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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
French vanilla icecream M-401 electronic cig. Pretty damn delicious.
Chilling in front of Desabafo, our favorite new hipster bar find. 
