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I don’t know a lot about Brazilian men. Aside from what I see strolling the streets of New York City and packing the bars during World Cup, what I know of the subject is what I’ve learned so far from my Brazilian family here and abroad. And all I really know is that I still have a lot to learn.
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It’s a fine line: Within the context of my particular faith, I’m taught to follow the way of the Spirit, and not the sensual path. Yet in almost all of my current social interactions, I still rely on body language, facial expressions, and other nonverbal cues to communicate and interact with others. Add to that the Brazilian way: A celebration of the beautiful and bodacious, a culture of touch and embrace, the carefree communication of comfort via physical contact. And by its own vocabulary and grammatical flexibility, the language they speak easily blends (or confuses) intimacy and immediacy, presenting innumerable opportunities to stumble or slip.
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I hear expressions, listen to conversations, and then catch myself wondering, What did he mean by that? When she said that about him—did that mean what I thought it meant? What does that word mean? I mean, what does it mean right now? And how do I respond without looking stupid—or slutty—or insensitive? I look for wise counselors and good interpreters (read: smart Brazilian women) to help me know what’s going on. I pray a lot, listen, respond, and see what happens.
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I can’t imagine what it was like for Dad. Consider his stolid background: Childhood on a farm in rural Washington; parents of Swiss and Anglo stock; college studies in the logic halls of electrical engineering; military experience and its expectation of strict discipline. And with this, not knowing the language that well at all! How did he get by in just starting off with these people, let alone as their relationship grew? I wish I could be a back-in-time fly-on-the-wall and watch it all unfold… what an interesting time that must have been. I know what my father’s parents were like: Dear and kind, but pragmatic, reserved, and restrained. From their quiet country home he traveled to the intense melting warmth of the equator, Earth’s widest embrace, where my mother, her family, and all their culture opened their arms to him..
He described one of those early interactions to me, one of the funniest times. It was one of the first days he went to her house to meet the family. He was sitting with her in the living room, and for every other man who came into the room, Mom said, “That’s my brother…. Oh, and that’s my brother… and that’s my brother…”
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I loved meeting my mother’s brothers. They all commented on how I look like their sister; they all wept when they first saw me and again when I left. It’s a family joke, how emotional they are, and that they cry more than their wives do.
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The uncle I spent the most time with was Tio Nivaldo, the oldest brother. Nivaldo is white-haired and balding, with a wonderful broad smile like Papai Noel. In his photo in my mother’s wedding album, he looks like a cross between Sean Connery and Kevin Spacey. Now he looks a bit more like Burl Ives. Nivaldo’s voice is rough and he utters his sentences brusquely, like a series of measured, coarse barks. As with Leda, it took a while for me to comprehend his Portuguese, though eventually I got the hang of it.
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Nivaldo has a great sense of humor and he loves to tease. Randomly—and hilariously—when I expected him to say, “Boa noite” or “Muito obrigado,” he would declare, “Good night!” or “Thank you verymuch!” in a way that announced that he knew how to say this in English and knew how funny it was to do so.
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One morning I asked the cook to make scrambled eggs with tomato and onion for breakfast. Tio nearly spat up his toast in shock. He told Leda about it, he told my cousin, he told the houseboy. But a few minutes later, watching as I added hot sauce to this alien dish, he joked, “Por que não milkshake?” (“Why don’t you add some milkshake, too?”) When I offered him a taste, he laughed and shook his head. “Não sem o milkshake não!”
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It’s interesting to me to compare memories from when I was there recently to when I visited as a child in the early 80s. I remember Nivaldo from that earlier time: His hair was silver then, he was trimmer and had fewer wrinkles, and they lived in a noisier house. And his younger brother, Tio Aluisio, I recall distinctly from that time as well: Dark eyes, ruddy tan, sleepy smile and nasal drawl, slouching at the dinner table from too much food and wine, and dancing with me at my birthday party. The good times he had in his youth are slowly catching up with him—these days, he’s supposed to watch his diet carefully, but he’s not that good at it.
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Aluisio joined a Skype call with Tia Linda and me early on, when she was helping me plan my trip. His low growl lumbered from the speakers of my computer in aging-rock-star ex-smoker’s drones. I did not understand a word he said, but I was delighted to try.
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Both of these uncles asked me about my faith. I was not really expecting this. At first I thought it was just out of curiosity, but I quickly realized the family was concerned about this foreign religion I’d gotten myself into. At a churrasco at Bete’s beach house, Tio Aluisio asked, quite directly, if I pray to Catholic saints. I said no, explaining what I know about how “saint” is defined in Scripture. He nodded at my answer, but did not discuss it further. As his face was covered with large dark sunglasses and a pale newsboy cap, it was hard to tell if he understood, let alone agreed with what I said. But he seemed to take my answer seriously enough.
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Mom’s youngest brother is Tio Raul. He has a sweet smile and gentle nature. I remember from the earlier trip, going to his house in a rural area outside of the city; I remember black-and-white speckled hens, fluffy yellow chicks, and light brown lizards darting among the dry bushes. This time around, I only saw him briefly, when he stopped by Leda’s house for a few minutes on his way to work. There was only time to hug, look at each other’s faces, hug again, and say goodbye. Not enough.
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I think if we lived nearer my mother’s family, my father and his brothers-in-law would become good friends. I imagine that it was like that for Dad in those early days: They made him one of them. I know I want closer friendships with my cousins; I think particularly at this moment of my mother’s nephews.
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I think of my cousin Kleber, full of energy and wide-eyed interest, asking lots of questions about American culture and lifestyle, and what I think of Obama. When I filled my plate with salad greens at the self-serve at Mangai, he marveled—from his travels to the US, he thought that all Americans eat only sandwiches, pizza, and fries. There’s Carlinhos—he was living at my grandparents’ house during my previous visit, and back then he drove me all around Natal’s bumpy, cobblestone streets in his robin’s-egg-blue Beetle. This time around, he took me to see the oldest, most historical parts of the city, showing me the architecture of government halls and old churches. My cousin Joscelino is a sweetheart; I remember from the previous trip how I giggled with him and my cousin Chrstina and put my pink plastic barrettes in his hair. Now he’s much larger around the middle and his hair is short and iron grey—just like George Clooney, he insists. He has the same big laugh and generous heart: He and Christina took me on a day-long nordeste-style road trip, to a tapiocaria, a nature preserve, A Cajueiro Maior and Barreira do Inferno.
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Then there is Marcelo, whom I also saw for only a few minutes. I admit my earlier memories of him are not that flattering—as a boy, he didn’t seem to appreciate his priminha Americana usurping his attention, and I didn’t appreciate his impudence. Thankfully, we’ve both grown up since then, and we now have something remarkable in common: our faith. We’re both religious rebels, little black sheep fled from the Catholic fold..
There are so many others… Artur, who woke up in the middle of the night when we stopped by to request his help getting my parents’ visas sorted out; Henrique, who helped me with my travel plans for Ouro Preto and parts South; Felipe, Bete’s son, who helped me get the paintings to Dinha before I was even thinking of this trip… too many to mention here.
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So if the title of this entry enticed you with visions of letters-to-Cosmo steaminess, well, not so much. Suffice it to say, I’m meeting more men, but keeping things friend-focused as I learn to navigate the verbal rapids. The brasileiros of my church are my friends, but also my brothers, and sons of the Father. When they speak, when we socialize, I’m observing and listening for something deeper, for what is genuine, for truth, strength, and proof of faith. I feel that’s all I need to be looking for, for now.
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Many months ago, I tried to explain to my friend Rita I why was learning Portuguese. She burst in, “Maybe you’re going to meet a Brazilian guy!” Nossa! Not a bad idea. In the meantime, I’ve many good examples of what I have to look forward to—because of them, I’ll know um bom brasileiro when I see one.
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Beijos,
Andrea
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"Os Brasileiros" by Andrea Bonifacio
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