A huge shout out to Adam from Eyes on Brazil for translating this for me. This is my girlfriend's post, Back to Black - beautifully rendered into our native tongue.
"Attending to a request from my boyfriend, I decided to transform into words a little of the feeling that permeates human beings, and in this particular case, myself, when we are exposed to a very obvious reality, however vehemently negated: in spite of being thrust into an era of diversity, where multiculturalism and personal differences should supposedly be celebrated, we still seem rigidly affixed to our stereotypes and 'pre'judice. I say 'pre' in parenthesis to highlight how we are induced to a precursory judgement even when we do not have sufficient elements for such a thing. We mold the information which we are exposed to in accordance with our previous conception and we put aside any possibility for error or for a new reading of the facts. The most surprising thing still is that we never would imagine being the target of this prejudice, even when we are part of a group which is historically discredited: in my case, the black community. Even as such, I find myself terrified in the face of such attitudes, even though it serves as a stimulus for my critical sense and has awakened in me a sarcastic position that until then I did not know I was able to adopt.
It could have just been one more day at work. As I do every Friday, I leave the university heading towards Pituba (a high-class neighborhood of Salvador) where I work in one of the best schools of the city as an English teacher. It was a sunny day, and as the sun in Salvador delivers a certain inertia, I broke away from my normal style of high heels and a nice purse and instead used something a little more relaxing: jeans, a white shirt and a backpack. Sandals and a hippie ribbon in my hair completed my summer look. All in all, I never imagined that they would be the match for the most charged situation I have gone through in a long time. Charged, let alone ridiculous. Ridiculous and funny.
As is my habit, on the way to school, I stopped in front of a traveling street seller to buy some CDs. The vendor didn't have change and needed to go to the nearest store to get some. Meanwhile, I waited patiently in front of the place where he sold his CDs. In this moment, I noticed someone staring at me--a man, apparently 50 years old and of good ancestry, who with no reason kept observing me. I left the CD seller and started heading towards a self-service Japanese restaurant where I normally eat. I left my backpack on one of the tables and upon returning with my meal, to my surprise, I found the 50 year old man at the table right next to mine. From then on, there proceeded a succession of "pardon me's" and attempts at reversals of badly-said words all because of the blessed pre-judgement: upon seeing me sit at the table, a bit terrified, the man couldn't contain himself and kept staring at my backpack at my side, and finally directed the following question at me:
Him: But aren't you the same girl that was at the CD stand?
Me: Yes. It was me. Why? Would you like some information about films?
Him: Yes. I was going to ask what you have in your backpack.
Me: Well, in my backpack I have books and personal items. As far as the films, I can tell you about those that I have already seen and about those I just bought. Would you like to see them?At that moment, the situation turned rather strange. Upon seeing me with some CDs in my hand, he presumed that I was the seller and was surprised to see that I was having lunch in the same restaurant as him. I, in a calm fashion and with a smile on my face, took from the backpack the videos that I had purchased and continued: well, these I bought for personal use, and these for my students. Would you like to know how much I paid?
Already at a loss for words, the man started to say sorry and the more he tried to make little of the situation the more errors he made. In the end, he knew that aside from an English professor and work colleague of some of his personal friends, this supposed "seller of CDs" was a lot more intelligent and well connected than he had imagined. I concluded the conversation with the following phrase:
Certainly, you never thought a "street seller" could do so much, right? Be careful, because next time it might be a judge you are talking to instead of a professor, and then you'll really find yourself in an embarrassing situation.
Interesting to note, at this exact moment in Rio de Janeiro, one of the biggest festivals of black culture worldwide was happening. While we live in a city that without a doubt is recognized as the birthplace of Africa in Brazil, I see a distinctive looking man with a good education, administrator of one of the largest international companies in the country, allow himself to be caught up in prejudice and stereotyping, at the point of verbalizing his unfounded and discriminatory ideas. And what if I was a CD seller? What is the problem in being in that restaurant and sharing the same space? My money and my skin color are given freedom through my profession or my social status? Being black in a land of blacks doesn't always mean being recognized as an individual. The so-called back2black is more of a stepback.
Monday, September 28
Tuesday, September 22
A great night out...
We work hard. We deserve it. Salvador on the vampiric hour.
French vanilla icecream M-401 electronic cig. Pretty damn delicious.
Chilling in front of Desabafo, our favorite new hipster bar find. 
MMMMM....red bull, vodka, and vaping. Guilty pleasures indeed.
Sexy nerds. My favorite!
Hi Leo.
Hi V.
The rockstar fro.
I am apparently impressed with something or another.
Yeah, ok, so I'm nerdy too.
Until next time Salvador.Friday, September 18
A walk by the stream...
It's Friday and I'm stuck inside. The wind is whipping outside my apartment, high on the alto de ondina side of Vila Matos. I love watching the city at night, it's glorious view displayed on the buzzing landscape beneath me. From my new place, I can watch the sea, can glimpse the far north end of Rio Vermelho. The casa de Iemanja is a small speck on the horizon, a tiny dot of worship where Candomble practicioners pay reverance to the sea godess for all of her blessings.
Well, how is Brazil treating me of late? Not too badly I suppose. This place that was once so strange to me, so foreign and vibrant and scary and challenging, has fastly become solid and normal. I have launched myself into space and made Pluto my home, and now, that great blue dot in the sky once known as earth has become far removed and the strange. I dream at night of walking through my woods in Michigan, of feeling the fall weather descend around me, it's brilliant red and yellow greenery now set to flame.
Salvador has begun to get hot again, begun to swirl into a summer mirage of tropical heat. These are the hottest months of the year, where the movement of sweat becomes the constant norm. At school, things are busy as ever. I just finished another intense masters class, and now have a 8-10 page paper to crack away on for the rest of the week. Though my salary is little, I count my work a great blessing after fighting so hard to get a job. My work is, how to put it, simple. I play with kids all day, talk to them about math and science, cut out laminated pieces of paper and take attendance. I consider it, naturally, a bit beneath my abilities, but figure it a means to an end until I can get my degree.
As far as after, that's a whole nother story. As I walk the fields during break and recess, playing soccer with my fifth grade kids, I wonder what will become of my life. Am I to become a highschool teacher, a writer, a guy who never stops running? Am I to line my shelves with trophies, of memories hard won and lands explored. Will I ever step out of this poverty and turn, ever so graciously, into a capitalist?
These things are a swimming, and my head is mess, but I find comfort in the small things in life, the warmth of the sun on my back, the feeling of fresh grass between my toes, and sleep. Life is busy, I am healthy and alive, and I suppose there is little more I should expect. For now, I'll craw into bed and dream of home, dream of my friends, brothers, dogs, and all other living matter that I feel close to. This is it, the stream, and I am wading in.
Well, how is Brazil treating me of late? Not too badly I suppose. This place that was once so strange to me, so foreign and vibrant and scary and challenging, has fastly become solid and normal. I have launched myself into space and made Pluto my home, and now, that great blue dot in the sky once known as earth has become far removed and the strange. I dream at night of walking through my woods in Michigan, of feeling the fall weather descend around me, it's brilliant red and yellow greenery now set to flame.
Salvador has begun to get hot again, begun to swirl into a summer mirage of tropical heat. These are the hottest months of the year, where the movement of sweat becomes the constant norm. At school, things are busy as ever. I just finished another intense masters class, and now have a 8-10 page paper to crack away on for the rest of the week. Though my salary is little, I count my work a great blessing after fighting so hard to get a job. My work is, how to put it, simple. I play with kids all day, talk to them about math and science, cut out laminated pieces of paper and take attendance. I consider it, naturally, a bit beneath my abilities, but figure it a means to an end until I can get my degree.
As far as after, that's a whole nother story. As I walk the fields during break and recess, playing soccer with my fifth grade kids, I wonder what will become of my life. Am I to become a highschool teacher, a writer, a guy who never stops running? Am I to line my shelves with trophies, of memories hard won and lands explored. Will I ever step out of this poverty and turn, ever so graciously, into a capitalist?
These things are a swimming, and my head is mess, but I find comfort in the small things in life, the warmth of the sun on my back, the feeling of fresh grass between my toes, and sleep. Life is busy, I am healthy and alive, and I suppose there is little more I should expect. For now, I'll craw into bed and dream of home, dream of my friends, brothers, dogs, and all other living matter that I feel close to. This is it, the stream, and I am wading in.
Wednesday, September 2
Guest Post - Back to Black
Ladies and germs, please put your hands together for my first guest poster, Vivi, who recently exprienced a rather eye opening bout of racial stereotyping. Despite the common claim that Brazil is a racial democracy, the very words and actions of her people often speak otherwise.Lest I speak for one who speaks better than I speak myself, lets go ahead and raise the curtain. If I ever have any free time, then I'll try and get this commentary translated for my english speaking audience. Enjoy.
Vivi:
"Atendendo a um pedido do meu namorado, resolvi transformar em palavras um pouco do sentimento que permeia o ser humano, e neste caso em particular a mim mesma, quando somos expostos a uma realidade tão óbvia, porém veementemente negada: apesar de estarmos inseridos na era da diversidade, onde a multiculturalidade e a diferença supostamente deveriam ser enaltecidas, ainda somos regidos pelos estereótipos e pelo ‘pré’conceito. Digo ‘pré’ entre aspas para enfatizar como somos induzidos a um julgamento prévio mesmo quando não temos elementos suficientes para tal. Moldamos as informações a que somos expostos de acordo com o nosso conceito precedente e descartamos qualquer possibilidade de erro ou de uma nova leitura dos fatos.
O mais surpreendente ainda é que jamais imaginamos ser o alvo deste ‘pré’ conceito, mesmo quando fazemos parte de um grupo historicamente desprestigiado: no meu caso, a comunidade negra. Ainda assim consigo me estarrecer diante da atitude humana, mesmo que ela sirva de estimulo para o meu senso crítico e tenha despertado em mim uma posição sarcástica que até então não sabia ser capaz de adotar.
Poderia ter sido apenas mais um dia de trabalho. Com faço todas as sextas feiras, saí da faculdade em direção a Pituba (bairro nobre de Salvador) onde trabalho em uma das melhores escolas da cidade como professora de inglês. Era um dia ensolarado, e como sol em Salvador remete a ‘maresia’ resolvi abrir mão do estilo salto alto e bolsa social e usar algo mais descontraído: calça jeans, camiseta branca e backpack nas costas. A sandália rasteira e a faixa hippie no cabelo completavam o meu look verão. Contudo jamais imaginei que eles seriam o estopim para a situação mais vexatória que vivi nos últimos tempos. Vexatória para não dizer ridícula. Ridícula e engraçada.
Como de hábito, a caminho da escola parei diante de um vendedor ambulante para comprar alguns CDs. O mesmo não tinha troco e precisou ir a uma loja próxima. Enquanto isso, eu aguardava pacientemente em frente à banca de CDs. Neste momento percebi um olhar insistente em minha direção e ao voltar-me notei que um senhor, aparentando 50 e poucos anos e de boa estirpe, sem motivo aparente persistia em me observar.
Deixei a banca de CDs e rumei para o restaurante japonês self-service que costumo almoçar. Deixei minha mochila em uma das mesas e ao retornar com a minha refeição, para minha surpresa, o mesmo senhor se encontrava na mesa ao lado. Daí em diante o que aconteceu foi uma sucessão de ‘ me desculpe-s’ e tentativas de reversão de palavras mal ditas por conta do bendito ‘pré’ julgamento: ao me ver sentar a mesa, estarrecido, o senhor não se conteve e encarando minha mochila posta ao lado, dirigiu-se a mim com a seguinte pergunta: Mas você não era a mocinha que estava na banca dos CDs?
Eu: sim. Era eu mesma. Por quê? O senhor gostaria de alguma informação sobre filmes?
Ele: Sim. Eu já ia lhe perguntar o que você tem na mochila.
Eu: Bem, na mochila eu tenho livros e objetos pessoais. Quanto aos filmes eu posso lhe falar sobre os que eu já assisti e sobre os que acabei comprar. O senhor gostaria de vê-los?
Naquele momento, vi um homem partir da posição de indignado a vexatória situação de vergonha. Ele, quando me viu parada com alguns CDs na mão, pressupôs que eu era a vendedora e surpreendeu-se mais ainda ao ver que uma “ambulante” estava almoçando no mesmo restaurante que ele. Eu, de forma tranqüila e com o sorriso no rosto, retirei da mochila os vídeos que havia comprado e continuei: bem, esses eu comprei para uso pessoal, já esses para os meus alunos. Gostaria de saber quanto eu paguei?
Já sem palavras, tal senhor começou a se desculpar e quanto mais ele tentava amenizar a situação, incorria em mais equívocos. No final da historia ele soube que além de professora de inglês e colega de trabalho de alguns dos seus amigos pessoais, a suposta “vendedora ambulante de CDs” era muito mais inteligente e bem relacionada do que ele jamais poderia imaginar. Conclui a conversa com a seguinte frase; O senhor com certeza jamais pensou que uma ‘ambulante’ poderia fazer tanto não é? Tome cuidado, porque da próxima vez, pode não ser uma professora e sim uma juíza e aí o senhor vai estar em uma saia justa. Risos.
Enquanto nesse exato momento acontece no Rio de Janeiro um dos maiores festivais de cultura negra mundial, enquanto moramos na cidade indiscutivelmente reconhecida como o berço da África no Brasil, vejo um homem distinto e bem formado, administrador de uma das maiores companhias internacionais do país deixar-se levar pelo preconceito e pelo pré-julgamento. A ponto de verbalizar suas idéias infundadas e discriminatórias. E se eu fosse a vendedora de CDs? Qual o problema em estar naquele restaurante e dividirmos o mesmo espaço? Meu dinheiro e minha cor são alforriados pela minha profissão ou pelo meu status social? Ser negra numa terra de negros nem sempre significa ser reconhecida como individuo. O tão clamado back2black está mais para stepback."
Tuesday, September 1
New Routine
Get up at 6 a.m. The chickens are still asleep. The rooster has a hangover.
Work until 3:30. Screaming kids and math, yeah!
4 - 7 pm, Masters Degree class.
7-9 pm, Gym.
9 - Death. Homework into the night.
I may be a f'ing jedi but I suck at blogging. Sorry.
Work until 3:30. Screaming kids and math, yeah!
4 - 7 pm, Masters Degree class.
7-9 pm, Gym.
9 - Death. Homework into the night.
I may be a f'ing jedi but I suck at blogging. Sorry.
Thursday, August 27
Rat Racing
I'm sitting here at school with a few minutes to kill. The air conditioner is whirring hypnotically over my head, and my allergies are acting up. Since I have been back from my trip, life has been wonderfully routine. I get up for school at 6 in the morning, take a quick shower, and head out into the quiet early morning streets for a quick bite to eat. At the bakery next to my house, I order an "Americano" (cheese, ham, and egg sandwich with ketchup and hot sauce) and a large jar of freshly squeezed orange juice. After that, I wait in front of the Pacienca beach, watching the sun bleed of the water break as it crawls over the horizon.
I never thought that I would be one to enjoy running the rat race, and surely living one day the same as the next can be rather depressing. But what I notice in this so called adult life, when one works full time, is that time becomes the most precious of all resources. The older one becomes the less time one seems to have to do what needs to be done. And when you start thinking about getting "ahead in life", whether it means putting time into your profession, your relationships, your passion or pastimes, time management becomes imperitive to the betterment of all things.
In this sense, the adult life becomes like a well oiled machine. The rat race provides daily continuity so that one can tweak the small things in order to benefit a greater goal. Three days a week at the gym, martial arts on the weekends, extra time for money making plans. Each day presents the opportunity to perfect the system, as one crawls slowly forward into the so called "progress" of ones own life.
Will I tire of this, yes. Rather quickly I imagine. Half of me yearns for a life far removed from these mundande affairs. Hopefully summer break will offer some reprive, and I may continue my adventuring for a time. But for now, for just awhile, I look forward to oiling the machine, and running the alleyways and crossroads of my supposed adult life.
I never thought that I would be one to enjoy running the rat race, and surely living one day the same as the next can be rather depressing. But what I notice in this so called adult life, when one works full time, is that time becomes the most precious of all resources. The older one becomes the less time one seems to have to do what needs to be done. And when you start thinking about getting "ahead in life", whether it means putting time into your profession, your relationships, your passion or pastimes, time management becomes imperitive to the betterment of all things.
In this sense, the adult life becomes like a well oiled machine. The rat race provides daily continuity so that one can tweak the small things in order to benefit a greater goal. Three days a week at the gym, martial arts on the weekends, extra time for money making plans. Each day presents the opportunity to perfect the system, as one crawls slowly forward into the so called "progress" of ones own life.
Will I tire of this, yes. Rather quickly I imagine. Half of me yearns for a life far removed from these mundande affairs. Hopefully summer break will offer some reprive, and I may continue my adventuring for a time. But for now, for just awhile, I look forward to oiling the machine, and running the alleyways and crossroads of my supposed adult life.
Wednesday, August 26
The Fall
I feel like I’m falling
A sudden rush of movement downward,
far into the recesses of self that I used to be.
Were they just illusions, those walls built round,
vagaries of an ego wanting to be let free.
Hard is the depth of this black pit of sand,
where life chances on the taking,
breaks from the giving,
offers little in return.
Free fall, this devil,
Who shall I be?
Monday, August 17
Oh what a summer it's been - Part I
| I shall be telling this with a sigh | |
| Somewhere ages and ages hence: | |
| Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— | |
| I took the one MORE traveled by, | |
| And that has made all the difference. |
Yes my dears, what a summer it has been. I arrived in Salvador but two weeks past, a bit out of my mind with exhaustion. Three months of solid travel, of one dazed foot in front of the other, is certainly not for everyone. Even with my gypsy soul, my desire for liberation, for a life lived a thousand times, a thousand ways over, neh, I too reached my limit. And of all the strange things that might come out of my mouth, home sweet home, dare I say, might indeed be one of them.
So to begin, I'm going to have to stick to pictures until I can find some free time to sit in front of my laptop and think. Still too much swirling about the old noggin, and masters degree classes are just a few degrees around the corner.
So this is sad girlfriend face. Bye Leo, no I swear I'll come home, sigh. It's good to be back with my V.
First thing on the list, tall icy cold glasses of Guinness. Oh gawd. Lest I beergasm right now. It was wonderful.
Back home with the folks. Nice to see they are still vibrating industriously. Their house just gets prettier and prettier, filling up ever so slowly with my mothers stained glass projects. Being home is truly time warpy, but a nice break from the noise and heat of Salvador.
So then it was a 2o hour motorcycle ride to mother state New Mexico. The journey was hard as I peeled my way through the wind, a KLR 650 between my legs and some energy drink down my gullet, I felt liberated by the thought that my life was still free.
And then there was Taos Outback Pizza with green sauce, and it was good, and God saw that it was good, and then he ate it.
Whats life without a day with the bro, crawling up mountains and playing like boys.
Best things ever. Ever, ever, ever.
And then there was.....flash the f*@k forward, Dragons Orientation! God I could write a book about that experience. High Sierra Nevada Mountains, snow topped sunny days and blistery cold nights. I can't begin to explain how strange it was to hang out with really smart plugged in people from all around the world. I had my tattoos translated, I played sloppy guitar by a midnight fire, I jumped around half-professionally.
There was lot's and lot's of work, but a good bit of revelry too!
And I will admit, I learned more in those ten days then in the countless sleepless nights studying for my more conventional masters degree. Heh.
Dragons people are really dramatic, and smart, and talented. Not so fashionable, but we forgive them.
And dude....no one actually told me oh freakin' beautiful California is. Yosemite National Park, natural 70 foot water slides, yes please.
My birthday. I'm getting older, and I think more bald. Please don't tell anyone.
And after ten days, my crew finished off the final night by cooking dinner for well over a hundred people. I made rediculously good beans of the bald guy (a recipe I gaurd with pride), and we did some other Brazilian tasties as well. After competing with other crews for the previous nights, I must admit to feeling pretty awesome when we took home 1st place.
So, I will admit, this post is a total cop out. I could have, should have, documented my experience from the beginning. For a writer, pictures just don't do a blog justice. That said, posting over these last few months was pretty damn impossible, and I am left, the road MORE traveled, with little to show but my memories.
Friday, August 14
Finally back
Who would have thought that 3 months of heavy travel would be so exhausting. Well it's me, finally back home, a little bit shaky from my circumnavi..........uggg. Always interruptions. Life is busy. Back in a flash.
Friday, June 26
In the Field
Sorry guys for the lack of posts. Dragons Orientation has been a crazy adventure of 10 hour days, dusty California hikes, random language exchanges with people from all over the world. I am dead tired but excited to throw my kids into the enlightenment vortex that is Brazil.
For the next six weeks I will be in the field, traveling around northern Brazil and to the Amazon. With all of my course responsibilities, I will have little time to think, let alone post.
If you would like to follow my group, and see what Brazil can do to American youth, follow me here:
http://www.wheretherebedragons.com/yakyak.php
These are the online journal boards that both my students and I will post on.
Scroll under the "Current Courses" bar and click "Brazil, Summer 2009". Posts will display on the right.
In August I'll hopefully be back in Bahia. Hope to see all you Salvadorian folks soon thereafter.
Holla!
Tuesday, June 2
Back Home
Well, I`m here. Back in the States. First impressions? Jesus my country is wealthy. I know that I am stating the obvious, that blah blah blah, people always say that when they get back from their boy scout adventures in the third world. Obvious or not, perhaps it bears repeating. 4 door cars, massive food portions, width and state of the roads, lap tops, black berries, iPhones, flat screen tv`s. Mcy Mcy Mcy D`s. Jesus my country is wealthy.
So the trip in was painful but fun. I had a 12 hour layover at Miami International, and found, to my everlasting delight, an airport bar that served Guinness on tap. I have been craving a dark frothy beer since I landed in Brazil, and have patiently waited for my return so that I could binge on the Irish brew. As I sat at the bar drinking my Guinness, two playboy Brazilian guys from Sao Paulo sat next to me, getting their last gulps of all American Budweiser before heading home. E ai cara, tudo bem? Our conversation lasted over three hours. To my surprise, I not only led the tête-à-tête, but kept them laughing and falling out of their seats the whole time – AND ALL IN PORTUGUESE. Coming back has really made me reflect on all I have accomplished in a year and a half in Brazil, and the language proficiency is definitely the most gratifying.
So, you know how you know when your back in Oklahoma? When your dad drives up the driveway with a new 2500 Dodge Ram truck, and exits the vehicle to show you his newly purchased pawn shop Shotgun. When just about every woman you see is missing teeth, talks with a draw, and is about 150 pounds overweight. When the latest and greatest news of the day is the color of your neighbors calf’s. Oh Oklahoma, how I’ve missed you.
But I`m not complaining. Feels good to be back. It`s so quiet and peaceful around our Wichita mountain farm. I can`t remember the last time that clean natural air brushed my face, that I didn`t cringe at the sound of a yappy city dog, that I could run around listening to bees and smelling flowers. Last night, my mother treated me to a steak dinner, with spinach in homemade vinegar dressing, garlic bread, and a desert of vanilla ice cream with raspberries. Wow!
Wealthy or not, Oklahoma or not, I have to admit, feels pretty good to be “home”.
So the trip in was painful but fun. I had a 12 hour layover at Miami International, and found, to my everlasting delight, an airport bar that served Guinness on tap. I have been craving a dark frothy beer since I landed in Brazil, and have patiently waited for my return so that I could binge on the Irish brew. As I sat at the bar drinking my Guinness, two playboy Brazilian guys from Sao Paulo sat next to me, getting their last gulps of all American Budweiser before heading home. E ai cara, tudo bem? Our conversation lasted over three hours. To my surprise, I not only led the tête-à-tête, but kept them laughing and falling out of their seats the whole time – AND ALL IN PORTUGUESE. Coming back has really made me reflect on all I have accomplished in a year and a half in Brazil, and the language proficiency is definitely the most gratifying.
So, you know how you know when your back in Oklahoma? When your dad drives up the driveway with a new 2500 Dodge Ram truck, and exits the vehicle to show you his newly purchased pawn shop Shotgun. When just about every woman you see is missing teeth, talks with a draw, and is about 150 pounds overweight. When the latest and greatest news of the day is the color of your neighbors calf’s. Oh Oklahoma, how I’ve missed you.
But I`m not complaining. Feels good to be back. It`s so quiet and peaceful around our Wichita mountain farm. I can`t remember the last time that clean natural air brushed my face, that I didn`t cringe at the sound of a yappy city dog, that I could run around listening to bees and smelling flowers. Last night, my mother treated me to a steak dinner, with spinach in homemade vinegar dressing, garlic bread, and a desert of vanilla ice cream with raspberries. Wow!
Wealthy or not, Oklahoma or not, I have to admit, feels pretty good to be “home”.
Saturday, May 30
U S of A
Here we go. The fog horns are blaring from the docks, the ships about to set sail. These last few weeks have been busy. Hours upon hours, stacked into oblivion, have been spent in front of the computer. My fingers gain dexterity as my body withers away—my eyes red and drying as I stare into my digital world, typing away papers, planning Dragons curriculum, getting my shit together. Now, with my list fully checked, I begin the pensive crawl back to my homeland and away from my city by the sea.
How will things look this time around? Will they be larger, fuller, fatter than before? How about the frenzy, franchises, french fries, or maybe a tap of star and stripe diversity? How about the beer?
The most salient change that travel demands is a reexamination of one’s own society. Will I be more/less critical than before? Have I fasted on America for too long?
My bags are packed, last hand of poker to play before a sprint to the docks.
For this…
And the rest…
We shall see.
Oh Amewica.
How will things look this time around? Will they be larger, fuller, fatter than before? How about the frenzy, franchises, french fries, or maybe a tap of star and stripe diversity? How about the beer?
The most salient change that travel demands is a reexamination of one’s own society. Will I be more/less critical than before? Have I fasted on America for too long?
My bags are packed, last hand of poker to play before a sprint to the docks.
For this…
And the rest…
We shall see.
Oh Amewica.Tuesday, May 19
Crime's No Joke
Here in Brazil, getting robbed is just a fact of life. Assaults are common place and there are few weeks that go by when I don't hear a new story.
When the majority of residents here in Salvador make less than R$400 a month (if you are lucky)...
When the cost of living is so high (at least 3 times as expensive as in the States)...
When the state lacks adequate public education...
And the system fails you...
And your options are few...
Some people turn to crime to TAKE what they WANT out of life.
Crime here is everywhere. It permeates daily life. It's not something you only read about or see in the news. It's not some disconnected puppet show, but something real, something that makes you look behind your back and keeps you wired.
Some recent stories that I can remember:
-A few weeks ago, the director of our school walked out of his office and was robbed at gunpoint. He said that the crook shook with nervousness when he pointed the gun in his direction. The thief took his car keys, stole his car, and was never seen or heard from again.
-Same week, one of the teachers was robbed at knife point walking home from the gym.
-Friend of mine went to dinner in Barra, a trendy beach side neighborhood. A group of five men entered the restaurant with automatic rifles. Everyone ran into the back and hid in the kitchen. The register was robbed and the crooks fled.
-Same friend was beaten onto the ground by three guys on a seperate incident. One held down his girlfriend. The two were robbed of all their belongings.
-That same friend was walking along the beach and a man with a machete ordered him to hand over his backpack. He dropped it and ran.
-My girlfriends cousin -- a security guard and black belt in jujitsu -- tried to resist when a group of guys rushed him. The thieves shot him through the chest. Somehow he lived.
At work, instead of circulating internet jokes or office humor, we often get these (overhead shots of points in the city, where the latest spree of robberies are taking place):
Often times, when things go wrong, assaults end in violence. Not only do the victims get hurt, but when the thugs make a mistake or are somehow over powered, people will turn on them as well. Countless times I have watched news broadcasts of bus robberies, where the public has cornered the thief (usually 16 years old) and are collectively beating him to death.
Consider it bottled up rage. When you work your ass off for R$ 400 a month, and someone tries to take it from you, your reaction is usually less than sympathetic. And as much as I would like to play anthropologist, living here changes you. Something about watching a thief get a taste of his own medicine feels good. It's karma, and somehow deserved.
Check out this video. I find it so fascinating. This is one of those joke shows where guys go out on the street and mess with people on film. The guy is running up to people and yelling, "ASSALTO"! (ROBBERY!) and then pulling out a newspaper to complain about high grocery prices. I'm sure that if this was taped in the US, people would have a totally different reaction. Here in Brazil, crime is no joke.
When the majority of residents here in Salvador make less than R$400 a month (if you are lucky)...
When the cost of living is so high (at least 3 times as expensive as in the States)...
When the state lacks adequate public education...
And the system fails you...
And your options are few...
Some people turn to crime to TAKE what they WANT out of life.
Crime here is everywhere. It permeates daily life. It's not something you only read about or see in the news. It's not some disconnected puppet show, but something real, something that makes you look behind your back and keeps you wired.
Some recent stories that I can remember:
-A few weeks ago, the director of our school walked out of his office and was robbed at gunpoint. He said that the crook shook with nervousness when he pointed the gun in his direction. The thief took his car keys, stole his car, and was never seen or heard from again.
-Same week, one of the teachers was robbed at knife point walking home from the gym.
-Friend of mine went to dinner in Barra, a trendy beach side neighborhood. A group of five men entered the restaurant with automatic rifles. Everyone ran into the back and hid in the kitchen. The register was robbed and the crooks fled.
-Same friend was beaten onto the ground by three guys on a seperate incident. One held down his girlfriend. The two were robbed of all their belongings.
-That same friend was walking along the beach and a man with a machete ordered him to hand over his backpack. He dropped it and ran.
-My girlfriends cousin -- a security guard and black belt in jujitsu -- tried to resist when a group of guys rushed him. The thieves shot him through the chest. Somehow he lived.
At work, instead of circulating internet jokes or office humor, we often get these (overhead shots of points in the city, where the latest spree of robberies are taking place):
Often times, when things go wrong, assaults end in violence. Not only do the victims get hurt, but when the thugs make a mistake or are somehow over powered, people will turn on them as well. Countless times I have watched news broadcasts of bus robberies, where the public has cornered the thief (usually 16 years old) and are collectively beating him to death.Consider it bottled up rage. When you work your ass off for R$ 400 a month, and someone tries to take it from you, your reaction is usually less than sympathetic. And as much as I would like to play anthropologist, living here changes you. Something about watching a thief get a taste of his own medicine feels good. It's karma, and somehow deserved.
Check out this video. I find it so fascinating. This is one of those joke shows where guys go out on the street and mess with people on film. The guy is running up to people and yelling, "ASSALTO"! (ROBBERY!) and then pulling out a newspaper to complain about high grocery prices. I'm sure that if this was taped in the US, people would have a totally different reaction. Here in Brazil, crime is no joke.
Wednesday, May 13
Saturday, May 9
"Winter" Blues
Here in Bahia, the sun is everything—it is the dance, the movement, the energy of this place. When the sun breaks through the clouds, the city warms like a prairie ant hill. Our legs and arms creak from winter entropy. Our heads start to swivel from side to side as we break listless into the outer-world. Without the sun this city is dead.
Two weeks now. Two solid weeks of rain and much more than usual. Here in the northeast, floods have killed at least 32 people and left more than 200,000 homeless. In Salvador, the waters rose unexpectedly flooding whole neighborhoods and burying people in their cars. With many left isolated in their homes, robberies and lootings have increased dramatically. As usual, it is the poor who suffer as the city drowns in its own filth.
For me, the sun is everything. Growing up in Michigan, life can be defined by one long series of depression, by seasonal affective disorder, constant cloud coverage, and the “winter blues”. I have always wondered if climate can affect a country’s cosmology—if our religious outlook is somehow linked to our mood, or how much sun we take in. Case in point, Norse mythology vs. Greek mythology, the former being a dark story of predestined death, of a three year winter and final battle on the Vigrid Plain, of Ragnarok, the end of the world. The Greeks myths, while dramatic and very human in their tone, somehow feel less heavy, like the author was comforted by the fact that he could take a break, set down his pen, and go play outside.
Brazil, without the sun, is a hard place to be. The waters of the South Atlantic are brown and discolored. Trash lies on the street, miserable, uncollected, and the place feels worn out and sad. It is Michigan without the comforts, and not where I want to be. Guess I’m lucky to be leaving this month, to escape this “winter” for an American summer, and to balance my cosmology, mythology, and personal views once again.
Two weeks now. Two solid weeks of rain and much more than usual. Here in the northeast, floods have killed at least 32 people and left more than 200,000 homeless. In Salvador, the waters rose unexpectedly flooding whole neighborhoods and burying people in their cars. With many left isolated in their homes, robberies and lootings have increased dramatically. As usual, it is the poor who suffer as the city drowns in its own filth.
For me, the sun is everything. Growing up in Michigan, life can be defined by one long series of depression, by seasonal affective disorder, constant cloud coverage, and the “winter blues”. I have always wondered if climate can affect a country’s cosmology—if our religious outlook is somehow linked to our mood, or how much sun we take in. Case in point, Norse mythology vs. Greek mythology, the former being a dark story of predestined death, of a three year winter and final battle on the Vigrid Plain, of Ragnarok, the end of the world. The Greeks myths, while dramatic and very human in their tone, somehow feel less heavy, like the author was comforted by the fact that he could take a break, set down his pen, and go play outside.
Brazil, without the sun, is a hard place to be. The waters of the South Atlantic are brown and discolored. Trash lies on the street, miserable, uncollected, and the place feels worn out and sad. It is Michigan without the comforts, and not where I want to be. Guess I’m lucky to be leaving this month, to escape this “winter” for an American summer, and to balance my cosmology, mythology, and personal views once again.
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