Neto the lion

The teachers L to R: Lucia, Ivana, Anselmo, Maninho, Karine, Fernanda, Me, Fernanda, Gabriel’s mom (darn, no name in my head), Lucas’ mom (ditto), Leniulda, and Felipe’s aunt (good gracious). gosh i look…teachery.

Preschool presentation L to R: Victoria, Joao Pedro, Mateus, opps, forgot her name, Milena, Feliphe, and Lili, who looks horrified with life.

Mateus the parrot, Isabela the parrot, and you can just see part of Wallace the tree. he was a perfect tree.

We are family: Rafael, Maninha, me, and Wallace

please pray. To get a American visa, you have to have an interview. all the interviews are booked until January. Tele does not have his visa, and they denied him an emergency interview. SOOOOO…he is hoping and looking into things, but already has his tickets for November 7, as well as David’s, Alyssa’s, and Mariana’s. David will still be coming no matter what, but i think the others are in question. My tickets are bought–round trip–November 6 and coming back sometime in January. so every day is a surprise.

Aninha, her AMAZING MOTHER Angela and her sister (that i wrote about yesterday and i still haven’t learned her name)

meu gato Maninho–OI Macho!

youz a deary dear Karine.

Two girls with their kites, winding up their coveted pieces of string on sticks.

That jump over the elastic game thingy.

One of Aninha’s sisters and Milton.

My bridge with iron crossbars and brass buttons.

The interpretation of Calvin makes me laugh. i don’t think this would pass any safety code. It is for children’s day, but costs about seventy-five cents so none of the poorer kids will get to go.

I found this lovely picture on the computer i am using…Top and clockwise: Guilherme, Rebeca, Lucas, Mariana, Rafael, and Amanda

My amazing 1st grade:)

So why do i keep planning? i went to the
bank. there is one machine in the whole town that accepts my visa/debut
card. this machine has been broken for the past couple of weeks. so
lowww on the mulah. so i went into the bank and asked for help. surely
they could punch in my numbers or something? After being passed around
and finally referred to the director of the bank, he proceeded to take
me out to the machines and try every one. he even rubbed my card on his
head because the “electricity makes it work better.” nope. it just kept
the “erro no letura” sign coming up. options without money are low.

so i borrow a camera (mine broke) and buy some cheap batteries (my
rechargeable ones broke–mommy, you know what i want for Christmas,
right?) and go to Paudalho, determined to find out about the children’s
program. Friday is Children’s day in Brasil, and it is a biggo of a
dealo. This week they are doing special stuff. As i puff up the hill, they come down, loaded with homemade kites and headed for the quadro. Perfect for pictures. windy for kite flying. Aninha’s two sisters and another lady run this program with 147 kids–half in the morning and half in the afternoon, which is actually put on by the government. They choose the most at risk kids to be able to go to these programs, which are alot like what i do at the youth center–help with school work, games, snacks…this one is the only one that also has a Bible program. Kids 7-15.

Milton puts his arm around my shoulder (awkwardly, being a foot shorter than me) and asks when i am going teach him. Luana holds my hand and smiles shyly. I ask their names and then suddenly everyone is buzzing around me “oh, she is American?” “What does that mean?” “Tell her i want to talk to her” (they always talk to people around me, thinking i can’t understand them, right after i introduce myself and tell them i speak Portuguese…it takes me repeating myself a couple times and speaking to them directly before they understand…and even then they start talking about me RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME like i cannot understand them).

We walk to the quadro and some of the kids start flying their kites. They are tissue paper and sticks, with cut up trash bag tails. The problem is there is not enough string. They argue and divide and share the string, wrapped around tin cans. Someone has a long piece of elastic and girls begin playing as game i remember well as a kid (but totally forgot the name). I bring out the camera. The batteries last for three pictures. THREE PICTURES. things never go as planned.

so i drop my backpack and join a game of futebol instead. it started raining, and our bare feet slipped across the slick quadro, as i watch the first 3 passes roll right past me and out of bounds. but it soon dried up again and i made two goals. TWO. after establishing my futebol reputation, things are set. i am part of the group. We walk back after a good game or two and the kids give a round of hugs. Some of the little ones called back to us, peering through the crossbars of the bridge with their dirty hands and faces. Their “Tia! Tia! Tia!” cries continue until they are like kitten’s meowing for their mother and we walk on.

I talked with Aninha’s sister (really, i am bad with names) about how things are. She said if people could please pray for the home lives of these kids…murders, abuse, nothing sable, so much hunger…one of the boys i was playing with, Lucas, had bruises all up and down his arms. But there is no one to report it to here. She has talked with her superior, but he doesn’t care. To have a child abuse protection agency or something means people. means money. means time. The thing is, there is no place to put them if they took them from home. So Aninha’s sister visits homes. Tries to teach them how to be a family. to be parents. Next time she said i can go with her.

It feels like home. The belonging feeling. Flying kites with no string. Running with pounding feet, trying to catch some flat, broken ball. laughing when i fall. guarding some little kid who shows me up and then grins up at me with a “heh, aren’t i amazing?” look. passing out cookies. Receiving hugs and hands that just want to touch me, just want something that is real. All that i love and miss at the youth center and those summer days at the park…things really are not so different in the world…

i met Emanuel. actually, we have been cultivating a relationship
for over a year now. Emanuel spends all day every day in a small round
white hut. He opens the gate when someone comes down the lane at the
big white house and closes it behind them. To the big white house
owner, he is like a garage door opener. Last year i wanted to see the
big white house. every morning i open my door and yawn at the sun and
see it from the porch. they say that Ted Kennedy stayed there when he
visited Brasil. it is quite a place. old Brasilian style with a little
chapel just to the right. nice place to take pictures. So i walked down
there and asked to see it. just close enough to snap a couple shots.
nope. had to talk to the big boss guy. mean big boss guy. i got the
general idea that he is like one of those feudal lords from the middle
ages. one of the bad ones.
Last semester i went jogging at 5:30
every morning. this semester i roll over and push snooze. but back
then, i would pass Emanuel every morning, riding his bike down to his
little hut with slits that could barely be called windows. We nodded
hellos or saluted. i walked passed today (at a more reasonable hour)
and figured i should talk to this guy. he has to be lonely. and enough
with the waving without conversing. i might as well find out his name.
Emanuel can’t hear every well out his left ear, and basically all his
family has died on him. and yes, he really does sit there, 6-6, opening
the gate and closing the gate. No, he is not much of a reader. i don’t
think there is any electricity to his little hut, so music is out. i
didn’t ask about bathroom situations…

there are so many people
around that i just can’t…even really get my mind around what it would
be like to be them. i told him that at least he has lots of time to
think about things. he laughed. i suggested that maybe he take up art?
i don’t know. i would like to cheer him up. but i cannot even really
think of anything…i got the idea that he didn’t read much because he
didn’t know how to very well. and that he was pretty old now to start
up anything like art…so maybe…i will just pass by another day and
talk about the weather. keep him company. make him some snickerdoodles.

i met Emanuel. actually, we have been cultivating a relationship
for over a year now. Emanuel spends all day every day in a small round
white hut. He opens the gate when someone comes down the lane at the
big white house and closes it behind them. To the big white house
owner, he is like a garage door opener. Last year i wanted to see the
big white house. every morning i open my door and yawn at the sun and
see it from the porch. they say that Ted Kennedy stayed there when he
visited Brasil. it is quite a place. old Brasilian style with a little
chapel just to the right. nice place to take pictures. So i walked down
there and asked to see it. just close enough to snap a couple shots.
nope. had to talk to the big boss guy. mean big boss guy. i got the
general idea that he is like one of those feudal lords from the middle
ages. one of the bad ones.
Last semester i went jogging at 5:30
every morning. this semester i roll over and push snooze. but back
then, i would pass Emanuel every morning, riding his bike down to his
little hut with slits that could barely be called windows. We nodded
hellos or saluted. i walked passed today (at a more reasonable hour)
and figured i should talk to this guy. he has to be lonely. and enough
with the waving without conversing. i might as well find out his name.
Emanuel can’t hear every well out his left ear, and basically all his
family has died on him. and yes, he really does sit there, 6-6, opening
the gate and closing the gate. No, he is not much of a reader. i don’t
think there is any electricity to his little hut, so music is out. i
didn’t ask about bathroom situations…

there are so many people
around that i just can’t…even really get my mind around what it would
be like to be them. i told him that at least he has lots of time to
think about things. he laughed. i suggested that maybe he take up art?
i don’t know. i would like to cheer him up. but i cannot even really
think of anything…i got the idea that he didn’t read much because he
didn’t know how to very well. and that he was pretty old now to start
up anything like art…so maybe…i will just pass by another day and
talk about the weather. keep him company. make him some snickerdoodles.

We lived at the juice factory. My older sister took us all in, and when
we moved with her i met him at a party. Someone put their hand on my
arm and pointed to a boy across the way. “He’s your boyfriend.” I was
only ten. It entered my head that he was my boyfriend, and it stayed
there. When he walked past me, i told him he was. he said he wasn’t. he
was really almost a man at 17. He offered to ride me around on his
bike. we rode around and around, my boyfriend and i. He thought i was
tired, but i told him i wanted to ride some more. After awhile, he
asked me again “Am i really your boyfriend?” and i told him yes. I
guess then he believed it, because he came to my school and told my
little girlfriends that i couldn’t play games anymore. no jump rope for
me–i was grownup, i was his girlfriend. So i stopped playing games.
My mother raised me to get married, and that is what i did. Patricia
was born three months before i turned 15. I went from child to adult.
My children were well off. My husband had a good job, so they always
had what they wanted. But he beat me. He was like my father, and he was
a bad father. i didn’t know how to do anything on my own. if i needed
money for something i had to face the taunting “what would you need
that for?” i never knew what it was like to walk down the street and
have someone look at me like i was a woman. I lived my childhood and
adolescence with my children. We played house together and dressed up
and in those moments i got to return to what i never had. But the
moment he walked in the door, sober or not, everyone went and stayed in
their rooms. He was jealous for me. He was jealous that my children
would have more of me than he did. This was my life. Full of suffering.
He came to me and apologized, so many years later. He said he wished he
could go back and do things right, because i am a treasure most
beautiful. And after he died, i cried with saudade for the moments that
were good.

If you look really carefully, on the picture it says “Happy Birthday Mom”

yeah. i miss you mommy. I made banana pancakes for everyone tonight. they turned out really good–with custard on top (no maple syrup in Brasil). i used that little recipe book you gave me. because i have no idea how to make pancakes. the first one sorta caught on fire (how do pancakes catch on fire?) but after that it went well.

Yesterday i went to the dentist to make you happy. i told the guy i was only there because my parents were worried about me…it was fun to try to explain my dental history for him in Portuguese. He got the whole charade–from my root canal (with special effects for the drilling) and removal of wisdom teeth. I went to Timbauba to do it, because it is Joao Paulo’s (one of my 3rd graders) dad. The guy looks just like his son. It was funny to lay there, seeing my 3rd graders eyes staring into my mouth. oh yeah. i have two slight cavities…he is going to fix them for me in two weeks. i proudly told him i floss every day and brush two or three times. he was not impressed. he said i needed to brush 4 or 5 times. bleh. so much for pleasing dentists.

I miss you knowing what to do. i miss complaining to you about life. i miss shopping at Aldi’s for you. i miss hearing your steps slowly come down the stairs as you come and check on me. hey–i even miss your perpetual pile of papers on the couch that i hide under the pillows…

I am glad i’ll get to see you soon. i hope you have an amazing birthday. tell Dad we have to have an egg roll making night soon. i am realllly craving egg rolls right now.

here’s some of my writing homework. a paragraph of a memory where the character is changed, and a poem about yourself that follows a classic fairy tale.

I love that church. I had just gotten home from Brazil where all I
had learned and seen was jumbled up inside me. We walked into the big
church and my heart began to bulk at the religiousness and affluence.
Then a man walked up to me, my little brother squirming in my arms. He
reached into his pocket and presented a stuffed animal to my brother. A
quick smile and he walked up the podium and began to preach. In that
moment, i realized it was not about what people had or did not have, it
was about those who GAVE.

In fourth grade they laughed
and said i was not their best friend anymore
In sixth grade they taunted
and called me four eyes
In eighth grade they left me alone
only conscience of themselves
In tenth grade they glanced around
and said maybe I would be some fun
In twelfth grade I flew away
and realized I was enough

and then i had to write 6 pages about things in prenatal development. gnah. i ended up talking about stuff like how we get FAT genes and long life from our parents. the final conclusion was to marry someone with high IQ (did you know IQ is linked to genes somewhere? that doesn’t seem too fair!), low aggressiveness, good memory, and has a fit, old grandfather (age is linked through the male). heh. i wonder how my psychology teacher is going to like that for a research paper…