking coconuts by the sea, miss the way people stare at my white face when I say "oxe!" and make gringo faces.
The Lost Boys
Old Haunts
I've got a long list of resolutions this year. I want to get stringy tough with gym and martial arts, want to take my girl out to a steak dinner (Argentina!?), want to destroy my work colleagues in MA papers. I want to invest more money in mutual funds, maybe buy a plot of land, maybe sell more and more of my things. This year I'd like to get serious about my writing, maybe set a couple of evenings a week on a book, maybe write something that doesn't just disappear.
Work colleagues at the museum.
Microbrew!
If anything this little vacation has taught me, it's that I'm pretty satisfied with where my life is heading. There is nothing like letting go of familiarity, shucking off comfort and security, and finding something that gives you meaning. A path realized by you and you alone is the greatest path of all, because no matter what happens it's yours. I suppose I take comfort in that.
Kalamazoo's very own Big Burrito
The video below is worthy of a post itself. It's so cool! My brother set up his camera at our cabin in the mountains and took pictures of our crazy night on New Years. It is a time lapse collage, 1 hour long, pics at 6 frames per second. Check out the dog lazing about on the floor and our dance off in the kitchen. Definitely one to cherish for some time to come.
The thing about Christmas is that it repeats, it stays pretty much the same from year to year. With the smell of roasted chestnuts in the air, the promise of smoked ham, and chocolate, and loud boisterous games of cards, my relatives travel from across the country to celebrate a series of short and joyous days as a family. There are some elements of the holiday which remain consistent, be it the gift giving, the large helpings of beer and wine, or the small family tiffs that happen when any dynasty gets together. While there is some comfort to be taken from these regularities, these long standing traditions that make the day special, sometimes it’s good to experience something a little different.
Last night a storm rolled in to the Oklahoma badlands, sweeping with an unseen ferocity across the plains. When I woke up on Christmas Eve I was happy to see a light frosting of snow blanketing my parents property. It is a rare thing indeed to see snow this far south, and rarer still to have it during the holiday. When I stepped outside of the house for the first time, I was taken aback by the extreme bite of the wind—with strong gusts hurling shiny mists of snowflakes around my head. My dad and younger brother took off to the city, promising to meet my older brother, my mom, and I at my aunts house for the party that evening.
As we sat inside, warmed by the Franklin stove, preparing hors d'oeuvre for Christmas dinner, the storm began to pick up, whirling with intensity outside the window. Just after lunchtime, we decided to throw all of the presents into my dad’s four-wheel drive pickup, heading into town before the storm got really bad. Less than five minutes after commencing our journey, we met with an unexpected and rather disappointing failure, with winds raging from the north like a vengeful Norse god. The north-south road into town acted like a wind tunnel hurling blasts of snow past the front of our vehicle, limiting visibility to the front of the car. We headed home to wait it out, only to try again a couple of hours later, and this time getting our vehicle stuck in the snowdrift buildup across the road.
Eventually we headed home, disappointed, wondering if we would ever make it to the Christmas dinner. Before lethargy or depression could set in, we began to receive distress calls from our neighbors who told us of friends who had tried to come in for their own parties, and were stuck freezing in their cars. I looked at my brother with a glint in my eye and he nodded, that stern tightening of the jaw, and we suited up like men on a rescue mission, our hats, gloves, snow suit and snow shovels ready to play.
Out into the cold we headed, winds screaming across the plain at well below zero, trudging deliberately through snow. For what seemed like hours we walked, heading through the valley and out into the flat void of the fields. What little wild life we passed, the deer, birds, and local cows all seemed spooked, like some white ghost had lifted its wings over their home, covering them in a chilled and unforgiving darkness. Eventually, with cheeks turned red from the winds, we made it to the stranded car, which had pile-drived into a snowdrift four feet tall in the middle of the road. The young couple inside, watching us arrive in one-piece snowmobile suits, with snow shovels perched readily above our heads, sat up with mouths agape in surprise. We must have looked like astronauts to them, seeking to make other worldly peace in the blinding snow.
After getting the spooked party out of their truck and out to a neighbors house tucked farther down the road, we headed home. The cold was deep but gratifying, ice crystals hanging off of every branch and blade of grass, creating a crystalline world of reflection. The sun would have blazed itself into a thousand directions were it not blanketed by the falling snow.
When we got home, we found my mother shaken and crying, telling us that the family was going to go ahead and celebrate Christmas with out us, that there was just no way for us to get the truck safely past the snow drifts and into town. This just couldn’t happen, we thought. We hadn’t traveled thousands of miles for nothing to miss the very day and reason for our reunion! So, before you could say nutmeg, a plan was formed. We suited up again, threw the presents into grey plastic totes, backpacks, and large bags and headed out once again into the prairie. Through the dark we walked, over hill and through the wood, to grandmothers they go. A Santa hat was stuffed tightly over my head. We trudged, well past sunset, a long trail blazed behind us of footprints and presents dragged across the snow. Finally, breathing hard and with weary feet, we made it to the other side of the drifts. My dad and uncle stood there smiling, blessedly warm SUV’s at the ready to bring us home.
So it was that we ended up celebrating Christmas with family, warmed by a roaring fire. The storm outside continued to rage, knocking down energy lines and stranding people in their cars. For us, it was a Christmas to remember, and one that if not for the swift planning and good will of others, would never have happened.
To you folks out there, known and unknown, sleeping in your beds. To the orphans, and the butterflies, the mythmakers and matchmakers. To the Michiganders, Oklahomans, and Brazilian blessed be. A merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
This is my dad's video when he took off and drove through the storm.
Well this is it! My first moment free in the last few months!
Next Friday will mark the last day of the summer semester and I can’t begin to express how nice that is. I have been ignoring this blog to a point of extreme child abuse, and am beginning to feel the stomach tightening shame of neglect. It’s as if the collective volume of my blog is rising up, screaming shrill cries of parental disregard late into the night. I’m afraid that despite a seeming lull in inspiration, I simply cannot ignore her any more.
So sorry.
To my credit, this is the porra that has been keeping my busy:
Citizenship, from the dawn of the Greek polity to the formation of the nation-state in the 18th century, has played a major role in the filial, linguistic, and cultural organization of people’s lives. In the days of the small-scale Greek communities, citizenship was seen as a public matter—an obligation deeply connected to one’s every day life. To be truly human, one had to be an active participant in the communal unit, for as Aristotle famously expressed: “To take no part in the running of the community’s affairs is to be either a beast or a god!” In the modern age, communal politics and identity, which was once local and organic, has taken on a global scale. As the world becomes more inter-connected, the lines between citizen and community, nation and its nationals are becoming increasingly distorted. At the center of this deconstruction is the use and adaptation of the national language—the central consolatory power which defines ethnicity, prescribes citizenship, and which feeds the heart of the human polity and its individual and collective consciousness. As these lines become blurred, as one nation becomes coupled to another, and as citizenship becomes increasingly de-territorialized, the adoption of language policies – or planned interventions relating to the use of language – is of particular import for how citizenship and identity may be expressed on the international level. This paper seeks to explore this topic of the world citizen, the process of recognizing oneself in the other, the role of English as a global language, and the possibilities that language policy, at the local level, may hold.
Heady isn’t it? And this is just the abstract so you can only imagine. As much as I like doing research and writing academically stunning, if inane, pieces of intellectual property, there is only so much a man can take.
And so it is, back to the bloggity blog.
First thing of great note and import on this Brazilian journey of mine is that I have graduated!!! A couple of Fridays ago, Vivi and I decided to hit the town with a group of her English students. It was one of those really fun crowds, full of energy, who drink like horses, who are the loudest group in the bar, generously liberal in their jokes, giggles, and smiles. You know, the fun type.
We hit the Rio Vermelho district and sat outside drinking beer late into the morning. Pretty common occurrence by our standards, but what set this particular outing apart was the subtle cultural interaction that happened between her students and myself. To my glee, I have reached a point in my Portuguese that allows me to be my safado, jokester, no public shame kind of self, and it is indeed most liberating. The process of learning a language has been somewhat difficult for me, as I have had to survive being the quiet awkward observant one for too long. I hate this. Truly hate it.
On this particular night, lil’ social Leo came out full storm. Every Bahian joke, slang, and soliloquy that I knew came flowing forth. This was a huge surprise for her students because they had never met a foreigner who could interact with them on such a level (as one of their own). This was accentuated by the fact that I am American, and that there is a real stereotype here that Americans are in a sense, untouchable, if not aloof to cultures unlike their own. So for all of us, it was a breaking down of longstanding and seemingly impenetrable socio-cultural boundaries. And for me, it was a long awaited point of arrival—an affirmation that after two years of brow furrowed concentration, I am truly becoming Brazilian. Thumbs up for that!
During the night, the students gave me a nickname "pombo sujo" or "dirty pigeon" which is a guy that knows all of the bad jokes, slang, and pop culture of Bahia. I loved it, and to my suprise the students made me a certificate of my graduation, making it official!
So as it is, I have been extremely, extremely, stressed and busy trying to get my passport for December. Three months ago, after having bought my plane tickets to come home for Christmas and see the folks, I started the unbelievably bureaucratic process of applying for the document. All I can say is, wtf!
Yeah, um, so Leo, you need to get a voting document. Um yeah, Leo, for that you need to register with the military. For that you need to reschedule for a flag swearing ceremony. After that, you need to get your titular eleitor, for that you need to wait a month, for that you need to get a confirmation of doing that, and then wait for the confirmation to be processed, and after that make an appointment with the Federal Police to turn in your documents, and for that get a confirmation of your place of birth, and for that bribe a representative to make sure that 5 days prior to my travel, the passport is printed in time. Uhhhhhh, breath.
Here I am, with less than a week away from my official travel date, and I still do not have my passport (over three months after bringing the process). Jesus. Really? Can we complicate this any further, just for the sake of fucking over people who need to travel. Can we get a signed and stamped confirmation of the fucking over, in order to prove that the fucking over “might” potentially happen, depending on the weather, and watermark, and level of ……. on that particular day?
Fingers crossed we’ll see what happens.
And wait there’s more.
I have finally finished it. About five months ago, Vivi asked me to design her first tattoo. I am an extremely anal, detailed, and patient tattoo designer, and generally take around six months to develop or perfect a tattoo. Witness Vivi’s phoenix which she will be getting for her birthday.
I received this photo as a reference:
Through countless hours in photo shop, I turned it into this:
You like?
Alright, before I splatter any more of my brains on this page, let me leave you with three ridiculously amazing rock-reggae videos that I found. The first is 311, what I consider one of the shining examples of this little known genera. The following two are from a band called Forfun here in Brazil. This is my absolute favorite genera of music that I am into right now. One day, when I get past this damned masters degree and have some free time, I’d like to form a band and make some music of my own.
I still have a 20 page research paper to put together for December, but who cares! The sun is shinning here in Bahia, spreading lucid tendrils of energy into my apartment window. It’s one of those Saturdays that beg me to stay here forever, smiling ever so provocatively with crashing waves, cold beer, and all of the trappings that make Salvador a unique little snowflake of the world.
Yesterday I honored a bureaucratic milestone of patriotism, heading down to the military office to swear allegiance to the Brazilian flag. The event had less to do with my own overwhelming sense of nationalism, and more to do with the fact that I need a military document to receive my passport. I am heading back to the States for Christmas and have run out of tourist days on my American visa.
When I arrived at the military office early Friday morning, I rounded the corner to find hundreds of Brazilian Joe Shmos waiting impatiently in line. A stern faced officer dressed in camouflage barked harsh instructions at the crowed.
“I WANT THREE COLUMNS, AGORA!!!!! È PRA HOJE! THE FIRST ONE WHO SMILES VAI EMBORA!!!! TODAY LADIES!!!”
Apparently, this obligatory flag swearing ceremony that every Brazilian male has to pass through is a one day crash course in military logistics. For two and a half hours we stood in the hot summer sun, practicing how to line up, face forward, and be a man. For me, this sort of military training—albeit superficial—was nothing new. My Kenjutsu martial arts practice every Saturday follows the same routine, where one learns how to reverentially and without delay follow the instructions of a superior officer (a.k.a higher graduated guy with a large stick).
The crowd, however, wanted nothing to do with it. Every time the commander walked by, he would bark orders and try and get everyone organized. But before long, a hot girl would walk by and the whole crowd would start whistling and yelling “GOSTOSA!”. Others would break formation in order to go buy water, or would just sit down on the ground when their feet got tired. The whole time here I am feeling generally out of place and thinking, wow, if Brazil ever goes to war they are SO going to lose! Disorganization, lack of respect for authorities, and undisciplined habits don’t exactly make for a brilliant standing army. Not that these guys were soldiers anyway.
The rest of my day I ran around, catching innumerable busses, trying to get to and from school, to and from the mall, and to and from the restaurant where I met Vivi. As a thoroughly socialized American who has had a car since he was 16, not having one is painful, embarrassing, and my least favorite part about living poor. I dream often of heading back to the States, not so much to return to my home country, but rather to repurchase my 1000cc beast of a motorcycle, and ride the countryside with the wind whipping through my hair. Aside from making internet purchases, and not worrying about getting shot, it’s honestly one of the major things that I miss.
Well, anyway, speaking of getting back to things, I’ve got to fly. Going to head out to lunch before I go train, and maybe tonight I’ll hit the town. Life is different now, habitual. And it’s funny how I’m paying god awful amounts of cash to visit the US in December instead of dreaming, hoping, and longing for some time in Brazil.
What is Brazil for me? It began as a dream state, a minuscule grain of sand, imaginative, something hoped for. Brazil was a mental escape, an insatiable hobby, both intellectual and divertive, something to lust over as the harsh northern winters dragged on. It began with my father on a warm summer day, the sound of the cicadas drawing heavily in the Michigan air. I was 13, skinny, a mass of brown hair perched lazily on the top of my head. Perhaps it was the way I sat, the way my body sluggishly moved through the humidity. I was a boy in the throes of summer vacation, without work, with little purpose but to head to the lake, dance away time, eat mulberries and candy bars until my belly was ready to burst, the dark red juice dripping languidly off my chin.
“You need something to do”, my dad said stepping out of his home office. His days were long, busy, the scramble of a man with three kids to feed and too many obligations to fulfill. In the adult world of the 90’s, there was no time off, no care free life spent running amidst the trees, no three month lull in personal responsibilities. He took a drawn out look at me and smiled.
“What’s up Pop”, I said skeptically, looking up at his face with dread.
“My boy, you need something to keep you busy”.
Spit! I thought. Fun times over. I had heard those words before and they could only mean one thing. Dig me a hole yay wide. Mow the lawn. Finish grouting the tile in the basement. Clean up the garage. Actually, they could mean a lot of things, and all of them equally unimaginable.
“I want you to write me a book report”, he said to my surprise, “something on your great-grandfathers book.” He handed me a slim inconspicuous hard back with the words “It Happened in Brazil” on the cover. I’d never seen it before, never passed its off-color gold binding on the family book shelf. As a kid, my days were spent reading fantasy novels, the thick epic kind that Tolkein might enjoy. For me, the real world was drab and mundane affair, a far cry from the swashbuckling poetry that generally occupied my head. It was no wonder that this particular volume – void of witch, or ghost, or goblin – had gone unnoticed.
“What….?! Ahhh come on Pops! You want me to write a book report?” I paused. “But it’s summer!”
His expression remained fixed.
“Your great grandfather wrote this in the 40’s after spending most of his life working as a missionary in Brazil. Read it”, he said, “you might learn something.”
I grabbed the volume out of his hands muttering something about homework underneath my breath. Could be worse. Writing a book report was better than sweating under the hot sun. I took the book back to my room and sat down, flipping gloomily through the first few pages…
And so it was that I experienced my first isolated incident with Brazil, remote as it may be, and a far cry from my current reality.
And here we have a seed waiting to be born.
Perhaps, a novel about these two worlds. A comparison of my great grandfathers quest for souls – the saving of the Catholics – with my own adventure tale. Brazil would loom large, would perch on the precipice of personal experience.
I would make this real for you, and forever for me, and finally check of that burning necessity to write something greater.
It’s hot. Too hot. Small beads of sweat are forming on my forehead as the heavy weight of humidity presses in around me. The power has gone off in the school, and the kids sit fidgeting, struggle to complete their science experiments with the air conditioning turned off.
Last night, Vivi and I strolled past the noisy avenues of our Rio Vermelho neighborhood, searching for some place to grab a bite to eat after work. We ducked in and out of busses, lamenting at the accumulated aches and pains of our twelve hour day. How nice it would be to have a car, to escape the purgatory of public transport, to jump in a little Fiat and cruise around the city with the wind whipping through our hair.
With a frosty draft gripped listlessly between my fingers, a light foam mustache glistening on my face, I have begun to appreciate the brief respite of a Thursday night out. Time is short when you work full time, a kind of floating void of space that lives to be filled. Which activities shall I divert my attention to, what shall I do when I finally get home?
On this Thursday, time was chicken fingers smothered in garlic, hot pimenta sauce with some Arabian sides. Vivi sipped on a beer, as I glared lazily into my choppe. When I stop to think (on the rare occasion that I do), it is intimidating to think how fast life can change. Just over a year ago, I had arrived in Salvador with no job, no prospects, no girlfriend, and no Portuguese. My apartment was a cockroach infested dirty little corner of the universe, void of furniture or other complimentary marks of civilization. I was stressed, but free, hungry, but determined, swimming in the desire to find another life. Now, sitting on that stout totem of future earned, my life is much changed. I have a job, career prospects, a girlfriend, and hard won fluency. I have a new apartment full of stuff, blessedly free of rodents, and plenty of material trappings to gather dust on my shelves. Is this the natural way of things, to move from wanderer to a sedentary man—to sling oneself from the void of space to the material matrix of planet and place?
I do not know. I know little for sure with this sweat on my brow. Life remains, concrete or otherwise, a mystery better left unsolved. Strolling down the black and white sidewalks of Portuguese stone, the warm generosity of a woman marching at my side, I remain a butterfly floating through this silly world.
Carey on right, building the family empire. Go 60's!
This young vixen is my grandmother posing for a theatrical performance.
And the great Leslie Leonidas Johnson, LLJ, from whom I take my name, baptist missionary in Brazil for a solid 39 years.
