I’m living my life in two languages at once. Penso, como, durmo, escrevo, pinto, oro, sonho. I think, I eat, I sleep, I write, I paint, I pray, I dream.
In both languages, online and off, I speak to both audiences, trying to connect to all readers; always keeping an ear open for agreement, reaction, um sentido de “sim” (a sense of “yes”).
"I Love OEP" by Andrea Bonifacio
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I help my friend from church with her English. She calls me “My Dear Teacher.”
It used to be all about the Portuguese—my Portuguese. But she and the rest of the Brazzy church clan need as much help as I do, learning to communicate and to survive. They need for their English to improve.
So now, we take turns. I use a cooking timer shaped like a yellow pepper. I turn the dial to start the first 10-minute segment and we begin. I ask questions in English, carefully choosing my words and speaking slowly, almost as slowly as I do Portuguese, forcing myself to simplify, a good exercise. She squints and struggles for the right conjugations, smiling hopefully between sentences. Many of her answers are mostly correct—she’s getting better all the time—but it’s still hard, I know. Finally, the bell rings—recess! The strain falls from her face, and my class begins.
"A Aula" by Andrea Bonifacio
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Americans hear about my adventures and happily cry, “How great for you! How exciting!” then, “Wish I could speak Portuguese…”
Brazilians, similarly: “Nossa! Ta bom!” then, “Preciso practicar inglês …”
I feel disappointed at this—that we don’t, or can’t, just “get it”—yet why do I expect differently? You can’t fully understand a journey you’re not on, any more than I can fully appreciate an experience (motherhood, for example) that’s not presently on my own path.
I’m becoming someone else all the time. So are you. The bigger transformations make us seem like aliens, to the world and to ourselves.
"Space Modulator" by Andrea Bonifacio
The effort we put into the process, and our willingness to be stretched, sculpted, reshaped—and sometimes, re-fired in the kiln: This is our common ground. Here we find understanding, compassion, and encouragement.
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I have been granted a passport and visa that let me travel to that other nation. I can even apply for citizenship there if I want it. But I want more than documents and open access. I want concurrent dual residency: To be there and here. To live in both places at once.
My identity mirrors my desire. It’s something new made out of two. It’s a new land, one big country formed by the blurring of borders between two separate states. Time to take this new land and call it mine. “I claim this planet in the name of Bra—er… Ame—er… wait…”
"Imperialist" by Andrea Bonifacio
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When I was in Sao Paulo, I stayed with my cousin’s daughter and her roommate. Both are there to complete their residencies for their respective medical degrees.
I liked Sao Paulo, in spite of its blights. I asked my cousin and her roommate if they liked it. They replied that it’s o.k., but mostly they just want to finish school and go back to Natal. This is what many in my family have done: Study hard and put in their time at schools in the South, then return North to establish professions, marry, and live out their lives.
Too hard—no desire—to be separated from the circle: Family and friends, children and grandchildren, endless summer, beaches and dunes, childhood sweethearts, tias queridas e tios engraçados—the home where their happiness is.
"Time" by Andrea Bonifacio
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I say, “I am American,” and it is true. I say, “I am Brazilian,” and it’s a happy truth.
“I am Brazilian.” I ask my friend Rosália about how she feels, saying this phrase, having lived in the United States for many years. “I am the wrong person to ask,” she says with a big smile. “I was always ‘Miss America.’ All I wanted to do was come here and I don’t want to go back.”
There are more possibilities for her here as a single woman. Women here are treated more justly—there is less sexism. There are plenty of career options that don’t include a teeny bikini dress code. It’s safe to walk the streets at night.
My pastor describes women in Brazil who suffer greatly, abused by husbands and other men, but having little recourse. Cultural norms and lack of government programs there make it difficult for women to escape that kind of life.
We’ve come a long way, but we’re better off keeping our ears open. We need the witness of those who can remind us of what’s waiting out there in the wilderness.
I say, “I am American,” and it is a good truth.
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Sometimes a word—an entire concept—just doesn’t exist in that tongue. So far, the most challenging things for Brazilians to translate are “tacky” and “corny.” I think it’s delightful that a language, i.e. a people, a culture, a nation, has no words for those things. It explains their unabashed expressiveness, for sure.
But sometimes they just forget the words. In the kitchen, I go through my shopping list. “Mom, como se diz mushroom?” “Ummm… If I heard it, I’d know…”
At the Museum of Natural History, an ocean of taxidermy, I point to a walrus. Shrugging, the clan turns to each other, rapidly skimming each other’s mental lexicons, chuckling at their guesses. They converse quickly, but here and there I catch, “don’t know…” “no, that’s not it…” “can’t remember… do you?” “Nossa! I’ve been here too long…”
I wait, patiently. Ten minutes of frowns, giggles, and headshaking later, I remember the two-inch-thick pocket dictionary in my bag. I wrestle it out and flip through the dog-eared leaves.
“A morsa.”
Everyone grins. “Ah, yes, okay!”
Coo-coo-ka-choo.
"Cogunelo e Morsa" by Andrea Bonifacio
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I am too used to looking at things through me-colored glasses.
Observe, write, post, wait for response…. Fala, fala, fala, escuta….
Crickets. Then clicks, comments, encouragement.
Connection?
More crickets.
Anyone? Bueller? Quem está lá?
Sigh.
“Remember,” God says, “a paz esteja com você.”
Sigh. Eschole. Choose.
Ok, then.
Paz.
"Direção" by Andrea Bonifacio
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Mom pronounces some English words as if they are Portuguese. I didn’t know this as a child, but I recognize it now: “Ahfteh-noo.” The r, softened and breathy, doesn’t cut like an American English r—it’s more like a spatula than a steakknife. The second n hides in the back of the throat, a shy child behind double-o’s skirts. All final ns are shy—or maybe the mouth is too greedy to let them go.
It’s a language fluid and without sharp edges or hardness. It is open, easy, and adaptable; what it doesn’t have, it invents. My carioca friend shared this with me: Here in the US, Brazilians made a new word: parquiar (pronounced “parkee-ar”). In Brazil, when I find a good spot, I estaciono the car. But in the US, I parquio it.
The word doesn’t exist in Brazil—if you used it there, people wouldn’t know what you were talking about. The old Hollywood saw of gringos faking Spanish by adding ‘-o’ to the end of every other word has some tooth to it after all.
This isn’t a language. It’s an amoeba.
"Amoebilingual" by Andrea Bonifacio
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Eu: Complete these phrases:
I miss my…
I want to be…
I have changed because…
I can tell I’m a different person by…
Ela: Hummm… I don’t know English for that. Ask again later, tá?
"Espelho" by Andrea Bonifacio
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They long to be here, they long to be there. Nossa, so do I! No sooner do I look at those photos and I want to go back—they’re such a tease. It was forever ago. It was just yesterday. When will it be again?
I see a beckoning bandeira and my heart jumps; uma menina paquerada, wooed by a green flag, courted by a coquettish cadence, swooning after endless summer and easy-going grammar. I know the warts are there, yet still keep crushing hard.
Another escape will come, as supernatural as the first. I’m looking forward to that moment, being caught away like Phillip, taking a leap at ludicrous speed.
Por favor—in the blink of an eye, Lord.
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Beijos,
Andrea
"Launch" by Andrea Bonifacio
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