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.

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?

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.

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.

Phoenix

This may be my favorite work of public art ever.