Pitcher Perfect

A little glass-blown pitcher arrived last week from the West Coast, a gift from my father, mailed by my mother. It’s in the colors of the Brazilian flag, of course. I admit I had higher hopes for it when the glass blower was creating it: Covering a ball of white-orange liquid glass with colored scraps, puffing the bottom out with a quick breath through a metal pipe, spinning the buffer around its bulbous base, sculpting a curved handle with a deft flourish. I watched the process eagerly and anticipated something equally hot, vibrant, and fun: A little jar of Carnival.

It doesn’t look like that. It looks like a pale green glass pitcher with a few blobs of yellow and white and a cobalt streak for a handle. It does not have the delicious, blended hues and graceful patterns of the other pieces that stocked the studio shelves; it almost looks like student’s work. But that’s not the artist’s fault, and I can’t complain: I am the one who picked the shape and the colors and instructed the artist on how I wanted it made. I had a picture in my mind, imagined yet untested; I planned the Before and envisioned the After, not discerning the In Between: Heating and bending, rolling in glass shards, thrust into the oven, twisting with iron tools.

I had another dream in my heart: Eu quero falar Português. I asked for it and it was given to me. I wasn’t aware of how much it could change me or my world. I did not recognize its value and what the end result could possibly be.

The last of my close American church buddies moved out of New York City this past fall. It was sad for me when she left, yet while I knew she was the one leaving town, it seemed as if I was the one who was standing in the boat as it sailed away from shore.

Her move forced me to suddenly recognize how much had changed—and to realize that, without knowing it, I’d been preparing to board that ship for some time. I’ve been learning new forms of navigation and communication—stocking up on provisions, maps, tools—met the captain and crew—found my post and my bunk. I was ready to go, I just didn’t feel the floorboards under my feet until that moment.

Some people move to a foreign country to immerse themselves in its language and culture: I’ve managed nearly the same right here at home. Almost all of my social time is spent with Brazilians or other folks with South American roots. I watch A Grande Família and pregadores poderosos on YouTube; listen to music by André Valdão and Gilberto Gil; configured my keyboard with the tilde and the cedilla; chat weekly with Tia Linda via Skype and keep up with cousins on Orkut. Not even God gets a break—half the time I pray in one language, half the other. I need a passport just to enter my own apartment.

I’m in Brazil as much as I can be without leaving Queens—and it’s are starting to feel normal. I don’t even think about it: With strangers or friends, I slip in and out of conversations in Portuguese fairly confidently. I still learning some subtleties—the subjective mood, the imperfect tenses—but in general I get by pretty well. It’s not the effort it used to be.

"Glass Rose" by Andrea Bonifacio

The big Brazzy crush is not over, but from what I know of romance, this feeling of “normal” means something has changed. Puppy love has grown up; the rollercoaster has settled to a steady cruise, a continual current of confidence curbed by occasional clumsiness.

When I first started learning Portuguese, I was hungrier for it. I would enter the N train, volume low on my headphones, one ear open to catch the sound of it. When I heard it, my heart would jump, I’d turn off the music, and listen in: Education by eavesdropping. Sometimes I would try speaking with those strangers: Waiting for a pause in their conversation, I’d  gently start with geographical small talk: Ask if they are Brazilians, what city they are from, how long they have been here. Even if I misspoke horribly, they’d smile, correct, and encourage me: “Você fala muito bem!” For all my mistakes, each experience was a victory and a confirmation of progress.

Yet now the path is less a trail in the Adirondacks than a walk down the Las Vegas Strip. It’s as if I can’t help but see it—I cannot board a train without hearing that language somewhere nearby. I catch myself thinking, “Brazilians. Of course,” and frequently do not bother to talk to them.

I must remind myself: It wasn’t long ago that none of this existed. For years, I genuinely ached for this gift—to have this language, this family, this entire world. I knew it was missing in my life and I wanted to have it, but I felt powerless to fill the gap. Now, it’s been filled to overflowing, and somehow keeps on filling. And yet, you can get so used to a gift that you forget it was ever given; if you take something for granted, it can be taken away from you. May I never forget that this is a gift; may I constantly hunger for what it will require of me next.

I’d be foolish to think I did this myself—I have help and I know it. And my Helper will not let me forget, as long as I do my part. After all, are there really so many Brazilians around that I just never noticed before? Is it so strange, given the course my life has taken in just two years, to think that some divine directive is drawing them to my path? It was once a solitary stroll, but now it’s a marathon, and the occasional helpful passerby has become a cup-bearing crowd of water-station volunteers. I keep listening, they keep talking; I grow thirsty, they bring water; I keep running, they keep cheering…  and no finish line in site.

"Glass Rose" (detail) by Andrea Bonifacio

Now I want to be one who hands out the cups. I’m keeping my eyes open for something new: When I reach out to speak to Brazilians, I see that many of them want to share something of themselves. Some seem lonely, hungry for interaction; their appetite is broadcasted by their language, with its grammatical openness, and their culture’s emotional availability. By asking them to help me speak their tongue, and by showing them I need their guidance, I give them a chance to help someone hungrier than they. I’ve been a New Yorker for many years now, but linguistically speaking, I’m the stranger in town, and they are the streetwise locals, comfortably quoting from their mental maps. Seeking out their stories and speaking with their words, I use my need to learn to help them grow. And in the end, we both feel at home again.

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Beijos,
Andrea

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