Friday, December 18, 2009

Pedagogy of the Oppressed

Should I stay or should I go now?

My project is winding down. Yesterday, the ladies had their end of the year party. We danced Samba (they were pleasantly suprised to find that the gringa has rhythm), and ate cake. Everyone received and shared their books. I'll compile an little anthology for them as a new year present. Sucks to having a falling out with your university contact.

All of my fellow exchanges are preparing to run around the country to see the Northeast, Rio de Janeiro, the beaches, Carnival. I'm trying to find a farm a short bus ride away from a beach. Christmas and New Year will be quite for me this year, but I think I'll have a good time.

Ok. So I can stay here for an additional 3 months, and teach some very basic English to people who don't have much. I won't be paid, but I will have free room and board and transportation. Part of me really wants to go home and establish a long term home for myself. Another part of me says, it's not everyday/lifetime you get a chance to go learn from some people whose lives are vastly different from yours. And isn't part of this "experience abroad" about shifiting your own ideas of what you need--getting outside of the comfort zone? And didn't you come here to help? I think it would be helpful to give audience and new tools (barebones english) and the novelty of newness/foreigness to poor people (or anyone else).


My friend, Felix, said (in response to a completely different topic): the question we always face is this: how should we respond to our current situation in order to make it better? instead of dwelling on ourselves and our feelings, we should focus on our context and how it might benefit from our presence.

How frustrating that reality isn't static. The idea imbues us with so much responsibility. It means that we are not objects subject to some unfotunate and permanent way of being, but that we have the choice to change. And we all know how uncomfortable change (and necessarily(?) sacrifice) can be. So now I have to answer the ever present question. How should I respond to my current situation in order to make it better? How can my current context benefit from my presence? Well, I could spend some time talking to young poor people about how the world is in other places so that they can generate new ideas about what reality is--imagining is the first step to creating, right? This is why we value teaching kids, right? They have time that old people don't have to recreate the world--to develop it.

And why is it important to do this work here instead of say, teaching Portuguese in Chicago? It's important because English is a language that is spoken all over the world, not only in Mozambique, Angola, Portugal and Brazil. It is important because I am not foreign at home--I do no represent a far off and "exotic" place, and therefore do not function as a fixed point to give perspective on the breadth of the world. Of course, I'll continue working in literacy/writing/education when I get home. We have poor kids, too. So, if I can pull it off, I'll stay here for 3 more months, and then I'll head to Chicago for a little while to see if I can get a really amazing job/volunteer with this organization. If I get it, I'll do cartwheels and settle in for a while. If I don't I'll head to Virginia, to regroup.


Besides, this way I don't have to be in Chi for any of winter. Holler.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Not amazing

but I wrote it, and it's on a 501(c)3's blog.

http://www.unitedplanet.org/blog/2009/10/20/capoeira-a-foreigners-first-taste-of-brazil/

Favellas, Catholic Church, Afro-Brasilian Mysticism, Etc.


When I leave my bedroom in the mornings I open my door to find a diminuitive woman in her late sixties. Sometimes she's watching TV. She watches 30 minutes of church every morning. Sometimes she's walking around talking to someone that no one else can see. Other times she's laughing along with children's cartoons or waving her hands in the air as she dances alone in the quiet of her living room. Today, when I opened my door, prior to being electrocuted (not death penalty style, but with a sudden jolt of energy as I tried to turn off the shower), I saw her being laid hands upon by a woman who practices some sort of energy moving/healing technique. The music in the background was akin to the sounds of Enya. I live in a Catholic household, but Catholicisim in Brazil has some very close ties with Afro-Brasilian mysticisim.

Carlos, the adult son (he's 40ish) of my new host parents (o pai rises early, retires early, and spends his in between time cooking in the kitchen and chatting with people in the street), is a simple man with a lot of love in his heart. On Saturday he took me to meet some people that he thought might be good connections for me, and who are also his friends. We went to Ilha da Pintada, to attend a women's ministry group which feautred a panel concerning domestic violence. The discussion was an active attempt to inform abused people about their rights outlined in the Maria da Penha law. The chapel is located in a favella (a community of homes built out of whatever people can find--discarded doors, rope, laundry lines, scrap wood and scrap metal--and peopled by folks whos main source of income is gained by collecting the trash from around the city: cans, cardboard and plastic.) just at the edge of the lake, and is mostly windows. The favella is just opposite a very wealthy neighborhood that you can see in pictures like the one to the right (which incidentally, I did not take because my camera is broke-ass). We were lucky, that some of the lake water had receeded since last weeks rain. The group of women (and Carlos) ranged in age from 2-70, and thing that was most touching about the whole event is that at the beginning of the service each person had to get up to hand a "peace candle" to the person at his or her right.

After the service Matilda, an organizer for Movimento Sem-Terra, asked if I would be interested in working on a program to teach English to the youth in the favella starting with 3 young people that she knows. I could stay for any where between 3 more months to a year. So I'm thinking about it. Before I left, I was told that poverty here is like nothing I'd ever seen before, and it's true. Favellas are the biggest open secret in Brazil. But despite the rampant drug and sex trafficing problems, the majority of the people living in poverty are honest hard working, family oriented folks who simply do not have access to education or a social system designed to serve them. So should I stay here and align myself with education and workers rights movements, or should I go home and do the same type of work? My method of fighting the good fight wouldn't change--I'd still be working in the field of literacy, but I'd be doing in a developing country, along with my own foreigness. Thoughts? I'd be glad to discuss. Especially if anyone has something to say about Paulo Friere--I was bound to get around to reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed sometime, right?

While I'm still in the shadow of decision: first stop, organic farm, next stop the beach, then World Social Forum and then The Future. I wish it would stop doing all of this looming.

I will assume that I am now writing to the ghosts of people who used to read this blog. Big love, ya'll.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Tudo Bem. Everything's Good.

Yesterday I returned from Raicao Gaia in Pantano Grande. It's a beautiful place founded on the principal that human beings should live as conscientious members of a greater ecosystem. The folks there grow what they eat, and they teach their visitors about the land they use and how they use it. It's a little like the folks associated with WWOOF.

I'm not sure of the objectives for the mid camp. Presumably the organization, ABIC, wanted to collect information about our travel plans, since in January we all of 4 weeks free from our projects. Another goal for our round table discussions was to inform the three girls preparing to travel to Europe about the types of projects that they're likely to encounter. The other exchangees received the letters that they wrote to themselves 3 months ago (I received the letter that I wrote to myself from my sending organization 3 weeks ago). So, certainly, one aim of the camp was to encourage reflection. Still while abundant free time was worked into the schedule, there was no time set aside to sit individually and quietly. But then I suppose everyone has different methods of spending time with their thoughts. I prefer to stop talking and to pick up a pen.

When I did finally exctricate myself from the group, in perfect introvert form (a silent panic in reaction to negligible and incessant babble from 25 other people), I wrote that listening to German, English and Portuguese at at once is like listening to music or eating a salad of basil, sliced peach, almonds, sprouts, sweet peppers and arugala. They're a multitude of flavors that seem not to match but which, in reality, complement and accent one another. Anyway, I was reminded of my trip to Caxias 2 weeks ago. I went to a language school there, along with another exchange, to talk about my country. It was a super pleasant experience. We walked in to see 60 empty chairs and several smiling women who offered us snacks and gave us a tour of the classrooms. Once the chairs were full, a couple of interesting things happened. After my presentation there was a question and answer session in which I was asked two difficult questions. One of which I'm not certain I actually answered. The first question was, "How do you feel about encountering so many non-native English speakers?" The other thing is that after Max's presenation about Germany he got stuck in a conversation about whether Germans are xenophobic. Every traveller from any country is treated as though he or she is responsible for the entire history of the country that he or she was raised in. A country is a heavy thing to have to carry around.

Part of my answer was that I find it frustrating that when I speak to people they do not understand the subtexts or the implications of what I say. I have a similar frustration with all of the things that are lost in translation when I listen to a Brasileiro speak in Portuguese. Language is intimately connected to shared culture, but still language is transient. When it commutes to a new country or series of countries it develops new branches and loses some roots. Even in conversation with the two British exchanges here it is difficult to communicate all of what I can communicate with another person from the states. We share a native language and a connected history, but two entirely different cultures. Of course, the differences lead to interesting conversations about race and segregation and travel and family values. The micro language faux pas lead to funny discussions about double entandres. Sometimes beautiful phrases come out of people's mouths when they're fumbling with a new language.

The other question was,"Who are your idols." How odd to receive a question like this. Interesting that solely by virtue of having been born and raised in an English speaking country my status was elevated (if only for an hour) to that of a d list celebrity. My first thought was "What?", and the second was "How the f am I supposed to answer that question?" So what I said was, "um. I like writers a lot. I could tell you who I'd like to meet," but that didn't work, so I said something along the lines of: I'm truly inspired by regular people who make it through their lives with some happiness. Living is not easy, and I think it's good to celebrate people who manage to be happy while they're going through it. I probably should have said, Mother Teresa or Ghandi or Marin Luther King, Jr., but I'll stick with my answer. And the person I'd most like to have dinner with is James Baldwin.

And you? Which person (living or dead and famous or not) would you like to meet for:

Breakfast with? Audre Lorde
Coffee? Charles Bukowski
Lunch? Kim Ki Duk (the guy who directed 3 Iron)
A drink? Haruki Murakami
Dinner? James Baldwin
Drinks? either the fellow who started The Moth reading series or The folks who created This American Life.

All of these instances of breaking bread are good for different types of conversations. Choose wisely.

To be honest I still haven't made any decisions about what to do when I return to the states. I have started to think about what to do for my free 6 weeks. I am going to join WWOOF and volunteer on a farm for a month. They'll feed me and give me shelter. I'll do manual labor, learn about organic farming, meet other travellers, and see a little more of Brasil. After that I'll make my way to a mountain or a waterfall to camp for my birthday, and if I've joined couchsurfing.com in case I need a place to stay or I get lonely. Next, I'll come back to Porto Alegre to attend the World Social Forum. When that ends it will be February and I'll have 2 weeks left. Who knows how I'll spend it. Oh wait, the second one is Carnival. I'm going to celebrate with the rest of the country.

A couple of people asked about my transistion from Jacque's house to Cinthia's house. I didn't write about it, because I can't think of a nice way to say what I want to say about my experience at Jacque's home, and it's nothing to dwell on. And the biggest issue between Jacque and I is that I'm too independent to live in her home. Cinthia has been lovely, but she'll be going on vacation for the month of December, so I'll be moving in with an older couple who live in Petropolis. It is a lovely neighborhood, and I'm sure they'll be very nice people.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

will 2 grow in its place?


Today I found (for the second time) and plucked my first grey hair.

Now I'll go take a test to see how much Portuguese I've absorbed in the last 3 months. I'm officially midway through.

I don't know whether there is a draw to this blog, and if there is I'm not sure what it is. I suspect it has something to do with wanting to know the foods, the sights, the clothing and the different types of personal contact that go on in another country. I think it also has something to do with wanting to understand why so many people claim that travelling changes a person. Folks want to know how and in which ways.

Before the last paragraph I was going to write, there are days when I feel like I've had my fill and when I think I've done what I came to do. But if I can say that at 3 months of 6, then I must be in for some suprises. When I feel finished it just means that I've exhausted my expectations. I've adjusted.


Oh, Clothing: Many of the women here in Rio Grande do Sul where platform shoes, typically boots made from faux leather. They couple these gems with spandex leggings, you know the kind that little girls in the north use when it's winter. Here leggings are pants. And I object.
Food: When people sit down for almoco (that should have a cedilha, the 'c' with a tail) in a restaurant or at home (this is an afternoon meal)it looks something like this: salada verde, fejiao,arroz, carne e algo outro tipo de legume.

I live in a city, and when people are spiraling out from the center it looks like this:

Monday, November 16, 2009

Ambassador

Tomorrow I'll go on a road trip to Caixas to talk with some people who are studying English. I get to talk about the culture of The States and answer questions. I don't claim to be an expert in any field, but tomorrow my opinion will weigh just a little more than it normally does, because for some of these folks I'll be the only American they've ever met. Hopefully I can say something right. I'll let you know how it goes.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Temporary Abode, Life Stories


Two things: One: I moved, and this situation is a much better fit. Jacque was generous, and I appreciate her, but Cinthia is more of a roommate than a host mom, and overall that's better for me. I live in a neighborhood called Petropolis. It looks like this. I'll be here for 3 weeks, and then I'll move in with another host family. I don't know where, and I don't know how the hosts will be.

Cinthia, my host, is sweet. She watches romantic comedies and offers me chocolate when I'm sitting nearby. She chats about boys and her friends. She majored in tourism and works for a hotel. She spends her evenings chatting with her neighbors who welcomed me on my first night here by taking me out dancing with them for to celebrate a birthday.

Two: The ladies of Namaskar finished the first phase of the book. They've written responses to prompts like these (initially I wrote them in Portuguese, but that wouldn't make sense for you so here they are in English):

In the space below, please write or design a letter to your body. Tell how you feel about your body. Include why you love your body and what you remember about your past. Include, also, a promise for the future.

Please write or design about a time when you knew that your life was important. Who loves you? How do you know?

In general, I'm not a fan of prompts, but these ladies barely read, and writing is more difficult for them than reading. They don't think in methaphors. They think literally and mostly about work. It can't be called a writing workshop, but it did start some interesting conversations and a lively show and tell. I count that as a success. So far, I've read about a husband who is the father is wife never had, and I've seen a 5 part panoramic drawing of a woman's life over 50 years; I've read testaments to the joys of cleaning laundry and snippets of stories about the adoration of grandchildren.

Now, I could let the project end with the women taking their books home and putting them on some shelf. That might be fine for them, but for me, this project needs to go a little farther. I'm not sure what I can do with it though. I could write a paper about the process and my observations, but what would any conclusions I draw be relevant to? What I am doing with these women can't be called teaching. It's more like I’m facilitating.

Tomorrow we'll paint cardboard book covers and take pictures of each artist. The whole thing is akin to the 826CHI style, but it is for literacy level adults. Any ideas? Anybody wanna talk it out with me?

I'll try to write about the awesome amazing 55 Feira do Livros, and I'll take pictures of the turnsiles at the bank.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Week 12

I wrote an entirely different entry for this week, but it isn’t interesting. Instead I’d like to know if you have any questions and if there’s anything in particular you’d like to see? Tomorrow we start the book project. Here’s the idea that I’m stealing. (I will add the pictures ASAP) I’ll keep you updated on that. I’m back in the doghouse with Jacque, so I don’t know where we stand on this book project or whether I’ll live in this house next week.


Oh, and the highlights of the last week: I received mail from China from Andi, another exchange from the states. That’s right, mail from China to Brazil addressed to me. Amazing. It was really nice to hear what another United States-ian exchange is feeling. I think we’re right on par.

Also, I got a call from the volunteer coordinator that said that I got a good report from Jacque (just before I pissed her off again), and I was invited to participate in a conversation in a city 4 hours away from Porto Alegre in 2 weeks. So awesome, that should be interesting. And I had an article published by my sending organization.

I had my three month panic, and I’m feeling better now. How was Halloween? Are there Thanksgiving decorations up where you are?

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Wednesday and Thursday



Earlier this week I walked past a home for people with mental illnesses. It was 80 degrees out and the sun was shining. Here the colors are brilliant. Maybe it is the contrast of the sky to the yellowed dirt and gravel roads, the dingy pastel colored former factories or the early model maroon and green VW bugs. The white of the gate enclosing the patio of the home was as white as this digital page. The men and women sitting in the shade there looked muted, not pale, but flat in contrast to their bleached white clothes; and they said little, with the exception of one man who screamed and pushed his brow back with his palm as he eyed the woman in front of him. She didn’t move. She sat in her chair with her mouth open. I don’t think it can be said that she was looking at anything, though she wasn’t blind. On the opposite side of the street a man slowed his car to talk to the prostitute who, despite the heat, did not seem to be sweating. Maybe because I don’t understand most of words around me, the atmospheric sounds that I notice are reduced to the hum of the language, tires on dirt and mud, horse hooves, men working, the footsteps of a little boy who seems to be pursuing a truck. He didn’t say anything. He just sucked the middle two fingers of his right hand as he walked, kicking rocks as he did. I wouldn’t call the place I’m passing an asylum; it is more of a home. It’s roughly 300 yards away from anything. No houses, bus stops, businesses. There’s just this road that I’m walking on. In my head I hear English; nothing interesting, it’s just the incessant narration that follows me through my days. And as walk by I see tableaus: a man yelling at a sitting woman, a woman wiping flour from her hands with a dish towel. She says something that arrests the man’s attention. And in my final steps I watch another man begin to smile as in the background, and more loudly than the traffic or our matron tending to her charges, James Taylor’s voice rises and I hear him singing another song about love. It’s Wednesday again, and my group of elderly women will meet, I think, but I’m not sure where. They’re not in the normal place. They’re not in the room I traveled an hour on foot and an hour by bus to get to, but there is a sign. It’s a sign I can’t read. Something about today and next week and another place. And so I’m walking back to the bus stop to watch men break bricks with hammers and mix mud and litter with cement mix and water to fix the sidewalk they’ll tear up again next week.


It’s Thursday and I’m riding in the car with Jacque (with whom things are no longer tense. Who knows why. Let’s just be grateful. She’s a gracious host and I’m a respectful guest.) because I’ve got no money since my cards aren’t working, and I’ve already spent the $50 I’ve received for the month. Last week or another day I noticed a book that Jacque bought. It’s a book of poems by an Argentinean author, and it’s been published with a cardboard cover. I’ve wanted to give this mini-writing workshop which will result in little publications for all of the ladies to take home, and here’s this idea which is cheap and easy and which would take just the right amount of time for our sessions. So I mention this to Jacque, and she says something like, “Oh, well if it’s about health and it’s creative writing, then maybe we can make a partnership between UFRGS and ABIC and your project.” She says this because she’s a professor at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul, and she is a doctor of education in the health department. So now we’re riding around in what seems like circles trying to get to the parking lot of the school, so that we can have coffee, she can tell me to come up with a plan, loan me R$20 and send me on my way. So she parks, we have coffee, she tells me the requirements, gives me R$20 and goes off to a meeting. I set off to another cafe—the hipsters’ (I’m admitting nothing) Shan-gri-la and create a proposal. So far three members of the possible partnership are in, and I’m waiting on a response from the other one. Wish me luck.


Oh, and let me know if you have thoughts about the proposal.) I still have time to tweak it.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Nightlife

Two things: I finally felt useful at my project. I worked with a woman who is 76 years old, and I helped her answer questions like: what was your childhood dream? Which dreams do you have for the future? If you could change anything in the world what would you cha

nge? Those seem like insignificant questions, but this is a woman doesn’t see a future for herself. She’s old, and so she invests all of her hope into her children. She is old and people don’t ask her questions about herself. I talked to my mom a couple of months ago, and she told me that she talked to her mom about how your children grow up and move away and how that hurts. Young people are caught up in the hurried business of living or getting by and of getting more. We tend not to challenge one another to “live up to our potential.” Not as individuals anyway. It’s as if we exhaust the hopes of the people in our lives by the time we’re “all grown up.” Of course this is not always true. If it were we would have no political debates, and I would not be writing anything. At all. Ever.

Excuse the digression. I felt useful for two reasons, one: Dona S— can’t read or write, so I did those things for her (if my Portuguese were better, we had more time, and the purpose of the project were to teach her I would have) and allowed her to tell a story about herself. She had the opportunity to tell a series of small stories about herself and her family to someone who was interested without being interrupted. So I made her feel important and I read, wrote, listened to and spoke Portuguese.

Not only am I understanding conversations, I’m beginning to hear the music of another language. The sounds are beginning to make sense. When I listen to the hum of conversation I can pick out phrases in addition to words. And when I talk to a native Portuguese speaker in English I can hear the difference between the way his or her laugh sounds when they laugh in English and the melody that it has when he or she laughs in Portuguese. I noticed this yesterday. My friend Tais called me and asked me to meet her at the Park. This is a very Porto Alegrenese thing to do. On Sundays most people don’t work and a lot of people go out to Redencao park and walk t

heir dogs and their babies, drink Chimarrao (Erba Matte out of a Caiu, which is a type of cup cut from a gourd) and browse the crafts fair. Sometimes there’s music in the park. Sometimes Capoeira groups come out and play. Mostly people have a good time, sun bathe and play futbol or ride bikes.

Anyway, yesterday I spent the entire day with a person who makes sense to me. The best part about walking around the city and drinking beer and chasing the sunset and playing pool is that I did all of those things with someone who is from here. She was born and raised in this city and knows short cuts and cheap hangouts and she works hard and still makes time to try to balance on the edge of a sidewalk like a tight rope walker. I keep wanting to write that I felt that I understood more about what it means to be Brazilian yesterday—that there is a rhythm here that is intimately connected to that of the language and to see a single personality that this rhythm—this urban southern gaucho culture—has created makes me feel as if I’m finally here.

I was a degenerate all weekend. I drank beer at the ever fantastic Café Cantante with 4 or 5

dudes who party from 11-6 every weekend and who have day jobs like medical doctor, lawyer, computer technician. Then on Sunday I walked around with my head in the clouds and a beer in my hand. What I did this weekend that I haven’t done since I got here was enjoy the night. Everyday someone tells me that it is too dangerous to be outside after 9pm, but that’s only true if you don’t know where to walk or who to spend your time with. I realize that poverty here is much more severe than it is in the states, but the folks who live outside and in the favellas are not malicious. Sure sometimes having nothing prompts criminality, and honestly I don’t think it’s ethically wrong to steal bread if you’re starving. What I’m trying to get at is that in walking around at night I felt some bit of the hope/eternity/freedom that exists when you’re playing kick-the-can or midnight madness under the streets lights in your subdivision. I feel like I’m trying to explain the joke.

This was supposed to be a short entry, but I don’t really have much time to edit it down, so oops. My bad.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Bicycles and Morrostock

We had a three-day-weekend this week because of Children’s Day. When I asked Jacque about it, she said it’s just a commercial holiday installed to make parents feel guilty if they don’t by presents for the little bits. Well, she stopped at “commercial holiday.” But since I had all of that time off (read: regular amount of free time) I decided to go get cultured. I went to a few places. I walked to Gasometro, roughly 3 miles from my front door. It’s a cultural center, and this past weekend it housed a Latin American Craft Fair. There were vendors from all over the continent selling their wares. I bought a bracelet for my host sister, in honor of the holiday, and a decorative rug for my host mother.


On the top floor of the Gasometro I saw this bicycle exhibit and was reminded that I have been taking pictures of bicycles since I moved into this house. Bikes are amazing. They will never go out of style, and they just might be the objects which make the most efficient use of human energy. People use them to carry all sorts of things here (and at home, but urban commuter biking is a different animal), children, furniture, beer. In the rural areas and up in the mountains in smaller more independent neighborhoods—think Hilton Head but not wealthy and landlocked—where there are no buses there’s a lane in the middle of the road dedicated exclusively to pedestrians and cyclists. This morning I watched people ride along toward their early morning tasks, some with their arms folded, a few with one hand on the handlebars and one raised with an open umbrella. People have water delivered here because they don’t drink the tap water. So the delivery dudes put three jugs of water on the front of their bikes and drop it off. The fellows who collect recycling often attach bikes to the fronts of their carts. Anyway, I thought you might like to see the bikes. Living here is bizarre. At any point during my day I am just as likely to see a cowboy riding a horse on the sidewalk as I am to see a $3000 dollar Bianche, a 1978 VW Bug or a 2002 Volvo.


Like I said, things have been a little tense with Jacque, so when she suggested that I go on a trip with my long weekend, I took her up on the idea, borrowed a tent and went to Morrostock,http://morrostockopenair.blogspot.com/, an annual music festival held in October. This year it was in Sapiranga, RS, about 4 hours away from where I live. It took two busses, a ride from a stranger (she was a lovely woman), and a 2 hour walk to get to the little bar in front of the site, but it was nice to travel. So, last night I camped by myself on a mountain in the middle of nowhere and listened to bands from all over the country play. I didn’t do much talking, but I did meet a couple of people. The best part of the whole deal was this bluegrass band, though. It is strange to listen to people speak Portuguese and then sing in English. These guys were pretty good, though. What’s more is I was probably the only person in the audience who understood what the words meant. Going to this music fest by myself reminded me how foreign I am. I liked some of the music, but didn’t understand most of what was being said (though I understand more and more everyday). And pretty quickly word spread that I am an exchangee, and this won me some stares, but no light conversation.

I’m still taken aback at the heavy influence of American culture. I find myself frustrated and possessive. You know, like, don’t call me a gringo and then turn around and claim Jimi Hendrix. I came all the way down here to experience Brasilian culture and to get away from mine, but mine seems to be seeping in at all points: one of the major grocery store chains is owned by Wal Mart, most of the non-public access channels on cable are American (Fox, Warner, and Universal), the popular music on the radio (for 11-year-olds) is American. In contrast, the teenagers are listening Funk—not American Funk, but something akin in philosophy to what Rap was about in the early 80s. It has a pretty heavy electronic sound, and it is dance music with lyrics about sex and drugs. It is very rhythmic. And I’ve been watching Telenovelas partly because I need to listen to the language and partly because I like drama. (somewhere in here I got distracted and stopped revising. oops.) But then I think it is cool that we can so easily memorize the sounds/words of another language and that that can be a great tool for study. I think that music has this incredible power to unite.

On Sunday night a drunk kid was splashing around in the puddles during the performance of Tax Free, a rock band, and one of the security guards hit him in the head and knocked him down. Maschismo is a dangerous thing. The other security guard kicked the kid while he was down. David was his name. I know that because during the performance of the clown troupe he volunteered to have a piece of paper whipped out of his hand and then he asked the contortionist to dance. He was difficult to miss with his Drew Carey glasses and mass of curly black hair. Anyway, one of the organizers of the fest called bullshit and had the security guard escorted out. Then the DJ played Come Together in solidarity and lots of people took to the puddles. Still, it is unsettling to hear a bunch of Brasilians singing Why Go by Pearl Jam and Around the World by The Red Hot Chili Peppers in English and to know that if I were to begin to speak no one would understand—to know that they don’t know what they’re saying. I feel like I’m fumbling around in the dark when I speak Portuguese, and I feel not a little guilty when I speak English. I guess maybe I was just jealous of all of the people with a common language and shared memory of songs (that the live bands sang) and geography.

I spent the night trying to get comfortable or tired in my tent. I dodged little puddles, and wished I’d had a tarp. I thought about how music and booze and pot and camping brings people together, and I how I wanted that. And then I thought that I’m proud to be a person who can speak/read in a new language (well enough to get to the right busses, accept the offer of a ride, make polite conversation, find my way to a concert a 2 hour walk away from the bus station, pay my entrance fee, buy a beer and share a Chimarrao with a nice man who really likes Bluegrass). This morning I was glad that I woke up on a mountain at 6 in the morning and that I knew exactly how to get where I was going, and that I didn’t need to rush. I appreciated the beautiful morning and the fog and the cows grazing the and free roaming dogs and the people doing everyday normal people things: opening up shop, cleaning, enjoying the quiet morning.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Crazy is the Same Everywhere

Last week I was all stressed out about what to do with all of this free time, and how annoying it is that things are not what I expected them to be, but things are never the way we expect them to be, with the exception of family gatherings, and I realized I was complaining about having free time. That’s just silly. I have a long list of places I can go to for free, so I’m going. Besides, if I’m out of the house my host mother and I can’t piss each other off. I’ve been to 3 very large, very populated parks, this museum: http://www.iberecamargo.org.br/ and a rally/concert (the poster is on the right). So this week was better there were more characters.

People are funny. I’ve spent my week walking around piecing the city together. I’ve walked for roughly 15 hours (perhaps I should purchase a bicycle), and I’ve talked to a bunch of strangers. For the last four days or so I’ve walked around for 3 or 4 miles a day going to parks and museums, rallies and concerts. I watch people in cafes and speak to whomever strikes up a conversation.

This week I’ve learned that crazy is the same everywhere you go. Bars and coffeeshops (here many cafès are bars) attract crazy people. Money is money, and people are usually willing to pay for a seat if they can stay in it for hours when they have nothing else to do and they are, for some reason, averse to sitting around in parks all day. Today I met a woman named Tonia Flores, and though she was drunk and she gripped my bicep a little too fiercely while trying to emphasize a point about indigenous peoples initiating their youth through drugs, she was gentle and adamant when she claimed herself as my mother (which I rebuffed since I’ve only got one of those), and entreated me to call her should I need anything. In the same way that I like old people, I like crazy people. Both groups have a lot to say, and much of it is interesting. For instance, why pass up a chance to talk about race and mental illness with someone who sees the world very differently from the way I do?

For a long time my greatest fear was that I would go crazy. Mental illness exists on both sides of my family, and I worried from the time that I was 15 until I was 23 that I would be schizophrenic or manic depressive or something equally terrible. I have tattoos which read “imagine and fearless,” in part, (though for this meaning the latter should read “fearlessly”) because when I was 23 my greatest fear was to allow myself to see and feel all of the things that I can imagine—I thought maybe I would go so far that I could never come back—and I wanted to give myself permission, everyday, to spook the bogeyman.

Anyway, I asked to take a picture of her, but she called herself ugly and told me to take pictures of beautiful people instead. I told her she was beautiful, that everyone is beautiful, and she blushed and tisked and told me to put the camera away, so even if you see her, you’ll never know. Sorry.

But I can talk a little about our conversation. There are a lot of people in the states who claim to have Native American blood. Maybe that is because they want to seem more American or less white or less black or less racist or maybe they just want to show their pride. I dunno. But in the last month I’ve heard several fair skinned people assure me that they’re descendents of Africans. I suspect this has something to do with pride, and also that it is in some part and effort to make me feel more accepted or as an expression of kinship. Interestingly enough, some of the folks might actually be my kin. Anyway, Dona Flores pointed out that racism is open in the U.S.—that you can see and hear it in every part of our culture and that, in stark contrast, racism in Brasil is veiled.

Then, trying to demonstrate to me that she knew some English, she pointed out that I am black by saying “niggers like you” in the U.S. are in a bad situation like the blacks, the mentally ill, the poor and the homosexuals here. I was struck by three things: somewhere along the line someone had taught her that the right word to use to refer to black people is “nigger,” secondly, the jails here are filled with the same people as the ones at home, and lastly, that she specifically mentioned the mentally ill. The mentally ill are not a population who receive much attention or mention anywhere I’ve been, but they do make up over half of the homeless population and much of the imprisoned population in the states. There was no resolution to our very broken conversation. I explained, as best I could, that blacks in the states are called blacks or African Americans. I’m not sure that made much sense to her. When I finished my coffee and got up to leave she grabbed me by the shoulder, put her palm on my head and prayed over me for a minute before she kissed me on the cheek and let me go.

Again, I’ve rambled on. Next week, I’ll try to keep it short and give it a little structure.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Ramble

What happens to a person when she goes abroad? Every year some friend or other comes back claiming that they’ve experienced a life changing event, and as much as I would like to believe that people change, I really think that we simply experience more intense versions of feelings that we have while we’re at home. Flannery O’Conner said that we learn everything we can write about in our childhoods, and I’m inclined to agree with her. For all of the feelings we experience there is a precedent however much more mild. My Grandmère says that life is like a revolving door—we just keep experiencing the same events slightly changed. And maybe those slight changes, like the details in a story, are the most salient bits. Also, our memories are short. How many times have you or I had a traumatic experience after which we claim that things will be different, that we’ll never do that again, or that we’ll only do things this way or that from here on out? And within moments, weeks or months we’re back to our old bad behavior, no? I am. It takes a lot of concentration and many months to discard old habits and to develop new ones, and some seem to hang on like sweat in a locker room.

For me, what has happened here on my trip abroad is that I’ve found this new kind of solitude. At home when I while my day away in a café I can eavesdrop with ease. I can mull over bits of other peoples conversations—of their lives. Here I feel like a terrible spy. I understand very little of what I hear, so I just stare at people. Here I wake up with English sloshing in my head as naturally as my blood flows through my veins, except now when I awake I find that I am still trying to construct or correct the left over bits of the Portuguese sentences in my dreams. I’ve been privileged to and fortunate enough to change my day to day habits—I don’t go to the same room to have the same beer with the same people (whom I love and miss); I don’t eat alone here, and as a result, some of my oldest habits have become more comforting. For every time I speak in an unfamiliar tongue I cling more tightly to the way that I hold my silverware. Each time I greet a Brazilian with three kisses, I feel more attached to my very American habit of staying to the right side when walking down a sidewalk. For every dish of beans and rice I consume, I cloak myself more tightly in personal habits like reading just a tad too much to seem sociable, and of course, I read a book that I’ve read at least 10 times already.


Maybe it is ungrateful of me to avoid the people with whom I live (a couple of times a week), but I have to say that I much prefer to live alone. I am not interested in being obliged to speak to anyone about anything in the confines of my home. Unfortunately, and this brings me back (only in my own head, not this entry) to the topic of home as a place and a condition, this is not my home, and with each passing year it feels more and more impossible for me to reconstruct a coherent picture of what that once was for me and how it relates to family and to geography. Moreover, it seems less and less likely to me that I will have any place to call home any time soon, and my mini-tragedy (I can be self indulgent if I want to—some people eat chocolate, I get to be dramatic) is that I am ready to settle in one place to construct the rituals that tie a person to a place. You know, like I’d like to by a $300 piece of furniture, and put it in a one bedroom apartment. But in the absence of new things I cling to familiar things.

Like I said, I’m reading a worn copy of a book that I’ve loved for a long time. This time perhaps what is interesting to me about David’s position in Giovanni’s Room is that he is a traveller, a foreigner in a place in which he is responsible to no one. His name and his voice are connected to a family that exists thousands of miles away from his present local, and so he allows himself to be all of the parts of himself that he has pruned and parsed in order to shape and maintain his identity as a mature and masculine man with reasonable aspirations toward marriage, family and upstandingness. In Paris, this place of mystery and dark and winding roads, of dead end streets and transients, he is able to air the darkest parts of himself and to the lowest dregs of society—the boys who wait for scraps to fall from the tables of richer men. They are boys, not because of age, but because of status, boys who do not fight, but who sell their affections, however brief, and their bodies for warm beds to sleep in.

I won’t pretend that I’m down here airing out the darkest parts of me. I did that in Chicago. I’m here living out a romantic fantasy in which I am an ex-pat writer completing her first book of poems and the first chapter of her novel. Of course, my fantasy also includes social work and language acquisition. But the parallels still stand. I am a foreigner in a place in which I’m responsible only to the people with whom I live. I represent my family as best I can, but to people with whom I can barely speak there are very few details involved in my saying that my niece has just learned to walk. My host mother--I feel the need to tell you some things about her: she's as pompous as professional academics must be; she has aMicrosoft word file full of pictures of all of her exes (and she took it upon herself to sit me down and tell me what each of them does now and how much they make), she has categorized freezer, she insists that I keep the the garage door opener in my bag instead of my pocket (this was two weeks after she insist that I keep it inmy pocket instead of my bag) because the panic button on it is sensitive. This woman who loves her daughter more than anything else in life and who coos to her yorkshire terrier can’t see the pride and excitement that I can feel welling up in my mother, the new grandmother, from 5,000 miles away.

But then part of this experiment is to find out how much I can say in not very many words, and how I can adapt to stressful situations (and people). So I’m adapting. As much as I would like to believe that I came here without expectations, that is not true. I expected to be occupied in a social project for at least 30 hours per week. I expected to live in a home and to maintain the same amount of independence that I have in the states. I expected to be useful, and to use my free time to write. I expected to be in language classes for two or three days per week, and what I am experiencing is very different from what I had expected—hoped for. In little ways I’m disappointed. I am only engaged in a social project 2 days per week; I am treated as a member of the groups (60-year-old women) who attend for support. I am not allowed in the main house of my host home after midnight (because my host mother is a light sleeper). I receive only 3 hours of direct language instruction per week. I do have free time. A lot of it. So now I have to figure out free and productive ways to fill it. Suggestions?

Sorry, this has been a bit of a directionless ramble. I wanted to talk about how I've never been a foreigner for a sustained period of time, and how people around the world don't much care for the U.S. And how it is difficult to discern what is a character trait and what is just a comfort zone trait, and how that matters when you're trying to be open and to adapt with people who aren't interested in adapting to or being open with you. It isn't as if they're being mean, they just being normal. They're doing what people do when they see something they've never seen before, they get excited and then frightened and then they try to show it all of the right ways to be.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Tidbits

I've finally made a routine. Luckily, it involves a lot of free time. So I work with two different groups of elderly people on Wednesday and Friday. Both groups are small, one has 3 people, the other 8. The latter is a women's group, and I have to say, I love them all.

I take Capoeira classes on Wednesday and Friday nights. Tuesday I go to my Portuguese class, and next week, I think I'll take on teaching two students English on Monday and Thursday.
One of the fellows in my Capoeira class is an American indie journalist, and he and his wife made this documentary: http://www.beyondelections.com/ if you're interested.


I'm redesigning the writing workshop that I developed to fit a smaller time frame, and to intersect with the crafting that the old folks like to do. I'll let you know how that goes, and when we've finished our books, I'll be sure to post some pictures.

This week, I participated in an afoxé, which is like a big drum circle. It is the musical component to Capoeira, and it too originates from Angola. After my Capoeria lesson on Friday, and before I lost use of my quadreceps, I played a drum with the other members of my group, and sang along with the songs and chants. I will post pictures of the group this week. It is hard to take pictures when you're participating.

Today I sat on a bench in a park downtown for 2 hours; I drew and talked to passersby until I had the courage and patience to go to the Claro store (like a Verizon store) to get them to fix my phone. I think that universally, customer service people are frustrated by having to talk to foreigners, but the last of 5 people whom I spoke to was really nice. So, I count this adventure as a win. My phone works, and I'm only R$11 poorer.

My new minor obsession: The World Social Forum (WSF) . Check it: The WSF was established as an initiative for the mobilization and coordination of global civil society. It has played a central role in dialoguing with the rising global justice movement, offering a rich space for exchanging experiences, building campaigns and discussions of alternatives to social problems on a global level. It started here in Porto Alegre in 2001, and for the 10th anniversary year (2010) part of the forum will be held here. So if anyone is planning on visiting for some hippie fair, then show your face between Jan 25-29th.

Other things of note: MPB: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Música_Popular_Brasileira

Cassia Eller: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cassia_Eller

The song Sonzinho by Caetano Veloso is super beautiful, and you should listen to it.

As vezes, no silêncio da noite
Eu fico imaginando nós dois
Eu fico ali sonhando acordado, juntando
o antes, o agora e o depois
por que você me dixa tão solto?
por que você não cola em mim?
Tô me sentido muito sozinho!

Não sou nem quero ser o seu dono
É que um carinho às vezes cai bem
Eu tenho meus segredos e planos secretos
só abro pra você mais ninguém
por que você me esquece e some?
e se eu me interessar por alguém?
e se ela, de repente, me ganha?

Quando a gente gosta
è claro que a gente cuida
fala que me ama
só que é da boca pra fora
ou você me engana
ou não está madura
onde está você agora?

Quando a gente gosta
é claro que a gente cuida
fala que me ama
só que é da boca pra fora
ou você me engana
ou não está madura
onde está você agora?

Thursday, September 17, 2009

One Month

I wrote this on Tuesday, the day that marks the end of my first month in Brasil. I’m posting some pictures to show you some of what I’ve seen. I would have to write several books to try to explain the myriad emotions and experiences I’ve encountered in that time, besides pictures are more fun to look at than text. I heart you.

m.


Candomble: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Candomble On street corners, it is common to see bowls filled with beer surrounded by potatoes, corn and sometimes entire unplucked chickens. Over the course of a day it is likely that poor person will drink the beer and take the chicken to make a meal.

On Saturday I went to Acampamento Gaucho. For this event, Gauchos build cabins out of the wood you see here. There are roughly 300 cabins and booths on the site. People sell erba mate, cuiras and bombas, handicrafts, food, beer, traditional Gaucho garb, etc. We talked about the cultures within Brasil, listened to music, drank beer, ate churassco and danced. The fellow in the blue was the bartender, the singer and a jovial and gentle man. He’s playing a German accordion that is over 100 years old. The fellow on the right was raised in a German region of Rio Grande do Sul near Farroupilha, and did not learn to speak Portuguese until he was 25.


Traditional Garb



Uvas: These are the orchards where grapes are grown for wine. In this region they grow grapes for table wine. Other types of grapes here (if I heard correctly) are called Isabelas and Nanguens



Chaves: Since there is so much poverty here, there is a high rate of theft and where there is the threat of theft there are locks. Where there are locks, there is a need for keys. I see, at minimum, 5 of these places everyday. They are ubiquitous.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Terra da Carolina e As Laranjes




Until yesterday I hadn’t climbed a tree since I was invincible—somewhere between the ages of 7 and 20. 7 September marks the independence of Brazil from Portugal so there were many celebrations around the country this weekend; my host family decided to celebrate the three day weekend quietly by driving northwest up to the mountains near Bom Princìpio to the land that my host sister, Carolina, will eventually inherit. The pressure change only caused a minor headache, and it was worth it to see the hundreds of kilometres of fields of grapes and the tiny artisan wine factory. This region of Porto Alegre, just south of Farroupilha and Caxias do Sul, was settled by Italian immigrants in the 1920s, and German immigrants settled to the southeast of São Sebastião do Caì around the same time. Now you can see the cows and sheep smattered around the mountains on enormous square plots spiralling up toward the sun.



The little house on Carolina’s land is an original 3 bedroom, from the 20s with shuttered windows and orange trees. It is maintained by a woman and her daughter who live literally a holler away. When we arrived, the day before yesterday, we went for a walk, and Jacque, my host mother marvelled that before roads existed (at a point the pavement ends and the dirt roads end and what’s left is a path) immigrants walked up the steep slopes and planted and harvested and raised children and animals. I watched the ducks and looked closely at the local flowers and trees. When we walked back to the house I took a nap in the hammock. The rest of the night, while Carolina watched Aladdin and Jacqueline sorted through pictures and toys and bits from her past, I lazed about the house, reading and thinking--how refreshing it is to be disconnected for a day or two. And in the morning we took our time.



Instead of rushing to prepare for a day of scratching off tasks on a to-do list, I took Jacque’s suggestion to take some fruit to the children at my project; I set off to the tangerine tree in the field nearby with a basket big enough for 50 tangerines. 20 cows grazed 20 metres away, and after I figured out how to open the barbed wire fence and remembered that cows are scardy-cat herbivores I proceeded to shake the tree, and as I filled my basket I payed no attention to the fact that the cows were closing in.
I heard a moo just a little closer than I was prepared for and turned to stare in to the peripheral vision of a pregnant lady cow. I stood still for probably two full minutes while the cows ate all of the fallen tangerines that were not in my basket, and then I moved toward the tree, and all of the cows turned around to run away. Jacque and Carolina came to join me, and I climbed the tree and pulled off tangerines dropping them into the basket below as I did. Jacque shook the tree, the cows came back and grazed on the excess.
Nobody gets out of life without doing some work, and I’ve done a lot so far. Hell, picking fruit is a job for some people, and it isn’t an easy one, but when it is leisure, it is delightful. I’ve been working too hard for too long, but if that’s what I had to do for this pay off, then I would do it again.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Phoenix


This may be my favorite work of public art ever.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

I smell terrible.

Here's why: I spent the entirety of my day lost and riding the bus. I don't say this as a complaint. This is a victory smell.

I was placed, twice, at the wrong bus stop. I asked a stranger (in Portuguese) for the right stop, and found it. Then I went to meet a person who wasn't there.

While riding I looked out of the window and wished I had my camera. When I got back to the end of the line (after going to the other one) I said "Oi," again, to Luecy, the attendant who, with so much humor, had directed me the first time I saw her this morning, and made my way to the train.

Sidenote: This is not winter. Outside it is temperate (though inside of a bus--if one is wearing a light sweater as one is wont to do during "winter"--one might do a little sweating), the sun is up from 5 to 18:00, and women are wearing open toe shoes and mid drifts. As an announcement to Brasilians and Texans alike, winter is a season wherein the average temperature is 0 degrees celcius or 32 degrees fairenheit. This is not that. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that I can wear a t-shirt in "winter," but I'm becoming increasingly concerned about the heat of the summer yet to come.

And we're back. I took the train to Centro, which is as it seems, the hub of Porto Alegre. On my left lay the river, on my right the Public Market (with produce at prices you couldn't beat with a stick), a sort of plaza--like a quaint working man's flea market with big beautiful clocks and cafés and tourists. On several occasions people asked me for directions. I'm super glad I picked a place where I blend in. Of course, even when I understood them, I wasn't much help--but I see good things coming. :-)

Anyway, I made it to Belém Novo (less than 2 hours away and back) in almost 6 hours... Along the way I met a nice family in a store that was also their home, a few old ladies at bus stops, a nice man in an automobile repair shop, and a mom with her two kids. I believe in the kindness (and patience) of strangers.

On the way home, I got off of the bus early. And again, I walked home with only signs in Portuguese to guide the way. I am a champion. I have earned this smell and some new vocabulary words.

Moving on. Tonight I'm going to the movies with Jacqueline and Marcia to see a French film. Sweet. Oh, and before that I'll take a shower.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

1 week

I've been here for a week, and I'm still enjoying myself. I'm finally becoming frustrated by the language barrier, but Jacque and Carolina are trying their best to make things clear to me in English while they're teaching me Portuguese. I'm exhausted from translating and studying and going to all of the parks and learning all of the neighborhoods and understanding the accents while I try to cultivate one of my own.

Still, all of these things are beautiful. I live with a woman who loves her daughter more than anything else in the world. I get to see the world through the eyes of an 11 year old--rolly pollys and punch bug, millipedes and BFFs--and I feel grateful for that.

I finally have time to sleep for a full 8 hours, and to read and to write. I have half a section of this house to myself! This week, I will begin Portuguese class and Capoeira class, and I'm pretty excited about regaining my independence (though I'm frightened about taking the bus...).

I'm reading the Alchemist in Portuguese, and while it is slow going, I think it is helping.

The most exciting event of today was our trip to Belem Nova where I will be working. We met Jacque's friend Camillo at his home which sits on top of a hill in front of the river. It is dazzling. The 4 dogs were the most welcoming hosts I've ever met. Okay, I'm off to study. I have to say, a girl could get used to this place.

I wonder if anyone is reading this.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

my new minor obsession



These are the Capoeira people from Africanamente.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Host Family

I met my host family and my contact person tonight. They are all lovely people. Jacqueline, the host mother, is a Professor. She writes books about education and social justice! She's elegant and eccentric. I'm looking forward to getting to know her. Her daughter, Carolina, 11, is delightful. She's learning English in school. I'm lucky to be living with an 11-year-old; she'll teach me everything she knows, and she'll make me laugh.

My contact person is also 25. She works in an accounting department for a bank. She's wry and witty, and has a hearty laugh for such a small person. I think we'll get along very well.

Mom, she's an Aquarius, too (February 8th).

On Saturday I'll go to their house in Santana. Apparently, they have a Yorkshire terrier and a swimming pool. Also, it is in a residential area that's a 10 minute walk from shops and bars and restaurants. I'm holding out hope for a bookstore--any kind of bookstore.

Jacqueline has a friend (whose name I don't recall) who is a piano teacher, so maybe I'll be able to practice while I'm here.

So next week, I begin my projects, find a Capoeira class and start Portuguese classes. This may be the single best decision I've ever made in my life.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Capoeira

Capoeira is a graceful and malicious play. I am tempted to spend my Saturdays at Africanamenta Escola de Copoeira Angola learning to play for free. People need to exercise, right? I'm a people... I think I've found a friend to go with me. I believe I'll go.

It was a cafeteria. They, 5 women 5 men stood in a semi cirlce and we, a group of wide eyed exchangees filled in the rest of the circle. It was a rustic room in which we made rhythms with our hands as the players danced/fought within the circle we made for them. Brown and Black and White bodies moved toward and away from one another as if receiving invisible force to their heads or middles or ankles by a gravity more concentrated than wind. Men played with men, women with women and women with men. All of the players had different bodies, some tall some round, some tiny. Each member took his or her place playing music.

The entire experience was cinematic as if each flash of light on spetacles was intentional--slowed down; I could see indivdual dredlocks on the players heads fall and bounce as couch cushion does when depressed and released. And I played, albeit not very gracefully--more like a geriatric attempting a cartwheel.

And then we danced. 40 people clapping at once, although not all together, singing and dancing samba. I feel elated. I'm so lucky to be here.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

I've now officially seen Rio

And I'm in Porto Alegre, Brasil.

After nearly 24 hours of traveling, I'm ready for a nap.

Also, airports look just about the same in every big city.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Day of

Yesterday, I picked up the computer that Justin was generous enough to give me. JV checked it out for me, 'cause he's a winner. Also, I got a webcam and a head set. I am now capable of using skype, and you should be too. That way it's free.

I'm leaving this afternoon. I'll be at the airport in 5 hours, and on a plane in 8. Wish me luck, and thanks for all the help.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Packed

I'm packed, but not quite ready to go.

Here's the short list:

Giovanni's Room
Pedagogy of the Oppressed
Les Miserables
Reading Like a Writer
The Art and Craft of Feature Writing.
2 blank journals
2 filled journals.

my carry on might be heavier than my checked luggage...I also packed underwear.

In other news: again, my friends are amazing. My coworkers took me out for drinks/dinner last night, so I got to take pictures of them and see them without their regular professional faces. R got an apprenticeship! H made a special trip to Binny's. JP has made packing, hearth and home feel normal and natural. Everything is falling into place (of course I'm worried about any and everything that could go wrong...), and I'm looking forward to landing on Sunday. Taking off tomorrow is still a little scary. Wish me luck!

Damn, what a great city.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Tracy Chapman

In honor of the concert that I'm going to at the Park West tonight, I hereby title this post Tracy Chapman. And in honor of my childhood, I shall listen to at least one Tracy Chapman song per hour today. Let the nostalgia commence!

Talking 'Bout a Revolution will get me through the post office/marshall's/work day logistics that need to be settled by 2p.

Next challenge: PACKING.

Project

Yesterday, I received a list of projects that I'll probably be a part of. I'm a little nervous, but I'll pretend I'm cool as a cucumber....

I'll be working at a place called AMURT (www.amurt.org.br, just in Portuguese) with groups from the community, victims of violence, exclusion and poverty, the majority of which are women and black people.
That project also serves groups of adolescents 18 and older.

According to the program coordinator, I'll be able to learn from them, to listen to their lives, to participate and create workshops, to teach some English....I'll probably be working at AMURT two days a week.

In the rest of the time, I can work in other, smaller, projects that need a volunteer for two afternoons or a day or so. For example:

- CENTRO COMUNITARIO VILA GAUCHA: A project inside the favela with complicated children and adolescents (without rules), in particular with English lesson. That is not an easy project...

- ILHA DOS MARINHEIROS: Project in a island, with the local poor community- lots of woman and adolescents; they organize themselves, there is not a good structure or series of activities, so Maya will have freedom to find the needs and organize workshops/activities/chats that she thinks would be possible/useful for the community! This sounds like a sure fire way to be part of a poor community.

I'll find out my final assignments next week, when I discuss whether I'd be willing to work with children or not.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Penultimate Week/ Address

This week has been perfect. I've worked about 50 hours, I've had many beers. I house sat and walked a dog. One night I slept for a whole 12 hours!

There was a job interview for this camp called Camp of Dreams--http://www.campofdreams.org/-- and I think I'd be in love with it if I got one of two positions. I might just come right back to Chi and stay for a few more years.
CORRECTION: Alamo does allow women to work the floor AND nobody gets commission.

I found out that Alamo Shoes does not allow women to work on the floor. They're only allowed to work at the registers. WTF? That is sexist ya'll! So now I can't shop there. Also, they didn't have the shoes that I want.

I had Turkish dinner which was fantastic. AND Issac was in town. I couldn't have asked for a better time.

I'm rambling. Pertinent info--I now have an address:

if you need it, let me know.

I should be working, so I'm gonna get to that.